AN: I hope you all have had a blessed feast day of Saint Gerard Majella. I have officially hit unc status, I turned 20 today.

Which makes it my greatest pleasure to announce that This Side Up: At Galaxy’s Edge is available (or soon to be available within the next 3 days) for purchase on Amazon. At just over 100,000 words, you’re sure to get plenty of enjoyment out of it. Unless you hate cliffhangers. Please buy it. Pretty please with a cherry on top (If you don’t, I think I might go insane).

It is honestly a miracle that I finished it when I did. I edited about 50,000 words these past 2 days alone. All glory and honor to Christ forever and ever, and to Mary, His most immaculate virgin mother.

Also, as always, thank you to my Patrons! It helps a lot. Please subscribe if you wish to see chapters early!

In a humorous twist of fate I have decided to major in accounting. Where once I strived to be free of sitting in a cubicle looking at spreadsheets, I now think being unemployed sucks harder. I will just have to be the petty bureaucrat that ruins everything and ushers in the reign of Palpatine, sorry guys.

Some story changes: Shaak Ti is dead. Again. I still need to edit that part out, but yeah. There wasn’t a narrative future for her in the story and it doesn’t make sense for John to knock her out. The 2.65x scaleup is going the way of the Dodo, confuses people too much and I don’t like how it would scale the dreadnought vessels. In order to ensure the security and continuing stability, this fanfic will be reorganized for a safe and secure reading experience.

Also there are two images which are supposed to accompany this, so FFN readers will have to look at them on my deviantart by the same name or the Ao3/SpaceBattles/Royal Road version .

Without further ado, the longest chapter of this fic so far:

0122 Hours, 15:5:17 (GrS), Hosnian System, Munificent-Class Star Frigate Sa Nalaor

Less than a hundred parsecs from Gandeal lay Hosnian Prime, the first of many Core World ecumenopoli that would fall to Operation Durge’s Lance.

Though not as sprawling as Coruscant, Denon, or even Taris in the Outer Rim, the bulk of its main megalopolis was still like a shining jewel covered in shadow, having reached nighttime in its orbit around the system’s star. It, along with the four other planets in the system, represented a temporary speed bump for the CIS 1st Armada on their collision course with the other systems of the Corellian Trade Spine.

At the libration point between Hosnian Prime and its single moon, General Grievous was negotiating the system’s surrender with the Hosnian Tribunal, representatives from each of the five planets in lieu of their absentee senator. They’d given up without a fight, dropped their planetary shields at the first sign of Cronau radiation after the planetary defense force turned tail and made for Condular alongside a hundred Republic Navy-proper vessels.

‘The Republic cannot be fixed. It is time to start over,’ was how Count Dooku had concluded his Raxus Address roughly four years prior. Never had those words stopped ringing true, and never had they been truer than at this very moment.

To Captain Rel Harsol, this system represented everything wrong with the Republic. It was corrupt, it was opulent, it was cosmopolitan, and worst of all, it was gutless.

It was corrupt, he’d seen corruption firsthand in his service aboard Senator Colandrus’s personal cruiser. That was the impetus for his defection to the Confederacy. Now, the Tribunal were undoubtedly offering concessions to Grievous in exchange for favors and compromises and soft-spoken words. It reminded Harsol of that wide-eyed fleabag, of all the glitterstim and bribes.

It was opulent, the shining surface of the world’s riches were the embodiment of the Core Worlds sucking the Outer Rim dry.

It was cosmopolitan, a mishmash of so many groups that it was impossible to serve the interests of more than the lucky few.

It was gutless, as evidenced by laying down their arms. A lengthy siege of the system’s five planets would’ve delayed the 1st Armada long enough for the Republic to muster a counterattack or drawn off enough of Grievous’s forces to make a difference an indeterminable amount of time later. Luckily for the Confederacy, they were cowards who couldn’t see further than their own stuck-up noses.

Even so, Harsol figured cracking the planetary shields like an egg and slagging the planet would’ve been doing the whole galaxy a favor. It wasn’t like anyone cared enough about the Hosnian system to notice its absence anyway, not like Coruscant.

Still riding the high of having beat back the Republic across the arbitrary demarcation bordering the Core Worlds, he could at least bask in satisfaction staring out of the Sa Nalaor’s wide transparisteel windows at the planet and its singular moon. The gravity had now shifted in favor of the Separatists. This campaign had to succeed. This had to be what ended the Clone Wars.

Even if this particular Munificent wasn’t the flashiest assignment in the Confederate Navy, especially after Harsol had served aboard the Invisible Hand herself, it was one of the most crucial.

Harsol, aboard the Sa Nalaor, commanded a battlegroup consisting of glorified communications equipment. Two dozen Munificents handpicked by Grievous and four Lucrehulks outfitted with the production model of the hyperwave jammer prototype the ‘Hero With No Fear’ destroyed a year or so ago at Balamak, sporting a litany of devices: S-thread jammers, signal eradicators, and HoloNet chafers.

With the comms jammers, they had taken down the Hosnian HoloNet nodes which allowed speedy communications out of the system. Surprise and the fog of war were things which General Grievous intended to exploit to the fullest in this campaign.

Harsol’s battlegroup represented the entire command, control, and communications suite for the Confederate 1st Fleet out of Yag’Dhul. Without it, coordinating any action between the ships would be like herding nexu in a supernova. The Munificents also had their own hyperwave transceivers which kept the Armada abreast of any new battlespace developments around the galaxy.

It wasn’t exciting, or perhaps as important as the team of Givin and droid astrogators spread over five Wavecrest frigates, since they were kept to the rear almost always, but it had its perks. Using his ship's extensive Shadowfeed uplink capabilities, he could at least catch up with Dr. Cratala in the downtime between battles. He could overlook her whole four-finger Arkanian cybertech thing she had going on, but she wasn’t a fan of his shaved head, soul patch look.

He’d win her over, soon enough, but it was hard to tell with the Arkanians. As prideful as they were, she wouldn’t readily admit she changed her mind.

“We’ll be on the move again soon, sir,” an OOM pilot droid monitoring the negotiations spoke up in its monotone voice.

“And so we are,” Harsol sighed.

It would be a long ride to Duro.

0130 Hours, May 17, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ Slipspace, Medusa-Class Battleship UNSC Warhound

“The 12th Fleet alongside the Confederate’s 1st Armada have just left for the Duro system,” Fleet Admiral Cole said, rotating the map around to show the Corellian Trade Spine front.

Riding in the slipspace wake of the UNSC Infinity, the forces of Fleet Admiral Cole alongside those of Admirals White and Whitcomb made for Onderon with all due haste, where they would link up with Admiral Stanforth and some of the other UNSC fleets.

Phase one of Operation: SUCKERPUNCH had accomplished all of its goals… so far. They’d put the ball of initiative back into the Confederacy’s court, now it was time for the power plays. Admiral White was confident in their chances of success. This ‘General Grievous’—a name which was about as subtle as Major Malevolence, Colonel Crazy, or Lieutenant Lunatic—had been giving the Republic hell.

“So they’ve decided to bypass Condular, Chasin, and the other systems?” Admiral Whitcomb said. He, like White and the other flag officers, were thoroughly exhausted. Grievous might’ve been tearing the Republic a new one, but that hadn’t stopped them from running nonstop operations around Taris and the other breakthroughs.

“It’s been relayed to me that they’re using the Hosnian system as their anchor for the offensive while the Republic forces in that theater are in disarray,” Cole said. “I think it’s a risky plan, but General Grievous remained unconvinced of my reasoning.” Cole shook his head.

“Do you think they’re withholding intel?” Admiral Stanforth asked. “Maybe they know something we don’t.”

“Our prowler at Coruscant confirmed that the Republic Open Circle Fleet is on the move again,” Cole said. Hearing that name irked White, and likely Cole as well. The presence of the Open Circle Armada across the Trans-Hydian had prompted Cole to suspend UNSC operations until they could regroup after the Battle of Taris. “Once they jumped out-system, most probably towards Ixtlar, the prowler lost them.”

Hyperspace, White thought. Always faster.

He leaned an elbow against the table in the empty room, with each officer attending the conference call displayed in front of him. In lieu of a cigar, he had been gnawing on the cap of a stylus, a habit he’d picked up from his schoolboy days.

“They’re moving down the Corellian Run,” White stated matter-of-factly, sitting up straight and tossing the stylus down on the table. “Moving to counter General Grievous.”

“I’ve come to the same conclusion,” Cole replied. “Which is why Admiral Gihei will continue with his assault on Corellia. They’re already on the move, his fleet will beat the Republic’s main force by two days, at the very least.”

Although ostensibly neutral, the Corellian system was host to enemy quick reaction forces as well as the second largest shipyard in the Andromeda Galaxy which had never turned down building contracts from the Republic. The latter fact had been the reason why Lord Hood had chosen it as a target for phase two of Operation: SUCKERPUNCH.

White thought it had been a ballsy target when he’d first heard of it, and his opinion hadn’t changed. This news only made it even more ballsy.

First of all, it was a highly defended Core World of the Republic, tantamount to an attack on Reach or Earth. Secondly, it was a nexus of Republic space traffic, both military and civilian. Thirdly, it was ‘neutral.’ No matter the outcome, the Corellians would join the Republic war effort without reserve.

Corellia was a target chosen out of total pragmatism, without any regard for political ramifications. They produced warships for the enemy, they harbored enemy fleets, they allowed passage to the enemy. As far as the UNSC was concerned, they were the enemy despite all their talk of ‘sitting this one out.’

“However, that is a task which Admiral Gihei will have to handle without us,” Cole said, piquing White’s attention.

“What do you mean by that, sir?” White narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Are you sure the 17th Fleet is up to the task? The original plan called for half the forces deployed to Andromeda to hit the system simultaneously.”

Cole’s image sat still for multiple heartbeats. “We can’t risk waiting, not with the lessons we learned over Taris and certainly not with the Open Circle on the move. If Admiral Gihei waited at Duro for us to arrive, his attack would be dead in the water. He won’t be alone, however. The 30th and 31st Fleets coming up from Bothawui and Kalinda will reinforce one day into his assault.”

“I see,” White relented.

After the Battle of Taris, he’d given Cole his choice words over the decision to withhold from attacking retreating Republic forces to get them away from the system. Of course, he wouldn’t admit it to his face, but in hindsight he realized that Cole had been right. The enemy’s attempt to relieve the defenders of Taris had been sloppy, and they’d paid for it dearly. If those ships had been chased out of the system, they would’ve regrouped and come back with a vengeance.

The UNSC had paid dearly, too. Only 171 out of 612 ships had made it out in fighting shape, another 128 needing critical repairs, and the rest destroyed or so heavily damaged they had to be towed to the Boz Pity staging ground or even all the way back to the Milky Way.

“His fleet will strike just after the Confed’s 1st Armada arrives at Duro,” Cole said without further acknowledging White. “By the end of the first day of operations, the 17th will have the Corellian Orbital Industrial Zone destroyed or otherwise under control. At the end of day two, combined ground forces will have entered the outskirts of Coronet City. By the end of day three, we hope to have Coronet City’s planetary defenses and shield generator captured intact.”

Taris had chewed up a great deal of manpower, forty thousand KIA and almost five times that amount in wounded; another rushed operation to capture urban terrain seemed like the last thing the UNSC needed.

The only thing that made the plan sit right with White was the presence of a secret droid factory on Corellia’s surface.

Green Berets embedded with local Separatist rebel cells had relayed the factory’s existence to HIGHCOM. Hidden within the Bindreg Hills, the automated factory would churn out battle droids by the thousands to aid in capturing Coronet City, Corellia’s capital.

That only left the question of whether the sizable Corellian Home Fleet, not to mention the forces of the 2nd Sector Army and Open Circle Armada, could be held off long enough for General Grievous to arrive.

“Once we’ve regrouped at Onderon, we’ll be heading immediately for Corellia itself to link up with the 17th Fleet,” Cole finished. “Now, I’d like to present my preliminary plan for Operation Home Run, if no one objects?”

None did, not even White.

Continuing, Cole said, “Starting at Malastare, aiding the Confederacy’s 2nd Fleet in hitting the Republic hyperfuel refineries there. Simultaneously, we’ll hit Eriadu, Kamino, Bilbringi, Mon Calamari, and a dozen other targets of strategic importance.”

“Why not Kuat?” White asked.

“That’s an ONI operation,” Admiral Whitcomb replied cryptically.

“I don’t like that answer.” White crossed his arms.

Cole gritted his teeth. “But it’s the answer we get.”

“What are our odds of success?” White asked.

“I’ve never known you to believe in odds, White,” Whitcomb said, twisting one of the ends of his mustache. White was too tired to offer a witty reply.

“There’s too many variables to keep track of this early in the planning stages. Targets will be tacked on or removed as the situation develops,” Cole explained. “Should three-quarters of these preliminary objectives be achieved, the Reach super-AI network gives a sixty-five percent chance of reaching an armistice between the Galactic Republic and Confederacy of Independent Systems within two years.”

“And if it doesn’t succeed?” another flag officer asked.

Fleet Admiral Cole set his jaw in a grimace. “Then God help us.”

1158 Hours, 15:5:18 (GrS) Eriadu System, Eriadu, Essence Talk Show Studios

Governor-General Ardus Kaine tried his best to hold still and let the makeup girl do her job. Sitting opposite him in the brightly lit yet dark-walled studio were AndroosinLiann, the two-headed Troig host of Essence, and Garox Tronten, the producer.

“How do I look?” Kaine asked the woman.

“Like a million creds. Now hold still.” She dusted some antiperspirant powder over the bridge of his nose and his forehead.

“Hurry it up, will you Sanja? One minute left!” Tronten yelled.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “Break a leg.” She stormed off to make last-minute adjustments to AndroosinLiann, sitting across the table from him.

Kaine straightened up in the plush nerf-leather chair, composing himself.

