Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Serenno Orbit, Serenno System

D’Astan Sector

Contrary to expectations, Count Dooku’s fleet made the first move, with the Serennian Security Forces promptly lunging into action and leading the way for the rest of the auxiliary northern Separatists to follow. In rapid response, the flagship of General Mace Windu, Endurance, called for an immediate advance forthwith. Drive cones exploded onto the plots in a thick haze of light and gas as thousands of warships hurtled towards each other.

At his vantage point in the rear, Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi could only hide the growing sensation of disconcert building in his chest. Master Plo Koon’s battle strategy was all but a direct reproduction of that he performed at the Battle of Metalorn, one of the most studied engagements of the Perlemian Campaign. The problem with using the same strategy every time is of course that the enemy will always formulate counters to it, and he had a feeling this time will be no exception.

What made the arrowhead formation at Metalorn so effective was the use of battle meditation to unify man and machine across hundreds of warships. Here however, there were thousands of warships, enough so that a boy atop the mountainpeaks of Serenno could look to the night sky and trace the shining constellations of battle. The only Jedi Master ever known to possess such an ability of the magnitude necessary to so effectively command a fleet of this size via battle meditation was Oppo Rancisis–and Master Rancisis was killed-in-action at Columex.

As for Master Plo Koon–n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Plo Koon was absent, still transiting the Hydian Way and enroute to the battlefield, having been the last battle group to depart from the freshly taken Botajef.

“Master, they’re faking,” Ahsoka observed, watching the front ranks of the Separatist line of battle heel hard to port and present broadsides.

A moment later, the holographic plots were awash with glaring red exclamation marks and hundreds of thousands of torpedoes thundered towards them. Despite being stationed in the rearguard of the warfleet, no sane man could so easily shrug off the natural fear that came with haplessly following the incoming vectors of multi-megaton warheads screaming for destruction. They were watching the Separatist massed-missile barrage doctrine at its finest.

Alas, as more and more Separatist battlecruisers turned onto the line of battle, more and more torpedoes were whipped onto the plot, until it was evident Count Dooku was attempting to blunt their advance using the same strategy the Perlemian Coalition exercised at the Battle of Centares. By launching wave after wave of torpedoes, they were forcing the Expeditionary Fleet to slow down in order to intercept them, thus sapping them of the momentum crucial to the arrowhead formation’s success.

Not that Obi-Wan could do anything about it. He was a Jedi General, but Jedi Generals were dime a dozen among the Expeditionary Fleet. It was difficult enough trying to wrangle the different factions of the war council into a coherent battle strategy–which ended up with the adoption of the arrowhead formation due to its inherent simplicity and battle-tested record.

“General,” Admiral Block sauntered up the pilothouse, “I’d recommend sending some of our ships to reinforce our starboard flank.”

“That would put the integrity of the greater formation at risk,” he rightly pointed out.

“Count Dooku has faked his line of battle to portside, traversing to our right in line ahead,” the Admiral of the Open Circle Fleet called attention to the enemy’s intentions, “We are still advancing dead ahead. Sooner or later, the Separatist battleline–traversing perpendicularly to us–will clear our firing envelopes, and will be poised to plunge into our starboard flank.”

Ahsoka, who had overheard the conversation, added her two credits; “If they do that, they’ll have our transports dead-to-rights.”

Ahsoka–who had analysed the same plans as they–was certainly correct. The heavy vanguard and rearguard meant that the sides of their arrowhead was naturally thinner, more or less acting as a funnel to push the transports through the breach when the time came. If Count Dooku was acting to prevent an invasion of his homeworld, he would definitely be seeking stratagems to render their invasion force moot by targeting the Expeditionary Fleet’s troop transports.

However, the Force tugged at his mind, as glaring as a neon warning sign. Plo Koon had explicitly ordered the Open Circle Fleet to take up the mantle of the rearguard, and to never vacate their post unless under the most dire of circumstances. He had his reasons, Obi-Wan was certain, and the Force only moved to convince of that fact.”

“I will not make that decision on my own,” General Kenobi decided, “Tightbeam the Endurance and await theirs.”

Admiral Block’s face was unreadable, “Very good, General.”

As far as relationships between Jedi and Admirals went, Obi-Wan felt that he shared a sense of mutual respect with Admiral Block. Certainly not as hot-and-cold as Anakin’s impulsiveness and Yularen’s steady caution. Obi-Wan and Block were similarly conservative as far as strategies go, and they don’t step on each other’s toes often. At times it does feel like one of them wasn’t needed, however–but when Obi-Wan was leading armies planetside, it did fill him with confidence to know Admiral Block was stewarding the Open Circle in his place.

Mace Windu, in all of his promptitude, replied swiftly. As soon as Admiral Block relayed his recommendation to the flagship, Endurance ordered the redeployment of Task Force Selfless to the starboard flank.

“Signal General Reus to break formation and reinforce starboard positions,” Admiral Block commanded crisply, “Execute upon receipt!”

