This story happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it.
It is a story of love and loss, brotherhood and betrayal, courage and sacrifice and the death of dreams. It is a story of the blurred line between our best and our worst.
It is the story of the end of an age.
A strange thing about stories— Though this all happened so long ago and so far away that words cannot describe the time or the distance, it is also happening right now. Right here.
It is happening as you read these words.
This is how twenty-five millennia come to a close. Corruption and treachery have crushed a thousand years of peace. This is not just the end of a republic; night is falling on civilization itself.
This is the twilight of the Jedi.
The end starts now.
The Clone Wars rage like wildfire.
It is an unending flame that sears across planets as fire dances across trees. On some worlds, it is the Republic onslaught of Clone troopers that besiege planets, accompanied by Republic gunships that blaze through buildings and walkers that trample terrain. The streaks of Venator Class Star Destroyers ignite the skies above with blue spurs of plasma - these volleys are joined by ARC-170s and V-Wings that clean up the droid starfighters infesting the expanses above. This fire is carried-most of all-by the courage of Jedi Knights. The Jedi are the crusaders that are promised with upholding the principles of peace and justice. This title rightfully belonged to them.
But that status is challenged. It is challenged by every battle that threatens to overtake a planet.
The onslaught of the Clone Wars is isn't led by the Republic alone. For every war, there must exist the enemy. And in this case, that enemy is the Seperatist Alliance, sometimes called the Confederacy of Independent Systems. What matters most is the sheer force that is exerted from planet to planet. The unending swarms of battle droids. Armored Assault tanks may clear plains, Hyena-class bombers can level forests into clouds of ash and Vulture-droids can harass clones into oblivion. However, without the unending armies of battle droids attacking world after world, the Separatists would not be laying claim to the Outer Rim. Against local forces, the Separatists conquer practically unchallenged. As enslaved civilians are carried off in shackles, Droid Tri-Fighters scream in the skies overhead. On ocean worlds, armies march from the depths to scale the walls of defensive fortifications, smashing turrets into blood stained dust. On unguarded moons, fleets of warships bombard forces into unconditional surrender. Villages cower as the battle droids march past them, the eyes of children not taking in the sight of wonder and awe but fear and disgust.
This war offers no sanctuary for those who cannot fight for themselves. On the forest world of Kashyyyk, a planet once defended by warriors, a Separatist fleet has just touched down onto the planetary surface. This once unoccupied world was now placed firmly under the control of the droid armies that now unloaded onto the surface. The few wookies who managed to see the invasion were either just able to escape the massive deployment of weaponized garrisons or gunned down by the first wave of mechanical terrors. Legends promised of warriors that would deliver them from such plight, but that day was not today. Today was a day of the champions of war, the only ones who truly matter.
There are the conquered and the conquerors. Two such conquerors, a conqueror through show of force and a conqueror through display of cunning face off against one another on a flagship that looms over the world of green and blue below. The general and the count.
To a civilian it would seem that these warriors are tearing their blades into one another. The speed and precision of the blows just barely comprehensible to the untrained eye. The first duelist is made of polished metal. Steel that fortifies an armored carapace built to sustain the energy bolts of starfighters. The only sight visible to it's opponent, an opponent that is either brave or foolish, is a pair of golden eyes brushed with mangled flesh. Flashes of green and blue whizz past the face of this adversary, flashes that illustrate this creature's only hobby.
The collection of the spoils of war.
This collection is considerable, but for now, two war relics are more than enough for today's purpose. Two blades collected by fallen victims. Nothing less than the lightsabers of slain Jedi, a series of challenges deemed impossible just years before. Now, the Clone Wars have demonstrated that even the Jedi cannot purify themselves from the truth of mortality. The challenge was not to kill Jedi, that could be accomplished easily enough. Today's challenge was breaking through the guard employed by the instructor. This creature would not dare call this adversary "master," instead, only acknowledging his applicability to honing skill in combat. Today would be the day when this training session ended in an "unfortunate accident"
The instructor may look to be of old age. A fool would suspect that this opponent wasn't capable of displaying finesse in swordsmanship against a young man, let alone the marvelous mechanical terror that he is sparing off against. The count was graceful in his defense, never extending a blade of crimson anymore than was necessary. Red clashed with green and blue with perfect control. Instead of looking strained from this effort, the count expressed annoyance. Not at himself, but at the general.