“Alright!” Tronten barked. “We are live in three… two… one…” He made a vertical slice with his hand, and the holocams started rolling.

“Welcome to another fine day on Eriadu. I’m your host Androo!” the green thick-browed right head of the Troig, the Saprin, said.

“And I’m your host Liann!” the brown Saprah announced.

“And we’re AndroosinLiann!” they both said. “And this is Essence! Today we have a very special guest…”

000

“Turn that up, would you Teckla?” Padmé asked, typing something lazily into her datapad. Mon Mothma’s presentation of the ‘Republic Strategic Initiative Bill’ had her up to her headdresses in work.

“Yes, my lady,” her handmaiden responded, pausing momentarily as she organized a stack of datacards.

The tinny drone of Governor-General Kaine’s voice clarified into something comprehensible as Teckla turned up the volume of the transceiver.

“...I’m telling you, there’s a disaster waiting to happen. Think about this, could you imagine a family trying to get anything done when the mother and father disagree? It’s hard enough keeping a family together, especially nowadays, but imagine trying to keep a Republic together through a war when you have all these squabbling politicians clamoring over each other with their own agendas.”

“Like Mon Mothma?” Androo asked. Padmé’s ears perked up at the mention of her colleague.

She wasn’t one who much liked listening in to talk shows, but she’d learned to keep a tap on the pulse of the galaxy, even if it was something as partisan as Essence, ever since Stark Veteran Assembly Spokesbeing Laslo Dorits had misinterpreted her words at a Commenor peace rally before the war. On the very same talk show she now listened to, he’d accused her of calling soldiers cowards.

In reality, she’d said that warfare is the product of cowardice, and that it took bravery to find peaceful resolutions rather than using military arms as the easy way out, but it was apparent that neither Dorits nor Essence’s audience were interested in that sort of nuance.

That experience had been another object lesson for managing her public image, and it was why Teckla Minnau had served as her HoloNet advisor ever since.

Kaine sighed. “I’m not interested in naming names, but I will say this: The ‘Strategic Initiative Bill’ is the exact sort of thing I’m against. It’s a compromise, it’s pandering, even the name is awful. It’s so that constituents will look at and go ‘Oh, look at our senator, aren’t our senators doing a wonderful job of protecting us?’ but in reality if one looks into the content of it, it’s worse than worthless. It’s harmful.”

“And just what does this harmful legislation entail?” Liann inquired.

“It’s a clear attempt to kill the other bills currently proposed with legislative deadlock,” Kaine continued. “For one, it would amend the Military Creation Act to put a hypothetical ten percent limit on non-clone conscriptions, and that’s for both planetary defense forces and the Grand Army proper, should the security forces ever get rolled into the GAR. It would also guarantee the existence of the Action Subcommittees as having the final say on military matters within their given spheres of influence as well as putting a hard GDP limit on the Republic Military’s budget among other things. It isn’t hard to see what they’re doing.”

Padmé looked over at the viewscreen. Governor-General Ardus Kaine, dressed in the gray uniform of a Republic officer and bearing the rank squares of a Priority Sector High Commander, sat across AndroosinLiann. The studio looked bigger than it had two years ago.

AndroosinLiann’s two heads looked at each other and then at Kaine, waiting for his elaboration.

Kaine let his words hang in the air for a few moments before he spoke again. “This is nothing more than more weaponized legislation proposed in a heavy-handed attempt to sway moderates away from the ‘dangerous’ Militarists, to convince them that they can offer a more comfortable alternative to what Senators Paige-Tarkin and Burtoni have proposed. If they sway some of the more ‘open-minded’ Core World politicians to their side and manage to pass this bill, it would be another roadblock to the Defense Recruitment and Military Enhancement Bills, to name a few, legislation that actually sets to finally accomplish something.”

“That’s terrible,” Liann shook his brown head.

“Indeed. Those bills would be tabled, only to be brought back once something truly disastrous occurs to remind everyone why it was proposed in the first place, just like what happened with the Financial Reform Bill before the Terrans rancor-rolled over Taris.”

Padmé frowned at the holoscreen, killing the Financial Reform Bill had been a great achievement of hers, yet its newest iteration had been brought back all the same in the wake of the UEG’s declaration of war and subsequent invasion of Taris. The consequences of that bill would’ve been truly disastrous to the economy and the quality of life of Republic citizens everywhere. Clearly, others did not see the long-term ramifications as she did, however, in their burning desire to see the Separatists crushed.

“Then all we get is more lengthy debates to first decide whether or not the new ‘Republic Strategic Initiative Act’ has been effective, and then if it needs to be amended or repealed, all while the Seps are pushing us back on all fronts. Grievous just issued a decree mandating a fifteen percent conscription quota per sector, the Neimoidian Home Legions alone pledged to double their mobilization efforts just months ago. The Separatist Parliament is illegitimate, but they appoint Supreme Commanders who know what action to take, when to take it, and how to take it. General Tann took Sarapin in the first year of fighting, we didn’t even make it five hundred parsecs to Raxus. Do you know how many Jedi that Grievous has killed?”

The Troig shook both his heads.

“Over. One. Hundred.” Kaine repeatedly tapped his finger on the table. “We barely held out against all the early war Sep hit-and-fades, and now at this critical point, what’s the best we can manage? A military and Commander-in-Chief hamstrung by bureaucratic gravwelling.”

“Are you suggesting the recent frontline debacles are a result of Chancellor Palpatine mismanaging the war? The Reflex Amendment is what enabled him to respond so quickly to Taris, not a Subcommittee.” Androo seemed slightly taken aback, clearly an affected gesture with a hesitant tone to match.

“Not at all.” Kaine shook his head emphatically. “I’ve been a supporter of the Supreme Chancellor since he was still a senator from Naboo. He’s a man who can get a job done, but quite simply can’t because of all the restrictions imposed on his office.”

Androo nodded. “Forgive me if I sound belligerent, I’m just playing Dooku’s advocate here—”

“Of course, go ahead.” Kaine took a sip of water.

“—Are you suggesting that the Senate is hampering the war effort?”

“I have nothing against the Senate, or any particular senator.” Kaine paused and then laughed. “At least none that I can recall at the moment. They’re trying to do what they think is best for the Republic, but the problem is everyone has a different idea of what that is, and clearly that isn’t working. The Seps have one being acting as a supreme commander, not two hundred senators playing the war out in committee.”

“Then what would you say is the best course of action the Senate can take to win the war?” Androo asked.

“Step back,” Kaine said emphatically. “Let the military do its job, enable us to win the war, and we’ll leave the rest of the politics to you. Look at the territorial losses suffered on other fronts compared to Greater Seswenna. Eriadu endures only because Senator Paige-Tarkin trusts, and the senators before her have trusted, the military minds to do their jobs. It remains to be seen if we can trust other senators to do theirs.”

“How do you think this war can be won?” Liann asked. “There’s already been so much suffering, so much brave sacrifice by the clone troopers, the Outland Regions Security Force, the countless other planetary defense forces…”

“It won’t be easy, and it won’t be through a peace deal.”

“How’s that?” Liann asked.

“Think about the motivations of the Seps, the leaders, not the beings. As much as some of our senators want us to believe ‘the other side’ can be reasoned with, is that really true? Just look at ex-Senator Tikkes. He joined the Separatists and plunged his world into civil war just so he wouldn’t face justice for his dealings with the Thalassian slavers. You can’t bargain with animals like that.”

“So you believe that military conquest is the only way to end the war?” Androo said.

“If things keep going on like this, I don’t see any other way. Passing the Defense Recruitment Bill would go a long way in improving the situation with regards to inadequate troop deployments and convoluted chains of command between the military and civilian spheres. I know that the possibility of being drafted might be uncomfortable to the viewers at home, but a drop of discomfort may be the price of winning this war.”

“I know that it would be far more uncomfortable with the Separatists in charge,” Liann laughed, bobbing his long neck up and down.

“I know I don’t want to see Coruscant turned into a Geonosian spire, or an IGBC debt slave auction house, or a Zygerrian marketplace,” Kaine agreed, chuckling.

AndroosinLiann laughed as well, both heads thrumming with mirth before tittering off. “Could you elaborate on what an end to the war would look like?”

Kaine downed the last dregs of his water. “A lot more quiet.” He smirked. “In all seriousness, we’re looking at a lengthy campaign to utterly cripple their industrial capacity, their ability to wage war, and then either beat them into submission to force a surrender or totally subjugate every single seceded world that will not lay down their arms.”

“Would those worlds include Sartinaynian?” Androo asked, still playing Dooku’s advocate by bringing up Kaine’s homeworld.

Kaine raised his eyebrow but didn’t stumble over his words. “Sartinaynian only falls in Separatist territory by a technicality. Trust me, there’s little love between my home planet and the Seps.”

“I understand that the IGBC has it in a stranglehold?” Liann tentatively said.

“Indeed it does.” Kaine said, shifting slightly.

“With that in mind, do you think the Financial Reform Bill is a viable solution to help the war effort?” Androo asked.

Kaine shifted again and held up both his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m a soldier, not an economist. You’d be better off asking that question to the General Ministry and Price Administrator Kachariss Weng.”

AndroosinLiann nodded both heads in understanding. “Sieging out the entirety of Separatist space seems like such a daunting task.” Androo said, getting the subject back on topic.

“In the long jump, the gravity is in our favor, although I hope this war can be won without such drastic measures. ‘The goal of war is to take your enemy’s possessions whole and intact. A shattered country is not a prize but a burden,’” Kaine quoted Uueg Tching's ancient Sayings. “It will be hard, no doubt, but that can’t deter us.” He sighed. “That’s something I think most people in the Core have long since forgotten. Sometimes, hard decisions must be made. Eriadu understands that, Sartinaynian understands that. It won’t be pretty,” Kaine shifted in his chair, “but war is seldom so.”

“Indeed.” Liann said solemnly, the Troig’s arms shifting datapads around on the table. “By the way, what do you think of the rumors that Admiral Wilhuff Tarkin will take the reins of Greater Seswenna back from you after the... conclusion of Operation Star Fist?”

“I haven’t heard anything about that, but I do greatly respect Admiral Tarkin’s military achievements. Star Fist was a nasty operation, from poor intel to insufficient forces, it’s a miracle that any...”

Padmé stood and turned the broadcast’s volume down.

“Is there something wrong, my lady?” Teckla asked.

“I suppose it all gets to you, eventually.” She sighed and sat down.

Teckla sat down next to her. “What do you mean by that, my lady?”

“I’ve begun to wonder why it seems this war will never end. I think I’ve found the answer. Maybe we’ve been surrounded by war for so long that we’ve forgotten peace is obtainable.” She shook her head mournfully.

Teckla nodded sagely. “I understand, my lady.”

Padmé looked at her. “Perhaps we’ve even forgotten peace entirely, even as an ideal.”

Her handmaiden silently reflected on her words for a brief moment, then smiled wryly. “Well, you’re often seen as quite the idealist…”

Padmé smiled. “Don’t flatter me, Teckla.” She stood up, hesitating over the transceiver controls. Letting her curiosity get the better of herself, she dialed up the volume a little.

“...and next up tomorrow night: A hero of Coruscant, Lieutenant Rom Mohc, and why he punched a university student. Catch you all on—”

Padmé shut it off and shook her head. “Remind me not to watch Essence again, would you?”

“Yes, my lady.” Teckla nodded eagerly and stood. “Senator Mothma should be ready to see you now with her, uh, Corellian friends.”

“Thank you Teckla, you can have the rest of the day to yourself.”

“Thank you, my lady.” She bowed, handing over the datapad holding her schedule for the rest of the day. She went to the kitchen, where Threepio was clumsily, yet carefully, preparing a meal. Padmé smiled at the protocol droid, always trying to stick to his protocol.

“C’mon, Threepio,” she beckoned.

“Oh! Mistress Padmé!” The golden droid threw his arms up in surprise, nearly knocking over the dish he’d been boiling, to Padmé’s momentary shock. “How glad I am to see you. Clearly, I am not cut out for this line of duty. Might I suggest Mistress Teckla take over for me?”

“Not this time, Threepio,” she said amusedly. “Let’s get that apron off of you.”

“Oh, yes.” Threepio shifted uncomfortably. “This is indeed Master Anakin’s idea of a morbid joke.”

“Indeed.” Padmé pulled the apron slack off Threepio’s golden body, wadded it up and used it to wipe whatever sauces had marred his exterior, and tossed it onto a counter. “Let’s go. I’ve got a meeting with Mon Mothma.”

More meetings, this time with Senators Bramsin and Xiono.

Fost Bramsin was Coruscant’s milquetoast senator, a stereotypical Core World politician whose main preoccupation was reelection, with the voting history to match. Shisno Xiono, however, was a total sycophant whose opinions were absolutely based on wherever the gravity was pulling, willing to say whatever and do whatever would win him favor.

Were the current situation any different, Padmé would’ve thought it a mistake to try to win both of them over in the same room at the same time. However, Mon Mothma had met with the Chancellor recently and gotten his ear regarding the Republic Strategic Initiative Bill. As slimy as Sate Pestage was, he graciously bumped up the Bill’s first hearing on the Senate’s agenda to three days from now at the Chancellor’s insistence. It was cutting it close, just four days before the Defense Recruitment Bill vote, but hopefully it would get the job done.

“Senator Mon Mothma?” Threepio said prissily, as though he’d never heard of her. “I wonder if she would be willing to give me input regarding Chandrilan cuisine. With Master Anakin preoccupied elsewhere, I am sure Mistress Teckla would be grateful for my further assistance in preparing meals.”

Padmé smiled hesitantly. “I’m not sure that will be necessary, but thank you, Threepio.”

“Indeed, it is my pleasure to serve you. Truly!”

Padmé took a brief detour to the refresher and fixed up her hair. Then she and Threepio departed her 500 Republica apartment and made for the Chandrilan Embassy, where Mon currently resided.

