Sublight Drive (Star Wars)-(C100) The World’s Epilogue

Raxus Secundus, Raxus System

Caluula Sector

“You won’t be able to do any strenuous activity for the rest of your life,” Doctor Cratala diagnosed coolly, “But considering your kind have your asses planted to the chair most of the time, I think you will do just fine.”

“But I can still walk?”

The Arkanian doctor stood up and brushed down her white coat, “You’ve been walking thus far, am I correct?”

I slowly leaned back into the consultation chair, “Just being conscientious.”

“You were lucky,” Cratala said, “A vac suit puncture as you are describing can be fatal in no less than two minutes. Either you misremembered, and the leak wasn’t that severe, or you were picked up and treated in less time than you remembered.”

I recounted the events at Rendili. I had been vented out of Chimeractica before being plucked out of space by the Kronprinz. How much time had passed between those two events? I could hardly remember; I don’t even remember being vented in the first place, only that I woke up in the middle of a raging melee with only a leaking vacuum suit between me and the nearest shrieking proton torpedo.

“If you want to be really sure,” the Arkanian turned her milky eyes towards me, peeling off her gloves, “You could let me–”

“I’ll pass,” I raised a hand immediately, “If the injury is not that bad, I’ll pass on the cybernetics.”

The Doctor raised her one natural eyebrow, “I’m sure the buckets already checked you over. They could have told you it was nothing severe, long-term effects notwithstanding. When I heard a dead man had booked a consultation, I was expecting much worse.”

That elicited a chuckle out of me, “Everyday, I thank my lucky stars I did not end up like the Old Spider.”

“Insulting my work, Bonteri?” Cratala’s bronze face implants gleamed in the fluorescent lighting.

“I don’t consider it an improvement, anyhow.”

“I’m familiar with your type,” the Arkanian cyberneticist grumbled, “Humans who would rather be wheelchair-bound than replace their leg with metal one.”

I couldn’t quite deny it; “Must be the blood.”

She gave me a skeptical side-eye, “Those types are usually Humanists.”

“You don’t need to describe them to me,” I replied dryly, “I can imagine the person.”

Doctor Cratala blew a strand of wispy white hair from her face, turning around and leaning back-first against a case cart, “Why have you come, then, Bonteri? I’m supposed to be checking up on you, but I have a feeling it’s the opposite here.”

I gritted my teeth as I pushed myself upright, “You got me there. I’m tying up my loose ends, and settling old debts.”

“Old debts,” Cratala mumbled, “Sounds like you’re planning on… disappearing.”

“It’s easier to disappear while dead than alive.”

Understanding dawned in her milky white eye, “So that’s why the Battle Hydra hasn’t revived.”

I nodded, crossing my arms, “So? Need me to settle anything?”

Doctor Cratala tilted her head, “I don’t think we’ve met in-person before this. Is there anything you owe me?”

“Not me,” I clarified.

“Ah…” the Doctor slowed, “I see. I wouldn’t imagine you weren’t the only death misreported, then.”

“I wish otherwise, everyday.”

Cratala smiled thinly, “I think otherwise. You’ve already moved past the battle. But now, you’re pulling yourself back, for my sake. What kind of woman do you think I am, Hydra?”

I stared at her, face as blank as a sheet of slate. She stared back, but it was difficult to see what she was looking for, for an Arkanian’s eyes were pupil-less.

“...I knew a man,” she finally diverted her gaze, “One Captain Rel Harsol.”

“I’ve heard.”

She sighed, “So you have. I made a particular deal with him. I would produce cybernetics and droidworks, and he would use his connections to sell them on the market.”

Black market, you mean. Doctor Cratala had been one of the most renowned doctors on Coruscant back in the years, to the point that the Supreme Chancellor attempted to headhunt–coerce–her into his personal medical staff. One of many reasons she decided to flee to the budding Separatist Alliance. Even with limited funding, Cratala’s products were top-of-the-line, and didn’t quite have any peers quality-wise.

Doubly so in the Outer Rim, where such sophisticated tech was few and far in between, compared to the Galactic Interior at least.

Suffice to say, Cratala and Harsol made a killing off their partnership.

And now that Captain Rel Harsol was dead–likely a frozen corpse drifting in some debris field in the Rendili Star System–that partnership had fallen apart.

“I am afraid to say,” I started, “That I do not have any connections to the market like Harsol did.”

“No,” she scoffed at me, almost saying ‘as if I ever expected that, dumbass’, “But you have connections to another market that would prove just as, if not more, lucrative.”

“You wouldn’t need me to introduce you to the CAF,” I frowned, “You’re the best cyberneticist on Raxus Secundus. Not to mention you worked with them before.”

“I worked with the Separatist military before,” Doctor Cratala chided me, “That was before the Pantoran was elected Supreme Commander. That was before the CAF became a thing. Count Dooku understood my value then, but the Pantoran is a completely different matter entirely. Quite frankly, Admiral Bonteri, she frightens me.”

Dry day on Jabiim before an Arkanian admits someone, much less an ‘alien’, frightens them. Cratala may complain about Humanists refusing to adopt cybernetics or some shit like that, but Arkanians were a veritable species of racists. Elitists, each and every single one of them, who consider themselves biologically and technologically superior to every other species in the galaxy.

“I will try to procure you a favourable contract from the CAF,” I sighed, “I’ll be in touch.”

I patted myself down and reached for the door.

“Wait,” Doctor Cratala suddenly called, “I’ll have you take this.”

I spun around. Cratala had produced a cane, a walking stick. It was just a little too long for her, and clearly uniquely made. The shaft was extendable and made of a polished black metal that seemed to ripple like oil under the light; the collar was beaten gold, almost molten-like, interwoven in tiny rivulets. And the crown, that caught my eye the most, where the hand would rest. It was bronze, a staple of Cratala’s craftsmanship, and fashioned into the reared head of a serpent, each scale glinting individually.

Since she was giving it to me, I took it, and hefted it. For a thing fashioned entirely out of metal, it was far lighter than I had expected.

“I recall saying something about not wanting to be the second coming of Trench,” I mused, feeling the serpent’s head slide cool and comfortably underneath my palm, “Thankful as I am, this is a bit… much.”

“Insulting my work, Bonteri?”

“Insulting your style, yes,” I smiled thinly, waving it around, “How many credits do I owe? For the consultation, and for… this.”

Cratala brushed her white hair out of the way again, revealing that disconcerting sapphire eye inlaid into her bronze cybernetics, “Consider it a settled debt. That’s what you are here for, yes?”

“I am afraid you have me at a loss, Doctor.”

“I owe Captain Trilm my life and station,” Cratala strode past me and opened the door, “If another accident ever befalls you, and you decide to change your mind, consider my door open to you, and my services free of charge.”

I accepted her gesture and exited her clinic… laboratory, “Almost sounds like you are wishing for harm to visit me.”

“I don’t need to,” Doctor Cratala wiped her hands, “Not as long as you keep your trade.”

“I will… keep that in mind,” I bid her goodbye.

⁂

How long has it been since I last visited this place?

