Chapter 20

Atraken was still beautiful, if you were intent on remaining in the safety of the refuge zones-hastily deployed ray shield domes that kept out the worst of the radiation, transformed into ramshackle villages of tents and lean-tos. It was clear the refuge zones had been deployed a long time ago, but the settlements had burgeoned over time as civilians were evacuated slowly, ship by ship.

Outside, roving droid patrols monitored the radiation levels with their scanners. Apparently it wasn’t very high, to Barriss’ surprise. Unsafe levels, undeniably, but not the picture of hell that had been painted onto her mindscape. Far from it. The reaches were still verdant green, shimmering with morning dew. Trees still rustled in the wind, birds singing from their branches.

Lieutenant Cartroll had explained it clearly; the Republic had only targeted strategic infrastructure, even if that meant cities. But the hinterlands, where the safe zones were wisely established… were still quiet. Untouched, she daresay.

It looked far from inhabitable. You couldn’t even see the fallout from here.

Barriss heaved. That was wishful thinking, wasn’t it? What did she know? Radiation was invisible. Her thoughts come from the safety within these ray shields. The almost felicitous nature of these lands were not mirrored in the souls of the people who lived in them. The RRM freighters that descended from the clouds, grey, beaten and battered as they were, appeared as saviour angels to the Atrakenites nonetheless.

They did not cheer or celebrate upon their landings, however. The people moved forward in their queues, bleak-eyed and silent, hoping against hope they could step onto the ramps before the transports were filled to capacity. Those who could not didn’t despair. They’ve seen hundreds come and go over the months; they could wait a little longer. That’s all they could do.

Move on. Forward. With all they had left on their backs. No rejoice or despair, only the tenacity to keep living for whatever reason they held to.

Barriss blinked, untensing, letting the tumult fade from her body. The Force flowed through every living being. She had Force-sensed them from habit, tasting their swirling emotions. She felt them. Held them her heart. She had to.

Rame Cartroll stepped onto the platform, “Republic fleet in-system, sir.”

It took a moment for her to realise he was speaking to her, “Into the minefield?”

The man couldn’t help a small grin, “Aye, sir. They swept the mines with their cruisers the hard way. Our probe droids estimate varying degrees of damage across at least fifteen ships.”

Jumping right out of hyperspace and running into a minefield, Barriss mused, they probably didn’t even know what hit them.

“Do you think that’s all of them?” she questioned.

“You mean if there could be a second wave?” Cartroll checked his tablet, “I’d say no, but there’s no harm in erring on the side of caution. Those big Jedi cruisers can’t get through anyway, so we’ll be dealing with blockade runners and starfighters.”

He glanced up at her, taking her silence for hesitation, “We can take them, sir.”

“We could,” Barriss replied with a confidence she didn’t really feel, “But there might be another Jedi General now.”

“Oh,” Cartroll deflated some, “Right. Those clairvoyant freaks could probably navigate through the minefield, huh?”

That… wasn’t what she meant, but Barriss allowed the miscommunication to remain.

She swept her gaze across the safe zone again, implanting it in her memory. There must be dozens, if not hundreds just like these littered throughout the plains and mountains.

“Let’s get going.”

“Very good, sir.”

They parted. Lieutenant Cartroll’s ship was the Habatok II, a Corellian-made CR90 corvette resting on a landing pad a ways from the settlement. IGBC frigates like Unicorn, while capable of atmospheric flight, didn’t have any landing gear, which meant her warship was hanging just above the cloud cover.

As Barriss lost herself in thought on the way to her shuttle, she was suddenly struck by a young boy cradling an infant in his arms. For a brief moment, their gazes meant.

The boy mumbled something in the local dialect before dashing towards the queues. Barriss turned around to watch him go. She caught one word, spoken in broken, heavily accented Basic.

Mercy.

She turned back, thinking. I hope so too.

“Get me a damage report, now!” Admiral Yularen demanded, dramatically pointing fingers.

“Relax, Admiral,” Anakin patted the older man’s shoulder, “It doesn’t seem too bad.”

“We miscalculated the extraction zone, General,” Yularen grumbled nonetheless, wrinkling his upper lip, “Either the Separatists had expanded the minefield since General Krell’s last report, or their orbit has changed.”

