Step by step. System by system. Light year by light year.
Maul breathes heavily in the piloting cabin aboard one of the six Hardcell-class transports his Shadow Collective elites commandeered on Saleucami. They're sturdy transports and decently-armed for their size, but the real value in these beasts is the information on their main computers—Separatist codes, transponder frequencies, shipping data, and more. The closer Maul inches towards Raxus, the higher the stakes become and the more formidable Dooku's defenses rise. At Bimmisaari nothing stood in his way. Then at Saleucami, Malicos arrived to clash blades. Maul must be ready for anything to come next.
Dooku and his armies are blind from the glare of countless battles, my son, Mother Talzin had spoken in Maul's dream last night. Your best weapon is a knife in the darkness. Lurk in the shadows and pounce only when your enemies are gathered right where you want them—and where you are not.
There is nowhere darker, emptier, than deep space. No sunlight to illuminate the heavenly bodies transiting in their cosmic arcs. Stars like pinpricks in a suffocating black curtain. Here distances are vast, measured by astronomical units and light years; here ships pass like wanderers in the bleakest desert. Here Maul sets his next act in motion, here beyond the termination shock of the Columex system located strategically on the Perlemian Trade Route, deep in Separatist territory. Yet even out here in the loneliest of spaces does the activity of the galaxy still continue.
Lurking nearby waits a hypercomms buoy, one of millions of rod-shaped structures no more than a few dozen meters in length scattered throughout the galaxy, each equipped with an omnidirectional receiver and transceiver capable of sending data packages through hyperspace. They are the building blocks of the Holonet and perhaps the most crucial infrastructure underlying galactic civilization, providing near-instantaneous communication from the Deep Core to Wild Space. In the first days of the Clone Wars, both the Republic and the Confederacy rushed to lock down strategically-important buoys in order to stymie opposing special forces and espionage agents from operating at full capacity behind enemy lines. But there are far too many of these buoys across the galaxy to secure even a fraction of them, especially when the buoy provides communication services to a vital trade world like Columex. The Separatists simply couldn't afford to lock out such a significant planet from commercial interests, even if it meant sacrificing some communications security.
This is not a problem for Maul, however. In fact, the unsecured status of Columex's hypercomms buoy provides him a most wonderous opportunity—and this stolen transport offers the means to take advantage of it.
"Approach slowly," he murmurs to the Black Sun piloting crew as the Hardcell slithers through the black towards the humble buoy. "Show no signs of urgency. Show nothing out of the ordinary."
Loitering at the rear of the piloting cabin, Savage scoffs. "There's no one out here but us. What does it matter?"
"That is exactly the sort of inattention to detail that will get you into trouble, brother," Maul says. "Strategy is a scalpel, not a battleaxe. It is the fine blade that cuts the cleanest."
One of the Falleen at the piloting controls looks back at Maul. "Launching the drone."
On the viewscreen, a tiny silver drone shaped like a virus launches out into the black of space. Thruster jets spring up like geysers, mists of exhaust pushing the miniscule drone towards the buoy. It is a slicing droid, equipped with a telescoping probe designed to interface with the buoy's maintenance terminal and transmit authorization data sequences, all in order to achieve unrestricted information access concerning all data passing through this buoy. Not a risky operation—nothing like Saleucami—but vitally important, nonetheless. This is the Perlemian Trade Route, after all, one of the major trade spines of the galaxy; the sheer quantity of information passing through this buoy on a daily basis will make it so that Maul may as well have a bug in Dooku's bedroom.
"And we wait," Maul murmurs, closing his eyes. While the buoy is unguarded and open to comms traffic, it is not without any sort of protection. All galactic communications rely on identifying markers for data prioritization, and the Separatists include security markers within their highest-priority transmissions to prevent the wrong ears from listening in. It is the interstellar version of one of the oldest methods of information secrecy known to sapient life: The secret code. Modern counter-intel strategies employed by both the Republic and the Separatists require frequent updates to these security markers, and it is Maul's hope that the codes still active aboard the commandeered Hardcell will pass muster. If not, nothing lost; his Shadow Collective is still six transports richer for the raid on Saleucami. But if they are still active, oh, what he might gain.