Obi-Wan nodded, his mind racing as the holographic plots shifted to reflect the redeployment. The starboard flank thickened as the Selfless’ fleet peeled away from the Open Circle, her engines blazing as they moved to anticipate the Separatist maneuver. Turning such a large and inflexible formation as their arrowhead on a dime was clearly considered infeasible, and it would appear Endurance intends on barrelling dead ahead no matter what Count Dooku tries to pull.

But as the main Separatist line cleared their forward firing arcs, their absence revealed their secondary line of warships. The tactical display updated in real time, revealing the massive, circular silhouettes of hundreds of Lucrehulk-class battleships emerging from the Separatist formation. The sheer mass levied against them was imposing enough–each converted freighter fifteen times heavier than a Venator–but it was what followed that truly chilled the air on the bridge. Swarms of Vulture droids poured from the Lucrehulks’ hangars, forming a seething black cloud of destruction that surged toward the Expeditionary Fleet.

“Ahsoka!”

“Yes, Master!” Ahsoka sprang into action at her Master’s order, dashing out of the bridge as fast as her legs could take her.

“Admiral!” Obi-Wan then pivoted, “I’ll have to trouble you with the deployment of our primary combat wings.”

“Right away, General,” Admiral Block understood quickly, relaying commands to the flight bridge: “Deploy all primary combat wings! Their orders are to remain in close formation with our capital divisions and prioritise the protection of the transports!”

Within moments, the hangar bays of the Open Circle Fleet came alive. Venator-class Star Destroyers disgorged squadrons of ARC-170 starfighters, Z-95 Headhunters, and V-19 Torrents by the hundreds of thousands. Vigilance’s own complement of fighters surged forward, Ahsoka’s deep crimson Aethersprite at its point, joining the expanding Republic fighter screen orbiting around the vanguard.

Then, the main Separatist battle line smashed headfirst into the Republic right flank.

⁂

“This is the Battle Hydra’s grand stratagem?” Jedi Master Plo Koon was hunched over the holoprojection table in the heart of Hyperion’s battle room, enroute to the battlefield in the Serenno Star System.

“It is as relayed to us,” if Rear Admiral Diedrich Greyshade was any uncomfortable presenting the strategy to a room full of Republic officers, he did not show it, “As you can see, however, its execution will require the cooperation of the Expeditionary Fleet.”

It was certainly reminiscent of Rain Bonteri’s style of warfare, in which victory ought to always be found in the unpredictable and unexpected. It certainly would never have spawned from the sort of rigid thinking the Republic Navy tries to foster, nor the Confederate Navy–should the Pantoran’s educational military reforms persist as passed. At that moment, the Kel Dor Jedi Master could only wonder what it was like to possess the Battle Hydra’s mind.

“...We owe you Master Luminara’s life,” Plo Koon finally decided, “You will have my cooperation, that I guarantee.”

“Master, they could be holding Master Luminara hostage,” Jedi Knight Lissarkh hissed.

“For what purpose?” the Jedi Master queried, “We no longer live in the days when the lives of Jedi Knights and Masters held momentous value; we have cheapened ourselves by taking to war. Hostage or otherwise, a life saved is valuable in of itself, especially when that life should be in the Force otherwise. That Admiral Bonteri saved Master Luminara’s life when he had a choice not to is reason enough to consider his means.”

“That said, Master Plo,” Knight Bultar Swan reminded, “We would not need this stratagem if Master Windu successfully executes our original plan. And if he does not, we can still exhaust our back-up plans.”

“Indeed, Knight Swan,” Plo Koon’s claws scratched his chin, “The stars burn brightly if the best-case scenario occurs, and we wouldn’t have to treat with the Separatists. But I consider this alternative preferable to our back-up plans, especially in terms of haste and lives saved. Would you not agree?”

“They could be aiming to destroy both our and Dooku’s fleets at the same time,” Lissarkh sibilated coldly, her suspicion evident, “They have reason to; two birdsss with one ssstone. Then, they can siege Serenno at their leisure, with all of their enemiesss defeated.”

Around them, many of the officers nodded their heads in agreement. Despite all things, years of constant war have engraved in them a deep hatred of Separatists, and most still did not see the differences in ideology between factions. Just as an Outer Rimmer couldn't care less about the difference between a democrat and autocrat in the Core, men of the Republic consider the Separatist Alliance a monolith. Many Jedi too have fallen victim to such untoward thought, especially with all the hate and indoctrination swirling the Republic HoloNet.

Plo Koon had lived through enough battles and wars to know better. Whether he was fighting the disenchanted Stark Collective of the Stark Hyperspace War or the embittered Separatist Alliance of the Galactic Civil War, his enemies were still citizens of the galaxy. Hate is beget by hate, and trust can only be reciprocated when trust is extended.

