Chapter 69: Flashback
"Kark. Kark. Kark," Carth chanted under his breath as more icons appeared in the wishing well. His hands froze over the controls in his distress and shock.
"What's going on?"
He heard Dustil's plaintive question, but his voice sounded far away. As Carth frantically tried to come up with a plan that would somehow get them out of this complete and utter mess with their skins intact, he answered his son with only a fraction of his attention. "We've lost a lot of satellites and sensors, but we have enough left to tell that more ships have just arrived. Another fleet."
"Lady, our satellites - our surviving satellites - report another force just exited from hyperspace," a crewman announced, repeating for the rest of Ops what Carth had just told Revan and his son. There had been a continuous murmur in the cavernous room as the staff gamely dealt with fires both literal and figurative – and likely far outside their ambit – but now a dismayed hush fell, broken only by the constant chatter on the comm.
Lady Versenne's - Lady Vosaryk's head snapped up. Even her young face was haggard with fatigue; Carth wasn't sure he wanted to know what his own looked like. "Enemy reinforcements?"
"Unknown," Carth said, scowling as he did his best to pull together data feeds from the surviving satellites — really, anything and everything with a camera pointed in the right direction — and turn them into a coherent model.
Between the jamming, the raging battle, the loss of so many sensors, and whatever the Sith or Sayir had done to disrupt Sluis Van's comm network, it was a miracle they'd noticed the arrival of a new fleet at all. He set his teeth as the computer filled in the holes with projected data – that might or might not align with reality.
Carth's brow furrowed as he examined the movements of the enemy fleet icons in the wishing well as the Sith, too, reacted to this new development. Odd, but... they didn't look like they were preparing to merge with this new force — in fact, he'd swear they looked... surprised and confused. That made no sense — they should be pressing the attack, and pressing hard. Now that they had reinforcements, they should be throwing everything they had at the SVN, unless...
Lights blinked on his controls, all of them clamoring for his attention, but it was the new priority message on the comm that drew his eyes. "The unknown fleet's comming us — comming everyone, actually," Carth said. "Widebeam broadcast - clear copy on all channels."
Lady Vosaryk squared her slumped shoulders, straightened her spine, took a breath, and said, "Put them through."
As Carth obeyed, a balding, dark-skinned man in Republic Fleet uniform, with admiral rank tabs on his collar, appeared in the well. "- miral Cede of the Republic Fleet to all enemy ships: surrender now or be destroyed."
Carth sucked in a shaky breath, feeling his knees grow weak with relief. It looked like all those reports he and Revan had sent back to the Republic did some good, after all, though he was certain the analysts had other leads and sources of information. He reeled from the mental whiplash of spinning from horror to hope.
"The Republic!" Vosaryk cried as she stared into the well, then at Carth with both dawning hope and wild disbelief in her eyes. "How could they have known of the invasion so quickly? Are you certain? Could it be a trick?"
Carth shook his head, double- and triple-checking the authenticity of the message. He must be tired, or he would've done that already, first thing. Though, technically, that was the comm officer's job. "Ident codes check out, Lady. It's genuine."
The telemetry in the wishing well showed how the news affected the Sith fleet; on the flanks, ships broke away in ones and twos, abandoning their positions as their captains panicked, spreading and transmitting confusion to the rest. Like a firaxan shark scenting blood in the water, the Sluis Van Navy took advantage at once; their fighters, gunboats, and corvettes harried the deserters and plunged into the holes they'd left to ravage the center. The once cohesive and orderly formation of the Sith fleet disintegrated into shambles, with only the ships in the center still holding position.
For the first time, Carth realized he had to be looking at a coalition of ship commands, not exactly a fleet, or their discipline wouldn't have frayed so badly, so quickly. He knew some had deserted the battle at the Star Forge, and there'd been garrisons Darth Revan or Malak stationed in key strategic systems. Somewhere, there had to be holes, maybe even entirely undefended planets, that the Republic could take advantage of — though success would hinge on whether they had the resources to follow through. This force must comprise all the ships the Sith admiral or Dark Jedi — or both — could persuade or coerce into joining them. Hell, they might not even have fought together before.
A thought struck him: the Thanatos, the Sith ship that'd sent those assassins after them on Coruscant – that had, in a way, started them off on this journey in the first place – could it be part of this fleet? Maybe even leading it? Not that it mattered, at least not right now. He tucked it away, to be pursued later.
The war had lasted long enough that those with ability and initiative were promoted to the front, while the ones who didn't were relegated to less critical positions. That had been the case with the Republic military, and he'd no doubt the same had happened with the Sith – and with far more cutthroat infighting. Literally, given that Sith tended to try to climb the ranks over the bodies of their superiors, and sent too-ambitious subordinates away if they could. Even if — or maybe especially if — the job was outside of their expertise, as the ones who'd tried to kill them on Coruscant had found. But being a powerful Force user or the strongest fighter didn't necessarily make them the best leader — Malak was proof of that.
