AN: Thank you so much to those of you who have subscribed to my Patre0n, it means a lot to me. Like, seriously. I’ll be praying for you all. I appreciate you guys. As usual, chapters will be posted there at least one week in advance and subscribers will be thanked in my author bio.
I hope the month of the Sacred Heart is treating you all well, I got to serve Mass for the first time on the External Solemnity of Corpus Christi so that was super awesome.
I highly recommend reading the old EU novels published by Bantam and Del Rey. “The original Saga was about the father, the children, and the grandchildren. That’s not a secret to anybody, it’s even in the novels and everything. The children were in their twenties and everything, so it wasn’t The Phantom Menace again.” — George Lucas. I will be adding a ‘reading list’ of sorts of SW and Halo books/comics/etc. I’ve read to my author bio so you guys can get a preview of sorts as to what might be relevant to the fic.
BTW I changed the last chapter’s name to ‘State Of Affairs’ which was originally going to be this chapter’s name. I thought it was more fitting.
0246 Hours, 15:5:16 (GrS), Corellian Trade Spine, Providence-Class Carrier/Destroyer Invisible Hand
Our appeals have been ignored.
General Grievous watched as the Confederate fleets massed at the hyperspace jumpzone. In this moment, from the depths of his durasteel heart, he knew, could feel, that this campaign would be his greatest triumph.
It is now apparent that the Republic and the Jedi favor our enemies.
The Republic and their Jedi would be reduced to nothing. His fleets would pierce the celestial boundaries veiling the Core Worlds and pour across. The tide of war would wash away all that stood before him. Stones would run like water and sand would turn to glass, cities and dominions would boil and flesh would steam.
General, you are our last hope against the Huk in this war.
Kalee would finally have its retribution and, perhaps, Ronderu lij Kummar would have hers, too.
May the spirits of our ancestors watch over you and your troops.
“The fleets are ready, General,” Captain Lushros Dofine reported, interrupting his brief reverie. “Awaiting your command for the final jump.”
“Good,” Grievous curtly replied, unmoving from the transparisteel viewscreen. The UNSC ships had long since departed due to their slower ‘slipspace’ drives. An unfortunate drawback.
Despite this disadvantage, combat formations with UNSC ships had proven to be nearly unapproachable by Republic equivalents. Nestled within ranks of Munificents and Providences, the Terran MAC weapons with their long-range firepower were adequately supplemented by the comparatively shorter range, but faster firing, turbolasers.
It was partly due to this that the Confederate advance up the Corellian Trade Spine had proceeded so swiftly against the 20th Sector Army.
That, and the total incompetency of their Senate at running the war effort.
Grievous turned, staring unblinkingly into the beady, sinusoidal-striped eyes of the Neimoidian.
“Give the final order to make the jump to lightspeed.” Had he a mouth still, he would’ve smiled. “Coruscant will soon be ours.”
Stars stretched into starlines and the whole universe seemed to twist before flinging the Invisible Hand and four thousand Confederate warships into the swirling depths of hyperspace.
1454 Hours, 15:5:16 (GrS), Coruscant, Senate Rotunda
Shortly put, getting Umbaran Senator Mee Deechi onto the Action Subcommittee for Corellian Trade Spine Defense was proving to be a massive strain in the aft compartment for Padmé to deal with.
The slot he would fill had been left open following Roonan Senator Edcel Bar Gane’s resignation from the subcommittee a week prior in the face of the Separatist offensive towards Kriselist and their inability to muster a counterattack towards Roona. It was not a resignation of shame for a personal failure, but indignation at the ineffectiveness of the Senate in directing the war effort. In spite of this, Padmé had heard the other Roonan senator, Aang, would remain on the Military Oversight Committee.
Deechi was a feeler pushed by the bloc of senators who didn’t believe a peaceful solution could be found to the Separatist Crisis, to whom Deechi belonged. He might’ve been a militarist, but that was better than being corrupt.
Just by the fact he wasn’t corrupt made him essentially a compromise candidate, someone who at least held to principles higher than self-interest, to ease things over with the opposition on the looming vote for the Defense Recruitment Bill.
It was only during an hour-long recess that any agreement was worked out. Padmé didn’t like the fact that Uncle Ono and Deechi had met behind closed doors and then, as if miraculously, everything had been worked out. Deechi had gotten onto the Action Subcommittee with no further fanfare.
When she approached her father’s longtime friend, he was uncharacteristically taciturn and wouldn’t so much as make eye contact. His aide, Lolo Purs, demurely looked upon her with worried eyes.
Something was undeniably amiss, but Padmé could only speculate as to what. It pained her that she didn’t have the time to prod him for answers, the approaching vote on the Defense Recruitment Bill wasn’t looking great according to Bail and Mon. Even still, she couldn’t focus on that, either.
Using her status as a senator, she’d been able to pull some strings and get a visit scheduled with the imprisoned Terran religious leader. It was a long shot that that visit would eventually facilitate another peace initiative, but it was all they had. If the stars aligned, it would work.
Padmé continued her walk through the halls of the Senate, hoping.
1231 Hours, 15:5:16 (GrS), Coruscant, Senate Rotunda, Private Conference Room, Two Hours Earlier
Mee Deechi leaned back in his chair and steepled his pale fingers. “Shall we say what this really is?”
Onaconda Farr’s opalescent eyes narrowed at the Umbaran adorned in dreary grey. “I have no clue what you mean. It is a trade agreement, nothing more. Your planet’s doonium is critical to the war effort.”