“You may be right,” he admitted anyway, because that is the truth, and so he turned to the patiently waiting Columexi, “Admiral Greyshade, my subordinates have raised relevant concerns. How can you assure us of your intentions?”

The hologram shivered, its blue-scanned illusion briefly scattering as Hyperion was struck by a rogue scramble. In the distance, the silver pearl of Serenno glimmered dully, the raging battle on the artificial horizon like an approaching thunderhead.

“We have everything to gain from this cooperation, and nothing to lose from its dissolution,” Diedrich Greyshade appealed, “You, however, have everything to gain, and everything to lose. As we speak, the Second Confederate Fleet approaches, led by the only Admiral Trench. So easily, we can enter the battlefield as a third party and sweep both you and Dooku into Wild Space. If we wanted to destroy all of you, as the Trandoshan says, we need not ask your permission, do we?”

The message was clear. If you do not agree to cooperate, then we have no choice but to do exactly as you suspicioned us to do.

“So this agreement is more beneficial to Raxus Secundus?” Bultar Swan questioned.

“No!” Admiral Greyshade snapped, “It will be more beneficial for us to kill two birds with one stone, and wipe all of you out of existence!”

But we are not, his eyes burned, and that is reason enough for you to believe us.

“...I find myself suitably convinced,” Master Plo Koon crossed his arms.

“The hunter toying with his prey,” Lissarkh snarled, “To dance is to live, but better to be a coward with a pulse than a martyr with a grave.”

A round of begrudging agreement rippled through the battle room, the rational minds of Hyperion’s high command coming to the same conclusion that they were all dancing on the palm of the Old Spider’s hand. If this was their best bet of getting the Battle of Serenno over with and forging a lasting peace with the Confederacy, then so be it. Plo Koon had enough influence to curate who crewed his task force, and naturally filled TF Hyperion’s ranks with those predisposed to the secessionist conspiracy.

“Then we are in agreement,” he announced, “Admiral Greyshade, you may inform your superiors we will act in accordance to the Battle Hydra’s stratagem.”

The Columexi Admiral smiled thinly, “That is pleasing to hear, Master Jedi. You may await the Aggressor’s insertion momentarily.”

The connection was severed, just in time for another stray scramble to strike Hyperion’s comms.

“Aggressor?” an officer mused, “Is that the name of their superweapon?”

“We must act quickly,” Plo Koon informed everybody in the battle room, “The window to act is shrinking, and will disappear the moment the Aggressor makes itself known. We must adjust the battlefield exactly to the strategem’s likeness.”

“Playing into the Ssseparatist hand,” Lissarkh grumbled.

“We will not die a coward’s death,” her former Master told her.

“Ssso we still might die a martyr’s?”

As Hyperion sped towards the battlespace, the lines of Plo Koon’s leathery skin deepened, “Possibly.”

“Encouraging.”

As they approached, the battle began incrementally appearing on the holographic plots, sprawled across the void, a vast and terrible mural of destruction. The pearl-like glow of the planet loomed large in the distance, its surface alive with the fiery lances of planetary defense batteries. Between the Republic fleet and Serenno stretched a hellscape of dueling warships, starfighter swarms, and Separatist Lucrehulks vomiting endless waves of droid fighters into the fray.

As Task Force Hyperion’s sensors calibrated onto the battle, information began to flood in, her comms relays struggling to get a fix on a friendly frequency in the chaotic struggle. At the center of the battle room, the holographic tactical plot casting blue light across his alien features, Plo Koon listened to officers barking orders and reports, their voices underscored by the faint hum of the ship’s engines and the occasional distant tremor of incoming fire rattling off the hull.

The rigid arrowhead of the Expeditionary Fleet formation was apparent as it struggled to punch a hole through the Serennian Lucrehulks, its armoured vanguard completely inundated by wave after wave of enemy starfighters. On their starboard, a massive line of Separatist battlecruisers were heading along a reciprocal vector relative to the Expeditionary Fleet, and were belching broadside after broadside of missiles into the Republic right flank.

And on the opposite flank, without the risk of friendly fire present, Serenno’s mountainside batteries had come into range, beams of concentrated energy lanced out from the planet below, cutting through the blackness of space with terrifying precision. The destruction of a Republic cruiser on the open left flank was on full display to Hyperion, its shields crumpling under the sustained fire. The ship’s hull crumpled inward as the beam tore through it, igniting the atmosphere within and reducing the vessel to a fiery husk. More beams followed, striking capital ships with devastating accuracy.

“Master, we managed to secure a tightbeam to the Vigilance!” Bultar Swan shouted from behind him.

“Quickly now!” Plo Koon raising his voice was a rare occurrence, but this was one of the few situations that warranted the urgency.

“Oh, stars aligned!” Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice was awash with relief, “Master Plo, you’ve arrived! As you can evidently see, Count Dooku’s forces are countering us expertly. They’re targeting our transports, and we’ve been forced to bleed our momentum in order to prevent that catastrophe.”

