Chapter 53

Name:Sublight Drive (Star Wars) Author:
Chapter 53

Sullust Libration Point ‘L5’, Sullust System

Brema Sector

The 28th Mobile Fleet prowled through the debris field as would vultures upon a killing field, salvaging anything we could get our hands on, whether it be repair modules, proton torpedoes, or ionised gases from ammunition bunkers. Droch-class cutters and boarding shuttles sliced their way through drifting hulks and debris, hunting down signs of biological activity before handing survivors off to the Sullustan Home Guard, whose ageing array of light cruisers and corvettes had finally decided to join us in the black.

It was a surprise, because Sullust was the premier foundry world in this patch of space, the entire planet almost entirely ruled by a single megacorporation that had bought out its own government–the SoroSuub Corporation. This world should not have been so defenceless... until one considers that the vast majority of the Sullustan Home Guard had been taken by Admiral Dua Ningo to Foerost shortly before the war began.

In any case, the Sullustan Home Guard taking enemy survivors off our hands was a great boon, as the 28th Mobile couldn’t afford to take on extra mouths to feed–not that there were many left at all. With the secrecy swirling around the upcoming campaign, we would have been forced to either abandon them to the void, or launch a search and destroy mission... which honestly may be a kinder fate for the survivors compared to what the Sullustans had in mind. Not that asked–it’s just that the word ‘processing’ in the Sullustan language left enough to the imagination.

They also provided us unlimited use of their shipyards out of gratitude, but we were forced to turn down the offer. After all, the only reason we were still loitering about was the catch up on news from the homefront–now that there weren’t any enemy fleets in the vicinity eavesdropping on our transmissions–and await reinforcements from the south, before we made the fateful jump to Yag’Dhul.

Speaking of reinforcements...

Just as Calli promised, there were Emberlene warships on the system plane, jumping in dramatically late just hours after the battle ended. Twenty Mistryl destroyers, long and sleek and like rapiers piercing through the stars and leaving a backwash of boiling silver in their wake. True to form, clearly these mercenaries weren’t going to get involved in any danger they haven’t already been paid for... or rather, any danger they had nothing to profit from.

Those sleek destroyers were the spearhead of the Emberlene Warfleet, which pledged allegiance to the CAF for nothing more than a carte blanche to rampage and conquer the entire Authala Sector, razing and salting everything they couldn’t carry back to Emberlene. With Emberlene being the homeworld of the Mistryl Shadow Guards–galaxy-wide famous mercenaries–all Emberlene had to do was recall all their agents to acquire themselves one of the most elite warrior corps in the galaxy.

“Are they registered with the CAF?” I asked.

“No callsigns, no beacons, no identifications of any form,” Stelle shot his console a puzzled look, “Even their drive signatures are slowly changing, which suggests highly modified sublight engines. Those ships are ghosts, sir. I don’t think anybody who sees them is supposed to live to tell about them.”

“We aren’t anybody,” Tuff stated coldly, “Widebeam transmission. Request identification.”

“Unknown starcrafts,” Stelle tapped down on the sublight transceiver, “This is the Confederate Navy destroyer Chimeratica. You are flying cold in Confederate space. Please identify yourselves.”

“This is the star destroyer Sharihen,” a woman’s voice returned, speaking with deep maturity and regality, “Your target is in the Itopol Sector.”

“That’s one way to get the message across,” I muttered, waving a hand, “Let’s have them elaborate aboard. We’ll receive them in the hangar.”

Hare’s ears perked up, because when ‘we’ received people it's usually her and I, and I swear to every god I know they gleamed like sharpened blades. Did she secretly carry a whetstone in her internal compartments or something? Because at this rate I’m really going to have to start watching where I put my hands around her.

“Transmitting rendezvous coordinates,” Stelle relayed, “Upon arrival, deactivate your main reactor and standby for tractor beam-guided docking. Acknowledge upon receipt.”

“Acknowledged.”

Chimeratica broke away from the debris field, leaving the burnt out husk of star frigate Repulse to the cold void. Any data that could have been salvaged from that ship already had been, and all that was left of it were depictions of predator and prey that adorned its smoky hull. She was too badly damaged after the 4th Skirmish at Sullust to put up any sort of fight, and even though she could have been repaired–the Auxiliary Division was present–I opted not to. After all, I had to control Alrix into attacking the single spot where Horgo could blast her into stardust.

