One look at the surface of Katra from the network feed in the shuttle and Gil Pavan understood why TF244 was assembled so quickly with whomever could be pulled together. They had footage from Signal Mountain's monitoring systems, the ones that stormtroopers had not already neutralized in the process of a siege. The countryside around the rebel facility was a wreckage of jagged tree stumps, truncated terrain bladed through by explosions and blaster fire, and everything overlaid with a fine soot from the scorching of flights of TIE Bombers. Scorched divots in the ground showed where the TIE's had raked over the troops.

It was all there to be read, the same story of the Rebellion simply not having the ability to do much for their own when their secrecy was compromised.

Signal Mountain had spent some time holding out, it was that obvious to a veteran's eye, but these concentric rings of destruction showed where the Rebels had started and how they'd had to fall back after grimly selling blood for time, begging Rebel Command to rescue them.

Now there were signs of Imperials occupying those defensive positions, clearing out room to bring in the heavy equipment and tighten the noose. There were containers of supplies and soldiers moving about, making it clear that they intended to fight hard and spend what it took to get the rebels in that facility.

They would have never made it this far, slipping out of hyperspace and plotting a path that evaded detection as much as possible. DISPATCHER was flying the ship, and not gently, using the thrusters in way that organics would not think of.

Then DISPATCHER authorized the launch of U-wings, four of them, carrying the assaulter elements intended to catch the convoy on the fly. It's voice was flat and metallic, something utterly inhuman that set his horns to itching and the hackles up as it coldly described the situation and adaptions to the mission.

"You are on approach vector to intercept the Imperial convoy. Expect crews of two men each in the juggernaut transports, and unknown contents in the actual convoy that may be expedient to the next phases of the operation. The transports have been fitted with door mounted ion cannon to temporarily neutralize vehicles. Eliminate all Imperial personnel."

The U-Wing transport, filled with seven other beings, was stifling, but everyone was listening intently with various types of expression-- the gamut from a hard line of the mouth and tension as they prepared themselves emotionally for what was coming next, the adjustment of one last bit of kit to ensure that what needed to be grabbed quickly, could be grabbed quickly, and function checks. No one was comfortable with DISPATCHER, this strange series of droid brains wired together, quirky, and its loyalty to this operation ambiguous, but at least the Rebellion was actually coming this time. They were drowning people grabbing onto a reed.

Gil's hands went over his blaster, checking the essential power systems for integrity and ensuring a full charge on the battery, a familiar motion that helped keep him from shaking. He was not the only one, other veterans got the shakes too, but there was an unspoken taboo against sharing the feelings that each being had to wrestle with in there. Some remembered that they were on the right side, others had hate to keep them warm, dead families and friends, or entire cities and planets.

When the cloud cover broke, they saw what was waiting for them down there; DISPATCHER managed to guide the flight right where it said the enemy would be, and managed to evade compromise.

Muscle memory took it from there when the doors opened and the ion-blasters opened up at bursts of full cyclic, gunners minding the power conduits and battery heat, onto the juggernauts. Trying to evade, the drivers of one juggernaut broke the convoy, which was the point of landing a U-wing across the route. His own craft banked at the head of the formation, even as the cabin filled with the charged smell of ionized air from the weapons fire and the gunners regulating power to ensure systems were disabled, but that circuits were not fried. Exposing the vehicle's side allowed them to target the most vulnerable spots to achieve that. It was unbelievable precision with a heavy weapon fired from a moving vehicle.

They needed these vehicles. The U-wing settled onto landing with a loud *THUMP* and, like the other eight troopers, he was sliding off his bench and boots onto the ground before he even realized what he was doing, anticipating the moment like an experienced trooper. Wide open spaces, bisected by road, broken tree trunks here and there, rock formations, and ash everywhere meant danger every time, out in the open, but he knew his job; hold perimeter, trust the other one to hold their bearing and spot contacts before they could spot them.