The general may have thought that this was a challenge worth contesting, but to the count, this challenge wasn't worth the time. He was bored.
"Stop using standard attacks." The count declared, parrying two slashes. "Use the unorthodox."
The general would not respond immediately. He would allow a few precious moments to pass. Challenge this, he thought to himself. In a split second, the blue blade was airborne as a clawed foot seized it. Just as a white cape fell to the ground behind his back, the left leg climbed impossibly far forward for any living creature and slammed the blade onto the count's guard. Launching his green blade into an overhead slash that the count barely manage to block with a twist of his wrist, the general spun around and initiated a sweeping slash. The count jumped away just as the general angled his foot to project the blade upwards. The general avoided gazing at the brown cape that fanned out in the count's landing and charged forward.
"How often must I tell you!" the count bellowed, sidestepping and parrying where he could. The tone of his voice didn't convey fear or desperation, angering the general even more. Rolling and cartwheeling towards the count, the general struck at every angle. The count can't possibly dodge this attack without flawless timing, which allows the count to converse during this would-be-lethal exchange. "Control my central line!"
Favoring power over speed, the general reduced his rapid slashes in favor of two power blows. Blades passed through thin air. The count chose to side step instead of blocking
Coward, the general thought with slight amusement. Had he tried to block the count surely would have fallen to the strength employed by the durasteel limbs that directed this assault. The challenge was being forfeited. However, the count only uttered a single word.
"Good."
But in this case, "good" did not come off as a compliment. Good meant "You're sloppy and you're getting better." Such sentiment implied that the general was not perfection. He was the perfect Jedi killing machine and the count, without even sweating, merely uttered "good."
Thundering stomps charged toward the count who had amazingly closed his eyes. But this mistake was not to be capitalized on. It was not a bluff to be met. It was a trap that he unceremoniously fell into. His step went wide and the general crashed into nearby barrels of the finest wines of Serenno, the count's home. As wine leaked from the spilled barrels, the general leapt to his feet before the tainting liquid could stain his white cape. The blood of his enemies staining his cloak was a display of fear. The stain of wine was the mark of a drunk.
"Faster! Destroy my focus!" the count commanded, this time with a slightly raised voice. The audio receptors adorned to the general's headpiece captured the slightest hint of worry. It was music that fueled the resurgent charge made against the count. However, the count was all too familiar with the attacks the general launched against him.
Let him think he's winning, the count whispered in his mind. Shatter the confidence that is building up within. Propelling himself away from the attack, the count spoke one last criticism. "Your holding your saber too tightly!"
In that split second of doubt, the general's grasp weakened. His jabbing attack was countered and the blade forced away from reaching fingers. Flying into the hands of his opponent, the general was forced to feign submission.
"Now, too lightly, general." The count spoke, examining the blade of that was relinquished. The count had become all too familiar with the blades the general used both on the fields of battle and the few he stored in a private collection somewhere in the outer rim, on a base of operations that the general called home. This was not one of the blades he secured on his conquering of Hypori nor was it the blade of the slain Jedi apprentice Nahdar Vebb. This was a new one.
Voicing this out loud, the general retracted his remaining exposed lightsaber and donned it onto himself. "Your training has served me well" the general spoke with a metal voice "It has awarded me many trophies."The general was referring specifically to the lightsaber the count now held in his hand, the blade that once belonged to Tu-Anh. This jedi was unfortunate enough to investigate the planet Utapau, where she was quickly slain after falling into the general's ambush.
Far from impressed, the count took the opportunity to mock the general's confidence instead of praise him. The exercise didn't shatter his confidence, if anything, it seems to have increased it. Perhaps the general recognized the cheapness of the count's victory and recognized that his commands were distractions instead of criticisms. The count would make sure to convince the general that he still fell before him.
"Don't let your pursuit of trinkets cloud your reality." The count began, not pausing as the general retracted his white cloak over his metal frame. If it was a feeble display of size, the count didn't choose to acknowledge it. "Remember what I taught you, general, if you are to succeed in combat against the best of the Jedi. You must have fear, surprise and intimidation on your side. For if any one element is lacking it would be best for you to retreat. You must break them before you engage them. Only then will you ensure victory...and have your trophy."
