Lantillies returned to the fold. I smile as I look at the holomap in front of me, a group of grinning Adjutants surrounding it as the world’s color triumphantly changes from hostile red to blue. Sector General Therbon had regained our old headquarters of the command and been rewarded by finally being given the full powers of the commanding officer of the Cerulean Spear Command. It was a glorious triumph that the Holonet was running almost non-stop in an attempt to improve morale.

  Ringo Vinda though continue to be a red grain in a desert of red. Hatha had essentially won the world, though a Wobani force had eventually finished the Neimoidian’s work, their commander even acknowledging it from what our Intelligence operatives had managed to gleam. I suppose I should be happy the enemy was treating my … rival in their ranks with the appropriate respect, though I dread to think what this could mean for our operations in the Contruum-Gizer Gap.

  Dellalt meanwhile was shaping up well, though I hated to admit it. The world was getting closer and closer to falling to Midnight Voulge’s persistent attacks. The war effort in the Outer Rim was clearly going in the Republic’s favor, especially with wartime production in full swing. I knew Mon Cala alone would have three new Venators done in less than two months from now, with a further five done two months after that. I could only imagine what more established and less artisan yards such as Kuat, Rendili or Corellia were producing. Fondor, I knew, was likely pumping out corvettes and cruisers on mass alongside some twelve battleships a month. A hint of pride at the thought of Fondor’s shipyards returning to their expertise washes over me.

  “I think a double ration of grog for the command seems appropriate for this victory.” I muse aloud to the crew, getting a few cheers and chuckles at the thought.

  “As you command, sir.” An Adjutant replies joyfully.

  I turn my attention back to the map as the quiet noise of the bridge continues around me. Yes, soon there would be peace.

  Wildhog walks into the refresher-room with a slight sway. 79’s always had something better about it, be it the better booze, the nicer atmosphere or the fact that no-one was being shelled at, it was better. Not perfect, but better.

  Wildhog stumbles slightly out of the stall to wash his hands when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns around slightly to see a brother in an officer’s cap and their armor, a slightly odd outfit, but nothing overly unusual for the drunken shenanigans within the bar. The surprising part is that Wildhog recognizes the brother.

  “Fives?” He asks, his mind slower than he’d like for the reunion, “Fives! Brother, you need a drink? I think I still got ‘nuff credits for a round or two.”

  “Wildhog, I need to speak with the Genral. I need your commlink” Fives says, his tone desperate and … slightly slurred. Was he drunk too?

  “Ah, sure.” Wildhog replies, “Whazit for?”

  “There’s … a conspiracy. Something’s wrong with us.” Fives replies carefully.

  “Nothin’s wrong with us, brother.” Wildhog replies, waving Fives off as he does.

  “Please, Wildhog, I need to contact the Genral and Admrel Dericote.”

  Wildhog raises his brows in surprise at that. He didn’t even know the Admiral knew Fives. He shrugs a bit before pulling out his commlink and offering it to a seemingly desperate Fives: “Sure, vod. Just get it back to me whenever you get back to barracks.”

  Fives smiles and pats Wildhog on the shoulder before slinking away. Wildhog shrugs before turning back to washing his hands. He should get another drink then check on Clover’s poor attempts of flirting with that one Zabrak bartender. It’d be good for a laugh before he heads back to barracks himself, especially since he was waiting on the results of his exams. If he knew trying for Captain would be this much of a pain he wouldn’t have done it, no matter how much Chain and Rex had nagged him about it.

  A few days after the fall of Lantillies I get a message from a merchant on my payroll. The Republic smuggler had dropped off his shipment of tibana and ration packs alongside a datapad with the itinerary of the shipment and a simple message in code. I read through it once, then twice, then three times. There was no denying it.

  ‘Chips are bad, do mind-control.’

  I suppress the urge to throw the datapad against my wall. Could the Clone not have tried harder? Just a single sentence? Not even specifying who had commissioned the chips, or for who the chips were bad for? Was it for the Clones? It sure seemed that way with the mention of mind-control. The Republic? The Navy? The Army? The karking Jedi? Who even knew!

