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Chapter 1

Sometimes, I really had to wonder why Separatist ships possess such exposed conning towers.

Repulse’s pilothouse bathed in the green beams of sunlight filtered through the tinted windows that wrapped around the protruding forward bridge of the Munificent-class frigate. It allowed a near hundred-eighty degree command of the pitch, but also made the tower an obvious target for any enemy.

But I supposed that was a common vulnerability across every starship in this rather dumbass galaxy.

I rose from the chair at the centre of the uplifted command deck, pacing about the bridge to inspect the lower pits, where B1-series droids oversaw the operations aboard Repulse through their glaring viridescent butterfly control displays. Dear Lord, what kind of hellish creature designed this vile lighting system? I attempted to rectify the retina-burning lighting into a more… soothing colour, but to my great displeasure the scheme was hardcoded in. I do concede, however, that when your ships are primarily manned by automata with no regard for comfort, you could afford some leeway in quality of life.

And it showed. The pilothouse was spartan, both in comforts and control systems. With the impressive automation of the frigate, the fine starship was completely operational with a skeleton crew of only two-hundred droids–with less than a dozen necessary to man the bridge. Compare that to a Republic cruiser’s wall-spanning interfaces and intuitive analogue panels, Repulse’s handful of what were essentially digital kiosks were hell to navigate for any traditionally trained officer.

But I have gotten used to it. As have my eyes.

My incessant pacing caught the attention of the TF-1726, the attending T-1 series tactical droid aboard Repulse.

“Is there a problem, sir?” the droid’s digitised voice buzzed.

“Nothing of the sort, Tuff,” I waved him off, “But don’t you think it’s all lil’ boring sitting around here?”

“I was not programmed to possess the capacity for ‘boredom,’ sir,” Tuff’s facsimile of a mouth blinked, “And please do not call me that. You may refer to me by my serial number.”

“Then I must envy you, Tuffy,” I patted his plated shoulder, “So… how are the repairs?”

“Repulse suffered no damage,” Tuff said, “And our deflector shields will be at full charge within the hour.”

I inspected the tactical droid’s expressionless, beaked faceplate for a moment. Not for the first time, I wondered what really went on in that cognitive module of his. I dropped down onto the command chair again, suppressing a wince as my ass collided against the solid metal surface of the seat.

“The Republic ships are still hiding by the moon,” I stated, though worded as a question.

“Four Jedi cruisers, sir,” Tuff confirmed.

Scanning the viewports, I took in the frozen moon of Leesis. To our flanks, nearly two dozen Munificent-class frigates encircled the turquoise orb of Christophsis–supported by behemoth Lucrehulk battleships–forming what must appear to be a mockery of an asteroid ring from afar. Far, far beneath, General Whorm waged war against Republic troops, encircling the Christophsian capital of Chaleydonia.

Or at least, that’s what I hope he was doing.

“...Open a communications line with the Invincible,” I ordered Tuff, “I wish to speak with the Admiral.”

A holographic display of the Admiral sprung up from the projector, manifesting an ungodly creature–a six-armed bipedal spider with six baleful red gimlet eyes. I cringed, struggling not to divert my gaze from his matted fur and clicking mandibles. Oh, the clicking–even through the holograph I was still chilled down to the marrow of my bones every time the spider did that.

“Admiral Trench, sir” I greeted calmly.

“Captain Bonteri,” Trench stroked one of his furry mandibles, “What seems to be the issue?”

“The Republic taskforce is still hiding behind the moon,” I adjusted my collar, “There is a non-zero possibility that they are awaiting reinforcements. If you would grant me eight– no, six frigates including Repulse

, I assure you I can smoke them out.”

“If Republic reinforcements were on route, our pickets would have noticed,” Admiral Trench waved his cane, “We are a blockade, Captain, not a strikeforce. I commend your eagerness, however, and realise that this taskforce is a present threat that must be eliminated.”

“What do you suggest, Admiral?”

Trench’s needle-like teeth chattered skincrawlingly, “What is the status of the assault on Christophsis?”

It took me a moment to realise the creature was not addressing me but rather his tactical droid off-display.