“Count Dooku hasn’t yet raised Serenno’s shields, I presume?”

“Considering how his surface-to-orbit artillery is blasting away unimpeded, I would hope not!”

“Good. We can still salvage this,” Jedi Master Plo Koon took a deep breath, expanding his mind to the Force, “Secure me a relay to the rest of the fleet, Obi-Wan. I will take it from here.”

“Gladly, Master Plo.”

“Bultar, Lissarkh,” the Jedi Master summoned his two apprentices, and they stood around him, already expectant of his intentions. The entire battle room unnaturally quietened, as if in anticipation.

“You’re patched into the fleet channel, General,” the comms officer whispered.

Plo Koon nodded his thanks, and took a deep breath.

“To all vessels of the Expeditionary Fleet, this is High Jedi General Plo Koon speaking,” he declared to over two-thousand warships, “I will henceforth be assuming overall of the fleet. Standby for orders, and execute them promptly upon receipt. Let us achieve victory in one decisive blow, together.”

Together.

Together.

Together.

TOGETHER.

At that very moment, a cacophony of emotions radiating from the pilots and crews across the fleet struck the Jedi Master like a thousand stabbing knives. Fear, determination, and pain rippled through the currents, each thread pulling his mind in different directions. He centred himself, tugging back at those threads and stilling their vibrating, panicked tremble with enforced calm. The easiest threads to knit were of his crew, those standing around him–then came the spacers and captains of TF Hyperion, all willingly tied around the needle with which he knit a grand tapestry of war.

This would be his greatest work yet.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Plo Koon felt the turmoil in the Force, a vast and writhing sea of slaughter. The deaths of Republic and Separatist soldiers alike rippled through him, a relentless tide of life snuffed out.

And so he touched the suffering, soothed the desperate, calmed the panicked, encouraged the fearing, and tamed the brave. Each and every thread pulled at him, and he pulled them back, the Force as his needle. Each thread of emotion was a strand in the tapestry, and he took them one by one, tying the frayed edges, knitting them together with the quiet strength of his will.

The officers on the bridge stilled as his aura of calm swept over them first. Fear ebbed from their minds, replaced with purpose. Their voices, once tinged with suspicion and uncertainty, became measured and resolute as they relayed orders. Then came the gunners, sweating as they worked their stations, feeling the tremor leave their hands. The pilots, gripping their controls with white-knuckled intensity, released the tension in their shoulders.

The picture grew larger, more intricate, as the Jedi Master extended his reach. Across the Expeditionary Fleet, he felt the minds of thousands–no, millions–each one a thread of its own. The frantic chaos of the Vigilance’s bridge, where Obi-Wan Kenobi’s presence burned like a steady flame, became part of the weave. The fear of a young ARC-170 pilot, flying into the swarm of Vulture droids, was consoled as she felt the reassuring touch in her mind.

The captains of the heavy cruisers and Star Destroyers felt the weight of command lighten as clarity replaced indecision. Their vessels began to move in perfect synchronization, the arrowhead formation tightening and sharpening like the point of a spear.

And then, it began to revolve.

The same rampant Separatist fire and torpedoes threatening to undo the Republic fleet was now haplessly shrugged off the rotating cycle of refreshed deflector shields, each warship replacing the next in the constant cycle that proved so unstoppable many times before.

Plo Koon was now entirely unconscious, his entire mind bent to the tasking effort of maintaining the grand tapestry of command, each thread threatening to fray at the slightest lack of attention. At the centre of the battle room, the Jedi Master stood like a lifeless effigy, the only sign of life being the constant, steady breathing of his respirator. Around him, his personal staff worked with mute efficiency, their expressions bent in serene determination as they commanded the Expeditionary Fleet to the standards they unconsciously knew.

Across the fleet, Jedi Masters lucid enough to understand what was happening felt their spirits lift as the battle slowly began falling into their favour, whilst those talented in battle meditation added their minds to the great weave.

“This is High Jedi General Plo Koon to the Expeditionary Fleet,” his voice resonated in the deep stillness, “You have but one order. Advance.”

The Expeditionary Fleet roared its soundless battlecry, innumerous sublight drives exploding out in great light and propulsion.

TF Hyperion cut through the battlespace like an arrow, its turbolasers and ion cannons roaring to life. Droids swarmed toward them, but their escort frigates and fighters formed a tight screen, shredding the enemy with disciplined volleys. Hyperion began weaving toward the starboard flank of the Republic formation, where the Separatist main line had turned inward, threatening to punch through to the vulnerable troop transports.

While the Separatists were busy carving out a breach in an enemy they thought was trying to hide in the chaos, lethal blows pummeled their engines from behind and above. Their shields shimmered as they absorbed the initial barrage of Republic turbolaser fire, then buckled. Cut by hailing swords of light, discharging energy instead of blood and penetrating armored planks instead of flesh, the Separatist line of battle crumpled from behind. One unlucky cruiser, caught in the crossfire, erupted in a brilliant explosion as its reactor was breached.