My mind wandered as my eyes tracked the veritable gothic mansion squat atop the forested promontory overlooking the capital of the Confederacy. The Onderonian Embassy was identical to the last time I paid the place visit, as if the building itself had been suspended in stasis. The only signs of the passage of time were the glistening emerald leaves swaying from the forest framing the house, for the last time I was here, it had been autumn on Raxus Secundus.

Hare gently set down the shuttle on the vacant landing pad and lowered the boarding ramp.

Exiting the shuttle was a breath of fresh air. Literally. How long has it been since I last set foot on solid ground, with a crust and mantle beneath my feet? A planet as idyllic as Raxus Secundus, no less, at the doorstep of a building so isolated it may as well be playing the role of the haunted house in one of those cheap horror holoflicks? Years.

I began climbing up the long staircase leading up the front door, and it was more of an ordeal than I would have liked to admit. Maybe the Doctor had a point about my lack of exercise. I had not expected to use the cane she gifted me so soon, but by time I made it to the top, I could only be grateful she did.

Hare helped me open the door using her keypass, and when I crossed the threshold, I was struck by a sudden… somberness. The ornate windows around the common lounge were fastened shut, and almost seemed immovable. There used to be a constant breeze through the building, but now the air was heavy and stagnant. I caught a glimpse of the pavilion and surrounding garden outside. Despite the springtime, I couldn’t hear the insects.

I brushed my fingers over a couch, maybe expecting dust. There wasn’t any.

So the place isn’t abandoned.

Was nobody home, then? Even without the Bonteri family, this place was an Embassy, and should always be staffed. Was it a public holiday on Raxus Secundus, then?

I couldn’t imagine overlooking something like that.

“...Rain?”

I spun around. There, standing halfway up the stairwell to the second floor, was one Mina Bonteri. It was as if she had aged a decade in three years, with hair now more grey than brown. Mina Bonteri had never been a woman to be described as youthful before, but she certainly was not now.

“Ah,” I moved back to take a good look at her, “I’m back.”

Mina’s face was chalk-white, as she slowly descended the rest of the stairs, hands gripping the bannister, “I… I was told you were killed in action over Rendili.”

“So I have been informed far too many times,” I snapped my fingers, and Hare darted off to pry open the windows and bring some life back into the building, “Please do not mistake me, Mina. I’m not here to stay, and I’d very much like to remain as dead as possible.”

“But you’re alive…!” Mina almost jumped the last three steps, rushing towards me and gripping my arms, as if to check whether I’m actually alive and not some reanimated corpse, “Why would you want… where will you even go?”

“I think…” I pried her iron grip off me, and led her around to the frontside of the couch, “...you need to compose yourself.”

Mina wiped her face and slowly lowered herself into the cushions, “–Yes, you’re right. My apologies. I imagine you’re just here to give me some closure. Thank you.”

Out of politeness, I waited until the Senator from Onderon had gathered herself back to an acceptable level before taking a seat opposing her.

“I understand that my name is plastered all over every other propaganda reel on the HoloNet,” I told her, “If it gets out that I’m alive, I will no doubt be made very busy outside my will. That is something I’d like to avoid.”

“Besides,” I smiled wanly, “Our Confederacy has no shortage of war heroes. These names are symbols of victory. It doesn’t matter whether they are dead or alive, or even real. If people think they are real, then all is well and good. Besides… the war is over, yes? We don’t need war heroes anymore.”

Mina Bonteri brightened at that, “Oh–yes! The Supreme Commander had lifted the suspension of Parliament! I, and many of my colleagues, had been afraid she never would. Shame, I say, shame on us for that.”

She sighed deeply, “But yes, you are right. You always seem to be. The war is over. And you are alive. That’s all that matters.”

By this time, Hare had returned with a platter of refreshments, including drinks and snacks. She had adapted back to her old role so well I almost forgot I ever took her in the first place. Soon enough, noise began filtering back in as well; the whistle through the windows, the laughing of wind chimes, and buzzing of insects in springtime.

“Speaking of which,” I started, after wetting my lips with wine, “How goes the rebuilding effort?”

“Better than I could have imagined!” Mina laughed, the tension visibly lifting from her shoulders, “It is a shame Dooku had to be exiled, but I understand it had been a necessity for compromise between the Parliament and CAF. Speaking honestly, Rain, I am still unsure what to think about Dooku’s alleged crimes. Personally, I thought the Pantoran certainly made it plainly obvious what her real intentions were.”

“To seize complete control of the state?”

“Well, speaking bluntly, yes,” she took a long sip, “It still surprises me that it was her office that approached us with terms for reconciliation.”

“Yes,” I swirled my cup absentmindedly, “Quite an ordeal that was.”

I hadn’t noticed Mina eyeing me carefully until a good second had already passed, and by the time I raised my head, she had blinked and shook her head wistfully.

“No… I shouldn’t be so surprised you had a hand in it,” she murmured, “I imagine her sudden leniency concerning Dooku was part of the deal the Second Fleet made with her?”

“I didn’t know you were so conversant about the situation in the CAF.”

“With my job suspended, that was not much else to keep an eye on,” she replied dryly, “Even now, we have to keep an eye on the Tannists, but I think the worst has passed. Parliament is back in session, and the upcoming general election…”

“Any favourites?”

“Bec Lawise, I think,” she gazed distantly out the window, “He was Count Dooku’s right hand during the formative years of the Separatist Alliance. He’s the favourite to win.”

I nodded appreciatively, “Good hands.”

Honestly, I didn’t really have any opinion on Bec Lawise. Or really any of the candidates. As long as the Confederacy was in competent hands–competent enough to keep it enduring for the next couple decades until my death. Until then, I had an orchard and a silk farm waiting for me on Onderon. Money wasn’t much of a problem either; my payout notwithstanding, there should still be a bunch of generational wealth remaining in the Bonteri Estate… if Mina hadn’t already sucked it dry.

Mina shifted in her seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “Stay for dinner, at least. Before you leave again.”

Did she think I would be going so soon? I had planned to, of course. I was just dropping by to give her some closure, to assure her that I was still alive. But then again, there was no rush now. No more urgent mission, no grand strategy to draw me away. For the first time in a long while, I could afford to linger. To relax. And that thought made me more anxious than anything I'd faced in the past half-year.

Strange, wasn’t it? That of all things it was the thought of sitting still–of peace–made me feel like I was caught on a wire, balancing on the edge of something unknown.

But I wasn’t about to say that.

“I don’t see any reason to decline,” I answered as plainly as I could manage.

Mina nodded, pushing herself up from her chair, “I’ll call Lux back now. You missed him the last time you visited, remember? He hasn’t seen you in years.”

Indeed. He also thinks I’m dead, too. That he missed his last chance to see me alive, all those years ago.

"Indeed?" I mused, letting the cushions pull me deeper, "And where is he now? I was wondering why the place’s empty.”

Mina gave me a wry smile, “Where else? He’s out celebrating the victory. The end of the war.”

The end of the war. I tasted the words like they might dissolve on my tongue, as if saying them out loud would prove them false. The end of the war. It didn’t feel real. It still felt like something fragile, something that might break apart at any moment. Maybe I wasn’t alone in that. Maybe the whole of Raxus Secundus felt the same, still hesitant to believe it, even as the streets roared with jubilation and cheers.