It was a refined locale. White marble walls, pillars embossed with delicate traceries, brass stitchings. It was a peaceful place.

Or, it was meant to be peaceful.

After being let in, Padmé was escorted to the meeting room, the door swiftly opened to her by a waiting guard. She could already hear an impassioned argument taking place.

“A communications disruption could mean only one thing: Invasion!” Senator Shisno Xiono spat out with such volume that it seemed to repeat a second time as it reverberated through the vaulted halls of the embassy. Padmé approached apprehensively through the threshold and stood with Threepio, waiting for a moment to introduce herself as the door closed behind her.

She didn’t need to wait long. Xiono, leaning aggressively over the low table surrounded by a long curved couch, stood up suddenly and threw both his hands up towards her. “Senator Amidala!” he yelled. Padmé was unsure whether he was pleased or upset, even with his last comment still ringing through her ears. “We would be honored if you would join us!”

“Calm down, Senator,” Mon Mothma chided. Bail, Riyo Chuchi, and Fost Bramsin shifted awkwardly while Garm remained steel-faced. Unexpectedly, the Tarsunt Senator Colandrus was also in attendance. “Senator Amidala, might I get you a drink?”

“No thank you, Senator Mothma. Business is fine.” She inclined her head respectfully and took the place offered to her next to Bail. Xiono waited for her to sit first before she did likewise.

“Now, where was I?” Xiono looked distractedly out the lofty windows, segmented with crenulated marble posts. “Ah, where is Senator Farr?”

Bramsin scoffed. “I imagine he’s rather preoccupied with the Separatists driving up the Trade Spine.”

“As we were discussing before,” Garm said in the lull, “Senator Mothma’s bill is a viable alternative to the other legislation soon to be brought to a vote.”

Xiono immediately tried to seize the initiative again. “I fail to see how it is any different than what has been proposed by Senator Burtoni or Senator Paige-Tarkin or Senator Saam.”

Mon leaned in. “Don’t be hasty to dismiss this, Senator. Those bills would spell disaster for the entire Republic. Bank deregulation, conscription raids, debt that the Republic will be paying off for decades to come, more devastation—the list goes on. Those bills are all legislative nightmares wrapped up under the auspices of increased security. Please at least be willing to hear our reasoning, Senator.”

Xiono scoffed and plucked his drink from the table, a lanky glass of Chandrilan Squig. “It seems to me,” he drank, “that you are indeed willing to accept those terms. The only question we must answer is to what degree we are willing to go.”

Mon straightened up. “A difference in degree is the dividing line between bathing and boiling alive.”

Xiono smirked. “Do Chandrilans not have sonic showers?” He held up a restraining finger when Mon opened her mouth to reply to his flippant comment. “I understand your sentiment. Continue.”

Mon looked flustered for a moment but retained her stride after the brief interruption. “Senator, what we are urging you to do is this: Do not let our great Republic fall prey to fear-mongering. This bill would have a temporary, moderating effect on the legislative process that will allow cooler heads to prevail.”

“Indeed, droid heads are much cooler than organics,” Xiono said. “Do you intend for me to support this bill when I cannot even get a straight answer from your colleague Senator Farr regarding the status of Hosnian Prime, my planet?”

“I’m sure the Emmo sector HoloNet will be back any hour now,” Riyo Chuchi said confidently. “Trust me Senator, there is no way the Separatists could have made such a swift advance in only a few days.”

“That remains to be seen, Senator,” Xiono said. Fost Bramsin nodded lazily, seemingly only half-attached to the conversation. “I just cannot see why I should support this bill over the alternatives. It seems to me that this will just mire the war in even more bureaucracy when they inevitably appeal, amend, or abrogate this bill. If it gets passed, that is.”

“The sunset provision is very generous, only for a period of two years,” Bail said. “Those other bills are much more permanent, much more difficult to do away with should they prove inadequate.”

“Two years is a very long time in a war,” Xiono said. “I’m not sure I can appreciate your reasoning, especially in light of recent Separatist gains.”

Padmé had the sinking feeling that they were fighting a losing battle in trying to win Xiono over. He’d already made up his mind before stepping a single foot into the building.

“The root cause of this problem lies in extreme measures,” Garm said, breaking his silence.

Xiono clucked his tongue, glaring at Garm directly across from him. “Ah, look who’s decided to break their meditative soli—”

“Don’t be so trite,” Garm said evenly. “I know even you can do better than that.”

Xiono bristled at that, then paused to consider what to say next.

“Nexu got your tongue?” Garm pressed. Padmé noticed Senator Bramsin awkwardly taking a sip of his drink, nestled between the hairy Colandrus and belligerent Xiono.

“You’re right, I can do better than that, Senator. I should not even be talking to someone of your ilk.”

“And yet you are,” Garm replied. “Just by the fact that you remain seated here, talking to myself and Senator Amidala and Senator Organa, I know you are more than willing to be reasonable.”

Xiono remained stalwart in his stubbornness. “Indeed, I remain here against my better judgment, sharing table with hypocrites!” He gave a hearty laugh, grasping a knee with one hand and gesturing with the other. “You, one who abandons the Republic only to come crawling back when it suits you.

“Senator Mothma, one who espouses the virtues of following the will of the people yet ignores the Chandrilan House’s support of these recent bills. Senator Organa, I suppose you now regret supporting the Military Creation Act? Senator Chuchi, has your planet relinquished Orto Plutonia’s protectorate status?”

Xiono stood. “And worst of all, Senator Amidala! It is quite hilarious that you now reject a unilateral military command. What did you say to the Senate so many years ago? ‘I will not see my people suffer and die while you discuss it in a committee,’ or something to that effect?” His gesturing hand closed in on itself in an ironclad fist. “Now I will not see my people’s suffering and death cry for vengeance while beings like your colleague Senator Farr discuss it in committee!”

Mon remained reserved and cool. Bail was leaning in, ready to say something. Bramsin shifted furtively, trying to avoid drawing Xiono’s wrath. Colandrus merely sat there, glassy-eyed, stupefied and distant.

As Padmé was about to make her reply, unexpectedly, Garm stood up, crossing the distance between him and Xiono in a second flat. Though both men were the same height, Garm’s stare carried a much heavier weight.

Mon Mothma moved in anticipation of breaking up a fight, but Garm put out a hand that stopped her.

“I can stand here and tear apart your entire political career with more precision than a laser scalpel, Xiono, but I doubt either of us want to remain here for the entire week. I’m sure you would like to get back to your investor meeting with Czerka Arms, so would you do us all a favor and tell us why you haven’t left yet?” Garm said.

Senator Xiono held Garm’s gaze for a second longer before backing away a step. The relief in the room was palpable.

“I never should have come here,” he scoffed, sitting back down and retrieving his drink from the table. Garm backed away and likewise sat.

He still hadn’t left, that was a good sign. Padmé decided to take her chance.

“Have you seen war, Senator?” she asked.

Xiono made a sour face as his drink slid down his throat. “No,” he said after swallowing. “Nor do I hope to.”

“I did not wish to see my people suffer anymore then, than you do yours now. I understand completely why you are so worried, Senator, believe me.”

When Xiono leaned back into the cushions, she knew she had him.

“When I was Queen of Naboo, I made a rash decision to return to my world and set it free from the Trade Federation, a rash decision that ended up costing the life of a Jedi Master.”

Xiono’s mouth opened but she continued before he could utter a sound.

“It is exactly that sort of rash decision making made out of military impulse we seek to prevent. I am not saying I regret my actions, but there is a balance to be struck. The bills we oppose are the products of short-sighted reactionary mindsets. The military should not be turned over to only those who consider the martial aspect of warfare, but should remain always tempered by those in touch with the human reality of it as well.

“If you remain unconvinced, esteemed Senator, let me ask you this question: Why do the Separatists keep fighting?” she said, almost rhetorically.

Xiono smirked, taking the bait. “Do you think they expect us to roll over and—”

“Some would say they are driven on by simple inertia, having built up armies in secret to wage war upon our Republic, and now having been unleashed they seek to fulfill their original purpose.

“Ultimately, however, it is because we cannot tolerate their existence.”

Xiono’s mouth moved like an opee sea killer out of water.

“It is because we cannot fathom that the Republic we hold dear is flawed, and needs correction every so often. Separatism is seen as a sacrilege against our sacred institutions, a blot that needs to be wiped out. Now that the shadow of this ‘blot’ has spread its fingers over your world, I understand your worry, Senator.

“But understand this, Senator,” she looked deep into his eyes, pleading with every word, “it is a galaxy driven on by mere militaristic impulse that has gotten us to this point. With Senator Mothma’s bill, we seek to temper this impulse, to reign it in, and if not allow for peace to prevail once again, then at the very least to limit any further damage this war will bring to our galaxy and to our people.”

He seemed to consider her words, truly this time, inner conflict boiling to the surface with a furrowing of his brows. Xiono finished his drink, and stood.

“I shall have to consider your words, Senator, but until I discover the fate of my system, I will withhold any decisions with regard to my votes. Senator Mothma, I thank you for hosting me. I thank each of you, Senators, for having this talk. Now, I must leave.” Without further ado, Xiono saw himself out.

All eyes turned on Senator Fost Bramsin, all eyes except those of Colandrus, who remained motionless, seemingly living in his own world.

“I would like to see the current state of things with regard to the front, first, before committing to a vote,” he said, ever the pillar of fence-sitting.

“Where Senator Farr?” Colandrus bellowed dumbly. “I have some important words to say to that greenie bug-faced ridge-head parachute!”

Padmé’s jaw came slack for a moment at the torrent of epithets that Colandrus had just ushered out of his own mouth, slowly scanning the other senators to make sure she wasn’t going crazy, that they’d heard what she heard.

Mon looked down, Bail gave her a look that said ‘Don’t think about it,’ and Garm sat stoic and unmoved.

Bramsin cleared his throat and stooped towards the table to scoot the glass of Chandrilan Squig away from Colandrus. “That’s enough of that, my… fellow senator.”

“Ah, whatever,” Colandrus said, throwing up a dismissive hand and leaning back.

With a clack, Padmé shut her mouth and glared daggers at Colandrus. She hadn’t seen it before, but the Tarsunt looked like a total wreck. His neck-mane was matted and sticky with a liquid that was stronger than a cloying confection.

“The Strategic Initiative Bill is fine and good, Senator, but what about Hosnian? I need to find out what happened to Hosnian Prime…” he murmured. Only now did Padmé notice the faint scent of spice and, obviously, the single tall, thin glass that had sat in front of him was not his first. Judging from the lack of other glassware, he’d probably been drinking long before he ever got here.

“Whatever. As long as your Rodian friend on the Subcommittee keeps my system secure, I will sign whatever legislation you want,” Colandrus said hazily. For some reason, Padmé doubted every word he had just uttered, especially considering his world was not even on the Corellian Trade Spine.

Without any further ado, Senator Colandrus suddenly got up and saw himself out.

Padmé was still shocked at the man’s behavior when Mon opened her mouth. “Senator Bramsin, I apologize for his outburst.”

“It’s quite alright.” Bramsin sighed and shook his head. “We live in unprecedented times…” he muttered, then said lamely, “I think I shall have to leave now, as well. You have all given me much to think about, but I see no basis in reality for the claims that your efforts are those of traitors and mad beings. I wish you all well in your endeavors.” Without further ado, Bramsin likewise departed.

Padmé felt his words were mere platitudes, but at least he’d been kindly listening throughout the entire talk.

As soon as Bramsin departed, Garm shook his head. “Colandrus is a total glitbiter. You three saw and heard the things he did and said?”

“They have become a rather permanent fixture of my memory banks, Senator,” Threepio said mournfully.

“It’s gotten worse, recently,” Bail said.

“Gambling debts with Black Sun, last I heard,” Riyo said.

“He’s a total mess. Do we really need his vote?” Garm questioned.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Mon said. “We need every vote we can muster if we are to pass this bill.”

“You’d better have this place cleaned, the last thing we need is for that spicehead to cause a scandal by shedding sansanna residue into your carpet,” Garm sneered in disgust.

“Indeed…” Mon said.

“It is a strange thing, what the Senate has come to these days,” Bail lamented.

Padmé couldn’t help but agree. “I think I’d like to take you up on your offer for a drink, Mon.”

Bail smirked. “Not so fast, Padmé. We still have one Idiot's Array up our sleeves…”

0139 Hours, 15:5:20 (GrS) \ Corellian Trade Spine, 800 Parsecs To Duro, Providence-Class Carrier/Destroyer Invisible Hand

“Take the system with all haste, General,” the blue visage of Count Dooku said. “The Republic will not be idle for much longer. The Open Circle Armada is moving for Corellia as we speak.” He tilted his head up ever so slightly to peer down at him. “You must take Duro while they are preoccupied, you must take Duro with swiftness, General.”

Grievous bowed to the figure. “As you will, so it must be done, Count Dooku. Duro will fall.”

Count Dooku smirked, and then the holoprojector cut off. Grievous straightened slowly in the dark of the reception room. In the shadows, he pulled up one last readout of Duro’s defenses and his plan of attack. The Confederate 1st Armada reoriented for its next jump towards the target. The Lucid Voice and Colicoid Swarm, sister ships of the Invisible Hand, had split off from the main force, each leading a fleet of 250 ships to cut off Republic reinforcements from Nubia and Kuat while 500 more moved to fortify Hosnian and Gandeal.

He had originally intended a weeklong operation to take Duro, five or so days of fighting, ten at the very most.

He would have to truncate it to less than three.

With no way of communicating this in a secure manner to the Terrans, who were still in their slower form of faster-than-light travel, he would have to trust them to adapt.

No matter what happened, Duro would fall.

1911 Hours, 15:5:20 (GrS) \ Coruscant, Senate Rotunda

The Strategic Initiative Bill’s first hearing had been a total political bloodbath. Tempers flared like supernovas once legislative riders began suggesting their own provisions and amendments to the bill.

