Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Toprawa Prime Orbit, Toprawa System

Kalamith Sector

“The Grievous Fleet is turning!” Captain Dymurra snapped towards the upper deck, “We’re getting sensor locks on the fleet!”

“Bow-and-quarter line, right wing forward echelon left!” I ordered at a blistering pace, “Execute upon receipt! Left wing line abreast, prod the enemy’s rearguard! Translate starboard, prograde orbit! Do we have a hit!?”

“Our scopes are getting a fix, Admiral!”

Fighting with Conqueress, one must consider the best way to use her in battle. She was an entirely new calibre of weapon taking its first steps into the galaxy, and it was safe to say we were all still working out her combat doctrine. Having raised my flag upon her bridge for over a month, however, I liked to think I had an idea of what that doctrine should be.

Siege warfare.

Obviously.

Despite their intended purpose, the Aggressor-class of warships weren’t exactly stealthy. Each high-power shot bloomed like a supernova on the sensor arrays. I mean, they can be stealthy, but that would require using them the same way one would an ordinary coilgun or mass driver array, and there were already existing designs that did that. When you fired a shot, you were effectively announcing your presence to the entire neighbourhood.

Any half-competent commander with an effective picket or recon line would be able to pick up an incoming shot light-minutes–if not light-hours–before their main battle line was directly threatened. Therefore, one might as well use the Aggressor as an oversized battering ram; a siege cannon designed to obliterate high-value stationary targets that couldn’t dodge. For example, star fortresses and battlestations. For example, planetary shields.

All things considered, I would acknowledge that Conqueress would be a useful ace to keep in any fleet I command, supplementing my strategic and tactical options. However, I would not use it as my flagship. There was certainly no denying its value; the Conqueress fully inhabited the fleet-in-being doctrine. Merely existing forces General Grievous to distance apart his warships beyond effective spacing, weakening his overall line of battle. At the same time, if Conqueress’ existence is known, then it is also simultaneously the single highest value target in the star system.

A warship that can destroy an entire unsuspecting fleet with a single well-placed shot, or shatter a planetary shield, at least until countermeasures are pioneered? I daresay she would be the highest priority target in the entire star sector, let alone system.

“Hit confirmed!” Captain Dymurra called out, “Scratch off one Lucrehulk!”

My fingers tightly clasped around the edges of the monitor as I stared intently through the scopes. I saw what Dymurra did–the distinct torus-shaped hull of a Lucrehulk spinning round and round like a frisbee through space, lashing out with slow-moving tails of sparkling debris like the spiral arms of a galaxy writ small.

“Get another track on the Devastation!” I snapped immediately, “Load both Number One and Number Two! We’re going to use every last shot if we have to!”

“Acquiring track…!” Bunt Dantor’s modulated voice briefly drifted, “...They’re forming a line ahead, starboard turn. Calculating vectors!”

The Grievous Fleet had modified their lines of bearings into a straight line with the Devastation at the head, following a natural curve around to point the line directly at our Task Force Conqueress. It was a puzzling decision, for certain, as anyone with an inkling of tactical knowhow knew that charging a bow-and-quarter line with a line ahead was the exact opposite of a good decision.

General Grievous was effectively allowingus to ‘cap’ his ‘T’. In essence, assaulting our battle line with the very opposite of a counterformation. I narrowed my eyes, analysing the battle plot. Obviously, this was the sort of obvious trap a subpar commander would fall for. Prideful of me to say, but I was not a subpar commander.

“We need to widen our line of battle,” I murmured, “But that would… Augur, help me out here.”

As the massive tactical droid took my place at the plot, I leaned back to visualise the battlespace in my mind’s eye. Trying to run a bow-and-quarter line with a line ahead was the definition of suicide, but this was not a conventional battlefield. This was a battlefield inhabited by two superweapons. One was a supermassive dreadnought, and the other was a long-range sniper.

The moment Grievous’ drive cones aligned on the plot, I knew what he was going for. See, a while ago I had disabled the Devastation’s primary weapon by boring a hole straight through its bow cannon. The Devastation, however, was not just a siege cannon like Conqueress–she was also a bonafide frontline dreadnought, and if the schematics were accurate; five kilometres and six-billion tonnes of doonium armour plating and turbolaser batteries.

If the Devastation reached out line of battle, she could very easily smash straight through it like a raging bantha. At the same time, possessing a radar shadow that big meant she could hide the vast majority of her fleet behind her–eliminating the largest disadvantage a line ahead had against a bow-and-quarter. To overcome this, we could widen our own line of battle, expanding our firing envelopes and capturing more advantageous angles to hit Grievous’ rear… and also disperse our total firepower and weaken our own battleline, giving the Devastation an even easier time smashing straight through.

“Suggestion: We could perform a retrograde burn,” Augur proposed, “Anchoring Toprawa Prime to our starboard flank and minimizing General Grievous’ angle of attack. At the same time, we tighten our firing envelopes and eliminate the Devastation as soon as possible, depriving the enemy fleet of their main battery.”

I nodded, hailing Captain Dymurra, “You heard the droid. Fire retrothrusters. Fire Number Two as soon as you have a lock!”

There was a kick as Conqueress started cycling her power systems again, followed by a rumble so low and heavy it could have only been an apartment-sized metal block sliding into an equally massive firing chamber.

“Admiral!” the comms officer suddenly alerted, a shiver in his voice, “There’s a transmission on open frequency! It’s General Grievous!”

“Talkative, isn’t this one?” I mused, “Patch it through my station.”

“Right away, sir!”

“Augur, take it from here,” I dialed in my console to receive the call, “We’re aiming for a false wing and a hammer and anvil. Dodecian Illiet should be circling around Toprawa Prime right about now to hit Grievous in the rear, so our job is to draw in the enemy. Modify the strategy as necessary.”

“Affirmative, Admiral.”

I nodded, toggling my comms.