Gil was already feet down, blaster up and pulling a security around the LZ of the U-Wings, taking in the sight, which he was already familiar with, of the place, but also the smell, the bit of breeze stirring up the smoke, and, of course, the fold in the ground where a smart Imperial might jump up at him. It was the veteran reflex to see that curvature in the ground and know that it was dead space, a place where one had no idea what was behind the visual obstruction.

Behind him, heard but not internalized, was the sound of the others doing their job. First the explosion of sonic, smoke and concussion grenades against the crew cabins of the Juggernauts, but then the sound of blaster fire, heralding the summary execution of enemy combatants. Some of them were, no doubt, true believers, but others were scared folk trying to get by. Every blaster shot was a death, the rhythm of the shooting, single shots here and there, was evidence enough.

The people shooting them probably enjoyed it, either the actual act itself, transgressive against moral codes, or because it was revenge for a life taken in the dark times, they all had their demons. As perimeter, he wasn't on tap for that work this time, but he'd been the breacher before, and it was luck of the draw.

"RUNNER RUNNER RUNNER" shouted one of the assaulters, and that caused Gil to rotate his torso, blaster rifle already shouldered in the pocket, snapping the crosshairs of the sight to his eyeline automatically and engaging with a short burst of fire. A shape in a gray uniform with a helmet and armor, a regular conscript, went down like a marionette with its strings abruptly sliced through, the run broken from the blaster's impact that turned him in mid-motion and caused him to roll once before never moving again on his own. The Imp's back hit the dirt hard enough to create a puff of sooty dust to herald, perhaps, the end of a life, eyes staring at the sky, smoking hole in his front and backplate, because Gil used an A280 with more than enough juice to ensure what was hit stayed down.

"He's down," confirmed Gil.

Rhys Xano was the beating heart of Signal Mountain, the being that maintained the complicated encryption algorithms that ran the place's systems and the one brought in to troubleshoot the truly complicated situations. It was his terminal that beeped at him urgently with a transmission and he used eyestalk movements and blinking to interact with the interface that was holographic and movement tracking in nature. His species, such as they were, had long ago specialized in data technology use and could run laps around humans figuratively in this field. He knew more than he wanted to about rebel operations, and knew that Signal Mountain did not have much time.

The first message came through saying "EYES ONLY COLONEL JOVAN VALTH" but he cracked the encyrption whose keywords read, around all the words that padded out the essentials of the message "OPORD EVAC SIGNAL MOUNTAIN SPECFORCES TF-244 EN ROUTE WITH TRANSPORT" and a variety of other details that he catalogued for others. Then, he activated his commlink with the General, only conveying the part he was supposed to read, "Colonel," he burbled through the vocabulator tha translated his electric currents, the means by which is species communicated among themselves, "there is a eyes only transmission for you. I have forwarded it through the system."

"Of course, thank you." Xanth, an Alderaanian, was a courteous fellow, an experienced Republic officer that had been tasked with the very tough task of holding out Signal Mountain when General Jaldis decided that he had to report to Rebel High Command in person regarding the situation...and never returned.

Vanth, however, had done a job of holding off the Empire, but the walls were closing in. The problem was, as a stubborn fighter, he'd decided that he was a dead man walking and his command could do nothing but sell itself dearly for the cause. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism that allowed him to focus on the day to day running, but he could already predict the Colonel's response. The second message, however, was an encryption that could not break. That, in and of itself, was an interesting engima, as was the title: "PRIORITY TO DARRICK ALSHAAHIN 2FA AUTH DISPATCHER ADMIN ACCESS. INSENT AUTHENTICATION MEDIA TO PROCEED."

"Mando, you have a message here that requires your physical presence to authenticate." The vocabulator switched over to Huttese to prevent easy overhearing. A few fringers were in Signal Hill, and a few protocol droids, but it was unlikely anyone listening on the intercom channel would be able to break the quick convo that fast."

The voice came over the comms, with a strange lilt that he'd learned to associate with Mandos, though he knew this one didn't have a 'trad Mandalorian' accent, "For me?"

"For you. It says DISPATCHER. Requires admin access authentication."

The Mando's voice over the comms, sounded shocked, as he took a deep breath, exhaled and then told Xano, "I'm on my bloody way."

