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Chapter 27

I handed the tablet back to hare, feeling a sense of perverse satisfaction. But that was the reality of this galactic order, that not even the idealism of the Separatist Alliance could cure. Politics will remain corruptible–if not always with money–no matter in the Bronze Age or Space Age. Nobody can fix it. Least I could do was exploit the disease for reasons better than others, if not totally unselfishly.

But as the days ticked on with no signs of the person who was supposed to rescue us, I was feeling less and less optimistic about our chances. The confirmation lost by five votes. Even with the Commonality, that was too close to replicate. Dooku will be prepared for next time, and that means I've stalled as much as I could. All that's left is to put up a good fight.

And that we shall, I thought as I crossed the deck to the visual display, slamming down the blast shields and activating the holoHUD. An interdiction minefield had been laid 50,000,000 klicks out, and several dozen support ships were arranging themselves behind the Coalition Armada, already pre-loading the first caches of munitions onto their tenders.

Seven-hundred warships in total–greater than the First and Second Fleets combined–most of them now stateless and eager to return home. Then there were another eight-hundred warships that should be enroute from Commonality space. It was the largest single gathering of Separatist warships since the start of the war.

There would be no fancy manoeuvres this time. Not with this many ships. Not with this many commanders. Separatist fleet doctrine relied on overwhelming numerical superiority, justified with exemplary formations. The first the Republic will attempt to do is break up the Armada and defeat us in detail. To prevent that, everyone will have to play by the book and avoid playing hero.

"Interdiction arrays are reporting three-hundred drive trail signatures," Stelle paused, as if checking if that was all.

I keyed in the frequency, "I am declaring sector-wide Red Alert; all personnel to battlestations. There are three-hundred–"

"Six-hundred–" Stelle leaned forward, "No, one-thousand drive cones!"

I watched in quiet dread as the icons began flooding onto Repulse's holoHUD, completely blanketing the interdiction array and sweeping through it with brute force. For a moment, I was thrown back to Ringo Vinda, watching ARENA's red tide trample over everything on the board. This felt obnoxiously similar, instilling the same emotions you would get knowing a tsunami was approaching yet too close for you to escape.

"...Urgent transmission to Columex; request all available reinforcements immediately. Send it."

"Repulse?" a voice asked.

"I apologise," I stifled a choke, "There are one-thousand signatures approaching. Avoid all communication but tightbeam and optical. Here they come."

⁂​

Calli Trilm didn't have time to think about anything but what's at hand. And what's at hand was a disaster. The Coalition Armada was supposed to outnumber the Cerulean Lance, but instead they found themselves outnumbered by three-hundred warships. Which means either every Republic Sector Fleet was a thousand strong and the war was about to end in a month, or this wasn't just the Cerulean Spear.

Either way, someone in Naval Intelligence was about to get bent over a barrel.

Of course they'd know we'd outnumber them, her brain berated, so of course they'd bring even more!

"Tell me something, Tex," she demanded harshly.

"They're coming at us head on, sir," her tactical droid said, "No formation. The only finesse is their approach vector. They intend on rolling right over us. We've stopped their momentum with our mines, but they're accelerating again."

An icon left of hers blinked on the expansive battle plot; Task Force Repulse–Rain Bonteri's formation in the Armada–signalled steady acceleration to 1,000G in line ahead. A hundred and twenty marks surged out of orbit, ships queuing into a textbook Battle Order One. Three straight columns, with the heaviest ships in the leftmost main battle line, lighter cruisers and frigates in the middle, and auxiliaries–including carriers–on the right.

Battle Squadron Talcene and Battle Squadron Bryx–two stateless formations from their eponymous sectors–raced after Task Force Repule, bringing the full number up to two-hundred and fifty ships.

"Mark bearing," she commanded.

"Mark bearing," Tex repeated.

She nodded in satisfaction, "Signal Task Force Clysm into Battle Order One. Accel up to one-thousand gravs. Time to intercept?"