“But you aren’t?” I couldn’t help but ask.

Her lips curled up in a rare grin, “It’s their prerogative, not ours. It’s the end of the war–the end of your war. My war is now finally just starting."

I gave a faint chuckle, letting the tension in my shoulders ease, “I see. And you’re optimistic? That this Confederacy will survive?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” she replied, as if the thought itself were absurd, “We have victory at our backs, and our chief institutions have proven themselves willing to compromise. Fortunate for us all that Sev’rance Tann knows when to step back. You soldiers have done your job splendidly–leave the rest to us politicians and bureaucrats. After such a show of strength, we can’t let the people down now.”

I couldn’t help but let my gaze drift to the window, where the faint echoes of celebration filtered through the glass. So the Confederacy had entered its honeymoon phase; that fleeting stretch of time when unity feels natural, when victory feels permanent. When everything feels like it might actually work out.

It wouldn’t last forever. Old frictions would resurface, power struggles would ignite again, and peace would eventually crack under its own weight. But looking at Mina Bonteri’s determined expression, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope, hope that this couple years would last long enough for the foundations to set, for something real to take root before the gears inevitably locked up again.

And for some reason, I believed it.

⁂

I couldn’t say I was wholly unworried when Admiral Trench called me back to the Parliamentary Palace. Surely there wouldn’t be another mission, right? If there was… I was fully prepared to hand in my resignation letter then and there. I’d already done too much, accomplished too much, lost too much to keep throwing myself back into the fire.

As I approached the doors, I found myself bracing for the worst–some new catastrophe, some crisis that couldn’t wait, something that demanded my presence on the bridge again.

The doors whispered open, and I stepped inside, already fighting down the tension gathering in my gut.

To my surprise, Admiral Trench was not alone.

The reception suite was well-lit, the glow from the tall windows spilling across the polished floor like pools of molten gold. Trench sat in one of the low-backed armchairs, his towering figure hunched forward, multiple eyes fixed on the guests seated across from him.

Two robed figures.

The first I recognized immediately to be Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, his presence as calm and centered as I remembered. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair short and orderly, and his expression betrayed nothing beyond polite attention. The other was a woman, younger, with sharper features and keen, perceptive eyes, whose name I could only suspect.

It took me a second to find my voice.

“Admiral,” I greeted, glancing at the two Jedi before stepping further into the room.

"Ah, you’re here," Trench clicked, his mandibles twitching slightly, "Take a seat. You’ve been expected."

I did as he instructed, settling into one of the armchairs beside the Old Spider, my mind still unsure what to make of the unexpected company. My gaze flickered to Kenobi, who offered me a slight nod and a faint, diplomatic smile. The woman remained still and silent, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Last I met the Jedi was at Phindar Station, in the wake of Serenno, but I had not recalled meeting the two of them then. Nevertheless, neither of the Jedi looked any worse for wear, though that could simply be the Jedi style of concealing their true emotions.

I decided to not let it concern me. If it wasn’t forced to be my business, I wasn’t about to invite myself into trouble.

“Is my presence necessary?” I asked bluntly.

Once upon a time, I might have been more polite, adhering to the practices of courtesy and protocol. Not these days. My tongue had long since run dry of honey, leaving only spit behind. The only reason I was still on Raxus Secundus was to wash my hands of any lingering commitments before I fucked off to the ass end of nowhere. So it was, admittedly, a little irritating when people kept throwing more shit into my sink.

"The Master Jedi have come to ask a favor," Trench gestured, his voice a low rumble, "I thought you would be the most knowledgeable of us in this matter."

"In handing out favours?" I frowned, leaning back against the wall, "I'd rather not be known for that."

"In sending them where they want to go," Trench clarified.

"Oh, I see," I glanced at the two Jedi, eyes narrowing with curiosity, "Empress Teta it is, then? I hope you won’t need a personal escort."

"--Nothing of the sort," Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi quickly waved his hands, that disarming calm smile on his face, “We would just like to request a method of safe passage through Separatist space. Until Yag’Dhul, at least, if it isn't too difficult of an ask."

I let out an explosive breath and slumped into the chair, staring accusingly at Admiral Trench– "Does the Supreme Commander know about this?"

"I will handle her," Trench replied, his mandibles clicking softly, "And I am determined she will accept what I say."

"If you say so, sir." I shrugged, then turned back to the Jedi, giving them a once-over, "So, all of you have decided to depart for Empress Teta? That was quicker than I had expected."

"You think too highly of us, Admiral," Kenobi said with a regretful smile, the first note of weariness creeping into his tone, "We are rather divided on the issue… to put it lightly. We have mutually decided to go our separate ways."

Ah. So that’s how it is. Well, I couldn’t exactly fault them for it. The Jedi Order was a reflection of the galaxy. When the galaxy was united, it was natural the Order was united. When the galaxy was fractured, it was natural the Order fractured with it. After all, Jedi or not, they were still people, with their own beliefs and morals and ideals. So they wanted to pursue their own paths–so be it. I could only wish them the best.

“Enlighten me.”

Kenobi's gaze dropped for a moment, his eyes reflecting more than just the room’s dim light, "The Jedi Order as it once existed is no more. Some of us wish to rebuild. Others... see little hope in that."

His eyes flickered to the woman beside him.

I slowly turned to look at her.

“Master Rahm Kota and Master Luminara Unduli have decided to wager their bets on the Restorationists,” the female Master said, “They and their followers are determined to keep up the fight against Palpatine and his Loyalists. Master Kenobi here, and others like him, have decided to try to rebuild the Jedi Order in the Deep Core, away from the war.”

“But not you, Master…?”

“Keelyvine Reus,” Master Keelyvine Reus supplied, “I have come to negotiate the Jedi’s entrance into the Confederacy.”

Now that is a curveball. I paused in surprise, my mind scrambling to read the implications. As if reading my mind, the Jedi Master took it upon herself to explain.

“With the state of the world as it is, the Outer Rim is now, rather ironically, the most stable slice of the galaxy,” Master Keelyvine knitted her fingers together on her lap, “Not only that, but the Confederacy has proven itself a reasonable democracy. I still have my reservations about the Pantoran… but she appears to understand the value of diplomacy. And with Count Dooku exiled, I see no reason not to make terms with the Separatist Senate.”

I suppose with the Parliament back in session, Master Keelyvine’s faction of the Jedi could directly negotiate with them, rather than be forced to accept Sev’rance Tann’s demands. I know for a fact the Separatist Senate would be more than willing to give up some concessions to host a new Jedi splinter faction.

Whether such concessions would be popular with the military, or the voting population at that, would be a different matter entirely.

Either way, not really my problem.

“Sure,” I decided not to think too hard about it, “Why not?”

"Right, sorry about that," I said, producing the device from my coat once more, dialing in the address. "I can get you to Yag’Dhul. There’s just one problem."

Kenobi raised an eyebrow, a familiar spark of curiosity in his eyes. "And that is?"

"It will have to be done in secrecy," I explained, tossing the circular projector onto the table between us, "Which means you won’t be able to bring any of your ships. Just yourselves, and whatever you can carry."

