I felt my grin grow as I watch the distant Providence sink towards the surface, her engines failing. She was enraptured fully by the world’s gravity. Her bridge was aflame and her hull pockmarked with impact craters and holes. Beside her were the wrecks of a further three frigates and the corpse of a Munificent.

  “They’re consolidating their western flank, sir.” Sergeant Welder reports.

  “Good. Push our line forward to adjust to theirs and threaten their north west west back line. Also prepare to spring our trap in the center, I think our dearest enemy Commander is about to trigger it.” I say as I watch half a squadron of Y-Wings make a pass across my bridge towards one of the Acclamators.

  “Find out which squadron that was and remind me to file a demerit for risky flying.” Mi-Kus says to one of the techs, who nods in agreement.

  “Best leave them. As long as we’re stationary I’ll allow it. We’re in a stressful situation as is.” I counter.

  “Sir, disciplinary actions are critical to maintaining-”

  “Yes, fine. A minor demerit.” I press.

  Mi-Kus sighs, but nods: “As you wish, sir.”

  I watch as the last ships join around the Lucrehulk in the center of the enemy northern line. They were grouping a couple squadrons of fighters rather aggressively. I start tapping on my holster as I glance at the tactical display. Too many fighters and bombers were being rearmed and repaired. I couldn’t rush that, too risky.

  “Sir, enemy fighters advancing.” Sergeant Welder says.

  “Begin interceptions.” I command. I watch as two dozen miniature fighters move to intercept the group of five dozen incoming vultures. Bad odds at the best of times.

  “Move the Lothalite IPV two ships down to assist.” I order. The fighters raced through the attempted interception. A couple of our fighters went dark and eight of theirs turned into slag, but the rest continued their movements despite it all. A decent number of them dive down towards the minefield below, almost certainly doomed to a fiery death by proximity mine.

  “What are they doing?” I mutter as the squadrons of Vultures start peeling off into groups of ones and twos throughout our formation, being picked off one by one by fighter and bomber patrols.

  “Intelligence gathering?” Mi-Kus suggests.

  “Seems it. Surprising they’re sacrificing so many fighters for this.” I mutter.

  “Well protocol is to keep the full tactical display on the command vessel, with partial pieces on every other section command ship. The droids could be doing the same thing.” Mi-Kus suggests.

  “He must be wantin’ to confirm whatever intel he managed to piece together from the other ships.” I mutter.

  “Then Hatha is more prepared for this kind of battle than we expected of a glorified pirate.” Mi-Kus says.

  “Now, now, we do the very same more often than not.” I reprimand lightly before turning towards one of the strategic Adjutants, “Has the enemy north center made any movements?”

  “Negative, sir.” The Sergeant reports.

  “I can’t say I like this, sir.” Mi-Kus says.

  “It’ll only get harder from here.” I mutter in commiseration.

  The karking battle seemed to both be escalating and deescalating at the same time. Enemy probes had increased in number, while decreasing in size, only sending a squadron or two of fighters along a corvette or frigate each time. The two opposing sides making a kind of rhythm of it all.

  A probing attack would be made by the Separatists, a fighter and bomber patrol would intercept with local line support as a Republic probing attack was launched at some other point in the line. The Separatist probe would pull back, usually suffering only losses in their fighter and bomber squadrons, while giving the intercepting group about as many casualties in turn. The Republic counter would turn back, suffering light casualties, possibly pursued by an overeager squadron of Vultures or Hyenas. The Separatist squadrons would pull back before entering range of the line, while the Republic probing force was embraced once more. The entire song and dance would happen twice an hour and by the fifth hour I was karking vexed beyond belief.

  “Mi-Kus, I am considerin’ somethin’ real risky.” I mutter as another Separatist probe finished off her run.

  “I would advise against it, if you yourself find it risky, sir. I will remind you that most of your strategies involve an amount of risk many would find baffling. If you are considering a plan that you, of all people find risky, it must be near suicidal.” My Junior Captain objects.

  “I wouldn’t say suicidal.” I object, “Merely … more dangerous than usual.”