--

Aboard the ship, a voice called out, onto the bridge, "Administrative User Authenticated" in a highly digital, almost grating voice that one associated with security or bounty hunting droids, the sort of vocabulator that did not promote warm and fuzzies. But it was, to the beings on the bridge, the ones clued into the operation, relieving to hear.

--

Xano was in the barracks room deep in the bowels of Signal Mountain, but the decrypt/signals op center traveled with him, even if there was technically a major he reported to who had been KIA in the fighting; a TIE Bomber with a penetrator munition did for him weeks ago and the TO&E had never been updated with a replacement. There weren't a lot of officers left in the place, which meant that Sergeants had to step up. But he was a Tech Lieutenant. A gastropod with eight eyestalks, no manipulation organs and a total inability to hold a spanner or blaster...but he had drones and some of those circled around, providing him with a constant stream of updates. But without a vocabulator, no one else could be interrupted. He had two eyestalks on the others in the room; assorted disheveled Rebel troopers in various states of disarray and undress, weapons and equipment hanging off bunk-beds in varying states of being maintained and cleaned, or, at the very least, jury-rigged, in many cases by droids in the integrated network that he ran.

There was Dar Alshaahin, a standout in the traditional armor of his people, but helmet off, and his equipment laid out carefully on the bunker; a jet pack, thermal detonators and assorted ammunition, at least one electroshock baton, collapsible, and a blaster that looked almost like a pipe with a stock and a power source, worn in and with the barrel itself worn of all coating from rapid firing. Well used equipment. With the helmet off, he looked a little young for it, though his eyes had more strain around them now, and there was healed-over tissue from a near miss under his helmet that was going to be a scar despite the use of bacta. There was a scruffy beard, curly hair on top, and slightly swarthy skin. His face was roundish, and he was perhaps a bit broader in the shoulder than he was tall, it gave him a bulky, low-set look. Clone troopers had a lilt at the end of vowels, he spoke with a very different sort of drawl, a treatment of the vowels more guttural. But he spoke Galactic Basic clearly enough to be well understood.

He wasn't the only fringer in the room, there were a couple others, odd ducks among the rebel troopers, though as the fighting ground on and those beings became veterans, they started to look more like the fringers, the odd bounty hunter or smuggler or syndicate fighter that managed to work their way into the Rebellion alongside all the fresh faced idealists. These were the survivors of the fighting, and there weren't a lot of them left. Some of them had never picked up a blaster before, and some of them were still Tech Corporals and Tech Sergeants, but they'd joined the fray out of necessity, while Xano automated more functions and developed ways to try to take the load off Signal Mountain while maintaining the mission.

"The reason we're here is because rescue is inbound; a force of Rebel Intelligence operatives are going to be in position to give us transport out of this place and to where we can be extracted. The rub is that we need to break past the lines here." Not the easiest, with the Imperial encirclement. Everyone in the room had been out on nighttime raids, except Xano, where explosives were planted and any Imperial that got in the way was blasted or flamed or blown up.

But they'd broken in and fallen back, after taking their pound of flesh from the enemy. Breaking past had never been part of these raids, whose objective was to disrupt, delay and destroy as much as possible to drag the siege out. Breaking through meant risking that the promised transport would be there, that they could get a ride.

DISPATCHER promised that. It was not good enough for the Colonel, who feared losing the force entirely on messages promising scanty support and relief, after so many instances where rebel command insisted that there were no resources. A "forlorn hope" he called it, and forbade further action beyond what was already authorized.

But what Rebel Intelligence failed to provide Valth, the Mando had details. Xano was scrolling the briefing as he put it on projector, "We have a number of Juggernauts and a friendly-held location to rendezvous. They will drive us to extraction LZ's. There are two squadrons of fighters to provide close air support, and we will be marking our positions with encrypted beacons that Xano here," a nod to the gastropod, whose species name was a series of electrical pulses just like the rest of his language, "Will provide and that our rescuers will recognize as we have the full advantage of one-time encryption for all this equipment. As we move out, we will be setting all defenses here to automated protocols."