"...That can be arranged," Obi-Wan replied, though I could see his mind already calculating the logistics.

Finally, the blue light spat from the holoprojector, and the hairless form of Asajj Ventress materialized, shimmering faintly in the dimly lit room. The two Jedi went as still as statues at the sight of her.

"Bonteri," Ventress rasped, unable to see any of them, her tone as sharp as ever, "What can I do for you?"

"I have another mission for the Storm Fleet," I told her.

Ventress' eyes widened, a hint of annoyance creeping into her expression, "Am I your lackey now, Bonteri?"

I shrugged, keeping my tone cool and measured, "I'd hate to pry your legitimate salvage away from you. That said, I don’t need you personally–just the Storm Fleet. If you’re willing to part ways with it once you arrive at Raxus, consider the matter settled. If not, we can discuss terms of the contract."

Ventress narrowed her eyes at me, a familiar glint found in them, "Cargo you don’t want anyone knowing about, huh? Let’s say I could use the credits."

Of course she did. She no longer had an employer. Count Dooku was dead, and Trench and I had ordered the hit ourselves. The plan had been simple: convince Dooku to surrender, which Trench had managed masterfully. He struck a deal with Dooku on Serenno–promising exile, and subsequent return, to oust Sev’rance Tann out of power.

The Count of Serenno accepted readily; Dooku had been convinced that Tann would never relinquish power, fallen to the dark side, as he believed she was. Except, she did. Sev’rance Tann stepped down willingly, in no small part because we used Dooku’s own capture as leverage between her and the Parliament. Because if there was one trait present in the mind of the commander of the largest military force in the galaxy–a trait that may or may not exist in a Sith–it was pragmatism.

And just like that, once Dooku's role had been fulfilled, he became just another loose end. A target to be silently erased. If the hit was discovered, it would be chalked up as a pirate attack. If it wasn’t, then Dooku had peacefully died of old age in exile on Cophrigin V. It was clean, tidy, and simple.

"Perfect," I clapped my hands together once, "Let me know when you arrive."

I reached out, snatched back the holoprojector, and shut it off.

When I turned back to the two Jedi, Kenobi’s expression was unreadable.

"There. Matter settled. Let me know when you're ready to leave."

"–Wait," Kenobi’s hand snapped out, stopping me in my tracks, "Asajj Ventress? Really?"

I gave him a look, feigning innocent confusion, "She’s a citizen of this Confederacy, in service to this Confederacy. What’s wrong with her?"

Kenobi glanced at his companion, clearly taken aback, "She’s… Count Dooku’s personal assassin."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Not anymore," I corrected, my tone flat. "That was then. Now she’s just another free citizen, looking for work like anyone else. Or will you condemn every soldier and agent and secretary that pledged their allegiance to the Separatist Hex?"

Keelyvine Reus gave Kenobi a pointed look, "We aren’t exactly in a position to pick and choose our allies right now, Obi-Wan. Much less you."

Obi-Wan Kenobi exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly, "Very well. You make a good point. We will discuss terms."

I nodded. It wasn’t like I had any personal attachment to Ventress; she’s enough trouble on her own that I wouldn’t lose sleep if she vanished tomorrow. But freedom meant something here, and I wasn’t about to start picking at old scabs just because a couple of Jedi were uneasy. The Confederacy was meant to be a departure from the old system, and that included whatever religion the Jedi believed. We were a secular state. If Ventress was to be condemned, it won’t be because she’s a darksider, but because she committed a crime.

Or more accurately, a crime not sanctioned by the government.

Besides, Asajj Ventress wasn’t the only one trying to navigate a future that didn’t fit her past.

And as I looked at Obi-Wan Kenobi, his shoulders hunched under a world of defeat, I couldn’t help but notice the same raw uncertainty. The same struggle to adapt to a galaxy that had changed around him. Too fast for him to adapt. He was a Jedi without an Order, clinging to old ideals while the galaxy had shifted beneath his feet. I almost felt pity for him. Almost.

But I didn’t dwell on it. I stood, stretching the tension out of my shoulders, already thinking about the next step. It was strange, how much the end of the war didn’t feel like peace. How the hollow victories and compromised alliances felt like stitched cracks just waiting to reopen.

But for now, I had a job to finish and a Supreme Commander to speak to. I wasn’t naive enough to think that laying down arms would mean laying down suspicions. It was a new galaxy, where force or arms wasn’t so important and navigating shifting loyalties and unexpected alliances.

And not for the first time, despite Sev’rance Tann’s claims and speeches, it was starting to feel like peace wouldn’t come from strength alone. Maybe not at all.

⁂

Trying to find the Supreme Commander found me on Star Station Independence instead. True to her word, the moment Count Dooku had been shipped off-world, she immediately withdrew her armies and returned to her flagship on high. Say anything about Sev’rance Tann, she was nothing if not expedient.

“Have you ever considered stepping down, now that the war is over?” I asked as I stepped onto Independence’s extremely oversized pilothouse.

At least a thousand heads whipped towards me at once, as if in collective surprise and horror that anyone would dare to speak to the Supreme Commander in that way. If I was in their boots, I would be reacting the same way. After all, I can still recall the first time I met Sev’rance Tann, shivering in my leathers and hoping she wouldn’t ask me to kill myself. Then again, back then I was more terrified of dark siders than anything else.

I’ve grown since.

I’ve learnt that dark siders are mostly just emotionally unstable children.

“–Task Force Conqueress, designate, arriving!” the intercom declared after a brief pause, and the entire bridge shot to their feet.

It took my all to resist flinching, I had to admit, as over a thousand pairs of boots stomped, clicked and snapped into salutes. Within the second, there was a pin-drop silence ruling over the pilothouse.

“That’s a bit much,” I instinctively waved up my right hand, before remembering I was holding a serpent-headed cane in it, “As you were, all of you.”

“–Can’t say I have, Admiral,” Sev’rance Tann was marching down the absurdly long central causeway towards me, lifting a blue-skinned palm to beckon me forward, “I quite like the station in life I’ve made for myself.”

I took a good look around the bridge, its many vast crew pits, the causeways that crossed them, and the data centres in the back. They must all have a role to play, I’m sure, facilitating a vessel as massive as this, but even then a part of me could only think in disbelief– ‘surely not all of them need to be here?’

“It’s a rather large station, I’d say,” I commented, walking with her up to the viewports.

The ‘Pantoran’ hadn’t changed hair since I’d last seen her in person. High, prominent cheekbones, unblemished blue skin, smooth black hair that fell down her neck and framed her face in waves, and of course, the strikingly solid red eyes like staring into garnets. She was shorter than I, so at my eye level I could only see the crown of her head.

Or rather, beyond the crown of her head. Because in the distance, I found a rather peculiar sight. Children.

Okay, maybe not children. But almost certainly cadets. At least twenty of them, crowding around a Trandoshan in an instructor’s uniform. They were like baby birds, listening intently as the instructor explained one piece of equipment after another, their heads swivelling as they collectively tracked the instructor’s clawed fingers.

“I did hear you turned Independence into a naval academy,” I remarked curiously.