Aside from some clenched teeth, I showed no outward emotion as the old frigate disappeared into immateriality, as just another wreck among countless others. Where would she end up from here? A Sullustan scrapyard, most likely.

I sighed, standing up and leaving for Chimeratica’s main port airlock as Nightshade approached the rendezvous, portside docking flange extending out of her hull. Timing my arrival perfectly, I approached the airlock just as it hissed open, an escort of Onderonian Guardsmen at my back for insurance.

I could immediately recognise the woman who appeared from the disinfecting smoke as the voice I had heard earlier. She was tall, though perhaps not quite my height, with a pitch black mane of hair that fell down in a dozen gold-tasselled braids, and prominent cheekbones that framed her blue-black lips. What caught my eye the most, however, were the luxurious purple robes draped over her black body suit–which all Mistryl Shadow Guards wore–tied at the waist by a lavender sash.

Indeed, the rest of the Shadow Guards that emerged at her back only wore the hooded black suits as befit their title, which really made them look more like a cabal of assassins... which the Shadow Guards also acted as at times.

“Where’d you get those drapes?” were the first words out of my mouth, prompting a single raised eyebrow, and no other reaction from the rest of the Guards.

“Ootoolan kelp weave,” the lead Guard said, “A gift from the Princess of Ootoola for my prolonged service.”

That must be her previous employer, then, and considering the mild fondness in her voice, she must have been quite dissatisfied with Emberlene’s complete recall of all deployed Shadow Guards.

“It looks like quality–” maybe even better than Onderonian silk, I thought as I inspected the fabric’s lustre,“–Hare, remember Ootoola for me.”

“You won’t be welcome,” the Mistryl told me, “The royal family was overthrown and executed by purist rebels. That was twelve years ago.”

“The Princess must still be alive, if you are wearing that,” I pointed out, “Which means you served as her bodyguard. Hare, where is Ootoola?”

“Morshdine Sector, in the New Territories.”

“We’ll have to invade them later.”

“Yes, Master.”

Now that elicited a reaction–a few startled looks from some of the shorter, and likely younger, members of the Guards. I disguised a triumphant smile with an enigmatic, self-assured one that suggested I might not actually be joking with that statement.

“All for some seaweed?” the head Mistryl narrowed her sharp eyes.

“My family got rich off producing silk,” I waved them in, “If I didn’t join the war, I imagine I’d be a weaver. My name is Rain Bonteri, but I’m sure you knew that. Welcome aboard the Chimeratica.”

“Naradan Du’lin,” Naradan introduced herself, “This is my personal squad, and fleet. We were hired by Calli Trilm.”

“Did she pay upfront?”

“The down payment,” the Mistryl informed as she took after me, “We were led to believe you will pay the rest as the job is completed.”

I tried not to betray my disbelief as I hummed in thought, “Will the job remain between us?”

“Nothing can be promised.”

Well, I tried. They were state-sponsored mercenaries, after all. A cut of their pay definitely goes towards Emberlene’s coffers, as was how the Shadow Guard system operated for as long as the organisation existed.

“The Pantoran doesn’t enjoy mercs and bounty hunters,” I called down a turbolift, gesturing to the other elevators in the lobby to accommodate the other two dozen or so Shadow Guards, “How did you get past the Fourth Fleet Group?”

“General Ambigene was more than accommodating,” Naradan crossed her arms, “As soon as the standing order was lifted, he bid us well with the guise of pursuing a fleet of fleeing Loyalists.”

“Where are those Loyalists now?”

“Chased them as far as the Uvena System before we decided it was safe to head here. There’s a fleet gathering there, for your information. The Republic’s Eighteenth Army may have been shattered, but their General Teshik is still rallying the remnants at Uvena Prime. Those Loyalists–Maarisa Zsinj and the ORSF–were just another fragment of a new fleet he is piecing together there.”

There was a long pause, and even as the turbolift doors slid open, nobody made a move to enter. Naradin Du’lin stared at me, her eyes like chips of blue diamond, saw something on my face, and made to address the bantha in the room.

“And considering what is happening to Eriadu as we speak,” she said, “I would advise caution, as they are a lost legion with nothing left to lose.”

She was, of course, referring to the momentous event that heralded the official beginning of the Confederacy’s Operation Storm-Door; the Decimation of Eriadu. Or, as various extremist Separatist media outlets were already so chillingly declaring it; the Emancipation of Eriadu. General Horn Ambigene’s complete and utter eradication of Eriadu’s crust. A planet of twenty-two billion souls, the most populated world in the Outer Rim outside the Tion Cluster, reduced to a blasted wasteland.