“–Nervous, Bonteri?” Grievous cackled through the frequency, “You seem to be at a loss!”

I sighed deeply, loud enough for the cyborg to hear, “You believe I cannot see through your tricks, Grievous? Dooku is a fool; you are not suited to naval warfare. You are a general for a reason indeed, and no admiral. I am certain that planetside you have no peer, but in black it is I who have the stars at my beck and call, and not you.”

There was no response but heavy breathing. Maybe he did not expect my response? It was certainly un-Jedi-like, and Jedi were his usual victims. And indeed, if he expected me to act out of fear, he would be wrong. The Jedi would be right to fear General Grievous, the lightsaber-wielding devil that he is. But I did not, because I did not wield a sword made of fire.

The only person I would fear is one with equal if not greater understanding of fleet combat tactics than I. In the vacuum of space, the outcome of battles is not decided in split-second micro-movements such as in duels or even firefights. In the vacuum of space, warfare is slow and sluggish, the moves predetermined, the results hours in the waiting. Like a game of chess, what decides a commander’s skill is their ability to read ahead hours if not days in advance, whilst pretending they couldn’t, and thus countering at the most opportune moment, if not promptly.

So who would I fear?

I would say an enemy commander who could read my every move, whilst preparing counteractions that I did not know of, but can only eternally suspect were there. That was not to say I have not feared for my life before; certainly, it would be a blatant lie to claim so, especially in my established career as a naval commander.

The Battle of Corvair was the first time I looked death in the eye, when two Jedi formations shattered the Separatist fleet, forcing me to lead the rearguard against them to protect our withdrawal. The Battle of Centares was perhaps the next, when the Republic ruined weeks of preparation with a single dreadnought, shattering the Salvaran host. The Battle of Rendili was the most recent, when the Coruscant Home Fleet countered my every attempt to break out of their encirclement, resulting in undeniably the bloodiest battle the Core Worlds have ever witnessed in living memory.

But fearing people? On the bridge of a multi-megaton warship, you were invincible, and the only thing you had any right to fear was either a bigger ship, or a better enemy commander.

General Grievous was not a better naval commander than I. He had a good plan, but even the best plans are useless when your opponent could see right through you.

So fixated on awaiting General Grievous’ response, I hardly registered Captain Dymurra’s fist slicing the air or heard his bellowed command–“Fire!”–before the world around me lurched. A monolith of solid tunqstoid, its edges glinting coldly against the distant starlight, ripped through a gap in our battle line and hurled itself toward the enemy with all the subtlety of a vengeful god.

The Devastation, heading straight at us, loomed massive but motionless in Conqueress’ scopes. Heading straight on against us in a mad dash to close the distance, Grievous appeared to have forsaken any and all attempts to kite our envelopes. Conqueress was incapable of missing a stationary target.

The tunqstoid slug plunged into the dreadnought’s open maw at a majority fraction of lightspeed. The sheer kinetic force alone would have been ruinous, but it was the violent gravitic eddies churning in its wake that delivered the true damage. Space itself seemed to ripple and distort around the impact site, the very geometry of the vessel unraveling under the pressure.

For an instant, Devastation resisted–her immense bulk shuddering as boiling atmosphere burst from ruptured compartments, hull plates twisting against one another in a desperate attempt to hold form. Then, as if yielding to the inevitable, the great dreadnought came apart from the inside out. Sections of superstructure collapsed inward, drawn along the path of the tunqstoid slug, while others peeled away into the void, venting crew, fuel, and fire, almost like watching a banana peel itself open. All of that, in a split second, until the ship’s engine block, momentarily clinging to cohesion, sheared from the main hull in a silent, shattering detonation.

Even through the reinforced transparisteel viewport, I felt the tremor of the Devastation’s rapid disassembly. But the moment did not last; mere seconds later, a Providence-class battlecruiser burst through the cloud of debris, her sublight drives still burning hell for leather. Augur reacted with all the mechanical haste a droid could possess–

“Command: All warships open fire along the enemy line of battle! Portside wing translate aft, until a left echelon is formed along the entire line! Transmitting formation package; execute upon receipt!”

Except, the Devastation’s purpose had already been fulfilled. The huge dreadnought had shielded the fleet hiding in its radar shadow long enough for them to close the distance and render Conqueress too risky to use. And indeed, with no more reason to maintain a line ahead, the Grievous Fleet hastily modified their bearings–the warships in their rear translating starboard into a left echelon in order to oppose our own.

I leaned back, and lazily toggled the comms again, “You feed your droids into a grinder, General. To see such well-built warships ruined for no gain or purpose, it does make me regret the waste. If I offered you the terms of surrender, would you accept it?”

“...The battle is not over yet, Admiral Bonteri!” General Grievous snarled, “I am not Dooku’s pawn! I do not fight for him! I know why you are here. Just as you saved that Jedi at Taris, you wish to save Jedi from me again! You betray the Confederacy, you and Trench!”

Betrayal? A thought occurred to me. General Grievous may be a mad beast, but there was nothing suggesting he couldn’t be reasoned with. All things considered, he never occurred to me as the suicidal type. Grievous may be a threat to the Jedi, but I was not a Jedi, and he could not threaten me so much as the likes of Admiral Honor could. If we could wield him against Palpatine’s Republic…

I sighed again, “I have read your files. The Jedi have wronged you, but they have not wronged me. The Jedi have betrayed the Republic, and have attempted a coup. This is an opportunity the Separatist Alliance cannot miss. Your personal crusade against Jedi–it is now worth nothing.”

“Worth nothing!? The Jedi have–”

“The Jedi no longer hold power!” I raised my voice, “The Jedi no longer hold the ear of the Galactic Senate! The Jedi no longer have the sanction to wage war at will! The Jedi have fought against the Confederacy for years, and have betrayed their own Republic! Do you understand, General!? The value of a Jedi’s life is now worthless! You wanted your revenge? Then thank your gods because the galaxy has delivered it to you!”