"Taking a while," Savage mutters. "Doesn't feel good to me."
"Another moment," Maul says, his fist clenched as the Black Sun crew tries to breach through the comms security. "Just another."
Then, like light from nothingness, the transport's speakers blare with noise.
"Two armored divisions re-routed from Agamar to—"
"Supply lines running low, requesting aid—"
"We need immediate assistance from any and all vessels in the area, repeat, immediate—"
The Black Sun operatives shut down the speaker and silence returns. Then it is broken: Maul leans back in his seat and laughs. He was just quick enough; the Separatists too slow. "Insert our worm into their system at once," he says, leaning forward and pointing to the Falleen. "Then send a copy of its data feed to every one of our ship computers that you can."
"What does this mean?" Savage asks. "Are we in?"
"We are in their communications system, and they will never root us out," Maul says with a smile as the Falleen get to work. Then he looks out into the black beyond the Hardcell's transparisteel viewscreen, beyond the buoy, out there to all those myriad stars, so tiny he imagines he can crush them all in his fist. When he speaks, he talks as if addressing his mortal foe: "You were looking for another battle, another Bimmisaari, weren't you, Tyranus? But a Sith knows better than to give anyone—friends, enemies, and especially rivals—what they want. We take what we want. I will show you that when I stand on your doorstep, and you will not so much as know of my coming until you hear my knock."
"Well, come on. Let's see 'em. We didn't have time back on Coruscant, what with all the Senate mess happening. We've got time now."
Ahsoka grins and shakes her head. "We're already ten minutes late to the briefing, Master."
"And there's nothing stopping us from being fifteen minutes late. We're in the middle of hyperspace, Ahsoka. We're not short on time," Anakin says.
Those easygoing reductions. It's always easier with him around. Anything appears possible, the universe itself at hand, and showing up late to Master Kenobi's briefings seems like trivial inconveniences. He is right, however: They had precious little time together on Coruscant once she'd returned from Ilum and he'd come back from Dantooine. Now they are locked in the clean-grey hallways of the star destroyer Banner of the Resolute, Jan Dodonna's command cruiser and the newly-christened flagship of the reconstituted Open Circle Fleet in the wake of the battle over Ziost. It's a long way from Coruscant to the battle waiting for them at Sullust; a whole half-galaxy from one to the other. What they have plenty of is time. "All right, fine."
She draws one of her new lightsabers off of her belt and holds it up. Anakin looks on expectantly. She thumbs the emitter, and a brilliant blue blade flares to life. "There it is," Anakin says with a smile. "Blue suits you better."
"You think? I did like my old sabers," Ahsoka says, returning her weapon to her belt.
"In Jedi lore—"
"Pssh, like you know Jedi lore, Master."
"Hey, play along. Blue lightsabers have always been the color for Jedi warriors," Anakin says. "Blue's for those of us who run into a fight. We don't stop. We don't hesitate."
"Sometimes you run a little too eagerly."
He shrugs. "There you go, sounding like Obi-Wan again," he says. Then his smile fades and his tone grows serious. "In truth, Ahsoka, it's that warrior in you I need. By all accounts there's a massive Separatist army waiting for us at Sullust. Back in the Temple we can talk about the Force and the Senate and all sorts of things, but out here, out in space and on the front lines, it's a quick blaster and a quicker lightsaber that decide matters. It's about making the right call when seconds matter and lives are on the line. If you can't trust your fellow soldiers, you'll lose every time." He nods. "Wouldn't want anyone else beside me when the shooting starts."
"You can count on me," she says. "We'll do this. Just like always."
"I know," he says. He clutches her shoulder and squeezes, looking her up and down. "We're different now. The battles change us. This war's been going on for a while. It'd take a particularly stubborn and crazy person not to change after all that. Some of those changes are good, others difficult. But it's the mark of who we are that we get through them, good or bad." He raises his chin and looks her in the eye. "You've gone through a lot, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But you're stronger for it now. I know it sounds trite, but I mean it. I can feel it in you. I don't know if it was a test or a trial or the will of the Force or just a terrible accident, but whatever it was, you passed. And I'm glad that at last we're both back where we belong—standing in the way of Dooku, Grievous, and every last horror they can throw at us."
