Operation: “In The Black”
The cold had found them before they ever touched the moon.
It came through the seams of the LAAT/i in thin, needling breaths, slipping past worn insulation and rattling deck plates, curling around boots, gloves, rifle stocks, and exposed neck seals. The gunship’s troop bay shook around them as it punched through Orto Plutonia’s upper atmosphere, its engines whining hard against the storm outside.
Captain Elias Rook sat on the forward bench with one boot braced against the opposite seat and a half-smoked cigar clenched between his teeth.
The ember glowed orange every time he drew on it, a small, stubborn point of warmth in a compartment full of frost, white armor, and quiet men preparing to walk into trouble.
Around him, the Scout Rangers of Aurek Company made their final checks.
Power cells were slapped into E-11s. Carbine bolts were worked and released. Helmet seals hissed. Gloves tightened over trigger fingers. A trooper near the ramp checked the charge on a portable cutter, while another secured a coil of line to his pack. Two men shared a brief look over the top of a mortar tube before lashing it down for landing.
No one complained about the cold.
That was how Rook knew they felt it.
He took the cigar from his mouth, exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke, and looked down at the datapad in his left hand.
“Listen in,” he said.
The troop bay quieted at once.
Rook thumbed the screen and began to read, his voice rough and flat, carrying easily over the vibration of the gunship.
“By order of the Office of Moff Vex Tyran, Scout Rangers Quick Reaction Force Command is hereby detached for immediate deployment to Orto Plutonia, primary moon of Pantora.”
The LAAT/i dropped suddenly. Harnesses creaked. One of the younger Rangers slammed a palm against the overhead rail to steady himself.
Rook did not look up.
“Mission objective: inspect, secure, and assess the former Grand Army of the Republic listening post established during the Clone Wars and subsequently abandoned following Imperial reorganization of regional defense assets.”
He paused just long enough to put the cigar back between his teeth.
“Translation,” he said around it, “somebody forgot to lock the shed, and now the shed is talking to people it shouldn’t.”
A few helmets turned toward him. No one laughed loudly, but the line landed. Enough tension bled out of the compartment to matter.
Rook continued.
“The installation is to be inspected for possible reactivation under Imperial authority. Primary objectives: establish perimeter control around the former listening post and all adjoining structures, tunnels, equipment yards, landing zones, and signal infrastructure.”
He lifted his eyes and looked toward the rear of the bay.
“Sergeant Venn.”
A broad-shouldered Ranger near the ramp looked up from checking his rifle sling.
“Sir.”
“You have outer perimeter once we’re down. I want eyes on the ridge line, the antenna field, and any approach from the western ice flats.”
“Understood.”
Rook looked back to the datapad.
“Second objective: conduct full structural and technical inspection of the facility, including power systems, antenna arrays, communications equipment, storage chambers, access tunnels, and any remaining Republic-era records or material.”
“Lucky us,” one of the Rangers muttered. “Another museum crawl.”
Rook’s eyes moved without his head turning.
“Private Hask.”
The trooper stiffened.
“Sir.”
“You want a museum, I’ll transfer you to artifact recovery. You can spend the next six months dusting Jedi chamber pots.”
The troop bay stayed quiet for half a heartbeat.
Then one of the older Rangers snorted.
Hask lowered his head.
“No, sir.”
“Thought not.”
Rook took another drag from the cigar and kept reading.
“Third objective: determine whether the site has been occupied, scavenged, damaged, or repurposed by indigenous populations, criminal elements, hostile irregulars, or other unauthorized parties.”
He let the words settle for a moment.
Nobody liked “unauthorized parties.” It was the kind of phrase staff officers used when they did not know what they were sending men into.
Rook did not dress it up.
“Fourth objective: recover or secure any remaining military equipment, signal logs, encryption units, sensor components, arms, munitions, fuel cells, and classified material.”
He lowered the datapad slightly.