"Fifty minutes. Intercept velocity thirty-thousand KPS," the droid vocalised his internal computations, "Permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"There is only a twenty-seven point three-nine-nine percent probability of our victory," TX-103 said, "It would be more strategically sound to fall back to Columex, where our strength can be bolstered."

"That's not the point, droid," Calli scolded mildly, "Centares is a signatory. There are thirty-seven Centarian warships in Battle Squadron Maldrood. If you want to talk statistics; over sixty percent of our fleet is composed of ships and spacers who have lost their homeworlds. The fact that they are still fighting with us is because they believe we will fight for them."

"The psyche is a troublesome factor," Tex replied flatly.

"No," she disagreed, "It is quite manageable, for most races. And when it is on your side, it is as if the gods are fighting with you. Come, droid. Let's give the Loyalists a thrashing they will remember."

Task Force Clysm, with Battle Squadron Salvara and Battle Squadron Perkell, were situated on the right most flank of the Armada. Around one-hundred eighty warships in total. Star of Serenno's sublight drives roared, kicking her in the rear and sending her sprawling forward, with the rest of the division neatly falling in behind.

To avenge their lost worlds. For the distant hope they will be liberated. To defend those who have not fallen. In the name of the Confederacy itself. For whatever the reason they held in their hearts, seven-hundred shining stars appeared in the night sky of Centares. Whether they would glow for an era, or burn so brightly for only a brief moment. Such was the solidarity of the Separatist Alliance.

⁂​

Commander Vinoc ordered Task Force Sol forward in a standard line ahead, flanked by Battle Squadron Maldrood and Battle Squadron Jospro. The largest but slowest of the three divisions–courtesy of the heavy Sy Myrthian carrier-battleships–two-hundred and seventy warships clung onto the Armada's left flank.

"The Sy Myrthians are getting left behind, Commander," Captain Harsol tightbeamed, "Their carriers cap out at three-hundred gravs."

"Forget the screens!" Vinoc snapped, "We shave half an hour off our transit without them. We're last in the battle order, so as long as the LACs catch up before then, we'll be fine."

"LACs?"

"Light attack craft."

"Slides off the tongue well, I'll give it that," Harsol mumbled– "Understood. I'll relay the order. What about the Columexi?"

The Commonality wanted to rendezvous every one of their available ships in Columex before sending them to Centares in full force. They simply didn't expect the Republic to charge in so fast or so hard. With 1500 parsecs between them, the difference between the swiftest cruiser and heaviest dreadnought was a couple hours to a whole day. If the Commonality was intent on sending their Joint Defense Fleet together, then they might as well not.

"Let's hope they're hauling ass, if nothing else."

Harsol afforded a chuckle, "Looks like they're coming straight down our throats, sir. They're wanting for a brawl, after all."

The captain of Sa Nalaor cut the comms with that.

"They won't," TJ-912, his recently assigned tactical droid, pointed to the tactical display, "Their drive trails suggest some standard of coordination between ships. They are attempting to mislead us by purposefully mixing in lighter ships, but if you ignore the shorter trails, you'll note that the more prominent cones are maintaining a coherent line abreast."

Vinoc saw it. The Cerulean Spear Fleet had arrayed themselves in two lines abreast obscured within a mess of light cruisers, frigates, and corvettes. Their violent acceleration was only a ruse to pull a fake from right under them. He checked the repeater; 30,000,000 klicks to intercept and closing. He couldn't see them yet, but he could see the blossoming drive signatures of Battle Squadron Jospro's LACs behind them.

Over two-hundred thousand were already in space and racing ahead of their motherships, with six-hundred thousand more swarming out of the hangars with the cadence and symmetry only the metronome precision of droid brains could perform. As he watched their formation weave itself into a star-speckled blanket fit for an eldritch god, Vinoc felt that the Republic had no idea what's waiting for them.

Come right on then, bastards, he thought viciously, see what we've got for you.

