Chapter Text
A’Sharad Hett had gone the first fifteen years of his life without seeing the ocean. Raised by a tribe of Tuskens on Tatooine, he would have never believed such a thing possible if his father, a Jedi Knight who’d once roamed the stars, hadn’t told him about it. His father was almost twenty years dead and Tatooine just as far behind him, but some part of him still disbelieved the sea, even as he stood on the island’s rocky coastline, staring out at the seemingly endless waters that covered most of Bavinyar’s surface.
The sun was going down over the ocean, and it turned the sea and sky both a magnificent spectrum of colors, red and gold and violet and velvet blue, just as sundowns used to do on Tatooine. He stared at the waves as they crashed on jagged black volcanic rock below and for a moment he felt dizzy, like he might pitch forward and fall forever into infinite water.
“Are you all right, General?” a voice said behind him.
Hett snapped upright and turned around carefully to see the faceless mask of a clone soldier staring back at him. A few stripes of red paint against his white plasteel armor marked him as the unit’s commanding officer.
“I’m all right, Captain Ebron.” He said with a steady voice.
“It’s going to get dark soon, sir. We were about to set up camp.”
“Did you find a spot?”
“General Torles found a ravine, sir. It should give us cover in case they send out recon flights.”
If all had gone to plan, the Bavinyari had no idea they’d inserted onto this island, but it was best to be safe. Hett nodded and said, “Lead the way, Captain.”
He hopped nimbly off the rock and onto more stable ground, giving himself a little boost with the Force to come down in front of Ebron. As he landed one hand went to the twin lightsabers at his belt: one his own, one his father’s. He just wanted to make sure they were there.
By time time Ebron led him through several narrow ravines to the crevasse in which their team had set up camp, the sun had fallen even lower. Some light remained in the sky but the high rocks around them cast deep shadows. The clones had stretched a long tarp from one slab of vertical rock to another, forming a roof over their heads that shielded the light of those sole glowlamp from potential fliers. As Hett sat down with the others, wind whipped through the crevasse. It flapped the tarp noisily and carried the salty smell of the ocean.
They started eating without conversation, as they usually did. They’d been doing this for months now, sneaking in secret from island to island, performing acts of sabotage against the Confederacy and Bavinyar’s local militia.
A’Sharad Hett didn’t know what it was accomplishing in the end. Bavinyar was not a critical world; it was sparsely populated and had no manufacturing capabilities, though it loaned the Trade Federation generous use of the many islands scattered across its blue surface. They’d arrived on this one via hover-boat this morning and had been slowly trekking from the south end to the north, mostly along jagged rocky coastlines, with the ultimate goal of destroying the Confederacy airbase on the island’s north tip. It was supposedly the largest one on the planet, but what good it would do, Hett didn’t know. In order to keep themselves hidden on a hostile world, their com-munications with the outside galaxy were sporadic, but they’d recently learned of the bold Separatist attack on Coruscant and the kidnapping of Chancellor Palpatine. Palpatine had reportedly been saved by the heroics of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, that bold and troubled young man from Hett’s own homeworld; better still, the Confederacy's founder, fallen Jedi Dooku, had been killed. Their last communication said that General Kenobi was leading the hunt for General Grievous.
The war might end in days, and they were stuck on this worthless little world, performing acts of sabotage. It was not the role Hett had envisioned for two Jedi Masters when the Clone Wars began.
According to his partner, a sour old Master named Jafer Torles, they were probably turning the entire native population against them. It wouldn’t take much work. Bavinyar had been settled a century ago by humans who’d wanted nothing to do with Coruscant, and when the war came they’d signed up with the Confederacy more from fear of being conquered than anything else. They already saw Jedi as dangerous, mysterious agents of an oppressive Republic.
For years, Torles had been local guardian on a world called Cartao; after the disastrous destruction of that world’s prized Spaarti Works cloning facility, the hero of Cartao had become a pariah. Torles was convinced that someone had staged the destruction of Spaarti Works to discredit the Jedi, maybe even him personally, but despite his conviction, his year of searching, he’d ended up sent to Bavinyar with A’Sharad Hett with all his questions unanswered.
Though Master Torles never said it, Hett knew that he, too, would rather be on the front lines. Anywhere but here.