"The tough part, as you see here, is the anti aircraft missile and blaster batteries, which, as we know, have exceptionally good tracking systems. Our rescuers have already agreed to start raiding these installations, but three of them are close by and our rescuers are small numbers. We're going to have to fight through it," he said, matter of factly.

That simple, Xano thought, but the other beings in the room were nodding.

--

The preparations were fast -- they were set to raid anyway, and this was a raid with extra kilograms of explosives in packs and anything that wasn't going to be left behind. Signal Mountain was surprisingly easy, from the inside, to prepare for detonation and a data scrub - the protocols were hardwired in.

Still, some of the beings going on these raids were not the particular sort of soldier or fighter that did the close up and nasty work, the kind of being that looked at vulnerabilities and ways to win. But the survivors of the siege, the ones that went on the raids and attacked instinctively, rather than defended, were not the hesitant sort. A few were moving with Xano, the Colonel and other support types in a group whose orders were to use the chaos to slip through the lines, led by an old Kadas'sa'Nikto, Arkai Chian, who was as slippery a scout as Signal Mountain had. While Chain was invaluable to a raiding force, he was more invaluable to getting out key analysts and signals types. And one stunned Colonel, too respected to be left behind, even if he had started to crack under the pressure. The experienced people and newcomers to the world of objective raids, particularly desperate ones like this operation, were split evenly, it meant that there were three groups, the largest being the evasion group, the other two being smaller groups, of around seven or eight, doing the actual raiding.

Dar was helmeted, a figure in dull red with green and yellow trim, moving through the dark in a crouch, sweating under the helmet in the dark as the firefight started from the automated systems, blaster in hand and a satchel full of stick grenades hanging off his shoulder, easy access. The Imperial Army was here, the men in gray, rather than the stormtroopers, who were held in reserve as a quick reaction force. They used contours in the terrain to keep their heads under the ability of emplaced weapons to depress below their duraplast fortifications, even though rebel raiders, like the six or so behind him in browns and greens, smocks breaking up their forms, used those fortifications to their advantage, crawling right up to the edges, as they were now. The safety of hard cover came at the expense of the ability to see, which was much more important when facing a raiding force of aggressive types. The safety of fortifications encouraged the Imperial Army troopers, conscripts in most cases, to hold in their cover, rather than get out and set roving patrols. The siege was almost over, and the common wisdom was that the rebels were too few to do much.

Of course, the rebels didn't need large numbers to hit an outpost, and they had the advantage of interior lines -- many different outposts all around, all calculating low odds of being hit individually. And the Rebels were making sure, this time, to hit what hadn't been hit before; they changed the pattern by trying to slip past the forward outposts, the most alert of the sentries, for the, until presently, less targeted installations; the anti-air batteries and their command and control. Task Force 244 had the honor of taking control. The Signal Mountain Rebels were going after the two closest batteries on their way out of the place.

Dar pulled one of of the detonators out of his bag, activated it, held it for a few seconds and then lightly tossed it over the top, into the trench works. Others followed suit, tossing grenades into all sorts of points along the lines in near-synchronicity with Dar. The Rebellion didn't have access to much in the way of night optics, but it had a huge advantage in that it was a multispecies organization and some of the troopers in Signal Mountain were from those species -- they saw much better in the dark than humans...and while Stormtroopers had the best of the best, including optical enhancement, these were regular Imperial Army and they were not so well equipped. One trooper, in particular, did not see the jet of flame that came off Dar's wrist as he vaulted into the fortifications, using the light to flare the other side, to help disorient them.

The sound of the dets going off, along with the plume of dirt, the concussion and the smoke from the explosions, were a shock; the anti-starfighter gunners were not expecting an assault, beings pouring in, firing rapidly, shouting instructions to each other and generally using the element of surprise, shock and suppression. There was something to be said for the volume of fire in the night, the blaster bolts coming in a sheer volley by beings that had overcome their hesitation to shoot through actual experience, "GUN CONSOLE MY FRONT LEFT!" Dar yelled over the din, even as he continued to fire bolt after bolt, thre or four for every one coming his way. Someone that knew him might be able to imagine a bared-tooth snarl to go with that rough shout, but the enemy were just seeing that T-visor as he drew the fire with his beskar and pumped rounds and grenades down the length of trenches, forcing heads down to allow the rest of the element to maneuver.

