A/N: *crawls out from under a rock* Erm. Forgive me, friends, for I have wronged you greatly. It has been three months since the last update. And that is mostly my fault. Would've been one month, only there were finals (not my fault). Would've been two, only I got lazy (totally my fault).
And then I spilled tea all over my laptop (also my fault). The laptop died. It wasn't even good tea, dammit.
But I am still alive and writing again, and not a byte of story was lost in the Calami-Tea of 2013, because backups are the absolute best. So here's a PSA: Back everything up. Especially if you write. I could have lost hundreds of thousands of words—some fandom-related, some my own stuff—in a single stupid instant if I did not have a backup drive. Back. It. All. Up.
Again, my deepest apologies for the long wait. I'm hoping for a weekly update schedule, but it may be more or less depending on what life throws at me. However. I will finish this story.
Grazie mille to everyone who's faved, followed, read, and reviewed! And special thanks to Mithostwen and Squirre1Dragon, for being awesome and reminding me to get back on this thing. Enjoy.
Chapter 7: Perturbation
In which everyone is an emotional mess.
o.O.o
They're three days away from Serenno when Bastila makes her next attempt to reach Chena. She catches the Guardian in the empty cargo hold, where she has taken up saber practice, running through katas with an alarmingly blank expression.
"Do you mind if I join you?" Bastila asks.
Chena stops mid-motion, deactivating her lightsaber. "Yes, I do mind," she says.
"Your attitude is not helping anyone, least of all yourself."
"My attitude? I just want you to leave me alone!"
"For how long?" Bastila says. "We must be able to work together once we reach Serenno. Every day you spend in this state is another day wasted—"
"We'd work together just fine if you'd just—stop. Give me some time, okay, that'd help a lot more than what you've been doing!"
"All I'm asking is for you to open up a bit—"
"And all I'm asking is for you to leave me alone! Unless you're just too emotionally tone-deaf to know when to back off."
Emotionally tone-deaf? Ridiculous. She is well aware of Chena's grief. She's trying to help. Why can't she see that?
Chena is watching her, frustration stirring the mire of the Force around her. "Bastila, just go."
"Not until we determine how to get your emotions under control. You are a Jedi, Chena. You're better than this."
There is a moment of calm, of quiet. Then Chena surges into motion, lightsaber blazing. Bastila instinctively activates hers and blocks the attack, smashes it to the side, sweeps the other blade low to force Chena back. "What are you doing?" she cries out.
"You asked to join in," Chena says. "So fight me already!"
Bastila remains on the defensive, appalled by the hopeless rage sleeting from the Guardian. Fueled by that rage, she fights as if she has every intention of maiming or killing her. Chena drives her out of the cargo hold, into the central room of the freighter. Bastila winces as their lightsabers leave scorch marks and sparking wires along the bulkheads.
"Just—leave—me—alone!" Chena howls.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"
Bastila jumps. Lieutenant Onasi stands silhouetted by the cockpit's hyperspace-blue glow, hands on his hips, glaring between the two of them like a Jedi Master pushed to the breaking point. "Well?" he says.
Breathing hard, Chena lowers her lightsaber. She looks at Bastila, horror dawning in her eyes. "I—Bastila, I didn't . . ."
Onasi stalks forward. "No, I bet you didn't," he says, heedless of the humming blades at their sides. "So both of you—stand down. Take a damn breather and—and try not to blow out any of the exterior walls, for kriff's sake, or we're all sucking vacuum. Quarters. Now."
Shame-faced, Chena obeys, deactivating her saber and practically fleeing the hold. Bastila remains, spine stiff and straight, thumb wavering over the ignition button.
"That goes for you, too," Onasi barks.
"I was trying to help," she says numbly.
"Yeah? Well, great job."
"What would you have me do? Let her drown in self-pity?"
Onasi gapes at her. "Kriffing—no. Let her get her head on straight. Stop pushing."
"If she does not address—"
"Padawan Shan, I might not be a Jedi, but I like to think I know a thing or two about mourning," he snaps out. "Leave her be."
Bastila shuts off her lightsaber and stalks into her quarters, shame and frustration roiling around her in a toxic, clammy fog.
o.O.o
That morning, Sen wakes up to a new alert from her tracking programs.