⁂​

"Velocity twenty-three thousand KPS, fourteen minutes to intercept range," Stelle reported.

The Republic fleet was still coming straight on. I can literally see your line of battle, assholes–how much closer do you want to push this game of chicken? Ironically enough, the Republic held an overwhelming advantage in a full frontal rush. Not because they outnumbered us, but because they were using Star Destroyers as their ships-of-the-line. Aside from a couple handful of obsolete Invincible-class dreadnoughts in the back–which we had too–the main bulk of their battle line were Venators. The ten or so ISDs–Tectors, apparently–were on our right flank, rematching against Task Force Clysm.

Back to Star Destroyers. Venators may have piss poor ventral firing envelopes–yes, even with their new hangar gun, which couldn't depress vertically downwards or even fire rearward due to its jury-rigged placement–they do have absolutely overwhelming forward firepower. Their tapered hull meant the vast majority of the guns on their artillery deck could fire forwards, to say nothing of their dorsal barbettes. Of course, that meant their rear firing envelope was pretty much non-existent, but they don't tend to show that anyway.

Munificents and Recusants were built similarly, in that regard.

On the other hand, the bulk of the Coalition Armada's line of battle were Providences; their 360 degree transverse coverage sacrificed the potency of each individual firing arc, as the sum total had to be halved towards each flank of the ship. And of course, its tubular shape meant there was only a minimal forward envelope.

I eyed the readout; range to intercept 23,000,000 klicks, and plummeting eye-wateringly fast. At constant acceleration of 1000G, we were already tearing through space at 24,000KPS. And it was nothing, not when most Separatist capital ships came with inertial dampeners powerful enough to compensate for up to 2500G. But a 1000G was hard enough to control–we don't want to be blasting straight through the enemy, right?

Unless you were that one lady with purple hair. She's kind of special. What was her name again?

"Task Force Clysm is signalling hard to starboard," Stelle relayed.

"Project Queen of Beauty's bridge and signal Task Force Repulse," I stood up, feeling far too jittery to sit without bouncing my leg to disintegration, "Standard starboard turn. Keep it tight as we manoeuvre in succession. Arm port launchers one to fifty."

Repulse's bridge shimmered, a curtain of light falling over the viewports and replacing it with the illusory image of Queen of Beauty's command deck. In a rare moment of queasiness, I could feel Repulse heeling over hard to starboard in a much sharper angle than Queen of Beauty. The disconnect between what my body experienced and what my eyes saw pretty hammered me to the point of artificially-induced intoxication.

I fell ass-first into the captain's chair, shit-faced beyond belief and rubbing my eyes shut as I retreated onto years of naval experience to gauge the progress of the turn. Manoeuvring in succession was rather self-explanatory. When the van of a line of battle executes a manoeuvre, that same manoeuvre will be successively performed by every ship as they arrive at the wake of the vane. In simple terms, every following ship will only turn when they arrive in the exact spot the van was when they turned.

In this case, we were all following the… the what? Unwilling to open my eyes, I wracked my brain for the order of battle I prepared a few days ago. Repulse was in the second column–so as we turn to starboard, we will be hidden behind the main battle line. And that means the van was… Astarte?

Whatever the case, manoeuvring in succession from a line ahead was preferable to a simultaneous manoeuvre from a line abreast, simply due to the sheer number of ships participating. Especially when there were Providences, Invincibles, Dreadnaughts, Kolivexes, Munificents, Recusants, Auxilias, and a dozen other classes which all have different rates of turns.

Like I said; by the book.

At the speed we were racing along, however, it sure as hell didn't feel like it. I cracked my eyes open the moment Repulse stopped turning, though a cursory scan told me Queen of Beauty still was.

"They're launching fighters!" the sensor droid cried in alarm.

The scanner displays were a sight to behold. Wave after wave of drive cones were spawning out of the Venators, radiating out in a blinding white fog that completely smothered the main signatures. Standard Venator capacity was 420 LACs. I played around with the repeater's interface for a couple seconds, and got myself a cursory figure of 400 Venators.