"Keep their kriffing heads down, keep those bolts flying," was called out by someone in the raiding force, for the benefit of the of the one or two new people among them who, perhaps, were hesitating. The briefing was clear; armed or unarmed, sleeping or standing, these were the enemy.

Petja Prevec had been a hand model once, showcasing fine rings and bracelets for Uslam’s jewelers in a dozen hoload campaigns. Now, the skeletal cybernetic piece that had replaced her left arm gripped a blaster carbine with unfeeling fingers and kept her aim stable with mechanical precision. It had only been a scant few years, but her career felt like a lifetime ago. It felt like it had been another woman’s life, even, a life taken by the Empire.

She squeezed the carbine’s trigger with her feeling fingers, and the red flashes made a corpse. Now she took lives.

This one, an Imperial grunt with helmet askew, had stumbled into view at the end of the trench. Petja’s optics were commercial grade nightsights, too crude to see clear definition, but good enough for her needs here. She could tell the enemy at sight, even if she couldn’t make out the Imperial’s look of shock as he walked into her line of fire. Maybe he hadn’t even realized. As drew closer to the body, slumped up against the trenchworks, she put another blaster bolt in his face.

“Good kill,” came the sergeant’s voice behind her. Sergeant Glaato, the leader of Petja’s four-person fireteam, was a battle-hardened veteran who carried a well-used rifle and a machete into combat. On his orders, the fireteam had filed into one of the trenches, formed a line, and advanced on their assigned target single file. Petja had taken point without any discussion. The Nikto followed close behind, the Bothan, Orn Da’lya, followed in the third position, and a fresh-faced human by the name of Benji covered their rear. Petja had expected him to panic when the blaster fire began, but he’d kept his cool so far, so far as she could tell.

They came to the end of the trench, a T-intersection. Petja would not make the same mistake the dead Imperial made. She took up her position on the right side of the trench and motioned to the left. Glaato took the position opposite her across the trench, with Orn Da’lya behind him and Private Benji behind her. On a three count, Petja and Glaato each swung into the intersection, keeping their angles tight, and she saw red.

A blaster bolt flew toward her, warming her face as it passed. She caught sight of the shooter through her optics – one of two approaching soldiers down range from her. Her feeling finger squeezed the trigger again, and she let loose a volley. The fireteam followed suit, and though the enemy tried to take cover, in a few short seconds the rebels had made two more corpses. Petja didn’t think they’d managed to take a second shot.

“Pushing,” Petja relayed to the team, and continued the planned advance to the anti-air battery with blaster level and her team close behind.

Quick Reaction Force

---

The Signal Mountain Rebels had done this before, but so had the Empire. The first thing they did was overwhelm the comms net with noise, and they were quick to switch frequencies. It was one of those things where the Rebels lacked the sophisticated technology and, above all, power system resources to overpower Imperial signals for long. They had to figure out other things.

The rebel answer was amplified hearing modules, headphones with microphones modified for a higher gain setting and automatic cutoffs for extremely loud sounds above a certain decibel level. With a slight wind and perhaps some ambient sounds, it became terrifying for a first timer, hearing all these audibles they'd never encountered before, at least at a volume that made them reflexively jump at first. It wasn't a new trick or technology, but it was something, once described, that Xano and the other tech officers quickly created with the simplest possible components, rather than the fancy variations of digital, easily compromised, technology the Empire was used to countering with ease. The Imperials had access to the high tech production and expensive methods to create shielded devices that would not be easily ionized, the rebels had to innovate with cruder tech. Some rebels were a little shocked by the supposed downgrades in technology and the adaptations necessary to use it effectively, but others, usually fringers from the Outer Rim, knew how to use it.

But then, they became dead useful as one learned to deal with the volume, the enhancement of the sound.