Deechi grinned slightly. “Exporting it to Rodia, however, is not.” His sunken eyes bored holes into the Rodian’s head. “I can scarcely think of reasons, legitimate reasons, why my people’s metals need to go through a middleman, regardless of the… generous terms you have offered.”
“It would be beneficial to both our planets to establish closer trade relations,” Farr said, steadying his breath.
Deechi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the round table between them, lacing his fingers and gazing over them like a bonegnawer on the hunt. “It would benefit some more than others, Senator, an idea that does not sit well with me. I could just as well sign a direct contract with the Corellian Engineering Corporation without a single shipment of doonium ever reaching Rodia. Besides, it would be a rather circuitous route, from Umbara to Rodia to wherever else, don’t you think?”
Farr did his best to inhale silently, bracing his nerves. “With my position as the Action Subcommittee's Chairman, I have pre-established relations with the defense contractors in my area of concern, something you do not have. I can arrange that the doonium is used in the construction of new warships to defend the Corellian Trade Spine, with favorable pricing of the materials. You cannot.”
Deechi gave him a cunning grin. “Yes, I know. But I fail to see why you have proposed this to me at such a time.” The Umbaran paused, briefly glaring at Farr’s aide, Lolo Purs, in the corner of the room. “Except to see yourself profit in the exchange,” he spat out with distaste.
Farr didn’t flinch. “We both want what is best for the Republic, for our people. Rodia has long been plagued by piracy and even now stands on the brink of starvation!” Farr stood, looming over the table as his chair clattered away. Deechi continued to stare coolly at him. “It is my duty to attempt to revitalize trade, to feed my people!”
Farr stood there for a full ten seconds staring at the ghastly Umbaran before heaving a breath and collecting himself. His snout twitched, he could smell nothing but Deechi’s confidence. The Umbaran knew he held the upper hand when faith in the Senate was at an all-time low, when they couldn’t afford to look ineffectual, to squabble over candidates.
“I suspect there is something more,” Deechi prompted, the corners of his mouth raised ever so slightly in his sly grin. “Something you want. This goes beyond a mere trade agreement.”
Farr looked into his cold eyes. “My colleagues are worried that you do not have the best intentions at heart for the future of this Republic.”
Deechi chuckled, his whole body vibrating. “And this agreement would change what, exactly?”
“It would convince me,” Farr said. “It would be proof that you truly care about the defense of this Republic.”
Deechi’s smug expression did not change. “Is that the story you will tell your colleagues?”
“It will be the story that gets you a seat on the Action Subcommittee.”
That’s what Deechi really wanted out of this, to direct the war effort as the Militarist faction wanted, and Farr knew that fact all too well.
Deechi leaned back with a satisfied look on his gaunt face. “You do know I shall have to return to Umbara to consult with the Rootai, of course.” He made a show of picking his nail and flicking it distastefully towards Farr before looking up at him. “And I presume you wish me to depart in… say, seven days?”
Farr nodded, relieved they were coming to an agreement but unsettled that he’d guessed his other motivations at the same time. In ten days’ time, the Senate would be voting on the Defense Recruitment Bill. A trip to Umbara would leave Deechi reasonably indisposed for its duration.
Deechi somehow managed to look even more pleased with himself. “I will sign your agreement, but first, please remind me of the arrangements.”
Farr picked his chair back up, sat down, and cleared his throat. “Rodia will buy Umbaran doonium at one hundred twenty five percent current market price—”
“One hundred fifty,” Deechi said coolly.
“One hundred thirty,” Farr replied.
Deechi said nothing, looking at Farr across the table. Then, without warning, he got up and made for the door.
“Wait!” Farr cried, his voice cracking as he reached a hand out. “One hundred forty!”
Deechi stopped walking but did not turn. “I don’t know, Senator. Should the Rootai be anything less than pleased with the arrangement, I might have to return… prematurely.”
Farr swallowed. “I… I understand. One hundred fifty it is.”
“One hundred sixty.”
Farr gulped, the lips of his snout falling slack. He saw Lolo giving him a sidelong glance out of the corner of his eye. It would be almost impossible for Rodia to break even, let alone turn a profit, but he had no choice. He had no leverage over the Umbaran.
“One hundred sixty it is, then,” he said hesitantly.
Deechi huffed in amusement. He opened the door, a nearby cam droid floating lazily away.
“It’s settled, then?” Farr asked quietly.
This time, Deechi did turn his head.
“You would be wise to forget the exact details of this conversation, Senator Farr. Should anyone try to make you remember, remind yourself instead that we Umbarans are good at seeing into the dark.”
1959 Hours, May 16th 2561 (UTC), Coruscant, Cathedral of Saint Christopher
"Am I… an abomination?”
The voice was unmistakably a clone, one of the few that had come into the fold of the Catholic Faith.
The Archbishop leaned forward, nearly resting his head against the screen separating them in the confessional.
“Is that what you think?” the Archbishop asked.
“Cloning… it’s not right.” The clone paused. “What does that make me?”
The clone’s words hung in the air for a few seconds.
“One made in the image and likeness of God,” the Archbishop replied plainly. “The beginning of your life was not in your control, the rest of it, however, is.”
Neither of them said anything for minutes after, fortunately it was the Archbishop’s last confession for the day. It grieved him to have to send others away.