That was 168,000 LACs. Considering that Venators were not the only carrier-capable ships, I rounded it up to 200,000 across the whole line. That meant Task Force Repulse had a share of 60,000…

"Get our Vultures in the air!" I shouted, "Are our tubes loaded!?"

"Yes, sir!" Stelle answered, "Deploying Vultures– the enemy fleet is bearing down on us!"

Star Destroyers had a near-100% forward firepower efficiency, simply by design. But turbolasers fired tibanna gas wrapped in a magnetic field. Gas that wanted to expand into the void, and a magnetic field that decayed exponentially with every klick travelled. Strangely enough, that meant laser bolts theoretically had more range in-atmosphere than in-vacuum.

What didn't decay, however, was steel. Explosives wrapped in steel.

"Our last ship-of-the-line has completed its turn," Stelle reported.

"Very good," I leaned forward, "Open fire."

⁂​

As the first torpedo signatures glittered the battle plot, Calli Trilm drew in a deep breath. Task Force Repulse unleashed the first, massive salvo of the battle, plumes of fire and smoke rapturing out of the broadsides of their battleships.

"Open fire," she ordered.

Star of Serenno shivered as a blazing wave of energy lashed from her hull in a brilliant cascade of warheads streaking through the void. As the three Task Forces manoeuvred, their vans and rears met to form a single massive line of battle along 800 klicks. 200 destroyers and 30 dreadnoughts, with fifty and a hundred launchers per broadside respectively. Each launcher concealed three tubes.

Forty-thousand proton torpedoes screamed towards the Cerulean Spear Fleet.

The Republic had more numbers, better guns, better firing envelopes, better fire control, and simply better ships. Their main armament–eight dual-barrelled DBY-827 heavy turbolaser batteries–could punch out a capital ship's shields with a single salvo, and tear into the hull with the next.

But one thing they didn't have was the range. Jedi cruisers relied on their fighter complements to dish out missiles and torpedoes, as they didn't have any of their own.

We must dictate the cadence of battle, Calli Trilm mused in practised calm, that is our only hope of victory.

She snatched the backrest of her chair as centrifugal force threatened to toss her off her feet; all 230 ships rotated on their long axis in tandem, flipping 'upside down' and unleashing a second rippling wave of torpedoes. By the time the battle line had flipped back upright, the portside launchers were already reloaded, and another salvo roared out into the abyss.

With impulse drives capable of upwards of 10,000G, it took the first salvo ten whole minutes to transit the 20,000,000 klicks between the battle lines. Three salvoes in ten minutes, Calli checked her chrono. Acceptable.

The Republic battle line dashed in to close the distance as quickly as possible, eating the full brunt of the first two salvoes with their forward shields. The actual hit ratio was poor; maybe one in a hundred, or even less. The vast distances meant their targeting computers had to rely on enemy drive cones, which were blurred enough–not to mention the torpedoes were ballistic by the time they reached. Lastly, the Republic had prepared several screens of point-defence frigates.

On the other hand, the Coalition Armada was not lacking in munitions. Each Providence carried enough warheads for eighteen whole salvoes, and munition tenders were already crossing the distance between the auxiliary column and the battle column with even more. Distant explosions lit up the void, nearly incomprehensible from the backdrop of stars.

"Time to intercept?" she asked.

"Their accel-squared is dropping," Tex noted, "I calculate… thirty-four point five minutes."

"Eleven salvoes," Calli grinned with all teeth, "Keep firing."

Another volley of torpedoes erupted out of the hull, charging down the gleaming wakes of the previous broadside.

Her eyes scanned the battle plot, at the swarm of drive cones pushing ahead of the Cerulean Spear's main line of battle. Calli patiently waited for each scan, updating their position on the display and calculating the acceleration. Six scans later, and Calli was relatively certain those were enemy starfighters. 2000G; twenty-three minute transit.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Where are our fighters?" she demanded.

