Rendili Approach, Rendili System
Rendili Sector
Uninterrupted hyperspace travel had its risks, that I knew. Every naval officer worth their uniform did. There was a reason prolonged, uninterrupted hyperspace travel in and into enemy territory was unheard of. Yes, it was invariably true that a fleet was virtually and practically invulnerable in hyperspace–but it was also invariably true that a fleet was most vulnerable exiting hyperspace. Simply put, whilst in hyperspace transit, you had absolutely no influence with the rest of the galaxy in realspace, and vice versa.
Your astrogation instruments, tuned to realspace, were more useful turned off than screaming in madness as they tried to cope with the non-Euclidean nature of hyperspace. There was no 'navigation' in hyperspace; your fleet was an arrow shot into the wind, and you can only trust you aimed well enough when plotting the jump.
There was no contact either, as there was no technology yet capable of cross-dimension communications, to the chagrin of the galaxy's brightest minds. It was for this reason that fleets often extracted and inserted multiple times over a particularly long travel itinerary, especially when travelling in hostile territory. It was considered far too risky, especially when the enemy could figure out your destination and assemble an ambush force there in advance.
The bare minimum, as established by common galactic naval doctrine, was to extract a few lightyears short of the intended destination, and send a scouting party to investigate first. If the scoutships returned in the stipulated amount of time with the all clear, jump the final leg; if the scoutships do not, consider the destination compromised, and abort. This was conventional naval wisdom.
Following standard procedure, it was expected for the 28th Mobile Fleet to adhere to this wisdom–if not for one problem. The procedure of extracting and inserting again was far easier said than done, and was exponentially harder and longer for every vessel in the fleet. For a fleet of the 28th Mobile's current size–just under two-hundred vessels–it could take anywhere from half a day to a full standard day to extract, reorganise, correct bearings, recalibrate instruments, plot course, synchronise hyperdrives, slave navicomputers, and insert again.
Trying to jump a fleet of two-hundred was risky business in of itself, considering all it would take was a single misplaced decimal point to cause a catastrophic collision in pseudomotion–on both ends of the jump. We could always forego the pre-jump precautions, as fleets often do in emergencies, but we would still have to wait for the scoutships anyway.
Even half a day was enough time for a battle to start and end, and racing to the help of another fleet, it was a calculated risk to forego scouting ahead in the interest of time. Even the Givin agreed, that if our sister fleet had summoned us for aid, then haste was of the essence. Calli and I made a wordless promise to each other back on Trench's flagship, and I would not renege on it.
I stood up slowly as the last flashes of friendly pins sprinkled onto the plot. Ahead of us–no, all around us, the grand forces of the Coruscant Home Fleet drawing in like a noose around our necks held a strangely abstract fascination for me, as my throat constricted in… was it fear? Anxiety? Excitement? Or maybe all three? For a brief moment, it was as if I was watching my own back, temporarily disembodied.
"I count three-hundred warships, sir," Taylor told me, synthetic voice strung with nervousness.
We have less than two-hundred, I thought, Vinoc and Jorm command near another seventy, but they're campaigning in the Deep Core. Vinoc's 4th Battle Division was too far away to rendezvous with us, and had been given the crucial duty of guarding the Nexus Route and flushing out the rest of the GAR's forces in the region. Jorm's 6th Auxiliary Division on the other hand, was judged too great of a liability to bring to battle, and thus sent to join the 4th Division.
Is this my first time on the receiving end of a ready and anticipating fleet?
I had no time to dwell on the issue, or on the issue of how exactly the Coruscant Home Fleet knew of our arrival–though I certainly had my suspicions. The forward divisions of the 28th Mobile Fleet were already opening up their batteries–as we had been prepared for the possibility of ambush as according to combat extraction procedure–and though they were hardly accurate and hard to describe as anything more than an impulsive reaction with shots oft falling short or fired in random directions, it was enough to incite chaos.
Though certainly designed to intercept and encircle us, the enemy formation had cut their formation wide, their ranks spread far to cast a larger net. It was no fault of theirs–trying to pin down the exact location of an extracting fleet was borderline impossible, and the fact that they were even able to guess the general area to catch us was impressive enough. Nevertheless, this meant that despite our forward ranks being close enough to dish turbolaser fire, our flanks were relatively free for a precious few minutes.
The Home Fleet had tried to compensate for this by placing their missile cruisers on their flanks, those Victory-class Star Destroyers of theirs, but our Givin captains reacted much faster than anyone could have predicted. Wavecrest-class frigates spun out to the wings, their PDCs cutting down missiles from the void with an accuracy that would have made even Jedi impressed; and to think they were doing all the calculations and firing patterns in their heads alone, without computers much less the Force.
I had the honour of touring a Wavecrest once. Its pilothouse was the definition of 'spartan'. No computers or calculators in any form, just plots, inputs, and a helm. Everything else that made a ship a ship took place in the brains of her crew.
"Tuff," I forced myself into an artificial calm, ready to hatch the escape plan, "We need to buy time."
The droid nodded sharply, practically taking over my role as battlefield commander with all of his objective pragmatism. Droid brain whirring, TF-1726 plugged himself into Chimeratica's plot and ordered Diedrich Greyshade's 3rd Battle Division forward. Spearheaded by Kronprinz, thirty heavy warships condensed into line ahead on our right wing before driving forward–then hooking portside and doubling back down our left; creating an upside down 'U'-shaped wall of blistering broadsides.
"Looks like your calculations fell short of something, Dodecian!" Diedrich Greyshade roared with an indescribable emotion, his shining flagship's brutal pulse cannons raging with him.
"Incorrect," Dodecian Illiet replied, bringing his ships around now that the 3rd Division has relieved them of the pressure, "Our presence has saved the Nineteenth, as intended."
I immediately looked to the plot, at his words. It was difficult for Chimeratica to see through the storm of lasers and missiles, but through the eyes of another ship's sensors, I managed to catch a glimpse of a separate engagement several million klicks southeast. It was the 19th Mobile Fleet, presumably, punching their way through a second Republic fleet. Or rather, a Republic fleet that was forced to split in half in order to deal with both of us. If it hadn't been for our timely arrival, it was probable the 19th Mobile would already have been defeated by the combined firepower of both halves.