Sev’rance Tann spun around to follow my gaze. Credit to the instructor’s awareness, they quickly noticed our attention and saluted, but the cadets were too engrossed in their materials to be any wiser.

“When the Separatist Alliance constructs a dreadnought of this size, it is out of necessity,” the Supreme Commander stated, “When the Galactic Republic constructs a dreadnought of this size, it is because they have excess steel and want to make a statement. There is no other reason to field a vessel as unwieldy as this.”

I bobbed my head in agreement. The only vessels the Confederacy fielded that could rival the Independence in size were the Subjugator-class of dreadnoughts. Their size was due to the unique energy profile and infrastructure necessary to power their superweapon ion-cannons. And even then they were only five-kilometres long. The next superweapon the Confederate Navy built was the Aggressor-class of battleships, which were more conservatively sized.

The Mandator-class of star dreadnoughts built by the Republic, however? These were eight-kilometre long conventional warships with no superweapons or strategic purpose for being this excessively big. The Kuat Drive Yards simply wanted to make a point about their engineering prowess, and make a killing selling them off as trophy flagships for wealthy Core Worlds.

I’d say turning the Independence–formerly Mandator-class Pride of the Core–into a naval academy was just about as prudent an idea as one could conceive concerning this useless hunk of doonium.

“Independence will act as the CAF’s mobile headquarters henceforth,” Sev’rance Tann continued, “And no longer an active warship. That is why she is categorised as a star station rather than a warship in our registries. This, of course means there will be disused compartments of the vessel.”

“That could be converted for practical training, I’d imagine,” I found myself naturally agreeing with her, “Engine and machinery compartments for engineering cadets. Artillery decks for gunnery cadets. Pilothouses for officer cadets–”

“Everything a navy would need to outfit a starfleet,” she looked over at the class of cadets with a proud glint in her eye, “Of course, training and serving on the Independence would be reserved for the best-of-the-best, selected from the top classes on planetside academies.”

This is a breeding ground for up and coming Tannists, as my attention lingered on the cadets, my thoughts darkened, I wonder how many of them already look up to Sev’rance Tann like a living legend? Not just the students, but every single soul aboard this ship.

“...With all due respect, sir,” I started, “You won’t live forever.”

She sharply glanced at me from the corner of my eye.

I continued, “An established institution can live forever.”

Her chest depressed as she breathed out, “I understand that, Admiral. I don’t need your voice added to Trench’s. But this will be my legacy, and before I’m relieved of my post, I would like to see it completed.”

The Confederacy is already your legacy, I wanted to say, yours and Dooku’s. And then I realised that’s the reason she wouldn’t consider the Confederacy as her legacy, and kept my mouth shut.

“...You’ve come to resign,” the Supreme Commander suddenly stated.

I tried not to let anything show, but she must have picked up something anyway.

“I picked up as such when I had been speaking with Senator Bonteri,” she elaborated, “On matters concerning future cooperation between the civilian government and the military.”

“You picked up rightly,” I could only say.

“You know I will not permit it.”

I blew out a heated breath, “And why not? I have served. I have accomplished every mission set before me. The war is over; tensions between the Core and Outer Rim abated to the lowest it has been in years. I don’t– I don’t need to be here anymore. I’ve already died once; just let me stay dead. Please.”

“The war with the Core may be over, but that doesn’t mean we are no longer at war.”

“You–”

The words stalled in my throat. The realisation fell on me like a collapsing bulkhead. I could still hear her voice in the back of my mind. Her victory speech. The way she had spoken to the masses from the terrace of the Parliamentary Palace.

Usually speeches were just words, mostly meaningless, filled with rhetoric, eloquence, bombast, but ultimately not much substance. I should have realised that that didn’t fit Sev’rance Tann’s character. I should have known Sev’rance Tann was the type of orator to mean every single word she says.

The Confederacy of Independent Systems had carved its nation into the astrocharts of the galaxy through war. And Sev’rance Tann fully intends, if not believes, the only way to keep it alive was through war.

Unity, through strength. Common cause, through shared purpose. National identity, through a manifested destiny.

She was already dreaming of the next war. Not against the Core, no, that much was obvious. The plan wasn’t to go inwards, but outwards. To the outlying regions of the Outer Rim, the periphery beyond the borders of the Confederacy; the worlds still uninhabited, the sectors still unmapped, the civilisations still uncontacted.

I could already envision her grand strategy: while the Core Worlds tore themselves apart, the Confederacy was going to encircle them.

“You don’t need me for that,” I insisted, “Anybody can captain Conqueress. Diedrich Greyshade has already replaced me as CO of the Twenty-Eighth. You’ve clearly already made amends with the Parliament. There is nothing I have that you don’t have at your disposal.”

“I need you, Admiral Bonteri,” Sev’rance Tann insisted, “I need your skills, your talents, your prowess in the field. And I need your name.”

“I served your command because you fought for our existence against the Republic,” I rebuked her, even forcing the Supreme Commander to take a half-step back, “Do you really think I will so willingly obey orders to subjugate independent worlds the same way the Republic tried to subjugate us?”

Sev’rance Tann was far less frightening when she was forced to strain her head upwards just to look you in the eye, I found. My eyes flickered to her lightsaber, hanging inconspicuously on her belt, as if daring her to use it. She didn’t.

She took another step back to create more distance.

“I’m not an imbecile, Admiral,” she sneered, taking a glance at Cratala’s cane, “The wars we will wage will be sanctioned by the Parliament! Why do you suppose I was speaking to Senator Bonteri?”

“I hardly believe Senator Bonteri will agree to another war,” I scoffed.

“If it is a war to liberate slaves–she did.”

“Slaves–” I stopped myself, tightening my grip around the cane, “Hutt Space? Any sane commander would tell you that’s foolhardy at best, especially so soon–!”

“Zygerrian Space!” she finally raised her voice, “Those petulant felines took advantage of the war to declare themselves the Zygerrian Slave Empire right on our doorstep! We will start with them, and expand into the Trans-Hydian. What could unify the state any more than this?”

“First, the Trans-Hydian,” I asked weakly, “Then what? The Trailing Sectors, the Western Reaches? And then? The New Territories, the frontiers of Hutt influence? And then what? A full-scale invasion of Hutt Space, all in the name of liberation? You would force the Outer Rim into another century of constant warfare!”

“Our enemies will not rest–”

“You can forgo the rhetoric with me, Supreme Commander sir,” I groaned in exasperation, “I am not the ignorant masses. Nor is Trench. Nor is Ambigene. Nor is the Confederate Parliament! Our enemies are clawing at each other’s throats! They are no threat to us! This… this echo chamber of yours may have convinced you another century of war is a good and splendid idea, but I assure you, the Confederate Fleets will see right through you. You have earned back your goodwill after reinstating the civilian government, but what you plan now will achieve nothing less than wasting all of that away! You know that Trench is still keeping a close eye on you, and you know very well the ideology of Horn Ambigene and his Fourth Fleet! These… these conquests will not unite the Confederacy, only the opposite!”

“They will come around to understand the purpose of–”

“How so?” I challenged, “So you successfully lobby for a campaign against the Zygerrians. So you escalate the justification of ‘liberation’ against the Hutts. How will you convince anyone to campaign against the outlying systems of the Southern Arm?”