She smiles and pats her lightsaber. "Let 'em come."
"That's what I like to hear," he says, giving her shoulder a whack and opening the door to the bridge.
Immediately Obi-Wan's voice rings out: "Where have you been? It's been twenty minutes."
"I got lost. New ship and all," Anakin says as he strides onto the bridge. "Ahsoka definitely got lost too. Isn't that right?"
"Yup. Definitely," she says.
Obi-Wan groans. "Why do I even bother?"
"Captain Dodonna," Anakin says, offering a hand to the grey-uniformed, hard-faced man leaning against the bridge's tactical holoemitter. "Looking good since the last time we spoke."
"The same to you, Skywalker," Jan Dodonna says with a curt nod. "It's Admiral Dodonna now, thanks to that mess. I wish the promotion was under better circumstances. Wullf Yularen was a good man."
"That he was. Let's win this for him. Him and Master Fisto," says Anakin, walking up to the holoemitter. "Now what's the battle plan once we reach Sullust?"
Ahsoka sidles up to Rex by the emitter. The two share a quick look, then glance back at the hologram. Whatever her ordeal has been, she thinks, it would've been impossible without him. He was there when Grievous cut her down. He was there for her on Ilum. Every battle, every step. Anakin is her master, her mentor, her guide. But Rex is her brother. Her comrade. Her closest ally. Where Anakin will rush in with his heroics, Rex will have her back. She needs both—that spear of light in the darkness and that shield to keep their foes at bay. And with them, she can do anything.
Beside Obi-Wan, Commander Cody gestures at the holographic representation of warships springing to life before them all. "A lot of it's going to depend on the state of the sector fleets from Eriadu and Malastare, I'd imagine. They've been fighting up the Rimma Trade Route for weeks."
"They have," Dodonna says, leaning forward and looking up at the hologram. "Most of their ships are older-model; only a handful of star destroyers, and most of those are Victorys, not Venators." He waves his hand and the hologram shifts, an orange-red globe blooming large with a smattering of small icons around it. "Preliminary reconnaissance suggests the Separatist armada will have us outnumbered around two-to-one, not including their ground-based orbital defense cannons. My recommendation is that we use that advantage against them."
"Use their numbers…against them," Ahsoka says, arching her eyebrows. "How?"
Dodonna points to the planet. "Sullust can act as its own impediment. Where we have the advantage is in mobility," he says. Holographic icons flit and twist, red-shaded Republic shapes advancing on the blue-shaded Confederate hostiles. "Separatist naval doctrine requires maximizing firepower over as large a screen of ships as that takes. If we deploy our ships in a ring formation, rather than a standard battle line, we can crush the perimeter of the Separatist defenders and threaten the planet itself."
"That leaves the center of their fleet secure, though," Anakin muses.
"Exactly, Skywalker," Dodonna says. Holographic arrows shoot out from the red icons. "By crunching down on the Separatist center from its perimeter, we leave them a point of escape between our ships, where we can cut them to pieces with our crossfire while preventing their heaviest warships from concentrating fire on any of ours. It's that or they try and retreat planetside, which is a fool's errand."
"You want to funnel their ships into a killzone."
"Right. Numbers won't mean a thing if we're killing them far faster than they can hurt us."
"Once we break through their fleet," Obi-Wan says, "The ground operation begins, and that is a trickier proposition. Most Sullustan cities are underground; above-ground operations are primarily military or industrial complexes run by the SoroSuub Corporation. Expect a lot of resistance, although this does offer us a chance to limit collateral damage. Master Secura and Master Vos—they've already been briefed—will take the core of the ground forces and engage the bulk of the Separatist army in a delaying action outside of SoroSuub's main foundries, foundries that supply the Separatists with a vital stream of resources. They won't let those go easily—but that gives us an opportunity."
The one man around the holoemitter that Ahsoka does not recognize now steps forward. He's middle-aged, his face shadowed with a grave expression, not a drop of mirth in his eyes. The drab-gray uniform of the Republic Army; only a few honor pips on his chest. When he nods to the Jedi, it's with the formality of a professional warfighter. "This is Major Carlist Rieekan, commanding our special armored battalion," Dodonna says.