"How many ships does the Nineteenth have?" I asked, relying on Tuff to cover my back as I came up with a plan to extricate us out of this mess.
"Four, five-hundred warships," Illiet reported, using his better sightlines, "They have been completely encircled by the Republic fleet, however, and I am uncertain."
"Encircled!?" Horgo Shive demanded, leading our rearguard, "Surely our Countess Clysm can do better than that?"
"She can," the Givin observed loftily, "The Nineteenth is breaking through."
"Then we must work to join them," I grunted, finalising my manoeuvre package and cursing at the lack of Vinoc and his seventy ships. Seventy heavy ships of the line that would have opened up a whole host of more opportunities for us.
"Easier said than done, sir," Krett threw in his two credits.
"Dodecian," I summoned, "How many mines do you have left?"
"Our stores are adequate, Admiral."
"Transmitting you the command package now," I told him, fingers dancing over my console, "Execute it forthwith."
"–Understood."
"The rest of you–" I sucked in a deep breath, "All ships; dive!"
⁂
"What is he doing?" Flag Captain Terrinald Screed murmured.
"Trying to slip under us," Admiral Honor Salima ordered.
The Separatist fleet was splitting in twain, its main body translating downwards, attempting to circumnavigate the comparatively vertically shallow Republic formation and break for their allies on the hyperlane ingress. At the same time, Givin Wavecrests rose up like a school of blackfish rising up to nip at crumbs thrown onto a pond's surface, before diving back down. In their place, a layer of homing mines, preventing the Home Fleet from straightaway pursuing and biting into the enemy's exposed ventral flank.
"Captain Dodonna," Honor commanded, "Launch all fighters and intercept the enemy. Home Fleet; translate downwards. Match the enemy's velocity!"
In the rear, Captain Jan Dodonna's carrier squadrons opened their mighty hangars, and the starfighters came pouring out, Y-Wings and ARC-170s and thousands more citizen starfighters of the Galactic Republic. They accelerate upwards, giving space for the rest of their wings to join them, then banked hard on their etheric rudders and plunged back down over the lips of their carriers, sweeping around like the spray of an exotic fountain.
The Separatists scrambled to launch their own droid starfighters, but the Republic's wings, under the command of Adar Tallon, surged forward with calculated precision. Tallon's pilots dove headlong into the enemy formation with an unhealthy lack of fear, threading their ships through the looming bulks of the Separatist battlecruisers. Their daring manoeuvres disrupted the droid fighters' formations, preventing them from swarming and overwhelming the Republic fighters.
"Good!" Honor swung around, "Autem, launch your missiles underneath the enemy fleet, right along their vector!"
"Orders received, Admiral."
Captain Sagoro Autem brought his Star Destroyers into a sharp descent, their angular hulls tilting downward and missile banks erupting with flare and smoke. Wings of white smoke plumed in the abyss, killing pinions racing beneath the Separatist formation and erupting directly in the middle of their downward vector. With the Wavecrests trapped on their ventral flank and main battle line pinned down blocking the incessant fire from the Home Fleet's frontal batteries, the Perlemian Coalition's Armada had no other choice but to stop their descent for if they continued their descent, they would be ripped apart from the underside.
Honor Salima could almost imagine the Rain Bonteri halting and reassessing his position, trapped between Arlionne's relentless bombardment and Arcenciel's devastating missile volleys. They were running out of time, as even their mightiest battleships couldn't last forever under the Home Fleet's claws. Unfortunately, for Rain Bonteri, however, Honor had already foreseen his next move.
After all, the key to victory on the field was control of the battlespace. Control the battlespace, and you can dictate your enemy's actions, and so long as you maintain the initiative you can lead your foe to their own destruction. It didn't matter if the battlespace was the size of one star system, or an entire star sector. This was the trick of the 'Battle Hydra.' Controlling the battlespace was integral to every single one of their stratagems, and their primary objective at the beginning of every engagement was to wrest that control out of their enemy's hands.
They did that with Columex, using tractor beam superweapons. They did that at Yag'Dhul, using manoeuvre warfare. It didn't matter how mad the strategy should be, so long as it threw the enemy off their feet just long enough for him to snatch control away. That was what can be concluded if one reviewed his operational records.
And what happened when he couldn't control the battlespace? The Battle of Centares–when Oppo Rancisis splendidly ripped away control by introducing a Mandator-class dreadnought onto the plot, forcing him to cut his losses and retreat. The Battle of Metalorn–where Plo Koon did much the same with his revolving arrowhead. The Battle Hydra was no more than a mutated snake if they couldn't control the battlespace, so it was with this man, and so it was with the mythical creature he took his moniker after. Even the mighty dragons of the Gordian Reach knew better than to fight a foe it couldn't overwhelm.
In this sense, Rain Bonteri was more akin to the Dxunian warbeasts that plagued his homeworld, who picked fights with anything that so much as moves.
So, Honor Salima decided, it didn't matter how reckless her strategy appeared, as long as it kept Rain Bonteri off his feet. Every second she denied him the chance to formulate a plan was another moment he couldn't control the battlespace, forcing him to improvise. From there, it was a simple matter, one drilled into every commander from the moment they raised their flag;et into the enemy's mind, anticipate their moves, and dismantle them piece by piece. Unlike her predecessors, Honor Salima's has had a war's worth of data on the so-called Battle Hydra sharpen her tactics against, and with her natural authority she wielded the Home Fleet as if they were her own arms and legs.
"Keep up the fire!" she flicked her hand, "Captain Dodonna, bring your Venators around and enclose their rear! Captain Autem, turn starboard and prepare to broadside the enemy!"
As she had envisioned, the Coalition Armada then did what she had expected; try to break out at the second most vulnerable spot in the Home Fleet's line of battle. At this point, both fleets were arrayed in the shape of a horseshoe, with the Home Fleet's three-hundred and the Coalition's sub two-hundred on the inside. After failing to escape through the bottom, the Battle Hydra ordered his captain with the shining solar sailer to force his way out the back, or the open top of the horseshoe.