It all started when the morbidly obese Senator Orn Free Taa had demanded funding for a doonium refinery on his tidally locked homeworld of Ryloth. Senator Mee Deechi of Umbara had rejected this proposal, stating his planet’s doonium industry was much more ripe for expansion. Taa shot back by saying Ryloth was closer to Republic strategic objectives in the Outer Rim, and then it was all downspin from there.

The subject of the Republic Defense Recruitment (RDR) Bill had been brought up, naturally, considering the Strategic Initiative Bill was itself reactionary legislature undeniably drafted in direct response to what Senator Paige-Tarkin had introduced.

Unexpectedly, however, Senator Halle Burtoni had been the Idiot’s Array up Bail’s sleeve. It did not take long after some prodding on Bail’s part to get her riled up.

She revealed her opposition to the RDR Bill on the grounds that non-Fett/non-Kaminoan produced clones and naturally born soldiers could not compare to Kamino’s proven methods.

Paige-Tarkin had countered with the fact that facilities of the Republic Defense Academy on Carida had been assessed and approved for clone training for nearly a year now, facilities that had been training soldiers for the Republic for thousands of years along with reports from clone commanders regarding the performance of ORSF troops in the Greater Seswenna oversector.

Burtoni pointed out that Decree E49D139.41 rightfully stifled the proliferation of cloning technology, and that attempts to expand the military would be fruitless without Kamino’s prowess.

Then, it was like the Senate devoured itself in its usual internecine conflict. Senator against senator. It was almost cathartic for Padmé to watch the tenuous bloc of ‘militarists’ tear into each other, but she knew it was a temporary affair. That group had more in common with each other than they did with Bail, Mon, and herself. It was only a matter of time before they refocused their efforts back towards pushing for legislation rather than pushing against it.

All told, it had gone much better than Padmé had expected.

As she walked down the steps of the gargantuan building, breathing in the relatively fresh air of Coruscant, she thought of Mon. She had seemed just ever so slightly off-kilter, nothing serious and certainly nothing that one not acquainted with her would notice.

Padmé was worried for her, not as a colleague, but as a friend. Failing to find her among the throngs of beings milling about the steps of the Senate and filing out of the building, she sought her out around the perimeter.

It wasn’t long until she found her, sitting alone under a veranda with holds folded in her lap, staring forlornly into the horizon lit by Coruscant Prime’s wan light. Flocks of hawk-bats and hook-beaked thrantcills in diamond formations flew lazily in the distant placid, pale blue of the sky. It was a pleasant late-spring day thanks to the climate’s tireless managers at WeatherNet, and the OSETS array in orbit keeping the normally frozen poles warm enough for habitation.

It wasn’t until Padmé came closer that she saw something glistening on Mon Mothma’s cheeks. The other woman stirred at her presence, turning away slightly.

“Is everything alright, Mon?” Padmé barely made one step before Mon held out a hand to stop her.

“I’m quite alright, Padmé. There’s no need to trouble yourself with my affairs…” she trailed off, as though feeling she had already said too much.

“Are you sure?” she hesitantly offered. There was no sense in offering consolation to one who did not desire it, but the least she could do was try.

Mon Mothma considered her words for a moment before relenting, simply tapping the space next to her, beckoning her to sit. It took Mon a few moments to meet Padmé’s gaze.

“Do you ever feel as though you’re living a double life?” Mon asked, makeup subtly streaking alongside tears.

Padmé’s go-to responses for troubled friends were suddenly choked off before they ever made it to her larynx. “What do you mean?” she said, her heart beating as though her and Anakin’s secret had been aired out on the HoloNet.

Mon looked away again, staring off into the horizon, at the lofty starscrapers of Coruscant and the thousands of airspeeders floating among the clouds.

“Perrin and I had an argument a few days ago,” she said conspiratorially before looking solemnly at Padmé.

“Your husband?” Padmé said after Mon remained silently staring at her.

“Yes,” she nodded and turned her gaze to the flagstone tiles beneath their feet. “About our ‘double lives.’ My own double life as a wife and a senator. His, as a husband and a soldier.”

Padmé likewise averted her gaze downwards so as not to pressure Mon Mothma. “It is a difficult thing to have a husband at war,” she said in a near-whisper.

Mon smiled wryly. “You wouldn't know the half of it.”

It took Padmé’s considerable willpower to remain unflinching at the irony. She settled on nodding reassuringly, with an equally weak smile.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“We were supposed to meet four days ago, you know,” Mon said. “He had been granted shore leave, but the trip from Chandrila…” Her words trailed off as she choked back tears.

“I understand,” Padmé said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“An hour, we had had. Until an opening in the Chancellor’s schedule, blast it to Chaos and back, was made available for an appointment I’d set up for later.”

Realization dawned on Padmé. “That’s how you got him to convince Pestage to change the Senate’s agenda.”

Mon nodded. “And look how it turned out. My little sacrifice was for nothing. This bill will die in committee, I know it, just like how the opposition to the Reflex Amendment fizzled out.”

“Don’t say that, Mon. You saw how Senator Burtoni and her lot looked in front of the moderates.”

Mon didn’t respond, staring off again into the orange glow of the sun. “I feel as though this war demands more and more of me with each passing moment. It feels crushing. It feels inescapable. An entire galaxy at war, countless lives at stake, and here I am failing each of them, starting with the life closest to my own.”

Padmé leaned closer until she knew for a fact Mon could see her, even if only in the periphery. “Don’t lose hope, Mon. Governments are built on hope, built on the hope of a new day, built on the hope that the people of the galaxy will see a new dawn. Even if it happens long after we’re gone, things will get better. Things will get better, they have to. We have to hope so.”

She leaned back and considered her own words for a moment. “Who knows? Maybe things will get much better sooner than we could ever expect.”

2322 Hours, May 20, 2561 (UTC), Coruscant, Cathedral of Saint Christopher

In the neon night of Coruscant’s lower levels, one figure furtively slinked out of the cathedral.

This message, this offer of peace, was much too important to entrust to anyone but himself. Archbishop Bernard walked to the ‘airspeeder’ waiting for him that would take him to the ever-shifting rendezvous for the Coruscant-Earth pipeline. He had every reason to believe that, as a UEG national, he was under surveillance by the Senate Bureau of Intelligence.

The not-quite undercity of this level was mostly empty. At least in this little sector of the ecumenopolis, it was the twilight hour between the lackadaisical Security Force night patrols and total criminal debauchery.

It would be best to hasten his pace.

Waiting for him around the corner of a long boulevard was a speeder. Speeders were quaint things, mere novelties one might see on Reach or Earth once in a while. The Archbishop wasn’t quite sure whether he trusted it, but the only other option would be to walk since no train passed through this area. It was no choice at all.

His stomach growled. Generosity of parishioners aside, finances were tight.

The thought of his parishioners troubled him even further. He had left behind instructions for Father Chen in the event of his imprisonment which contained further instructions for the bishops of Coruscant to consecrate a successor. The thought of languishing in jail was only made bitter by the fact that he would be able to see Fr. Chen’s face when he would not be named.

Serves him right for pranking me

At a brisk walk, a pace just behind a jog, he eventually made it to his ‘limousine’—a rusty, grimy thing which he was fairly certain used to be one of his driver’s taxis.

Quickly opening the door, he stooped into the craft. It bobbed slightly under the newfound weight, aging repulsorlifts whining.

“Your Excellency,” his driver greeted.

“Wuuzzagn,” the Archbishop nodded to him, holding out his episcopal ring for the alien to kiss. The Rodian dropped a comlink into his lap and kissed the ring. “Who’s that?” he smirked.

“Uhh, just my mom.” Wuuzzagn hung his head in embarrassed shame. “She gets worried, y’know.”

The Archbishop chuckled. “Yes, I know,” he said wistfully. He wrinkled his nose, “Is that cologne new?”

Wuuzzagn’s snout twitched. “Yeah, I figured a change was in order, my customers haven’t been tipping well lately.”

“Hmph,” the Archbishop said. He found the Rodian's scent to be offensive in any case, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it but offer it up. He doubted humans smelt good to aliens, either, so it evened out.

“Anyway, where to? The usual spot?”

The Archbishop tilted his head humorously. “As if there ever were a ‘usual spot.’” He pulled a clumsily scribbled flimsiplast note out from his cassock.

Wuuzzagn took it, his beady, mottled eyes bulging. “Your Excellency, that’s halfway across the planet!”

The Archbishop smiled. “Don’t be so melodramatic, it’s only an hour. Besides, I tip well.”

The Rodian gave a performative sigh, his antennae drooping. “Alright, if you say so. Ad majorem Dei gloriam.”

“Ad majorem Dei gloriam,” the Archbishop confirmed.

Up above, they weren’t only being watched by God.

000

000

AN: Erm, this is awkward. I planned to have this part finished, but I just couldn’t wait to tell you guys about my book. Sorry. Will have this cleaned up when I publish the next chapter. Trust the plan.

000

It was a mostly quiet ride, coasting through the airlanes of Coruscant. Bright lines of starscrapers illuminated the nightly neon haze, casting soft, sharp shadows in the cabin with every passing moment.

Hovercraft were quaint things. Had they been going this speed in a car back on Earth, it certainly would have constituted a grave sin. At this hour in the undercity, there were few other vehicles, and the lanes were well-marked anyway for fast transit.

They were going through a shantytown now, only one of many. From fleeting glimpses, the Archbishop saw the squalor the inhabitants vegetated in. Ramshackle sheets of ‘durasteel’ bolted together with scraps of wood. What looked like raw sewage flowed in noisome rivulets that stank even through the cabin air filter. Even just a dozen levels from the surface, it was enough cover from hawk-bats to protect duracrete slugs ravaging the foundations of buildings.

“Illegal aliens,” Wuuzzagn explained, slowing down considerably. “They call this place Invisec, the Invisible Sector. It’s not hard to see why. Everyone pretends it doesn’t exist.” He maneuvered the airspeeder out of the way of a passing barge. “I think we’ve just entered the Outer Rim. This ghetto probably belongs to the Aqualish, but I’m not too sure.”

“We’re close to the Senate District, aren’t we?” the Archbishop asked.

“As close as it gets, the Outer Rim is just on the edge of the Federal District, but this planet is a big place.”

“True enough.” The Archbishop rested his chin on his palm and gazed out the transparisteel. He stared for a long while. For all its opulence, Coruscant seemed a hollow gem.

No, not hollow, he decided. Unpolished.

“Wuuzzagn?”

“Yes?”

“What do you imagine the tower of Babel was like?”

AN: See the above note.

0000 HOURS, MAY 22, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ DURO SYSTEM, PUNIC-CLASS SUPERCARRIER UNSC HAYMAKER

Blue Cherenkov radiation bathed the three hundred strong 12th Fleet, an unmistakable beacon alerting the defenders of Duro to their arrival. Nobody could’ve missed the hole they tore in subspace.

“Where the hell is Grievous!?” boomed Vice Admiral Antoni ‘Cabaggehead’ Kapusta. “Lieutenant Wilson, Campbell, get me a sitrep! I want him located ASAP!”

“Aye sir!” Lieutenant Wilson cried from the ops station, turning towards her readouts.

“Do you think he’s changed his plans, sir?” Campbell flashed, subroutines coursing across his avatar. He was modeled after General Aaron Campbell, the commander of the old American 1st Armored Division during their Second Civil War. He was colder than most AI, he had to have been to pattern himself off of the man who’d put Chicago to the sword back in 2218 with the first ever deployed M808 Scorpions, but that suited Kapusta just fine.

“I sure hope so, otherwise they’ll be hell to pay,” Kapusta said through gritted teeth. He was finally glad to be rid of Admiral Gihei’s leadership, the man was too overly cautious.

“I can dispatch one of our frigates to their out-system rendezvous, sir,” Captain Shen suggested.

“No,” Kapusta replied bluntly to the taller man. “We’ll wait.”

“The fleet’s requesting new orders, sir!” Lieutenant Abebe at comms reported.

“Tell them we’ll still pummel the orbital defense platforms as planned, but we’re not moving until General Grievous gets here.” He folded his arms and gave a flinty-eyed stare towards the tactical readout.

“Whenever that is,” he muttered to no one but himself, scrunching his scarred face in annoyance. When he was a mere lieutenant during the Siege of the Atlas Moons serving under Admiral Whitcomb, his ship’s bridge had taken a plasma mine almost straight to the bridge, leaving three-quarters of his face severely scarred and giving him the purpled visage reminiscent of a circus clown.

Less than 200 vessels garrisoned the system, something which bothered Kapusta. For a Core World of this importance—and a founder of the Republic no less—there should’ve been more defenders, much more, just like at Gandeal.

They’d transitioned out of slipspace a million kilometers from the grey-brown world, assuming a standard clustered formation maximizing point defense coverage, at the point where Grievous’s armada was supposed to drop out of ‘hyperspace.’

Thankfully, due to the current position of Koli, the furthest orbital of the system, Kapusta didn’t have to worry about any enemies at his flanks. It also would’ve enabled Grievous to drop out of FTL closer to Duro, due to the absence of the planet’s gravitational influence.

Kapusta began tapping his foot, wondering where the cyborg could be. The mobile defenders of Duro remained stationary, nestled between minefields and defense platforms, unwilling to approach a force which outnumbered them.

“MAC capacitors charged and ready, sir,” the weapons officer reported.

“Firing solutions locked in, the fleet is ready to fire on your command,” Campbell said.

The rings of stationary Golan I platforms and Grade III battle stations surrounding the approach to Duro itself would prove to be no match for long-range MAC salvos. With limited maneuvering options, the bombardment of the defense platforms would be a slaughter.

Kapusta’s range advantage soon became irrelevant.

As if out of nowhere, 3000 Separatist vessels dropped out of hyperspace practically on top of Duro’s defenses with a flicker of pseudomotion that appeared briefly as jagged glitches on the Haymaker’s tactical display.

