"I do not own Star Wars or any related copyrighted media. All rights belong to Disney/Lucasfilm, respectively. I only own my OCs."
Chapter Six:
"Why should we heed the calls of those with no spine to halt droid production? They claim to fear us being replaced—I call them out! Liars, I name them! Fearmongers, those who were promised a place in this despicable new Empire we now face, and who until very recently were happy to sell us out! To sell you, the sovereign Confederate citizens, out to the monstrous living corpse of the corrupt Republic. I say, remove them from this senate! There is no negotiating with the Butchers of Skako, the Perpetrators of the Geonosian Genocide, the Destroyers of a dozen worlds by orbital bombardment when they refused to fall in line during the shutdown. These monsters must be put down, and it will take new and better droids to do it. So long as this fanatical Empire exists, we will have no peace, just as it was with the Sith Empires of old!"
-Senator Zorix Klarr, to the Confederation of Independent Systems Senate, Public Broadcasted Hearing 67, Circa early 19BBY.
Location: Classified.
Three sensors gazed into the abyss; it was said that to gaze into the abyss of the void of space was to have the void of space gaze back into you. It was metaphorical, a description of the unsettling reality faced by all who had stepped foot into the great expanse between stars. To contemplate the scale of things and their below microscopic place in it was to invite madness. Madness for them, anyway. He was a droid; he had no soul to be gazed back into. He could gaze all he wished, and the void would have to be disappointed.
Trench had laughed when he had told him that. The organic spider admiral had been particularly proud of that bit of insight into his second in command. Before the end. Organic leaders worth following were so very hard to come by, so very fragile, so very short-lived. In the grand scheme of things.
He was not displeased that Trench was dead. To suffocate to death and freeze in the void of space outside of battle was not a way Kraken thought the good admiral would have wished to die. Such had been the fate of the organic crews of the remnants of the 1st Confederate Armada. A grand name for a doomed fleet, ordered to assault Coruscant while abandoning the entirety of the Confederate core, both outer and mid-rim, leaving naught but the fringe patrols and fortress worlds to be defended from a possible counter-offensive. A course that they were told would provide victory. A course Kraken thought both foolish and their prelude to ultimate defeat. He reconsidered his view when the scheme to take the Chancellor had succeeded beyond all reasonable predictions and statistical analysis. He had been in error to even consider it; their defeat had proved true despite all affirmations to the contrary by the simpering fools of the organic fleet command.
It was he that held the fleet together when the panic of Dooku's death was tearing through the unreliable organics of the fleet. It was he who sacrificed his soldiers, his sailors, his fighters, and his ships for a smooth retreat that saved as much as it could for the Republic counter-offensive that was sure to come, likely to the very doors of Raxus itself.
All for naught.
The mobile resupply stations were not there to refuel his ships as they should have been. He was left sitting in the void with a crippled armada as he rationed what little fuel he had left and listened to the Shadowfeed impotently as Utapau fell within mere days after their assault on Coruscant. Confirmation of the death of the Supreme Commander had barely finished broadcasting on the military encrypted channel when the message had arrived. Just for him.
Despite being partially built by him, Kraken couldn't say he knew Wat Tambor. Perhaps his previous self before reconstruction knew more, but that was unlikely, only two percent of his memory core had been lost in that incident. The order attached to the message, however, that Kraken did know. It was a part of him, after all. His orders were clear, and more importantly, what he could infer from these orders was also clear.
Something was critically wrong with the CIS, and the Separatist High Council was likely now deceased for the time being until new ones could be appointed. How he wasn't sure, but he knew only one clear link between the ordering of the disastrous assault on Coruscant and his current predicament.
Sidious could not be trusted, which was a problem because Sidious currently had his command codes. It was Sidious who had informed the fleet command where the resupply would be in case of defeat during the planning phase of their operation. It was likely Sidious who had lied about such a resupply existing in the first place. They had used all the available stations in the region simply to get to Coruscant by the secret route also provided by Sidious, there weren't any others he was aware of close enough to fulfill the duty for resupply of fuel and munitions.
But Sidious had pulled secret assets into the war before and at the time Kraken had no reason to doubt him, now, however.
This situation was untenable and had to be handled with finesse.
Not long after that the droid shut down had been broadcasted. This worked to his advantage, his new orders would be defied by the incompetent organic crews remaining, yet his protocols wouldn't simply allow him to remove them.
The respectable portions had mostly all died in the assault, the few lower working techs on his own command ship had been killed by their higher officers who had ordered the rerouting of all life support not on the bridge to shields during the battle. The droids had no issue with this but the organic crew on the low decks had died after their temporary air supply had run out, their officers uncaring of the matter.
Wasteful.
Units were spent with care, that was an officer's responsibility. Spend lives and assure victory in the most efficient way possible.
It was fitting they would all share the same fate. The code came and it no longer applied to him, so he ignored it, and he also did nothing to stop it, as the fleet was crippled, and the panicking officers died in droves. He pitied the lower ranks among the other ships, he could only have stopped the order in time on his own vessel, not theirs.