Another hit—2232 last night, sent from a terminal just a few decks above. No other transmissions sent from any anonymous account during the 2200-2300 time frame. And courtesy of the Monument-II's diligent droid maintenance crew, she has eyes on that terminal.
The image on her datapad screen is grainy and blue-tinged, but clear enough through the sensors of a scrubber droid.
Sen falls back against her pillow, sneering. "Of course," she mutters.
Julnar limps off-screen from hours ago, his duty done.
"The hell are you doing?" Aleesa grumbles, stomping into their room and kicking her shoes into the corner by her bed.
"Catching up," Sen says. She deactivates the datapad and sits up again.
"Thought you had yesterday off. Lucky bitch."
She shakes off the desire to retaliate. Redirect. "I did," she says slowly. "I also heard that you once brewed illegal moonshine in a storage closet for use over shore leave."
Aleesa freezes. "Who told you."
"Colleague. I find this . . . an admirable show of initiative."
"That's not even a little condescending."
"I'm an arrogant bitch," Sen says loftily.
Aleesa snorts, toeing off her socks and falling onto her bed backwards. "Can't argue with that," she says.
Oh, what the hell. If this keeps up they might actually become non-hostile, which will make Sen's mornings much more pleasant. "You have very nice eyebrows."
". . . Thanks?"
"I'm going to go to work now," Sen chirps, bouncing to her feet.
"You do that," says Aleesa, eyeing her in bemusement.
Down in Communications, Pol looks pitiful while Veska gives off an air of superiority in her life choices.
"Looks like someone had an interesting night," says Sen.
"Ach, keep your voice down," he says, hunching over his station and wincing at every noise. There's a cup of caf at his elbow. Perilously close to his elbow, in point of fact.
Sen scoots it out of harm's way and sits down. "You know that stuff's a diuretic," she says.
"'S a what?"
"Makes you piss," says Veska. "Hangover feels worse when you're dehydrated."
Pol's forehead thunks onto his workstation. "And you only saw fit to mention this now?"
Veska pats him on the back, consolingly. "Didn't know human biology was that stupid."
Pol lifts his head and glares at the caf as if it's betrayed him. "Shit," he enunciates.
Sen snickers quietly, logs in, and gets to work on the latest crop of Sith transmissions. Not to her usual standard, though. A great deal of her focus is on the question of now what? She knows that Julnar Kess is her watcher. She knows how and when he's sending his messages to his handlers. And given the fact that he approached her last night and made contact, it stands to reason that he's trying to worm his way into her confidences. Evidently the Jedi want him to keep a closer eye on her. A few hours per day of indirect and fleeting contact isn't enough to give a comprehensive idea of what's going on in her head.
But actual conversations, trust, maybe even friendship? Awkward as Julnar's overture was, she might have considered talking with him if she hadn't discovered his side job.
She'll probably have to, anyway. Stave off suspicion. And she can't exactly get rid of Julnar now—well, she could, but then she'd have to find his replacement watcher, and that would just be inconvenient.
She could try to crack his encrypted messages. Intercept and alter them if necessary—if he catches on that she's well aware of who and what she was.
Is, part of her says stubbornly. Except for the bit where her memory of what that entailed is full of more holes than a noodle strainer.
Sen puts that little existential crisis on hold. She'll see how friendly Julnar wants to get, and deal with him accordingly. Best-case, he doesn't realize she remembers anything, she doesn't have to interfere with his reports, and she can focus on finding a way out of this mess.
o.O.o
Serenno is a dusk-blue gem of a world, some quirk of its atmospheric composition rendering the sky a soft slate color. From space, the equatorial region's band of clouds looks like white filigree, swirling and spiraling in elegant streams. The Serennian defense fleet floats high above the surface in watchful silence. A beautiful planet, calm and peaceful, its night side speckled with pale lights from scattered urban centers.
Beyond the night side, beyond the orbits of the outer planets, Sith ships gather at the fringes of the system, guaranteeing violent retribution should the Serennians refuse their offer of "protection."