"Our carriers are having trouble keeping up with the columns," Tex answered.

She swore beneath her breath, "Move our screens forward, ten degrees below our horizontal plane."

"There seems to be something wrong with our bloody carriers today," Calli grumbled.

⁂​

Vinoc stared at the tactical display, weaving the Force into his mind as he enhanced his own cognitive abilities. This was his first time commanding such a massive fleet, albeit in a larger formation, and he could not say that he was not slightly nervous. Nervous at the lives in his hand; tens of thousands of men and women fighting under his command. Nervous at the sheer amount of firepower he controlled.

This must be what Master Tann meant by true power. What was a Jedi Knight under the onslaught of six-hundred thousand missiles? Against the collective will of three million spacers brimming with a kindred resentment for the Republic?

Crying Sun punched out another full cannonade–a hundred and fifty torpedoes rampaging out into the abyss. She was not the only one. At the vanguard of the line of battle was Task Force Clysm, with its subordinating formations Battle Squadrons Salvara and Perkell. Once boasting quarter a thousand vessels, their number has been reduced to a mere one-eighty. They had lost the most, and the least to lose.

And they fought with savagery. For every four salvoes the rest of the fleet launched, they managed five. Against the spearhead of the Cerulean Spear–the Tectors–they pushed their ageing warships to their absolute limits in order to keep up, with little regard for their own safety.

The disparity between the front and rear was evident. While Task Force Sol was the largest of three, it was also the most sluggish. Both Battle Squadron Maldrood and Battle Squadron Jospro–especially Jospro–have been largely untouched by the war, and their spacers appeared keen to remain that way. Even as the boiling mass of Vulture droids swarmed from the Sy Myrthian carriers, the carriers themselves remained a good distance behind the auxiliary column.

He had briefly lost the skill in his brief stint under the thralldom of the Dark Side, but toeing the line in the Force reminded him how to keep his cool under duress. As much as he wanted to rage against the Sy Myrthians for their lack of zeal, he knew it would amount to screaming at the stars. Vinoc tried to recall the names and faces of his Jedi instructors… but came up short. Perhaps it wasn't to be, not when his world was now consumed with beeping repeaters, flashing sensor lights, and the howling of sublight drives and rocketing warheads.

Thankfully, it was just as well, for the blessed stars shone bright on him. Task Force Sol's rather anaemic efforts had prompted the Cerulean Spear to redeploy their most powerful assets to the vanguard. To the point, in fact, that Vinoc started harbouring doubts on the Sy Myrthian's intentions–because it seemed they had stationed their carriers so far back that the enemy hadn't even realised their existence.

The star destroyer ahead of Crying Sun blinked out a code with their rear lights.

"Task Force Clysm is requesting fighter support," TJ-912 automatically translated, "Shall we respond?"

Vinoc glanced at the progress of their LACs, "Aye. They're here."

Not a second later, hundreds of thousands of screeching fighters blasted straight through the columns, rampaging through the narrow intervals between ships to meet the enemy. The numerous tactical displays scrambled and hissed, formation images glitching as targeting computers and sensors all across the battle line found themselves half-blinded by the interference from just shy of a million Vultures, Hyenas, and Scarabs tearing a seam through space.

Not even a tactical droid had the mental faculty to coordinate so many pins on a screen, much less any organic brain. But droid fighters were only good at one thing, and it was the one thing the Sy Myrthians had ordered them to do: swarm.

And swarm they did, like an all-devouring hive mind. Just as last Jedi cruisers completed their line of battle and released their first laser broadside, the droid LACs descended on them like a plague of stone mites. Bright bursts of point-defence and explosive tibanna-bolts carved open gulfs in the infinitely black wavefront of destruction. But the gulfs closed, filled in by the endless numbers. Laser clusters blazed in desperate last-ditch efforts to thin the horde, but it was no use.

The swarm crashed into the enemy's rearguard at 50,000KPS, shredding two-dozen Venators and twice the number of escorts into scrap metal within a period of seconds, and then moved on to the next section.