The two Jedi Masters continued to eat in silence, as did the six clone commandos. He could feel the usual sullen mood radiating from Torles in the Force, but the clones gave him almost nothing. He’d served with some clones who radiated distinct personalities in the Force, the kind of personalities that made him feel guilty about the very existence of all these thousands and thousands of soldiers who’d been created by the Kaminoans and Master Sifo-Dyas to live short empty lives and die in service of the Republic.
Captain Ebron was one exception; a veteran of campaigns on Malastare and Milagro, he’d developed a jaded disposition like Torles. Losing most of his squad on the latter world hadn’t helped his optimism. There was also Corporal Sands, so nicknamed because he’d been stranded in the deserts of Geonosis after the second battle on that world and had wandered the desert for a week before finding a rescue squad. He had a cynical sense of humor but, below that, unwavering loyalty to the Republic and a surprising optimism about every mission. Hett had grown to like Corporal Sands.
As for the other four men, newly-grown from the few Spaarti vats that had escaped destruction on Cartao, they felt as empty as droids in the Force. Even after working with them for all these months, Hett found them disturbing.
They’d been eating in silence for perhaps ten minutes when Ebron suddenly stopped chewing and threw up a hand. Everyone froze with food in their mouths and listened. Wind still howled through the crevice, making it difficult to pick up the sound of anything else, but Ebron must have heard something.
Sands reached out and flicked off the glowlamp, dropping them in darkness. The wind dulled and Hett could hear, more clearly, the high-pitched droning sound of a Federation scout droid flying low overhead. The tarp the clones had erected would shield their heat signatures as well, and everyone scooted a little closer to make sure they were beneath with, all the while cautiously trying to peek up from its edges.
All Hett saw were stars. Then the red glow of two thrust engines as pushed a droid flier across the night sky. Then the drone was gone, and so was the sound.
Still, nobody moved. Cautiously, Torles whispered, “What direction was it moving in?”
“North,” Ebron said.
“Are you sure?”
Ebron nodded once.
“It was probably a random patrol,” Sands said.
Hett nodded. “They weren’t flying too low. They weren’t searching for us specifically.”
Torles snorted but said nothing. Hett understood his skepticism; their last mission had hit an arms depot on the outskirts of Bavinyar’s capital, Cephalia. They’d spent the past two weeks sneaking their way down the long island chain to this new target. The Separatists knew they were out here, and this air base was going to be heavily guarded.
“Captain,” Hett asked, “How far as were from the air base?”
Ebron didn’t even have to consult his datapad. “Five kilometers as the drone flies, sir.”
Five klicks wasn’t far, but it would be at least twice that many on foot if he wanted to sneak through the rocks. He said, “Once we’re finished eating, Captain, give me all your topographic data. I’ll scout the site.”
“We need rest,” Torles said.
“If we’re going to strike before dawn, that’s gives us ten hours. I can get to the air base, do a recce while you rest, then come back. We can still hit it before dawn.”
“You need rest, sir,” Sands said.
Hett shook his head. “I have a pack of stims. I’ll be fine. It’s important that we scout this place thoroughly.”
“Permission to come with you, sir?” asked Sands.
Hett shook his head. “I can go faster by myself. Don’t worry, Corporal, I know how to scout an enemy base. I’ll do just as good a job as you.”
“Unlikely, sir, with all due respect, but if you do half as good I guess that’ll be okay.”
He couldn’t see Sands’ face in the dark, but he could feel the mirth radiating off him in the Force. Hett allowed himself a little laugh and said, “I’m glad you trust me, Corporal.”
“We always trust our generals, sir.”
“Good. I’ll get going soon.”
Hett finished his meal hastily in the dark. After that he went back to his kit and fetching his night-vision viewfinder while the clones cleaned up their kits and turned the glowlamp back on.
As Hett threw his backpack on, he felt Jafer Torles come up behind him.
“You should stay with the clones, Master,” Hett said.
He was afraid the older man would be offended, but thankfully he took none. Despite being some seventy standard years, Torles had proven repeatedly to be a quick and capable fighter.
Torles shook his head and said, “Be careful, Master Hett. I think there’s more going on here than we realize.”
Torles said that sort of thing often; he firmly believed there was some grand conspiracy behind this whole conflict. To Hett, it just felt like a stupid war between greedy arrogant beings eager to throw away lives; just like the war on Tatooine that had claimed his father.
Still, he decided to humor the old man. “Something about the air base, is it?”