"Generals. Commander," Rieekan greets the Jedi. He shows Ahsoka no less respect despite her age. As he speaks, the hologram twists again. Gone is the planet and the orbiting fleets; replacing it is the image of a tall tower and a flat plain extending all around it. "Sullust's key installations are protected by a series of planetary shield domes that will prevent orbital fire from assisting in the ground attack," says Rieekan. He points to the tower. "However, power for the shielding system originates here, in the planet's main energy control reservoir. Like every other installation, it has its own shield—but a ray shield won't keep out ground forces."
He looks to Rex. "Captain Rex and the 501st will join my armored battalion in a rapid ground attack. Captain Pellaeon's Leveler will drop us in a volcanic region about fifty klicks south of the energy tower; the volcanic fumes should mask our operations until we've deployed. From there, we'll have to dash across open flatlands criss-crossed by lava rivers, supported by gunships and whatever other air cover we can muster."
"If it's in the open, walkers are going to be too slow," Ahsoka says. "Terrain doesn't sound suitable, either."
"Right on point, Commander," Rieekan says. "Fighter tanks and Juggernauts. Speed is the key. We rush through the shield, minimizing artillery or aerial counter-fire. We hit any defenses standing in our way, then send special forces led by you Jedi inside to shut down the power system feeding the shield domes. Once that's done, we'll have our way with bombarding any target we want from orbit, and Sullust's conquest will become a matter of when, not if."
Ahsoka looks at the battle plans and smiles. Anakin was right: This is where they belong. She has moped long enough; licked her wounds so thoroughly that she cannot even see the scars. Only in the thick of the fight will she know that the past is the past. Only in the struggle will she truly know herself. On Ilum she faced her demons as they came out of the darkness; on Sullust she will face a very different foe. But she must—she will—conquer it all the same.
The time for talking and planning and thinking is over. It's time to act.
Reunions, smiles, laughter. The little joys so infrequent in turbulent times. And so unexpected is her meeting Neelotas—someone she thought she would never see again—that Tamri feels something she hasn't felt in a long, long time: Joy.
She forgets all about her urgency to leave, to attend to every last matter before departing for the mission to Concordia. Instead she and Neelotas had for the dingiest, grimiest diner in Coruscant's upper levels and spend the whole afternoon regaling each other of their journeys ever since they split on Mirial. His final length of the journey with Sae, rescuing Rossano Rastic from the Haxion Brood base and bringing him back to Coruscant; her ordeal on Telos and fighting to stay alive, only to come back home and find Sae missing. So much has changed in so little time. But not everything. Not everyone. Along with those you have lost are those who remain.
Tamri's head feels oddly light as the hour grows late; whatever drinks he has ordered for the table must've been more than just tea. "What I want to know," she says, looking up at the blurry yellow light hanging down from an industrial fixture overhead in their gritty booth, "is…is why you shhtarted—started, sorry—started working for that Isard guy. He's creepy."
Neelotas laughs at her. "You need to drink more, wizard. Experience gets you…well, experienced," he says. "I'm not working for Isard. Rastic got me in contact with the guy and he says, oh, I'll offer to put you on call for work and pay you for the trouble. Guess because I got his agent back, he thought I might be worth a damn. Anyway, I say, hey, free credits, why not. Then that led to me sitting around on Coruscant getting blasted for the last six or seven weeks, or however long it's been." He leans back and chuckles. "Been a nice vacation, but I'm ready to get back and do something again. Old pirate days with the Brood are starting to seem fun, and when that happens you know you need to stay busy to stop yourself from doing something dumb."
"Well, dumb is what I'm doing, so sorry," Tamri says. She laughs. Why is she giggling like a little girl? Blazes, her head. "Are you really sure you'd want to come along? We got into enough trouble the last time, and that was with Sae."
"You said you got a ship, yeah? A good one? After losing the Evening, I want something to put my hands on again," he says. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Sae. Grouchy woman, but helluva fighter, your old mentor was. Shame 'bout what happened. Coulda used her laser sword if nothin' else."