Then, the clone said, “When I heard your sermon last Sunday…” He paused.
“Yes?” the Archbishop prompted after another while.
“Last Sunday,” the clone said. “That one sentence you said, about the Holy Family…”
“Yes, I remember,” the Archbishop said softly.
“I can’t just shake the thought that I’ve had no home, no mother to raise me, no father to guide me. My whole life I’ve been trained to die for a Republic I’d never even seen. I was never even born…”
The Archbishop held his tongue for a few seconds. “Is any of that your fault?”
Silence.
Then, “No.”
No, he was a victim as any other. A victim of the commodification of life the world was so guilty of. Yet another hurt soul.
The penitent clone sighed. “Some days, I lie in my bunk and think I shouldn’t exist. I… I… I don’t know.”
The Archbishop took a deep breath in. “Such thoughts are not from God. God created you for a reason. He saw it fit to bring good out of evil, to bring you into this world. You are here for a purpose. He created you to save your soul, to know and to love Him, to follow His will. Let none convince you otherwise. We must suffer only a little while before we shall rejoice greatly, that is God’s will for our pilgrimage in this world.”
More silence, then, “Thank you… That… That makes it more clear to me.”
The Archbishop took a deep breath in. “And for the sins you have confessed, make sure to always pray especially for those who annoy or anger you. They have flaws just as we do. Strive to recognize the good in your brothers no matter their drunkenness or impurities. Likewise ask Our Lady for the grace of patience with others, for she bore with humility and patience the shame and injuries endured by her Son. For your penance, could you pray the second Sorrowful Mystery?”
“Uh-huh,” the clone said.
“Now say your act of contrition.”
“Oh my God…” the clone began as the Archbishop pronounced the words of absolution in Latin.
“...Go in peace, all thy sins are forgiven,” the Archbishop finished.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” the clone said, departing.
The Archbishop took a deep breath in and let it out, doffing and collecting his purple stole and white alb before departing the confessional.
That clone was yet another victim of this infernal war now wracking two galaxies. Cloning humans by gross lots, sending them to the slaughter… More crimes against God, more attempts to run from Him, to reject the ordained natural order, to ascend the tower of Babel into some sort of self-sufficient enlightenment.
The evils propagated by this war were really just the latest in a long line. It was the diabolical union of the philosophies behind the peace of Westphalia and total war taken to its natural conclusion.
It was moral relativism coupled with the idea that all aspects of society were to be involved, engaged in a utilitarian manner for the single-minded goal of unconditional victory. If everything, everyone, was considered part of a war effort—a war effort elevated to something of a supernatural status—and if ends justified the means… The results were devastating. The Archbishop didn’t need to imagine it, for he had seen what had happened to Covenant worlds cracked in half by last ditch, late-war reprisal strikes.
Simply put, it was madness that gripped the galaxy—two galaxies, he had to amend to himself. It was madness in the form of cold utilitarianism. Madness that would promulgate countless evils and see trillions slaughtered, slaughter driven by the cold, cruel mathematics of evil men who saw life and death as trivial things to be played with, accounting innocent lives only in relativistic measurements and percentages, in stark opposition to God who gave to the individual outside of all proportion.
Thinking about it gave him headaches—heartaches, more like it. He could almost imagine how the saintly pontiff Pius X had felt at the onset of the First World War back on Earth, but it was readily apparent God did not see it fit to spare Archbishop Bernard the sufferings that had been to come.
The Archbishop walked on towards the sacristy. The Cathedral of Saint Christopher was really more comparable in size to a large parish church, but space came at a premium on Coruscant, not only in terms of money but in terms of who knew who.
He’d dreaded this assignment when the Holy Father had approached him, had asked to be sent elsewhere, to continue his role in his titular see, to let someone else go in his place, but God willed otherwise. Although he accepted it, it wasn’t until he saw the towering starscrapers that his reluctance faded away.
It was here, in this barren land, that much good could be accomplished.
Genuflecting as he crossed the tabernacle, the Archbishop entered the sacristy to stow his vestments. He had business to attend to later that night regarding a smuggler bringing in supplies and priests from the Milky Way.
He reflected with a certain wry amusement how God had made man, so prideful and puffed up, dependent on lower matter for salvation. Without water, wheat, wine made from grapes, and olive oil, there could be no baptism, no Holy Communion, no confirmations, no ordinations.
As he moved past a closed window, he could’ve sworn he heard a noise outside. He peeked out through the stained glass and shook his head in dismay.
Across the main ‘street,’ a gaping cavern spanned only by a pedestrian bridge, it seemed the ‘Coruscanti Independent Fundamentalist Christian Church’ had already begun their late night vigil, blasting their hymns as long and as loud as local noise ordinances allowed with doors wide open.
Emblazoned in English and Aurebesh characters was the verse Genesis 2:15 from the 1611 King James Bible, ‘And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it,’ with ‘MAN’ emphasized in all caps.
The Archbishop couldn’t even begin to summarize their ridiculous beliefs.
Their ‘church’ had been founded by the self-styled Pastor Steve Jones, a man who had dodged the draft during the Human-Covenant War under the pretenses of the UEG and the UNSC being the ‘Whore of Babylon’ from the Apocalypse of St. John. After the wartime government had cut his family off of welfare as a consequence for his actions, he’d struck out alone as an independent pastor.