“I’m not sure.” Torles shook his head. “General Kenobi might find Grievous any day now. He might already have found him and we just haven’t heard.”
“Well, I hope he kills him in the next ten hours so the Seps surrender,” Hett said.
It wasn’t quite a Jedi-like comment, that, but he knew Torles agreed with him. The old master said, “I don’t know. I feel like the death of Grievous might end this war, but...”
“But what?” Hett didn’t have time to indulge vague premonitions and conspiracy theories.
Torles shook his head. Half to himself, he muttered, “There’s more to this war than Grievous, I know it...”
“If so, that’s for other beings to sort out, Master. We have to do our job here and now.”
“Of course.” Torles nodded weakly and squeezed Hett’s right shoulder. “May the Force be with you.”
Herr simply nodded. “Take care of the clones for me.”
Torles allowed a soft laugh. “General Hett, I believe the clones are here to take care of us.”
As the holo-projector flickered on and the image of the Neimodian appeared before them, Jereveth Syne sucked in breath, straightened her back, and squared her shoulders. The Neimodian, though, didn’t pay much attention to her martial posture. He rarely paid her attention at all; despite her brown Bavinyar Defense Fleet uniform, despite the captain’s rank badge on her chest, she was still young and female, physically small, and despite her determined affectations, always in the shadow of the man beside her.
Marath Vooroo laid his pupil-less eyes to her father and said, “Greetings, Admiral.”
“To you as well,” Gregor Syne said. A head taller than his daughter, he had the same pale skin, narrow eyes, and black hair, though gray streaks ran through his beard.
Her father didn’t bow his head in greeting, not even a little; officially the Bavinyari were partners with the Trade Federation and other members of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. The Federation, of course, had a vast commercial empire and navy, whereas the Bavinyari settlers possessed only four aging dreadnaughts useful only for defending their homeworld and occasionally joining Marath Vooroo’s Farstine-based sector fleet on local sorties against the Republic. Her father and Marath Vooroo were far from equals, but Gregor Syne treated Vooroo as such, and Vooroo, surprising for a Neimoidian, didn’t demand deference either.
Gregor Syne gestured to his daughter. “You have met Captain Jereveth Syne as well.”
The Neimodian’s blue holo-image shifted a little to her. “Of course. Greetings, Madam Syne.”
“Thank you for calling us,” Syne said, and bowed her head just a little. “May I ask the purpose of this call?”
Vooroo’s eyes went back to her father. “Your daughter is quite forthright.”
“Neither of us have ever been much for small talk,” Gregor Syne said. “Nor you.”
The Neimoidian’s flat lips twitched a little, almost like he was smiling. “Perhaps not. I will get to the point then. I trust you have heard the latest from Coruscant?”
“I’ve heard Count Dooku is dead, and General Grievous is a hunted being.”
“You have heard correctly,” Vooroo said. Neimoidian voices were hard to read, but Syne thought he sounded a little dejected.
“If the Republic does succeed in killing Grievous,” her father asked, “Have the leaders of the Confederacy decided on a plan?”
Vooroo seemed to sigh. “The leaders of the Confederacy have… gone into seclusion. I spoke with Chairman Gunray myself before he left to join them.”
“Are they planning on entering peace talks with the Republic?”
“As of yet, there are… no plans for peace talks.”
Syne was surprised. With Dooku and Greivous gone, the Confederacy would be without its greatest leaders. Gunray and his ilk were a collection of schemers and thieves, not soldiers or statesmen. She’d been expecting them to have started begging Chancellor Palpatine for mercy already.
“Is there some plan of theirs I am not aware of?” her father asked stiffly. The Bavinyar Leadership Council had voted to join the Separatists in order to retain independence from the Republic; she and her father both had been quietly expecting that the Trade Federation would surrender on their behalf, and their world would fall under the iron grasp of Palpatine and the Jedi terrorists who’d been wrecking havoc down on Bavinyar for months and still hadn’t been caught.
Vooroo hesitated again; it was uncharacteristic of a being who, unlike most of his race, had often boldly fought the Republic from the front lines.
Finally, the Neimoidian said, “If Greivous is killed, a new leader will be designated. Until that happens, we are to keep fighting.”
Syne blew out tension through pursed lips. Her father said, “If the Republic tries to retake the Ryndellian Sector, will you offer Bavinyar assistance?”
“If resources permit,” Vooroo said.