With his division already stretched out in a line ahead, all Diedrich Greyshade had to do–and she did know who he was, as she knew his cousin Senator Simon Greyshade more than she would've liked–was follow through the natural curve of the horseshoe to its end.
Unfortunately for him, Captain Dodonna had already manoeuvred Prudence to intercept the Kronprinz at the forefront of her advance. Meanwhile, Captain Autem's line had adjusted to mirror the Separatist Providences, aligning beam-to-beam for a direct confrontation. Honor studied the tactical display with meticulous focus, tracing the vectors and calculating the next likely response from Rain Bonteri. Simulations ran in her mind's eye as she assessed how to puppeteer the enemy fleet next.
"Our left wing, Admiral," her Flag Captain advised, "With our main firepower shifted to our right, I'd reckon Greyshade will come around in full circle with all his momentum to punch through our left, Chimeratica and the rest of the Armada in tow."
The Bloodhound's ears absorbed his words, and the Bloodhound's eyes applied it to the plot.
"If–when–Kronprinz crosses the vertex of her turn, have the rest of our ships translate portside to meet her as she comes around," Admiral Honor Salima commanded.
"That will put a gap in between us and Captain Autem, sir," Captain Screed warned.
Honor chewed once, then personally held down the transceiver, "Arcenciel, Arlionne, have your rearguard prepared to double back the moment you see a gap widen between our divisions."
"Arlionne, Arcenciel. Prepare to double back, copy that."
Terrinald Screed's single living eye gleamed. Just as he had predicted, Diedrich Greyshade ultimately decided to forego breaking out the back, likely due to the momentous casualties the effort would result in, and instead resolved to cycle back around to the front. All of that built up impetus, however, needed to go somewhere, and hemmed in on all sides by Republic Star Destroyers, this battlespace was not Sullust, and Honor Salima was not Rees Alrix. The Hydra had not the physical space, time, or leisure to maintain a revolving death spiral.
As Kronprinz crossed Chimeratica's vector, the latter's sublight drives ignited in a sudden burst, propelling the Separatist fleet flagship violently forward toward the Arlionne. Meanwhile, the rest of the Home Fleet steadily shifted to their left flank, amassing strength in anticipation of the expectant Separatist counter-charge… to the point where the area between Arcenciel's aft and Arlionne's beam had widened into an empty rift. Predictably, almost absurdly, the Separatist fleet instantaneously deflected their vectors and surged toward the opening, like a flow of water naturally carving out the path of least resistance.
Just in time for Arcenciel's rearguard to spin around and plunge straight back into the gap.
"HARD RIGHT, HARD OVER!" Flag Captain Terrinald Screed roared at the top of his lungs, more beast than man in that very moment, and Arlionne swung around, missile bays roaring upon like a proud lioness baring her steel fangs.
Honor Salima marched up the bridge of her flagship, staring out the viewports where the tide of desperate Separatist refugees flooded through the gate. It was the perfect pincer, one in which even Rain Bonteri had no choice but to try his hand at. Somewhere in that chaotic tide lurked the infamous Battle Hydra. She had him right where she wanted.
"We have the Perlemian Coalition dead to rights!" Honor Salima announced to the Home Fleet, "All ships; sink the Battle Hydra! We'll ram him if we have to!"
The Home Fleet roared in reply, and the noose snapped taut.
⁂
"THE TWENTY-EIGHTH'S HERE!" someone whooped in glee over open comms, the words crackling through the chaos like a thunderbolt.
Three, four, words, soon mostly lost in the din of battle. Nobody knew who shouted it, or which ship it was from–likely one of the 19th's. Nobody even knew if the words were true. But as they were all fighting for their lives in the gauntlet of the Open Circle Fleet, the words sounded true, every man and woman fighting wanted it to be true. Those four words became the hope every spacer and soldier clung to like a lifeline, and that illusion was enough to ignite the embers of defiance, breathing a second wind back into the exhausted Separatist fleet.
With renewed determination, the fleets surged forwards, desperate to outrace Republic Admiral Block's elastic centre and break free from Olge Plavi-Dol's and Obi-Wan Kenobi's tightening encirclement. Calli Trilm, Dua Ningo, and Jace Dallin, the three commanders of the combined fleet, kept the cordon tight and disciplined as the three fleets pushed their way forward. As the engagement prolonged, and as the alliance continued to hammer away indiscriminately at the Open Circle's centre, one of Admiral Block's squadrons faltered.
The Republic defences had reached their threshold, buckled, and opened a temporary breach. Against all better judgement and seizing the moment, the Separatist vanguard scrambled forwards. With a savagery fit with bared fangs and claws, the Rendili Victorys plunged straight into the breach, tearing their way straight through the Open Circle's wall of battle. Their broadsides erupted at point-blank range, filling the rift with smoke and fire as they fought to pry open an escape route for the rest of the combined fleet.
At that point, the noise filling all three flagships must have sounded the same.
"Forwards!"
"Forwards, forwards!"
"Forwards, forwards, forwards!"
It became a pounding drumbeat of battle that replaced the heartbeats of every spacer, filling them with a single-minded focus to smash free into open space–and towards home. The Separatist arrowhead formation honed itself into a razor-sharp spindle, focusing all their impetus on piercing the breach. On the flanks, Admiral Dua Ningo's Bulwark-class battlecruisers extended outwards, seizing the shattered ends of the Republic battle line.
With the spent Victorys falling forwards and out, the Bulwarks locked into place like the armoured phalanges of two black iron gauntlets, holding the breach open just long enough for the rest of the combined fleet to surge through. It was a wall of black iron that crumpled and buckled with every second they withstood the rippling tide of Republic Star Destroyers trying to crush down with their dagger-shaped teeth. The Bulwarks showed their strength, the strength Star Station Independence were willing to sacrifice a fleet for. No more than fifty Bulwark-class battlecruisers held the line against the combined might of three-hundred Republic warships, the steely mettle of Admiral Dua Ningo holding them in place like stones defiant against a storm.
For an entire heart-stopping minute, Calli Trilm forced her eyes held open as Star of Serenno thundered her way through the breach, rocked to and fro and Republic fire and Separatist counterfire. Systems blared and alarms flashed red, screaming warnings in her ears as the ship shuddered with each impact. And then–suddenly–silence. The explosions and the thunder of turbolaser batteries faded into a distant murmur, like a receding storm.