Ironically, considering his refusal to serve in the UNSC, or any other useful occupation for the duration of the War, he held a rabid hatred for aliens. He used his platform to spread excessively humanocentric drivel and became rather wealthy for it, propped up by certain groups of people perhaps just for shock value alone.
Really though, Jones was not a religious objector. He was a coward. During the Battle of Reach, he’d fled New Alexandria aboard his private spaceliner without so much as waiting for a single group of refugees.
Much worse than being a coward, he was also morally bankrupt despite the veneer of zeal he’d erected around himself. While performing his ‘ministrations’ on Actium, Jones had been under investigation for certain… improprieties involving his six year old niece and eight year old nephew. He’d only avoided a conviction because a month after the allegations were laid bare, the Covenant invaded and glassed over all the evidence.
Archbishop Bernard was well acquainted with the case because this archbishopric was not the first time he’d had problems with Jones.
Astoria, a city on the colony world of Actium, had been the Archbishop’s home since he’d been born there, he’d been ordained a priest there, and he was consecrated as its bishop… shortly before a Covenant fleet arrived. So short, in fact, that his first baptism as bishop of that see had been aboard a fleeing refugee ship shortly after a mother had given birth to her child. Unfortunately, the mother perished during the long voyage and the child had been sent to a state-run orphanage.
It was safe to say that the Archbishop hated what Jones was doing.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
After the War ended, Jones had made the news a few times for praising not only Sapien Sunrise terrorist attacks on various ex-Covenant colonies, but also the increasingly few Insurrectionist attacks on UEG worlds. Especially rabid were his rants against the Catholic Church.
The Archbishop had thought he’d fallen into obscurity with the peace that had settled over the years, someone whose tirades were only shared in private ChatterNet groups.
That was until they’d discovered the civilizations occupying the Andromeda Galaxy.
Initially, Jones had denied the news as UNSC propaganda meant to usher in the reign of the antichrist, but eventually, when it became undeniable, he had ferried a sizable percentage of his congregation alongside himself to Coruscant. They had been allowed in as ‘missionaries’ before the war had kicked off between the Republic and UEG.
He justified the move, Coruscant being populated by aliens as it was, to his followers by rattling on about how the planet was the true promised land or some other crackpot theory. Once they made landfall, they made their xenophobic, humanocentric views known far and wide.
Among other things, Jones and his followers refused to minister to any of the alien districts on Coruscant, at least the aliens that hadn’t been deported elsewhere by First Minister Tannon Praji at COMPOR’s insistence, anyway.
With the influx of more Andromedans disgruntled by the war, Jones had even begun to extol the virtues of such vaunted figures as Contispex and Nero Magnus, revered historical figures from the Pius Dea Crusades. The Archbishop had even caught wind that some of his followers believed Christ to be some light side Force user rather than the Son of God.
While there was nothing wrong with loving one’s own species, this was something else entirely. It was a hideous amalgamation of Gnostic and Arian heresy, a simultaneous denial of both Christ’s Divinity and the goodness present in His creation. It was not only that, but really also a synthesis of naturalistic enlightenment era philosophy. It would inevitably become the idolatry of self, the exaltation of man above God, a devilish corruption of the hypostatic union. God would not become Man for them, man would become their god.
He couldn’t help but sigh at the irony that the Church was being lambasted not only by xenophobes, but also by ‘alien rights’ activists as well for teaching that reproductively incompatible species could not marry as well as refusing to bestow Holy Orders on nonhumans. When some journalist had gotten ahold of the UEG’s official historical records on the Great War, there’d been plenty of outrage over Pope Francis II issuing a bull of crusade against the Covenant, having misunderstood it, perhaps purposefully, as an authorization for fullscale genocide of the alien races.
It worried the Archbishop that Jones and his newfound congregation were growing more popular with every passing second of the Clone War. The building across the street was just one out of about two or three dozen properties they’d managed to acquire in the past few months.
Sometimes they even staged protests outside the steps of the Cathedral, hurling blasphemies against the Mass, Mary, and the other saints as far as their voices could carry, particularly accusing the Catholic Church and the Cathedral parishioners of being xenophiles.
The Archbishop had tried to get the Coruscant Guard and Coruscant Security Force to do something, anything at all, but they’d cited religious freedom laws that enabled Jones and his band of followers to do what they pleased so long as they never physically assaulted anyone or tried to enter the Cathedral proper.
However, the Archbishop suspected that it was really an indifference to the religious affairs of ‘Terrans.’ In fact, he had good reason to believe those same government agencies were spying on them, if the shoddiness of communications with Rome were any indication, not to mention the fact that one of his priests had been arrested in a peace demonstration roundup.
The Archbishop frowned at the repurposed office building. So many, made so bitter by war.
He was no stranger to that bitterness, much of his own family had died on Actium. He’d gone beyond rightful hatred of the false religion which had led to the glassing by hating the aliens that followed it. He’d struggled with that hatred for some time, and even now it was a battle to keep looking them in the eye around the archdiocese, even if he knew quite well the various species of this galaxy had absolutely nothing to do with it.
There was nothing to be realized, no epiphanies. He knew it was wrong to hate the sinner, yet he had done so anyway. It indeed was only natural, insofar as his nature was wounded and weakened by sin. It was something to be recognized, to struggle against, to pray for deliverance from.
The Archbishop let out a labored sigh. He knew that things could get much worse, and with the civil government unresponsive, his only other recourse was in prayer.