“The authority of the Republic is broken! We broke it!” I smashed my fist down, “The men who ruined your people are dead! We killed them! The corrupt galactic order that allowed such injustice to occur lies in pieces! We shattered it! Everything Count Dooku promised the Confederacy would do for you; it has been done! We did it!”

Even as the Grievous Fleet crashed into Task Force Conqueress’ centre, I did not sweat. Even as Grievous redoubled the firepower on his starboard wing, I did not sweat. Even as the enemy fleet steadily began pushing us into the fires of Toprawa Prime, I did not sweat. Seventy inconspicuous blinking at me from the tactical repeater, seventy fin-shaped Wavecrests slicing through Toprawa Prime’s magnetic field like sharks out for blood.

I could distantly feel the stares of half a hundred men fixed on me, the men and women of the bridge drawn to the noise of my tirade. I ignored them.

“This is your last chance, General,” I rose deliberately, watching him, knowing that every syllable was another strand in the noose tightening around his neck. “End this. The Jedi are finished. They no longer deserve your hatred–because they no longer deserve anything at all. Their order is broken, their legacy squandered. When this war ends, they will be nothing but stateless wanderers adrift in a galaxy that has already moved beyond them. Their name will be nothing more than a relic, a tool for opportunists to twist and exploit. The authority they once wielded is gone, the goodwill they accumulated spent, and the grace that once defined them… now just a forgotten whisper.”

I let the silence settle between us, a vacuum just waiting to be filled.

Across the hololink, General Grievous remained still, a statue of coiled rage. His skeletal frame was half-shadowed in the flickering blue transmission, his eyes unreadable slits of molten gold. The flicker of the feed, the ambient hum of the command bridge, the distant echoes of a dying battle–these were the only sounds that remained.

And then he moved. A shift, slight but deliberate, the deepening glow of his mechanical eyes betraying the storm roiling beneath that durasteel shell.

“You speak as if you understand the depth of their failure,” he rasped, his voice a fusion of organic venom and synthetic distortion. “As if you know what it means to be forsaken by those who once claimed righteousness.”

“As if I understand?” I raised an eyebrow, “No, General, I simply don’t care. I want to go home. I want to go back to my bed, I want to find my friends, I want to see my family. Don’t you? The sooner this fight ends, the sooner we can go back to our lives.”

Before the damn cyborg could say anything, I continued harshly, “Do you think you are devoid of a life just because of the misfortunes that have befallen you? Do you think that just because your body is a cage of steel that you are not a free man?”

General Grievous paused, his hateful eyes diverted to a screen off-holo. I knew what he was looking at. Illiet’s squadron of Givin Wavecrests had just entered sensor range, crossing enough of Toprawa Prime’s tangents to not be concealed by its celestial shadow anymore. General Grievous knew his end was approaching to his rear at 2,310KPS.

The enemy fleet almost immediately broke contact in a mad attempt to escape the hammer and anvil, a hundred ships peeling off to intercept the Givin squadron whilst the rest made for the Coreward hyperlane egress.

“Command: Pursue!” Augur roared, “Crush the enemy!”

Task Force Conqueress roared forward, sublight drives igniting with a renewed blue fury, turbolaser snouts snarling with blood-red energy like hounds tracking their quarries.

“Do you want advice, General?” I asked, watching as the remnants of his fleet burned, breaking apart in the vast silence of space, “Take what remains of your forces and return to Kalee. The Republic no longer holds sway over the far reaches of the galaxy where your homeworld lies, nor does the Confederacy. Stay there, and you will be left in peace. Find the insects who wronged you, if you wish, reduce their homeworld to slag. Wage war on the remnants of the Republic, if you must, carve your vengeance from its dying husk. Hunt the last of the Jedi in the Outer Rim and make an example of them, if it pleases you, string their corpses from your war banners if it pleases you. It is of no concern to us. We might even offer you aid.”

I let my words settle, watching for a reaction. The dim blue flicker of the holofeed cast Grievous’ mechanical face in uneven light, his golden eyes glowing like embers. He remained still, but I knew he was listening.

“I give you my word,” I continued, slowly lowering myself back into my seat, “Go home. Never approach our borders again unless bearing gifts, and we will never trespass against what is yours. But should you stir trouble once more, should you return to the monster you have made of yourself, then I assure you–not even I will be able to save your homeworld from whatever punishment the Confederacy’s merciless politicians and corporations deem appropriate retaliation.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then, with a flicker of static, Grievous’ image dissolved, his fleet vanishing into the cosmic winds. My finger was pressed against the toggle, cutting the connection.

I exhaled slowly, “Have the Dodecian Illiet dispatch a scoutship to track Grievous’ movements. Keep me updated.”

“Affirmative,” Augur replied, before saying; “Query: Is this a wise decision? We can destroy him right here.”

I leaned back, considering the future. Will Grievous return to Kalee and fade into obscurity? Or would he forge a warlord state out of the lawless reaches of the Outer Rim? The New Territories are in chaos. With Serenno under siege, there was no more central power in the galactic north, no more cohesive law or order. There was a power vacuum, just waiting to be filled. Admiral Pors Tonith was fighting against the Republic around Mygeeto, but for what? I suspect to reestablish a new Banking Clan state there.

Sending General Grievous north will pit him against the enemies of the Raxus Government. If he decides to retire with what family he has left, good for him. If he decides that his personal war of vengeance will not end, then let him be another thorn in the fallen Republic’s side. Kalee was nowhere near the Raxus Government’s sphere of influence, and the Supreme Commander was more focused on consolidating our existing state than expanding into the lawless frontier.

The Confederacy of Independent Systems was not the Galactic Republic. The Confederacy did not wish to establish hegemony over every corner of this galaxy. I told General Grievous as such; so long as he makes no trouble for us, we might even give him the resources he needs to fight the Republic.