Of course, Syne thought sourly. It wasn’t like their world, sparsely-populated and lacking natural resources, was important to anyone but them. Before the war, before the Republic tried to force the entire galaxy under it aegis, that had simply meant they’d been left alone, as the Bavinyari had wanted when Syne’s great-great grandfather had led them out of the Republic over a century ago. Now it meant they were going to be crushed by Palpatine’s fist.
“I wish to be informed of any pertinent information regarding the Confederacy’s leadership going forward,” her father said evenly.
“You shall,” Vooroo nodded. “That was why I commed you now. To keep you informed.”
“I appreciate you delivering this message personally. Is the rest of your sector fleet gathered at Farstine?”
“That is correct,” Vooroo nodded again. “Except for the ship we have left to guard your world.”
Guard or occupy, Syne had never been sure. That big circular Lucrehulk-class carrier and droid control ship amassed almost as much as all four Bavinyari dreadnaughts combined.
“We appreciate all the help you’ve given us,” her father said. “I look forward to speaking with you again.”
“And I with you. Goodbye, Admiral.”
The holo flickered off. Her father looked down at her and a tiny smile twitched his lips. “You can frown now.”
Syne’s hands balled to fists at her side. “We’re just pawns to them. They’ll throw us to the Republic the second it’s convenient.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps. Or not. Marath Vooroo deserves more credit than you’re giving him, I think.”
“Vooroo doesn’t matter, father, not now. Gunray and the others are planning something.”
“Probably, though even Vooroo seems baffled as to what.”
“It has to be some secret surrender plan. Some capitulation. They’re trying to hide how badly they’re going to sell all of us out.”
“It is possible….” Gregor Syne put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Or perhaps not. I feel there’s something we’re all missing here.”
“No matter what the Trade Federation does, father, we have to fortify this world. Palpatine won’t let us stay independent, not like before.”
“Four dreadnaughts against the galaxy?” He raised an eyebrow.
“If that’s what we have to do, father, it’s what we’ll do.”
He smiled, sadly, and squeezed her shoulder again. “Thank you, Jereveth. For reminding me what youth sounds like.”
She scowled. Youth was something she hadn’t had much and of hadn’t missed either. Even though the civilian government on Bavinyar was made up of elected officials from the scattered island settlements, command of Bavinyar’s defense force- ragtag but staunchly loyal- had passed from one Syne to another, down the generations. Growing up, Jereveth Syne had sometimes allowed herself to wonder what freedom felt like for other young women her age, but she’d never wondered long. She couldn’t imagine a life where she wasn’t on the bridge of a ship, looking out the viewport at Bavinyar’s beautiful blue sphere down below.
“Come, Jereveth,” her father said, “I believe Andrein is waiting for us.”
Syne followed her father out of the admiral’s private quarters and onto the command deck of the dreadnaught Independence. Along with Defiance, Iconoclast, and Dauntless, the Rendilli dreadnaught had rolled off the same assembly line as the ill-fated Katana fleet, and after those vessels had disastrously disappeared, the others of their model had been sold off for cheap with all of their slave circuitry intact. The heavy automation was a boon to the Bavinyari, who were able to operate these vessels with almost half the normal crew.
The four dreadnaughts made up the backbone of Bavinyar’s defense fleet and were supported by a handful of pickets and corvettes. As she walked across the bridge Syne could see, out the viewport, the white circle of the Trade Federation control vessel against Bavinyar’s blue: their partner and guardian, or something lilke it.
They met up with her father’s advisor, Andrein Yvolton. The man was the same age as her father but looked older; he had more lines in his face and his hair was fully gray. After Gregor Syne filled Yvolton in on their conversation with Vooroo, he said, “Andrein, I want you to go with Jereveth over to Iconoclast.”
“Is that necessary?” Syne raised an eyebrow. She was perfectly capable of overseeing the testing of the new Federation-made turbolaser system herself.
“I insist. Andrein helped purchase our dreadnaughts in the first place. He knows their systems better than anyone.”
“Father, I am quite-”
“Jereveth, please,” her father said gently. “Every leader has to know when to take advice sometimes.”
Syne glanced sideways at Yvolton, who watched her impassively. Then she nodded and said, “Very well, let’s go over and begin testing. Will you watch from Independence, father?”
“Of course,” he nodded.