The general's gaze revealed nothing. His eyes did not falter from blinking and his flesh didn't so much as twitch. Inside the general's mind could have been fantasizing about murdering the count or it could have been recalling prized memories of former conquests. The count didn't bother searching his thoughts as he did not believe that the general could possibly overcome him. No Jedi, not even Master Yoda himself, could do this. The count was perfectly poised to seize his place as conqueror, so much so that he closed his eyes and levitated the lightsaber before grievous. Waiting several moments, the general finally clasped the handle so hard that it nearly punctured the outer shell.
"Shall we begin round two, Grievous?" the count asked, igniting his red lightsaber once more and preparing a dueling stance.
"Very well, Tyrannus" the general replied. The clenched lightsaber was pulled back as a second blade was thrust forward.
Without a moment's pause for the battle that occurred just moments before, the next engagement was fought. The count's defense was raised while the general's offense was and green, two colors rallied with a desperate surge, clashed against the unyielding guard of red. The path to conquest is nothing less than the road to war.
Darkness was encroaching on Cato Neimoidia's western hemisphere, though exchanges of coherent light high above the beleaguered world ripped looming night to shreds. Well under the fractured sky, in an orchard of manax trees that studded the lower ramparts of Viceroy Gunray's majestic redoubt, companies of clone troopers and battle droids were slaughtering one another with bloodless precision. A flashing fan of blue energy lit the undersides of a cluster of trees: the lightsaber of Plo Koon.
Defending himself had become practically second nature. A jedi was not shielded when they entered combat without a lightsaber. This defensive routine is normally an easy task. It's a task he completes without high amounts of concentration. But his mind was drifting, drifting to memories that have begun to resurface. Memories on Coruscant-
More blue-trimmed security droids appeared, aiming directly at the Kel Dor. Plo Koon stood his ground, twisting his upraised blade right and left to swat blaster bolts back at his enemies.
Caught midsection by their own salvos, both droids came apart, with a scattering of alloy limbs. Plo Koon moved again. Tumbling under the segmented thorax of a Neimoidian harvester beetle, he sprang to his feet and raced forward. Explosive light shunted from the citadel's deflector shield dappled the loamy ground between the trees, casting long shadows of their buttressed trunks. Oblivious to the chaos occurring in their midst, columns of the five-meter-long harvesters continued their stalwart march toward a mound that supported the fortress. In their cutting jaws or on their upsweeping backs they carried cargoes of pruned foliage.
The crushing sounds of their ceaseless gnawing provided an eerie cadence to the rumbling detonations and the hiss and whine of blaster bolts. From off to Plo Koon's left came a sudden click of servos; to his right, a hushed cry of warning.
"Watch out!"
He dropped into a crouch even before Quinlan Vos' lips formed the final word, lightsaber aimed to the ground to keep from impaling the Jedi warrior that charged into the clearing. A blur of thrumming green energy sizzled through the humid air, followed by a sharp smell of cauterized circuitry, the tang of ozone. A blaster discharged into soft soil, then the stalked, elongated head of a battle droid struck the ground not a meter from Plo Koon's feet, sparking as it bounced and rolled out of sight, repeating: _"Roger, roger… Roger, roger_…"
In a tuck, Plo Koon pivoted on his right foot in time to see the droid's spindly body collapse. The fact that Quinlan Vos should have been a sign of reassurance. Under normal circumstances, there was little to think of. But the mishandling of affairs with Vos and Ventress was still on his mind , and Vos' blade had passed a little too close for comfort. Slightly widened eyes were shielded by the breathing mask he wore as he came to his feet. "You're fortunate I heard you."
Vos held his blade to one side. In the strobing light of battle his brown eyes shone with wry sarcastic amusement. "Sorry , Master Koon, but your head was where my lightsaber needed to go."
Vos used the honorific with such casual grace that Plo Koon's thoughts were returning to what occurred just months ago. Koon was to keep strict surveillance on Vos' progress since he was one of the more critical Jedi during the orchestrated plan to assassinate the leader of the Confederacy, Count Dooku. They had allowed their moral integrity to be compromised and their authority was questioned.
But to see this. The way that Vos carried himself it was almost as if being reinstated as a Jedi, a Jedi Master no less, wasn't something that could be put into jeopardy. Koon had the power to see that Vos was expelled once again, this time for good. It would not have been the first time a Jedi was cast out from the order in his lifetime. Returning to the present, more battle droids appeared and began firing at the two Jedi.