Having already offered his two Masses for the day, the Archbishop thumbed the rosary beads in his pocket. He felt the textured centerpiece holding an image of Saint Elisa of the Vacuum, Virgin and Martyr.
During the Interplanetary War, the space station she’d been on had been hijacked by Koslovic rebels. Under cruel torture, she refused to renounce her faith and was vented out of the station, her body burning up on reentry and her ashes scattered across the Red Planet.
During the campaign to retake Mars, the UNSC captain who’d commanded the platoons of Drop Jet troopers, considered to be the first real deployment of ODSTs, to take out the Koslovic surface-to-orbit guns had attributed the success of the operation to her intercession. Decades after the conflict had ended, she had been canonized and declared as the patron saint of vacuum.
The Archbishop went up to the small attic-like space above the sacristy that comprised his personal office, finished praying the office of Compline, and made it a fifth through his rosary before his assistant, Father Chen, climbed up the small ladder.
“Your Excellency, there is a senator to see you.”
The Archbishop stopped halfway through a Hail Mary. “From the Senate?”
Father Chen nodded.
“I will be down there right away.” He quickly finished the Hail Mary and stowed the rosary in his pocket.
The Archbishop sighed, resigning himself to God’s Will. Oftentimes, UEG politicians were a disappointing lot. He’d discovered this galaxy was no different, but he still held out hope this particular one would be different.
000
Padmé was relieved that something seemed to be going right today. She’d had to put up with two hours of being gravwelled by the person at the desk of the CoCo District Municipal Jail, she’d finally gotten a meeting with Father O’Malley, who was able to explain his plight to her. He seemed ecstatic to have someone outside his faith visit him and care.
After seeing to it that his religious articles would be returned to him and offering to pay his bail, a futile gesture due to the strictures placed on arrestees of his type by the Enhanced Security and Enforcement Act, he’d written a flimsi note vouching for her.
As Father Chen exited the temple and led her to a small fenced-off terrace, she dug for the note out of a pocket and made ready to present it. Fr. Chen wordlessly opened a gate and plodded across the short grass plot.
Out from a nearby door, the Archbishop exited. Dressed in the same garments as Fr. Chen, save for purple trim, a necklace that looked like the lowercase High Galactic character for Thesh, and purple cap, the man looked old enough that he could’ve been Padmé’s grandfather.
He gave her a kindly grin, shook her hand, took the note, and thanked her after reading it for getting back Fr. O’Malley’s ‘breviary’ and ‘rosary.’
Padmé thought the Archbishop was totally caught off guard, considering their terse exchange of pleasantries, but saw it as a good sign she hadn’t been turned away.
“The purpose of my visit is simple, Your Excellency,” Padmé said. “I want an end to this war.”
“Oh?” The Archbishop was now well and truly caught off guard. “I want the same, yet it seems a complex task to accomplish.”
Padmé sighed, nodding. “I hope I’ve done my research well enough to say this, but from my understanding, it would be possible for your ‘Pope’ to extend an olive branch of peace to the United Earth Government. I wish for you to send a message to him. That is within your capabilities, is it not?”
Now the Archbishop was really caught off guard before his lined face scrunched in hesitation. “I can neither confirm nor deny that, Senator.”
Padmé scoffed. “There’s no need to worry about me being an agent sent to spy on you, I’m aware of the communications embargo the SBI has placed on your congregation. There is similar non-communication legislation placed on the Senate with our Separatist counterparts, but that didn’t stop a peace initiative.”
“Ah, yes.” The Archbishop tapped his chin. “Now I recall you. But if I remember correctly, it did not end well. Because of the UEG’s declaration of war, correct?” He added that last part after seeing the frustration on Padmé’s face.
“Correct. Which is why it's imperative this war ends before more damage can be done. I’m not asking for a personal meeting with your Pope, I just ask that you pass along this message.” She handed him a datapad. “If it is at all possible, that is.”
“Of course.” The Archbishop gave a cursory glance at the summary at the top of the datapad. “Well, if by some miracle this information were to somehow find its way to Rome back on Earth, you can expect a reply by a UEG ambassador.”
“Thank you,” Padmé said, relieved. Then, a hint of skepticism reared up. “You don’t wish for anything in return?” She knew they both wanted the same thing, but wasn’t sure how much leverage the Archbishop was willing to exert over her.
“Peace is its own reward,” the Archbishop replied. “Though, now that you mention it, my work would be a lot easier if Father O’Malley were able to be released. There are only so many priests on Coruscant.”
Padmé nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, Your Excellency.”
“Thank you Senator,” the Archbishop replied. “May the Lord be with you,” he said as Padmé departed. She only smiled and nodded, unsure what to make of his words. During the whole conversation, she felt as though the Archbishop was slightly reticent, not willing to fully engage in all the details, as though he really suspected her of being some sort of government agent set on persecuting him.
She could only sigh at that, unsure what it meant to represent a government whose citizens and inhabitants did not place their trust in.
She was sure of one thing, however. For once, something seemed to be going well, but only time would tell if this new peace initiative would work out. If it failed, her further options were increasingly limited, the only other ways to combat the onslaught of the war lying in counter-legislation and something she absolutely refused to consider as a real option: either the total exhaustion or total destruction of either side.
1426 Hours, 15:5:16 (GrS), Onderon, Iziz
Fifteen thousand Onderonians stood in Yolahn Square before the steps of the Unifar Temple. Lux Bonteri didn’t dare budge from his position, not even flick his eyes about.