Glaato's team made their entry, they knew the sounds of it, it wasn't necessary to use the comms that cause them to be triangulated easily. The Imperials, of course, had similar technology, so it was just a leveling of the playing field, except that almost all these Rebels spoke Huttese. And the Imperials, disdaining such a language, did not see fit to assign Huttese speakers deliberately into their units. The stormtroopers were even less likely to speak it. Their translation services were back at bases, the same ones designed to intercept communications systems that the Rebels weren't using here.

So the conversations were short, to the point and in a more obscure dialect of Huttese that was spoken in certain quarters of the Outer Rim. Perfect? No. Good? Yes. But then, on top of it, the tap of a pistol butt against a weapon magazine or even a handmade clicker allowed them to call out a general topic and then signal according to code.

It meant "k'wanna duba *two whistles*" meant "Signal 5 - Enemy down," with the whistles indicating that it was clear, engagement was finished, and to harbor up, or rally (#3). It was doable with hand signals, which mattered a lot where noise discipline was absolutely necessary. That was the signal for Glaatu's team to know that the initial assault was done and they could do a more thorough job of looting, which they weren't doing here, or destroying, which they absolutely were, enemy equipment. So Dar didn't feel the need to be overly finicky in cutting the power systems that ran the battery's lights.

It was a variation of codes used all over the place, but in this case, it was well adapted to where they were fighting and whom. As Glaatu's people got ready to take and destroy the control console, Dar's people knew to start spread out, into a perimeter, moving in the darkness that was their close and personal friend. The Imperial Army didn't see the need to provide night vision gear to the troops at an individual level, though their static weapons were a different story entirely. The rebels had two schools of thought here; they either used their own eyes or they used night vision gear of a commercial grade, which had varying degrees of capability in protecting against flares and flashes. Once settled, most of them in the typical rebel poncho that helped break up shapes and make one look one with the mud and the dirt, were hard to distinguish unless they moved. And not moving allowed them to focus with every fiber of their being on watching and listening, letting the sappers get to their more intensive destruction of the enemy battery.

That was how they knew the Imps were sending a Jug, their favorite wheeled transport vehicle, along. Highly modular, everyone used jugs, but they used them differently. And a smart trooper knew the difference.

But the crucial thing to note, if one had a cool head and was used to assessing the enemy before enganging, if allowed such a luxury, was whether or not it was operating lights or not. The Imperial Army did not issue night vision gear to all troops, preferring the bare necessity of operational capacity. Imperial Army soldiers fought brightly lit engagements, which was why this battery, busily being planted for demolition, was dark. Cutting the power supplies was the first act of any raid after getting your bearings and checking to ensure you were still operational and that, next, your weapon was still operational.

A pair of taps of a knife handle or magazine unit or similar item against a headset made a satisfying but not overly revealing sound that only needed to carry between two positions, and so *tap-tap* along the perimeter was to let people know the enemy was coming.

Then, more info, "Stuta! Jujumon, haba gobamon, dopa Juggo. Plastics." And Dar knew it when he called "Contact! Bearing 144, approx 700m out, two Juggernats. Stormtroopers." Because he could hear the engines, saw the movement and there were no lights coming. Stormtroopers it was, because they didn't bother with running lights when they could see in the dark using their night vision.

"Echuta. Goba. Koocho shani." That meant that Dar didn't see a way to get the demolitions done, not without getting into a fight and it wasn't viable to fall back -- and it would probably be seen. But he wanted to wait, ready with the weapons, for them to dismount and get close before hitting them.

It was possible the two Jugs were just looking for trouble, "Idiot Hunters" as Koocho shani went, meaning that they simply a patrol, but opening up on them would be buying trouble. It also let Glaato know that they were going to hold if necessary. TF244 was out there, but there was no way that he was going to compromise them by bringing the signal in.