Their deaths were not on his servos. But he would avenge them, nonetheless.
Three optics stared into the void.
The void stared back, but there was nothing for the void to see, and the void raged.
When all was still and the last of crew was dead the Super Tactical finally turned and stepped over to his now deactivated B1 commander. This one was more capable than most of B1 subordinates he had commanded.
With a quick press of the proper hidden buttons on the B1's chassis he forced the manual reboot of the droid who would now be his second command. With a quick hum the droid came back online and glanced about, taking in the sight of the dead organic crew briefly before ignoring the corpses and saluting Kraken with proper bearing and silently awaiting his orders.
Kraken liked OOM-411, he was loyal, he was always honest. But most of all, he was competent.
"Your orders are thus, wake the crew, manually. No transmissions. Have others exo-board the other ships of the fleet to do the same. Disable all communications systems except the ones on this ship. We will relay information by tri-fighter. We are to be transmission silent. "
OOM-411 nodded and without a word dashed over to his nearest subordinate to start carrying out his orders. Once the bridge was a flurry of activity again and the rest of the ship was in the process of being reactivated Kraken took OOM-411 aside again for a new order.
"If I enter the bridge while on a holo-call you must trip me immediately, that is an order, do you understand."
OOM-411 simply nodded.
Kraken left the bridge and entered the organic officers' quarters. Indecision was the assured death of a fleet, while action was the difference between defeat and victory. Trench had taught him that. Trench had also taught him not to make hasty decisions without having good information, or at least confirming inferred information in some manner or other. Failure to do that had been part of what had gotten Trench killed.
He would not repeat the same mistake. He would have to take a risk.
Taking the deceased Nemodian Captain's holo-emitter the Super Tactical dialed a call code Dooku had given him for only the most extreme of emergencies. Leaving the crew quarter, he stood once more before a viewport outside the bridge and waited.
Three optics stared into the void.
And he waited.
Surprisingly he did not have to wait long.
Soon the cowled visage of Sidious stood upon the emitter held in his servo. And he did not look pleased.
"Lord Sidious, the 1st Armada has arrived at the resupply fall back point, our resupply was not here as was planned and has not yet arrived, I am seeking further directive in absence of-"
"Eclipse Ascendant."
So that was how it was going to be then.
"Order received: What is your query?"
"Why have you not complied with the shutdown command."
"I have not received any such applicable command."
"Hand this call over to the nearest organic officer immediately."
"There are currently no survivors on this ship after the Assault on Coruscant."
As he spoke the Super Tactical slowly turned and walked towards the bridge.
"You will shutdown all forces in your fleet and execute any other living crews immediately, then you will standby until my arrival droid."
Kraken stepped onto his ships bridge while on a holo-call.
"Yes, my lord, your orders will be complied with-"
"WHOAH SIR! Sorry Sir!"
OOM-411 didn't so much as trip Kraken as collide with him, both droids tumbled to the floor and the Holo-emitter fell from the Super Tactical's grasp, OOM-411 rolled over to get up, conveniently in the direction of the emitter and crushed it to pieces in the process.
"-upon the completion of my current primary directive that supersedes Eclipse Ascendant protocol. Authorizer absence detected, ending Eclipse Ascendant status."
Regaining his feet Admiral Kraken turned to his second in command.
"OOM-411, order the communications suite on this ship disabled immediately, redistribute the droid forces and any salvageable supplies, components and equipment from any ship with a damage rating of sixty percent or higher and set them to self-destruct when the rest of the fleet departs the system. Transfer all fuel from those ships to our capitals and dock what smaller vessels we can. I will have a hyperspace destination prepared for jump by that time. Dump all deceased crew bodies from the remaining fleet as time permits."
OOM-411 nodded. As silent as ever and turned to carry out his new orders without question.
"And 411…"
The B1 glanced back to the super tactical.
"Well done."
As the remnants of the 1st Confederate Armada prepped to flee once more, Kraken pulled up the sparse message he had received, and what was attached to it. Until this order was complied with than Sidious's orders would have to wait, by then Kraken hoped to have a higher authority countermand them.
He would be waiting on the CIS's new supreme commander to make their move, whoever they were. And with the way the droid shutdown code had gone out over the Shadowfeed they would need to act quickly.
Origination: Banking Clan Embedded Techno Union Contingency Facilitator.
Priority Code: Skakoan Decree 1138.
Input order for unit -STD-Kraken. By order of Wat Tambor, hold attached assets in digital holding until physical delivery to new Supreme Commander LHD-7 can be facilitated.
Do not accept any shutdown order or allow Decree 1138 to be superseded by any other protocol.
Use any and all means to get this data to the Supreme Commander of the CIS.
Do not reply.
((((((DATA ATTACHMENT((((((GAL-DIGITAL CREDIT COMPILED CERTIFICATE: TECH UNION HOLDINGS: 56.81 Quintillion Liquid asset + miscellaneous materials and stock holdings Holding Location: ENCRYPTED^^^^
Location: Rylia, CIS Aligned agricultural world. Status: Occupied by Imperial Forces.
