Chapter 1

Orbit of Christophsis, Christoph System

Savareen Sector

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.”

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

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.