Seeing reinforcements arrive, the Republic starboard flank rebounded eagerly, led by the battlecruiser Selfless. From behind the floating debris of destroyed ships, they rained fire down on their enemies, pushing the Separatist gambit back into the void and away from the transports. TF Hyperion didn’t wait to secure the flanks, however, barrelling ahead alongside the now-revolving arrowhead as it drilled into the line of Lucrehulks and Recusants, carving out great swathes of scrap and debris in the swarm of droid starfighters, leaving behind a lifeless current of wreckage stripped of their mobility and scores of human bodies rendered inorganic in their wake.

“General Swan!” Plo Koon shouted, eyes still glazed over and unseeing behind his mask, “Identify the Serennian planetary shield generators as soon as possible!”

“Yes, High General!”

The revolving arrowhead formation advanced ceaselessly, scything through the battlefield. The Lucrehulks, massive and unwieldy, struggled to maintain their cohesion as Republic fire raked across their shields. The heavy, unstoppable firepower of Tectors and Victorys pummelled the Separatists back, their dagger-like hulls mauling the enemy line and ripping out steel flesh, their movements unnaturally fluid, their accuracy near-perfect. Every pilot, every gunner, every ship captain with a shared clarity and resolve, all calibrated into a finely tuned symphony of war.

Against the droid starfighter swarm, Republic combat wings unsheathed blades of energy and fiercely slashed at the writhing mass. Beam crossed beam, sending blinding spirals of light streaking across the black sky over Serenno. Proton torpedoes rocketed from under-wing racks pierced durasteel armor, and battered the fleet in haphazard array. Energy beams rushing down at acute angles hit exposed power plants, sending gun turrets flying and consigning droids and spacers to deadly cyclones of hot wind and radiation.

TF Hyperion carved its way deeper into the Separatist rear, the destroyers and frigates at its flanks pouring fire into the exposed underbellies of the enemy ships. Hyperion itself directed its forward batteries toward the engines of a retreating Munificent-class frigate. The targeted ship shuddered under the impact, its engines erupting in a cascade of flames before it spiraled out of control, colliding with a Recusant-class destroyer. They pushed further and further, until they were past even the Separatists’ secondary battleline.

Then, just as the Expeditionary Fleet was on the verge on breaking through, Jedi Master Plo Koon opened his eyes and ordered–

“Divert power from non-essential systems to long-range scanners! Find those shield generators!”

“Redirecting power now!” replied Bultar Swan, her hands flying across the console. The lights on the bridge dimmed momentarily as Hyperion’s scanners surged to full capacity. Her sensor arrays sliced through the electromagnetic interference of the battle and through the atmosphere of Serenno, raking all likely locations for a fortified shield generator system.

The Hyperion’s scanners began painting a clearer picture of the Serennian surface. The planet’s rugged terrain and sprawling cities shimmered on the tactical display, overlaid with a web of energy signatures.

“Generators identified!” the tactical officer called out. “Coordinates locked! They’re heavily entrenched in the Carannian hills, outside the capital city of Carannia!”

“Paint the target and send those coordinates to the Aggressor!”

“We– we don't know where the Aggressor is, sir!”

“Burn-through sssweep!” Lissarkh screeched, her reptilian vocal chords flinching the entire room, “Shout out the coordinates to the endsss of the galaxy if you must!”

TF Hyperion did exactly that; roaring out the coordinates to every warship in the star system to here, overloading their comms and burning straight through all the interference and jamming present. Needless to say, there was ample confusion rippling through both Republic and Separatist fleets, as both sides wondered why they were being broadcasted a seemingly random set of figures.

But the burn-through sweep made sure without uncertainty that the one recipient the transmission must reach would assuredly receive it, no matter where they were. Among the recipient’s, however, were the military authorities planetside, who decidedly knew what those figures meant.

Within minutes, artificial auroras shimmered over Serennian skies as the pearl of the Confederacy raised her planetary shields. The planet’s surface-to-orbit artillery ceased fire as vast barriers of energy were erected over the atmosphere, immediately severing any contact between the high command planetside and her fleets fighting in-orbit.

The Expeditionary Fleet finally smashed through the Separatist line of battle.

And a bright blue comet lit up the void, drowning out every tactical plot in-system with a torrent of energy.

For a moment, the chaos of battle seemed to impossibly pause as both fleets turned their attention to the impossible, blinding streak of energy, transfixed. Its target; the planetary shield’s shimmering lattice stretched across the horizon like a second sky, crackling as the comet bore down.

The comet appeared to hit before its transit even registered on their scopes.

A shockwave of light rippled outward, a silent scream of annihilation that spread across the void. The shield flared violently, its surface rippling and boiling as it struggled to contain the incomprehensible energy of the impact. The impact zone detonated in a burst of atomic fury, transforming into a roiling sphere of plasma and fire that seemed to consume the very atmosphere.