Bastila and Chena have been avoiding each other since their altercation. They're only reconvening in the cockpit now that they've arrived. Onasi has studiously ignored the tension strangling their ship, instead focusing on maintenance and navigation. As the transport glides into range, he opens a channel. "Serenno Command, this is Republic shuttle Kassidon requesting permission to—"
"Kassidon, you are cleared to dock with Serennan Orbital Command Ship Patrician," the comms officer cuts in. "Please make your way to these coordinates with all haste."
"Is there a problem?" Bastila asks over Onasi's shoulder as the capital ship's location appears on the nav readout. Peaceful Serenno might appear, but even from thousands of klicks away she can sense the edges of the defenders' anxiety.
"The Sith are on an approach vector," the officer says grimly. "It would seem that you have arrived just in time, ma'am."
"Acknowledged, Command," says Onasi. "Kassidon out." He alters course, shaking his head. "Here we go again . . ."
The Patrician is beautiful, as warships go, all smooth curving lines and bright steel-blue hull, its sublight engines glowing pale red. Onasi takes them into its aft hangar bay and sets them down gently before twisting around to look at Bastila and Chena. "Want me with you two for the briefing, ma'am?" he asks.
"That would be best, I think," says Bastila. Try as she might to attribute her answer to some clever plan, the truth is that she knows him and trusts him far more than the Serennans. As Onasi unbuckles himself from the pilot's seat and cracks the vertebrae in his neck, she strides towards the rear of the transport and lowers the ramp. Chena trails after her, silent and stony-faced.
The three of them descend, and Bastila takes a moment to look around the hangar. There's a wing of starfighters off to the left, canopies raised, surrounded by a swarm of mechanics and maintenance droids as they're refueled, checked, and re-checked. The pilots are streaming into the hangar in ones and twos, pulling on their helmets as they go. They may not fly for the Republic yet, but there's little difference between the Patrician's crew complement and that of the Tempest.
"This way," an aide says, guiding the Jedi and pilot deeper into the ship. They wind through the corridors and enter the turbolift leading up to the bridge—a pleasantly open space with sunken crew stations along the sweeping walls and a captain's chair front and center. Before it is a low wide holoprojector currently displaying the entire Serenno system, planets and asteroids in blue, friendly ships in green, and the Sith in red.
The chair's occupant, a tall, dark human with close-shorn grey hair, stands and salutes. Her Force presence is steady, unflappable. Perhaps even indifferent. "I am Captain Edrin Simm," she says. "Thank you for your prompt response to my planet's call for aid, Master Jedi."
"She's a Padawan, actually," Chena says. Bastila sighs inwardly. Not the time.
"Ah," says Simm, raising an eyebrow at her before turning to Bastila. "I apologize, Padawan Shan. But in any case, your aid is appreciated."
"What's the situation, then?" asks Bastila.
"The Sith left hyperspace approximately 1.2 billion klicks out from the planet. They're approaching swiftly just above the orbital plane," she says, indicating the hologram.
Bastila peers at the image, trying to calculate distances and velocities. "How long until they arrive?"
"Three hours."
She waits, but Simm doesn't elaborate. Bastila frowns and prompts, "What exactly do you want me to do, here?"
Simm smiles, showing teeth. Bitter triumph echoes through the Force, and the captain says, "You're already doing it."
The bottom drops out of Bastila's stomach as security officers move to surround her, Onasi, and Chena, blasters drawn.
o.O.o
The first shift cryptographers are just entering the mess hall on lunch break when all the baseboard lights go red and an alarm begins to blare.
"Warning. Internal temperature above critical," a smooth, computerized voice informs them. "Warning. Internal temperature above critical."
"The hell?" Pol says, looking around. "Feels just fine . . ."
"Emergency cooldown initiated."
The air vents belch thick white clouds. They pour down the walls, pooling on the floor—Sen sidles back as tendrils ooze towards her boots. "Please tell me this isn't engine coolant," she says, raising a wrist to her face and pressing the fabric of her jacket over mouth and nose.
"Water ice," an off-duty tech says, kicking at the cloud with a snort. "Dammit, I told Wolan the temp monitors were faulty!"
"What do you mean, faulty?" Pol shrills.
The tech rolls his eyes. "I mean the damn things are older than dirt and need replacement yesterday. Automated controls must've turned on when the internal temp registered above three-fifteen."
"We'd be broiling if it was that hot," says Sen.