“Because it will not be achieved by military campaigns,” she tried to convince me, “But by a natural expansion of the nation. The construction of inroads into the frontier, the emigration of people, the foundation of industry and trade on untapped worlds. We will share our prosperity with the outlying sectors, bring them into our sphere, and they will share their prosperity with us.”

This time, it was my turn to take a step back, one borne out of incredulous disbelief. Her eyes were alive and blazing, like twin red suns, so full of determination, confidence, and most terrifyingly; conviction. She was absolutely certain this was the only way forward for the Confederacy.

“I will not agree to this,” I told her firmly, “Because I will not believe you.”

I want nothing more than a quiet and peaceful life. The power of the Core was shattered, and we had no more peer enemies. Sev’rance Tann spoke of nebulous prospects like increased trade and industry and prosperity, but I knew what all of this would really mean. Another generation of men and women called up to take arms. Another thousand shipyards to pump out engines of war. Another century of bloodshed in the Outer Rim.

If everything Sev’rance Tann dreamed of would come to pass–then I wanted out, now. My only assurance is that she already has no capability of being a dictator. She had already let that opportunity go, and I thanked God for it. I wanted to say Trench would oppose her, and so would the Parliament and Senate… but I wasn’t so sure.

The way she justified her dreams of conquest… they would certainly see through the flimsy casus belli, but would they dismiss her out of hand? Dismiss the prospect of more trade, more wealth to line their pockets, as the senators of the Republic had? Even with the nationalisation of industries and diminished corporate power, many megacorps still held great sway in the Confederacy: namely, those who sided with the Raxus Government in the Separatist Schism. The Techno Union, the Hyper-Communications Cartel, the Corporate Alliance… of which Admiral Trench was a major shareholder.

If everything she Sev’rance Tann dreamed of would come to pass… I would be trapped serving the CAF for the rest of my life.

So I wanted out. Now.

I had been determined before. But now I was downright certain this was the last chance I would get.

Better live well and die well before the next major war with the Core breaks out, aren’t I right?

I decisively spun on my heel, and began marching back down the aisle, “You will find my resignation letter on your desk later this week–”

“I spoke to Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

I froze. I turned around.

“So you have. What of it?”

“He requested I relay his thanks to you, while we were discussing the Jedi’s future relationship with us,” she informed me slowly, “One Jedi Master, Luminara Unduli, told you the Jedi Order had taken prisoners-of-war from the Battle of Rendili and shipped them to an undisclosed location.”

I stared at her, not quite sure I'd heard right. My thoughts slammed to a halt, and for a long, terrible moment, I distinctly realised what she was trying to do.

“She also told you only a Master of the Jedi High Council would know that location,” Sev’rance Tann pressed forth, “I believe Obi-Wan Kenobi is one of those Councilmembers.”

“I recall clearly,” I told her, my fists clenching, “But if you think I’m going to chase after such an obvious bait–one that’s nothing more than a flimsy lead at best–you’re gravely mistaken. There is no evidence that any of them–that she is alive.”

“So you are going to let that possibility go?” Sev’rance Tann demanded, “Doctor Cratala mentioned to me that you are running around settling old debts. Are you going to let this debt go unsettled?”

“...Manipulation doesn’t suit you, sir.”

“I learnt from the best, if only for a brief time.”

I chuckled mockingly, “So you have.”

I steeled myself and turned around again.

“You’ve already done enough for me, Rain Bonteri,” she called at me one last time, and this time I did not stop myself, “So I will accept whatever letter comes to my desk. However, if you do decide to change your mind, I already have one last mission for you.”

I didn’t look back at her. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing the turmoil her words had stirred up. I just kept walking, forcing my legs to move one step at a time, each stride harder than the last. The doors hissed open before me, and I passed through them without glancing over my shoulder.

One last mission.

I could laugh at myself. If she was here, she would be scolding me for even considering taking the offer. After all, this is just one poor, thinly veiled attempt to emotionally coerce me into continuing my service to her. Unfortunately for Sev’rance Tann, while she may have learnt from the best, she still hasn’t learnt everything. If you want someone to do your bidding, you had to damn well make sure you were the only option they had, otherwise they’ll just pull the rug right out from under you.

“Hare, do you read me?” I put my comlink to my lips, “Get me a line to Asajj Ventress, and tell her I wish to speak to Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

One of us will be using the other, Supreme Commander, and I suspect you’re mistaken as to who.

⁂

Ringo Vinda Orbit, Ringo Vinda System

Eucer Sector

It took the better part of two months for my plans to finally materialise. During that time, I played exactly the part the Supreme Commander wanted me to play.

And now, the orbital ring of Ringo Vinda finally stretched out before me like a vast, glittering spine against the blackness of space. Its industrial sectors were interspersed with docking bays and drydocks, massive skeletons of ships suspended like the bones of interstellar leviathans, slowly taking shape under the flickering sparks of thousands of welding torches.

Isquik Tors moved with the casual gait of a man who had spent his entire life breathing recycled air and navigating the endless corridors of the shipyards.

"Been a while since you showed your face around here, Bonteri," he rasped at me.

"I would say," I agreed, "But it looks like the yards haven’t slowed down one bit."

He gave a gruff laugh, his mouth tendrils twitching, "Never do. Confederacy needs ships, and we’re never out of contracts. Though it’s not just Providences and Munificents anymore. We've got a whole slew of new designs coming in.”

“I’ve noticed,” was all I could say.

We passed a massive drydock, where a Victory-class Star Destroyer hung suspended like some colossal spearhead, its armored hull being plated with fresh composites. Farther down the line, a Bulwark-class battleship was bristling with turbolaser turrets, its broad, slab-sided silhouette like a solid wall of firepower.

It seems Rendili Stardrive was already being put to work.

"All of this is for you, y’know?" Tors said, glancing sidelong at me, his tendrils twitching, “Commissioned by the Office of the General itself. It’s been in the works ever since Admiral Ningo returned to Tion; the backbone of your new Perlemian Armada.”

I remained quiet, and Tors just grunted at my lack of response. He led me further down the piers, the sound of hydraulic presses and arc welders filling the silence between us. We rounded the corner to one of the priority docks, and the sight that greeted me made me pause mid-stride.

“There she is,” the Quarren engineer nodded his head at it, “Your new flagship.”

A Bulwark-class battleship, but nothing like the ones I’d seen before. The hull gleamed with freshly minted armor plating, and the massive primary turrets were mounted in staggered formations along the spine, allowing for maximum firing arcs. The bridge module was recessed deep into the superstructure, protected by layered armor and shield generators, thus not visible from outside. The citadel had been heavily reinforced, and additional point-defense clusters lined the flanks like a porcupine’s quills.

And on the side of the bow, embossed in neat Aurebesh, was her name:

‘PETRICHOR’

I couldn’t help but let out a slow, appreciative breath.

“Brand new ship-of-the-line design, improved upon the original Bulwark-class. We call them the Bulwark-Two,” Isquik Tors informed me proudly, “Two-klicks long, composite armour plating, solar ionisation drives, enough turbolasers to rival a destroyer squadron, and ion weaponry for that extra kick. We didn’t skimp on interception clusters, either–give her enough space, and no torpedo will be getting through her iron dome. Put her up against any Venator, Victory, or Tector, and Petrichor’ll make them star scrap in a heartbeast.”