The shimmering lattice flickered wildly, its energy nodes overloading one by one. On the planet below, auroras shimmered and wavered, before collapsing entirely. The defensive barrier faltered, then shattered, cascading into fragments of dissipating light. A second after-shockwave swept over the planet’s surface, rippling through the atmosphere and scattering clouds as though the very heavens had been torn asunder.

In orbit, both fleets reeled from the spectacle. Literally, as the magnitude of the blast physically pushed them away from the planet. For a heartbeat, the battle was forgotten as the brilliance of the comet’s destruction faded, leaving Serenno’s surface exposed, its defenses stripped bare.

“A section of the shields are down,” Bultar Swan reported aboard the Hyperion, her voice steady despite the awe etched across her face. “Right over the shield generators. The section had been oversaturated and overloaded with excess energy, far… far beyond its capacity.”

Like hounds smelling blood in the air, a squadron of Victory-class Star Destroyers, having just broken clear of the chaotic melee, acted immediately. Missile banks yawned open across their hulls, exposing rows upon rows of deadly warheads. A single command echoed across their networks, and the massed barrage erupted forth, a wave of destruction racing toward the exposed Carannian hills.

Missiles streaked across the void, their thrusters leaving fiery contrails against the glowing remnants of the planetary shield framed their descent, casting flickering shadows across the battlefield as they screamed toward the surface.

When the first missile struck, the impact was a blinding flash of light, a thunderous roar. The ground convulsed as the warhead’s explosive force carved into the Carannian hills, sending towering plumes of earth and fire skyward in mushroom form. Each subsequent missile struck with home, pounding the same coordinates in a relentless cascade of destruction.

The shield generators, housed deep within reinforced bunkers, were obliterated in an instant. The fortifications buckled under the onslaught, their defensive plating vaporized. As secondary explosions erupted as the generators’ energy cores detonated, the hills themselves seemed to disintegrate, transformed into a churning sea of molten rock and ash.

From orbit, the fallout was starkly visible. The once-pristine terrain of the Carannian hills was now a charred, smoking wasteland, the glowing remnants of the strike painting a haunting picture against the planet’s surface. Fires raged unchecked across the shattered landscape, their crimson tongues licking at the sky.

Jedi Master Plo Koon moved his stiff body, and the illusory veil of battle meditation lifted.

“General Plo Koon to General Mace Windu,” he spoke into the same comms which had just heralded Serenno’s doom, “You may commence planetary insertion. All combat-capable warships, provide close air support and keep the skies clear for our ground forces!”

As the Invasion of Serenno began, one thought crossed Plo Koon’s mind; it would appear the Battle Hydra’s stratagem worked as intended, again.

⁂

Count Dooku’s battleline split in twain, the invasion force stormed the breach. The squadron of Victory-class Star Destroyers, their frames trailing smoke and fire, flanked by wings of screaming missiles. Acclamator-class assault ships followed close behind, their ventral batteries punching out salvo after salvo of suppressive fire as they all but levelled vast swathes of ground for their landing zones. The earth trembled under the weight of their arrival, landing gears deploying as their hulls settled into place, massive deployment ramps lowering to reveal legion after legion of the Grand Army’s finest.

Trailing the main invasion force, wave after wave of troopships and gunships surged toward Serenno’s surface, accompanied by escort wings as they peeled away to strike critical targets across the planet. Their missions were surgical and decisive–seize command centers, disable anti-aircraft batteries, and sowing chaos into the enemy rearlines. The night sky over Serenno burned with the fiery contrails of descending vessels, casting an eerie, flickering light over the embattled planet.

Within one such gunship, Jedi Master Mace Windu meditated, upright and eyes closed even as enemy defensive fire rocked them about. The gunships of the 187th Legion flew low over the Serennian countryside, grazing low rolling hills and ripping open the canopies of forest reserves as they raced towards the home of Count Dooku, Castle Serenno. The line ahead of gunships made another turn, tracking diagonally in a zig-zag pattern to throw off enemy targeting systems.

The city of Carannia loomed ahead, its towering spires piercing the sky like daggers, framed by the glow of raging fires, all consumed in the shadow of a Republic task force overhead. Castle Serenno stood on a mountain ridge just overlooking the capital city, and through the Force, Mace Windu could feel the upcoming battle upon them. The fear of the Separatist defenders, the resolve of the Republic troops, and the sharp, simmering presence of Count Dooku himself–each sensation cut through him like the edge of a lightsaber.

“General Windu!” the clone pilot hailed him through the intercoms, and Mace opened a single eye, “The drop’s in two minutes. Our close air support says the landing zone’s hot, but they’re keeping the AA busy for the most part!”