“Chalk it up to outward pseudoforce,” he shrugged, “You know nothing really stays put in space.”

Yularen blew out a furious breath while receiving a datapad from a meek damage controlman, “If you say so, General. It remains that our cruisers aren’t getting through this. We’ll need to billet for repairs as well.”

Anakin crossed his arms, peering out the viewports, “Comm General Krell and request instructions.”

“Lieutenant?” the Admiral moved to the edge of the portside datapit, looking expectantly at the comms officer.

“Yes sir, getting through to Chrysaor now,” Lieutenant Avrey confirmed hastily, “…Tightbeam response incoming. Should I route this to the Battle Room or-”

“We’ll take it here, Lieutenant,” Anakin crossed his arms, “Thank you.”

General Krell’s likeness appeared from the holoprojector embedded in the instrument panel, the great beast of a Jedi reduced to the size of a handheld miniature. Pong Krell was one of the most renowned Jedi Masters in the Temple; one of the most powerful, and without equal in the art of Jar’Kai. Having fought the Battle of Atraken for almost half a year now, Anakin had pondered on how the indomitable Besalisk had been holding up.

He received his answer through the Force; not well.

Weariness swelled out in waves. Though General Krell concealed his fatigue well, there was no hiding the dark rings around his eyes, or the torpor in each of his four arms. The Jedi Master was almost swaying listlessly, if not for one of his arms holding onto a support off-holo. A dark shroud hung around him, one Anakin recognised all too well. The war had taken its toll on all of them-but Master Krell more than most.

He did not point it out, “This is Anakin Skywalker of the Open Circle Fleet. We have arrived with reinforcements, Master Krell. Where do you need us?”

“It was about time, General Skywalker,” Master Krell said roughly, “You have arrived at a most fortuitous time, and there is much to be done. Your task is simple; engage the enemy and keep shooting their ships out of the sky until none are left.”

Simple? Yeah, right.

Admiral Yularen coughed, “I’m afraid you are going to have to elaborate, General.”

“The Separatists have been trying to bolster their numbers by building new ships in their secret lunar shipyards. To do so, they have been smuggling doonium off the planet as we speak. Using your fighters as cover, I will run their gauntlet in gunships, make atmospheric entry, and insert on the ground,” Master Krell folded his arms, “Trilos only has two points of interest; the capital New Kattellyn, and the mountain range where we suspect the shipyards are located. If you can get your own gunships through the minefield, you are free to join us, General Skywalker”

“We can’t get our larger ships through,” Yularen demurred, “Our pilots will be fighting without support.”

“I’ll grant it’s not the ideal way to conduct a war,” Krell allowed stonily, “But we haven’t been conducting an ideal war since this battle since the Separatists poisoned the entire planet. I don’t see another option. Do you?”

Stang. He didn’t. This damn minefield severely limited their options. Master Krell has been fighting this battle for months on end. If anybody knew what to do here, it would be him.

Anakin nodded, meeting Yularen’s gaze as he turned on his heel, “I’ll go brief the men. Scan for an opening to get our gunships through.”

“Understood, General.”

He made his way to Harbinger’s flight deck. The hangar’s deckhands, on standby now that they’ve prepped the fighters, watched him with wide eyes. He noticed Hammer Squadron’s pilots in their barracks, mentally preparing for action. Let it be him to be the one to disturb them.

Anakin found Tallisibeth before a group of clone troopers, head bobbing as she talked. They sat on the ordnance crates, Appo among them, listening to her with studied concentration. The Clone Commander, watchful as ever, spotted him first and stood to attention, prompting the rest to hastily follow. Tallisibeth stilled in midsentence, then spun around stiff as a bone.

“What’s this?” he asked.

She looked stricken, “I was just…”

Anakin raised an eyebrow, “I’m not admonishing you, Padawan. I’m just curious.”

He said so as gently as he could, though it amounted to little from the hanging expression on her face. It was clear to him Tallisibeth was still under the impression she had done something wrong, even though Anakin was more than pleased she had spoken to the troopers on her own volition. His new Padawan was too jittery, he found, too overly cautious of wronging him, as if she expected him to abandon her at the slightest misgiving.

Was he that scary? Anakin did not know how to rectify her fear of him. He wasn’t Obi-Wan.