"If I were but a few seconds too late" Koon spoke up "My wisdom might be wasted if I was swept into oblivion by one of my allies."
"Last I checked," Vos began, deflecting a laser bolt back at a distant battle droid in a flourishing pass, "We were on the same side."
"Again" Koon added, booting another blaster bolt into the ground. "Now if you don't mind, we have a battle to win."
Plo Koon saw an opportunity and charged forward with Vos trailing close behind. They moved with the supernatural speed and grace afforded by the Force as they cleared the battlefield. Victims of the initial bombardment, scores of battle droids lay sprawled on the ground. Others dangled like broken marionettes from the branches of the trees into which they had been hurled.
Areas of the leafy canopy were in flames.
Two scorched droids little more than arms and torsos lifted their weapons as the Jedi approached but Vos only raised his left hand in a Force push that shoved the droids flat onto their a pair that was not composed of master and apprentice, they moved with surprisingly good unison They banked right, somersaulting under the wide bodies of two harvester beetles, then hurdling a tangle of barbed underbrush that had managed to anchor itself in the otherwise meticulously tended orchard. They emerged from the tree line at the shore of a broad irrigation canal, fed by a lake that delimited the Neimoidians' citadel on three sides. In the west a trio of wedge-shaped Venator-class assault cruisers hung in scudding clouds. North and east the sky was in turmoil, crosshatched with ion trails, turbolaser beams, hyphens of scarlet light streaming upward from weapons emplacements outside the citadel 's energy shield. Rising from high ground at the end of the peninsula, the tiered fastness was reminiscent of the command towers of the Trade Federation core ships, and indeed had been the inspiration for them.
Somewhere inside, trapped by Republic forces, were the Trade Federation elite. With his homeworld threatened and the purse worlds of Deko and Koru Neimoidia devastated, Viceroy Gunray would have been wiser to retreat to the Outer Rim , as other members of the Separatist Council were thought to be doing. But rational thinking had never been a Neimoidian strong suit, especially when possessions remained on Cato Neimoidia the viceroy apparently couldn't live without. Backed by a battle group of Federation warships, he had slipped onto Cato Neimoidia, intent on looting the citadel before it fell. But Republic forces had been lying in wait, eager to capture him alive and bring him to justice-thirteen years late, in the judgment of many. For while the war officially started on Geonosis, unofficially, the turmoil that has currently plagued the galaxy began with the Naboo crisis and the rediscovery of the Sith Lord, Darth Maul.
Plo Koon was just starting to realize how close the war's climax seemed to be. Perhaps in a few months it would all be over and the Republic could go about reuniting the galaxy rather than dividing it. He heard movement on the far side of the irrigation canal. An instant later, four clone troopers crept from the tree line on the opposite bank to take up firing positions amid the water-smoothed rocks that lined the ditch. Far behind them a crashed gunship was burning. Protruding from the canopy, the LAAT's blunt tail was stenciled with the eight-rayed battle standard of the Galactic Republic. A gunboat glided into view from downstream , maneuvering to where the Jedi were waiting. Standing in the bow , a clone commander named CC-3636 "Wolfe" waved hand signals to the troopers on shore and to others in the gunboat, who immediately fanned out to create a safe perimeter.
While more than comfortable communicating with one another in person or over commlink, lately the clones have taken to using hand signals so as not to reveal crucial information to the enemy. A few nimble leaps brought Wolfe face-to-face with Plo Koon and Vos. "Sirs, I have the latest from airborne command."
"Patch it through, commander," Koon replied.
"Right away, sir," Wolfe replied. He dropped to one knee, his right hand activating a device built into his left wrist gauntlet. A cone of blue light emanated from the device, and a hologram of task force commander Dodonna resolved. "Generals Koon and Vos, provincial recon unit reports that Viceroy Gunray and his entourage are making their way to the north side of the redoubt. Our forces have been hammering at the shield from above and from points along the shore, but the shield generator is in a hardened site, and difficult to get at. Gunships are taking heavy fire from turbolaser cannons in the lower ramparts. If your team is still committed to taking Gunray alive, you're going to have to skirt those defenses and find an alternative way into the palace. At this point we cannot reinforce, repeat, cannot reinforce."
