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Date: 48:5:31 (13 years after the Battle of Yavin)

Today

The battered soldier coughed violently and tasted blood. Never a good sign.

That most likely meant the shrapnel had punctured his lung, which explained why he was having considerable trouble breathing.

Lieutenant Colonel Rhyan Conwy lay at the bottom of a deep ravine, a trail of flattened underbrush leading up the steep side behind him. His jumpsuit was, to its credit, mostly in one piece. Most of the rest of his gear, including communications equipment and water supplies, had been torn off during his descent. On top of everything else, he was pretty sure he was concussed, too.

In short, he was in what some of his Tau'ri friends might call 'a pickle'.

He needed something to do, something to take his mind off the pain, while he waited for death or rescue. In his current state, he expected death would come first. They'd never find him down here, if they were even allowed to look.

He knew if he were in command, he wouldn't leave himself behind. But he wasn't in command, and his thoughts were too fuzzy at the moment to figure out who would be… Captain… Captain… Aw hell.

Mission report.

If… when he was rescued, he would need a mission report. He hated mission reports, but it was better than laying here in the twilight thinking about just how much he hurt. May as well free himself up later for some rest and recreation.

Datunda, thirty-first of Nelona, Year 48…the mission to P0L-739 began routinely enough…

Yesterday

The troops of November Company's First Platoon started disgorging from the landing craft before the ship had even touched down. Fifty-four troops leapt the gap between metal deck plate and hard soil, legs buckling on impact before straightening out and propelling them across the terrain, spreading the platoon out over the landing zone.

"First Platoon is down," Conwy reported, following his troops down onto the ground.

"Copy," Captain Trevall acknowledged from the cockpit. This was Trevall's command, but, well… Conwy was bored of sitting around Farpoint. The Fourth Battalion—Elite Squad—had been busy training for the past month, working its body back into shape after the deep wounds it suffered on Rheilnor, where entire squads had been culled from it by a mysterious assassin about whom they still knew little. Dozens of valuable, well-trained men dead, mostly on the account of one madman.

A real mission was just what he needed.

Lieutenant Terther, 1N Platoon's commander, was away on a mission with Admiral Burn, and Conwy hadn't been given any estimation as to when he would be back. Lieutenant Vash, Trevall's second-in-command, had taken temporary leadership of the platoon, but he was used to co-ordinating from behind a tactical display and the unit just wasn't meshing under his command. But the troops all knew Conwy, and he was certainly no stranger to leading from the front.

"Quinn, take Four Squad. One Squad, you're with me!" Conwy barked, "Two Squad, Three Squad, you're on your own."

The four squads separated along their pre-assigned routes, scouts speeding ahead on bikes. He had purposefully sent Sergeant Quinn, his adjutant, along with Four Squad because its commander was a recent transfer, the least experienced of the four. He had commandeered One Squad for the exact opposite reason. Murvholl was the most experienced of all, meaning Conwy could concentrate more on co-ordinating the entire platoon, knowing the Gotal had One Squad covered. Murvholl had known Conwy long enough to recognise this as an honour, not a slight against his abilities.

Dropping onto a planet with a Stargate such as this one was unusual for a Rogue Squadron team, but understandable in this situation. The Stargate was heavily defended. The skies were not.

Intelligence indicated that the leader of Sobek's dominion, the elusive figure that had been in control of his forces since the System Lord's demise over his throneworld a year ago, would be visiting the planet Keshmar to meet the local intendant, who was oblivious to the fact that he had disappointed his 'God' and that the visit would culminate with his execution.

This world, P0L-739, would be used as a transit point in order to disguise the location this leader actually came from, presumed to be his throneworld since Faiyum was now all but void of Goa'uld leadership, most of it's upper echelons assassinated in the power vacuum their master's death created.

The planet's unique atmosphere had prevented them from getting a precise fix on the location of the Stargate, but they knew the rough area it was located in. Hence the teams were splitting up into search parties, covering as much ground as possible.

The midday sun beat down on them as they worked their way across the rough forested terrain, scouts constantly circling ahead, looking for any sign of the Stargate, or any Goa'uld presence.