That sure was biting the Sith hard in the ass now.
A surprise attack on their unprotected rear would've shaken the morale of even a cohesive force that thought it was on the verge of an easy, bloodless victory. But the stiff resistance of the SVN, the courage of Sluis Van's civilian auxiliaries, and the valor of the House pilots who'd given their lives to destroy the sabotaged orbital weapons platforms had combined to snatch that easy victory from the Sith fleet's grasp.
Thanks to their own meddling following up on the lead he'd found in House Boro, the Dark Jedi wasn't around anymore to organize his collaborators and their mercenaries in the domes in order to distract the authorities, drawing away attention and resources.
Carth grinned with savage glee, wishing there was some way he could see what was happening on the Sith flagship's bridge, as the enemy witnessed the chaos and utter destruction of their careful plans. Years of meticulous work, only to see their schemes unraveled and wasted in days.
The SVN's admirals committed the entirety of their forces into one final effort to herd the Sith into the trap; all of the SVN ships that had been holding the line at the second ring of forts left their reserve positions and joined the fight. The enemy ships that had broken ranks to flee flew straight into Admiral Cede's as they hit the Sith in the rear.
Caught between the SVN and surprised by a fresh, unscathed fleet at their back, the Sith had no choice, and nowhere to run. Carth bared his teeth in a feral grin as the distinctive Hammerhead-class cruisers, frigates, Aurek-class and Chela-class fighters filled the wishing well, spreading into attack formation like the gaping jaws of a firaxan shark.
His elation faded; Carth leaned heavily on his console, head hanging down, exhaustion and relief and grief for his best friend weighing like a ton of permacrete bricks on his shoulders.
The shipyard shuddered from repeated waves of blasts, wrenching Carth's attention from his turmoil. Focus, Onasi! The warships that'd managed to escape Dar's exploding freighter had launched fighters in one last desperate attempt to carry out their part of the plan, even as they turned to engage the forces the SVN had sent back to intercept them.
He narrowed his eyes as he tracked their trajectories in the wishing well. Was it desperation or arrogance that they'd kept only enough fighters for a light screen? No reason it couldn't be both, he supposed. A dismaying number of red icons poured out into local airspace, a malignant tide of crimson hurtling towards them, far too close for comfort.
With the compromised orbital defense platforms down, the Sith fleet could no longer hold entire domes hostage, but the shipyards and other structures were still vulnerable to enemy fire; not all of them were as well armed as Vosaryk's. If the Sith fighters threatened to destroy them — killing everyone aboard — this could still turn out extremely messy. Sure, they'd lose the very people with the expertise to repair their ships, but if they decided to go the scorched earth route, like they had on Telos and Taris…
No, Malak had ordered all that cruel destruction out of nothing more than pique and spite. Simply because he could. Here and now, the Sith probably – probably – wouldn't go that far. For one thing, devastating the surface of Sluis Van was pointless, because they lived underground, away from the hostile weather on the surface. But the Sith might still make some examples, just to show they meant business, and the space installations were far more vulnerable than the Sluissi's underground habitats. Murdering everyone on a space station or destroying it outright to make sure others fell into line seemed just like their nasty style.
The Sluissi couldn't afford the precedent they'd set if they gave in to the enemy's demands; even if they were willing to let the Sith escape in exchange for the lives of their citizens, that would still leave them free to ravage some other planet somewhere else. They had to be desperate for a place to refit their fleet, now more than ever, and desperate sentients with nothing to lose were dangerous – as Carth had reason to know. The Sith would fight like rat-roaches backed into a corner.
A glance at the whole tactical display in the well made it clear to him that the SVN couldn't spare any more ships to help, not now that their admirals had thrown everything they had at the main enemy fleet. He couldn't find fault with their decision, it was what he'd do if he were in command, but it was gonna be damned hard on the civilians.
He braced his feet on the floor and gripped the rail on the edge of his console as they all prepared for incoming fire. Revan and Dustil, taking their cues from him, hunkered down in their chairs, hands clutching the armrests. For all that Ops resembled an old Inexpugnable bridge, no safety harnesses deployed; if they had, Chief Jopeth wouldn't have hit his head.
Carth's lips peeled back from his lips as those malevolent red icons approached at speed, because they weren't helpless — as the Sith were about to find out, right about… now.