  “Sir, are you forgetting the Separatists destroyed multiple escape pods?”

  “That was under the previous Commander.” I object.

  “Do you wish to find out if the current one is more generous?” Mi-Kus asks, his tone slightly scolding.

  “Fine. I simply can’t stand this Maker forsaken stalemate. It’s like trying to ram two battleships into one another, quite useless, stupid, surprisingly difficult and the cause of an enormous loss of life.”

  “Sir, why does it sound like you’re talking from experience?” Mi-Kus asks, suspicion in his voice.

  “My friend Dao, Maker keep him, and I hacked into a simulator during his stay at Carida. We wanted to see what would happen. Ended up using two Invincible class models for it. Did the same for Dreadnoughts too. Whichever one was head on ended up surviving most of the time due to the reinforced bulkhead and bridge. If both went head to head the bridges would end up sharing the same space.” I reply.

  “Is that how you knew we could survive a ramming maneuver?” One of the techs asks.

  “Well, that and a bit of hope.” I reply cheekily.

  “Sir, all do respect, but it’s precisely this kind of behavior which supplies the gambling pool with more options.” Mi-Kus says.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Well I need to keep my men on their toes somehow.” I say.

  I hear one of the techs mutter to themselves: “You’d think the battles would be enough for that.”

  “As you say, sir.” Mi-Kus replies.

  I look back at the tactical display and frown, my more open disposition fading. Another lull, probably for a couple hours. Should I risk trying to grab an hour or two of sleep? My frown deepens. Kark this.

  “Someone run and grab me a caf. Mi-Kus try and get some rest. I’ll take the next one.” I order.

  “Sir?”

  “I need someone on the bridge who is fully rested, until then I will do.” I clarify.

  He hesitates a moment: “If you command, sir.”

  “I do.”

  “By your leave.” Mi-Kus mutters as I shoo him away. An aid hands me a cup of caf and I start to sip it as I gaze into the tactical display, trying to see what my foe will do next.

  I might slowly be going mad. Too outnumbered to conventionally attack, too strapped for resources, ships, time and manpower to attempt something unconventional. Forced into formation by the defensive stations, yet doomed to use them or be forced to pull back. The only way I could use the Golans effectively involved a dozen techs, officers, engineers and the installer of the platforms chipping away at said problem. I start tapping on my holster as the crew rotates to adapt to the new rotation. It’s been five days since the battle started and despite it there were no further reinforcements.

  I knew there wouldn’t be any more, but despite it I held out hope. Kenobi had promised reinforcements. The Tidal circuit worlds had sent a not inconsiderable portion of their forces, but they were holding out, maybe Baros would be able to send something? But why would they have not sent them by now, never mind them not being sent with the rest of the ships from that system? Mon Cala’s first colony of Ruisto was close enough to arrive within half a day, yet they had refused to stop either my own forces or the forces of the Separatists who had come from the north. Were they waiting out the civil war too, or simply defaulting to whoever had the most ships nearby?

  My tapping increases. I feel the anger bubble up alongside frustration. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, count to seven, let it out. Repeat. I need to stay calm. There is no other option, but to stay calm. I open my eyes again and stomp down the frustration and anger and rage. Later. I would deal with it later.

  “Status update on the fighters and bombers.” I order.

  “It’s quite scrambled, sir. We’ve got about three wings of fighters and a wing and a half of bombers alongside a mixed half wing of bombers with permanent escorts. We have a couple squadrons at full strength, despite them reporting sustaining casualties. We’ve also mixed Republic and Merchant Fleet squadrons. We’re mostly going off official designations.” I hear my current comms officer report.

  “No time to reorganize that.” I mutter disdainfully as a small scowl grows on my face.

  The ships haven’t moved in an hour, but Maker, reorganizing the fighters and bombers back into their usual squadrons would both be pointless at this point and take a couple hours I could spend better. I take another deep breath and slowly let it out.

  “Start looking into getting accurate information on the fighter and bomber squadrons, I don’t want to send a half squadron of Y-Wings against two squadrons of Tri-fighters because they’re a hodgepodge of remnants. Someone hand me a datapad. I wish to start writing my report on the diplomatic mission.” I ask.