“Let’s start thinking about the post-war galaxy,” I said at last, “Besides, I can’t say I do not pity that monster, made out of misfortune that he is.”

Now then. Serenno.

⁂

Serenno Orbit, Serenno System

D’Astan Sector

A distant, muted thud reverberated through Vigilance’s hull. Then another. And another. Obi-Wan felt the vibrations through his boots before the realization fully hit him.

Boarding pods.

His eyes flicked to the viewports–beyond the crippled remains of the Open Circle Fleet, dark shapes streaked across the void, slamming into hulls like spears thrown by unseen giants. The ghostly remnants of ion energy still crackled around the stricken vessels, their systems too fried to intercept the incoming Separatist boarding craft.

Obi-Wan turned sharply.

"Commander Cody!"

Cody was already moving, “Dispatching troops to the lower decks, sir!”

With their comms fried, Commander Cody was forced to organize a makeshift network of messengers and runners, each one relaying orders between combat squads and engineering crews. Without centralized coordination, the ship's defense relied on quick thinking and sheer determination.

Another thunderous impact shook Vigilance. The hull groaned, metal shrieking as another boarding pod punched through the ship’s armor. Deep below, klaxons wailed unevenly, struggling to function through the lingering electronic ruin left by the ion blast. The emergency lights flickered–brief pulses of red warning cutting through the dim corridors.

Obi-Wan felt the weight of indecision settle over him. His place was on the bridge, overseeing the battle–without scopes, the viewports were the only window into the battlefield beyond the vessel. But he also knew his troopersneeded him. The battle below decks would be brutal. He should be fighting alongside them.

Torn between his duties as a Jedi and a General, he shut his eyes and reached into the Force for guidance.

The Force did not guide him.

Instead, it screamed.

A soundless, wordless warning tore through his mind, urgent and unyielding.

Obi-Wan's eyes snapped open. His fingers clenched, reaching for something that wasn’t there–

"Brace for impact!"

And then Vigilance lurched violently backward.

Obi-Wan staggered as his stomach flipped, the artificial gravity momentarily faltering. A sickening sensation of weightlessness gripped him, and for a moment, it felt as if the entire ship was falling through space. Falling backwards. The Jedi Master lost his footing and tumbled through the air, falling horizontally as his confused senses struggled for purchase, hands scrambling for the nearest console. The deckplates beneath him groaned, the hull protesting as unseen forces dragged Vigilance against its own inertia.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

As soon as his fingers curled around the console, he pulled himself down and planted his soles on the deck. Others weren’t so lucky. Clones tumbled through the air, shouts of confusion filling the bridge as they crashed into consoles and slammed against walls. A handful fell directly into the viewports like bugs against a windshield. A skull cracked, blood spreading across the transparisteel surface, crystal red droplets suspended mid-air.

The deck still shuddered beneath them, but the armored clone troopers were already on their feet, the sharp whine and clamp of mag-boots echoing across the bridge. The rhythmic thuds and mechanical hisses were a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Commander Cody reached Block first, hauling the older man upright with a firm grip. Around them, crew members scrambled to reorient themselves, some working to stabilize the artificial gravity, others dragging limp and unmoving bodies from the floor.

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth as he pulled himself toward the viewport, his fingers digging into the reinforced railing.

"What are they trying to accomplish?" he muttered, eyes narrowing at the shifting battle lines.

There was no rearview monitor, no way to confirm his suspicions, but he knew. There had to be Lucrehulks–massive, circular battleships lurking behind the Open Circle Fleet, their colossal tractor beams locking onto the disabled warships, prying them away from the rest of the Republic’s Expeditionary Fleet like a predator peeling flesh from bone. The Separatists were separating them from the Republic formation entirely.

But before Obi-Wan could even contemplate a response, a silence fell over him.

Not a physical silence. The ship still rumbled with distant impacts, alarms still blared, voices still shouted orders–but something deeper, something immeasurable, had changed.

The Force had gone mute.

It was as if the universe itself had taken a breath and refused to exhale. Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi’s stomach twisted. He reached out, stretching his senses beyond the bridge, beyond the ship, searching for the familiar currents of life, the luminous web that connected him to the countless souls across the battlefield.

Nothing.

A fog. A dark, insidious mist filling the battlespace.

A great, terrible wrongness.

His breath hitched, and a sudden, unshakable dread rooted itself in his chest. This wasn’t just the fog of war or the momentary disarray of battle. This was something else. Something vast. Something irrevocable.

The battle in front of them collapsed.

The Republic fleet erupted into madness.

Turbolaser fire slashed across the void, but the patterns were wrong. Entire Star Destroyers pivoted, unleashing full broadsides–not at the Separatists, but at each other. Ship after ship, once locked in tight formation, turned on their allies without warning. Frigates that had fought side by side moments ago now exchanged volleys at point-blank range, their shields flaring and collapsing in bursts of blue on blue.

Obi-Wan’s breath caught in his throat as a Venator-class battlecruiser in the vanguard let loose with a full battery of heavy turbolasers–directly into the flank of another Republic warship. The struck vessel reeled under the impact, hull plating peeling away in jagged sheets, decks rupturing as entire compartments vented into the void. Within seconds, another Venator responded in kind, its guns swiveling and unleashing a punishing broadside against its supposed ally.

Fire. Wreckage. Betrayal.

"What in Nine Hells is happening?" Admiral Block shouted, but Obi-Wan had no answer.

The battle had become a massacre.

At the heart of the Expeditionary Fleet, chaos reigned. Republic ships twisted and fired at will, their formations dissolving into an anarchic melee. Some still fought the Separatists, but many more had turned inward, turbolasers and missiles carving into their own ranks with brutal efficiency. A battleship at the formation’s edge burst apart, its engines detonating as friendly fire tore through its reactor.

Another heavy cruiser pitched forward, its bridge engulfed in a surge of flame and debris. Its final salvo, launched in the instant before its destruction, slammed into a nearby frigate, gutting it along its entire dorsal length.