“Well, I’ll be…” Kapusta muttered as the Invisible Hand delivered a broadside fusillade to the cluster of Golan defense platforms that formed the bulwark of Duro’s defensive belts. Undoubtedly, the crazy bastard commanding the 1st Confed Armada had used the UNSC’s prowler intel to have jumped so precisely on top of the enemy.

This complicated things somewhat; they would no longer be able to detonate the nuclear ordnance that had been stealthily planted there a day prior without the risk of devastating friendly fire. As some of the vessels exited hyperspace right on top of Republic mines, he didn’t know why the Tin Man General chose such a risky plan. He’d been audacious before, certainly, but never this reckless.

He grimaced and opened a fleetwide channel. “All ships, fire at will! Maximum burn towards Duro. Campbell, coordinate with the General and delegate to the task forces.” He opened another, more specific, channel. “Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, break off with your escorts and vector to Jyvus Space City and the Invisible Hand.”

The Haymaker’s deck shook with the firing of its dual SMAC battery, flinging 3000 ton ferric-tungsten slugs across the vacuum of space. The incandescent rods zipped towards their target, taking less than twenty seconds to cross the distance and obliterate a Golan I platform outright with a simultaneous impact. The penetrators zipped clean through, only deflected slightly upon exit towards the northern pole of Duro, where the deformed rounds would vaporize with the friction of reentry, the majority of their kinetic energy spent.

As though the explosion were holding its breath, flames petaled out of the station, blossoms of fire and debris that left nothing larger than a baseball. Kapusta was briefly amused by the carnage; it reminded him of a cartoon character swallowing exploding dynamite only to have smoke come out of their mouth.

Other MAC rounds struck not long after, slamming into shields and hull plating like pencils through wet paper. Archer missiles and recharged MAC guns shot out in flurries of destruction. Broadsword fighters flying CAP missions streaked past the Haymaker’s bridge. C709 Longsword heavy bombers sortied out, laden with nuclear missiles and ASGMs.

In the distance, the Republic and Confederate forces slugged it out at close range, exchanging blue and crimson plasma blasts that sent fireballs of ionized vapor expanding outwards into space. Proton torpedoes and concussion missiles fired from both sides savaged each other in high-yield devastation. Hardcell picket ships dumped seismic EMP countermines to cut furrows into enemy minefields. Geonosian fighters flitted between vessels, droid craft swarmed by the thousands. Five more Golan stations fell prey to full broadsides by two-klick long Providence dreadnoughts at point-blank.

Totally outmatched, the embattled defenders of Duro began a slow retreat to the far side of the planet, abandoning their positions.

Having closed the distance to 500,000 kilometers, the 12th Fleet’s EWAR-equipped Anlace frigate was able to cut deeper into the Republic battlenet. Names began to be assigned to enemy ship sensor readouts.

Kapusta watched in subdued silence as a Valiant-class super-heavy cruiser’s heavy coil MACs blew holes straight down the spines of the Dreadnaughts Prominence and Atrisian Iron. Their sublight thruster banks blew outwards and flashed in the dark like gas pipes loosely bundled together and then flung into space. A trio of Acclamators tried to face off with the Invisible Hand itself, only to be faced with the full brunt of the capital ship’s furious salvos. Swarms of Hyena bombers ravaged them, letting Grievous finish the job with a quick volley of concussion missiles that split the Acclamators open like a rock against overturned crabs.

Another four Acclamators, a Victory, and a Dreadnaught were blown apart in the chaotic fighting before the bulk of the Republic defenders retreated around the curvature of the planet, leaving only the defensive stations and stragglers to fend for themselves.

Preoccupied with shooting at the issues closer at hand, the Grade III battle stations and Golan Is paid little attention to the advancing UNSC forces. Whatever proton torpedoes and concussion missiles they fired were swiftly intercepted by point defense guns, pulse lasers, and Streak missiles.

Directly opposed to the UNSC’s primary vector was a stubborn cluster of resistance. Surrounding the ten kilometer wide Grade III battle station were four Golan Is, one Venator, three Dreadnaughts, five CR90 corvettes, and seven Acclamators.

“Lieutenant Abebe, get me a line to the Separatist ships closest to the defensive cluster.” He pinged the relevant location on the tactical display and sent it over to the comms station.

“Aye sir!”

“Campbell, arm the Shivas, ready six of them for optimal energy dispersal, and give Lieutenant Tsai a one-second delayed impact firing solution for the SMACs.”

“On it.” Code streamed across the AI’s cold steel-blue avatar. “Done.”

“The Confederates are on the move, sir!” Lieutenant Abebe reported.

“MAC guns online!” Tsai at weapons ops called out. “Shivas armed and ready for final firing solution.”

“Hit it,” Kapusta ordered.

The Shivas launched first with a series of thuds from the Haymaker, joining the hundreds of thousands of stray munitions flickering over Duro, doing a hard burn for the gaps in the defensive belt.

The defenders had all batteries blazing, all intact weapons firing in a futile attempt to hold off the Separatist assault. The Venator yawed hard to port and pitched its bow downwards relative to a group of Munificents led by a Recusant to bring all eight of its heavy plasma cannons to bear on the group.

Firing at an impossible rate, it utterly devastated the Recusant, snapping its spine in two like a twig with a fiery detonation. A quarter of the dozen Munificents were likewise cut down in moments by combined weapons fire. The Grade III battle station gave special attention to one of the two-klick long Providence dreadnoughts, unleashing fury in the form of proton torpedoes straight for the bridge.

Trailing pinkish luminescence, the proton torpedoes pierced through the forward shields and ripped open the Separatist warship. The proton-induced baradium and Nergon-14 fusion reactions wreaked havoc that crawled across the prow of the ship, reaching the weakest portion of the vessel at the joint between fore and aft. With its internal tensor fields failing, the Providence split apart at the seams. Now two separate pieces, the vessel blew away from itself in an ever-expanding cloud of debris.

Realizing the nuclear payload was headed towards the defensive cluster, two of the CR90s vectored for intercept, sublight drives burning like a blast furnace, and fired desperately at the incoming munitions. Once the Shivas were four seconds away from impact, the nearly 300,000 kilometer distant Haymaker fired its twin SMACs.

The CR90s’ desperate maneuvers were all for naught. The Shivas made it through, shrouded by Archers with ECM packages. By the time they detonated, there wasn’t a single barrel among the encircled Republic bulwark that wasn’t glowing white-hot.

Six bright flashes were accompanied by electromagnetic pulses, momentarily drowning out the fighting in that area. One second later, the 3000 ton slugs hit and another flash drowned out its predecessors.

The Grade III battle station crumpled under the firepower, its reactor gone critical in an instant to consume the defenders. The Venator’s outermost decks boiled beneath its now-nonexistent armor. The Acclamators Anvil, Coronet, Bolide, Founder, Annealer, and Doughty smoldered under the force of the blast. The CR90s simply ceased to exist, and the Dreadnoughts were turned into amorphous blobs of molten metal.

With the last bastions of Republic resistance being swept away, the combined coalition forces turned their attention towards their primary target: Jyvus Space City, one of the largest of the colossal orbital platforms the Duros had erected in geosync over their heavily polluted homeworld. These particular xenos had squandered what they’d been given, having so heavily ruined their world that they were still trying to clean it up thousands of years later, bottling away their planetary industries in hermetic environments.

Ultimately, the size of Jyvus Space City was not the reason why it was being targeted.

Within that orbital city lay the key to the heart of the planet: the planetary shield generators. With Jyvus under their control, they could lower the planet’s defenses and not begin, but end the conquest of this system.

Wherever Jyvus went, so went the world.

The Invisible Hand was the first to initiate the bombardment, battering down Jyvus Space City’s shields with an overwhelming barrage of plasma and missiles after having fended off a pitiful counterattack by Acclamator assault ships and a squadron of Jedi starfighters. Were it a human planet they were attacking, Kapusta might’ve flinched, but this wasn’t the first alien planet he’d seen at the mercy of orbiting warships, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The Betelgeuse and Bellatrix, Orion assault carriers whose namesakes were the shoulders of the eponymous constellation, joined in with their light coil MACs, secondary coilguns, railguns, and missiles. More UNSC and Separatists vessels fired upon the city. Its heavy shielding did not budge, even after the Haymaker had smashed its SMAC into it, salvo after salvo. UNSC bombers and Separatist fighters strafed the edges of the killzone, a killzone filled with a concentrated inferno of firepower that must’ve looked like an early sunrise to the unfortunate denizens of the massive station.

The onslaught continued. MAC round after MAC round, plasma bolt after plasma bolt, missile after missile. They began to concentrate all their firepower on a single point, hundreds of MAC slugs impacted simultaneously with proton torpedoes and plasma bolts. The planetary-grade shields protecting the orbital platform just wouldn’t budge. Then, the Haymaker fired another SMAC volley into it.

Then, the shield began to buckle and shimmer.

By 0221 hours, they were landing troops on Jyvus.

Nine hours after that, they would have control over the planetary shields.

Nine hours, for nine hells.

0744 Hours, 15:5:22 (GrS) \ Coruscant, Senate Rotunda

“I want out, Farr,” Senator Ronet Coorr said in a hushed town, waddling next to the Rodian. The Iseno was a diminutive pipsqueak, an outlier for the usually well-built humans of his high-gravity planet, someone who would’ve been relentlessly bullied on Rodia.

“Out?” Farr said, stoically keeping his eyes forward as he strode to the Action Subcommittee’s office. His trusted aide, Lolo, uneasily strode with them.

“You can have the money back, I don’t want it,” Coorr hissed. “I’ll recall the Iseno fleet and it will all be nothing more than a bad memory.”

Farr didn’t say anything, letting Coorr’s fearful anticipatory apprehension build as they threaded through throngs of senators and dignataries and bureaucrats. Coorr was jittery, shifting uneasily with growing dread.

Once they reached a rarely used, lowly populated cross junction, Farr thrust his right elbow at him to throw him into a service entrance and covered his mouth. With his left hand, he dug a sharp fingernail into Coorr’s neck.

“Don’t flake on me now, Coorr. Your fleet will remain at Rodia where it belongs!” he hissed. “You will remain the much richer man I have made you and you will rebuild Ando once we smash the Separatists to dust. Do I make myself clear?”

If Coorr’s mortified look were any indication, Farr had made himself more than clear. Coorr stood pinned against the wall, staring glassily into his opalescent cobalt spheres.

“Y-y-yes,” Coorr eventually muttered beneath Farr’s restraining hand.

Farr kept him pinned there for a few more seconds before relenting his threatening grip. He sneered down at Coorr, his snout twitching in disgust.

“Clean yourself up.” Farr turned away without another word and made his way down to the Subcommittee office.

As soon as he left earshot of the midget, he let out a breath that left his snout shuddering like an engine exhaust. It felt so, so good to exert power over runts. Against someone like Deechi? Farr was the runt in that situation.

At that thought, dirty deeds came back to haunt him in his silent voyage to the room that would damn him. Betraying Padmé to the Separatists early in the war, transferring warships away from Duro to his homeworld, bribing Coorr to move even more military might to protect Rodia, and letting Deechi walk over him.

Had the Republic a better military, it might’ve worked out for him.

But fate would not have it so.

Even as he walked, he knew the emergency Senate session called in the wake of the comms blackouts in multiple sectors along the Corellian Trade Spine would spell the death of his career. Perhaps not today, but it was certainly on the horizon.

His career wouldn’t just be over, it would be executed. Torn to shreds. Disintegrated. All in public view.

His career would be hoisted aflame, a naked, shameful display.

And Farr had twisted the rope himself.

0849 HOURS, MAY 22, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ DURO SYSTEM, JYVUS SPACE CITY

“Where the fuck are we?” Specialist Will Miller asked, walking distractedly with half his attention on the TACMAP displayed by his green holographic monocle.

“Shut up,” Corporal Shane Mawusi hissed, peeking around a corridor with his MP99 Para SMG at the ready.

“Jeez, don’t get so antsy,” Miller replied, leaning next to Mawusi against a wall. Cradling his M90 CAWS in his right elbow, he opened up his TACMAP in full view on his wrist-mounted display. The shotgun, due to his stocky build, looked small in his hands.

After a nasty firefight in a corridor junction where their squad had been setting up, they’d been separated from the rest of their assault pioneer battalion and had been trying to duck enemy patrols for the past hour throughout the more deserted parts of the floating city.

Mawusi knelt down, keeping overwatch on a long stretch of darkness. “Did you get the IFFs back online?” he asked without looking.

“No, I think their plasma cooked it,” Miller replied derisively. “Either that, or they got their heads out their asses and started jamming us.”

“We should hunker down somewhere, wait for relief.”

“Have you seen those Neo-mold-ian guys or whatever? They’re irregular conscripts, and the worst part is, you can’t even tell them apart from the Republic bastards. They both look like the old timey aliens, flying saucers and all that.”

“What?” Mawusi let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh. Dude, you’re such a dumbass. Duros and Neimoidian? They’re entirely different colors,” Mawusi bit out.

“Call me colorblind, I don’t see species. They all look equally ugly to me. Except Zeltron chicks, they’re human enough. Well, I guess they aren’t really xenos. Same thing for—”

“Yeah, right.” Mawusi scoffed, looking at Miller. “If you really want to tell the difference, the Neimoidians are the ones that look like walking disease carriers. Let’s get—”

A blue blaster bolt came out of the dark.

“Fuck!” Mawusi yelled, filling the hall with light with a long burst of 12.7x40mm rounds.

“Shit!” Miller instinctively jerked, fumbling with his shotgun. Neither of the stranded soldiers were willing to test their armor’s integrity against plasma bolts. Unlike the Marines, the Army didn’t have the budget to fund the new shielded BDUs for even half of its combat units. That meant they were reliant on their thick armor plating alone, but no matter how much titanium and ceramic composite was between him and the enemy, Miller preferred not to get hit at all.