  I am handed a datapad from an aide and quietly thank the man. I switch over to the strategic display of the surrounding sectors and their worlds. My report on my mission to Dac was already as good as done, but there was no reason to cause a panic by stating I was planning in case of my failure here. Assuming I’d end up with only the Republic vessels, hope for the best prepare for the worst after all, I’ll need to be certain of every possible move.

  I would probably need to keep the 360th Outer Rim Section and the 99th Battleship Section as the front line units. That would probably mean assigning whoever ends up in charge of the 99th as the unit’s commanding officer. Then I’ll need to use half of the rapid response units and whatever ends up being left of my original squadron to burn the enemy supply lines. I could probably sway Hondo to help with that, though he hasn’t signed in in a while. He’s probably going to see how the battle here ends before making a decision on further cooperation with me. I’d curse him to all nine Hells if I wouldn’t do the exact damn thing in his position.

  I’d definitely need to fight a retreat along the Tidal Circuit, evacuating military personnel and probable victims of Sep malice as I went. Finally I’d need a good place to give a last stand. A place to consolidate the two defensive retreats. I move along the hyperlanes before nodding. Lothal. It would have to be Lothal. Dornea’s shipyards would be too vital for retrofitting conscripted merchant ships and corvette construction to risk, Baros was needed as a staging ground and a resource extraction point. Anything further south than that was too hard to defend. Easy to raid, Maker it’d be easy as all hells to raid, but exactly that characteristic made it non defensible.

  “Sir, enemy ships moving towards the line, directly ahead.” Sergeant Welder says.

  I frown as I place the datapad on R4’s dome, receiving a "fuck you" in return. My attention fully turns to the tactical display as I speak: “Hold our position for now. It’s only three frigates and a Munificent. A larger force than usual, but our line should be able to hold and push them back. Reroute fighter and bomber patrols for further support and interception of any possible hostile fighters. If they get too close you may open fire.”

  “Yes, sir.” I hear called out by over a dozen voices.

  The ion cannons and turbolasers from the MC75s and their picket IPV fire off towards the four approaching vessels. The frigates break off almost at random, returning back towards the line, despite this the Munificent keeps plowing forward. I feel a frown growing as the ship pierces through the line, passing the broadside of two MC75s and their picket IPV. It had suffered a crippling beating, but it wasn't slowing.

  “Sir, enemy ship on trajectory for direct impact.” The navigations officer warns.

  “Helmsman, evasive maneuvers! Down two ship-heights, hard to starboard and bring us about. Shields to front, conservative and prepare to brace!” The helmsman manipulating his controls faster than I can bark out the orders.

  The Little Revenge banks, her engines flaring to life as the shields embrace the vessel in a tight embrace. The approaching Munificent is starting to break apart from the fire sustained from our front facing turbolasers and the weapons fire of the line. The bombers finally arrive and make a run on the Separatist ship’s engine block.

  “Enemy ship slowing, but momentum will carry them through.” A sensors officer warns.

  “Will we make it?” I ask as i make a quick march towards the transparasteel window closest to the incoming ship.

  “It’ll be close!” The realspace navigator replies from beside the helmsman.

  “BRACE FOR IMPACT!” I bark as the Munificent’s armor panel scrapes against our outer hull. We continue to pull away, unleashing a broadside into the moving ship, the shots penetrating the unprotected lower hull of the Separatist ship.

  “Enemy ship, listing.” A sensors officer reports.

  “Kill it, deploy a bomber squadron from rest and rearmament to assist the one already making their run. I want one of the local frigates or light cruisers to push it out of the way.” I order.

  “Sir, we’re experiencing shield fluctuations along where we scraped the Munificent.” One of the techs says, his voice hinting at his confusion.

  I frown. What could be causing the shields to fluctuate? I consider the typical possibilities before asking the tech: “Any debris the shields may have caught?”

  “Don’t think so, sir.” The tech replies.

  “Most of the debris went further afield.” One of the sensors officers reports.

  “Keep an eye on it, we may need to do a full re-calibration.” I order.