"What a terrible way to die," Vinoc mumbled, screams echoing in his head. Visions of bulkheads crumpling like flimsi; of the shocking onrush of dark cold, and silent demise.

"Enemy LACs are redeploying," TJ-912 stated unfeelingly.

They were. The Vultures had been concealed by the Armada's main line of battle until now, but despite being caught by surprise, the Republic fighter wings were deflecting their vectors in surprisingly good order.

It might be too little, too late.

With the opposing column having their hands full swatting droids from the sky, there was perishingly little to impede Task Force Sol from laying into them with renewed viciousness. The enemy fleet was no longer 20,000,000 klicks in the unknown. We have them dead to rights, and they aren't fighting back.

Crying Sun roared like a living beast, unleashing fusillades after furious fusillades in ferocious rhythm.

⁂​

Sweet Mary, the sight was utterly biblical.

The Vulture swarm was a legend ripped right out of the tales of Lovecraft, undulating and writhing like a single eldritch abomination created solely to blight God himself. Have you seen a school of piranhas befall a fallen deer and leave nothing but bone behind? It was the same thing. The droids completely trampled over any resistance with hardly a hiccup, savagely chewing up and spitting out the enemy battle line with only one intent on their artificial brains.

Sure, hundreds were being downed every second, but that was expected for swarm tactics.

Regardless, it was a terrible way to die. I hoped their ships disintegrated around them fast enough for them to die painlessly. If not… I forced myself to ignore the horrific ramifications.

The 200,000 Republic starfighters were being redirected to the rearguard, to meet the droid LACs in what must be the single largest fighter battle in the war. A new storm of pins speckled the battle plot as the enemy carriers launched a second wave of LACs from what seemed like the depths of hell, bringing the total number up to upwards of half a million.

I swallowed my surprise. How exactly they managed to double their carrier capacity was beyond me. For a tense moment, I watched the screens to gauge what the LACs were tasked to do–and to my immense relief, they were banking around to head rearward.

With the imminent threat of bombing runs now passed, the Armada's battle column was free to renew their ceaseless battery with eagerness. This round, however, the Cerulean Spear had already closed the distance and manoeuvred into a parallel line ahead. Amidst the embroiled stars, some six-hundred warships exchanged thunderous broadside, unleashing tempests of iron and fire at each other.

Republic turbolasers punched gaping holes in Separatist deflectors. Separatist warheads screamed back in response, acrid smoke licking the heavens. Shot and shell roared through the vast emptiness between battle lines; a horrid, violent microcosm of a galaxy at war. Very soon, shields on both sides had been battered away, and durasteel hulls shattered and splintered, cracking and buckling under assault.

And amidst the maelstrom, smaller vessels minnows through the ranks. Munifexes and Arquitens met and danced just beneath the waves of hellfire, just as stupidly brave crews of Lupus-class frigates bum-rushed arcs of point defence to launch opportunistic waves of missiles at the flanks of the enemy column. They're deaths were almost a foregone conclusion, but if they took out a whole Venator with them… it was then a small price for victory.

The enemy column lit up the void with a facsimile of a horizon, beads of light exploding out and rocketing towards us. Queen of Beauty ate a shot at amidships, gouging out a deep scar in her hull and carving up twenty-one of her launchers. Even if I wasn't physically present, Repulse's sound systems did a disturbingly good job of replicating the deep groans of crunching steel as the ship struggled to hold herself together.

I gave the order, and Queen of Beauty joined the increasing ranks of battleships being folded out of battle, with a Recusant-class battlecruiser taking her place. The tactical display spelled it out cleanly; the situation was untenable. Even with our preemptive strikes, and Task Force Sol utterly ravaging the Republic's rear, the enemy still had better shields and better turbolasers, not to mention four ships for every three of ours. A Providence could take on a Venator one-to-one with a respectable chance of victory, but under the fire of two?