“Copy that, Captain,” Mace shifted his grip on the handles above, glancing out the hatch slits at the blurred landscape flying by. Moonlight was being blocked by the fleets of landing craft descending through the cloudcover, and it was difficult to grasp the terrain, “We’ll land the armoured battalions east of the castle, where they’ll advance on-foot and occupy Dooku’s perimeter defenses. The rest of us will assault Castle Serenno directly.”

“Breach and clear,” the Clone Commander commented, “Sounds good, General.”

“Acknowledged,” the pilot replied, “Maintaining approach vector. We’re entering the run! Hang tight, boys!”

As the gunship shuddered under the impact of flak, Mace braced himself against the bulkhead, steady despite the turbulence. Around him, the clone troopers of his elite strike team–bearing the dark markings of the 187th Legion–readied their weapons in silence, their faces obscured by helmets but their resolve radiating through the Force. The crew bay’s lights glared red in preparation, the airborne troopers of the 187th making their final checks on their winged jetpacks.

“Remember,” Mace boomed, his voice commanding, “Our objective is to secure Castle Serenno and capture Count Dooku. We do this fast, we do this clean, and we do not falter.”

The red lights in the crew bay pulsed, casting the interior of the gunship in an eerie, hellish glow. The steady hum of the repulsorlifts was underscored by the deep thrum of flak bursts outside, their concussive waves rattling the durasteel hull. The acrid scent of scorched metal and plasma filtered in through the vents, mingling with the faint ozone tang of activated jetpacks.

Mace Windu stood at the center, unmoving, his fingers curling tightly around the overhead handle. The troopers of the 187th Legion were silent, their helmets tilted slightly toward him as if his very presence steadied them. The rhythmic drumming of their hearts echoed faintly in the Force.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom; “Hatches opening in ten seconds! Standby for drop!”

The clones adjusted their stances, feet spread and blasters at the ready. The hum of the Force sharpened around Mace, his senses extending outward. He felt the currents of the battle–a chaotic storm of fear, determination, and death–surging across the once-pristine Serennian landscape. The cold, predatory presence of Count Dooku loomed above it all, perched in his fortress like a vulture watching over the carnage.

“Five seconds!” the pilot called out.

The hatches hissed and began to slide open. A rush of wind tore through the crew bay, howling as it collided with the warm air inside. The glow of the interior lights was replaced by the harsh, flickering brilliance of the battlefield.

The first thing Mace saw was fire–flashes of turbolaser fire streaking across the night sky, fiery blossoms erupting in the distance as Republic and Separatist forces clashed. The terrain below was a chaotic mosaic of glowing craters, burning forests, and jagged shadows cast by the towers of Carannia. To the west, Castle Serenno loomed like a monolith, its stone walls glinting under the flicker of explosions, its great citadel jutting into the night, wreathed in the smoke of nearby artillery strikes. And beyond that: Carannia, the cityscape ablaze with conflict. Blaster fire crisscrossed the streets below, and the distant roar of explosions echoed through the air.

The deafening roar of engines and the crackle of comms filled the air as dozens of gunships maneuvered in tight formation. Some veered off, discharging their payloads of troops and armoured vehicles on the ground below, immediately engaging Castle Serenno’s perimeter defences. Others were engulfed in flames, spiraling toward the surface in fiery arcs as Separatist anti-aircraft cannons found their mark.

The clone pilot shouted over the chaos, “We’re right over zone! Have fun below!”

“Go!” Mace ordered, his voice cutting through the noise.

The paratroopers wasted no time surging forward as the gunship leveled out, the red glow of their jetpacks igniting one by one. They leaped into the open air, a synchronized torrent of black-and-purple armored figures descending toward the ridge. The roar of the wind and the whine of their jetpacks filled Mace’s ears as he followed, stepping to the edge and launching himself into the void.

The night air whipped past him, cold and biting, carrying the acrid scent of war. Below, the ridge came into view, lined with Separatist fortifications and teeming with battle droids. Blaster fire erupted toward the descending troopers, streaks of red and blue slicing through the dark. Mace Windu thrusted his palm out towards the ground rushing up to meet him, the Force rippling from his fingertips, rebounding back and killing his momentum.

The Jedi Master landed with a tight roll, his lightsaber sweeping in a tight arc to deflect incoming fire. Around him, paratroopers touched down across the courtyard, their blasters spitting already firing volleys that cut through the droid defenders. They pushed towards the citadel, close air support in the form of gunships and Y-wing bombers strafing the grounds and tearing up ancient flagstones as they aided the advance. Behind them, the 187th Legion’s armoured divisions had finally broken through the outer defences, and high-power artillery support from AT-TE walkers were steadily laying down a constant covering fire.

“Move out!” Mace commanded, his voice steady over the din. The clones surged forward, their boots crunching against the shattered stone as they advanced toward the fortress. Ahead, the castle’s massive gates stood closed, flanked by turrets that spat turbolaser fire.

“Demolitions, front and center!” barked the Clone Commander. A pair of troopers rushed forward, carrying a portable breaching charge. Mace stepped aside, his blade spinning to deflect a barrage of blaster bolts, each impact sending a shower of sparks into the air.