He knew Sergeant Vindazos stood beside him. The Sarge was a total battlecan, a canny and aggressive platoon XO with no time to put up with Lux’s rookie bantha poodoo. The thirty-something man was a veteran of the Battle of Metalorn, Commander Merai’s failed assault on Kamino, and half a dozen other assaults, also failed, on the world of Circarpous IV in the ongoing effort to devalue the Republic credit.
He’d also been forced to go through the quickly-standardizing training program run on Pzandias by General Horn Ambigene alongside new recruits like Lux.
General Ambigene had a mythic aura about him. He wasn’t some corporate appointee, he was the real deal. General Ambigene wasn’t your run-of-the-mill Separatist, he was the Separatist. In fact, it was in many ways correct to call him the first Separatist.
A Separatist before Separatism, he’d been fighting Republic forces and corporate stooges in the Bryx sector before a single Trade Federation battle droid had ever marched across the pastures of Naboo, before Lux had even learned to walk, and before Dooku had ever thought of a single word contained in the Raxus Address.
Because of his experience, his skill, and his grit as a commander, General Ambigene had naturally been someone Dooku had sought after for the fledgling Separatist movement. He’d been made the Commander of Organic Training and had been stationed on Pzandias, forming the core of the Confederacy’s organic forces.
Under his command, Pzandias had been dubbed as the ‘Carida of the Confederacy.’ The ‘Confederacy’s Carida’ might not have been as large, well funded, or as respected as Carida itself, but General Ambigene had run them ragged during training, wielding the dreaded Terran Sergeant Major Johnson like a cattle zapper.
If Lux thought the Sarge was a total battlecan, the General was the embodiment of the metaphysical concept of battlecan.
That also meant he was the subject of such jokes as ‘General Ambigene threw a thermal detonator and killed fifty clone troopers; then the thermal detonator exploded.’
But this wasn’t the reason why the Sarge had to go back to basic training. The reason for that lay no farther than a whole other galaxy: the Terrans, Solars, Solarites, Milkies, Earthlings, Earthers, Yoonies (slang for the UNSC), or aboriginals (in mockery of the claim their galaxy was the origin of humanity); whatever one wanted to call them, it made no difference.
The Terrans wanted to train up elite units of organic troops for the Confederacy, not just give pointers or tips and tricks to disparate militia groups like they had been doing previously. Luckily, or unluckily, Onderon had been chosen as one of the planets that they’d test their new methods on, a trial run of sorts.
The Sarge had the unfortunate fate of being an Onderonian, so he’d been recalled from active duty and retrained using Terran tactics, Terran equipment, and Terran methods. He’d graduated basic training, again. Lux had been there with the man, and then separated once he’d gone on to officer school.
As fate would have it, they were reunited in the 1st Onderonian Royal Armored Grenadier Legion. More specifically: 3rd Platoon, Grek Company, 1st Armored Cavalry Battalion, 4th Armored Regiment.
Every single Onderonian in the square waited for the King to come and pronounce his parting words of benediction to the men. Lux had to resist the urge to check his chrono to see when he’d come. He’d just have to await, standing at perfect attention like everyone else.
Every single Onderonian in the square also thought they’d be sent to aid the latest offensive action up the Corellian Trade Spine. They all wanted to be in the first transport across the arbitrary demarcation between the Inner Rim and the Core Worlds.
Count Dooku’s Fete Week address had promised vengeance, and vengeance was what everyone wanted. Everyone had lost something to the infernal Republic whether it was family, land, love, or riches.
Lux had lost his father, so he supposed that was reason enough.
“ATTENTION!” General Akenathen Tandin of the Onderonian Royal Army barked.
Lux, simultaneously alongside the other thousands in the legion, smartly clicked their heels together and brought their free hands to their sides.
“PRESENT ARMS!”
Lux brought his Terran rifle, a BR55, out of parade rest, holding it vertically across his polished grey chestplate. He shifted his eyes in a furtive glance at the gleaming central podium, shining bright in the late spring warmth of the star Prael.
There he was: King Sanjay Rash, resplendent in silks and precious metals in his office as ruler of Onderon.
Lux could’ve sworn his golden laurel glinted right in his eye.
He also could’ve sworn that his mother, looking as dour as ever standing next to the King, was staring right at him.
“PORT ARMS!”
Lux and the rest of the legion brought their rifles diagonally across their chests, from right hip to left shoulder.
The King came to the central podium, his resplendent visage projected on the holographic displays for all to see.
“Children of Onderon!” he began, holding his arms up as though to catch all fifteen thousand of them. “You have been called upon to sacrifice much for your planet, your system, your sector, your people!
“You will suffer much, but take courage and know this: You fight for the glory of a free Onderon!” The King lowered his arms. “You not only fight for the glory of a safe and free Onderon, you fight for the very fate of the galaxy itself! You are the bulwark that stands between every woman and child of the Confederacy and a lifetime of servitude to Core World bankers.
“Sons of Onderon! You are the light of our people. Onderon’s future lies in not only your hands, but in your hearts. The Republic has failed to realize this in trying to conquer us by force of arms, but let them know this!” The King raised his arms again in benediction, as if to call down lightning to strike the people. “Onderon endures and marches on! So march on, my brave children! March on and strike fear into the hearts of the enemy!”