They were home free.
The realisation took a moment to settle in. Calli Trilm blinked, almost disbelieving the sudden calm that had replaced the chaos. Her flagship, scarred and battered, had made it through. The bridge lights flickered, the alarms dimmed, and the relentless barrage that had rocked the ship just moments before now felt like a distant memory.
Her breath caught, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to exhale. They had done it—they had broken through the Republic lines, escaping the clutches of Obi-Wan Kenobi for… the third time. She could laugh. They were sailing away now, keeping up the momentum. It would take some time for the Open Circle Fleet to regroup and pursue, and it would be too late for them to prevent the Separatists from jumping.
"Damage report?" she requested, her voice surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. The bridge crew sprang into action, their hands moving quickly over consoles as they assessed the situation. There was a palpable sense of disbelief among them, a shared understanding that they had survived against all odds.
Tex turned to her after taking stock of the situation, "We've taken significant damage. Engines are stable, shields are holding at fifteen percent, but we've lost half of our primary weapons. Still, we're operational."
"And the… the fleet?"
"We count three-hundred and seventy-two ships with us," Tex continued steadfastly, "Seven-tenths of our combined fleet made it out."
The Bulwark Fleet had held the door open for them, and they paid the price dearly. Calli Trilm counted no more than thirteen surviving Bulwarks, including the fleet flagship Unrepentant. They had been this close to failing the mission they had been assigned–but they didn't. The remnants of the Bulwark Fleet may no longer have the force factor to influence the war, but the very fact that the most powerful conventional warship the Confederacy had at its disposal could now enter the mass production lines–bringing a whole host of live combat data no less–could be exactly what's needed to revive the Separatist war machine.
At that moment, however, the analysis was distant to her.
"Not that," Calli looked around, "Our fleet. The Nineteenth Mobile."
"We lost a quarter," the droid answered bluntly, "Fifty-four warships."
The 19th Mobile Fleet began this expedition with three-hundred warships. Half were left. Half. The word echoed hollowly in her mind, stripped of any real meaning by the stark reality of their losses.
But…
"We did it," Rel Harsol said breathlessly, as if trying to convince them along with himself, "We did it."
"Well done, Rear Admiral," Admiral Dua Ningo praised, "We can finally go home."
"For you, maybe," Captain Jace Dallin was far more reserved, "It was my fleet that cleared the way for you… and we'll be leaving home, if we follow through with this."
"Cold feet, Captain?" Calli Trilm asked, not unkindly.
"I have my orders…" he breathed, "But when the Confederacy achieves its final victory… promise me we will return for Rendili."
"I can make no such promise," Calli replied, "Only the Pantoran can make such assurances."
"...Very well."
"Indeed," Admiral Dua Ningo's voice was coloured with relief and satisfaction in equal measure, for he had been trapped in Core for longer than any of them, "Shall we make for Manaan?"
At that moment, Calli Trilm was so desperately inclined to agree. They could finally, finally, go home. But one issue dug into the back of her skull.
"Wait… what of the Twenty-Eighth?" she raced to the plot, and looked to the north.
Or rather, it was northwest now, as their battle with the Open Circle Fleet had displaced them by a handful more million klicks, and her breath caught in her throat. The 28th Mobile Fleet was encircled, much in the same situation they themselves had been minutes prior, but with neither the numerical or firepower superiority the combined Separatist fleet enjoyed. They were trapped, and dying.
If it weren't for them occupying the Home Fleet, it would have been the 19th Mobile Fleet trapped and dying. And now they were to leave their saviours for dead?
"Can we make it?" Calli wondered out loud.
"We can," her tactical droid confirmed, "But it will be close, by my calculations."
That was all she needed to hear. She surprised herself, a little, with her own willingness to leap back into the fight. For a woman so averse to putting herself in harm's way, it seemed this would be the one exception.
"Admiral Ningo, Captain Dallin," Calli spoke, steeling herself as she did, "You will continue to Manaan as we had planned."
"And you will not?" Admiral Ningo replied, sensing the undertone across the transmission.
"We will join you later," she replied simply. For a moment, she pondered the possibility of requesting their help, as even a mere dozen Bulwarks could make all the difference–but she considered their mission. The Bulwark Fleet must make it to Separatist space, and so must the Rendili Home Defence Fleet with the torch of defiance in the Core is to stay alight. So long as the RHDF remained at large, the Republic would never be able to snuff out the embers of Separatism in their home turf.
"...Blessed are those who help their friends in need, Admiral," Captain Jace Dallin told her, "And upright are those who repay their debts. May the Force be with you, and stars watch over you."
"I will await you at Manaan with drinks, Rear Admiral Trilm," the old Sullustan bid his farewells, clearly unwilling to argue her intentions or stay behind any longer himself, "I am forever in your debt."
With some two-hundred flashes of light, the Bulwark Fleet and Rendili Defence Fleet disappeared into the stars. She had expected some of her own captains, those of the 19th Mobile Fleet, to follow them, but by her count, every single one of her remaining hundred-fifty ships remained, even those so badly damaged they could hardly even return fire when the time came.
"Once more into the fray, eh, boss lady?" Rel Harsol chuckled as Sa Nalaor swung around onto a vector towards the rear of the Coruscant Home Fleet.
"You're going to have to follow me this last time, gentlemen," Calli Trilm gently led her battered fleet back towards the enemy.
"That's the duty," one-eyed Aviso grunted, "That's the fight. We won't leave our allies behind."
And was that not the founding principle of the Separatist State, the very declaration of the Confederacy of Independent Systems? If we are to leave the Republic, we are to leave together.
⁂
This isn't good.
That much was obvious as the Coruscant Home Fleet crunched down its jaws around us. The air aboard Chimeratica felt suffocating, as if I was one with my fleet, being strangled alive by the enemy. Two flanks of Victory-class Star Destroyers closed in on us, pinching our throats, whilst a heavy anvil of Venators pummelled us in the rear. The 28th Mobile Fleet had been packed so tight into the corridor that there was hardly any room to manoeuvre, leaving us no option beyond returning fire as hammer after hammer of missile blows rained down on our beams. But we returned fire all the same, overclocking our weapons and overloading firing capacitors until every ship glowed with the fierce, vibrant gold of its own superheated hull.
