The last Sep ships finally jumps away and I almost collapse. Exhaustion, adrenaline withdrawal, less sleep than I should have gotten all and continued alcohol withdrawal making for ill bedfellows. I probably would have ended up on the floor if R4 hadn’t caught me. Maker. I was alive, after two weeks of combat and I was still alive. I blink away the confusion as the bridge starts to fill with cheer. I remove my officers’ cap to wipe away at my forehead and return my cap to its usual place. I stand up straight and turn to Mi-Kus who is already holding up the first datapad for me to inspect. I feel whatever hint of jubilation leave me as I read its title, the preliminary casualty list.

  I glance at the first numbers. It shouldn’t be too bad, right? We only lost … too many ships. Even though most of them were Acclamators and light ships it was too many ships. I continue reading, slowly tallying up the known losses, dreading the inevitable confirmation as they continue to rise. Finally on the bottom of the document I see dreaded confirmation. Seventy thousand five hundred and thirty four at best. That was without whatever losses we took over Wyndigal and at the second battle of Handooine. It was without our ground casualties from Jabiim and Handooine too. It was without the inevitable casualties Sep occupation of the northern Ash Worlds caused. I could already tell total casualties for this campaign would easily be over a hundred thousand.

  “Maker damn it.” I mutter as I hand the datapad back to Mi-Kus, barely noticing Kestis cocking his head in confusion at my exclamation.

  “Your orders, sir?” Mi-Kus asks.

  “Get my agreement with Hondo into writing so I can confirm it. I want Taskforce Detachment Sandstorm to double back along our previous route and make sure Astigone and Altratonne are firmly in Republic hands. They’ll need further support, so get them two more less damaged Acclamators from the rest of Tranquil Billhook to assist them. If they end up needing ground forces have Commodore Miller and Luis request forces from Cain’s Division.”

  “He was promoted to Brigadier General and awarded command of the 300th Volunteer Corps during Handooine’s second battle.” Mi-Kus informs me.

  “Ah, then have them request forces from Cain’s Corps.” I correct myself. At least the ground forces were doing well, “Did we ever get the Cophrigin repair yard up and running?”

  “It’s had a couple delays. Won’t be active for a couple months, sir.” Mi-Kus says.

  I sigh in acceptance as I nod: “Alright, divide the taskforce into three new detachments. The most damaged ships will head to Mintooine for repairs, the other damaged ships that need drydock will head to Mon Cala. The rest of us will head for Cophrigin and do our repairs without any major installations for it. It’ll take longer, but I don’t want to risk our recent acquisitions. We’ll figure out what ships can still be salvaged for repair once the lesser damaged ships have been fixed.”

  “What about Balshebr?” Kestis asks.

  I blink in mild confusion before realizing what the Padawan meant: “Right, once that’s all organized, hail the Exarch of Balshebr, we can stay in system a decent bit longer before we head for Cophrigin.”

  “On it, sir.” Lieutenant Slas reports.

  “What about the other Taskforce Detachments from Tranquil Billhook?” Mi-Kus asks.

  “I think it’s rather clear that Operation Silken Tubers was only a partial success.” I begin, “We’ll move Detachment Sandstorm to Wyndigal for garrison duty until we can reorganize and replenish what we’ve spent, they can do any minor repairs there as well as they could elsewhere. We’ll keep Commodore Jim’s detachment at Handooine until further notice. Major General Krugwolt’s detachment will need to finish up at Jabiim before we can move it too. Rear Admiral Sykes’s detachment … move it to Altratonne for basic repairs and split off any ships that need intensive repairs. Whatever remains is to reinforce Wyndigal or Handooine in case of Separatist counters. Is that everything?”

  “The garrison and convoy forces will need to be sent back eventually, but that can wait until the taskforce disbands.” Mi-Kus answers.

  I nod in agreement: “Good, very good.”

  “If that is all, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, we should return to standard rest cycle once the orders have been issued. Go ahead and get a head start.” I order.

  “With pleasure, sir.” Mi-Kus replies, snaps a salute and leaves.

  I stand over my bridge as I watch the sailors get to work. I pat R4 a couple times as she rolls up next to me. Would this be worth it? Probably a hundred thousand dead for nine worlds of any semblance of significance returning to the fold? There would still be weeks of skirmishing to establish control over the lesser systems we had skipped over in our rush to seize the more strategic systems. More fighting, more killing, more destruction and death. Am I even doing the right thing? I let out a sigh, not now, I need to stay strong for a bit longer.

  “Sir, we’ve established a link with Balshebr proper and her Exarch.”