It was a storm of fire and treachery.

Obi-Wan gripped the railing, his knuckles white, his mind racing to make sense of the madness unfolding before him. This wasn’t the work of the Separatists, he knew it. They could have never done something like this. This was something deeper, something more insidious.

The deck pitched violently beneath him. Obi-Wan braced against the railing as Vigilance lurched once more, but this time, the impact didn’t come from the Separatists. The jolt reverberated through the hull, sending a tremor through the metal bones of the bridge. Sparks cascaded from overhead conduits, and a thin veil of smoke curled through the dim emergency lighting.

“That came from a Republic ship!” Cody shouted, his voice raw with disbelief.

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped back to the viewport. The maelstrom of battle still raged, but now, he saw the patterns shifting–the chaos coalescing into something even more disturbing. There was a pattern now, an unmistakable divide taking shape in the battle lines.

One side of the Republic was winning.

Even with Vigilance’s systems down, even without scopes or targeting readouts or the ability to identify who was who, Obi-Wan could see it. The disjointed melee was settling into something deliberate. Certain formations were peeling away, reorganizing, focusing their fire–and they were winning. Turbolaser barrages, once scattered, were now concentrated, methodical, precise. Ships once mired in chaotic dogfights were now executing coordinated kill-box maneuvers.

And many were closing in on the Open Circle Fleet.

The Open Circle Fleet had been crippled by the Malevolence’s ion blast. Their systems were fried, their weapons dead. Vigilance itself was helpless, locked in place by Separatist tractor beams, blind and deaf with no comms, no sensors. And now, their own allies–or what had once been their allies–were turning on them, cutting them apart like prey left for slaughter.

Another impact rocked the ship.

A distant explosion bloomed in the void, debris cartwheeling across the viewport. A Venator in the distance–on its wings the painted open circle that signified its allegiance–was venting atmosphere from a ruptured hull breach, caught in the relentless crossfire. A Republic formation was closing in on it, turbolasers shredding its engines apart with pitiless efficiency.

“That is an execution!” Admiral Block clenched his fists, “What is happening?”

Obi-Wan exhaled sharply. This is the Supreme Chancellor’s retaliation. Master Plo was right. And if everything happening now revolved around what the Kel Dor Jedi Master had told him and Ahsoka prior, then what the Perlemian Coalition was doing now was…

Saving them. The realization hit him like a punch to the chest. Is this the agreement Master Plo made with Admiral Trench?

“Report from below, General!” Commander Cody shouted, having just received a flimsi report, “The droid boarding parties had captured the main and auxiliary reactors! We can’t cycle our power like this!”

Still, he couldn’t let his thoughts stray for long. Another wave of nausea washed over him–this time not from the battle but from the sudden, overwhelming weight of the Force itself. It had fractured, like a broken mirror. The usual currents of the Force, the familiar flow that kept Obi-Wan centered, were now distorted. Pieces of it shattered into jagged, dissonant shards, swirling through his senses.

There was a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing ache. His mind felt stretched thin as he reached out, but the ripples he felt were fragmented, detached, faint echoes of his brothers and sisters in the Force, their connections severed violently. Betrayed. Gunned down by their own soldiers. He could see it in his mind’s eye, hazy pictures provided by the Force, relayed by his connections with all the Jedi that were dying like flies.

Hold-out blasters appear in clone hands. ARC-170s drop back onto the tails of Jedi starfighters. AT-STs swivel their guns. Turrets on hovertanks swung silently.

Clones open fire, and Jedi die.

All across the galaxy. All at once.

Jedi die.

He felt them pass, ripped from his hands. But he had only one name on his mind right then.

Ahsoka! His Padawan was his duty, and right now, the young Togruta was out in the black leading a combat patrol. He could feel her, a flicker of life, a spark of presence that he held close to him. She was fighting, leading her starfighter wing, as always, but the connection was weak. Like a light in a fog, her essence wavered, shifting through the haze of distortion.

Right then, Obi-Wan could only regret everything. He was never as close to Ahsoka as he had been to Anakin. When Obi-Wan took Anakin as a Padawan, he had not yet known how to be a ‘Master’. He treated Anakin like a friend, a brother, and even now Obi-Wan could feel his presence so brightly on the other side of the galaxy. But Ahsoka? He treated her as any Jedi Master should, and taught her in the Jedi Order’s ways.

Desperation clawed at Obi-Wan’s chest. He reached out more fiercely, trying to extend his senses through the Force, trying to pull her presence from the shifting tide of battle. But all he felt was the gnawing dissonance–the Force was alive with agony, consumed by confusion, devoured by a hungering black serpent. It was like trying to hear a whisper in the midst of a roaring storm. His connection to Ahsoka faded and flickered like an unreliable signal.

“No, no, no…” Obi-Wan whispered under his breath, fear lacing his words. “Where are you!?”

Then, the black durasteel wall of the Perlemian Coalition’s line of battle thundered across the viewports, interposing themselves between the Expeditionary Fleet and the Open Circle. His sight blocked, Ahsoka’s thread in the Force slipped through her Master’s fingers.

“NO!”

⁂

“Admiral Trench upheld his word,” Jedi Knight Lissarkh admitted begrudgingly.

“H-How many did we save?” Jedi Knight Bultar Swan’s voice was shaking, her perfectly maintained and conditioned hair perfect no longer, sweat-soaked and draped over her eyes and nose like black ivy.

Jedi Master Plo Koon answered, “Not enough.”

He felt Adi Gallia, the Jedi Master who masterminded the whole operation, pass in the Force. They have betrayed the ideals of the Jedi in order to save the Jedi. Jedi like him and her were tantamount to everything wrong with what became of their fallen order. He would join her soon, and with them, the Jedi Order.