Our lighter ships, ironically, were able to escape the worst of the slaughter; frigates and light cruisers managing to minnow through the enemy lines and slipping into open space. Our heavier ships however, Chimeratica among them, shouldered the worst of the Home Fleet's relentless assault, Admiral Honor Salima ferociously focusing down on our main body with the bulk of her firepower. Bearing the worst of it were our Lucrehulk-class battleships, four in number and all under the command of the Neimodian Commander Krett. Their relatively exposed engine blocks were prime targets for the Republic LACs, and it wasn't long before all four were crippled. In a desperate move, Krett used the last of his attitude thrusters to draw his ships into a tight, cube-like formation, the bristling wings of the Lucrehulks flaring outward like the petals of a steel flower.
"This might be the end for us, frog," Horgo Shive grunted as he struggled to screen Krett's battleships.
"Your ships are not disabled," Krett replied harshly, "Mine are. Get out of here!"
There was a pause in the comms–
"–Don't have to tell me twice," the Muun muttered, and took his 2nd Strike Division after the rest of the fleet.
The exchange was quickly lost in the heat of battle, but as I looked back, I saw the fortress of Lucrehulks fade out of view. Not by distance, no, but the sheer number of Republic signatures swarming onto their position, battlecruisers and cruisers and starfighters and all. The Republic rear had no choice; disabled as they might be, Lucrehulk-class battleships were still one of the most if not the most terrifying conventional warships the Confederacy could field. Each battle-fitted Lucrehulk was one-and-half billion tons of hull and guns, and over a hundred times as heavy as a Venator-class Star Destroyer.
The Home Fleet had no choice but to eliminate the combat potential of those rearguard battleships before they could press the offensive on the rest of the fleet, lest they be pincered themselves. But without Horgo Shive's protective screens, the lumbering and unwieldy nature of the Lucrehulks became all too evident. There was a reason the behemoths were always accompanied by swarms of Vulture droids and screening vessels; without that support, they were prey for starfighters—albeit very large and heavily armed prey. With all of their LACs already in the black, the remaining warships of the 5th Division closed ranks, less than twenty in all, and prepared to go down in flames, determined to take down as many of the enemy with them.
"Krett is pinning down a number of their ships!" I wrangled control of the comms, shouting into the electrically-charged void and using our superior Separatist comms tech to punch through the scrambles, "Horgo, add your division to our left! Diedrich, keep your battlecruisers on our right! Illiet, can you find us a way out!?"
"They're cycling their ships along our vector," Dodecian Illiet gave the grave news, "They won't let us leave."
Ultimately, the Home Fleet now outnumbered us nearly two to one. Despite Krett's efforts to hold off her rear divisions, the Bloodhound still commanded an overwhelming array of warships to hurl at us. She cycled her lines with ruthless efficiency, constantly rotating fresh warships to the front as those withdrawn from the front were sent ahead to maintain the 'throat' in which the 28th Mobile was forced through. Her intent was clear; she was going to grind us down minute by minute, hour by hour, until we were all dead.
And then, just when the situation couldn't get any bleaker–Chimeratica shuddered violently, lurching forward and throwing me off my feet. My hands snapped onto the edge of a console just before I kissed the floor, dragging myself back upright. Alarms blared throughout the bridge as the lights flickered, casting shadows in the usually well-lit pilothouse. Chimeratica's sublight engines sputtered, then died with a final, agonising groan, leaving the 28th Mobile's fleet flagship drifting helplessly in the void. Consoles sparked and flickered out, and the once-steady hum of the engines fell into a chilling silence.
"Engines are unresponsive!" Taylor yelled, "We can't reach the engine room either!"
Do we even have an aft section anymore? I was forced to wonder. It was not just the lights, too many of Chimeratica's displays have been knocked out, like dominos over the course of the battle, practically leaving her–and me–half blind and deaf. I didn't even know what was happening on my own ship anymore, much less the rest of the fleet. Half the plots were dead, the other half scrambled by enemy interference. The only reason I could still vaguely keep track of the battlefield was thanks to our communications array, which vastly outstripped anything the GAR could levy against it. Small mercies.
"Dispatch an engineering squad to the aft!" Tuff commanded hastily, before turning to me, "Rear Admiral, we need to get you off the ship. Chimeratica is no longer in any shape to escape."
"Off the ship…" I croaked, looking up at the cracked viewports, at a galaxy consumed by steel and fire in every direction, "And to where?"
⁂
"Behind us, Admiral!" Flag Captain of the Arlionne, Terrinald Screed, roared as enemy contacts blazed in from behind the Home Fleet.
Admiral Honor Salima swung around, clicking her tongue. Words of rebuke for the Open Circle Fleet were already at the tip of her tongue as she re-evaluated the situation, but she swallowed them just as quickly as she saw exactly what was happening. The Separatist fleet had been cut down to around a quarter of its original number, and the remainder–no more than a hundred and fifty–had been re-intercepted by General Kenobi's forces. However, while the Open Circle had intercepted the 19th Mobile Fleet, it was clear to everybody aboard Arlionne that the Separatists clearly didn't consider themselves intercepted.
The Jedi fleet was like a fierce tiger snapping at the heels of a pack of savage hounds, who had long since forgotten the meaning of fear. Honor traced the vectors on her display, noting with a piercing realisation that the 19th Mobile Fleet had doubled back to support the Battle Hydra. The Open Circle Fleet had re-intercepted them, but the Separatists were unfazed, continuing their desperate sprint toward their allies. Each time the Jedi drew close, a Separatist warship would suddenly cut its engines and "fall" into the midst of the Open Circle's formation—only to self-destruct in a blinding explosion. It was an act of sheer, mind-boggling insanity and sacrifice, repeated over and over again, as the 19th Mobile Fleet sacrificed itself ship by ship to slow their pursuers.
"They…" even Screed was at a loss for words, sheer disbelief colouring his voice, "They… what are they doing? Are they even human anymore?"