  “Put ‘em on.” I order, turning towards the holoprojector.

  I blink in mild confusion as a new face appears on the bridge. That wasn’t Balshebr’s usual Exarch. I suppress a flinch, I guess that makes one more loss on the list: “Exarch. I am sorry to see your predecessor is not receiving me. You have my condolences. I would request permission to land troops on your world and liberate you from any Separatists on surface.”

  “Go to hell, Hussar.” The Woman says, “Balshebr has been liberated from Republic tyranny and we won’t give up our freedoms as easily as that coward Neimoidian did when he abandoned our world.”

  I sigh as I give the signal to prepare for orbital bombardment. Balshebr didn’t have any theater shields, let alone a planetary shield. Precision bombardments to destroy their government should do enough of a morale hit for someone with authority to surrender and allow our garrison and reestablishment of order. Though it’ll certainly be annoying that another garrison regiment has to be deployed to a previously pacified world.

  As the Little Revenge, a duet of Venators and three Acclamator twos approach the capital city’s position I begin speaking once more: “I do not wish to do this, but you are forcing my hand. Surrender or I will be forced to enact orbital bombardment upon your world.”

  “You don’t have the balls! I’ve placed Republic loyalist pigs like yourself around the barracks and Governor’s palace. I have various camps filled with your ilk throughout the western continent. If you manage to get your gunners to do their job the swine will die with my loyal men!”

  I can feel my face morph in confusion as a couple gasps echo through the bridge: “You would debase yourself to such a level?”

  “I am willing to do what must be done.” The Exarch spits before the holoprojector goes cold.

  The bridge is eerily silent as I suppress the urge to break something. I slowly let out a breath before I speak next: “Captain Chain, can your companies be deployed?”

  “Hope Company and Endurance Company are at your disposal, Admiral.” The Clone Captain responds.

  “And our arms-men?” I ask.

  “Have been prepped and ready since we started Operation Silken Tubers, sir.” Chain replies easily.

  “The enemy capital is on their western continent, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “Yessir.” Lieutenant Hursk answers.

  “Prepare landing sites in the enemy agricultural zones outside of their capitol. I want six, no seven possible landing points and half our arms-men companies ready for surface deployment within the hour. I want our infantry support weapons and whatever armor we can scratch together ready and in hangars in half that time. Kestis, start figuring out where the landing sites will be needed and oversee their creation. R4 get my armor. Lieutenant Hursk, see if we have any recently recuperated trench diggers mulling about in medbays who want a go at invading a hostile world.” I order rapid fire.

  “On it, sir.” Hursk replies.

  “I’m contacting the men now.” Chain replies.

  “Yes, Admiral.” The Padawan adds.

  I march towards the re-emerged tactical display, grabbing a stim from a pocket and jabbing it into my thigh. I feel my entire body shudder from the artificial energy flowing through my veins as I reexamine the world below. Like hells was I going to allow this insult to stand.

  The chestplate and helmet feel slightly off as I march through the busy hangar bay, Chain and Kestis by my side in very different states of mood.

  “Why won’t you let me come with you?” The Padawan asks incredulously.

  “Kid, your Master requested I keep you safe and teach you on Navy matters. I am following his request. You’ll be overseeing any possible orbital and air support alongside Adjutant Captain Mi-Kus, coordinating air support and orbital support as needed.” I answer. Like hells was I going to let a kid fight.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “But I’ve fought alongside my Master countless times against the droids.”

  “And that’s another reason. Those were droids. These will be disgruntled rebels and traitors. Sentients, people. I am not going to be responsible for having a kid fight and probably kill a fellow sentient.”

  “I’ve done it before!”

  “And I still think you Jedi are entirely insane for such things!” I exclaim as I readjust my helmet and double check my equipment. Damn stims were making the occasional twitches from the alcohol withdrawal worse.

  “You still want Endurance Company to establish the perimeter?” Chain double checks.

  “We only have a Division’s worth of arms-men joining us alongside a battalion’s worth of Clones and formerly wounded trench-diggers. So, yes, I want some of my best ensuring we can establish our landing zones. Have the bombardments of enemy agricultural land succeeded so far?”

  “Yes, sir. The bombardments have made our landing zones and the fires have burnt whatever crops were currently being grown.” Chain answers.

  “I still don’t understand doing that.” Kestis continues to complain.

  “Because it’ll give us more open terrain, make enemy ambushes harder and make the world below more reliant on Republic rations until they can resow their fields and get a couple harvest behind them.” I answer as I step onto the LAAT, turning back towards the kid as I do.