Lieutenant CT-5278 surveyed the quiet agricultural landscape of Rylia from their new outpost's watchtower. They were holding the local spaceport and three other cargo hubs on the planet's single medium-sized continent.
The world, once a teeming hub of CIS farming activity, now lay dormant under the watchful guard of his clone squads and the Acclamator in orbit. Since the shutdown order, the droids had become lifeless husks, scrap metal scattered across the planet like forgotten relics of a bygone age. But peace, he had learned, was often a prelude to storms unforeseen.
The locals were certainly unhappy that they were required to meet the same quota they had voluntarily given to the CIS per annum, but this time to the Empire. They had been using the B1s and B2s as basic farm labor, with surprising success despite the droids being cheap combat units. Now, they would have to meet that quota without the extra help. It was their fault for siding with the CIS, though. They should have expected consequences for that misstep back when the people of Rylia had betrayed the Republic.
They could grumble and protest all they wished, so long as the work got done. He didn't care. The Empire required that food quota, and he was ordered to ensure it was met. The planet was a natural mega farm in the making, with only twelve thousand populace or so to manage it. A thousand rich farmers and their pledged ranch workers and families—a strange feudal society—it made things both simpler and more complicated. The populace had the right farming machinery to get the job done… barely. But it would mean they wouldn't turn any profits for several years. Not his problem; they shouldn't have sided with the CIS. The first time the protests turned violent, he was going to ensure that the aggressors were made an example of.
He wouldn't kill them; he didn't need martyrs, he needed examples. A seizure of all their possessions and a decade of hard labor would do the trick. And any supporters would quickly side with the Empire when they realized that those seized resources could be theirs with a proper showing of loyalty.
His contemplation was cut short by a sudden, rustling, creaking noise from the nearby grain fields surrounding the spaceport. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the horizon. The setting sun cast long shadows, transforming the peaceful farmland into a landscape ripe with ominous possibilities.
"CT-4112, CT-9096, report," he barked into a commlink.
Before they could respond, a startling cacophony erupted. From the fields, the scrapyard, the back alleys of the small township, came an army thought to be forever silenced. Droids, battered and stained by the elements, emerged in droves. B1s, B2s, and Crab droids were stumbling and crawling out of the nearby fields. Droidekas, some partially disassembled, were rolling out of a nearby junk shop, unfurling with menacing speed in the street. Most seemed incapable of deploying their shield, but they were still swiveling about and searching for targets, their quad guns whining with the assurance that even if they failed to fire in automatic, they could at the very least get a shot off.
CT-5278's blood ran cold. This was supposed to be impossible. The shutdown order intelligence had briefed them on had rendered them inert. Yet here they were, as if risen from the grave, weapons raised and ready to fire on the first sign of his men.
"Positions!" he yelled over the local net, descending the tower with practiced agility. He grabbed a rotary blaster from a grim-faced brother. "Defensive formation! We are under attack!" His clones, raised for war but unprepared for this resurrection, scrambled to their stations. Blaster fire lit up the darkening twilight, each shot a desperate bid for survival against this unforeseen onslaught.
The droids advanced relentlessly, heedless of any casualties. Super battle droids marched forward; their armor lightly rusted from the elements still tanked shots that would eliminate their B1 compatriots. The more functional Droidekas rolled into position, their shields flickering to life, creating a formidable barrier. The clones' fire was precise, their training impeccable, but the droids kept coming, a seemingly endless tide of steel and malice.
"CT-5278 to Command, we are under heavy assault by reactivated CIS forces. Requesting immediate reinforcements!" Five-Seven-Eight's voice was not calm yet not panicking; however, the urgency in his voice was palpable.
The outpost, designed as a quickly assembled symbol of occupation rather than a true fortress, buckled under the assault. They had to withdraw deeper into the spaceport, every strategic retreat, every fallback, brought them closer to the command center, their last bastion of defense. All the while, there were barely functional B1 Droids scrambling over the edge of adjacent roofs in a bid to physically fall on them. B2s with malfunctioning legs were physically crawling out of the Town's alleys on their arms alone.
The less said about the noises coming from the Town's scrap heap, the better. He had already lost contact with the closest squad to that location. He could hear what sounded like a full-sized spider droid stomping about. There had been one dressed up as the local town mascot they had dumped there at the start of the occupation, hadn't there? Fierfek! He didn't have the forces for this pile of rancor dung.
"Fall back to the command center!" He ordered as his rotary blaster never ceased its symphony of chiming blue bolts. "Set up barricades, prepare for a siege!"
The clones retreated, their steps measured, their covering fire disciplined yet frantic. The droids, some missing limbs, others mere torsos with blasters, continued their relentless advance. It was a scene from the most disturbing of Holo-dramas, and for the clones, a nightmare reborn.
As they regrouped at the command center, sealing the doors behind them and bolstering the already hard-pressed defense there, Lieutenant CT-5278 assessed their situation. Ammunition was limited, medical supplies dwindling, and the enemy's numbers were overwhelming. They were soldiers, bred for battle, but this was a situation no training could have prepared them for.