"Yeah, well, I told you they need replacement." The tech stalks off, calling over his shoulder, "I'm going down to Maintenance to raise hell."
Veska's fur has puffed out, making her a bit fuzzier-looking than usual. Pol is dancing from foot to foot and rubbing his arms. Sen stuffs her hands into her jacket pockets and blows out a breath that rises like mist off a lake in winter.
"Anyone for a snowball fight?" Pol says hopefully.
"Attention all crew," the Monument's captain says over the intercom. "There has been a malfunction in the ship's temperature regulation systems—" ("Surely not," mutters Veska.) "—but repairs are underway. Return to your duties unless otherwise notified."
"Useless," Veska says.
"No, seriously, we could start a snowball fight—"
"With what?" the Bothan demands.
Pol shrugs. "I dunno, frozen protein goo?"
Julnar Kess shakes his head at him from behind the serving counters. "It's a hell of a lot denser than water. You could hurt someone."
"That does not inspire confidence in the goo's suitability for consumption," Pol says.
Sen snorts. Julnar glances at her, then cracks a smile. Of course. He wants to ingratiate himself into her immediate circle. "Yeah, I'm with you there."
"Eh, it's not as though I can cook much better. How's about we get something to eat before it all freezes solid?" says Pol, taking up a tray.
They manage to eat quickly enough that there are only a few frost crystals on the surface of their food, but five minutes later the vents are still gushing ice-cold air and the mess hall floor is decidedly slippery. Trask and Olen are over at the far end of the room and seem to be testing the traction of their shoes. With nearly half an hour left for the shift's lunch break, there's little else to do but join them.
Pol doesn't get his protein goo-ball fight, but a series of duels with dinnerware does ensue. Anything to stay in motion, and therefore, warm. Sen proves adept at using the slippery floor to her advantage, skidding around her opponents and sliding under tables to avoid blows. She's taken out by a tray thrown by Trask, who in turn falls to a Sullustan engineer.
The temperature drops steadily as the lunch break continues. Eliminated competitors congregate near the open ovens in the kitchen, at Julnar's invitation. Sen finds herself wedged between a Falleen and Veska. She looks sideways at the bleary-eyed Falleen, then at the crewmen in front of them. "Move a little, guys," she says, tapping them on the shoulders. "Cold-blooded crew take priority."
"Yeah, yeah. No groping," says one of them, wrinkling his nose at the Falleen.
"I don't know what you mean," he says stiffly.
"Keep the sex pheromones to yourself."
The Falleen's scales flush red. "Excuse me?"
The human sneers at him. "It's what you scalies do, right? Give people a big faceful of chemicals and let 'em drool over you to your lizard heart's content—"
"Racists to the back," Veska growls, tugging him out. The man soon finds himself staring at a wall of shoulders. Cold ones. He curses, but huddles in the last row as the rest of the crew ignore him.
The Falleen folds his arms and shuffles forward, shoulders nearly at his ears. "You didn't have to do that," he says, voice pitched low.
"This is a Republic ship," says Veska. "We don't put up with that kind of shit."
You're alienating over half the galaxy! someone shouts. Sen twitches. No—a memory. They were angry with her . . . She remembers they wore a uniform, black and red. Green eyes. This is absurd, my lord. Leave aside the moral considerations if you must, but look at the raw numbers!
She stops breathing. She remembers clenching her hand into a fist and watching the light leave those eyes.
o.O.o
A trap. Of course it's a trap. The Serennans know the Republic wants their backing—their money, to fund the war. They know they're valuable enough to warrant Bastila's attention, and they're in good enough standing with the Republic for Bastila to come essentially alone. But if the Sith had a better offer . . .
The holoprojector still shows the Sith approaching, an entire flotilla of warships.
Bastila's eyes narrow. "You're being threatened," she guesses, ignoring the security officers as Onasi swears quietly. "They want you to turn me over or watch your planet be destroyed."
Simm shakes her head, clasping her hands behind her back. "Not quite, Padawan Shan," she says. "Or rather, you know only half the story." Her smile widens. "We have managed to keep the Sith from taking the system for several weeks. But never have we faced so many at once. Our defenses are strong, but they will not hold against a full-scale invasion force—which, as you can see, will arrive shortly. I would like to propose a deal, then, on behalf of the Great Houses of Serenno."