“Resistance is crumbling, sir” the droid stepped in the sensor range, its holographic description materialising next to the Admiral’s, “I would estimate a half-rotation before it is over.”

Trench’s mandibles chattered in thought, “We need to add some pressure on those who are sent to rescue our enemies on Christophsis… send the Hyena bombers to hit Senator Organa on the surface.”

His hum morphed into a low cackle as he gave the order, “That should draw them out from–”

“With all due respect, Admiral,” I interrupted, “Should Chaleydonia be on the verge of falling, then the bombers will do little to persuade the Republic to attack. If they have decided to hide behind Leesis in face of the present situation, I believe they intend to continue doing so. However, with a handful of ships I can circle around the dark side of the moon and strike them in the rear, forcing them out and trapping them in a pincer between our fleets.”

“I calculate a seventy-eight-point-six percent chance of this tactic working,” Tuff buzzed.

It was evident that Admiral Trench could hear the comment, as even through his arachnid face I could make out the beginnings of vexation. Clearly, the Admiral didn’t appreciate being undermined by a subordinate.

It likely didn’t help that his own tactical droid soon followed with a– “I concur.”

I held onto his look, resisting the urge to break eye contact. God, what an ugly bitch. Problem was that when most of your subordinates were composed of unthinking droids, you tend to create an inflated opinion of yourself when you have a successive streak. But I suppose I would be lying if I claimed Trench was an unfair boss.

“–I heard you served with merit in Corvair, Captain,” Trench stroked his mandible again, “Tell me, what was the battle like?”

“It was a loss, sir,” I managed, thrown off a little by the sudden change of subject, “We were on the verge of victory, but Republic reinforcements arrived and turned the tide of battle. A Jedi’s starfighter squadrons took out a not-insignificant number of our ships, forcing us to retreat.”

“But you distinguished yourself, didn’t you, Captain?” the Admiral asked, “I hear that if it was not for your decisive actions, our defeat would have been much more… prominent.”

“I must have done something well, sir,” I offered a weak smile, “Else I would not be sitting in this chair.”

Ten pinpricks appeared on the tactical display above my head as Repulse’s active scanners picked up on Invincible’s Hyena bomber wing zipping out of the port hangar before adjusting course for the surface of the planet.

“Now I understand your fear,” Trench said, mollified, “But it remains that we must follow orders.”

“With all respect,” I protested again, “While that may be the case, it is also my duty in conscience to challenge orders should they be unwise. If I had followed orders to the letter at Corvair, I am afraid that battle would have been a decisive victory for the Republic, and not the hollow win it currently stands as.”

Tooting my own horn a little bit, yes, but if Admiral Trench was conscientious enough to read up on the previous exploits of his subordinates–especially on such an insignificant battle on the galactic scale–then he should know exactly how I saved our forces at Corvair. I had done so by disobeying direct orders to withdraw, but in the end I was acquitted of court-marshal and promoted, so it ended well.

“It is I who is under standing orders to maintain the blockade, Captain, not you,” Trench hissed, “It is not that I disagree with your perspective, but that unless our situation proves itself precarious–as at Corvair–we must follow orders.”

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I suppose that is the best I’m going to get. Not that I could argue against it–if I was in Trench’s position, I definitely wouldn’t stick out my head for a subordinate defying direct orders, even if their motivations made sense.

“Yes, sir–”

“New contact on port quarter, sir,” Trench’s droid droned in programmed calm, “Not one of ours.”

Trench’s round head whipped around, his six eyes scanning something off-display, “There! A cloaked ship.”

Well that was a first. I don’t think we were ever introduced to space submarines in the movies. I wondered how they worked, anyway.

“Torpedoes locked and closing,” his tactical droid alarmed.

The holograph fizzled out as Trench interrupted the connection. I leapt out of my chair to stare intently out of Repulse’s starboard viewport, easily finding four torpedoes cutting a blazing arc through the void. It took less than a minute for them to collide with Invincible’s conning tower–normally invisible thermal shields illuminating as the projectiles smashed haplessly against them.

“No damage observed,” Tuffy reported.