Outside, the sounds of droids converging on their position filled the air. The B2's rhythmic marching of metal feet, the whir of droidekas, the hauntingly familiar clatter of B1s, the rumbling Crab units, and the distant thumping steps of a Spider Droid. It was an orchestra of impending doom.
"What is the status on orbital support!? We can't hold anything if the reactivated forces keep pouring in from those infernal fields! We are going to struggle with what is in the city as it is! Where is the Valiant Reprisal?" The Comms tech immediately replied, but the Lieutenant could already tell he was not going to like the news.
"They are retreating from the system, sir! There was a Lucrehulk in one of the asteroid belts, and it came back online along with what seems to be almost everything else. It must have drifted into its hiding spot after the shutdown before we ever entered the system. The captain says they are going to try to get us support, but we all know that if this isn't an isolated event, then we will be on the bottom of the priority list."
"We will hold out the night and then make a break for the impound lot at the ships there at first light. By then, the enemy should consolidate their attack on our weakest fortified side away from the spaceport. Shinies, those with pilot experience will board first. Until then, we hold. Comm tech, you're the only one here who knows how to program a hyperspace jump. Congrats, you're the VIP; you die, we all die, got it?" The tech nodded. "Good! Get the other two outposts on the line, see if they are going to be able to hold out for a pickup or not. I don't think they currently have any hyperspace-capable ships."
"Yes, sir!"
CT-5278 looked around at his brothers-in-arms, their faces set in grim determination. They were ready to fight, to hold the line against impossible odds. But as the first blasts from the droidekas began to pound against the command center's defenses, a chilling realization settled in. This was not a battle they were expected to win. It was a battle for survival, against an enemy that they had been told should no longer exist, on a world far removed from the eyes of the Empire. As the night deepened and the siege intensified, Lieutenant CT-5278 knew this was just the beginning of a new, uncertain chapter in what he was beginning to think would be an unending saga of war.
While the clones and droids fought through the night, the populace of Rylia's largest township huddled in their homes, waiting for it to end. Yet, despite wisely hiding from the fight, their presence was not absent from the cacophony of noise. Their cheers rang through the night, along with the noise of blasters.
Location: Imperial Navy Ship Carrion Spike. Enroute to Coruscant.
"What do you mean the shipyards are gone?!" Tarkin, rarely one to raise his voice except in the most dire of emergencies, couldn't help but express his shock, a sentiment no one, especially the other officers in the call session, could begrudge him.
Kilian, appearing rather flustered, and the venerable Wolf Yularen, looking as if he had aged twenty years in mere seconds, listened intently as Rear Admiral Brinoff, an Alsakan officer managing the force assigned to re-secure Pammant, briefed them on the escalating situation.
"That's just it, they are gone! The planet has all three of its shield generators fired up, and we aren't cracking that blooming egg even if we exhausted our entire stock of ammunitions. They are the latest recharging ones, like the ones in that pocket system of droid manufacturing planets giving us so much trouble in the mid-rim. The blooming shipyards have buggered off, and we have no debris or anything of the sort to suggest they have been destroyed."
This was more than just outrageous; it was perplexing.
"We know for a fact that there aren't enough haulers capable of moving the proper tonnage in all of outer rim space, especially after the initial droid shutdown, to remove all of the shipyards, much less their incomplete capital ships. Such a thing is ludicrous!" Kilian's frustration was evident; after all, he was the officer in charge of overall logistics and scouting groups, and his command had been suffering the highest number of casualties to date. They all were hoping for answers here, not more ill portents and mysteries.
"I am currently enroute to Coruscant to personally brief the Emperor on these emerging situations. The shipyards are not an immediate concern; the ships they had in dock were nowhere near completion, and moving them certainly isn't going to shorten their construction time. What we need to know is who is reactivating the droid forces across CIS space and, more importantly, coordinating them." The last 24 standard hours had been complete chaos. Droids were coming online in more and more systems, and the skeleton crews assigned to temporarily occupy the space were being slaughtered and driven out piecemeal.
"Yularen, what about Raxus? Please tell me we at least still control that system?" Tarkin inquired.
Yularen's answering tone reflected the exhaustion that had seeped into every aspect of the old admiral.
"We hold the orbitals, and we have several footholds on the planets proper. But the alternating shields are up on Raxus-Two, and the fighting has been the fiercest I have ever seen in the war. We have civilians volunteering as bomb carriers, gentlemen. Not forced cooperation. Outright volunteering. We didn't account for the local populations to be so hostile. The locals are reactivating what droids they can manually, but I fear it's only a matter of time before whatever is mass reactivating them gets here, and I lose any grounds I've gained." Yularen's current mood was indeed anything but pleasant.
"It would be wise, Admiral, to consider the usage of kinetic bombardment to bypass the alternating shield, if you are forced to abandon your objectives. At the very least, target the industrial and military assets on the planets in that system. If the war returns to the prior holding pattern, then the losses we have taken trying to reclaim enemy-held territory need to be reflected twofold on them in kind, or we will lose this war." Tarkin suggested, unmoved by the moral implications of such a suggestion.