The bridge of the Hyperion was a battlefield unto itself. Behind the command console, the three Jedi stood, the pulse of the Force vibrating through their bodies, an ever-present hum of desperation and fury. Their lightsabers burned brightly in the dim, flickering light of the bridge, cutting through the oppressive tension that thickened the air. Clones, once allies, now surrounded them, weapons drawn, eyes cold and unfeeling as they stood under the command of the very enemy the Jedi had sworn to protect the Republic from.

The words of the enemy were still a ghost in Plo Koon’s mind. The treachery was fresh, like a brand on his soul, but there was no time for reflection now. The air was thick with the stench of betrayal, and they were outnumbered. His actions had allowed the Open Circle Fleet to fight another day, but for Plo Koon, who had driven Hyperion deep into the Republic vanguard, there would be no escape.

Plo Koon’s mask hissed as he exhaled, his movements slow and deliberate as he brought his lightsaber into position, the blue blade humming with an energy that seemed to intensify the more his mind settled into the calm, clear flow of the Force. He stood back to back with Bultar Swan and Lissarkh, their bond strong even now, though the three knew they would not make it out alive.

“You were right, Master, as alwaysss,” Lissarkh hissed, though her tone was light and humorous, “We die like martyrs.”

Without warning, the storm broke. The clones opened fire, blaster bolts flying from every direction, sizzling through the air like angry bees in a hive. Bultar Swan moved first, the edge of her emerald lightsaber flashing as she deflected shots, one after another, the precision of her motions honed through years of training. Her sabers whirled with such fluidity it was as though she were dancing in the heart of a storm. She blocked each shot with an impossible elegance, but the strain was apparent.

Lissarkh was no less impressive. Her lightsaber was a streak of blue fire as she parried shots coming from the left, twisting to avoid others from the right. Her breath was harsh and labored, moisture forming on her scales as her grip on her weapon tightened with every passing second. The Force whispered around her, urging her to survive, to fight for just a little longer–but her strength was not limitless. Neither was the strength of her allies.

Plo Koon felt the pulse of the Force as his companions moved, their strikes weaving through the chaos with an almost synchronized harmony. The brilliance of their lightsabers–blue, green, blue–illuminated the smoke-choked bridge in sharp, flickering flashes, each swing of their weapons creating arcs of light that seemed to sear the very air. Together, they were a ball of liquid fire that swept through the bridge, leaving the metal walls scorched and the air crackling with heat..

Clone troopers were being cut down by the dozen. Each strike sent another soldier sprawling, their bodies crumpling to the floor with a finality that was harsh and immediate. The noise of their blasters was drowned out by the deafening hum of lightsabers slicing through the air, the crackle and hiss of energy clashing against armored plates. Some clones fell with a muffled grunt, others with a burst of static as their systems short-circuited under the relentless assault of the Jedi’s strikes.

The environment itself seemed to bend and warp with the fury of the battle. The walls, once pristine, were marred by deep burns and cuts, the scorched metal stinking of melted durasteel as sparks flew from exposed conduits. The air thickened with the acrid smell of ozone and hot, burning electronics, a biting scent that lingered in the lungs and choked every breath. Panels from the control stations were torn apart by errant lightsaber strikes, sending sparks hissing into the air. These sparks ricocheted off the hull, igniting small fires in the corners of the bridge, their flickering orange glow adding an unnatural warmth to the already sweltering environment.

White smoke billowed up from the floor, swirling in thick, choking clouds that obscured the view. It twisted in the low gravity, caught in eddies of the ship’s artificial atmosphere, before dissipating into the vents above. It burned the eyes and stung the throat, mixing with the stench of blood and charred flesh. The constant crackling of the lightsabers and the sounds of blaster fire were drowned by the underlying hum of the ship's damaged systems, whirring, sputtering, and clanging with each hit they took.

A sudden bite in the skull, a flash of warning. Plo Koon snapped to the viewports, just in time to see a nearby Victory unleashing a full barrage of proton torpedoes. Not at the Separatists, not at Serenno, but at the Hyperion.

It took all of their skill as Jedi to not get thrown to the ground as the flagship lurched violently, a harsh and sudden gale sweeping the smoke out of the pilothouse. Hull breach. Leaking atmosphere.

But it was enough to throw them off for a split second, and a single gap in their defence was all the clones needed to find their mark. Bultar Swan took the first hit. The bolt hit her in the side, and her body jerked violently. For a split second, she staggered, her breath sharp and ragged. The sharp crackle of her lightsaber faltered. Her knees buckled as another bolt pierced her chest, sending her crumpling to the cold floor of the bridge. Her lightsaber fell from her hand, clattering against the floor as she exhaled her last breath, her form slumping lifelessly into the growing pool of her own blood.

Lissarkh's face tightened with grief, but there was no time to mourn. She swirled his saber in a wide arc, cutting down the closest clone with swift precision. But as she struck, another blaster bolt caught her in the chest. She gasped, stumbling backward. Another shot struck her, this one to the leg, and then another in herside. Her breathing became ragged as she fell to her knees, lightsaber slipping from her hand and spinning out of reach. The blue blade flickered and died as Lissarkh’s body crumpled forward, lifeless before she even hit the floor.

Plo Koon stood alone now. Alone, and surrounded. But the calmness of the Force enveloped him, pulling him deeper into the present moment. There was no fear, no hesitation. He had known this would be his end. The clones closed in, their blasters aimed at his chest. A barrage of fire erupted. Plo Koon’s saber cut through the air, his lightsaber flashing brilliantly as he deflected one bolt after another. But with each passing moment, he grew weaker. His arms ached. His breath was growing shallow.

Another bolt struck him, this time grazing his shoulder, sending a sharp pain through his body. The next shot slammed into his side. The third hit his chest.

He stumbled, but his feet remained steady as he kept deflecting the incoming fire. There was no fear, no panic in his heart. He had lived his life as a Jedi. He had fought and won countless battles. But this... this was the moment where his time would run out.