  And he didn’t even specify if he knew who had commissioned the chips. Was it the Kaminoans? Was it insurance to ensure the Clones didn’t rebel while still under their care? Was it the Jedi, ensuring the Clones couldn’t refuse an order? Was it High Command, a trick to ensure the Clones couldn’t be used by an overly ambitious military officer with dreams of dictatorship? Was it insurance against men like me? Those Outer Rim periphery officers who had limited supervision due to the positioning of their commands and the independence of their logistical networks? I didn’t have the answers and either Fives didn’t either, or he wasn’t of sound enough mind to get it to me.

  A deep sigh before deleting the seemingly random sequence of letters and numbers hidden within the shipment identification. One thing was certain, like nine Hells was I going to allow my men be mind-controlled!

  I begin writing a message for Solomahal. He should be out of recovery now and he would know where to start looking for more intel. Probably Kamino, which would be difficult to infiltrate. Though I would trust the old General to be one of the few able to manage it.

  I glance to R4 as I speak: “Get me Chain and chief medical officer Tevre. We have some off the books medical procedures to get done.”

  The holograms appear before me piecemeal. Fleet Admiral Honor is standing in the center, the recently promoted Lieutenant General Krugwolt and Brigadier General Bvinsk to her left and right respectively. I’d have preferred a meeting in person to ensure operational security, but for something this big, we needed support from Coruscant and not one of us could feasibly be pulled from our posts in the command’s administration to bring the plan to the Fleet Admiral.

  “Ma’am.” I say with a quick salute, the gesture echoed by my comrades in the administration.

  “Are you sure of this, Dericote? This plan is ambitious and Silken Tubers failed on its ambition, hidden as it may have been.” The Fleet Admiral begins harshly.

  “Which is why it is simply entering the first phases. We won’t know how many ships we might receive for such an idea until it can happen. With Chazwa seemingly going Trench’s way we will need something to up morale if he … if Anaxes doesn’t result in a Republic victory.” I hesitantly say.

  If I didn’t know my mentor I would shrink at the glare she gives me at that moment: “That could be a treasonous statement, Dericote. Be careful who you utter such drivel to.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Of course, ma’am.” I reply, my voice backed by steel.

  “I agree with Admiral Dericote’s basic plan so far.” Krugwolt tries to get us back on track, “Raxus is within spitting distance of our forces. Only three significant inhabited systems between it and Pakuuni and with Dellalt turning into a Republic victory and Trench continuing his push into the Core it could be possible to raid, if not seize, the very capitol of the Confederacy.”

  And so the subject of the meeting was revealed. Bvinsk almost flinches at the spoken words and the Fleet Admiral raises her hand to her chin in consideration as she reviews my information package.

  “This plan is far too loose.” She eventually decides.

  “Of course it is, we’ve only just started planning it, ma’am.” I reply.

  “I’ve started increasing our stockpiles already in accordance with the plan. It isn’t enough to cause a stir in the supply chains, yet, but it is being done.” Bvinsk reveals.

  “We’ll need to establish even more stockpiles and warehouses to keep up with the inevitable demands.” Krugwolt warns.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Bvinsk says as he gets out a cigarette and places it between his lips, “We have dozens of major stockpiles and warehouses vithin the command, but there aren’t that many places where we can expand our supply depots or establish new ones without needing to increase the local garrisons or setting up new orbital or deep space infrastructure.”

  “I have a few systems you should be able to use.” I offer, “A few should even be close enough to Sep space that we can use them directly as resupply bases.”

  “Good, send me the list asap so I can get into a few fights over getting us the starbases now instead of later.” Bvinsk agrees.

  “This is all well and good, but where do you think you’ll be getting the ships from? If Anaxes doesn’t go to plan, then every ship between Vakkar and Commenor will be placed on high alert, countless formations will rally to strategically vital worlds such as Coruscant, Foerost, Alsakan and Skako and entire Fleets will be recalled to the Core. So where will you get the ships from?” The Fleet Admiral presses.

  I hesitate, it was the fatal flaw of the plan. Bvinsk speaks up first: “There are the Mon Cala Merchant Fleet and the various customs fleets of the command.”

  “I already promised they would not be forced into aggressive operations.” I counter.