There will probably be studies and debates on this battle centuries in the future, but right here and right now, my conclusion is that we were getting fucking mauled. Something had to be done, or the stars will be witness to our deaths.

Queen of Beauty passed in front of Repulse on her way to Centares, giving me a particularly good view of how the ship was literally bent into a V-shape by the attack she endured, like a fish with a broken spine.

Not all of them were as lucky as her. Among the column were wrecks; gutted hulls still drifting with the rest of the fleet but streaming with atmosphere, debris, and life pods while frantic rescue teams launched themselves into a grim race against time, fighting with untold courage to save their trapped and wounded crewmates.

It was mountingly dangerous work. It was hard to distinguish between a fighting and wrecked ship in space. After all, even wrecks continued at velocity with the rest of the fleet. Drive cones were used most of the time, but ships-of-the-line disengaged their sublight drives once they reached the required velocity, relying on secondary drives and attitude thrusters afterwards. At that distance, the only surefire way to confirm an enemy warship was no longer fighting was if it was in pieces.

And that's exactly what happened. Republic fire control fixed targeting solutions on wrecks and inadvertently unleashed broadsides on unwitting rescue Droch-class cutters. Sometimes, some adjacent warships recognised the trajectory of incoming fire and warned the rescue parties in advance, but most of the time most warships were too busy with their own problems.

'If enemy shells weren't heading for us, it wasn't our problem' was the reigning attitude. I couldn't blame them.

Who I could blame, however…

"Where the hell are our allies?" I fumed, internally doubting the validity of 'allies.'

"Columex has not responded," Stelle said.

A shockwave boomed from our portside, a ship-of-the-line detonating from a torpedo run by a particularly bold Carrack-class light cruiser with too little sense–which itself was obliterated from existence by the shrapnel. Repulse shook violently, with Stelle himself careening into a wall. If it wasn't for our shields, we would be swiss cheese.

"Contact them again," I demanded, far too high on adrenaline to deal with my near-death experience, "This time, I want a bloody answer!"

"That would be breaking–"

"Just fucking do it, Stelle."

Stelle punched in a receiver address. It took five minutes for a response.

I was ranting even before there was a coherent picture of the other end, "Where are our reinforcements!? Did you fail to receive our previous transmission!?"

"I am afraid none are coming, Commodore."

The person I was speaking to was a human male. I already had my predispositions, but I did not expect Diedrich Greyshade to feel so similar to Simon Greyshade, despite their different appearances. Diedrich had that devious character floating about him, like his relative, though his voice was harsher, harder, and made the uniform he wore convincing enough.

Extra points for the honesty, too.

"Want to explain?"

Diedrich Greyshade rubbed his forehead, "I extend my apologies. I attempted to bring our fastest ships, but couldn't gather enough support."

"Support?"

"The Joint Defense Fleet is a democracy, sir. We're technically a civilian cooperative," he tried to explain, "Believe me, sir, Columex is next in the Republic's sights. We know that. But the other sectors aren't willing to risk it. There are merchantmen fleeing here from Centares, and the picture they paint isn't pretty enough. We don't want to die for a lost cause."

Sounds like a fat load of shit. Why'd you keep quiet then?

"Antemeridian is literally a hundred parsecs north of here–"

"We don't want to die for a lost cause, sir," Diedrich reiterated more forcefully, "The Commonality did not weather galactic politics by being stupid. Antemeridian and Budpock have evacuated their armed forces to Columex as well. I advise you to preserve as much of your forces and withdraw here. We can make a real stand–"

"Well, can we expect anybody else to come!?" I interrupted harshly.

Diedrich paused, making a show of thinking.

"...No."

I cut the connection, even more frustrated than before. Partly because I now knew no help was coming, and partly because Greyshade was right. Balancing military strategy and political strategy will never get easier.

I had to give an order to retreat sooner or later. We created a plan to retreat in good order, though we spun it as a 'measure of last resort' to the Centareans.