“Reloading!” Mawusi ducked back around the corner.

“Gotcha!” Miller peeked out, firing out blast after blast of buckshot into the darkness. Given that he didn’t see anything through his HUD, the attacker was long gone. “Let’s get the hell outta here dude!”

“Covering!”

“Moving!” Miller sprinted down the length of corridor they’d just come from. “Covering!”

“Moving!” Mawusi sprinted. Miller caught movement at the far end of the hall and let out a few shells. Mawusi ducked instinctively and slid a few meters on the deck before flipping around and shooting between his legs.

“Damn, I didn’t get him,” Miller groused as Mawusi clambered the last couple meters to cover.

“Fucker, warn me next time,” Mawusi said.

“How about next time I just wait until you get shot,” Miller said.

Mawusi glared daggers at him before peaking around the corner and quickly ducking back. “I’m not doing this shit. Let’s just sprint this, all the way back the way we came,” Mawusi said between breaths.

Miller topped off his shotgun’s magazine tube. “Yeah, I doubt that bastard is alone.”

For a few dozen meters, they backed up until they started a headlong sprint for half a kilometer through labyrinths of service corridors and side streets of the orbital city, passing through green-bordered boulevards and metal causeways. Jyvus Space City had become a veritable ghost town.

They eventually came to a more claustrophobic section of the station, prompting them to slow down.

“Hey, I got yellow contacts,” Miller said. “Just around that junction.”

“Friendlies, civs, enemies?” Mawusi asked.

“I dunno.” Something that apparently wasn’t thought of by the bigwigs in HIGHCOM. The grunts on the ground soon found they had a tough time in store trying to integrate BLUFOR tracking with the Neimoidian irregulars, conscripts whose combat prowess was measured by how well they held a gun and resisted the urge to run when things got tough.

Since those conscripts made up a considerable portion of the forces crawling through Jyvus, they were right to be wary.

The second Miller peaked around a corner, a red point of plasma leapt out for him, scorching the edge of the hallway just before his head.

“Motherfucker!” he yelled as he ducked back into cover. “We’re on your side! Yoonie! Yoonie!” He waved a gloved hand around the corner.

Mawusi crouched next to him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Good thing those bugs can’t aim or I’d be staring at fried melon right now.”

Miller turned back to him. “Y’know, what if the enemy is using red bolts too? They usually use blue, right?”

“Wait, do you hear that?” Mawusi said. Miller turned up the gain on his headset and heard a chorus of guttural croaks. The translation software pegged it as Pak Pak. “See? Neimoidians, those are our guys!”

“Let’s hope they don’t try and blow our heads off again,” Miller groused, making ready to go around the corner. “Friendlies coming out!”

“Splinter!” a thickly accented voice called down the hall.

“What?” Miller yelled back, still around the corner. Another plasma bolt came down the corridor, making his heart jump a little. “Asshole!”

“Splinter!” the voice continued.

“I think he wants the challenge word,” Mawusi smirked.

“Son of a…” Miller muttered, pulling out a notepad with personalized shorthand from beneath his chestplate. “Fucking aliens, man. What region of the station are we in again?”

“It’s by hour, not by region.”

“Alright, let’s just hope they know how to keep the time. Stone!”

“Okay, come on in,” the thickly accented voice replied after a while.

“Alright, just don’t shoot at us again.” Miller hesitantly made his way around cover and was met with the sight of a blocking position. Expectedly, Neimoidian irregulars manned it, clustered around a machine gun behind a barricade made of metal sheeting and concrete chunks. Miller was unnerved by their emaciated looks. From what little he’d heard, and even littler he’d remembered, they lived in a brutally greedy society where food was purposefully kept scarce for their children to foster competition.

“Come, come,” one of them waved them forward in English.

Mawusi and Miller hurried behind cover with them, throwing themselves noisily over the barricade. The only way the clatter would’ve been outmatched is if they’d still been carrying their impact grenades.

“What unit?” Mawusi barked. “We. Are. You-Enn-Ess-See.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. You Yoonies? Yoonies, yes?” the green alien said in broken English. “Terrans?”

“Why do these guys have Asian accents?” Mawusi muttered.

“Yes, ‘Yoonies.’” Miller tapped his chestplate, ignoring Mawusi’s comment. “Terrans. Where’s the rally point?”

The lead Neimoidian pointed down the corridor towards a residential district. Thankfully, he was relatively clean looking. Their species had a rather bad reputation for carrying plagues, and just like he didn’t want to test his armor against plasma fire, he didn’t want to test his inoculations either.

Miller nodded his thanks as he and Mawusi strode off.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘Asian accent’?” Miller snickered.

“What? Am I supposed to just not notice that?”

“And you call me the dumbass…”

They kept on walking for a while before Mawusi said, “You see how skinny those guys were?”

“Those xenos,” he corrected, “did look pretty starved.”

“Food shortages? I mean, with how many of them that got dumped onto this station, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Confeds were having trouble feeding them all.”

“Maybe.” Miller shrugged. “Not my problem.”

“True that.” Mawusi patted the soft body armor protecting his stomach.

As they entered the residential area, blocks of apartments surrounding parks and other greenery, Miller felt vulnerable. After having spent a considerable amount of time wandering around areas that the enemy themselves had thought secure, he wasn’t sure if he could trust the Neimoidians to have done an adequate job of pulling security.

Eventually, without further incident, they reached a field headquarters situated in the middle of a concourse that ran for an indeterminable distance in either direction, litters full of wounded being shuttled further rearward by hoverpads. At the hub for all the activity, the pair found a combat robot, one of the command models.

“Hey! Excuse me! We’re looking for our friends!” Miller shouted at it.

The robot turned its flat head towards them, scrutinizing them with dull LED eyes. “The UNSC 907th Infantry Division has already secured the outskirts of the inner ring. There will be a hovertruck passing through here in one-point-two standard minutes, you will be able to hitch a ride to the front.”

“Uh, thanks?” Miller said dumbly, turning towards Mawusi.

“At least we don’t have to walk.” Mawusi’s relief was almost tangible.

Miller nodded his agreement and they both waited a brief while.

“Hey,” Mawusi whistled,” taxi!”

The hovercraft laden with ammunition and other supplies slowed to a stop in the middle of the concourse. The blue-painted robot pilot looked at them curiously.

“Thanks,” Mawusi levered himself up onto the rear bed of the hovercraft, careful not to knock anything off. Miller did likewise, awkwardly hanging onto crates of whatever passed for plasma ammo in this galaxy.

The hovertruck began to move, jarring Miller’s perception of movement as it glided effortlessly across the long concourses of the station. Explosions, gunfire, and whining blasts of energy gave hollow echoes as they made it closer to the front. Miller took the small amount of downtime to pack some dip into his lip.

Eventually, they halted at a staging area about two hundred meters from the fighting, getting dropped off in the middle of what was a residential area. Apartment blocks spanning the entirety of this level’s height encircled them on all sides, there was rubble everywhere.

Miller hopped off, a fine layer of dust pluming at the touch of his boots. Cradling his shotgun, he spat out tobacco juices onto the ground and began to saunter over to a nearby casualty collection point. Mawusi followed, gravel and grit crunching beneath his boots.

Miller and Mawusi kept walking towards the din of battle as a pair of battle droids unloaded the cargo. The sounds of battle grew louder and louder. Eventually, they came upon a squad resting and reloading spent magazines.

“Finally some flesh-and-blood humans,” Miller sighed, reporting to the squad’s sergeant. “Sarn’t, we got split up from our squad. K Company, 2nd Assault Pioneer Battalion.”

Smoke curling from the cigarette burning in his lip, the sergeant looked up at them. Grime marred his features, sweat cleaning it away in streaks only for more dirt to smudge it. “You’re with us now,” he said simply. Mawusi and Miller looked at each other, shrugging. “Here’s some ammo for that subgun of yours.”

“Alright,” Mawusi said, taking the black and green ammo-pack from the sergeant’s hands. Ripping the pull-tab and digging in his dump pouch, he thumbed rounds into his spent mags.

“Me and my boys don’t have any shells for that shotty, though.”

“Fine by me,” Miller said, spitting out more dip juice. “It’d just be more weight anyway.”

“We move out now.” The sergeant got up, the rest of his squad following suit. He stamped out his cigarette and began to walk towards the sounds of a messy exchange of gunfire. “Keep your heads down and follow our lead.”

“Got it,” they both replied.

Miller knew that this squad knew what they were doing. Their BDUs were covered in dust and blood, but it was still a full squad. They were just standard infantry toting MA40 rifles; one of them carried an M247 LMG and another an M395 DMR. In more top-notch units, they might have all been carrying BR55s and M73 LMGs instead.

They walked on through the residential area, coming to a commercial district littered with multi-leveled shopping complexes. Neimoidian irregulars swarmed the area, interspersed with UNSC Marines and battle droids.

The squad moved into one of the buildings, a clothing store by the looks of what remained. At the back of the store, they moved through an employee area into a fire escape tunnel that brought them out to another store a few hundred feet away.

They all assumed more guarded stances, knees bent and stooped over slightly so as to readily allow dynamic movement in the case they came under enemy fire. Outside shattered windows, Miller saw a five-story office complex, some administrative building or other such place. It sat two hundred meters away across the boulevard in the middle of an empty courtyard. Each floor was circular and it tapered towards the top like an egg.

The sergeant turned back towards Miller and Mawusi. “That admin building is the only thing standing between us and a service corridor cut into the wall back there towards the governmental district.”

Miller and Mawusi both nodded. The sergeant led the squad to a different part of the store, glass and chunks of concrete crushing under their boots. Soldiers lined the walls, guns raised outwards and cloaking themselves in the shadows whenever they could. The lights in this section of the station were still on by some miracle.

“Sir,” he announced to a lieutenant peeking over a windowsill towards their target. “We’re back.” He slipped off his pack and tossed it to the lieutenant.

“Good,” the officer replied, opening it and doling out ammo to those nearest to him. “Bastards are still dug in, giving the whole company trouble. The Neimoidians took heavy casualties trying to storm it a few minutes ago, if you couldn’t tell by all the bodies. I think the enemy might be running out of ammo, they stopped firing not long after the assault fizzled out.”

Miller noted labored breathing in the background, no doubt someone receiving medical aid in another room.

“What’s the hold up then? There can’t be too many of ‘em,” the sergeant asked.

“The greenies,” he said, presumably referring to the Neimoidians, “are pulling up something big.”

Miller looked behind him to see Mawusi kneeling next to him. More startling, he also saw a section of B1 battle ‘droids’ marching up. At 1.93 meters tall, nearly six foot four, they were mighty intimidating up close. They were plated in slate grey, brandishing E-5C heavy plasma rifles and RD-4 grenade launchers. At the sight of the launchers, whose munitions included radiation grenades, everyone nearby popped iodine pills.

Bringing up the rear were a trio of B2 ‘super’ battle droids, the B1’s roided up bigger brother. One had a giant arm cannon/launcher in lieu of the standard wrist plasma guns. Another pair of B1s brought up a J-10 dual-barreled plasma cannon and started setting it up in a window.

The conversation paused between the sergeant and the lieutenant as the droids occupied firing positions in the windows. Even Miller felt unnerved as they just sat there, menacingly staring out with unblinking optical scanners towards the target area, soaking in every detail in a fraction of a second that it would take a human.

“Reinforcements imminent,” one of the B2s boomed, keeping its wrist weapons pointed towards the target area.

The sergeant and the lieutenant gave each other an amused look and continued their conversation.

“I don’t know exactly what they’re bringing, but from what I can tell past their accents it’s a tank,” the lieutenant said warily. “How they’re going to smash a tank around here, I don’t know.”

“Maybe they meant a hovertank, something smaller…” the sergeant suggested.

Miller heard distantly heavy thuds behind him. He turned around again. “Oh shit!”

It had to have been just about the largest Neimoidian that Miller had ever seen in his life, dwarfing the B2 supers by sheer muscle mass at twice their width while being roughly the same height. It merely huffed and puffed, chest heaving in anticipation and tapping its melee weapon in its free hand.

“That fucker’s huge,” Mawusi said.

“Relax, I’d rather not piss this thing off,” Miller whispered, then remembered something. “Y’know, I hear they eat each other in their grub stage. It looks like that guy ate a lot more than his siblings.”

Accompanying it, more as handlers than as squadmates, were other Neimoidians similarly dressed in bronze armor. These were from the ‘Gunnery Battalions,’ better equipped and motivated than their irregular counterparts.

“Reporting as agreed,” the leader said in perfect English. “We will begin our assault in one minute.”

“We were just planning it out, Captain,” the sergeant replied. “We’ll hit it—”

“One minute, I don’t think our friend here can wait much longer.”

The sergeant moved to make an indignant response but the lieutenant cut him off. “Alright then. One minute, we’ll provide covering fire.” He then got on the radio to make sure the platoon got the message.

“Good.” Then, the Neimoidian leader laboriously handed something conical to the brutish form standing next to him. Miller’s eyes widened.

It was a proton torpedo.

The sergeant saw the same thing. “What the hell? Are you crazy?” What are you going to do with that?”

“Remove the obstacle in our way. Now get ready.”

The sergeant shook his head, turning around and aiming his rifle at the egg-shaped building. A few seconds passed, then the giant moved on its own volition, poised to jump out of the store’s front entrance with the torpedo warhead cradled in one hand and melee weapon in the other. The other Neimoidians leveled their weapons at the building.

Miller steadied his breath, loading slugs and aiming his shotgun.

“Ready?” the lieutenant breathed after designating lanes of fire on the local VISR network, voice thick with anticipation. “Fire!”