"Yeah," Tamri sighs. She stares at a smudge on the tabletop. Sae. Wherever you are—alive, dead, here or there—I hope you're okay. I hope you're not upset with me after all that's happened. Neelotas is back; maybe you'll be next. All I have to do is find you. "Well," she says, although whether it's to Neelotas, Sae, or to herself, she does not know, "who knows what'll happen? We can just…just go out there and see. To Concordia. And to wherever that takes us."
Neelotas dips his head. "It's a war on, right? No shortage of excitement," he murmurs. "Ah, screw it, little wizard, you look too down. I feel too down all the sudden." He leans back and looks up at the ceiling, raising his glass. "It's easier when you're up there. We get up there again, yeah? Back to the black, the stars. Leave this so-called civilized shithole behind. Sounds like just the kind of dumb I'm ready for right about now."
Maybe, Tamri thinks as she nurses her drink. Maybe. In truth, she doesn't know what she's supposed to do next. Maybe it's the drink talking, or maybe it's brought something hidden deep within into the light. She fought through being separated from Sae, fought through Telos, fought through the pain of knowing that Sae is missing—and now she doesn't know what's supposed to happen next. Master Kenobi tasked her with this assignment, sure, but is that it? Move from mission to mission? Keep going forward, as Sae would say? Is that all there is? Or is she supposed to be learning something, finding something in all this trouble?
She doesn't know. Perhaps the only way to find out is to go out there and face it all.
It's a relief that the next day feels different as she enters the commercial hanger where Avea has the War Maiden parked. It's the same gleaming half-yacht, half-warship that it appeared on Telos, but there's a familiarity to it now, a homeliness. It's not the fury and rush of escaping a hostile world. It's setting out with people she knows on a steed she has ridden before. Where before she had little, at least now she has something. She is not alone. She is not, she thinks as her hand finds her newly-crafted lightsaber, unarmed. A Jedi again.
It's the little signs. Kesh and Avea fighting over something off to the side near one of the Maiden's landing struts. What it is, who knows, but it doesn't matter—it brings a grin to Tamri's face. Dominion watching hanger workers in his strange, sort-of-human-but-not-really way. They'll have to work on his appearances if he's going to stick around for long. Neelotas running his hand over the ship's steel coat as if appraising a prized mount, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. Someone's excited.
But not every face is a happy one. She spots the scowling, tall man leaning against a supply crate near the ship's boarding ramp—familiar black hair, cut jaw, high cheekbones. Millions of other faces like that among the clone army. The man designated RC-1417, once a clone commando, now just Falco. She has a serious talk ahead of her.
She takes a deep breath and approaches the soldier she thought dead on Belderone. "I—" she starts, unsure of what to say. Keep it professional, maybe. "Director Isard said—"
"I know his orders," Falco mutters, his voice gravelly, hard; his eyes are harder.
She can sense the tension in his voice. Discontent. Bitterness. "Look," she says, raising a hand, "I'm sorry about what happened back on Belderone."
"Save it, Jedi," Falco says. "I don't want to hear it. Not now, not ever. Not from you or anyone. My whole team is dead. Hawke, Turner, Brunt, all gone. Brothers my whole life. That life's gone with 'em, and my spot in the army went too. I'm just a free agent now, cut loose. I hope you and your master got what you wanted."
Tamri looks away. "Not exactly."
Falco scoffs. "Isard told me what he expects. He also said the decision's up to you, Jedi. Say what you want."
This conversation is not going the way she wanted. "We don't ever have to be friends, or anything more than colleagues," says Tamri, "but I don't really trust your boss. If I'm going to agree to his terms and take you with us, I want to know you're going to cooperate with us. We're going into Separatist territory. We can't have someone running off and going rogue."
Falco narrows his eyes. "Is that what you think I'm supposed to do?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm saying it."
"I'm supposed to report what we find to Isard. That's all. I've been in his service for some time. This isn't new to me."
"If I give an order—"
"I'm a clone, Jedi. Even after what's happened. A good soldier follows orders. I know that. You worry about keeping yourself right."
Tamri frets. She is under no obligation to take him on. She can always reject Isard's offer. But he did say he'd help her out with information in the future…and he did give her Neelotas back. If Isard was trying to buy her acceptance, he did a pretty good job. "Just get your things aboard," she says to Falco.