"Sir!" Night had fallen and the temperature dropped considerably before a young private in control of most of the squad's communications equipment ran over, holding out his comms gear. "Listen to this."

Conwy took the headset and listened for a moment, hearing the harsh, foreign tones of a Goa'uld transmission. "Which way?"

"East of here, sir."

"Let's move!" the commander shouted. "We don't have long before he's due to arrive!"

The source of the communication was about two kilometres away, and it didn't take them long to reach it. There was an unnatural rise in the ground ahead, clearly built up to shield whatever was behind it. Conwy pulled out a pair of electrobinoculars and dropped to the ground, Murvholl and a corporal named Trast taking up positions next to him as he slowly ascended the ridge. The other eleven troops took up defensive positions around the area, ready to move on a moment's notice.

The area below them was a deep basin with the Stargate in the centre. Judging by the bare walls, it was some kind of quarry, with a building constructed in the basin's far side, most likely extending underground. Slave workers wearing little more than rags toiled in its shadow, moving heavy pieces of machinery around.

"Naquadah mine," Conwy muttered, mentally earmarking the planet for a future hit-and-run assault.

Moments later, a group assembled before the Stargate as it started to activate, inner ring rotating as a Stargate on a distant planet locked in each chevron.

"I recognise that address," Murvholl said. "It's one of the only worlds we know of under Imperial subjugation."

"He's ruling from one of Steele's worlds?" Conwy speculated.

"The Goa'uld have too much pride for that and plenty of their own worlds to choose from," Murvholl reasoned.

"What about a puppet ruler?" Trast speculated. "A Goa'uld that Steele has under his thumb?"

"Maybe…" Conwy muttered distractedly, as the event horizon formed and crocodile guards started to file out of it, lining up smartly on either side of the Gate before a regal, robed being stepped through, followed by various attendants.

He hit record on the electrobinoculars, directing them towards the cloaked figure and magnifying. A high-ranking Ja'ffa approached, dropped to one knee and looked up at his master, speaking words in a language that Conwy couldn't read from his lips. The Goa'uld's eyes flashed gold beneath his hood, reminding his servant that he was the God around here.

The Goa'uld's arms lifted, hands slipping out from his flowing sleeves, his left adorned by the familiar weapon of a Goa'uld: the ribbon device. He pulled his hood down, revealing a regal-looking human, bearing harsh features and thick, greying hair.

"Skrag!" Conwy swore violently, almost dropping the electrobinoculars. This mysterious Goa'uld was no puppet ruler.

It was High Admiral Steele himself.

"Get your best marksman, quick," Conwy said. "We've got to take him out before he gets through the Gate again."

"Our mission isn't to kill him!"

"This changes everything," Conwy hissed. "Everything we thought we knew about the Goa'uld and the Empire just went out the airlock."

"Colonel, we're just soldiers," Trast said. "We can't know that killing him will change things for the better."

"We are not just soldiers, Corporal," Conwy reprimanded lightly. "If there's one lesson I try to teach my men, it's that we aren't clonetroopers. This unit is a team of individuals, who can think for themselves."

"The kid could be right, boss," Murvholl said. "Killing him could bring somebody worse down on our heads. We don't have the full picture here."

"The decision's just been made for us," Conwy noted, as a commotion broke out near the Stargate, Ja'ffa starting to run up the embankment towards them, staff weapons ready.

"We're farkled."

"Move!" Conwy screamed, leaping up and pulling Trast along with him, tossing a grenade behind him as he ran headlong across the rough terrain. There was a huge explosion behind them as Murvholl and Trast both threw explosives of their own, but it wouldn't slow Ja'ffa down for long. They were almost as oblivious to personal danger as stormtroopers, charging mindlessly against the enemy.

He pulled the data card out of the electrobinoculars and jammed it into his comm unit, hitting transmit before stuffing both devices into his pack.

"Sir! You can't transmit," Murvholl shouted at him, scrambling along, firing behind him. Already, golden energy blasts were smashing against trees around them, and one soldier had been thrown off his speederbike, a burning hole in his back.

"This has to get back!"

"They'll trace us!"

"That's why I'm going in a different direction to you! Recall the rest of the platoon. Get back to the transports. Go!"