  “Take me with you.” The kid demands one last time.

  “No, you have your duties here and be thankful you aren’t an Adjutant officer right now. This level of insubordination usually calls for demerits and possible censure.” I caution, “Maker keep you, kid.”

  I can see him deflate as he snaps an almost perfect salute: “And may the Force be with you, Admiral.”

  I nod as the LAAT’s doors close.

  I wake up tasting dirt and my ears ringing. Fuck.

  “SIR!” A voice shouts as I feel myself being dragged away.

  “Sitrep!” I bark once I gather my bearings, finding myself in a hastily blasted out foxhole.

  The Clone, I think it’s Ivy from the vines on his helmet: “We’ve made it out of the landing zone and pushed through to the enemy’s defensive trenches outside of their city. We’ve affirmed they’re usin’ sentient shields and pushed them decently enough. Then your command AT-TE blew and the Captain lead a charge to secure it and take the bunkers that launched the missile that did it.”

  “Knew I should’ve stayed further back.” I mutter to myself. Sure, the supporting fire of one of our couple AT-TEs could’ve made the difference, but I still should’ve remembered command and control goes before fire support in the chain of battlefield importance. I guess it’s what I get for becoming a Navy officer instead of a trench digger, I was used to risking my flagship in equal measure to the other ships.

  “Did Chain manage it?” I ask as I circle back to the situation report.

  “Seems it, he took Third Platoon and Lieutenant Daffy to do it.” Ivy replies as another Clone drops into the foxhole. A quick glance at the armor tells me it’s Moss.

  “Ivy, Lieutenant Bugs wants us to prep a squad of walking wounded to escort the enemy’s prisoners to the landing zone.” Moss says, “Hiya Admiral. Funny seein’ ya here.”

  “Got it, he want us to lead them, or just to tell them?” Ivy asks.

  “Organize them and have the highest ranking of them do it.” Moss answers.

  “Alright. Can ya comm a Lieutenant or somethin’ to flag an AT-TE or saber for the Admiral here?” Ivy requests.

  “Won’t be necessary, boys.” I counter, “I’ll be moving up to meet up with Chain and the others in a mo’.”

  “Alright, sir. Long as you don’t snitch on us about letting you do it.” Ivy snarks, “Come on Moss, we got wounded to badger into working.”

  “Heard ya loud an’ clear, Ivy. Good luck Admiral. Try not to kick any buckets while we’re gone!” Moss replies before the two Clones climb out of the foxhole to do their duty.

  I wait until there’s a lull in the blasterfire before climbing out of the foxhole myself and making a run for the next bit of cover and slam into a half destroyed bunker beside two arms-men I recognize from Faxe’s Buckler. I give the two a nod in greeting as I double check my slugthrower. Still fully loaded. It’ll have to do.

  “Alright you two. I’m commandeering ya to escort me to Captain Chain up ahead. Any objections?”

  “Nosir.” The two answer.

  “Alright then. On my mark.” I order. “MARK!”

  Three bodies rush through the breach and make for the increasingly close blasterfire. Eventually we make it to the rear of the bunker complex as the blasterfire goes silent and replaced by quickly barked orders. Entering the final room, some kind of storage room and command post, I find Captain Chain alongside Endurance Company’s Captain Sappy, the Clone’s blue painted on tongue below his helmet’s mouth mildly obscured from dust.

  “Captains.” I greet, glancing around the room as I do.

  “Admiral.” Chain greets.

  “Sir.” Sappy joins in.

  I find a couple more Clones and arms-men in the room, but far less than I’d have imagined: “Where are the rest of your men?”

  “Securing what’s left of the complex and some of the surrounding trenches and city blocks.” Sappy answers.

  “And the hostages?”

  “Being led back until the city’s been secured.”

  “Casualties?” I request.

  “Two dead, seven wounded and requiring medevac, five scrapes, though we also lost three hostages.” Chain grumbles.

  “Any prisoners?”

  “Nosir.” Sappy kicks a dead human officer from the planetary militia as he continues, “This sheb decided his people didn’t deserve the chance and gunned down his last men before getting nailed by Lieutenant Daffy.”

  “Something in the water’s been fucking with the sand-for-brains leaders here.” Chain adds his two chits.

  “Fuckin’ wastes of water.” I mutter as I straighten myself, “Well, status report, if you so please.”

  It takes a moment for one of the Clones to activate the holotable, but soon enough it’s depicting a holographic map of the city and its defenses. Chain picks up from there and starts speaking: “We’ve made some inroads into the city now. Obviously here, but we’ve just got affirmations from the northern attack that they’ve made it a couple dozen klicks into the city. We’re still the closest to the Governor’s palace, only a couple klicks away in fact.”