The hardest part was settling in a bunch of dirt and ash and staying absolutely still, manipulating the peripheral vision of Stormtroopers, who had not spent a lifetime learning to work with a limited field of vision (or updating their helmets to accomodate it the way Mandos did) and were relying on night vision to catch them. Peripheral vision and depth of vision mattered, he'd learned. His own helmet was off, a violation of the code as perhaps a zealot saw it, but he had a headset and his own two eyes while he held himself absolutely still under his cloak, one with the mounds of trench around him. The waiting was the hardest part, breathing steady, hoping not to be compromised, but also anticipating the Empire. They wouldn't just drive the jugs up if they thought they were going to encounter contact, they'd dismount the infantry to screen. It was his job to know the habits of the enemy, and Stormtroopers did it by the book.

"Glaato, find out how to set those guns to manual and use them to blow the jugs." That was in Huttese over the comm unit. Others might try to capture, but Dar knew that in a real fight, trying to be cute and fancy was a great way to die. Once they were in it, they'd be too busy cutting a hole in anything in front of them to worry about niceties.

They'd be on foot, but he had a plan.

---

The fireteam moved at a fast clip, working its way down the trench lines, clearing flimsy prefab bunkers and earthwork weapon emplacements on its way to the air battery's command and control. Glaato kept in contact with the lieutenant through a two-way comlink, chattering away in Huttese as they went. Petja knew only a few words, enough to know that the Imperials had reinforcements on the way. It made sense, she thought, stepping over another set of bodies. These Imperials were clearly ill-prepared for an ambush and CQB engagements, and they were poorly entrenched. A frag grenade had nearly collapsed one of the bunkers as they cleared it, and there was panic in the ranks that made the advance easy. Soldiers walked directly into their line of fire, seemingly unaware that their defenses had been compromised.

She was fresh out of frag grenades, and eyeing a pair on the belt of her latest kill, she knelt to take them. Like the others, she'd put him down at a short enough range, but too far away to get a good look at him through her nightsights. Up close, she found he was young, and he had a tattoo under his eye. That was far from regulation in the Imperial Army. He was a conscript, she figured, possibly drafted from one of the Empire's many far flung prison complexes throughout the galaxy. He probably wanted to be here less than she did. He didn't deserve to die like this. she didn't think. He had family somewhere, she was sure, someone who would miss him. Friends too, at that. He might have been a good person, where he came from. As she finished clipping the grenades to her belt, she noticed he was still breathing, despite the blaster bolts she'd put in his stomach. She drew the vibroblade from her belt and opened his throat, and a rush of red washed over her prosthetic hand.

He didn't deserve to die like that, but you have to be realistic about these things. She caught the private, Benji, staring at her as she stood, but Glaato and the Bothan were unmoved. They pushed on together without exchanging a word.

Command and control was at the end of this last length of trench. It was the largest of the bunkers they had come to so far, though still only a single floor, and was the first with a door. Orn Da'lya brought his pack around and connected the machinery contained inside to the external control panel. Petja understood the thing was akin to an astromech in a backpack. It was a sophisticated piece of droid machinery good for slicing, and supposedly starship repair too, in a pinch. It took less than a minute for the door the give way to the slice and slide open to welcome them into the Imperial anti-air battery control center.

They poured in, shouting commands in Galactic Basic. They found four technicians stationed here, and they needed at least a couple of them alive. With the Juggernauts inbound, the lieutenant's orders were to turn the guns on the Imperials' reinforcing armor, if possible. Orn Da'lya's backpack might have been table to handle that on its own, but if they needed assistance with any part of the process they were happy to coerce the enemy. Only one of the technicians was less than compliant - the commanding officer here, it seemed. He went for the pistol at his hip but Glaato was quicker with his rifle. The other three fell in line with no issue after their commander went to ground.

They made good use of their prisoners. Glaato had lined them up against the far wall after they'd finished hard-locking the other entrances to the bunker at the rebels' behest, and from there they provided answers to Da'lya's questions. The Bothan shouted queries to them from a console across the room as he and his backpack astromech penetrated the Imperial systems. Petja didn't understand it much, she wasn't much for tech, but it seemed they had certain access codes needed to get around the system security. It only took a few more moments before Da'lya made the awaited announcement.

"We're in."

"You know what to do," Glaato answered, rifle still trained on the technicians.

"That I do," the Bothan returned, and Petja looked on as he brought the Imperial Army's laser cannons to bear.