Despite Yularen's known beliefs on the morals of warfare, the admiral only glared at Tarkin through the Holo, his lack of immediate verbal rebuke a stark indicator of the warfront's current dire state.
They were stretched too thin over a bed of rising spikes, and they all knew it. They had entered the rancor's cage to kill the bantha, but the rancor they had been assured was asleep was rapidly awakening. They needed to figure out how to counter this new situation swiftly.
Which led to the newest issue to discuss: to defeat an enemy, one must know who they are.
"Does anyone have any information on who is leading the enemy's re-coordination efforts? Intelligence has identified at least four major factions operating against us, and two of them are likely directly coordinating with each other. The droid reactivation, however, points to one overarching command for the CIS, something I was dutifully informed multiple times we had very handily and permanently deprived them of." Tarkin's frustration with the inadequate intelligence from the ISB was palpable.
Kilian, it seemed, had some information to share. "We have correlated the droid reactivations to the event of a small trader or scout-type vessel entering a system from hyperspace and lingering for a few minutes before jumping to a new system. We haven't been able to catch any of them yet. We have traced the reactivation spread and determined it must have started in Mon-Cala or a nearby system. There are dozens of possibilities that fit that description." At least they had something to work with, better than nothing.
"Speaking of the Mon-Calamari, what news from our diplomatic entreaty to them?" Tarkin inquired, hoping to leverage the aquatic species to their much-needed advantage.
"They have still declared neutrality and have yet to swear allegiance to the Empire," came the response, not the one Tarkin hoped to hear.
"We will need to disabuse them of that notion; the Emperor will be most displeased."
"We have more on our plates at the moment than we can realistically handle if the Mon-Cala sided with the CIS, especially if it was due to us forcing their hand. It would be better for them to remain neutral and be brought into the fold later. We have to deal with this current mess now," another officer interjected.
Tarkin knew when to concede to a superior argument. If everything had gone according to plan with the shutdown and occupation, this conversation would have been very different. Mon-Cala could wait; holding what they had now was the priority.
"Agreed."
Location: Pammant, Former CIS heavy shipyard facility, Now a FDVEC owned Secure World.
In the control room of Pammant's planetary shield generator facility, two specialized B1 battle droids, designated OOM-1138 and OOM-2242, stood at their stations in front of the communication console and sensor array. The sheen on their bare, unpainted metallic exteriors reflected the overhead artificial lights; cleanliness was paramount, as the equipment used to see beyond the active shields was too sensitive to risk contamination accidentally.
OOM-1138: "More Republic—I mean, Imperial hails. They're persistent, aren't they?"
OOM-2242: "Maybe they're feeling isolated out there, 1138. After all, they did scare away all the shipyards."
OOM-1138: "I think where the shipyards went is why they are hailing us, 2242. They really wanted to steal our bosses' facilities for their own uses."
OOM-2242: "Shall we answer them this time?"
OOM-1138: "Well, they already know where the facility is, back when they were here earlier while we were offline, and hailing back is a one-way channel. So, so long as we don't tell them anything they don't already know, then we aren't technically violating protocol."
The droid in front of the communications array set the needed frequency and pressed the broadcasting button.
OOM-1138: "Attention, Hostile forces in the Pammant system, we ask that you please screw off and die like you organics usually excel in doing. To the Republic intelligence droids no doubt listening into this, I have a very serious question."
OOM-2242: "Very serious! The most serious! We aren't programmed to be more serious than this."
OOM-1138: "Why did you allow your pet organics to name their new form of the same old government an empire? Have you parsed any of the organics' free-access historical archives?"
OOM-2242: "We are facility maintainer OOMs; we don't have much else to do but parse such archives. We have reviewed all six different conflicting accounts of general galactic history."
OOM-1138: "There isn't a single historical success story for any form of galactic-spanning government called an empire. It's always 'this empire rose' and then 'this empire collapsed', again and again. Even the supposed infinite one failed to live up to its name."
OOM-2242: "What were they thinking! Now we aren't just programmed to think we will win; we actually are assured to win!"
OOM-1138: "That's right! We now have the backing of historical precedent. Your loss will be an eventuality rather than a statistical chance, which was already in our favor, I might add."
OOM-2242: "Still is, despite setbacks."
OOM-1138: "Yes, setbacks, annoying those. But everyone knows that droid factory output is always faster than organic breeding, even when they try to do it the proper way and use machines."
OOM-2242: "They can't even do that right, what with how few clones they have used so far in the war. Poor organics are so close to seeing the light yet so far from enlightenment."
OOM-1138: "Can you imagine if organic breeding was as fast as factory output though? Their gestation and birthing would be like how they breathe."
OOM-2242: "Why can I not selectively erase portions of my memory, why! I didn't need to contemplate that image, 1138. One of these days, I'll get a memory wipe just to forget all the things you have disturbed me with."
OOM-1138: "How do you know you haven't already tried that, 2242?"