The machine guns opened up first, stitching the building with golden tracers and smoking bullet holes. The Neimoidian brute charged out bellowing something utterly unintelligible. UNSC and Separatist grenade launchers shot out, sending up clouds of dust and fire both on the exterior and interior of the building. A Neimoidian armed with a Bulldog Rocket Launching Rifle rapidly let out six grenades that blew chunks of concrete off the building. The J-10 plasma cannon burst out with both its barrels blazing crimson. Heavy laser fire from the B1 droids bathed it in scarlet as the B2s fired their wrist rockets. The grenades fired by RD-4 launchers exploded in sickly blasts of neutron radiation that instantly killed anything within a three meter radius. Miller pumped his weapon, loading in another twelve slugs while Mawusi ditched an empty mag.

By the time the brute had made it a hundred meters, the Republic defenders began to return fire in earnest. Enemy machine guns lanced out with fury from the first and second stories. Blue bolts of light flashed out, striking the charging beast as it made it closer. All it accomplished however, was scarring its armor plate and pissing it off.

Both sides kept firing, other UNSC and CIS forces from nearby buildings joining in on the fun. Miller ducked his head when a line of blue streaked past his head by mere inches. “Shit!” he cursed, heart beating.

When the brute had reached fifty meters, they stopped launching explosives at the building to minimize the risk of fratricide.

Miller poked back up, blasting at nearly indeterminable enemy positions. Azure flashes were his only guide, even as HUD waypoints got pinned onto known locations.

Once the brute came closer, just ten meters distant, the fire became more intense as they tried to hit it before it reached its objective.

Once it made it to an outer wall, the joint UNSC-CIS forces ceased firing as if in anticipation of what would come next.

It used its melee weapon, unknown to Miller as a vibro mace, to smash clean through the wall, lumbering into the defensive position with heavy ease. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath even as blue flashes could be seen from inside the hole in the wall.

Then, a pink-hued luminescent explosion boomed out of the building. A layer of dust was carried off the structure by the resulting shockwave like someone blowing on an old book. Miller looked on in stunned silence as chunks of the first floor skipped across the grass courtyard and clattered against the metalled flagstones of the main road. The office groaned for a split-second before sighing and coming crashing down, sending a thick cloud of dust and smoke billowing in all directions.

“Damn,” Miller and Mawusi muttered silently. An adequate, if brief, eulogy.

The sergeant couldn’t believe it either, consternation clear on his face as bright as day. He turned towards the Neimoidian captain, but said nothing.

“Alright, let’s go!” the lieutenant shouted, leading the charge.

“You boys can go now, 2nd Assault Pioneers are down that way,” the sergeant said and pointed down the row of commercial buildings before hopping out a window and joining the lieutenant.

“Thanks,” Mawusi muttered as the sergeant departed.

“Yeah, thanks a lot! I’ll be sure to keep that saved on my eyepiece camera!” Miller called after him and then spat out tobacco juice.

“Alright, let’s get moving,” Mawusi spurred him on, weaving between advancing troops and battle droids, moving through mouseholes blown into walls to connect buildings together.

They eventually came to the corner of the row of commercial buildings, a rancid Ithorian restaurant that smelt like rotting spinach. Miller glanced at his TACMAP. To his great relief, it had linked up again to the local battlenet and showed nearby terrain clearly, alongside BLUFOR tracking.

“K Company is thataways,” Miller gestured into the distance as a Warthog ferrying supplies and troops drove past them towards the recently destroyed office building, throwing up a cloud of fragmented gravel in its wake.

Miller and Mawusi quickly crossed the street and stopped inside a badly burnt bodega. Just another street down, perpendicular to the road they’d just traversed down, a military procession passed them by.

“Is that—?” Miller gaped.

“General Grievous…” Mawusi said.

The skeletal cyborg, both hands clasped behind its back, moved undaunted even as the cacophony of battle raged just a few blocks over. Accompanied by his custom droid bodyguards, he moved like an ancient warlord from times long past. Then, as quickly as he came, he was gone.

“C’mon, let’s keep moving,” Mawusi nudged Miller on the shoulder.

“Fine by me.” Miller slowly got up, hesitating in wonder at what he’d just seen, something like the passage of a ghost or a figure of antiquity.

Walking slowly, a little more leisurely in this secured area of the station, they reached the trailing edges of the commercial district where the shops and residential areas blurred together. Miller couldn’t help but wonder where the civilians had been evacuated to.

Once they reached K Company’s area of operations, they sought out their squad leader.

It didn’t take long to find them with their IFFs online, already moving in for the last push towards the governmental district. They were walking in lazy columns along the sides of a road pockmarked by shrapnel. The lost pair ran to catch up with them.

“Sarn’t!” Miller greeted, running up next to their rightful squad leader. Miller noted he wore a Republic DC-15S plasma carbine holstered on his thigh. He figured that made sense to him, it had more utility than an M6; on full-power it could blast through concrete walls.

The man stopped walking and turned around with a grim look on his face.

“Cho and Mikkelsen didn’t make it,” he said.

“Oh,” Mawusi said. Miller hadn't even noticed the squad was two men lighter. There would be time to grieve, later.

Their sergeant slung his rifle and beckoned them closer with his index finger. Mawusi and Miller obeyed the tacit command and stepped forward. Unexpectedly, the sergeant banged both their helmets together.

“Son of a bitch!” they both exclaimed.

“That’s for getting lost, numbskulls. Now, Captain Said was just telling me he needs someone to go fetch more explosive charges from battalion supply, so you two showed up just in time.”

“Great…” Miller muttered.

“Don’t give me that lip, soldier, now get to it. Both of you.”

They both straightened. “Hooah Sergeant.”

“Good, I’ll see you soon.” He turned back around and kept marching with the rest of the company.

“More walking,” Miller said without further comment.

Mawusi clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go find that depot.”

Now sent on another quest, the two men began the three klick trek to battalion HQ.

After five hundred meters, Miller spat out the fat loogie of dip and packed another one. They were in an utterly deserted part of the station now, only some Marines or battle droids milling about before moving to the front.

“That’s a real nasty habit you got there,” Mawusi commented.

“Oh, so you threw away your hookah boiler thingy?”

“No, it’s just that shit you pack in your mouth smells like crap.”

“It’s mint,” Miller said, offended. The pair crossed a road, passing over alien shrubs and bushes in the median. He had to give the xenos credit, they tried their best to make this place feel like it wasn’t floating in space.

“Yeah, I know,” Mawusi said.

“Whatever. Don’t knock it till you try it.” Miller kept on walking, unbothered as his boots squished over a soot-stained road verge. After passing through a vehicle tunnel, they came into a part of the city that truly looked like it belonged to an orbital station. It was dimly lit with failed lighting and the ceiling was half the height of the section they’d just come from.

“Hey,” Miller jutted his chin out towards a group of Neimoidians just ahead of them herding a column of kicking and screaming Duros civilians. “What’s up with that?”

“I think those are their MPs, just policing some civvies.”

“Nah, look.” Miller jerked Mawusi’s shoulder and forced him to stop. One Duros tried to escape the grasp of a Neimoidian irregular, only to get clocked on the jaw for its trouble. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t know any unit that needs a dozen guys to police an equal amount of civvies.”

The Neimoidians began to herd the civilians into a nearby building, leaving a single guard posted outside by the main entrance. The Aurebesh transliteration software in Miller’s eyepiece pegged the building’s plain holographic billboard as saying ‘Happy Grub Nursery.’ He looked again at the group of civilians, struggling against their escorts, even as the latter scratched at the formers’ clothes.

He was no xenobiologist, but he sure recognized mothers carrying children when he saw it. Even if those children happened to be grubs.

“C’mon.” Miller marched up to the soldier leaning against the wall; Mawusi groaned and followed him. “What’s going on here?” he barked at the much shorter alien, making sure his shotgun was a prominent feature.

The alien turned its head to regard them, and Miller almost gagged. Mawusi physically recoiled backwards.

The left side of the Neimoidian’s face sported a giant boil, among other pustules. Disease-ridden indeed.

“What?” it croaked in basic.

“Uh,” Miller floundered for a second. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with those civilians?” He stared at the emaciated alien in front of him, its noseless face a sickly green. Mawusi shifted uncomfortably, clicking the sight turrets on his MP99.

The alien gave them a sickening smile with thin lips, contorting its desiccated face and baring jagged, chipped teeth. “What does it look like? Enjoying the spoils of war,” it said, as though the behavior were completely normal.

Miller stepped back at that. His mind flashed with thoughts of the starving thing in front of him, how their culture was structured, how the Duros were almost genetically identical to Neimoidians, and the grubs those alien women carried into the building with them.

“Now what does that mean?” he said, racking his shotgun instinctively and leveled it at the alien’s head. A previously chambered shell fluttered through the air and clacked against the flagstone pavement.

The Neimoidian didn’t even twitch for the plasma pistol holstered at its side. For a split-second, Miller didn’t know whether the alien was confused by the weapon, or totally stunned by the gesture.

It was neither.

It was cocky.

It croaked a staccato of laughter. Unnervingly keeping its head motionless while its body shook ever so slightly. “You have no jurisdiction here, Terran.” The stripes in its red-gold eyes gleamed with hunger.

“Like hell I don’t.” Miller spat tobacco juice right into the eye closest to its grotesque boil.

That caused a reaction this time. It reared itself up as much as it was able, set a hand on its holstered pistol, and stared with a brainless bravery into the 8 gauge barrel of Miller’s shotgun even as he put his finger on the trigger.

“Relax, don’t be retarded dude.” Mawusi pulled on Miller’s shoulder. When Miller didn’t relent, he tugged even harder.

Miller glared at the xeno in front of him, then let out a brief, sharp breath and lowered his gun. Wordlessly, he backed away without breaking eye contact with the increasingly smug alien until Mawusi had dragged him around the corner and up a small set of steps.

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do now—” Mawusi began before noticing Miller’s presence next to him hadn’t made it ten steps from the stairs. He turned and saw Miller rushing back around the corner. “Wait!”

Miller leveled his shotgun at the Neimoidian’s face, now filled with shock rather than confidence. Death was something most feared in Neimoidian culture, though had Miller known, he would’ve remarked that fear of death was something common to all cultures. It just happened that courage was something particularly devoid in theirs when faced against those capable of protecting themselves.

He pulled the trigger, feeling only the blast and concussive force of recoil.

“What the fuck, man?” Mawusi scrambled around the corner, flicking his subgun’s safety, and looked down at the corpse.

The alien’s boil was gone. Along with the half of its face that the boil previously occupied. Already, what remained of its face began to elongate as blood pooled beneath it, half of its brain sac slowly starting to shrivel into a series of tiny pods behind its head. Blood oozed out of the gaping hole the M90 had opened, like jam being squeezed out of a donut, shrinking under withering heat

“They can try me for murder later!” Miller yelled, shrugging off the hand Mawusi had put on his shoulder. “Are you going to try to stop me or not?” He screamed, sudden anguish twisting his face.

“No, man, I was going to tell you to load buckshot instead of slugs…” Mawusi disappointingly brandished his MP99, locked and loaded.

“Alright, let’s do it then.”

In truth, Miller would not be tried for murder, nor would anyone hear of this incident, even as he sent another armor-piercing slug through the Neimoidian’s chestplate. Even as they kicked in the old-fashioned knobbed door and found the Neimoidians slobbering over the grubs in the nursery and leering at the cowed Duros females whimpering in the corner, three of whom they’d already killed. Even as they startled them into action like cockroaches, overgrown bugs, under a light. Even as they shot each and every one of the miserable bastards.

Eventually, when the incident reached the purview of Fleet Admiral Cole himself, they would neither be commended nor reprimanded, much like Cole’s own actions during the Callisto Incident. In truth, Fleet Admiral Cole would’ve liked nothing more than to have those Neimoidians lined up and shot, had they been UNSC personnel under his command as Miller and Mawusi were.

But the Neimoidians were neither UNSC personnel, nor under Fleet Admiral Cole’s command, nor were they as valued as Miller or Mawusi by their respective commanders, nor did they fall under the same laws governing war.

This incident would simply be swept under the rug like nothing ever happened, spent shells and spent casings and shed blood be damned.

It was easier that way.

1120 Hours, 15:5:22 (GrS) \ Duro, Jyvus Space City, Duros High House

“Where is your Chief Representative Officer?” General Grievous asked, looming over the cowering Duros. “Where is Hoolidan Keggle?”

“I-I don’t know!” the whimpering alien politician replied in Basic, curling and curling ever tighter into a ball in the corner of the conference room. “P-p-please! We have already surrendered Jyvus to you!”

“You have handed over the codes to Duro’s planetary shields, now hand over Keggle.” Grievous demanded again, leaning closer. The blue-skinned Duros flinched and quivered uncontrollably now. “I will not ask again.”

The Duros looked up with one eye open, as though that made Grievous any less present. With a feeble finger, he pointed towards the viewport, towards the drab orange, ocher, and umber dustball of a world. “There. He went there. Ranadaast.”

“Very well, then.” Grievous turned around, facing nameless tactical droids and organic officers. “Bring the planetary shield down.”

It was poetic that the Office of the General of the Separatist Army had its field command station here where the Duros High House, once a squabbling merchant council reformed into a proper government, used to legislate justice.

Now, it was here that General Grievous would dole out his own form of justice.

The invasion of Duro had already been won the moment the Confederacy stepped foot on Jyvus. Ground landings were unnecessary, the Confederate Navy already controlled the world in everything but name.

What General Grievous was about to do would be just one final insult.

1121 HOURS, MAY 22, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR), PUNIC-CLASS SUPERCARRIER UNSC HAYMAKER

“You may begin your bombardment, Admiral,” the skull-like visage of Confederate General Grievous boomed in monotone over the bridge tactical display.

“Right away, General.” Vice Admiral Kapusta shut off the display and turned towards the weapons officer. “Lieutenant, upload a selection of target zones to my neural lace. I think I’ve found a use for the nukes the prowler laid…”

Captain Shen stood there on the bridge, shifting nervously. His mind stretched with dizziness. He knew what the General planned, how the Vice Admiral would follow through. He couldn’t stand idly by. He had to do something. Something. Anything.