“Mark the last known location of that stealth ship!” I hurriedly commanded, just as Invincible replied with a volley of missiles.

The space submarine–an odd, spearlike vessel with an elongated hull–deployed a shower of flares before the missiles could contact, sending them veering off course. A moment later, the ship cloaked and disappeared from both visual and sensor displays.

“Did we manage to rip a thermal signature?” I demanded.

“We lost it when the contact cloaked,” Tuffy reported.

Interesting. Considering the missiles Invincible used were evidently of the heat-seeking variant, it could only mean that whatever cloaking device the enemy ship used, it is also capable of hiding its own thermal radiation. However, that was not the only way to suss out a stealth ship.

“Keep our active scanners primed on that starboard flank,” I commanded, “Scan for thermal, electronic, radar, magnetic–any kind of unique signature that can help us identify that ship.”

“That will take time, sir,” Tuff said.

“I want a twenty-degree port roll rotation,” I scowled at the droid for stating the obvious, “Saturate the contact’s last known location with laser fire. Watch for friendly-fire.”

Tiny sparks appeared on the tactical holo as the frigate’s respectable turbolaser batteries began firing into what was virtually empty space, soon accompanied by Invincible’s massive heavy quad-mounts. Soon, the tactical display was thoroughly saturated with bright flares as both ships turned the area between them into a deadly crossfire.

Several minutes passed by before Tuffy commented– “No hits observed.”

“Check fire,” I commanded, “Work out a probability, Tuff.”

“...I calculate the probability of the ship evading our combined fire is one in one-hundred-twenty-four.”

“But they did,” I pointed out, “Replace the pilot variable with that of a Jedi, and recalculate.”

I could hear the phantom tune of Tuffy’s computing processors working overtime to calculate with such an unquantifiable variable. I would guess that the droid was combing through every battle record with Jedi in starfighter pilot roles in order to formulate an average skill, before somehow converting it into an integer and plugging it into the equation. I did not pity him. If I touched his head right now, I imagine it would feel like a shitty office laptop with integrated graphics trying to run a triple-A game.

“I calculate the probability of a Jedi evading the crossfire is six in one-hundred.”

Huh… wasn’t that a very rounded figure? Quite unlike him.

“You did your best,” I consoled.

Still, with such a low probability of evasion, the only reasonable assumption is that this particular Jedi was a very good pilot, even for their standards. So, which Jedi were notably good starship pilots…? I should have paid more attention to the movies–or my brother, he would probably know. I did know of Anakin Skywalker, though, but that’s because he blew up a battleship in the first movie, when he was like… eight.

“Damn plot armour…” I grumbled.

“Error: ‘plot armour’ does not exist in my databanks,” Tuffy buzzed.

I waved him off, “It’s when someone is protected by… uh, the Force, to the point that they can’t die even in a situation where they should.”

“The ‘Force’ is not a quantifiable variable,” the droid groused, or as well as he could.

“I wish it was too, buddy. I wish it was too–”

“Uh– communications signal on open frequency, sir,” the communications droid said, “It’s coming from the Invincible.”

“Listen in at your station, and relay what is said to me later,” I said, “Tuffy, what came of the scans?”

“No signature of any kind detected,” he reported.

“There is no such thing as a completely hidden ship,” I reminded, “Make another sweep.”

“The Admiral was taunting, sir,” the communications droid said, “He is telling the Jedi that they should retreat, because he has dealt with their kind of ship before.”

Which only confirmed my theory that even space submarines can be detected, somehow. We had to be ready, because that ship was going to come around for another torpedo run. Submarines can serve as blockade runners, or convoy raiders. In some cases, they even sank capital ships–as Royal Oak and Barham could attest to–and considering this ship could have easily slipped the blockade, I’d hazard its orders are to take out Invincible.

“The Jedi aren’t going to retreat,” I tapped my chair, “Keep those batteries aimed on our starboard. When they decloak, I want them pumped full of tibanna.”

“Roger roger.”