“And if Vooroo contacts you-”
“I’ll let you know immediately.” He glanced at Yvolton. “Both of you.”
“All right.” Syne blew out a breath, squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and looked up at Yvolton with what she hoped was her most authoritative gaze. “Let’s be on our way.”
And Yvolton, still straight-faced, nodded and followed her off the bridge.
A’Sharad Hett lay flat on the rock ledge, propped up on his elbows with his macrobinoculars held in front of his eyes, and scanned the air base one more time.
He didn’t like this at all.
It wasn’t what he’d feared going in. Initially he’d been afraid the base would be too big for his existing team to take on. Two Jedi Master and six clone commandos had proved capable enough on their sabotage missions so far, but this was supposed to be the largest Separatist base in the hemisphere and he didn’t know if they could take it.
In truth, it wasn’t much bigger than the air base they’d already demolished outside Cephalia. This difference was, that base had been wholly occupied by the Separatist military, and crewed almost entirely by Trade Federation and Techno Union war droids.
This base had a lot of Sep droids, yes, but most of it seemed to belong to the Bavinyar Defense Force. Even at night, there were humans scampering around the landing fields. Most of the starfighters spread out on the tarmac were Headhunters, Starchasers, and other motley ships, the best the Bavinyari could afford. There were a few Trade Federation vulture droids strutting around, yes, and one big troop carrier with its dual wing pylons spread wide, but most of this complex was run by local Bavinyari who simply wanted their planet to be left alone.
Maybe Torles was right. Maybe this whole damn war was a conspiracy to turn people against the Jedi.
But, Hett reminded himself, these Bavinyari already hated Jedi. Always had. And they were enemy combatants who were willingly supporting the Confederacy in their mission to kill Jedi and break the Republic.
They weren’t innocents. He was just used to killing droids, was all. Torles was going to hate it, as well he probably should.
But like Hett, like the clones, this war had made the old Guardian of Cartao into a soldier. He’d follow orders. As would they all.
Hett slunk away from the ledge and made sure he was clear of potential spotted at the air base before rising to his feet. He went slowly, carefully, though the rocky landscape, relying on his night-vision to keep from stumbling.
He kept a careful watch on his chronometer. Including the time spent surveying the base, his round-trip mission had ended up taking four and a half hours. Taking Torles and the clones back north using the same route would take about two more hours. That still left time to slip into the air base under cover of night and even grab a short rest at camp beforehand.
Hett tried to console himself with that knowledge as he got close to the crevasse where he’d left the others. He knew that stims weren’t as good as real sleep, but over the course of this war he’d had to rely on them many times, and he knew they wouldn’t decrease his performance during the critical moments of infiltration and demolition.
He was getting close to the camp when he heard the familiar, sharp tang of a DC-17 rifle going off. He heard another shot, then another, and then the hum of a moving lightsaber.
He hurried across the rocks as quickly as he could, fumbling for his father’s lightsaber with one hand as he used the other to pull himself over a jagged ridge. He stuck his head over the crest to see Jafer Torles jump out of the crevasse where they’d made camp.
Hett could make out scorch-marks on the old Jedi Master’s robe. Torles lurched forward, using his left hand to clench his right arm as his lightsaber hung at his side. With visible effort, the wounded Master picked his head up and his gaze locked with Hett’s across the difference.
Run! Torles’ voice screamed in Hett’s mind.
Then a volley of laserfire flashed out of the crevasse, spearing Torles in the back. Hett watched, stunned, as the Jedi dropped his lightsaber and fell face-down to the rock.
Then, a second later, three clone soldiers pulled themselves out of the crevasse, hefted their DC-17 rifles, and emptied a dozen rounds into Jafer Torles’ corpse.
Hett stayed were he was, frozen in shock and horror and utter confusion, and watched as the other three clones pulled themselves out of the crevasse. He saw Sands in his corporal’s stripes, clutching the lightsaber-scorched stump of his left arm, severed below the elbow. He saw Captain Ebron walk up to Torles’ scorched body and give it one strong, savage kick to the head.
Then Ebron raised his head and looked around.
Hett ducked back behind the crest of the ridge and stretched out with the Force. He felt nothing from the four Spaarti clones, nothing except that same dull devotion to duty. From Sands, he felt the lingering pain of his wound. And from Ebron, he felt a deep, bitter anger, the kind he’d never felt from any clone before.