Plo Koon looked at Wolfe when the hologram had faded. "Suggestions, Commander?" Wolfe made an adjustment to the wrist projector, and a 3-D schematic of the redoubt formed in midair. "Assuming that Gunray's fortress is similar to what we found on Deko and Koru, the underground levels will contain fungus farms and processing and shipment areas. There will be access from the shipping areas into the midlevel grub hatcheries, and from the hatcheries we'll be able to infiltrate the upper reaches."
Wolfe carried a short-stocked DC-15 blaster rifle and wore the white armor and imaging system helmet that had come to symbolize the Grand Army of the Republic-grown, nurtured, and trained on the remote world of Kamino, three years earlier. Just now, though, areas of white showed only where there were no smears of mud or dried blood, no gouges, abrasions, or charred patches. Wolfe's position was designated by gray markings on his helmet crest and shoulder guards; the color scheme reflected his place as a commander of the 104th battalion and the leader of the "wolfpack." His upper right arm bore stripes signifying campaigns and missions in which he had participated: Abregado, Khorm, Felucia, Loka Sayu, Kadavo, Ord Mantell and dozens of other worlds from Core to Outer Rim.
Over the years Plo Koon had formed battlefield partnerships with several clone troopers-Boost, Comet and Sinker to name a few, with whom he survived the attack of the Malevolence and discovered the remains of Sifo Dyas on Oba Diah. In the initial stages of the war, clone troopers were treated no differently from the war machines they piloted or the weapons they fired. To many they had more in common with battle droids poured by the tens of thousands from Baktoid Armor Workshops on a host of Separatist-held worlds. But attitudes began to shift as more and more troopers died. The clones' unfaltering dedication to the Republic, and to the Jedi, showed them to be true comrades in arms, and deserving of all the respect and compassion they were now afforded. It was the Jedi themselves, in addition to other progressive thinking officials in the Republic, who had urged that second and third-generation troopers be given names rather than numbers, to foster a growing fellowship. Plo Koon was among the first to help the clones recognize that they were not expendable. They were men and they had the right to be treated like men, not droids.
"It seems that we have to reach the upper levels if we want this mission to succeed," Plo Koon said at last, stroking his mask. "We'll need to reach the fungus farms without giving Gunray the chance to break away." Wolfe stood to his full height, removing his helmet to face his Jedi general. His left eye bore a lightsaber scar not dissimilar to the scar that Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker had near his left eye. But while Skywalker managed to avoid getting blinded, Wolfe's eye was seared and a cybernetic had to be installed as a replacement. Wolfe had since grown used to the change in appearance, as did Plo Koon. Wolfe pointed toward the orchards as he continued. "We go in with the harvesters and infiltrate the compound. With any luck, the Viceroy won't know we're there until it's too late." Plo Koon glanced uncertainly at Vos and motioned him off to one side. "The success of this mission depends on us, it seems."
"I think you worry too much, Plo" Vos jabbed, "You need to start looking forward to our briefing where we report our success to the council." This only resulted in Plo Koon folding his arms across his chest.
"Forgive me for not sharing your optimism" Plo Koon remarked with a tinge of sarcasm.
Vos canted his head and grinned. "We are making progress."
"Perhaps if by progress you mean military advancement. The amount of progress we have made is only indicated by the speed at which we are ending this war."
"Think what you will."
Plo Koon narrowed his eyes behind his mask as Vos made a wave at him. The Kiffar Jedi began to evaluate the holographic layout of the fortress ahead. Plo Koon steadied his eyes at him carefully. He wondered if Vos was actually recovering or if he was putting up a persona of confidence to please the members of the council. There was something familiar at how Vos carried himself. He walked with confidence that he would be able to reclaim his place as a Jedi. If there were any doubts in his mind, Plo Koon didn't detect any of them.
He wondered if a certain togruta he rescued years ago, back when the Jedi were peacekeepers providing wisdom and justice, was carrying herself the same way that Vos was. Once more his thoughts returned to Coruscant where he recalled the last words he spoke to her.
"You have our most humble apologies, little Soka. The council was wrong to accuse you."
Were they wrong to allow Quinlan Vos to reclaim himself as a Jedi? Were they wrong to attempt to assassinate Count Dooku? How much was done right during the Clone Wars?
These thoughts gave Plo Koon no comfort.