Chapter 3

Orbit of Leesis, Christoph System

Savareen Sector

The corpses of Dauntless and Resolute were like rivers of scrap drifting around Leesis, transforming into an artificial ring around the small moon. Repulse’s sublight thrusters eased off as the frigate completed its prograde burn around the moon, finally coming into view of what was left of the Resolute.

The cruiser had been blown open from the inside. From what we could tell, her main hangar had been turned into a combustion chamber by a leaking fuel bunker, and all it took was a single shot to completely slag her. Now, Resolute was shaped more like a tuning fork, with the two ‘prongs’ twisted outwards by the force of the detonation. Her aft superstructure, however, remained more or less intact.

Not much could be said about Dauntless, on the other hand. Most of that ship had careened into Leesis, smashing through its icy, crystalline crust before disappearing into the frozen oceans below. An unfortunate ending for any clone who managed to survive the initial battle.

“At our current barycentre, we will intercept the moon within one and a half local rotations,” the astrogation droid said.

I eyed the astrogation repeater, “We aren’t staying around for too long. Start a finite burn until our apoapsis is far enough for a low-energy transfer to Christophsis’ orbit.”

The B1 punched in some keys into his station. “We will be in range of Battleship Fifty-three for only forty minutes with this burn.”

“More than enough time,” I said, “Good work.”

The vast shadow of Battleship 53 groaned past us, both Dauntless and Repulse mere pygmies in the wake of the massive Lucrehulk’s form. Droch-class cutters were already swarming out of the battleship’s hangar bays to begin the salvage operation.

“Battleship Fifty-three reports that its velocity has matched Resolute’s,” the communication droid reported, “Beginning salvage operation.”

“Our lifeform scanners detect seven-hundred and twelve distinct biological signatures around the bridge stalk,” another droid looked up at me, “Should we rescue them?”

I craned my head up at the repeater display, which indicated that we were also picking up a handful of electronic waveforms and pulses–distress signals. Both makeshift and otherwise.

“We do not have time,” Tuff warned, “The moon is halfway through its second rotation since the battle, and the hyperlane egress is on the other side of the planet. We must complete our raid on Resolute’s data terminals and rendezvous with the blockade as quickly as possible.”

I rubbed my cheek in thought. The Republic will be returning with reinforcements, that was an absolute certainty. Tide of Progress had detected an hyperwave transmission shortly after our skirmish with Obi-Wan Kenobi began in earnest, which could have only originated from a reinforcing fleet enroute to the Christoph System. The Jedi will be returning, with more ships and more fully-complemented carriers. Tuff was right, as he usually was in these situations; from a solely rational standpoint, rescuing enemy soldiers was a waste of valuable time.

Unfortunately, I am not a droid. I am human. A person. And all those survivors trapped in the wreckage of Resolute, on a collision course straight for the surface of the moon–clones as they may be–were people too. I’m not capable of thinking solely in binary and probabilities. I understood, with unnerving clarity, that I will hear the beeping of distress signals in my sleep for the rest of my life if I decided to ignore them here.

But most importantly, it’ll look very good on my record.

I rubbed my eyes, “Shit… patch me into comms, open frequency.”

“Uh…” the communication droid glanced at Tuff, but a quick glare from me had him snapping back, “Roger roger!”

I cleared my throat, “To all surviving personnel of Republic cruisers Resolute and Dauntless: this is Captain Rain Bonteri of the Confederate Navy. On behalf of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, we demand your absolute and unconditional surrender. By Section Two, Articles Twelve through Sixteen of the Yavin Code relative to the General Protection of Prisoners of War, you have the right to, and will be afforded, humane and privileged treatment which may be accorded to you by reason of your species, age, and state of health–including but not limited to; sufficient sustenance, medical attention as required, and every guarantee of hygienic and healthful climate. I repeat–”

I repeated the demand of surrender a second time, even though I, every droid on my ship, and likely every survivor out there, knew I was full of shit. After all, there was a good chance I was the only Separatist officer who had ever uttered those words in succession. The Yavin Convention was millennia old, and military officers–Republic or Separatist–who still adhere to them were about as rare as tauntauns on Tatooine. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first time the clones had ever heard about the Yavin Code.

“Sir,” there was a warning in Tuff’s modulated voice, “I predict that the survivors will think this is a trap. They may resist their rescue.”

Was this his way of trying to dissuade me from a tactically unwise decision? Let it not be said that tactical droids cannot learn. But I wasn’t going to change my mind.

“Then we’ll start with the escape pods,” I said, “And use those rescued survivors to convince the rest. Order Battleship Fifty-three to divert some cutters from the operation. And have them jam the distress signals–if the Republic hears them, they may be prompted to return sooner than later.”

Several cutters had already made their way to the twin bridges of the Resolute, punching into the cabin and disgorging their droid payload. Soon, whatever salvageable data the ship had will be mine–hopefully along with the timetable and roster of the incoming reinforcements.