  Sappy picks up from there: “Of course that means the enemy will be doing their best to hold us off for as long as possible.”

  I let out a short sigh as I nod: “Can we secure our entry through the buildings instead of the main avenues?”

  “Probably, but it might cause additional civy casualties.” Sappy replies.

  “Yeah, the enemy sure isn’t hiding their use of civies as sentient shields.” Chain mutters mutinously.

  “Should’ve just glassed this entire fuckin’ continent.” I mutter before clearing my throat, “Alright, keep pushing the enemy and organize squads to escort civies and POWs to the back.”

  “Yessir.” The two Captains reply as they leave the room to me and a slowly growing group of petty officers for me to use as errand boys.

  Chain double checks his blaster pack and readjusts the strap on his shield. He was having a slight feeling of deja vu from Targonn. Another monster’s throne room to break into. His men affix the last satchel charge. There’ll probably be more civies inside, the Clone thought grimly. There’d been too many sentient shields already this battle.

  The Loudspeaker the Clones around Chain had set up comes to life as the countdown on the satchels begins: “This is Admiral Dericote. This is your final chance. Surrender unconditionally and return to the fold of the Republic or face our wrath.”

  “GO TO HELL!” Comes the reply through the door.

  “Detonate it.” Chain orders through his helmet comms and the door caves inwards. Before the dust can even clear he’s charging through the smoking rubble, his brothers beside him. The fight would be harder if it weren’t for the flash training. He nails two militiamen standing beside three hostages as he continues. He’s lucky the idiots haven’t changed out of their uniforms or dropped their blasters to shoot him and his in the back once they’ve moved past.

  As they descend further into the palace Chain thinks he can pick something up through the usual sounds of blasterfire. A woman’s voice, the Exarch’s. Chain nails another militiaman in the face as he and his brothers push on. They reach the office of the Exarch and Chain can finally make out what the woman’s been shouting about.

  “-dead, all of them! I don’t care, but like hells am I gonna let some Naboo piece of shit lord over our free world. Rather kill off any remaining supporters the Republic has here and let that monster of a Hussar rule over a word hostile to his very existence.”

  “Breach.” Chain orders coldly as a brother moves up and places a satchel charge on the doors.

  “We take her alive.” Chain orders as he takes the offered detonator and presses down. The doors cave inwards and Chain rushes through only to find the Governor already dead. A slightly smoking blasterpistol is in her hands as she’s slumped over her desk, a smoldering hole in her head and a commlink rolling away from the door.

  “Fuck.” Daffy mutters.

  Chain can’t help but agree.

  I feel a cold anger burning through me as the newest information is processed.

  “And?” I ask awaiting the answer quickly.

  “A bunch of the militia surrendered once their leader offed herself.” Chain answers, “The annoying bit is a bunch of them also followed her last order.”

  “How many?”

  “Still counting the bodies, but twenty thousand so far.” Comes the reply.

  “Gather together all of the surviving militiamen.” I order.

  “Yessir.” Chain replies stoically and begins giving orders into his commlink.

  “Sir, what’s the plan?” Lieutenant Bugs from Door Platoon asks.

  “They’re war criminals by definition of over ninety percent of the conventions held on the matter.” I mutter coldly, “As decided by Republic law, war criminals are to be tried and sentenced. As Marshal Administrator and temporarily self appointed military Governor of Balshebr I will be doing the sentencing. See if there are any judges or lawyers from the former hostages. We should at least give them the mockery of a trial they deserve.”

  “On it, sir.” Bugs replies before heading off.

  My hand twitches against my holster. I wish the Exarch had survived, I would have enjoyed putting a slug in her head before removing it, though at least we could still throw her body to the wilds.

  “Got a group of the bastards coming in now.” An arms-man says, dragging me from my mind.

  “Set them up and start gathering any rope we have. We have a lot of nooses to fashion.” I order.

  Eventually we do find two judges from the group of hostages. A grizzled old Weequay and an ancient looking woman. The two take their posts on the bench to either side of me as I remove my helmet and breastplate, followed by the rest of my armor. A tribunal wouldn’t be perfect, but with the crimes so obvious it would do for now, especially since we’d be exclusively sentencing the ringleaders today.

  “Bring forward the first accused.” I order.

  “Name and rank?” The ancient woman asks.

  “Red, Lieutenant Earl Red, ma’am.” The accused replies.