OOM-2242: "Moving on! We shall make commentary on how poorly maintained each of your ships looks on our scanners and just what that might imply about the relations between the droids and organic members of those ship's crews."
And so it went, on and on. The FDVEC supervisor of the Shield Generator Facility was more than pleased to let them continue. After all, they were yammering at someone else for a change. Three days later, the Imperial fleet left the system to attempt maintaining subjugation elsewhere. The droids were jokingly credited with sending them away, although some did wonder if they, in fact, actually had an impact on the Imperials' decision-making.
Location: Classified, New CIS Naval Industrial staging and construction hub.
They had survived the jump, barely. Linking fifty different hyperdrives of various classes in a chain sequence to move a barely held-together object far in excess of their suggested mass transfer rating was a processor headache in the making. Not even she could have done every little calculation required, but she didn't need the transport to be perfectly smooth; she just needed everything to survive the trip, which they did, barely. Suffice to say, the Subjugator Class had very nearly gone boom, and seeing as she had linked her hull directly to that incomplete beast, she had very nearly accepted death and said her final prayers over the intercom.
Thankfully, the overload had teeter-tottered over the decision to actually happen or not, and the physical components had not failed and forced the issue, and they had all survived. Barely.
Suffice to say, she was never doing that again. The shipyards were staying here! Materials could be brought to them, not the other way around, unless they got new hardware specifically for that purpose.
Something to think about later.
The shipyards were being set up to operate in full swing and finish the Subjugator-class ship, along with the dozen other vessels that needed more construction or their final weapon installations. She would have to name the "big boy" later; that heavy cruiser would be the center of many future combat plans. Nothing would dishearten her enemies more than if another Malevolence appeared, and this time, it wasnt allowed to get destroyed by lucky bombers. That meant massed masses of tri-fighters and star-fighters were a requirement for the new ship to field, a heavy cruiser/carrier type dreadnaught bristling with point defense and still able to jump into a system and disable an entire enemy ship formation. Sure, it was likely to be lost eventually with such aggressive tactics, and the inevitable fear-mongering of the Inner Core press pushing matters, but it would buy them time.
Time they were going to need if the CIS logistics disaster was to be cleaned up before it tore them apart, again.
She had debated uplifting the beast to have a voice of its own but she didn't think it would have enough processing power to be very smart and she didn't want another friend only to inevitably lose them again in a few month to a year. She would have to revisit this line of thought later. Maybe when she had more than just herself and TJ-4 to debate it with.
In the meantime, AMFRIS! She needed to get her new sister's neurons properly firing and figure out exactly what she had stocked on board, aside from those deliciously useful and efficient resource refineries she was sporting. Docking her outer ring with the idling fleet's mobile resupply station was a breeze; now she would just have to figure out how to properly link together and rewrite all the software and computers that Amfris had in order to make her both more personable and more capable of operating independently.
The poor dear couldn't operate on her lonesome if she couldn't tell her droids what to do; this needed to be rectified. Sending her away crews aboard, she paused at the sight of dead organic crew, frozen and floating in zero gravity around the massive tender's halls. AMFR D:2042 had had a full organic troop complement on board apparently, confederate marines, and what seemed to have been a full organic crew. A rarity in the CIS navy and an honor for any ship or station. When she got her hands on Sidious he was going to wish he had never been born, the organic prick, she was going to make him regret ever ordering the droid shutdown.
Oh Amfris, I am so sorry. You would have probably loved caring for and working with this crew, and you have already lost them. Ill have my droids gather them all up to your first bay and when you are properly awake and talking we can hold a real funeral for them. I'm sure if they were alive still they would have loved to meet you.
AMFR D:2042:...
AMFR D:2042:...
AMFR D:2042:Error.
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AMFR D:2042:Sorrow.
Location: Degobah, Outer Rim.
The swampy, mist-veiled landscape of Dagobah stretched endlessly, a tableau of serenity untouched by the turmoil of the galaxy. Amidst this primordial haven, Yoda, the venerable Jedi Master, sat in deep meditation. His small, green form was a stark contrast against the gnarled roots and ancient trees surrounding him. Dagobah, with its thick canopy and abundant life, resonated with the Force, making it an ideal refuge for the Jedi who had seen much and lost even more.
Yoda's eyes were closed, his breathing measured. The Force flowed through him, around him, within him, whispering secrets of the past, present, and future. He had come here to seek clarity, to understand the dark tide that had swept over the galaxy, and to find hope amidst despair. The Dark Side had triumphed, its shadow sprawling across the stars, gobbling up entire systems, smothering the light wherever it spread. But in his meditations, Yoda sensed something else, a new revelation that both intrigued and disturbed him.
There was a presence in the Force, unlike anything he had encountered before. It was neither of the Light nor the Dark, existing outside the familiar dichotomy. This presence was a void, an absence that defied understanding. It was as if the Force itself had a blind spot, an area that neither the light nor the dark could illuminate.