Now? Maybe. But would the Salvarans, the Bryxi, the Wobanians accept that? The Centareans most certainly won't, and we can't have spacers threatening mutiny at such an hour.

Should I wait for us to suffer more losses? But that would defeat the point.

I certainly didn't expect the Republic to solve my conundrum for me. In the worst way possible.

"Sir!" a droid shouted up at me, "Our scanners are indicating a massive object extracting from hyperspace!"

It was as if the volume of the universe had been toned down–followed by a blinding flash of light, like the fabric of space-time had been ripped apart right in front of the column to reveal the infinite heavens. And then the tear sewed itself back shut, and a behemoth drive signature slammed its way onto the battle plot, dwarfing everything around it.

That was the only warning I got before Battle Squadron Salvara just… disappeared. Wiped off the map. The entire vanguard of our fleet simply gone. All three-hundred thousand souls in thirty, forty Dreadnaughts, dead in the blink of an eye. The last defiant lights of Salvara–the spacers who've been with us since the start–snuffed out almost in an afterthought.

The image was brutally clear.

Super Star Destroyer.

At least eight klicks stern to bow, and the whole length of it like a vengeful titan. It definitely wasn't the Executor, as it didn't have a city-like superstructure. Instead of the sleek, dagger-like deadliness that defined the Executor, it was bulkier, more mighty. An indomitable juggernaut that would not stop for nothing, casting a shade of foreboding inevitability.

"Accessing registry… Mandator-class star dreadnought," there was a hint of panic in Stelle's voice, "Registered callsign; Legacy of the Founders."

That literally meant nothing to me. But if the Republic was willing to name that ship something so grandiose, then they must be damn well sure she could live up to it.

Legacy of the Founders unleashed another relentless barrage of turbolasers, and Separatist warships erupted into flames under it, paying the ultimate price for their loyalty. Task Force Clysm swung around in good time, bearing broadsides and responding with a rippling blast of torpedoes, missiles, and lasers. The Mandator's shields flickered as they absorbed the cannonade, then replied with another punishment of overwhelming firepower.

"Sir!" Stelle snapped me out of my daze, "Should we retreat!?"

"–Right," I swallowed thickly, "Order of retreat."

"Order of retreat," the droid nodded, relaying the command.

Green cascaded down the repeaters as the whole fleet acknowledged and accepted my assessment of our situation. Repulse suddenly kicked her sublight drives into gear, vectoring her main thrust downwards as hard she could to lift her tail in the opposite direction.

Standard order of retreat, as it were. This was one of the rare cases our line of battle was still preserved enough to pull it off. Usually, each section of the line would just make an independent jump to the nearest friendly system, before regrouping at the rendezvous point. That wasn't possible here, because we had to withdraw to Columex in one piece. In some deep space battles, the order of retreat was as simple as swinging one-eighty and jumping.

Doing that here would result in half the fleet disappearing into the planet's mass shadow, or straight up ramming into Centares before they could completely insert into hyperspace.

The solution? Jump from under the system plane.

Within seconds, each ship in the Armada had spun ninety on their transverse axis to nosedive perpendicular to the Republic fleet, before spinning another ninety on their long axis to have their dorsals face Columex. The ships already in the process of retreating such as Queen of Beauty jumped first, provided their hyperdrives were still functional.

Among the abandoned hulks still drifting along the original column were crippled ships-of-the-line, pulsing out 'white flag' signals to signify their surrender. The reason we chose to dive 'down' instead of 'up' was to both exploit human psychology and as well as Star Destroyer design. It worked, because the volume of fire we received immediately plummeted.

"Clear!" the astronav droid called.

"Execute insertion."

Repulse burned again, this time vectoring her thrust upwards to swing herself ninety-degrees again, along her short axis to parallel herself with the hyperlane egress on the opposite side of the planet.

Flashes of light sprung from the readouts and ship after ship ignited their hyperdrives and blasted themselves into hyperspace. Starlines appeared beyond Repulse's viewport, and the star system of Centares was no more.