  “Enemy ship disabled.” One of the bridge Adjutants reports.

  “Bring us back to position. Divert a bomber or three from the run to check on our hull. Some visual confirmation could be useful.” I say, tapping a few times on my holster as I reconsider the given orders. I nod in confirmation of the plan as I check the strategic display.

  “Quite a sacrifice to barely scratch us.” I mutter.

  R4 gives off a whistle of agreement as she hooks herself back into the tactical display. The Little Revenge returns to her original position as one of the Arquitens begins pushing the crippled ship out of the way towards an emptier patch behind the north line.

  “Sir, report from the flyover. We’ve got droids on our hull. B2s and they’re congregating near the hangar entrance.” A comms officer reports.

  “Pull all non essential personnel out of the hanger and deploy half the arms-men and whatever members of Hope Company we have aboard! The rest are to expand internal fortifications.” I bark out.

  “Sir, Hangar Lieutenant Mills has begun the evacuation, but she’s reporting droids already entering the hangar bay.” One of the internal comms officers reports from one of the trenches.

  “I need our security forces there a minute ago. I want them to be careful, last thing I need on my ship is some idiot to blow up a cache of proton torpedoes.” I order.

  Just then Mi-Kus barges onto the bridge, his officer cap absent from his head: “Sir?”

  “Hostile boarding action at our hangar bay. I’ve deployed half our arms-men and the rest to sure up defenses.” I answer.

  “I shall oversee the battle at the hangar myself.” Mi-Kus says, his eyes determined.

  I pass the man one of my codes cylinders: “For emergency lockdown of the hangar. Be quick and grab a breastplate.”

  The man snaps a salute: “Yes, sir.”

  Mi-Kus leaves and I hear him cobbling together a squad of arms-men and bloodthirsty petty officers to lead the charge as he leaves. I replace the cylinder with a spare slug as I return to the tactical display. What else did Hatha have in store?

  The Tactical droid marched up next to his commanding officer a datapad in hand. It hands the rectangular tablet to Commander Hatha and awaits the Separatist officer’s instructions.

  “Not perfect, but acceptable.” The Neimoidian says.

  “As you say, sir. Though the ramming maneuver failed, as predicted by myself, three quarters of a battalion of droids, with auxiliary support, have managed to land on the Little Revenge and begun boarding operations along your parameters.” The droid replies.

  “According to the information we have, Dericote will lead the defenses himself. Especially with his Hope company spread throughout the ships and stations on the front line. An assault could prove prudent.” The Separatist Commander muses.

  “After adjustments I believe an assault at this time, with concurrent use of any and all hidden units has a five to one chance of failure.” The droid replies.

  “Bah! I will not play all of my hand so soon. Recalculate with only half and none of our hidden units used.” The Neimoidian demands.

  The droid takes a moment to calculate before answering: “With only half of the hidden units used, I predict a ten to one chance of failure, without any hidden units, I predict a six to one chance of failure.”

  “I would prefer removing Dericote from the board now. Hm. What if we only deployed the hidden units from the sacrificed M-RV-5093?” He asks.

  “I calculate the death of Commodore Thraken Dericote will occur with odds of five point five to one under the provided parameters.” The droid answers.

  “Hm. I am feeling like a gambling man. Activate hidden units on M-RV-5093 and make an attack run of bombers and fighters against the northern line. Target three ships down either side of Dericote’s flagship.”

  “As you command.” The tactical droid responds.

  The machine taps multiple times upon the control panel closest to the command throne, though most of the area directly in front of the throne is taken up by the tactical display Hatha insists be active during all times of the day. The droid would sigh if it bothered with such inefficiencies. Instead it finishes tapping out the command for the hidden mixed squadrons of Hyenas and Vultures to emerge from beneath the armor plates and fake hull plates of the Munificent and to begin their attack run on their target.

  “Fighter-bomber squadrons have begun their run. Notice, the next day has begun.” The droid says.

  “Good, let us see what the bastard will do now. I will stay in command until we see how this gambit has played out.” Hatha says, a wide grin growing on his face.