Leaving Murvholl cursing something about 'impulsive Corellians', Conwy jumped on the abandoned speederbike and hit the acceleration pedal, veering off at a right angle to the rest of the squad.

The bike sliced through the thick forest at the greatest speed Conwy dared accelerate to in such close quarters. He wouldn't do anybody any good if he ploughed into the side of a tree. He'd been riding only a few seconds when he heard a series of familiar whoops behind him, and knew that he was being pursued, by Imperial forces no less.

"Stormies," Conwy grumbled. "Just what I need."

Gaining on him too. While a proficient rider, it had been a long time since Conwy was a scout trooper. The troopers pursuing him clearly had a more recent experience, and could safely fly a lot faster than he could. Red blaster bolts flashed to either side of him, leaving the tang of ozone in their wake. He dodged from side to side, taking the most twisted path he could risk, winding between trees, around the huge rocks outcroppings that littered the landscape.

The whole bike lurched and started to rapidly lose altitude as a blaster bolt hit his repulsor unit, sending it crashing into the ground. Conwy jumped off, rolling along the ground and pulling his rifle up as he rose, firing a single shot that pierced the fuel cells of the lead scout trooper, turning his bike into a fireball that lit up the night and set the forest ablaze where it touched.

He turned and started to sprint, stumbling across unseen obstacles, as his pursuers continued to hound him. Heavy weaponry wasn't far behind the scouts, as Conwy heard the whine of a mobile grenade mortar's repulsorlifts, followed by fragmentation grenades hitting the ground not far behind him. Far too close.

Explosions and weapons fire echoed behind him as he sprinted, clambering across the terrain. He had to keep them chasing him, give the rest of the squad as much time as possible to get back to the transports and escape. The recording must have finished transmitting by now—they couldn't be tracing his transmission anymore.

He stopped, seeing the ground in front of him disappear suddenly—thankful there was still a little illumination from the world's large moon to warn him of the danger. A deep ravine, steep sides.

Nowhere left to run.

There was another huge explosion behind him and hot shrapnel cut through the colonel's back and sides as he was thrown over the edge, slipping and sliding through the dirt in the darkness. His pack caught on something and ripped open, spilling its contents behind him, and something heavy hit him across the back of his neck. He tried feebly to grab onto something, but was surprised to find his fingers slick with blood, useless for anything. His helmet bashed against a large rock, dazing him, and his consciousness slowly slipped away as his body tumbled downwards…

Today

"I'll be dead by sunrise…" he muttered, realising he was getting delirious. He never sang. He stopped suddenly, not because he'd caught himself, but because he heard movement. A soft rustling through the vegetation, almost inaudible. The stealthy movements of a well-trained soldier, that only a better-trained soldier could spot.

"You picked the wrong dead man to mess with," Conwy muttered, painfully pulling up his blaster and propping his body up against a large moss-covered rock. Every movement was agony. His arms could barely hold the weight of the rifle.

"This is Squad One," a gruff, familiar voice said, and Conwy collapsed with a painful sigh of relief. "We've found him, repeat, we've found him!"

"Copy Squad One," another familiar voice buzzed through a comlink. "We're sending a shuttle to your location."

"Make it quick, he doesn't look good."

There was movement around him, and Conwy felt himself being lifted gently into a comfortable position, a canteen being held to his lips.

"You're a lucky son-of-a-gundark, Colonel. Vash almost had Trevall following procedure and bugging out," Murvholl said, then grinned. "But Wurl managed to be more… convincing."

"Shoulda… should've left me," Conwy managed, gulping greedily at the water. "Recon we got's more… more important."

"The recon's fine," the hairy alien assured him. "We're going to take you for a nice long bacta dip."

Conwy groaned. "Let me die…"

The Gotal chuckled, a deep resonating sound. "No such luck, sir. Colonel Vrecken would have my horns."

The vegetation around him started to rustle and sway as a strong wind blew across them. Conwy looked up, seeing the underneath of a landing craft and closed his eyes, as much from complete exhaustion as to protect them from the dirt being blown about.

Transport rings dropped down, and the two soldiers disappeared in a flash of light.