"They're aliens," Honor gritted her teeth, "Gods know what they think! Captain Autem, bring your ships around to intercept the enemy! Do not–at all costs!–let the enemy fleets link up! The rest of you; sink the Battle Hydra! I say again; SINK THE BATTLE HYDRA!"
At that moment, it was as if the Nine Hells of Corellia rose to consume the galaxy at once. The 19th Mobile Fleet crashed into the rear of the Coruscant Home Fleet. Calli Trilm's attack wasn't just erratic, it was formationless, riotous, unified only by single-minded purpose in a wavefront of steel and destruction heading in generally the same direction. The Republic Navy might have the upper hand when it comes to quality of ships and weapons, but at that moment, Honor Salima found herself entirely struck into stupor by the Separatists' frenzied madness.
Calli Trilm smashed into the Home Fleet's formation, warships striking past each other in a blur at respectable fractions of light. They opened all gunports, loosing arrows of light from multiple directions as they barreled at high speed through the crowded brawl. Warships fearlessly disabled their own anti-collision systems, slicing enemy destroyers in two with their hulls. Cruisers volleyed their main artillery into enemies directly ahead of them, engulfing their own ships in balls of explosive light. It was a mad rush that broke all reasonable rules of self-preservation, spreading out a banquet of destruction, fueled by the undeniably berserk nature of the offensive.
"Jam the enemy!" Calli Trilm barked out her orders as her flagship duelled three enemy destroyers at once, even as half her primary armaments laid dead, "Do not let them reorganise!
Scores of Separatist frigates unleashed all of their power, filling the whole battlespace with an impenetrable electronic fuzz that made any and all Republic coordination impossible.
Against all odds, the Separatists had turned the tide, indiscriminately slaughtering the Loyalist forces as comrades from both 28th and 19th Mobiles fought side-by-side and back-to-back with a familiarity and wordless coordination that would bewilder any battlefield tactician. After all, these ships and crews haven't seen each other in months, and yet they fought in tandem as if they've known each other all their lives.
Unable to dispatch orders and rearrange her ships, Honor Salima exhausted every medium available to him before finally seizing a young messenger by the shoulders.
"Get a fighter out to the Open Circle Fleet!" she snarled, "Tell that kriffing Jedi to open fire!"
"B-But sir!" the messenger spluttered, "We're still–"
"That's an order!"
Outside the fleet flagship Arlionne, however, Admiral Honor Salima's orders were very different. Cut off from command by berserk Separatist frequencies, the Loyalist captaincies, completely drunk with carnage and havoc, fell upon Arlionne's last known standing order.
SINK THE BATTLE HYDRA!
SINK THE BATTLE HYDRA!
SINK THE BATTLE HYDRA!
The Home Fleet's most valiant commanders–Dodonna, Autem, and Screed–each launched their counterattacks individually from their own ships, with seemingly predetermined precision, drawing those around them into the fray with lightcodes and aura alone. The entirety of the Home Fleet released a soundless tremor, as if accepting an unheard order. Sink the Battle Hydra.
Three-hundred warships converged onto the core of the 28th Mobile Fleet simultaneously.
⁂
Outside of the chaotic melee taking place in the Rendili Star System, Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi heard the pilot's orders aghast.
"Admiral Honor wants us to do what?"
"That's what the orderly told me, General," the wing leader relayed, "Fifty-six of my boys died getting her orders to you, sir. Better make it count."
Without waiting for confirmation, much less a response, the flight wing wheeled around and dove back into the fray, racing headlong back into the melee and certain death. It was as if they had become indifferent to their own lives—or perhaps, like the rest of the fleets, both Loyalist and Separatist, they had been consumed by the battle mania. Obi-Wan could feel the intense stares of Commander Cody and Olge Plavi-Dol fixed on him, their eyes heavy with expectation, and it took everything he had to not falter. It would not do to falter, not at this crucial juncture.
"Give the order, General," the Clone Commander told him, "Admiral Honor is willing to give up her life for victory. We would dishonour her and every spacer and soldier in that fleet if we do not open fire."
"We will be shooting at our own allies, Master!" Knight Olge cried, "We will defeat the Perlemian Coalition–but at what cost? For every dead Separatist, three dead Loyalists! Citizens of the Republic! We would drench our hands with the blood of our allies and countrymen!"
"And if we do not, we will be wasting the blood they've already spilled," Commander Cody retorted coolly, "General, with all due respect, this is a direct order from the Admiral of the Coruscant Home Fleet–the closest Admiral to the Admiralty and Navy Command itself."
"–General!" a sensor officer reported, "We're detecting Cronau radiation!"
"A fleet jumping in?" Obi-Wan swung around, secretly thankful for the brief respite in which he could use to make up his mind, "Have the Rendili returned?"
"No, General! It's from the north! On the other side of… of the brawl!"
To the north? On the other side of the brawl? Obi-Wan checked his chrono–it's been half a standard day since the battle began.
Then its Task Force Hyperion. Master Plo Koon. At last!
"Hail them!" he barked.
The officer frantically returned to his station and patched the Jedi Master through.
"I see I'm not too late to the party, Obi-Wan," the Kel-Dor Master's presence was a reassuring one, and Obi-Wan felt like a mere Knight once more, under the tutelage of a Jedi Master many years his senior.
"I could use your advice, Master Plo," Obi-Wan told the senior Jedi honestly, and felt no shame for it, "Admiral Honor has ordered me to fire into the melee that you see."
"She intends to pin down the Separatists while we deal the finish blow," General Plo Koon surmised in a thought, "Very well. As the situation presents itself, I see no better time than now."
Surprise bloomed inside Obi-Wan's heart, "Truly, Master Plo? We will be… firing on our own allies. If the Admiralty–nay, the Senate finds out we fired upon the feathers of Core nobility…"
"At our ally's behest," the Jedi Master corrected, not unkindly, "We have the transmission, and the sender's transponder?"
"We do," Commander Cody confirmed quickly.
Plo Koon nodded decisively, "Then we must steel our hearts for the battles to come, Obi-Wan. We save Honor Salima, and she will be a terrific ally to have. Come, let us end this terrible affair."