I stared intently at the tactical display, tracing the arbitrary grids assigned to this slice of space with my eyes. Mentally counting down the seconds, I wondered how long it took for a space submarine to reload torpedo tubes. They must have autoloaders, right?

A new contact popped up. I consulted the display.

A droid sounded out what I read, “New contact bearing relative one-three-four and three-two-nine, speed and range–’

“Did you come right out of the factory?” I impatiently demanded, “Don’t parrot the attitude vectors, just register them on the readout!”

“Sorry sir,” the B1 beside whacked the offending droid over his tin head, “Five-oh-oh-eight was just assigned to us last refit.”

I ignored them, turning to Tuff, “Signatures?”

“No electronic, faint thermal– magnetic signature lock,” Tuffy dutifully reported, “Systems warning unable to fire.”

“No, of course we couldn’t,” I palmed my cheek in frustration.

The stealth ship had reoriented. In the time we were unable to track her, she had manoeuvred around Invincible so that the dreadnought was now in between us and her. There wasn’t even a visual lock of the ship from the pilothouse. I should have expected it, honestly, as it was a sensible decision on the enemy pilot’s part. Of course a submarine wouldn’t shoot from the same place twice.

“Match us with Invincible’s longitudinal axis,” I sighed, “Hopefully the Admiral has them under control.”

Suddenly, four bright pinpricks appeared on the tactical display: torpedoes. The glow surrounding Invincible’s signature dimmed–the flagship had just lowered her specialised thermal shields to give way for her volley. As the projectiles ripped across the grids, the enemy vessel’s radar contact winked out.

“Enemy contact’s thermal signature lost,” Tuff buzzed, “We are still tracking its magnetic signature.”

“Register it for future reference.”

The torpedoes suddenly curved, as if bloodhounds tracking an invisible scent–and I realised they were after the ship’s magnetic signature after all. Then, the radar contact popped back into existence, and the vector readouts went mad; the ship began accelerating to almost the speed of the torpedoes themselves, before doubling back on a reciprocal course–right back towards Invincible.

I fingered a dial, intently observing the readings around Invincible. The signature remained dim–even as the stealth ship and its torpedo bloodhounds raced towards its starboard bow, her shields remained lowered.

“...Is Trench unable to raise his deflector shields?” I asked aloud in disbelief.

“–Thermal shields cannot be raised while they are recharging,” Tuff enlightened me.

“Of for–” I gnashed my teeth, “Get me a line with Invincible’s bridge! Make it snappy!”

A heartbeat felt way too long as the enemy ship and its torpedo entourage raced each other to their destruction.

Hearing Tuff’s synthesised voice made my ears pop, “The connection has been–”

“Admiral!” I all but screamed, “Transfer me the fleet command codes, now!”

“Captain Bonteri–”

“Hurry the fuck–!”

I squinted as a new source of light glared in from the windows, and even the droids couldn’t help but twist their metal necks over to watch the Invincible’s forward bridge disintegrate in a ball of fire. From the smoke, the spear-like hull of the space submarine slashed out and tore across our viewports before Repulse’s automated gunnery systems could even respond, disappearing towards the planet surface behind us.

The flagship of the blockade, Providence-class dreadnought Invincible, almost groaned as it began listing in realspace, dead in the water and captured by the planet\'s mass.

“...Get me a preliminary scan on Invincible,” I commanded weakly, out of breath, “I want to know the extent of damage, and how fast she can get back into action.”

The transceiver on my command chair started beeping, indicating that a new data dump had been received. My gut stirred.

“Repulse has received the control codes for the blockade fleet, sir,” Tuffy reported, as dry as ever.

As if liquid sansanna had been injected straight into my bloodstream, it took every fibre in my body to restrain myself back from leaping out of my chair. I could fucking kiss Trench’s fuzzy round face right now, if it wasn\'t for the fact that he was probably fairy dust currently drifting on the solar winds.

“Alright folks!” I clapped, reinvigorated, “Sync the fleet with the codes; I believe our present situation has proven itself precarious! With our esteemed Admiral missing in action, I have decided that we are all due for promotions! Power to sublight thrusters– Tuffy, do me a favour and plot an approach vector on the enemy fleet!”