On cue, a swarm of hundreds of Vulture droid starfighters coming from the east blitzed overhead. Lux clenched his jaw as the sonic booms threatened to pull his helmet off.
Everything inside of Lux rattled. Everything inside of him felt fuzzy. Everything inside of him felt right.
As the last of the Vultures departed for the west, the King continued with mussed hair, “March on and let nothing stop you! March on! For Onderon!”
“Three cheers for the King, Onderon, and the Confederacy!” General Tandin announced.
Lux and fifteen thousand others let out three cheers that could’ve shook the stars. It seemed at that moment that they were invincible, that they could march straight down the heart of the galaxy to Coruscant. Lux knew they could do it, he could feel it in his bones, in his blood.
“Go on, make your people proud!” King Rash finally put down his arms.
“RIGHT SHOULDER ARMS!” General Tandin cried. Lux brought his rifle from port arms to rest at his right shoulder. “ABOUT FACE!” Lux and the rest of the legion pivoted around to face the open boulevard lined with tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of Onderonians.
“FORWARD—” There was a microsecond of pause in the General’s command, as though Lux’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation of the order that would change his life forever.
“MARCH!”
Lux and the First Legion, the first sons of Onderon, marched on towards the west, marched into Onderon’s blazing sun, marched into one last shining day lit by Prael, marched into the flying laurels and petals and hugs and kisses of young girls, marched into the distant sounds of brass and timbrels and winds and drums, marched forward and did not look back.
2219 Hours, 15:5:16 (GrS), Coruscant, Republic Executive Building
“It will be safer for you on Byss for the time being, my dear,” Palpatine said, giving Sly Moore a kindly grin.
She said nothing, keeping on their course towards the landing pads. Her way of acquiescence, he mused.
‘The Chancellor’s Hand awaits you,’ he told her, stopping in the hallway. Sidious watched her as she departed without preamble. Moore knew what to do, as always. Sarcev Quest, his Hand, would escort her to Byss before the looming disaster.
Unlike what the foolish Riyo Chuchi believed, the Separatist advance driving corewards up the Corellian Trade Spine was no mere incursion, it was their main offensive. Her falsely held beliefs were not entirely her own fault. Inconvenient reports from the frontline were often censored from ever being uploaded on the HoloNet under the auspices of inadequate licensing and signal purity thanks to the HoloCommunications Commission being firmly under his grip.
It would be a shock when the Separatists suddenly won a massive victory in the Core Worlds, an event which would perfectly precipitate the vote on the Defense Recruitment Bill thanks to his advisor Sate Pestage’s careful management of the Senate’s executive agenda.
That victory was the reason why he’d elected to send Sly Moore away for the time being. Soon enough, Umbarans would no longer be a welcome sight in the Core Worlds.
Thanks to the bugging devices implanted in the various cam droids around the Senate Rotunda, droids which the ‘disappeared’ Senator Seti Ashgad had vigorously protested, he was made privy to the deal between Senators Mee Deechi and Onaconda Farr which settled the debate regarding the former’s appointment onto the Action Subcommittee for Corellian Trade Spine Defense.
Umbara was rich in doonium ore, the metal which gave starships, particularly Kuati Star Destroyers, their distinctive white-gray color.
In spite of the front that he now presented, Farr was much more of a militarist than he let on. Notwithstanding the long history of violent tendencies in Rodian culture, Farr had adamantly supported the Military Creation Act among other things. Palpatine had to admit that the play which Farr had helped write, The Trickery of Vosdia Nooma, to allegorize his stance was quite entertaining. Though far more entertaining had been feeling Janus Greejatus struggle to contain his xenophobia for four hours straight watching the traditionally produced Rodian drama.
During their closed-doors meeting, they had come to a ‘trade agreement’ that would see Umbaran doonium exported to Rodia, and from there to shipyards operated along the Corellian Trade Spine to build warships that would be stationed along that hyperroute.
In order to finalize the agreement, Deechi would have to return to Umbara and consult with the Rootai Council, their royal ruling caste. It just so happened that such a trip would make him conspicuously unavailable to vote on the Defense Recruitment Bill.
There was nothing illegal about the trade agreement, strictly speaking, but it was a tacit bribe. Both senators would turn a profit for themselves and their homeworlds through lucrative export contracts, but Deechi’s vote had essentially been bought without any credits ever having changed hands.
It was nothing really planet-shattering, nothing like the other dirty dealings under Farr’s belt that would soon be revealed, but with just a little manipulation of the evidence by SBI Director Armand Isard, the populace of Coruscant would be practically ready to lynch every Umbaran they could get their hands on.
Admittedly, there were very few Umbarans outside of their homeworld due to their restrictive caste system, but that would channel the anger of the Republic towards a scarce few individuals, hence why it was safer to send Sly Moore away for the time being.
Sidious returned to his office once he had made certain of Sly’s departure, watching her shuttle fly off into the not-darkness of Coruscant’s cityscape. His aide Kinman Doriana had scheduled a meeting with Mon Mothma in thirty minutes. He couldn’t help but take pleasure in his trusted aide’s rationale for such a schedule.
Mothma’s husband was an officer in the Chandrilan Defense Fleet and was thus indisposed most of the time. Today had been one of the rare occasions when he was granted enough leave to make a trip to Coruscant. The couple had perfectly aligned their schedules in order to spend some time together.