By being more terrible than the Home Fleet and Perlemian Coalition combined? At that moment he could only wonder if 'Master' Plo Koon and 'General' Plo Koon were two different people. Which was the wise master of the Jedi Temple, and which was the hero of the Hyperspace War? Obi-Wan shared a glance with Olge Plavi-Dol as Commander Cody departed to carry out the orders. Meeting her eyes, the young Knight deflated, but marshalled her features and gave him a brisk nod. Her hologram blinked out soon after.
Just like that, the entirety of the Jedi forces, over four-hundred in total, condensed two sickle-shaped formations on each side of the melee, and swooped down on the battle. In a grim reversal of fortune, the Separatists went from perpetrators of a slaughter to its victims. They were assaulted from within by the melee's glittering firestorm, whilst from the north the divisions under General Plo Koon hurled hundreds upon hundreds of lance-like missiles into the fray. And from the south, the Open Circle Fleet spat out flaming tongues of energy and gas, starfighters leaping into the black and plunging into the chaotic storm laden with fresh torpedoes and missiles.
The explosions were so bright it was as if the arms of the galaxy were burning to their ends, and the melee, now the target of concentrated fire from all sides, was being cremated alive. Ray shields absorbed the radiant heat effused onto the battlefield, steel hulls glowing hot at the gunports. Even if the outer walls of a ship could withstand the heat, the men inside them couldn't.
Spacers were thrown against the compartments, slammed onto decks, and into the pleasantly cold embrace of death in stark contrast to the soaring temperatureFor others, the agony stretched on for minutes, their bodies convulsing from the unbearable torment of boiling internal organs and choking of their own thrown-up blood, which then evaporated into white smoke. Melting floors consumed the bodies of the living and the dead, Loyalist and Separatist alike, as blinding light tore ships apart, then sucking out the bodies into the freezing release of hard vacuum and wiping away the horrors that took place within.
The two Jedi fleets continued firing, gritting their teeth or biting their tongues as they rained hellfire and brimstone on their allies and enemies indiscriminately, whittling down the melee as weather control satellites would tame a raging hurricane.
⁂
It was like watching fireworks. Missiles from the pits of hell rampaged through the darkness, blue and red bolts of energy lancing out from everywhere at once, seeking targets known only to them. Starfighters turned into flowers of flame all around me as laser bolts sparked useless blue spirals and whorls off the deflector shields. I watched six frigates gone within the minute, right within the eye-distance, vaporised by battlecruisers. I didn't know whose frigates, or whose battlecruisers. The flaming wrecks of destroyers carved through the black sky like brilliant meteors, streaking across the viewports and cutting through the billowing clouds of dust and debris. Another two cruisers charged at each other, as if they were not interstellar warships but jousting knights. They collided head-on, atmosphere boiling out of their cracked hulls and revealing the glow of fires consuming everything inside their steel bardings.
For a brief moment, I wondered why it seemed as though Chimeratica was remaining relatively untouched, like we were in the eye of the storm. And then I realised that we were in the eye of the storm. Chimeratica was still gliding along on its momentum, and all around her Republic warships were trying to intercept us, and counter-intercepted by surrounding Separatist warships. Dozens of warships in bloody livery, from the largest Star Destroyers to smallest corvettes, charged at Chimeractica without a mote of self-preservation, as if possessed by a single-minded obsession with my death. Even with the naked eye alone, the scene was absurd enough for me to realise Honor Salima must have put a bounty on my head.
Then–from the distance, somewhere right and up, there came a Victory-class Star Destroyer painted in the blood red GAR livery. She was crashing through a gap in the Separatist lines, broadsides lighting up with fire smoke, the edges of her hull glowing red-hot and drive cone like a blinding star–and she was aiming directly for the Chimeratica. Like a heated knife poised to cut through a slab of butter, the Victory fell upon my head like an executioner's axe.
"Get the Admiral to an escape pod!" Tuff roared, louder than I've ever heard him. My eyes were still transfixed on the descending Victory as I vaguely felt the tactical droid shove something sharp and small into my hands before shoving me towards the blast doors.
Taylor seized be my the arms as he all but dragged me into the flaming depths of the flagship–and as the blast doors groaned towards each other, I caught a glimpse of a second ship–a Separatist Providence ramming straight into incoming Victory right in its ventral flank and shoving it off to the side. A split second later, an explosive shockwave burst outwards–and I heard the telltale crackle of shattering transparisteel just before the doors thudded shut.
The interior of Chimeratica was a cacophony of chaos I could barely keep up with. It seemed like every droid aboard the ship had been activated, stampeding the corridors and hallways. Fire fighting crews charged into smoke-filled compartments, the maze of blast doors closing off here and there to isolate damages and hull breaches I could not see. There was a terrible gale blowing through the hallways, tearing the breath from my lungs. Sirens blared, lights flashing red and amber.
"Master, you're alright!" Hare's voice reached my ears, though I could not see her. Was she at my feet? I did not know when she had joined me, but I felt a palpable sense of relief at her safety.
"The lower pods have been compromised!" Artisan shoved us in another direction, on hand holding onto an emergency repair plank.
"We need to make our way across the artillery deck, sir!" it was Stelle who shouted that in my ear, despite it being Taylor dragging me along earlier. It wasn't Stelle's shift–he had been recharging. I looked around. Taylor was gone. I was in an evac suit, despite having no memory of ever donning it.
Running along the deck, right beside massive mass-driver cannons that thundered away autonomously, I instinctively pressed my ears shut as the deafening hammer blows rocked the flagship in erratic intervals. Through a bluish atmospheric containment shield, I watched a volley of missiles rocket out towards an enemy Venator downrange. Who was ordering it? What of Chimeratica's organic crew–the officers, marines, and the like–had they managed to reach the escape pods? Were they remaining on the ship?
The hull plating of the artillery deck bulged inwards right in front of us.
Oh, fuck–!
The next thing I knew, I was floating in space. I didn't know how I got there–which appeared to be a prevailing theme in the last hour or so of my life–though I can only conclude I had been sucked out of the hull breach. So instead of being atomized with the artillery deck, I was ejected from her. Small mercies. Maybe I'll be cut to ribbons by high velocity micro-debris instead.