“Ten starfighter squadrons, four troop regiments, and atmospheric capability,” he continued, “And just for you; every command and control suite you could dream of. Whether you want to be in front or behind, in deep space or in orbit, she’s got everything.”

“...No expense spared, huh?”

“Your new Perlemian Armada’s a special formation, I’ve heard,” the Quarren shrugged, “And after what you’ve been through, figured you might need a ship that can take a punch and give one back twice as hard.”

“Well,” I mustered up what enthusiasm I could, “You have my gratitude. She’s a beauty.”

Tors just grunted, the sound low and satisfied, "Glad to hear it. You’ve got a few days before the final shakedown, but she’s yours to take out anytime. Your crew’s already all aboard. Let me know if you need any personal touches."

I boarded my new flagship thereafter, the docking umbilical humming faintly underfoot. At the end of the long tube. At the far end of the tube, just beyond the bulkhead hatch, stood Kavia Slen, having just returned from her sojourn on Geonosis. She was leaning against a support strut, her wiry frame barely filling out the clean coveralls she now wore. Hare, who had arrived in advance to sort out my logistics, had been found hefted in Kavia’s arms, the rabbit droid waving at me as I approached.

“Isn’t she heavy?” I wondered, a small smile involuntarily breaking out.

Hare’s photoreceptor swiveled to track me, and she let out an offended series of chirps that sounded like a mechanical growl. Kavia only gave me a lopsided grin in response.

“Well, look who’s finally come to claim his new toy,” she drawled, shifting Hare to one arm so she could give me a mock salute, “Your lady’s all ready and raring to go, boss. Had to talk down some of the techs from over-tuning the reactor. Told ‘em you didn’t want to blow half the ship up just getting her to run.”

Hare, still suspended in Kavia’s arms, suddenly buzzed– “I have taken the liberty of importing all your system preferences to your new command, Master Rain.”

“Thank you, girl,” I stepped past them, reaching out to give Hare a quick pat on her dome-shaped head. She made a soft whirring noise, clearly pleased to see me, “Isquik Tors gave me the rundown, but told me we have to remain a couple of days to check off the last few boxes. What do you think? Is Petrichor space-worthy?”

Kavia’s grin widened, “Never been more, boss. We ran her through a couple trials the last week. Engine hums just right, and the new power conduits are holding steady without strain, even with all systems overbaked. She’s got enough juice to fry a cruiser and dance through an asteroid field right after.”

“Good to hear,” I looked down the corridor, where two junior officers snapped to attention–Onderonians, both of them–clearing the way for me to enter, “And the fleet?”

“In formation and waiting for your word,” her head tracked me as I passed her, “Is this when we show the mothership what for?”

I passed her my authentication key, “Order Petrichor undocked, along with every other berthed ship assigned to my command.”

“Very good, boss.”

Kavia set Hare on the deck, and the little droid gave a curious beep and trundled ahead, as if eager to inspect the corridors himself. I gave Kavia a nod and continued forward, moving deeper into the battleship’s interior.

Petrichor had been built differently from any of my previous flagships. Unlike the standard droid-like utilitarianism of the Confederacy’s warships, there was a sense of thoughtful design present that couldn’t be found in older designs. I could see the fingerprints of Rendili StarDrive all over the layout. The corridors were wide and reinforced, with hardened conduits running the length of the ship, protected behind armored casings. The lighting was set low and warm, giving the interior a sense of calm rather than the harsh glare of most combat vessels.

Crew members, droid and spacers alike, moved about with a hasty pace, acknowledging my presence with quick salutes and nods as I passed. They were all aware of the plan, partially or otherwise, having been picked by Hare and I to fill out my personal flagship. As such, there wasn’t any purpose in a grand welcome party, that rather replaced with an undercurrent of preparation and participation.

I reached the command bridge, stepping through the armored doors and into the vast dome-shaped chamber. It was unlike any bridge I’d stood on before, as it was not a pilothouse. Instead of the traditional Republic-style crew pits, or Separatist-style raised decks, the bridge was dominated by data islands: elevated consoles arranged in clusters, each surrounded by a holo-interface that projected tactical readouts and status reports into the air.

A central command platform rose slightly above the rest, complete with a holo-map projector and a console with sweeping control interfaces. Right in the centre was the captain’s chair.

“Statement: Welcome aboard, Admiral,” the super tactical droid Augur greeted me there, “Fleet flagship Petrichor is yours. You have the deck.”

“I have the deck,” I agreed, just in time for a deep rumbling to shudder through the hull, followed by a certain sense of weightlessness, “Bring us out of our berth, and rendezvous with the fleet.”

“Affirmative.”

I made my way to the command console, and with a quick motion, flipped the activation switch.

The dome’s transparisteel shell hummed to life, the ocular feed from the external cameras springing into view. A panoramic vista of the shipyard and the star-speckled void beyond stretched out around me, as if the bridge itself were suspended in space. Data readouts flowed across the edges of the display, tracking ship movements and system diagnostics.

The low hum of the ship’s reactor deepened, reverberating through the superstructure and sending a faint vibration up through my boots. I felt the tension in the air, the same sense of weightlessness that always accompanied a ship being tugged from her berth. Through the panoramic display of the ocular dome, I could see the massive docking clamps slowly release their iron grip on Petrichor’s hull, sliding back into the framework of the drydock like metal serpents retreating to their lairs.

There was a momentary stillness, a slight drifting sensation as the ship hung suspended in the void. Then, with a dull thud, the last clamp disengaged, and the subtle tug of inertia caught me by surprise. The Bulwark-class battleship was finally free of her moorings.

“Main propulsion to idle thrust,” Augur intoned from the command console, his photoreceptors glowing with a cool amber light, “Docking tugs reporting clear. Sublight engines spooling up.”

A low, throaty rumble grew from the depths of the ship, and the Petrichor surged forward, her sublight drives roaring to life. The ocular dome offered a stunning view of Ringo Vinda slowly shrinking behind us, the metallic ring of shipyards fading into the distance as the battleship picked up speed. The spacers at their data islands shifted, cycling through the initial diagnostics and confirming systems green.

Contacts picked up behind us, as more and more warships ran free their moorings and followed us into the void, everything from the smallest corvette to the largest battleships, from Providences to Bulwarks to Victorys.

Ahead of us, contacts were picked up at the incoming fleet staging grounds, identified by square boxes overlaid on the dome. Blips representing the rest of the fleet were marked in faint blue, indicating their positions as they moved into formation.

“Communications,” I prompted, “Signal the fleet.”

“Transmitting now, sir,” the comms officer replied, his hands deftly working the console.

The holoemitters at the foot of the command deck then projected six individuals, each of them with their own unique stance and presence..

“First Recon Division, designate, reporting,” came the soft, polished voice of Lady Lex, a graceful figure with the refined lines of a BD-3000 luxury droid, her elegant silhouette outlined in shimmering blue, “The fleet is yours, Admiral.”