Tallisibeth bit her lip, glancing nervously at the gathered men. Appo caught on quickly.

“Come on, you lot. You haven’t got time to warm those crates with your asses,” Appo barked, as if he wasn’t just among them a moment prior, “Get back to work.”

He sounded just like Rex, then. Anakin almost thought Rex had come back to life, and was standing next to him again… he shook his head. He can’t get caught up in the past. All the clones shared the same voice, that’s all. Nothing more.

They scattered nevertheless, and Anakin seized the chance to steer Tallisibeth off to one side. Appo nodded curtly, then marched off to shepherd away the inconspicuously gathering curious deck personnel.

“So?” he prompted.

“I was just telling them about my life in the Temple,” she fidgeted with her fingers, “About… um, the tournament.”

“Bragging?”

“No!” Tallisibeth denied, “They asked how I became your Padawan! Isn’t it fine, Master? I was just keeping up morale, like a commander should… isn’t it better if we sit down and talk to them, and know their names, instead of just calling ‘trooper!’ every time we need something done? Nobody likes being treated as if they don’t matter.”

His Padawan had found her groove by the end of her tirade, puffing out her chest. For all her insecurity, Tallisibeth was perceptive and mature beyond her years, Anakin thought in bleak humour. When he was her age, Anakin was still a pain in Obi-Wan’s behind, too eager to prove himself.

“Well,” he started, “They seem to like you. That’s good.”

She was visibly surprised at his brevity, “I mean… they’ve lost so many of their friends. I’m not very strong with the Force, but even I can feel their pain. Can’t you?”

“It comes with the job.”

“It comes with your job too,” Tallisibeth mumbled quietly.

Anakin sharpened up. Maybe she was too perceptive. He was intimately familiar with how it felt to not matter. Maybe she’s like me. Maybe nobody else wanted to train her, either. Anakin didn’t want to do it, but he knew what it was like to be rejected.

“You’re right, Padawan,” he allowed, “We all handle our loss in our own way. Good work. Now, do you know how to fly a starfighter?”

Tallisibeth stumbled over her next words, taken off-kilter by the sudden change in topic, “Y-Yes, Master! I… I was the top scorer in my initiate clan.”

And there was that self doubt flaring up again. I suppose we all have different ways of going about proving ourselves too. Maybe he can still repair this rocky start to their relationship… but first-

“Good,” he reached for the intercom on the nearby wall, looking up at the hangar command post, “This is General Skywalker. Have us ready to fly in half an hour.”

“Yes, sir,” the reply came quickly, then boomed throughout the cavernous area, “All deck personnel, report to your commanders immediately. Flight Squad Seven; Hammer Squadron, Gold Squadron, Shadow Squadron; report to your ready rooms for your pre-flight briefings. You will be sortieing in thirty minutes. Gunship wings, standby for deployment.”

Barriss slowly lowered herself into Unicorn’s captain’s chair, feeling its unforgiving steel dig into her spine. How did anybody find these chairs anything but most uncomfortable? There was simply no feasible way to sit in this chair easily, not unless you were a droid. Tuff stood to her side, and despite Barriss’ discomposure with her new-temporary-lease in life, the tactical droid was not a bolt out of place at the right hand of the captain.

I’m the captain, she reminded herself, at least for now.

Unicorn whined as it ascended through the atmosphere, crystalline blue faded to black as the flat horizon curled into the curvature of the planet. Centaur hung in space, at the centre of a formation of smaller corvettes, waiting for instruction. Some degrees to portside, the awaiting arms of Trilos could be found, under the watchful eye of the lone Lucrehulk Keeper.

The modified freighter had its vast cargo holds filled with extra reactors, shield generators, and most importantly bracing for the cornucopia of barbettes lined over its hull. The safety of Keeper’s dangerous point-defence grid was the ultimate finish line for all the transports about to lift off the planet’s surface. In their way, however…

“Invincible-class dreadnought bearing nought-nineteen mark nought-eight-six degrees,” the sensor droid said, “Registered designation; Chrysaor. Flagship of the Demetras Sector Judicial Division.”

Barriss turned her head in surprise. Was that new? For some reason, she never heard the droids reporting mark positions when Rain was sitting in the chair.

“Incoming transmission from Habatok Two, sir,” the next droid relayed without missing a beat, “Should I put it through?”