At least, that had been the case before Doriana had suddenly made it known to her that Palpatine’s ever tighter schedule had unexpectedly gotten an opening. He had forced her to choose between her duties as a wife and as a senator. It was not a play designed out of malice, but as part of a strategy to disorient Palpatine’s opposition in any way possible.
Inevitably, the meeting would end fruitless with Palpatine feigning powerlessness with regard to his ability to stop the war. It was up to the will of the Senate, and if the Senate wanted to keep the war going, to bestow upon him more emergency powers, he could do naught but humbly submit to the whims and wishes of the people.
The feeble opposition offered to him by mere politicians and bureaucrats did not worry him in the slightest. They could always be controlled by some means or another whether it was money, women, or death.
A much more delicate situation, however, involved the UNSC. They’d discovered the shutdown codes present within the Droid Army but hadn’t suspected anything as to their true nature, simply bringing it to the attention of the Separatist Military as a security flaw to have the exact same code in every droid to shut them down in the event of malfunction.
It was clear they were not content to mind their own business in their alliance with the Separatists.
That was something that worked in his favor, however. In their growing cooperation with the Separatists, they became more comfortable in coordinating strategic moves together.
Though Sidious could not influence the Terrans directly like he could the Separatists through Dooku, he now had open ears to the UNSC’s next move: Corellia.
Even now the Open Circle Armada, commanded by battle-hardened Jedi Generals, was mobilizing to crush the UNSC fleet that would be sent there ahead of Grievous’s coming scourge. It would be a blow that would send them reeling, for it would be a significant portion of the strength that they had committed from their home galaxy.
In doing so, he could also break Corellia’s tenuous neutrality in the war. It would be a manufactured political crisis that would enable him to nationalize Corellia’s shipyards with a Republic armada looming in orbit.
It could also prove to remove the thorn in his side, the foolhardy Senator Garm Bel Iblis. After having spun his story to the Senate justifying distancing Corellia from the war, his staunch position would be demonstrated as being cut from whole cloth.
The Corellians were stubborn people, but not wholly stupid. They would come to accept what would be imposed on them.
The Umbarans, however, would not. They were just as prideful as the Corellians, if not more so. Sly Moore had told him the Rootai Council would see the disgrace of Deechi as an affront, a rejection of their chosen delegate.
They would secede from the Republic, and naturally the Republic would respond with invasion. Once they had been subjugated, he would personally assign a governor to rule the planet, just as had been done at Brentaal, Esseles, and other dissident systems.
Umbara’s doonium would belong to the Republic, and no one else.
Soon enough, the Republic would belong to Palpatine, and no one else.
2344 Hours, May 16, 2561 (Military Calendar) \ Gandeal System, Autumn-Class Heavy Cruiser UNSC Paperweight
Admiral Shiba Gihei thought that the sight before him could’ve been something out of a Renaissance painting, like Caesar crossing the Rubicon or Washington the Delaware.
This tableau was neither; it was the four thousand warships of the Confederate 1st and 3rd Fleets pouring past the wrecked defenders of Gandeal, the gateway to the Core. A swarm of vengeance that would not stop until it reached Coruscant itself; it was a force unleashed, the wrath of the Rim.
After nearly two weeks of fighting in Operation: SUCKERPUNCH’s first phase, it was a sight for sore eyes. They’d finally completed the initial objective for their part in the operation. They breached into the Core.
He suddenly felt a chill crawl up his spine all the way up to his neural lace. General Grievous commanded this offensive. He’d only talked to the General once, and not even in person at that, yet he was still unnerved by the experience.
The steel-encased flesh reminded Gihei of the novel by Alexander Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask. There was a fire behind those eyes of his that wouldn’t soon be quenched. If half of the rumors he heard were true, it would never be quenched, not even with the blood of a trillion Republic sailors.
The way he spoke gave him the creeps as well. It was cold, calculating, but with an inner cunning that spoke to something darker within.
“New orders, sir,” Captain Aadli reported. “Your eyes only.”
Gihei turned away from the transparent titanium viewport, frowning. “I’ll take it in my quarters. You have the bridge, Captain.”
“Aye sir.”
Gihei strode out of the bridge to his quarters, locked the door behind him, and sat down to read the message.
He felt a great deal of consternation. The original plan, at least the plan they told him, was that they were to push on through Hosnian Prime, Condular, Chasin, and everything in-between, only stopping for new orders once they reached Duro.
He opened his console.
Technical readouts flooded his screen, showing a map of a star system, stellar coordinates, specs for various orbital drydocks, and an intel report dated within the last hour regarding enemy force compositions.
At the very top of it all, a lone message blinked and flashed idly:
DESTROY ENEMY ASSETS IN ORBIT
Below that was a name for the target:
CORELLIAN ORBITAL INDUSTRIAL ZONE
Admiral Gihei scrolled through the rest of the file and studied it. Though he didn’t realize it as he did so, he frowned for what would be the last time in his life.
“Once more unto the breach…” he muttered. “Alea iacta est.”
AN: Coming this fall: DURO FALLS.
Probably this fall.
Your regularly scheduled explosions will commence shortly. I’m telling you guys, these next chapters are going to go HARD (Lord willing I don’t get hit by a car or something like that).
This will be the last chapter I’m going to post publicly until I finish my book (for real this time, I promise), I’m basically just polishing my draft of over 100k words. Until then, I will keep posting updates on my Patre0n (also by the name of zzzxxc1) but the next chapter will also serve to be an announcement that my book is finished and ready to buy.