A final bolt struck him in the chest, right above his heart. The impact sent a shock of agony coursing through his body, but he remained standing for a brief moment. He could feel his life slipping away from him, the strength in his limbs fading.

Plo Koon's gaze never wavered. His body slumped, slowly at first, then collapsed to the cold, unforgiving floor of the bridge. For a moment, everything was silent. He gripped his lightsaber tightly, staring at the smoking corpses of his two former apprentices, inhaling a thin stream of air through his mask; into himself with the air he brought pain and guilt and remorse at everything he had done to preserve what remained of the Jedi, and as he exhaled, they trailed away and vanished in the air.

Republic warships continued firing into the wreckage of the Hyperion, uncaring of any who were still onboard. And as the mighty flagship began to fall, captured by Serenno’s gravity well, Jedi Master Plo Koon breathed out.

And he breathed out his whole life. Everything he had done, everything he had been, friends and enemies, dreams and hopes and fears. Empty, he found clarity. Scrubbed clean, the Force shone through him.

You were the best of us, Master Dooku, the dying Jedi Master thought, blanking staring at the silver pearl of Serenno. You knew what was coming, tried to warn us. From the start.

Plo Koon coughed wetly.

The Old Order is dead, but the Jedi still live, saved by those we considered the enemy.

A new start.

A fresh start.

The galaxy burned around him, and the final breath of a Jedi left the universe.

⁂

Within the throne room of Castle Serenno, the seat of Count Dooku, a lone Jedi Master battled alone, against an oily black serpent.

Sinking into Vaapad, Mace Windu fought for his life.

More than his life: each whirl of blade and whipcrack of lightning was a strike in defense of democracy, of justice and peace, of the rights of ordinary beings to live their own lives in their own ways. He was fighting for the Republic that he loved.

Vaapad, the seventh form of lightsaber combat, takes its name from a notoriously dangerous predator native to the moons of Sarapin: a vaapad attacks its prey with whipping strikes of its blindingly fast tentacles. Most have at least seven. It is not uncommon for them to have as many as twelve; the largest ever killed had twenty-three. With a vaapad, one never knew how many tentacles it had until it was dead: they moved too fast to count. Almost too fast to see.

So did Mace’s blade. Vaapad is as aggressive and powerful as its namesake, but its power comes at great risk: immersion in Vaapad opens the gates that restrain one’s inner darkness. To use Vaapad, a Jedi must allow himself to enjoy the fight; he must give himself over to the thrill of battle. The rush of winning. Vaapad is a path that leads through the penumbra of the dark side. Mace Windu created this style, and he was its only living master.

This was Vaapad’s ultimate test.

The throne room was a storm of lightning and fire. Mace Windu moved through it like a force of nature, his amethyst blade tracing arcs of violet destruction as it deflected blaster bolts and cut men in twain in single motions. The storm shrieked and howled, dancing across the polished obsidian floors of Castle Serenno, reflecting in shattered pieces of the great chandeliers above.

Vaapad sang in his blood.

His saber struck with the speed of a comet, intercepting arcs of dark power, sending them crackling into the marble columns. He pivoted, letting the Force twist him like a river bends around jagged stone, his strikes unpredictable, relentless. Let the darkness come. Vaapad did not reject the dark side–it danced with it, fed from it, and then turned its power against itself. Every surge of anger, every pulse of hatred, every flicker of fear in his enemies only fed his strength.

The white plastoid of their armor gleamed in the vile glow of the ruined chandeliers, their visors blank, emotionless, devoid of the humanity they once carried. They were his men. Soldiers who had bled beside him. Soldiers who had sworn loyalty. And yet now–

“Open fire!”

Mace moved before the first bolts left their rifles. He was one with the oily black serpent, pure motion, pure intent. Traitors! The serpent’s forked tongue did whisper in his ear. They’re traitors! Traitors to the Jedi, to the Republic! We should have never trusted the Kaminoans!

The Korun Master swatted the serpent away, but it coiled back around him. It alway will, for that was the price of Vaapad, to listen to the serpent of the dark side hissing in your ear.

His blade wove a web of violet light, reflecting the storm of blasterfire back into the troopers. They fell in droves. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. There was no time for mourning, no time for mercy. These were not the men he knew.

And the serpent was hungry.

Mace surged forward, shattering the line. A downward cut sheared through a rifle and armor in the same stroke. He pivoted, dodging left, a flick of his wrist severing a trooper’s limbs before the body hit the floor. Two more raised their weapons—Mace reached out with his free hand, crushing their windpipes before their fingers could pull the triggers.

A surge of energy rippled through him. The dark side pressed against his skin like the heat of a wildfire. It begged him to take more. To press deeper. To let go.

He did not reject it. He wielded it.

The Force screamed its warnings. More were coming. Hundreds. They came in squads, in battalions, in endless waves.

Mace Windu cut them down.

He was deep in it now: submerged in Vaapad, swallowed by it, he no longer truly existed as an independent being. Vaapad is a channel for darkness, and that darkness flowed both ways. He accepted the unstoppable tide of the dark side, the slaughter of the Jedi Order, the betrayal of everything he held dear, he drew the shadow’s rage and power into his inmost center–

And let it fountain out again.

He moved. He did not slow. He could not. Vaapad had no mercy, no hesitation, no regret. The moment he stopped moving, he would die. Whereas other Jedi could only hold their ground against the seemingly endless number of clone troopers, Mace Windu was on the march, a force as unstoppable as the shadows shifting in the twilight..

He had long since fought his way out of the throne room, letting the oily black serpent guide his footsteps. Count Dooku had long since left his mind, clouded by the fog, his original purpose forgotten. He was in the halls of Castle Serenno, sprinting down polished corridors, his blade cutting through troopers in flashes of purple light. The halls were elegant, noble, rich with history–now they were splattered with carbon scoring and the bodies of fallen soldiers.

His soldiers.

For how long did he fight? Minutes, hours? It did not matter.