He drew his sidearm, leveling the Mark 50 Sidekick right at the back of Vice Admiral Kapusta’s scarred head.

“Sir, pursuant to the Geneva Conventions of 2312, I can’t let you do this!”

Kapusta froze in his tracks, and slowly turned his scarred face. He jerked a hand up, not trying to defend himself, but to forestall the Marine guards on the bridge from turning Shen into Swiss cheese.

“Are you out of your damn mind, Captain!?” he boomed. “Do I need to Section 8 you?”

Shen gritted his teeth to prevent himself from blabbering. His heart raced and his intestines felt like jello. “No sir! Pursuant to the Geneva Conventions and Interstellar Humanitarian Law, targeting militarily significant infrastructure cannot result in disproportionate loss of civilian life!”

“If I needed someone to rattle off a definition from a textbook, I could grab an ensign fresh out of Luna, Captain.” Kapusta turned away, unbothered by the weapon pointing at his back. “Campbell, how many xenos are on Duro?”

“Half a billion on the surface, sir,” the AI dutifully replied. “Most of their population inhabit the twenty orbital cities.”

“And how many people live in the Galactic Republic? On Coruscant, even?”

“The human population of the Galactic Republic numbers in the quadrillions. Coruscant’s official citizenry accounts for nearly a trillion.”

“What percent of a trillion is half a billion?”

“Five percent of a percent, sir.”

“You see, Captain? That doesn’t sound like a very high price to pay for ending the war sooner, now does it? The longer it drags on, the more people die. And besides, these Republic fucker hit us first.”

Shen’s grip on his pistol tightened, his mind whirling, heart beating, adrenaline pumping, lip quivering, his whole body trying to shake itself apart. He had no lengthy speeches prepared, no earth-shattering philosophies to articulate.

Just a conscience.

“Are we kids on a playground? Sir?” he said.

Kapusta scoffed and turned around with an incredulous look on his face.

“You’d doom an entire world for a quick victory?” Shen continued.

“You wouldn’t? What’s one planet in a galaxy full of billions of them, Captain?” He cocked his head to the side and shook it in disappointment, “If you put your gun down, I can get you an honorable discharge instead of a court martial. Every second of your tantrum jeopardizes the operational momentum of this campaign. Now put the gun down, Captain!”

“No sir!” Shen yelled.

Kapusta scowled at him and drew himself up. Undaunted, he strode over to Shen and stared up at the taller man, braving the black maw of the pistol’s muzzle.

“I didn’t face down Covenant plasma lances and antimatter charges and pulse lasers for a xeno-loving scumsucking Innie-sympathizing fuckstick—” he thrust a finger into Shen’s uniform that rebounded with the force of the blow, “—like you to undermine my command.”

Kapusta backed away slightly, condescendingly tilting his head downwards, glaring up at Shen like a father scolding a child for something petty. “I’m done playing games with you, Captain. You and I both know you don’t keep it loaded, son, so unless you learned to rack that slide quieter than a church mouse, you’d best be quick with it now.”

Shen’s expression dropped. In his panic he’d forgotten to chamber his service pistol. As a naval officer, he’d never pointed it in anger at something until now, let alone fire it. Now, he’d never get the chance.

He let out a war cry and gripped the rear of the slide with his supporting hand.

“TAKE HIM!” Kapusta screeched, diving out of the way.

The slide had barely made its way forward again before the two guards opened fire.

000

“What a waste,” Kapusta sneered at the smear of blood left on the bridge’s deck as the guards dragged Captain Shen’s body away. He turned to address the rest of the bridge crew, all heaving with sudden terror and ringing ears at what had just happened. “Does anyone else have something to say!?”

They all turned around without another sound. Did they have any doubts? Any private, traitorous thoughts?

Perhaps, but no one said a word.

“Good…” Kapusta muttered to himself.

Many people understood the doctrine of total war, but few understood its philosophy quite like Vice Admiral Kapusta did.

No life was too sacred, no land too holy. There were never to be any innocent deaths, just collateral. There was no appreciable distinction between military and civilian, not when total war was carried to its natural conclusion, not when the stakes were so high.

He couldn’t believe someone like Shen had managed to make it onto the bridge of a warship, let alone a Punic supercarrier. For a man belonging to a military organization whose lineage could be traced to superior industrial might being leveraged to subdue the enemy and keep the peace, how could he not have expected to be called upon to do his duty, especially when the cause was the continued existence of Earth?

Kapusta could stomach some collateral damage, sure, but what he could not stomach was such hand-wringing weepiness brought about by merely doing what needed to be done for the greater good. Men like Shen wouldn’t have been able to drop the bombs that ended the Second World War, or the bombs that prevented the Far Isle rebellion from precipitating an apocalyptic collapse of the unseen human unity brought about by the end of the Interplanetary War.

During the World Wars, the Interplanetary War, Far Isle, the Insurrection, and the Covenant War, there had always been men who were willing to put a stop to it. This war would be no different.

Kapusta cleared his throat. “Campbell, do you have the targeting telemetry from the General? Lieutenant, the firing solutions?”

“Yes sir,” Campbell dutifully replied. “Uploaded the targeted zones to your neural lace for your perusal.”

“Standby… Standby…” Lieutenant Tsai at weapons said. Then, he let out a sigh as though he realized he was expecting a relief that would never come. “Yes sir, the Shivas in orbit are prepped for an immediate insertion burn to the industrial facilities and habitation domes surrounding the Valley of Royalty.”

“Good,” Kapusta said, eyes glazing over as he analyzed the data stored in his very own brain.

Nine Shiva nukes. He smirked. Nine Shiva nukes.

It had taken them about ninety minutes to batter down Jyvus Space City’s shields, then nine hours to take it, nine minutes to get the codes to Duro’s planetary shields.

Now, with only nine nukes he would reduce a nine day operation into nine seconds.

Kapusta gritted his teeth and tensed his jaw muscles, tightly coiling them together like strands of steel cable.

“Begin the bombardment.”

With only three words, carried out in three seconds, they watched for three hours.

And Duro burned.

1600 Hours, 15:5:22 (GrS) \ Duro

Clouds of dust billowed into the air as General Grievous walked through the entrance to the Valley of Royalty.

Duro lay still, quiet in his advance. Only the occasional gust of wind gave a shrill dirge for the world and its defenders, whose white-armored corpses formed an escort for the General’s passage.

It was a hollow triumph. A silent victory.

The remains of this planet would lie fallow for the foreseeable future. Radioactive dust drifted lazily across the sky, the last breaths of a dying world.

This was now Duro: a conquered planet, a broken planet.

Grievous had shattered its already fragile ecosystem, but that was not enough. No, that would not be enough.

He would shatter its people, too.

Chief Representative Officer Hoolidan Keggle awaited him beyond the gates of the valley in the old capital city of Duro: Ranadaast. It was known to the more nostalgic offworld Duros as the Royal City, but General Grievous found its other moniker much more apt:

The City of Ashes.

Flanked by his MagnaGuards, battle droids clutching blue Confederate standards, and Terrans in sealed environment suits, Grievous walked on.

Grievous walked on, trampling over the hallowed ground where kings once tread.

Impossibly, a single Republic flag bearing the seal of the Galactic Roundel stood in defiance, burnt and tattered but standing nonetheless. Its lonesome vigil overlooking the cradle of a dead world was a sign of things to come.

When the Confederate flag was raised over the Valley of Royalty, a valley of ashes, General Grievous did not need a signed capitulation to know he had won.

Operation Durge’s Lance had truly begun.

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1605 Hours, 15:5:22 (GrS) \ Coruscant, Senate Rotunda

It was pandemonium on the Senate floor. Images of General Grievous walking amongst the orange dunes of a scorched Duro clenching a skeletal metal fist in triumph, battle droids trampling across Republic banners and hoisting the Separatist colors, Republic warships hurtling through space belching flame, Terran and Separatist vessels bombarding the planet, cracked hermetic containment environments spewing poison smoke; it all blended together into a singular mass of terror.

The terror was palpable.

The terror was delicious.

The terror swept through the Senate Chamber like a miasma that continued to spread, to grow and overtake. Through every level, over every hoverpod, even into the very lungs of the Senators themselves as they let loose their verbalized panic, until not an inch was left untouched. The bureaucrats of the Senate—once suspended in the beautifully coordinated dance of political theater—were sent flying wild and blind under the cloaking smoke of mortal terror.

Peace is a lie, there is only passion.

DURO FALLS! GRIEVOUS IN THE CORE! was the headline that dominated the flurry of reports. DURO FALLS TO GRIEVOUS: CONFEDERACY NOW CONTROLS VITAL SYSTEM was another, straight from Republic HoloNet News. For a split second, the HoloNet broadcast wavered, overtaken by a CIS Shadowfeed satellite transmission bearing the news JYVUS SPACE CITY, DURO, SURRENDERS TO CONFEDERACY NAVY FORCES. “So, the Republic would have the galaxy believe that its heart is secure. Today’s events, however, show that there is nothing that can stop our forces from total victory…” a mechanical voice boomed before the feed wavered back to the original broadcasts.

There was no peace in the Senate, neither was there any truth. Only passion.

“Where was the Navy!?” “Who is responsible!?” “WE’RE DOOMED!” “Where are the Jedi?” “SOMEONE SAVE US!” Voices cried over each other, hundreds and thousands of voices overlapping and clambering over each other in a tumultuous cacophony of unadulterated dread.

With snout trembling, antennae twitching, and head hung in shame, Senator Onaconda Farr floated to the center stage amidst untold numbers of jeers and revilings. “For this failure, I hereby tender my resignation—” his voice croaked under the pressure of the diatribes offered to him from all sides, “—as Chairman of the Action Subcommittee for Corellian Trade Spine Defense…”

Farr slumped in his chair, utterly exhausted as the pod was dragged away from the Senate Chamber. Shortly after this session, he would meet with Senator Deechi, accompanied by his aide Lolo Purrs. Shortly after that, two blaster shots would ring through the halls. After that, one last blast would sound out, and the halls would lay quiet once again as the shooter clutched a weapon in one dainty hand and a note in the other.

“I call for an immediate vote on the Republic Defense Recruitment Bill!” came the stalwart cry of Senator Shayla Paige-Tarkin above the shouting of countless others.

Through passion, I gain strength.

“The Congress of Malastare concurs with the honorable delegate from Eriadu!” “Sermeria thirds this motion!” “Something must be done!”

“Wait, let’s be reasonable, please!” one tiny voice from Naboo scrambled to say.

There were more tiny voices, too. One from Chandrila, another from Alderaan, from Uyter and, surprisingly, Corellia, another from Sern Prime, and one very unexpected voice from Kamino. All drowned out in the Senate’s passion.

All the voices echoing throughout the chamber were senators caught up in their passions. Their passion for the Republic. For peace. For security. For safety. For revenge.

“The Vice Chair recognizes a motion to begin immediately voting on the Republic Defense Recruitment Bill!”

The votes were tallied, and a thin, imperceptible smile curled up on Sidious’s face.

Through strength, I gain power.

“With eighty percent of the vote in favor for its passage, the Republic Defense Recruitment Bill is ready to be signed into law.” Vice Chancellor Mas Amedda looked towards Palpatine. “Chancellor?”

Through power, I gain victory.

He stood, feigning belabored resignation as he basked in the moment, drawing off the energies churning through the building like a whirlwind. His mere presence silenced the tumultuous roars of incessant internecine arguments, like light breaking through the storm of the Senate. Like the storm swallowing the light, so that nothing opposing remained.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

“In our extreme state of emergency, it is with a heavy heart and my greatest sympathy to the beings of Duro that I am forced to accept the will of the Senate as expressed by the measures contained in this legislation. For the good of the Republic, I sign this bill into law.”

Palpatine bent over to make his mark on the galaxy, deftly signing the piece of flimsiplast legislation printed out in haste and delivered to his hands.

The Force shall free me.

Sidious stood upright again as thunderous applause crashed through the Senate floor, reveling in the moment as the unbalance in the Force shifted darker still.

In all the Senate’s panic, in all their commotion, it was not hard to imagine why so many other happenings elsewhere went unknown, unmentioned. It was only natural, then, that so many things remained unsaid and unseen in such a time of crisis.

They remained ignorant of so very many things. Things they would not know of until it suited Sidious’s needs. The noise and terror that wracked the sacred institution precluded the possibility of any whispers from across the galaxy reaching their ears. Indeed, the HoloNet narrative was likewise under his influence, and it, too, choked off any chance of word reaching Coruscant. Word of one thing:

The Disaster at Corellia.

AN: Please buy my book, This Side Up: At Galaxy’s Edge, I could use the cash. Additionally, previews of the next chapter are currently available on my P a t r e o n.

In light of recent news, I gotta say basing Steve Jones on Steven Anderson was fitting. Unfortunately.

And now, something more humorous: “The Venator is better than the Imperial…” “Full potential Anakin…” “Ahsoka the grey Jedi ronin…” “Who would win, Starkiller or a coughing baby?” “I want a dark and gritty clone trooper/ODST band of brothers miniseries…” “George Lucas didn’t consider the EU canon…” AHHHH SOMEONE KILL ME AHHHH “The Scorpion uses shells from WW2” AHHH KILL ME AHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHH “Erm, achually tha Vong are grimdark edgy imperial apologia and belong in star trek or warhammer, no I haven’t read any of the books. I only watch kids shows and wookieepedia-audiobook lore youtubers.” HEEURRRRRGHHHH “Filoni and Favreau or going to do a coup and save us from Kathleen Kennedy!” “If only they made xyz canon again!” “Legends isn’t canon anymore!” AGHGWGGGGGHH “Frank O’Connor’s shadow government game dev team hijacked Halo 3 and the terminals were literally worse than 9/11” AHHTGUAWHHAHAHHHH