“Have them work their way down the superstructure,” I ordered, “We’ll keep Battleship Fifty-three in orbit here until the operation is complete. Should enemy reinforcements return within the two rotations as predicted, then Leesis should be over the blockade when they arrive anyway. If not… we’ll have to make do with one less–”

“Sir,” Taylor turned around, “There is an incoming transmission from planetside. On our frequencies.”

“I’ll take it here.”

The hunched form of General Whorm sprung up from the holoemitter. More animal than man, the Kerkoiden was still more pleasing to look at than Trench regardless, though I would say he needs some serious dental work. Maybe it was my Earth-centric sensibilities, but that underbite is nasty.

“General Loathsom,” I fixed a smile, “An unexpected pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Captain Bonteri!” Whorm seemed to bow, though I can hardly tell from his hunch, “I am pleased to inform you that the last remnants of Republic presence on Christophsis has fallen. Crystal City is completely in my hands.”

“A pleasant surprise indeed,” I was genuinely taken aback, “Earlier than scheduled.”

“The circumstances you informed me proved that haste was in order,” General Whorm was visibly pleased with himself, “However, I regret to inform you that the Jedi Anakin Skywalker had escaped with Senator Bail Organa and a contingent of clone troopers. As my planetary rectennas could not locate them, they must be using that stealth ship you reported.”

My smile tightened, “I see. Thank you for your work, General, I’ll attempt to locate and intercept the Jedi.”

“I hope we can speak further afterwards, Captain.”

“Of course,” I closed the connection, and breathed out.

Obviously Anakin Skywalker would escape. With Bail Organa too! Isn’t he Princess Leia’s father? Wait… no he is her adopted father, after Obi-Wan pawned her off. In any case, I couldn’t blame the General for losing them. Competency, no matter how much, did little good in this kind of case. I wouldn’t blame myself when I lose them, either.

“Where is Chaleydonia now?” I asked.

“On the night side of the planet,” Tuff said.

As Leesis’ orbit around Christophsis was on a near-perpendicular inclination relative to the solar plane, Chaleydonia was ‘downwards.’

“Belay the orbital manoeuvre,” I sighed, “Downward pitch by ninety, starboard roll by ninety. I want an anti-normal burn until we’re ’round the pole before heading on a direct vector for Chaleydonia. Plot it.”

As the droids punched in the numbers into the astrogation computer, Tuff twisted his head down towards me, “I calculate the probability of intercepting the stealth ship will be nought-point–”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I waved him off, “I know, Tuff. I know. We are fishing for a minnow in an ocean. But we need to make the effort for the record. Have Resistance and Shadow Price start making their sweeps for the magnetic signature.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resistance and Shadow Price were two ships amongst others that I stationed at the ‘bottom’ of the planet so that when the enemy reinforcements jump in, they can pounce on their defenceless undercarriages and rip them a new asshole. It was simply good fortune they are in the right place at the right time. Not that it would be any help.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Realistically–or pessimistically, from a point of view–it was perishingly useless to find anything in space unless you already knew where exactly they were. A tiny space submarine capable of hiding itself? Forget it. Our sweeps will amount to little more than screaming in random directions hoping something will scream back. If I were Anakin Skywalker, I would fly within the planet’s atmosphere where refraction would scramble the scanners, before breaking out where there were no ships and skipping off into the sunset.

And indeed, half an hour later while Repulse was surging towards Resistance’s position, the readings on one of the sensor readouts spiked.

“Cronau radiation detected, sir,” Taylor said, his voice pitching down, “There was a hyperspace jump a couple light-minutes away.”

It was telling that we couldn’t even pinpoint the general direction of the jump, only the approximate distance.

“…Inform General Loathsom to prepare planetary defences in anticipation of the Republic taskforce. Hopefully, they will be convinced to give up the effort now that they don’t have a beachhead, but I doubt it,” I said, “Hm… very well, return us to our station. Then I’ll see what the General wants to say.”

⁂

“What is Admiral Trench’s condition, Captain?” General Whorm asked.

“That he’ll survive is a certainty, sir,” I quietly beckoned for the medical report, “Whether he’ll make a full recovery is still in question.”

Taylor registered the report on my datapad before handing it over, and I couldn’t help but wince upon looking at it.

“Your expression tells me that his state is troubling, Bonteri,” Whorm observed.

“Uh… well, it looks like the Admiral is going to need some cybernetics,” I said weakly, “We will need to get him to a planetary medical installation as soon as possible. His condition is stable, but he isn’t going to be waking up anytime soon.”

“Then it is unfortunate we do not have the time,” he said.

…Oh. So that’s what this is about. I scratched my head–honestly, I should have expected this. It is clear that General Whorm wants Trench… out of the way. Both of them were accomplished officers, and rather famous within Separatist ranks, and direct competitors for the office of Supreme Commander. No doubt Whorm hoped that with Trench incapacitated, he would have a leg up in the bid. This must seem like a fortunate accident for him.

“Am I right to assume the Retail Caucus will now administer Christophsis?” I tried to change the subject.