At her back, upon the ocular dome, her true form was highlighted. Recusant-class star destroyer Lexington, right alongside her sister ship Saratoga, as she always was. They were the invisible spearhead of the fleet, and I was glad for their return.

"Third Battle Division, designate, reporting," followed Diedrich Greyshade, his relaxed and confident, hands clasped behind his back, “The fleet is yours, Admiral.”

Looming in the background of his transmission, the mirror-polished hull of Tionese battlecruiser Kronprinz gleamed in the rays of the distant star, her solar sails lazily flexing on their trusses. She was the backbone of the fleet’s fast battleship line, always at the head of the attack yet rather unexplainably never worse for wear.

“Fourth Battle Division, designate, reporting,” next was Vinoc, fresh from his campaign in the Deep Core, “The fleet is yours, Admiral.”

The massive, brutal form of Providence-class battlecruiser Crying Sun hovered in the background, her scarred hull bristling with ranks upon ranks of turbolasers and torpedo launchers. Interspersing the formation she headed, I spied the towering, gothic superstructures of Tetan warships.

"Sixth Auxiliary Division, designate, reporting," chimed in Jorm, a thin and wiry man with a utilitarian air around him, “Everything has been fully accounted for the mission. The fleet is yours, Admiral.”

His mobile mothership Aurora II loomed behind him, surrounded by support vessels in neat formations, so large it may as well have backdropped the entire fleet. The massive auxiliary was a supply hub, manufacturing plant and repair dock in one, and so were the rest of the large warships in her formation. One of them had even been refitted for industrial-scale hydroponics. Perfect for protracted missions with little hope for regular resupply.

For a time afterwards, a brief silence fell between the five of us. In the numbered divisioned, two names were conspicuously absent; the Third Strike Division, and the Fifth Support Division. Both had been lost at the Battle of Rendili, with their respective commanding officers, Horgo Shive and Krett. It had been agreed between the remaining of us, that those two divisions would never be reinstated.

Instead, their replacements stepped forth to report.

“Task Force Scepter, designate, reporting,” that was Illiet, the Givin Dodecian attached to the fleet, his unsettling, skeletal visage etched with a faint sense of solemnness, “The fleet is yours, Admiral.”

“Task Force Conqueress, designate, reporting,” lastly there was Gnifmak Dymurra, my flag having been removed from Conqueress, he was once more the commanding officer of the superweapon, “The fleet is yours, Admiral.”

I nodded in satisfaction, “Sync navicomputers with the Scepter, and spool your hyperdrives. We will insert when the target vector has been finalized.”

The fleet collectively pivoted, subformations disintegrating and rematerialising as vessel after vessel confirmed the order and promptly aligned themselves on the exit vector. From Ringo Vinda’s point of view, it must have looked like a great array of shining torchlights beaming right down their scopes as thousands of individual sublight drives roared together as one.

“Warning: the fleet is not permitted to exit the Ringo Vinda Star System without the Supreme Commander’s sanction,” Augur reminded, the lights of his faceplate flashing with alarm, “Assessment: Am I correct to assume we will be henceforth disobeying orders?”

“You would be correct,” I agreed, to the collective humour of the gathered captaincies, “We will henceforth be going rogue.”

“Clarification: In this case, would I be correct to presume we will no longer be operating under the designate of Twenty-Eighth Mobile Fleet?”

“You would, my droid,” Diedrich Greyshade beamed, “The Twenty-Eighth and Nineteenth have been merged; there is no more reason to differentiate between us. The Coalition Armada will do as our new designate.”

“Affirmative,” Augur acceded, “Shall I update the registry?”

“Permission granted.”

“–Admiral, sir!” the comms officer called out, “Ringo Vinda has dispatched warships to intercept us! They must’ve caught us spooling our hyperdrives! We’re observing the nearest patrol vessels diverting course and hailing us!”

“Illiet?” I looked to our chief navigator.

The Givin stared at me blankly through his soulless eyes for a moment, then answered: “A futile attempt. They will not reach us in time for our departure.”

My gaze snapped towards the comms island, “Ignore the hails!”

Another chime caught my attention; a buzzing in my coat pocket. I holstered my cane on the chair’s armrest and fished out the holoprojector, spying the Supreme Commander’s address on its receiver. Well, I did feel a little bad about stealing her pet superweapon right from under her nose.

Nevertheless, Sev’rance Tann had been right about one thing: I wasn’t about to fold my uniform for good with debts left unsettled and promises left unfulfilled. What she had been grievously mistaken about, however, was that I needed her in any capacity. What did I need? A set of coordinates, which I could procure from Obi-Wan Kenobi himself, and a fleet to escort me, one which I fooled Sev’rance Tann into giving back to me.

I did not need the Supreme Commander any longer, nor the Star Station Independence, the CAF, or the Confederacy of Independent Systems. All I needed was a set of coordinates and a loyal fleet ready to go where I go. Everything I needed, I had right here with me, right there and then.

I declined the incoming transmission and powered down the device.

“Fleet sync at ninety-one percent,” the navigation island called out, “Standby for insertion!”

So what if everybody could already be dead, and this would be all for nought? So what, if the chances of survival were slim, that we were chasing after a distant and forlorn star of hope? So what, if with this act, we would abandon all that we have accomplished, in pursuit of the impossible?

From the very beginning of it all, right here in Ringo Vinda, with only thirty-two officers in a small dark room, the purpose of the Perlemian Coalition had always been to achieve the impossible.

And this time, I had a Jedi’s intuition at my back.

“Your legacy will be forsaken,” Dodecian Illiet warned us, “The world you leave now will have forgotten your name.”

“Everything we have done,” Gnifmak Dymurra murmured, “Thrown away. Bridges burned, our accomplishments abandoned in the dust.”

“And so what of it?” Vinoc answered back, “We are made of stardust. No matter how we end, we will return to stardust.”

“May we leave the galaxy we know behind us,” Jorm agreed, “And find a universe of stars ahead of us.”

“It’s a brand new adventure,” Diedrich Greyshade grinned, “We might have squandered our legacy, but I rest easy knowing the mystery we weave here will linger in the memory of our people for a hundred years.”

“Fleet navigation sync locked, all hyperdrive spools confirmed,” Lady Lex flashed her running lights cheerfully, “Our first stop: Ootoola Star System.”

My hands settled into a calm, firm grip on the armrests, my forward fingers rubbing the scales of my cane. My gaze fixed forward, into the infinite blackness of space. Are you out there? My subconscious seemed to ask. Behind us, Ringo Vindan patrol vessels pushed their drives hard, struggling to intercept us.

"Assessment: Final checks complete," Augur intoned, his bony hands moving fluidly over his console. "All systems within safety parameters. Your order, Admiral.”

“Alright then, let’s go save our countess from her castle,” I gave a final nod, “All ships; execute insertion!”

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

In an instant, the thunderous roar of a thousand sublight engines fell silent. A moment of absolute stillness gripped the fleet, a hushed breath drawn before a single, irreversible moment.

And then, the galaxy seemed to scream as a thousand hyperdrives roared to life, tearing open the fabric of space-time, and a thousand warships of the Coalition Armada disappeared into the future.