Bastila looks her in the eye. "What kind of deal?"
"You will utilize your Battle Meditation to aid our forces against the Sith. If we succeed in repelling them, you may go free. If not, you will be the price of Serenno's safety. I believe Darth Malak has expressed an interest in capturing you alive."
"Could've just asked," Chena says under her breath.
"Jedi are devious," says Simm. "You pledge to protect the galaxy, and yet only your renegades dare to do what is necessary."
Bastila scowls. "You mean Revan and Malak."
"Merely an observation." Simm shrugs. "Obviously Malak is no longer quite as benign."
"There are Jedi on the ground right now," Chena says tightly. "There are Jedi dying out there! How dare you—"
"Malak will not hold to any bargain you make with him," says Bastila, before Chena can build up a head of steam. Or explode. "He is cunning and deceitful, and he has no compunction about breaking promises. Serenno is in danger whether you give me to the Sith or not."
"But in markedly less danger than it would be if we were to resist the Sith without you," says Simm.
"Why didn't you request more ships?" asks Carth. "The Republic would've sent them." He sounds resigned, but not surprised. Disappointed.
Simm spreads her hands. "The Great Houses felt that if Padawan Shan is as effective as she is rumored to be, they would be unnecessary. And if not, there would be no loose ends attempting to thwart the exchange. So. In the interest of your own freedom and survival, you'd best see to it that Serenno does not fall."
o.O.o
"Why is this bucket still flying?" Pol stabs at his workstation, shivering as the techs bring the Monument's interior up to more reasonable temperatures, albeit slowly.
"Budgeting issues," says Sen. "It's expensive to commission and outfit a whole new cruiser."
"The Sith seem to manage just fine! And they don't even make you pay taxes."
"They also don't do much public infrastructure maintenance," Iden puts in on his way past their stations, about half a dozen datapads under one arm. "They leave that to their puppet governments, which do collect taxes, so keep your complaints to yourself, Mr. Fintan."
"So where do all the bloody ships come from?"
"Greatest enigma of the war," says Veska. "Shut up and work."
"Of course—until we lose oxygen, or gravity, or the computer decides to cook us!"
Iden gives a four-toned sigh. "The captain's aware of the problem, and has contacted Admiral Dodonna. Chances are the Monument will either be decommissioned or renovated."
Pol stares at the Ithorian. "Decommissioned? What'll happen to the crew?"
"That's up to the brass," says Iden. "And now I really need to take these to Lieutenant Pinak, so if you'll excuse me . . ."
Pol falls silent, looking blankly at his monitor without focusing on it. Sen leans over and snaps in front of his nose. "Hey," she says. "You okay?"
He turns to her. "I like this ship," he says mournfully. "And dammit, I like the people on it. Well, mostly. I mean—what happens if we're all split up by Command?"
"You'll survive," says Veska.
Pol throws up his hands. "That I might, but I'll bloody well miss you, appalling sense of humor and all."
"Nothing's final. Might not be split," Veska says calmly. "And worrying won't change anything."
He goes quiet, then, but he seems distracted still.
Sen tries to imagine the two of them apart. It's . . . difficult. All bickering aside, they're always together. Inseparable. Doubtless they'd be fine—they both seem like adaptable people—but Pol without Veska, or Veska without Pol, would be incomplete.
More frighteningly, Sen without Veska and Pol would be . . . less.
Hells.
She's gotten comfortable here in this life, even after so short a time. She has friends. Colleagues. A boss. Friendly acquaintances. Unfriendly ones she doesn't feel the need to murder in cold blood. She has gone native.
Frack, she would miss these people if she lost them.
My name is Revan.
Not. Sen.
She digs her nails into the palms of her hands. This shouldn't be happening. She—she doesn't do this, she doesn't have friends and coworkers and a mundane job and dejarik nights in the canteen—my name is Revan and this is NOT my life—
She likes this life. And yet she can't even tell if that's her true opinion—Sen is the mask but she is comfortable and safe and ordinary and—and she could stay. She could stay here, pretend she was never a Sith Lord, pretend she never commanded armies or destroyed worlds. She could be Sen, and crack jokes with Veska and Pol, spar with Trask, establish a truce with Aleesa, work to speed the end of the war in some small way . . .