Even the mere indirect mention of the event was enough to make the turbolift lobby freeze. Chimeratica’s every compartment was maintained at a steady eighteen standard degrees to keep its automated systems and droids cooled, but just then it felt as if the temperature made a precipitous drop to zero. In this era of technology, even hundreds of light years were only a few hours away, and to think the next city over was being massacred down to the last child was enough to make you trick yourself into hearing the screams in your head.

Or was that an echo of the Force?

As soon as the 7th Battle of Sullust ended, Vinoc reportedly experienced pounding migraines that ‘threatened to split his skull open’ as he put it himself. And Ventress, she was nowhere to be found, but if I had to guess, she was either drinking in the suffering as one would a smoothie, or puking out its bitter taste. Maybe both. Maybe it was an acquired taste.

Direction.

Lashing out blindly, aimlessly, was no way to live, much less fight. One must be focused, directed, acting with purpose and speed. Ventress was the rose and thorn; the sound of a long knife driving home, and the taste of blood upon one’s lips.

Similarly, the Devastation of Eriadu was concentrated, directed, and purposeful. That was what made its echo in the Force so powerful, it was a knife that cut into the unsuspecting. She was not one of the unsuspecting. She knew the true nature of this damned galaxy from the beginning. Twenty-two billion lives? Just another day in the galaxy.

People only cared about this one because the world was on the HoloNet a few times in the past thousand years.

Ventress peeled her eyes open as the holoprojector before her blinked, shining like a beacon in the blacked out stateroom. She already knew the person on the other side, without even checking. Slowly, she shifted from her meditative stance to a kneel, and accepted the transmission.

“Master.”

“Asajj.”

It was Count Dooku, just as she expected. The ways her scars throbbed, the phantom sensations of scorching lightning dancing across and digging into her flesh, the dormant bruises on her cheeks that seemed to awaken just to throb again. She knew.

“Is it finally time to act against Sev’rance Tann, Master?”

Count Dooku was as imperial as she had last seen him, standing straight with square shoulders that belied his age. Indeed, the white-haired Count wore his eighty-two standard years far better than most humans half his age, deft as he has become with the Force.

“She has always worn a streak of rebellion,” Dooku said, “But always manageable. Until now.”

Until now. Ventress could have told her Master that years ago, back when she still seeked favour. Validation. Proof her life was worth something after Kate's death. The echo of a girl who still had something to prove, lingering far after it lost its welcome. She had strived to serve Dooku, learning what scraps he had to offer, like a starving cat begging for more food. How many other Dark Acolytes were just like her.

Compared, Sev’rance Tann was far more stoic. The blue-skinned alien took every lesson and every punishment in stride, never complaining when Dooku taught her some lesser art when he hinted at greater ones, never flinching when the threat of cackling electricity erupted from his fingertips.

The Force ran differently around Tann, through her bleeding red eyes that seemed to view the world with a calculative impartiality. Ventress considered the rest of the acolytes beneath her–they weren’t so worthy of the Count’s attention–but Sev’rance Tann? She so desperately needed to prove she was better than the woman.

Time and time again, Ventress trounced Tann again and again in their duels and sessions. And time and time again, Dooku chose Tann to join him in his strategising, privy to his closest plans and secrets. Everybody has their strengths, Ventress didn’t need anybody to tell her that. But the growling beast that is envy was not so reasonable.

But Ventress was observant. Sev’rance Tann was the oldest of them, Ventress knew, but never respected the relationship between master and apprentice. She listened and learned, but never stooped to deference. Never once did she ever refer to Dooku as her master–always ‘the Count,’ or ‘sir.’ She even looked down on the Count as if his age was dulling his intelligence, when not even Dooku could keep up with her intricate predictions, as if anybody could keep up with her foresight.

One day, Ventress told her Master, Tann would betray them, once she no longer had any use for them. To that, Dooku merely said;

“I know. It is the unhappy hazard of embracing the dark side.”

But it was never about the dark side, was it, Sev’rance? Ventress knew. She had warned Dooku time and time again, against growing exasperation and irritance. When their fellow acolytes sweated and squirmed in the midst of writhing ancient texts, Sev’rance regarded them with a clinical eye, as if dissecting the stupidities of Sith long dead rather than learning their arts.