Beyond that, suddenly, he felt a great rush of pain. Lives were being wiped out by a tidal wave of sudden death, Jedi lives, Jedi dying all across the galaxy, in unison. Jedi were being slaughtered, slaughtered by their own clone troops. The agony was of great Hett had to close himself off from the Force entirely.
Nothing made sense, not any of it.
His first clear, certain thought was that he would have to kill those clones in order to survive.
The second was that, before killing them, he’d have to capture Ebron or Sands and learn what was going on.
And the third was that he couldn’t do either of those things now, not when the clones were all together and alert like this. He’d have to make them chase him, then pick them off in pairs.
But, no. He could do one thing here and now.
Without even looking back over the ridge, he stretched out with the Force, tentatively, reaching no further than the scene in front of him. He sensed where Ebron, Sands, and the other clones were standing on the rock. He sensed where Torles’ corpse lay, right next to its lightsaber.
He reached out with an invisible hand, flicked the lightsaber on, and sent it flying through the air, right through the chest of the nearest clone.
He felt shock and panic ripple through the group, even the three surviving Spaarti clones. Without risking another look back, A’Sharad Hett began to run.
Bavinyar had no natural moons, but an asteroid belt stretched around the system between Bavinyar and the next rimward planet. The field of drifting space rock was the perfect place to test the weapons newly-installed on Iconoclast and Defiance.
The dreadnaughts had been at it for five hours and, as she watched from Iconoclast’s bridge, Syne had to admit she was impressed. The destructive yield on the new cannons were over fifty percent better than the old weapons that had come with the dreadnaughts when her grandfather had bought them from Rendilli decades ago.
Neimoidian techs had also been allowed limited access to the slave circuitry that allowed for so much of the dreadnaughts’ automated systems. They’d augmented those systems with the same artificial intelligence software used to coordinate their war droids, and the accuracy of the computer targeting systems was also improved. It was enough to make Syne revise her opinion. Perhaps the Trade Federation wasn’t such a bad partner after all.
Syne had been watching the process along with Yvolton, Iconoclast’s Captain Avit Madrisk, and a young woman named Sajin Nevaleen. Unlike the others, Sajin was a civilian, a government employee who’d come up from the planet to oversee the install of the new hardware.
She was also Jereveth Syne’s oldest, best, and more or less only friend. Growing up the only child of Gregor Syne had naturally set her apart, even when she’d attended primary school on Cephalia with other children from both military and civilian families. Sajin, always bright-eyed and alert and inquisitive, had been the only one not scared of her just for being a Syne. She’d also been the only one persistent enough to crack through Syne’s guarded exterior.
“So Madam,” Sajin said softly as she and Syne looked out on the asteroid field, “Did they do good work?”
Syne glanced sideways at the blonde woman. “Better than I expected, I admit.”
Sajin smiled a little. “Then you’ll recommend we run the same procedure on the other two dreadnaughts?”
“I’m sure Andrein will.” she glanced in the other direction, where Yvolton and Madrisk were quietly talking and examining an energy dispersal readout.
“And you, Madam?”
There we something teasing in her voice. Syne looked back to Sajin and said, “I will back him up, though I’m not sure what good it will do.”
The twinkle in Sajin’s eye faded. She said grimly, “We don’t know for sure the Republic will come for us.”
“Of course they will,” Syne said stiffly. “Haven’t you been paying attention? This entire war has just been an excuse for Palpatine to take direct control of one system after another. He and his Jedi dogs have been dismantling every bit of civil rule on Coruscant since the fighting started.”
“Jereveth, I think-”
“Madam!” she heard Madrisk snap behind her, “Priority transmission from Independence.”
Syne hurried over to the comm station as fast as she could without running. Yvolton was already there, looking at the blue holographic image of Gregor Syne.
“I just talked with Marath Vooroo,” her father said. Just the tone of his voice made Syne’s heart sink. “Something incredible has happened. Grievous is dead, and the Jedi have attempted a coup against Palpatine.”
The second announcement stunned her more than the first. Ever since she was a child, Jedi had been synonymous with the long sinister arm of the Republic. Since the war started those brown-robed warrior monks and their supposed magic powers had been at the forefront of the Republic’s campaign to subdue all independent-minded systems.
“Thieves fall out,” she muttered softly.