The enemy fighters died fiery deaths, tiny blossoms of light marking their destruction as they blundered into their homemade minefields, trying to dodge the shipyard's defensive fire, augmented by their reversed tractor beams. Some flew into the still-spreading mass of radioactive waste, and while the stuff didn't destroy them outright like the mines had, it did slow them down; without the advantage of their speed, that left them as vulnerable as wounded nerf to the fighters on their own side. Not quite as easy as shooting rat-roaches in a crate, but close enough.
Then the smell hit him, the sharp, acrid stink of burning plasteel and insulation, the ozone of dying electronics. The smoke left a bad taste in his mouth and a horrible itch in the back of his throat, making him cough. The alarms warning of an invasion smote his ears, their wailing pulsing in time to his racing heart and his laboring breath.
The Sith were attacking the Foerost shipyards! How'd they get past their scanners? Groggy and disoriented, Carth tried to wake up all the way, get his body and legs moving, because... because he'd been sleeping. Hadn't he? Wait, why was he already upright? Shouldn't he still be in bed? Beneath his feet, the deckplates bucked from explosions. He blinked, staring around at the strangely wavering — and transparent? — walls of his tiny cabin.
Rage tinted Carth's vision red, as the realization that Saul had betrayed him, had betrayed all of them, slammed into him like a punch to the gut. What Saul had talked about the last time they'd met up, about how the Republic was losing, that Carth needed to think of his own survival, that his loyalty to the Republic would get him killed for nothing and less than nothing, crashed through his mind. Saul must've given the Sith the codes to bypass their scanners!
The strong scent of mint wafted to his nose, cutting through the stench of smoke and electrical fires. Carth frowned at the oddity.
"Carth. Carth. Carth, can you hear me?" A woman was speaking to him, calling his name. Her voice sounded far away, but familiar; so was the scent of mint, despite its incongruity. Even disoriented, he somehow knew she wasn't Morgana. "May I touch you? No, wait, Dustil."
Dustil? Carth's frown deepened as he tried to bring order to the spinning dust motes of his thoughts. Dustil wasn't at Foerost - couldn't be. But if his son was here, why wasn't Morgana here, too? Dustil was... they were…? He felt as adrift in his confusion as a spacer becalmed in zero gravity, helplessly spinning every which way.
"Father? Are you all right? Stupid question, of course you're not all right."
Carth felt lightheaded and confused, because that was Dustil's voice. It sounded deeper than he remembered. What the hell was Dustil doing at Foerost? They were at war, he wouldn't have brought — no, it didn't matter, they were under attack, he had to protect his son! And his wife — she must've come with Dustil. But Dustil — neither of them had been there… He tried to gather his scattered wits, but he might as well be trying to catch greased coinfish in a torrent with his bare hands.
The woman spoke again; she was damned persistent. "Carth, may I touch you? Can you speak?" Why did that persistence, too, seem familiar?
"Y-y-yeah," Carth stammered, nodding his aching head in answer to both questions.
Cool hands cupped his face; the sensation - the familiar sensation - seemed to ground him a little. A weight, someone's arm, he thought, tentative and hesitant, rested on his shoulders, another hand gripped him. Carth could feel the warmth of a body in front of him, and another beside him. "You're safe, Carth. You're safe. Do you know where you are?"
"F-F-Foe - n-no. No." Carth shook his head hard, but the violent motion didn't dislodge the cool hands holding him. He struggled to bring order to his thoughts, his brow furrowing with the effort. "I'm... I'm... This is S-S-Sluis Van - t-the Vosaryk shipyard," As he said that, the walls of his cabin on the Foerost shipyard seemed to fade, and he stopped trying to move, his sense of urgency and his anger running out of him. Bright lights shone through from a multitude of vidscreens, large and small, and from a huge holographic well, dazzling him. Dizzy, he closed his eyes.
He remembered now that Saul was dead by his own hand, and that the attack on the shipyards at Foerost had been years ago.
"Carth, I need you to breathe, okay? Breathe with me, hey? Inhale, breathe in when I squeeze your hands."
Her hands dropped from his face, but before he could panic at the loss of contact, he felt her take his hands. Delicate compared to his own much larger ones, he still felt the strength and sureness in those cool fingers. As she squeezed them, Carth inhaled, sucking in a breath that... that didn't carry the stink of smoke or melted plasteel in it. He took in the scents of mint, the ozone of electronics - whole and functional, not burning and broken - the hint of metal in the recycled air.
Revan - he remembered now, Revan held him - her hands relaxed. "Breathe out," she said, the words feathering his cheeks, bringing again the scent of mint.