It was all a transaction for her. The dark side was merely but a pathway to power, and the moment she found another, shorter ladder, she would reach away without a moment’s hesitation. She did find another ladder, in the halls of politics and military might.

And... I had a taste of that power. Ventress had already placed her foot on the first rung of this ladder, crafted by Rain Bonteri’s hand. It wasn’t the same as seeing the fear in her enemy’s eyes in person, but watching hundreds–thousands–die painfully in service of their twisted Republic with nothing but a few well-timed sentences and a finger on the trigger... there was something delectable about that too.

Nevertheless, Ventress was finally proven right. Vindication outweighing deference, the Dark Acolyte said nothing, cocking a hairless eyebrow.

“I will presume,” Count Dooku recognised her stance, “Your intention is not to gloat.”

“I like to think you taught me to be above such things,” Ventress lied.

“Naturally,” Dooku seriously agreed.

A beat of silence passed between them.

“That said,” Ventress smiled bitterly, “I told you so.”

A flash of irritation that she was so familiar with crossed his face, before it was reigned with patrician command and aristocratic weight. Dooku opted not to trade barbs, partially because it was beneath, and partially because she was right.

“You thought you could betray her first, didn’t you?” Ventress continued fearlessly, “You thought she was incapable of plotting to oust you of your own power right beneath your nose.”

“That is enough from you,” Dooku said softly, and Ventress’ heart constricted, crushing her chest, “Ventress.”

“...Y-Yes,” she choked out, bowing her head, “Master.”

The Count didn’t even lift a finger.

“The only reason she succeeded,” Dooku told her coldly, “Was because of traitors within our ranks.”

And who’s to be faulted for that but your lack of action and political blunders? This time, Ventress kept her inner thoughts concealed. Who were the pillars of Sev’rance Tann’s regime? Admiral Trench, for one, the damnable spider. The Harch once served Dooku loyally, until the Count trampled over his pride by introducing a complete nobody to take the position he vied for in the shape of Grievous.

The Perlemian Coalition, of another, and its two leaders. Calli Trilm and Rain Bonteri. The former was Dooku’s personal aide, the latter a nameless noble from Onderon. Could they have been accounted for? Perhaps, perhaps not. But it would have helped if Dooku had not tried to install his own puppet to control the CAF, alienating the vast majority of high-standing military figures within the Confederacy and creating a vacuum through which the Perlemian Coalition could fill.

“As you say, Master,” Ventress agreed obediently, “How will we eliminate Sev’rance? She remains protected aboard the Independence, surrounded by her personal fleet and guarded by her most loyal pawns. Not even I can infiltrate the star station.”

“Leave the girl to me,” Dooku told her, “Sev’rance may control the CAF as if it is her personal kingdom, but not even she can act against the Raxus Government so blatantly just yet. The Independence has been summoned to Raxus Secundus for a hearing on Horn Ambigene’s actions. I will deal with her personally.”

“And I, Master?”

“You will eliminate her two closest vassals,” her Master instructed icily, “Calli Trilm, and Rain Bonteri.”

“I understand,” Ventress said.

Is this right? They might be Tann’s creatures, but they also serve the Confederacy. Would we have beaten back the Republic on the Perlemian, if not for Calli Trilm’s unifying figure and authority? Would we have won here, at Sullust, if not for Rain Bonteri’s skill? The Confederacy was on the verge of its greatest counterattack, an offensive to crack the Interior wide open and instil the fear of gods and death into the corrupt, decadent Core Worlds.

To eliminate the two spearheads of this offensive... would be crippling.

“Having an attack of conscience, Asajj?”

“No, Master,” Ventress swallowed, “But there is no time for me to board Bonteri’s flagship now. We are about to jump to Yag’Dhul.”

“You couldn’t kill him if you were on the same ship anyway,” the Count waved a dismissive hand, “Bonteri commands a legion of cortosis battle droids. Even if he does fall to your blade, you would lose your life as well, and you are far too valuable for that, my apprentice.”

“Then how will I–”

“Patience, Asajj.”

Asajj Ventress bowed her head again.

“I have prepared a secret fleet for you, a mere day’s travel southwest of Yag’Dhul,” Dooku’s eye gleamed, “Two-hundred advanced battlecruisers. Enough firepower to destroy Bonteri’s entire fleet, damn tactics and strategy.”

Ventress’ breath quickened, “Understood, Master. I will do as you bid for me. Where will I take command of this fleet?”

“The Llon Nebula.”