It was scant reprieve. Something was wrong with my suit. It was torn, or a seal had melted. Patting around was a futile effort. Either way I could hear the hissing and feel that my body was growing numb. I looked in my palm, and found a chip. I held it close to my chest.
As I took in my surroundings, I realised I was now just one of tens of thousands of spacers drifting aimlessly in the abyss. All around me were the remnants of the battle—twisted chunks of durasteel, scorched and blackened. Lengths of wire and conduit floated by, slowly wheeling end over end in the vacuum. Drifts of shattered transparisteel spun like jagged shards, catching and reflecting the eerie glow of distant laser fire. And there were men. Some were whole, their bodies bloated and blue, faces frozen in expressions of shock—mouths agape, eyes staring lifelessly into the void. But most were in pieces, human and alien and droid bodily parts I could not name.
Aha, I thought in dry humour, Chimeratica had been cut in half. Well, not quite half, but the entire aft section of the ship was missing. Likely blown away in the strike that cut our engines. And the bridge, where I had been–gone too. The entire beaked prow of the ship, flattened by the shockwave of two colliding giants. And the giants in question–above me, fused into a single great monolith blocking out the stars. The Providence had pierced halfway through the Victory, somehow avoiding a reactor detonation, though there evidently had been detonations.
My heart faltered as I studied the livery of the Providence. It's callsign, splendidly scrawled across her shell in cursive script. Star of Serenno.
Calli, I whispered. I heard nothing, only the sensation of vibrations dispersing through my head to my ears, giving the illusion of noise. You saved my life…
Hare. Stelle. Where were they? I tried to twist my body around, but the effort proved futile. Fumbling with my evac suit, I managed to activate a few of the RCS thrusters, sending me careening through the debris for a few precious seconds and wasting valuable fuel. My academy training kicked in, though brief, and I adjusted my movements, finding a semblance of control. I breathed a sigh of relief.
I found Hare quickly. I couldn't mistake those rabbit ears anywhere. The LEP droid was no astromech, and wasn't equipped with boosters, so I headed over to her. Her vocabulator was blinking, indicating speech, but I couldn't hear her. She waved something in front of my face.
A distress beacon. Likely with my signature on it.
I hugged my droid tight then, though I kept my helmet well away from her ears. I didn't how long we had to wait afterwards, but soon enough a familiar sight breathed some hope back into my bones.
Kronprinz was a sight for sore eyes, and a sight that made sore eyes. The Tionese battlecruiser did not look one bit as if it belonged on the battlefield, her mirror-polished chrome armour gleaming way too brightly in the starlight, despite having been blackened some. She approached underneath us like a gargantuan sailfish, and I was unsure how far she was away. Your brain can't trust your eyes in vacuum—without an atmosphere to dull detail, everything is equally sharp. And when it's robbed of the ability to judge distance, the mind scrabbles for purchase. Is that chunk of durasteel a foot across and about to hit your faceplate, or a metre wide and the length of a landing field away? Watching Kronprinz coming, I tried to remember how large she was, tried to figure out how far away she was, tried to calculate if she would hit me.
When I realised I was able to count the ladder rungs on her sensor masts, I kicked my feet in a panic, as if trying to swim upwards. No use. I tried to reach out and grab the mast instead, but my gloved hands scooped vacuum. Did I miss by a centimetre, or a kilometre?
Then I spotted a grey figure clinging onto the ladderwell. A B2-series super battle droid, and one evidently equipped with a booster pack. It launched itself off the Kronprinz and towards us. I let myself go slack, still holding onto Hare and the chip, and allowed the droid to drag us towards one of Kronprinz's airlocks, hidden behind her sails.
The very moment the airlock was sealed and regular gravity returned, I unceremoniously collapsed like a sack of spuds. My entire lower body was numb. Fuck. My legs. I can't feel my legs. And the droid was forced to drag me deeper into the ship.
"Rear Admiral!" Diedrich Greyshade's voice was filled to the brim with relief when he saw my broken form leaning against a bulkhead, "You're alright! That droid of yours is a resourceful one."
"That she is," I groaned, patting the LEP droid.
"Stang, that looks bad," the Commodore of the 3rd Battle Division appraised my form, "Can you walk?"
"If I could–"
"Go get a hover-stretcher!" Diedrich commanded one of his accompanying orderlies.
"Right away, sir!"
"You should be commanding your ship," I grunted, eyeing him in pain as I dragged myself more upright.
"They'll be fine," Diedrich was dismissive, "We have good news, Admiral. The Dodecian found us a way out. We'll head down and jump to Baraboo, then Manaan. We'll rendezvous with Dua Ningo there."
"Manaan… why Manaan?"
"That's what our Countess Clysm told us."
That caught my attention– "Calli! You know where she is?"
Diedrich grimaced, "I know where her ship is–can't really miss it–but herself? She told me to come find you, before ramming the Arcenciel. Thank god for your droid, otherwise we'd be sweeping this whole coordinate for hours."
I slouched, then winced in pain, "Something's broken there."
The Columexi officer straightened, "Help's here. Let's get you to the medbay."
I sensed myself rising into the air with the help of several pairs of arms, before settling onto the hover-stretcher. The steady hum of the repulsorlifts beneath me was reassuring. It told me I wasn't quite dead yet.
"...Here," I gritted my teeth, handing Diedrich the chip, "You command the fleet now."
"I'll get us out, Admiral."
"As for the Nineteenth–" I let out a gasp as some drug was injected into me.
"I'll command them too," Diedrich Greyshade reassured, "As for Calli Trilm… she'll be fine. She dislikes the idea of dying more than all of us combined."
"That I agree with you," I chuckled–then hacked out a cough.
That I agree with you…
⁂
Commodore Diedrich Greyshade commanded the joint 28th-19th Mobile Fleet retreat to the Manaan System. Many ships were lost in the insertion and transit, and would begin to trickle in towards the rendezvous point in the following days.
Six-hundred warships of the Perlemian Coalition entered the Galactic Interior for Operation Starlance. Two months later, the retreat from the Rendili Star System saw only one-hundred make it to Manaan.