“Palpatine has ordered all Jedi be exterminated, and what’s more-” her father paused, lick dry lips- “He’s declared he’s reorganizing the Republic into an Empire. And he’s commanded that all Separatist forces surrender immediately or face destruction.”
“Any news from Gunray?” Yvolton asked.
“Nothing yet. Vooroo has put his fleet at Farstine on red alert.”
“We’ll do the same,” Syne said. “Admiral, should we pull our ships back to Bavinyar?”
“I think we have no other choice. At this point we cannot-”
Suddenly his holo-image burst into static, then died. Syne, frowning, spun on the communications chief.
“Lieutenant, what happened?”
Before she could get an answer, Madrisk said, “Madam, five capital have just dropped into the system! They seem to be jamming us.”
Syne froze. Yvolton asked, “Do we have identification?”
“I’m not sure. Madam, they look like Republic-”
“Sirs!” the comm officer half-jumped from her chair. “We’re getting one signal, very strong, audio-only. It’s cutting through the jamming.”
“Put it on,” Madrisk said.
Again a backdrop of low static, one voice, controlled and crisp, came on the overhead speakers:
“Men and woman of Bavinyar, this is Admiral Octavian Grant of the Imperial Navy. This planet’s insurrection against rightful galactic rule is over. All warships must surrender or be destroyed.”
Vice Admiral Grant couldn't remember the last time he’d felt this excited. For months and months, the war had dragged on in the Outer Rim sieges while he’d been stuck here in the Mid Rim, harassing the Separatist fleet in the Ryndellian Sector but receiving neither the resources nor the official permission to initiate a full-scale offensive that would secure this entire chunk of the galaxy.
Then everything had cascaded with stunning speed: the assault on Coruscant, the deaths of Greivous and Dookue, the failed Jedi coup, the subsequent purge, the declaration of the First Galactic Empire, the simultaneous relocation of all Chommel Sector ships to his command and the order to go on the offensive while the Separatists were still reeling.
It was almost like it had all been planned out in advance and they were just marionettes on some unseen overlord’s strings.
Grant didn’t let himself think about that for long. His goal was right in front of him: the blue sphere of Bavinyar, the white circle of the Trade Federation droid control ship and the two stubby gray Rendilli dreadnaughts flanking it.
Grant turned away from Valor’s forward viewport and walked over to the tactical station. “Lieutenant, sitrep. Where are the other two dreadnaughts?”
“They’re in mid-system, sir, by the asteroid belt,” the lieutenant pointed to the edge of the tactical hologram.
“How long until they can reach Bavinyar?”
“For those ships? I’d estimate at least thirty minutes at full sublight speed.”
Yet another bit of incredible luck. “Concentrate all fire on the Federation ship. Once it’s down, tell the assault carriers to begin their descent.”
Grant turned back to the viewport to see Valor’s gray nose angle for the Federation ship. The task force’s other two Venator-class destroyers, Resilience and Bayonet, stabbed forward and began firing. The two Acclamator-class landing craft were hanging back, waiting for a clear path to begin their assault on Cephalia and Maressa, the planet’s two largest settlements.
Grant was making a risky attack and knew it. Even with the reinforcements from the Chommell fleet, he still had limited resources. He’d sent two Victory-class destroyers to Farstine as a feint, to keep Marath Vooroo off-guard while he subdued Bavinyar and its fleet as quickly as possible. It opened the possibility that Vooroo might repel the attack or even flee, forcing Grant onto some wild bantha chase, but Grant fully expected him to surrender with a minimal fight. He was, after all, a Neimoidian. His race was better known for greed and cowardice than anything else.
If by some miracle Vooroo actually did try to dig in and defend, well, Grant could subdue Bavinyar quickly, then take his ships to Farstine without having to worry about an attack on his flank.
Laser blasts streaked through space, splattering on the Federation ship’s shields. Droid starfighters and the Bavinyari’s pathetic hodgepodge were spilling into space in a desperate attempt to fend off the ARC-170 fighters Grant’s forces were launching. He watched as the two dreadnaughts broke position on the control ship’s flanks. He’d fought a dozen skirmishes with these Bavinyari and he knew they were too stubborn to abandon their planet; no, they’d stay and fight, maybe trying some pincer attack even though they were outnumbered and outgunned.
Bravery and patriotism were only sometimes virtues. Like anything else, they could also be weakness, depending on the situation.
Right now, it was definitely a weakness, and Octavian Grant planned to exploit it the best he could.