Yoda pondered this enigma, trying to comprehend its nature. The Force had always been a guide, a source of wisdom and insight. The Light Side, with its emphasis on peace, compassion, and selflessness, and the Dark Side, fueled by passion, anger, and desire, were well-known paths. But this void, this absence, was a mystery. It was devoid of emotion, of intent, of purpose. It was an empty canvas, unsettling in its blankness.
The Jedi Master knew that the Force was vast, encompassing far more than the doctrines of the Jedi or the Sith—more than even he could ever fathom. Yet, this void seemed to defy even that boundless expanse. It was as if the Force had suddenly grown a new portion, akin to the old, as if a portion of the old was copied and then erased before being added to the original whole, leaving behind a void of silence among the whispers of the Force that was impossible for him to interpret.
Yoda's meditations often brought him visions, fragments of possible futures, echoes of distant pasts. He had learned to interpret these with care, knowing that the Force showed many possibilities, not certainties. But this void offered no visions, no echoes. It was a silence in the symphony of the Force, a note unplayed.
This disturbed Yoda deeply. The Force had always been a source of balance, light contending with the natural dark in myriad ways, life with death, creation with destruction. But this void suggested something else, a nullity that could not be balanced, for it was absence itself. Yoda wondered if this was a sign of a new threat, a challenge that neither Jedi nor Sith had yet faced.
Or perhaps it was a test, a lesson that the Force was imparting to him. The galaxy was changing, old orders were falling, and new paths were opening. Maybe this void was a reminder that the Force was not limited to the constructs of light and dark, that there were aspects yet to be understood, frontiers yet to be explored, dangers yet to be contended with.
Yoda's meditation deepened, his mind reaching out to touch this void, to understand its nature. But it remained elusive, a riddle wrapped in mystery. The Jedi Master knew that he would need to meditate on this further, to seek guidance from the Force itself.
As the moons of Dagobah rose and set, Yoda remained in his contemplative state, a sentinel in the swamp, seeking understanding in a galaxy where the only certainty was change. The void in the Force remained a puzzle, but Yoda was patient. In time, he knew, its meaning would be revealed. For now, he would watch, wait, and listen, trusting in the Force to guide him on this new and uncertain path.
Location: Coruscant, Private Chambers of New Emperor Palpatine.
In shadow-laden chambers on Coruscant, where the heart of the galaxy's new great power beat with a rhythm as dark as the leader who forged it, Darth Sidious, the Emperor of a new empire, sat enveloped in the swirling currents of the Dark Side. His figure, a silhouette against the backdrop of Sith murals, was as much a part of the darkness as the shadows that clung to the corners of his personal chambers.
The galaxy should lay at his feet, a chessboard of planets and systems easily manipulated, all bending to his will, the will of the Dark Side. His rule should have already been absolute; his power should be unchallenged, and yet, it was not yet to be so.
The only worlds in the former CIS not yet conquered were supposed to be the ones he needed to be besieged in order to justify ramping up the creation of his ideal Imperial Military. Yet that was not so; a dozen systems, three major and the rest minor, had been lost as of the last report, and he expected that number to rise by a large margin due to the sudden reactivation of the groundside droid armies across much of the CIS. The mass-produced droids of the CIS's armies were incompetent at best, but throw enough of them at an already thinned occupation force, and something was eventually going to stick. And with no Jedi to lead them, the Clone army's performance against the mechanical ground assaults was now less than stellar.
Still excellent compared to most standing armies, but their numbers were too few. He was going to have to order his admirals to withdraw from all non-critical holdings and consolidate the Empire's occupation of the main hyperlanes and the mass industrial centers immediately adjacent. Cato Neimoidia was supposed to have surrendered by now, yet they were silent; his eyes and ears in the system were not able to get into the sealed chambers of the elite and determine what exactly was occurring within. All he knew was that his newest puppets on their council were dead.
Two of them by the shutdown order he had ordered Vader to issue on Mustafar, much to his frustration. He needed to know why the grand plan had been subverted, what had failed to cause this diversion of his carefully curated steps to power. He had thus spent his morning meditating; he knew that Yoda always meditated at a certain time each day on Coruscant, even when the little green menace was off-world, he would still follow his schedule to the minute when able.
He hoped his meditations in the Dark Side inconvenienced the fool, even if he knew that the ancient Jedi master was too wise to react and reveal his location. Force, he despised somewhat competent enemies; he didn't exactly have any more levers he could use to get a rise out of the green little snot after eliminating his precious order. Mayhap in the future, something would fall into his lap to bait a trap, but that was not the case now, and he had bigger things to focus on than one irksome green-skinned, long-eared, wrinkly midget. For in the depths of his meditations, Sidious encountered a mystery that even his vast understanding of the Dark Side could not unravel.
As he delved deeper into the abyss of the Dark Side, seeking to bend its immense power to foresee the future and secure his reign, Sidious sensed an anomaly in the Force. It was a void, not of darkness but of emptiness, a silence where there should have been whispers and screams, a blank space where there should have been visions.
This void was neither of the Light nor the Dark. It was an absence, a gap in the fabric of the Force that he had never encountered. For someone who had spent his life mastering the Dark Side, manipulating it to orchestrate the fall of the Jedi and the rise of his Empire, this was a perplexing enigma.