The castle doors burst open before him, blown from their hinges by the pressure of the Force. Mace Windu strode onto the landing, his blade a violet afterimage in the dim air, his chest rising and falling with measured breath. The ground beneath his boots was scorched and littered with bodies. Behind him, the halls of Castle Serenno burned.

And before him–

The Republic was falling from the sky.

The first light of dawn was cresting the horizon, spilling gold over the rolling hills and towering spires of Carannia, but it did not bring peace. It illuminated the chaos. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning metal. The sky was a graveyard.

Republic warships, their once-proud hulls shattered and venting atmosphere, drifted like dying leviathans through the upper atmosphere. Some burned from within, their corridors consumed by raging infernos. Others simply fell, engines dead, pulled inexorably toward the planet below. From where he stood, Mace could see one–a Tector-class battleship–its bridge split in half, tumbling end over end before slamming into the distant mountains with a flash of white-hot destruction.

The Jedi Expeditionary Force. The armada that had once been the hammer of justice, the shield of the Republic.

It was falling from the sky.

That pause, that single moment of stark hesitation, that was all it took. Mace Windu strangled the oily black serpent curled on his shoulder with its own body. The dark side bled from him, and the creeping ache of exhaustion replaced it.

With the serpent gone, the Force returned to his ear with a tremor. A pulse.

Not here.

Not just here.

Everywhere.

Jedi were dying.

Across the stars, across battlefields, across entire worlds. It was a massacre, a slaughter beyond imagining. Their screams echoed through the Force like distant thunder, each death a ripple in the great river of existence. Mace felt it all.

And for the first time in his life–

–he did not know what to do.

The Republic was falling. The Jedi Order was burning.

The dawn had come, but the light was already dead.

Mace Windu looked down, fully expecting to see a hundred AT-TE cannons pointed at him, but there were none. All of his armoured battalions had been destroyed, their metal skeletons strewn across Count Dooku’s once pristine stone garden. Clone troopers littered the ground, already wrapped in the white burial shrouds of their armour. And atop their corpses, was the soulless march of a droid legion.

It took everything Mace had to not drop his lightsaber right then and there.

He counted three C-9799 landing crafts, their broad wingspans providing shade for the whole field. In that shade, thousands of battle droids marched towards Castle Serenno, flanked by repulsor tanks.

There was a slow, polite, clapping.

Mace Windu whirled around, his blade of purple fire already outstretched. Count Dooku stood just outside his range, at the top of the stairs, clapping politely.

“Master Windu!” there was a smile on his face, one full of admiration, “Master… Master! You truly are a Master. You have mastered the dark side of the Force in a way I could have never done.”

Mace Windu breathed out deeply, “I am not you, Dooku. I never will.”

The clapping stopped, and Count Dooku grabbed the curved hilt of his lightsaber, “Fear not, you will never have the chance to.”

The greatest duelist the Jedi Temple had ever known struck with all the speed of a viper, and indeed Mace could make out the coiled serpent at Dooku’s back. It should have been a duel for the ages, one worthy of being writ into the annals of Jedi and Sith alike. The two greatest blademasters the Jedi Order had ever known, crossing said blades? The very thought of witnessing such would have made any salivate.

Alas, the cowardly Sith had waited until the lone Jedi Master had already been spent. Nevertheless, Mace Windu met Dooku’s strike with the blinding speed of a warrior who had lived his entire life on the edge of a blade. Their sabers clashed in a burst of light, crackling energy hissing through the air. Dooku’s form was impeccable–every motion precise, every strike economical, the epitome of Makashi’s elegance. Mace, even exhausted, moved with the sheer, overwhelming power of Vaapad, each strike designed to turn the Count’s own darkness against him.

For a moment, just a moment, they were evenly matched.

Mace’s strikes battered against Dooku’s guard like a hammer against a blade, forcing the Count backward, step by step, toward the edge of the landing. But Dooku did not waver. His saberwork was too refined, too perfect. He evaded each stroke by the barest margin, turning the momentum of the fight with well-placed ripostes and sudden, elegant thrusts.

Lightning cracked through the air–Dooku’s left hand flicked forward, a sudden burst of dark energy, not enough to wound but enough to force a reaction. Mace absorbed it on his blade, his grip steady, his stance unbroken. He surged forward, pressing the attack.

Then–

The Force screamed.

Not from Dooku. Not from in front of him.

Behind.

Again.

His instincts screamed at him, and before he could process the thought, his body was already moving. He twisted, his saber whirling around in time to intercept a crimson blaster bolt that would have struck him in the back. It deflected harmlessly into the stone, leaving a molten scar on the landing.

There was a form. Not a clone. Not a battle droid. Large, and heavily-built like a bear. Mace could hardly process the sight before he whirled back around.

But that single moment of distraction was all Dooku needed.

The Count moved with ruthless precision, his blade flashing forward in a blur of silver and crimson. Mace had barely turned back when he felt the searing heat of plasma cut through his ribs.

His breath hitched.

Then again–his body jerked as the saber pierced his side.

He tried to raise his blade, but Dooku was already moving. A final, decisive stroke–an upward diagonal slash–Mace Windu felt the world tilt, felt the ground vanish beneath him.

The lone Jedi Master struck the earth, and again, and again, as he tumbled down the stairs. When he finally rested at the bottom, he stared up at the glowing twilight, and a great shadow loomed over him, six glaring red eyes pitilessly scanning down on his broken form, as if inspecting a particularly curious insect. Mace Windu knew that form, its name whispered in trepidation in Jedi Command councils and Republic Navy meetings alike.

Admiral Trench, the Old Spider of the Secundus Ando.

“Fear not, Master Jedi,” the Old Spider’s mandibles chittered, “Your Order’s existence has been preserved, though its future uncertain. That future, however, is theirs to take.”

The shadow moved, and Jedi Master Mace Windu’s lifeless eyes stared into the sky.

The sky was still burning.

And the Republic was falling from the burning sky.

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