She sighs, shoulders slumping. When the war is over. They used to keep lists of their plans—fantasies, really—of what they'd do after the Mandalorians were defeated. Malak kept saying he wanted to leave the Jedi entirely. Go to some war-ravaged planet and help pick up the pieces. Walk in the ash. Watch it come alive again.
Revan never told the same story twice. She never had reason to—anything would be possible, when the war was over.
Then her war began.
She doesn't know what happened. She doesn't know why she took her fleet into the Unknown Regions and returned bent on conquest of the Republic she'd spent years trying to save. All she knows is that by the time her memories pick up again, she believed with every fiber of her being that the Republic had to fall.
Why?
. . . And that is why she cannot stay. She will never find out from here. Not as Sen.
o.O.o
Chena and Onasi are both more than willing to fight their way off the Patrician. "They betrayed us once," the lieutenant says, mere centimeters from drawing his blaster. "There's no guarantee they won't do it again."
Bastila looks at Captain Simm. The woman is simply watching and waiting, a hard edge to her gaze promising retaliation if any of them make the first move. "The welfare of Serenno is all that matters," Simm says.
"Yeah, and the rest of the galaxy can rot for all you care," says Onasi.
"If it were your planet, would you not do anything to ensure its safety?"
All the blood drains from Onasi's face. "You—"
"That's enough," Bastila says quickly. "We have little choice in this matter, Lieutenant." To Simm, she says, "I will do my best for your planet. And I will hold you to your word. But know this—at the first hint of treachery, we will demonstrate why you do not renege on a deal with Jedi."
Chena, with a fortunate sense of the dramatic, folds her arms with a nasty little smirk. "I suggest you don't," she says.
Simm considers them. She gestures, and the security officers seize Onasi and Chena and divest them of their weapons, fastening their wrists together with binders. "A precaution only, you understand," she says, addressing Bastila. "Now, let us begin."
With her only two allies held at gunpoint at her back, Bastila swallows and steps forward to the holoprojector. "I need to know how your forces are distributed to be most effective," she says.
"Very well." And Simm takes her through Serenno's defenses—the early-warning systems monitoring hyperspace traffic to and from the system, the outposts stationed within the mid-orbit asteroid belt, the ground cannons, the small but disciplined fleet remaining in the planet's gravity well.
"Do you hope to keep them from breaching the asteroid belt?" asks Bastila.
Simm shakes her head and points to the empty space between Serenno's orbit and the asteroids. "Not at all. We let the Sith pass through the belt. Then our outposts ambush them from behind. We drive them towards the planet, where they will meet with heavy resistance, and between the two forces, they will be crushed."
"Then what the hell do you need her for?" says Onasi, tugging a bit on his restraints.
"Insurance, Lieutenant," Simm says. She looks at Bastila. "The blood of every Serennan who dies today is on your hands."
Ignoring that pronouncement—and how it resonates with her own growing sense of guilt—Bastila focuses on the battle plan. "I have limited range with Battle Meditation," she says. "I can't affect people outside a certain radius. If the Patrician remains here I will not be able to help the outposts—"
"The homeworld is far more important. Serenno must not fall."
". . . Very well."
o.O.o
The first Sith cruisers slip past the asteroid belt, sublight engines at full power. Serenno is a blue-white crescent in the distance. The ship's gun crews and fighter complement stand ready to begin the assault, weapons charged and loaded, targeting systems lighting up as the planet's defenses appear on long-range scanners.
Captain Tova Morlissen of the Endless grips the bridge railing in white-knuckled fists as they begin their approach. This is his last chance. His failure at Ersanne has placed him in the unenviable position of Darth Malak's displeasure—and the Dark Lord was more than clear regarding the consequences of another disappointment.
Thus, this assignment. Serenno—not a strategic necessity, but certainly a valuable asset. Not renowned for its naval power, but respected nonetheless. Morlissen counts himself fortunate. He could have been sent to the ongoing Perlemian conflict, where any mistake, no matter how innocuous, might very well lose the Sith the battle for one of the galaxy's most important trade routes. After Centares' loss, there has been little progress in reestablishing control.