"Understood," he says. "Commander."
Doubt tickles her heart as she watches him walk away. Right on cue, a voice behind her asks, "Is he going to be a problem?"
She turns to find Korkie toting a pair of bags and scowling at Falco's back. "Oh. Hi," she says, a flush of heat washing over her face. She gives him a little wave, thinks better of it, and lowers her hand. You look like an idiot. "No, he's, uh…we were just hashing out our arrangement. I'm glad you came. I was a little worried you might not."
Korkie shrugs. "We're going to Mandalore. Only thing I could do was come along, because the Senate's not doing anything."
"Well, Concordia, but…well, yes," Tamri says.
He sets his jaw and steps forward. "Listen, Padawan," he says. "I thought I should be honest with you."
"Just Tamri, please. I don't want everyone getting all formal."
"Fine. Tamri," Korkie says. "I trust Master Kenobi, but his promise that the Senate would do anything for my home fell flat. I know you're going to Concordia for Jedi business, and I'll help you…but if I see an opportunity to help Mandalore and my people, I'm taking it. I won't stab you in the back or anything; I' not that kind of person. But I won't let my home suffer under Separatist occupation. My aunt was the Duchess Satine. Mandalore is my responsibility just as much as it was hers."
Tamri bites her lip and looks away. "Oh. That's…well, understandable."
"I just thought you should know."
"No, it's fine," says Tamri. "You might want to know, though…Director Isard of the Senate Bureau for Intelligence warned me about Mandalore. He says there's someone named Bo-Katan leading a rebellion right now."
Korkie takes a step back. "Bo?"
"Do you…well, know her?"
"Yes. She—never mind, what else did he say?"
"Maybe we can talk later, once we're underway? It's a hike to Mandalore from Coruscant," says Tamri. "That work?"
"Sure," he says. "And…Tamri. Thanks for telling me that. I haven't heard anything from home besides what the Holonet reports."
She smiles as he walks off to the ship. "Sure," she says to herself. "It's nothing."
Walking aboard the War Maiden brings back the snows of Telos, the colorful winter lanterns, the steam rising from the hot springs at the inn. The lab, the terror. The escape. This chromed steel and these high, airy ceilings. It's her ship now. Their ship, maybe, but she is a part of this team. And if this is Jedi business they are going on, then she's leading them all into it, isn't she? Neelotas, Korkie, Falco, Avea and Kesh and Dominion—she is at the center of them all. It is such an odd feeling. To go from a Padawan following along in Sae's shadow from world to world to setting out into the unknown on her own mission.
Deep down, everyone waits for their moment. Slowly, then all at once—it comes. But it will only come once. Is Tamri ready?
She settles down into the weapons station's berth in the War Maiden's cockpit. At the helm, Avea and Neelotas are already bickering: "Why are you flying? I've flown this thing before," Avea grouses.
"Because I have a feel for this sort of thing. You can sit there at the copilot's station and tell me everything I'm doing wrong," says Neelotas, a goofy smile plastered over his face as if he's enjoying sparring with the Echani woman he's just met. "Hey, wizard," he says, leaning over his console, "this works, right? I do the flying, she criticizes me as much as she wants. Where did you find her, anyway? Ended up forgetting half of our talk from yesterday."
"Just fly it and I'll do the shooting part up here," says Tamri, patting her chair's arms. "You're a vital part, Avea. There's…I don't know, what do you do at the copilot's helm?"
"We're going to blow up on launch, aren't we?" Avea sighs. "Where did you find this guy, Tamri?"
Neelotas laughs. "It's gonna be great."
The engines purr; the hull rumbles. This is not an old rustbucket like the Evening: The War Maiden rockets to life as the engines ignite, the ship charging out of the hanger bay and into the open Coruscant sky like a stallion. The digital viewscreen displays shimmer to life, and Tamri gets a last look at the Coruscant skyline as the ship burns for orbit. There's the Temple on its mount, the Processional Way leading away. There's the Senate, the Federal District. Everything where it should be. She has an odd feeling that she should look closely, carefully, for as long as she can—as if she will never see it like this again.
She puts the thought out of her mind. It's time to fly.