Carth didn't know how much time they spent just breathing in and breathing out, her hands squeezing and relaxing on his, but he finally felt he wasn't going to pass out after a moment. All the while, he heard her tell him he was safe, they were on the Vosaryk shipyard orbiting Sluis Van, she and Dustil were there with him, he was safe. She repeated the reassuring words, her tone calm and steady; they blurred together into a kind of soothing and hypnotic white noise. His head fell forward, bumping gently against hers, and the scent of flower blossoms and citron spice joined the bouquet. The tension and panic drained out of his stiff and fear-locked muscles.
He forced himself to feel only sensation: the coolness of Revan's forehead against his, her mint-scented breath on his face, her strong little hands gripping his, her thumbs brushing across the backs of his hands, the weight of Dustil's arm over his shoulders, the warmth of his son's hand on his left arm. He felt steady enough to let go of one of Revan's hands, reaching up to grip Dustil's, immensely pleased Dustil cared enough to try to help him through his flashback. His eyes prickled when Dustil didn't shake him off.
"We're going to go sit you down, okay?" Revan said. "You must be tired."
Carth felt like he could sleep for a kriffing week, but his conscience twinged. "T-t-there's still a, a lot of work to be done." At least we're alive to do it. He let go of Dustil and rubbed his face hard with the heel of his hand, but it didn't help.
"Let the Vosaryk people and the Republic fleet take care of it," Revan said, reaching up to cup the side of his face. "It's all over but the mopping up."
Unable to resist the allure of sitting down after so many hours of standing at his post, Carth opened his eyes and let himself be led back to the chairs. He noticed the white noise shimmer in the air for the first time as he allowed Revan to press him down into a seat. Oh, right, she'd been calling him by his real name, knowing that using his cover identity likely wouldn't help him with his flashback.
Revan sat down on his left, and Dustil on his right; Carth couldn't help but smile at that, when his son could easily have left a seat empty between them. Dustil had let go of him as they walked the few steps back to the chairs, but now he put his hand back on Carth's arm.
He suddenly remembered Revan's hands, badly burned from channeling her power into destroying the dome-busting missile, should still be bandaged. "Your hands…" he said, looking down at them in confusion. They had looked like raw meat webbed with melted insulation right after she'd destroyed that missile, but new, tender-looking pink skin covered her palms, now.
"They're all right, now. I recovered enough to heal myself a while ago. Lost all my calluses, though." Revan turned off the white noise generator; Carth was glad when the shimmer faded, because his eyes were confused enough by all the vidscreens.
Dustil actually looked worried. "Are you all right?"
Carth rubbed his face and his eyes with the heel of his free hand, the other still held in Revan's own. "Yeah. No." He couldn't help a tired, shaky grin when that vacillating answer just confused the hell out of his son. "I, I, I will be," he assured Dustil.
"What was that?" Dustil said. He had a strange expression on his face, disturbed and... scared?
"C-c-combat flashback," Carth said, giving his son his best reassuring smile. It felt a little too shaky to be convincing, so he added, "I'll be okay."
Dustil still looked confused, so Revan explained. "A flashback happens when something triggers the memory of an event so traumatic it's been etched deep into the mind. One fully relives that event, as if one has been thrown back in time."
"I-I thought I was back at F-Foerost," Carth said, knowing Dustil would ask what had triggered him. "When the Sith fighters ran into the, the minefield we set up, and they exploded, shaking the shipyard, I thought… I thought it was Saul."
"Oh." Dustil subsided into silence, looking both daunted and thoughtful.
"Do you think you could get some sleep?" Revan said, giving Carth a worried look.
"I can pop a stim. In fact, I should be helping, not, not sitting here on my ass —" Carth began, but Revan was already shaking her head.
"You told me once that you make mistakes when you're too tired to think straight, remember? You're no use to anyone when you're exhausted."
In the face of this irrefutable logic, not to mention his own words used against him, Carth allowed himself to slump back in his seat. "I — yeah, I guess you're right."
"Take a nap?" Revan suggested, squeezing his hand. "Dustil and I will keep watch."
Considering his eyelids felt like they were weighed down with sandbags, Carth didn't think he had much choice. Flashbacks always knocked him flat on his ass. This, on top of the many exertions of the day, both physical and emotional, completely wiped him out. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He touched his ear, wondering where the earbud he'd worn went.
"I plucked it out when I realized you were having a flashback; I figured you didn't need someone yammering at you to add to your already considerable confusion. Your replacement is wearing it now," Revan said, nodding at someone in Vosaryk livery who'd taken up Carth's post. He didn't recognize them, but it had to be someone Lady Vosaryk trusted.
Carth still felt he should be doing more, but his dead-tired body and mind told him it was time to go off shift, now – before he fell over. As soon as he finally settled into a more-or-less comfortable position in the chair, he was out like a light the second he closed his eyes.
So... it's been a while since I updated, hasn't it? (Wow, a decade ago!) Hopefully the next chapter won't take another ten years to go up!