She heaved. The fighting hadn’t even started, and she was already being overwhelmed.

“Put it through.”

“Unicorn, Habatok. We are in escort formation. Waiting for the go-ahead.”

Barriss glanced over her shoulder, as if looking for the transports beneath her just waiting for the green light. She had half the mind to give to order right then, if not for the two-kilometre long monster known as Chysaor looming in the distance, the lights of its countless viewports blending into the starry sky.

“Give the green light.”

She looked at Tuff in surprise, “But…”

Barriss vaguely gestured at Chrysaor bearing down on them. Pulsating marks on the tactical display described three Corellian DP20s rushing down to meet them at the edge of the exobase.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“The Chrysaor is harmless,” Tuff declared confidently, “The most effective way for that ship to damage us is with a ramming action. I have calculated the possibilities; now is the time to send our transports, before the enemy starfighters arrive. Those frigates intend on delaying us until then.”

She bit her lip, “Fine. Give Lieutenant Cartroll the green light.”

“Roger roger.”

“Received, sir. Good hunting.”

“We need to create a corridor for the transports,” Tuff settled into his pace, “Signal all ships; Battle Order One.”

“Uh, sir?” a B1 raised a hand, “I don’t think they’re up to date with the latest formations.”

The tactical droid stared him down for a moment, before nodding grudgingly, “Signal all ships; standard line a-breast. Calculate enemy intercept vectors and bring guns to bear on their retarding burns.”

Barriss felt useless. This was a tactical droid’s battlefield, not hers. Master Luminara had taught her to command troopers and squads, not massive warships and most certainly not a fleet. But her presence was necessary. The squadron’s ships were not crewed by droids but by sailors and volunteers, and morale was on a knife’s edge. How would the Atrakenites react to the idea that their lives were in the claws of an unfeeling droid?

The nav droid keyed in a course projection to Trilos, depicted as a thin red line stretching through the empty space between the planet and the moon. Unicorn and Centaur naturally took point, while the allied warships rather sloppily formed onto the line, feinting and manoeuvring against each other as they jostled for their positions.

Tuff’s vocabulator emitted a low whine, which Barriss took as a sneer of disappointment.

“The transports are reaching our position,” Taylor reported.

“We’ll manoeuvre in tandem,” Tuff commanded, “Keep them at our port quarter at all times. Unicorn, Centaur, power to forward batteries. Fix ranges on those incoming frigates. Fire on my- the captain’s command.”

“Roger roger.”

Barriss’ eyes widened fractionally, but she gathered her wits swiftly and kept her eyes peeled on the tactical display. Two cones expanded from the frigate’s bow mark, denoting the firing angle and range of the forward batteries.

The Republic gunships eluded the cones, keeping a judicious distance as they attempted to circumnavigate the picket line. She could feel Tuff’s expectant gaze boring into the side of her head.

“How fast can this ship turn?” she asked.

“Yaw, sir?” Taylor clarified, “With our bow thrusters, faster than those frigates could react on impulse. Especially if they’ve settled onto a vector-but it’d divert power from the turbolasers.”

All the better, she thought, I’d prefer to disable those ships rather than destroy them outright. It made her feel less like a traitor, whatever her feelings were worth these days.

“Yaw portside once they’ve crossed our bow,” she commanded, “Burn forward at the same time to bring them in range.”

“Roger roger.”

Unicorn waited until the frigates skirted the cone’s base, then pounced. Barriss jumped in her seat as the entire bridge rattled from the bow thrusters roaring to swing the massive warship on a dime, Republic frigates sliding back across the viewports. Once the ship reached its leading angle, it lurched forwards and- boom, rattled off two bleeding bolts.

The forward frigate was consumed by a ball of flame-and a blackened husk fell out of the smoke, disappearing into the stratosphere. The second frigate exploded like a firework upon impact with Centaur’s shot, Unicorn’s sister ship having been much less conservative with their allocated firepower.

“Nice shot, sir!” Cartroll’s voice resonated, “Saw that gunship fall past us.”

Right then, a pair of Centaur’s Vulture droids screamed past their portside, drive trails cutting a path through the thin atmosphere as they set upon the lone DP20. Barriss didn’t have to look to know the frigate’s fate; she only had to hear the rippling blasts that followed. Missile impacts.