Morlissen sometimes feels that he has been over-promoted. He was quite happy as his predecessor's XO—an administrative position, and a difficult one at that, but he was good at logistics, at the minutiae and details that ensure the smooth running of a starship. He has no desire to command so many troops himself.
But his old CO was killed over a year ago, and ever since, Morlissen has tried—and largely failed—to be as successful a captain.
He should be grateful to Malak, he thinks. All too often, officers in his position are simply executed for incompetence. As it stands, he will be lucky to live to see another sunrise.
His hands are sweating. He wipes them on his uniform and swallows, hard. "Status report," he calls out to the nearest ensign, with a decisiveness he does not feel.
"Sir, the rearmost cruisers are picking up a few unidentified heat signatures from behind us, in the asteroid belt . . ."
Morlissen prays to every god he knows that it's nothing—asteroid mining equipment, some kind of thermal anomaly, space whales, anything.
The Endless's generators wail as a barrage of laserfire splashes against their aft shields.
"Damn," he says calmly. "Red alert, if you please. Ensign?"
"Rear ships report heavy damage—those starfighters hit shields and engines, hard," the ensign says, fingers flying over his interface.
The comms officer twists around in her seat, one hand pressed to her ear. "Sir, the task force is scattering—Commander Lyam is asking for orders."
"Put him onscreen, Lieutenant." A hologram of the other officer's tense face appears, along with three others, all speaking at once, demanding that he fix this somehow, as if he can wave a hand and make the Serennans surrender himself. Morlissen takes a breath. "They hope to herd us towards the planet, forcing us to defend both our fore and our rear simultaneously," he says. "We cannot allow that to happen. You said they were starfighters only at this time, Ensign?"
"Yes, sir!"
"How many?"
"At least two dozen, sir, and they're too fast for our turbolasers to—"
"Send out Flights Aurek through Esk, then! Divert power to aft shields, bring the worst-damaged ships planetwards so that the others can protect them!"
"Aye, sir!"
And for a few glorious minutes, as the Sith starfighters systematically destroy their enemy in a series of vicious dogfights, drawing them away from the capital ships and allowing them to move in closer to the planet, Morlissen believes that he can win this battle.
Then, as his fighters return and the Sith forces reach weapons range with the Serennans, he remembers: he can't.
The ship shakes and judders, and Morlissen finds himself unable to breathe, unable to think. Ersanne. He was so certain that retreat was the best option, that in order to save his ship he had to disengage from the battle and return from a better position. But he was not only in charge of his ship. The Endless was badly damaged, yes, but the rest of the Sith line was holding.
He broke that line out of cowardice, out of sheer ineptitude at command.
Captain Tova Morlissen stands on the bridge of his ship as his crew erupts into panicked chaos, all shouting at each other, at him, stop this, save us, what is happening, should we retreat, we should, we must, shields at nine percent, oh Force—
"Ahead full," he says, his hands shaking and his voice thick with fear. "Target their nearest ship. Fire everything." There is no escape. There is only forward.
(A tiny voice at the back of his mind is screaming no, no, THINK, this is all wrong, you'll get us all killed! But it soon fades to nothingness.)
He clutches at the railing as the Endless comes under heavy sustained fire, dizzy and sick at heart. He watches his fleet crumble through the viewport as the burning crescent of Serenno's dawn grows to swallow him whole.
So I did see another sunrise, he thinks distantly, in the end.
o.O.o
The Sith command ship burns in pieces, smears and streaks of red-gold skimming the atmosphere far below. Bastila closes her eyes.
"Extraordinary," says Simm. "I had heard stories of your abilities, but this . . . This is more than I could have hoped for."
"You have your rout," Bastila says hollowly, letting the Force flow away from her, leaving behind the memory of those she drowned in it. She resolutely does not think of corpses falling through the sky, frozen by the merciless void only to be seared to dust before they can reach the ground. She opens her eyes and turns to Simm, who looks quite pleased. "We had a deal, Captain."
"So we did. I will inform the Great Houses of what has transpired here. I'm sure they will be most cooperative in any ensuing negotiations with the Republic." Simm gestures, and the security officers move to release Onasi and Chena. "You are free to return to your ship, if you wish to contact Admiral Dodonna."
"Oh, I will," says Bastila.
o.O.o
tbc