The charge detonated with a deafening roar, the gates shattering inward. A cloud of dust and smoke billowed out, and through it, Mace could see the green-tinted windows of the castle’s main hall. Their glow was unnatural, a sickly hue that seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive. He could feel the presence of the dark side emanating from within, a cold, oppressive weight pressing against his senses.

“Push through!” he ordered, leading the charge into the breach.

The interior of the castle was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The halls were dark and oppressive, their stone walls lined with frescoes and faintly glowing sconces that cast eerie shadows. The green light from the windows bathed everything in a sickly pallor, amplifying the sense of unease. Battle droids and household guards emerged from alcoves and side corridors, their blasters firing in synchronized bursts, but the clones met them head-on, their disciplined firing lines cutting them down.

As they pressed their relentless advance towards the grand throne hall, reports began filtering in from other fronts across Serenno.

“General Kit Fisto reports that his legions have landed on the outskirts of Fiyaro city,” a clone with a comms booster pack updated him, “And General Agen Kolar is taking Saffia city. General Tiin is providing air cover over Carannia, but advises haste. With our fleets still occupied dealing with the Serennian Security Forces in orbit, General Plo Koon is struggling to push more fighters into atmosphere.”

“Acknowledged.”

The hallways gave way to a grand gallery, its walls flanked by statues of ancient counts that seemed to watch their every move. Mace paused at the entrance, sensing a shift in the currents of the Force. The presence of Count Dooku grew sharper, his aura like a blade cutting through the fog of war. He is waiting for us.

On the far side of the galley, a pair of towering doors. He imagined a snake slithering across its vast, carved facade, whispering the promises of the dark side. Jedi Master Mace Windu advanced, boots echoing against the stone, the sounds of distant battle muffled to his ears. Behind him, the elite clones of the 187th moved in a tight formation, their weapons raised. The nocturnal light tinted green by Count Dooku’s terrible aesthetic taste, and the oppressive weight of the Dark Side became almost suffocating.

Upon reaching the doors, large and heavy and unmovable by any human effort, Mace raised a hand, motioning for silence, and placed his palm against the cold surface of the doors. Through the Force, he could feel the room beyond–spacious, spartan, and heavy with the presence of Count Dooku.

Then, with a single open palm, he pushed the doors open, the heavy slabs groaning as they swung inward.

The throne room was vast, its vaulted ceiling supported by the tapered architecture of the grand hall. Sconces high up dimly lit the vast area, whilst a green-tinted window dominated one wall on the far end, their light casting long shadows that danced across the polished floor. There, seated in an austere chair upon a raised floor, was Count Dooku.

The fallen Jedi rose with deliberate grace, his dark cape billowing as he stood up. His curved lightsaber hilt was already in hand, its crimson blade igniting with a menacing hiss. His presence in the Force was sharp and cold, like a dagger poised to strike.

“Master Windu,” Count Dooku’s voice seemed to boom, undisturbed with the dozens of clonetroopers flooding into the heart of his fortress, “I was hoping for Obi-Wan Kenobi… at least then, this great farce could end with a valuable discussion.”

Mace stepped forward, his own purple blade casting a harsh glow. The clones fanned out behind him, their blasters trained on the Sith Lord.

“This ends here, Dooku,” Mace declared, his voice resolute. “You’ve escaped from justice for long enough.”

“As much as it pains me to agree with you, Windu, I must,” Dooku sighed gravely, “But not for the reasons you might so arrogantly presume. It all ends here. Me. You. The War. The Republic.”

“I am not so gullible as the people you exploit to fuel your own ends,” the Jedi Master declared, “Your words will find no purchase on me. I will give you one last chance, for the sake of our old friendship. Surrender!”

Count Dooku’s old eyes widened imperceptibly, and a light smile graced his lips, “I am honoured you ever considered me a friend, Master Windu. Alas, it is already far too late to make amends. You have already made your own grave.”

Mace Windu approached the Sith Lord cautiously, “I warn you, Dooku; whatever tricks you have planned, they will not work on me. You will not leave this place a free man.”

“I do not doubt,” Count Dooku chuckled mockingly, “However! Neither will you.”

A prickle in the Force. A pinch at the back of his head. Mace Windu froze. He had failed to kill the snake on the door. And now he could feel its forked tongue around his crown, its hiss in his ears. Its eyes at the corner of his vision, laughing viciously. The threat–the threat Mace Windu sensed–was not in front of him, but behind him.

“Oh,” Count Dooku whispered loudly, almost gleefully, “So you do sense it!”

“Dooku,” Mace Windu gritted his teeth, shifting his footwork to a defensive posture, “What have you done!?”

“Not I, Master Windu! Not I!” Count Dooku laughed, the laughter of a free man, “Be honoured; for Castle Serenno shall be our grand mausoleum!”