  “How do you plead on the account of crimes against your fellow citizens and the atrocities of mass slaughter?” The Weequay asks.

  “Innocent.” The militant pleads.

  “Under the powers and duties of the Marshal Administrator and the declaration of martial law on Balshebr, I hereby overrule usual court proceedings. As you bear the rank of a Commissioned Officer and various sources have both placed you at the scene of the crime and survivors have identified you as an organizer and executioner of these crimes I sentence you to be strangled by the noose until dead. This sentence may be overruled if both of the judges beside me deem it so. Do they object?” I state.

  “I do not.” The ancient judge says.

  “Neither do I.” The Weequay adds.

  “Then he is to die.” I order, slamming the requisitioned gavel onto my desk as I finish the sentence. The Lieutenant is dragged away barely a second later by the pits of his arms. There were plenty more who were in need of sentencing.

  “Name and rank?” The woman asks.

  “Nicanor, ma’am. Sergeant Des Nicanor.” The boy says. He was too young by half, maybe sixteen at his oldest. The uniform was ill-fitting and he looked scared out of his mind.

  “How do you plead on the account of crimes against your fellow citizens and the atrocities of mass slaughter?” The Weequay asks.

  “Guilty.” The boy whispers.

  I exchange a glance between myself and the other two Judges before I speak: “Are you sure boy? Multiple witnesses claim you didn’t order your droids to fire upon them when ordered to do so. However the droids did fire on innocents afterwards. Are you willing to explain yourself?”

  “I’m sorry.” The boy says, his voice deadly quiet, “I tried to stop them.”

  “Who do you speak of?” The Weequay asks.

  “Lieutenant Ulks.”

  “He is your superior?” The woman asks.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did he use your droids to commit the atrocities you are accused of after you refused him?” I ask.

  “Yessir.”

  “Then why do you plead guilty?”

  “They were mine. They killed people, I killed people. I deserve it.”

  I exchange a glance with the two judges once more. Maker keep me: “Then I sentence you to mandatory therapy and twenty four months of public service. Unless the judges beside me object.”

  “I do not object.” The Weequay says.

  “Neither do I.” The woman adds.

  “Then it is so. Take him away to the POW camp.” I order, the boy being dragged away by two arms-men looking both incredibly confused and relieved. I take a deep breath before looking over my datapad, “Next.”

  I stood there, Captain Chain to my right and eight vile people standing in front of me, cords and rope around their necks in nooses. We were purposefully botching it so their necks wouldn’t break after the fall. It would be a slow death, strangulation could take between ten and twenty minutes to kill the bastards. It seemed fitting for what they did.

  “Whenever you’re ready, sir.” Sergeant Doodle says.

  “I’ll do it myself.” I say as I approach the first man.

  “Any last words?” I ask, my boot on the empty crate.

  “You don’t have the balls.” The man says. I kick the crate out from under him and walk over to the next dead man and place my boot on his crate.

  “Any last words?”

  “I was just following orders.” The man pleads.

  “That isn’t a valid excuse, I would have refused such orders, I expect my men to refuse these kinds of orders, many of your comrades refused these orders. I hold my enemy to the same standards I hold myself and my men to, soldier.” I reply before kicking the crate out from under him and walking to the next dead man and again placing my boot on his crate, toning out the strangled cries of the two dying men behind me.

  “Any last words?”

  “Tell my wife I love her.” Comes the quiet reply.

  “I’ll see what can be arranged.” I reply solemnly before kicking over the man’s crate.

  I walk over to the next man: “Any last words?”

  There’s no reply, the man is ashen white. I sigh and kick over the crate.

  “Any last words?”

  “This is criminal. The courts won’t stand for this! We are free citizens!” The woman says, fire in her eyes.

  “You’re monsters and if I ever end up in the same hell as your waterwasting former Exarch I’ll hang ‘er too.” I say as I kick over another crate.

  The next man is sobbing quietly as I place my boot on his crate: “Any last words?”

  “Fuck you.” The Lieutenant snarls and I kick over the crate.

  “Any last words?” I ask the next man, listening to the quiet sound of choking behind me.

  “You won’t get away with this!”

  “Just did.” I say as I kick over his crate with an evil smile.

  “Anything left to say?”

  “May the Maker preserve me in his embrace, for though I have done wrong I know they love me still.” The man says, his eyes tired.

  “May the Maker preserve us all.” I echo as I kick his crate out from under his boots, rope goes taught as I begin walking towards the next tree. There was nothing proper about hanging over a thousand sentients, but I could at least do this properly.