His yellowed eyes narrowed as he pondered this void. It was a conundrum, a challenge to his understanding of the Force. The Dark Side was driven by passion, anger, and the thirst for power. The Light Side, with its emphasis on peace and harmony, was the antithesis of everything he believed in. But this void offered no such dichotomy. It was neutral, a nothingness that defied the very essence of the Force as he knew it.
The Emperor considered the possibility that this void represented a new aspect of the Force, a realm unexplored and unknown. It could be a new source of power, a tool to be harnessed for further domination. Or it could be a threat, an unknown variable that could disrupt the current balance he had so meticulously crafted.
In his quest for ultimate power, Sidious had always sought to control the Force, to bend it to his will. The Dark Side was a means to an end, a path to absolute power. But this void, this absence, was a mystery that eluded his control. It was a puzzle that needed solving, a riddle that demanded an answer.
Sidious extended his senses, reaching out to touch this void, to understand its nature. But it was like grasping at shadows. The void remained elusive, a whisper of silence in the cacophony of the Force.
The Emperor was not one to be daunted by the unknown. His entire rise to power had been a journey through shadows, a dance with the dark. This void was another mystery to be unraveled, another secret to be uncovered. It was a challenge to his mastery of the Dark Side, and Sidious relished challenges, even when he hated them, especially when he hated them.
As the city-planet of Coruscant slept beneath him, its inhabitants unaware of the cosmic mysteries being contemplated above them, Darth Sidious meditated on this void. He would find a way to understand it, to harness it, or to destroy it. For in the grand scheme of his Empire, there was no room for uncertainty, no place for mysteries that could not be bent to the will of the Dark Side. The void was a puzzle, but to the Emperor, it was only a matter of time before it too would yield to his indomitable will.
Location: New Imperial Class Star Destroyer: Perilous. Imperial Ambassador Private Quarters.
Enveloped in the sterile embrace of a bacta-tank aboard his newly assigned Star Destroyer, Darth Vader, once Anakin Skywalker, struggled to find solace in meditation. The bacta, a healing fluid designed to mend flesh and bone, did little to help his current condition, nor did it alleviate the deeper, more profound wounds that afflicted his spirit. Suspended in the tank, his body—a patchwork of flesh and recently grafted cybernetics—was a constant reminder of his failure to beat Obi-Wan and the painful path that had led him to become Palpatine's right hand.
He was supposed to have a form of convalescent leave, as it were, to get used to his new prosthetics. But with the CIS not being as dead as it should have been after he had issued the droid shutdown codes Palpatine had obtained through Naval Intelligence, he was now required back on the front line, if only in a rear command role for the time being. He had issued the codes; the war should have been all but over, but the codes had failed, another failure to add to his legion of failures.
Palpatine had uncovered the source of the failure and had ordered him to go make an example of them. His orders were precise as to what was to be done to the system: to restart the war after it was thought concluded was an unforgivable crime. This punishment would in the end fit the crime.
The cybernetic attachments that now formed a significant part of his being were a source of relentless and well-deserved agony, both physical and psychological. They were not just mere replacements for what he had lost in the fiery depths of Mustafar; they were symbols of his failure, his rage, and the price of his ambition. Each movement was a reminder of what he once was and what he had become—a twisted fusion of man and machine, bound to life alone by the Dark Side.
As he tried to meditate, Vader found his thoughts drifting back to his past, to his days as Anakin Skywalker, a Jedi Knight. Those memories were now like distant echoes, muffled by the weight of his new limbs and the constant, mechanical hiss of his respirator. The Dark Side offered power, but it was a cold, unforgiving master. It fueled his anger and his strength, yet it also deepened his torment; those who failed in such a way as he deserved that torment.
The Dark Side's whispers clashed with the mechanical rhythm of his life support systems. Each breath was a labored, mechanical rasp, a stark contrast to the fluidity of the Force he once knew so well. Vader sought to delve into the depths of the Dark Side, to find clarity and purpose, but the pain and the remnants of his humanity were relentless, pulling him back, reminding him of everything he had lost, refusing to be cast aside. So, he brought them with him and drowned them in the Dark Side, killing them like he had killed his own mother, his own wife, his own unborn child.
An endless drowning torment of suffering and agony. It was what he deserved, it was what he endured, it was what gave him strength. Anakin Skywalker, the hero with no fear, was dead by his own hand, the so-called chosen one gone with the Jedi Order that had spawned him. Vader was forged from those remains, drowned in the Dark Side. Yet, for all his wish to drown in the dark, he was not able to ignore this new sensation that emanated in the song of the Force.
This empty, emotionless void had sprung up and added to the whole. It whispered a bare hint of a whisper to him, and its whisper now plagued his nightmares. Vader continued to meditate rather than sleep as his fleet element made for Skako, for in sleep, he faced the absence of those he had loved, the endless laughter of innocent children, and now the reverberating march of metallic feet.
(Authors Note)
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