“That part matters. Command picked up an outbound signal from the moon at oh-three-seventeen local. Narrow-band. Encrypted. Directed out of system.”
The compartment went still.
Rook looked from one visor to another.
“The post is listed cold. No crew. No scheduled maintenance. No registered power draw. Which means either the records are wrong, someone got inside and woke it up, or we are about to have a very unpleasant evening.”
A Ranger across from him finished sealing his helmet.
“Any idea who received the signal?”
“No,” Rook said. “That is one of the questions Moff Tyran would like answered.”
“And if someone is still transmitting?”
“Then we stop them.”
“And if they don’t want to stop?”
Rook smiled without humor.
“Then stop asking nicely…”
The gunship rocked again, harder this time. stormlight flickered through the narrow side ports. The sound of wind rose outside the hull, a deep, endless howl scraping across armor plating.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the internal comm.
“Two minutes to drop. Visibility poor. Surface winds hostile. Recommend full seal before ramp open.”
Rook tapped the side of his datapad and continued.
“Contact protocol. Scout Ranger personnel are reminded that the indigenous Talz population is to be treated as a potentially hostile, non-integrated native presence. Their level of organization, armament, and willingness to cooperate with Imperial authority remains unknown.”
He looked at them sharply.
“That does not mean shoot anything with fur.”
No one moved.
“Contact is to be attempted through controlled visual signaling, limited approach parties, and non-threatening posture where tactically feasible. Under no circumstances are Ranger personnel to permit themselves to be surrounded, separated from their units, or drawn into enclosed terrain without overwatch.”
He closed the datapad halfway.
“Meaning if the locals wave at you from a cave, you do not go sightseeing.”
The LAAT/i shuddered.
A tone sounded above the troop bay.
Once.
Then again.
The cabin signal light over the ramp glowed steady green.
Every man saw it.
Rook walked to the soldier who was holding his helmet.
The deck bucked under him, but he moved with it, one hand grabbing the overhead rail as naturally as breathing. He tucked the datapad into a chest pouch and took the cigar from his mouth, studying the burning end as if it had personally disappointed him.
“Rules of engagement,” he said. “Mission purpose is inspection, stabilization, and contact. Not punitive action.”
He ground the cigar against a scarred metal plate beside the bench, killing the ember.
“However.”
The word hit harder than the turbulence.
“Imperial personnel will respond with decisive force to any attack. Battalion command is authorized to employ scout armor, sharpshooter teams, light walkers, aerial reconnaissance, and suppressive fire as required to preserve the force and complete the mission.”
He lifted his helmet.
“Plain Basic: nobody starts a war with the Talz, nobody wanders off, nobody touches old Republic junk until Technical clears it, and nobody dies alone in a tunnel because he wanted to be clever.”
One by one, the Rangers rose from their benches.
Harnesses unclipped.
Rifles came up.
Gloved hands checked helmet seals one last time.
The green light over the ramp blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then the whole troop bay changed color.
Green to red.
The interior of the LAAT/i became blood-dark.
Armor plates turned crimson. Visors went black. The frost on the deck shone like powdered glass under the warning light.
The pilot’s voice came again.
“Thirty seconds.”
Rook pulled his helmet on.
The seal locked with a hard hiss.
His voice shifted into the squad channel, lower now, filtered through the helmet mic.
“Aurek Company, sound off.”
“First squad, green.”
“Second squad, green.”
“Third squad, green.”
“Mortar team, green.”
“Technical, green.”
“Medical, green.”
Rook turned toward the sealed ramp as the gunship dropped through the last veil of cloud.
For one brief second, the storm outside thinned enough for the forward display to catch the shape of the listening post below: a dead Republic tower half-buried in ice, antenna spines reaching up into the black sky like broken fingers.
Then the snow swallowed it again.
Rook keyed the command channel.
“Moff Tyran, this is Captain Rook. Aurek detachment is thirty seconds from touchdown.”
The red light strobed over him.
His rifle came up.
“Beginning Operation In The Black.”