  “We could rally forces from the Cerulean Spear, White Cuirass and Iron Lance.” Krugwolt offers, “Sure, most of White Cuirass’s offensive power will be required in the Core to defend their territories there, but some of their forces at Randon could be diverted alongside some of the northern forces of Iron Lance.”

  “Have you made overtures to Sector Generals Therbon and Byluir?” Honor asks.

  “I’ve sent the current outline to both and made a personal outreach to General McClellan of the Greater Kashyyyk Command and Jedi High General Allie of the Greater Halla Sector Command.” I answer, “McClellan seemed hesitant, but not openly against the idea, Allie is still leading the siege of Saleucami while allowing Admiral Meade to lead the operations between Boonta and Bimmisaari, however both seemed amenable.”

  “So what is the current minimal estimate?” Fleet Admiral Honor presses.

  “We’ve secured between twenty and thirty battleships alongside some hundred to a hundred and twenty other ships of the line and an assortment of three hundred to four hundred light ships and pickets. For ground forces we’ve two corps, three divisions and a brigade.”

  “You have that much for certain?”

  “We’ve secured so much in promises for a couple months, baring any major Sep incursion.” Bvinsk answers.

  “So you have hogwash.” The Fleet Admiral concludes, “You are willing to risk such an operation with nothing more than what your personal command can supply within some two to four month’s time, stripping your defenses bare and praying the Separatists won’t risk attacking you while you spearhead an attack upon their capitol? Are you braindead!?”

  Us three officers flinch at her words. I eventually speak up: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but guarantees are hard to collect when the Seps might make a run for Kashyyyk, are pressuring us around Christophsis and making a thrust into the Core.”

  “Which is why this is a preliminary plan.” Bvinsk repeats, “Nothing is set in stone and the current forces which could be allocated are simply what we have. It is a minimum that can be used for an incursion to Tion.”

  The Fleet Admiral will have none of it: “A minimum which will result in failure. The Objective you decided on was Raxus, Tion is not Raxus.”

  “Which is exactly what we will say to anyone who takes a look at the plan.” I placate, “Unless, they can get us another fifty battleships, seventy cruisers, another two Corps, or a siege Corps and a hundred or so light ships and pickets alongside the required logistical and support craft.”

  “You better ask for more if this plan is ever seriously considered, Dericote.” The Fleet Admiral presses.

  “Of course we will.” Krugwolt interjects, “But that is the bare minimum we’ve calculated we will need to have the plan result in victory instead of defeat, mind this does not include Dericote studying his starcharts for a month on end and luring the enemy into advantageous terrain. Either way we will, of course, start by demanding three times that number in ships and manpower.”

  The Fleet Admiral considers what we’ve said for a moment before an evil smile emerges on her face: “Better start with seven times that number. If this plan is required I will bet High Command must be truly desperate.”

  A smuggler arrives in the Mon Cala bar and quickly makes for the private room. A smile gracing his lips as he spots the familiar head of an astromech and the spread out figure of his friend. Closing the door behind him the smuggler removes his hood and scarf to reveal a bright smile.

  “Thraken!” Elix says joyously.

  “Elix.” The Admiral replies, slightly more tense in tone as he straightens himself and gestures towards the carafe of wine and an empty glass across from himself.

  “Gotcha’ a present.” Elix says as he chucks a small leather bag at his friend’s head.

  Thraken jerks his head to the side, letting the bag thud against the wall. It slides onto his shoulder where the Republic officer takes it with his metal hand and opens it. Looking inside the Fondorian can’t suppress his smile. Placing a few fingers into the bag and removing a bullet for the ancestral slugthrower. Bringing it up to his face Thraken’s smile grows larger at the shiny black metal.

  “You son of a Hutt, you actually did it.”

  “Don’t insult our parents.” Elix chides lightly, jolting Thraken from his inspection.

  “What?”

  Elix gives a mocking bow before moving to sit: “I present, Elix Welder Riderman-Dericote, adopted son of Owen Luke Davafid Olix Dericote Dericote and Naomi Rend Dericote.”

  The Admiral jumps from his seat to intercept his brother. And slams into him in a tight hug: “Welcome to the family. You’ll always have food and water on my table, even if it must be cricket and sweat.”

  Elix returns the embrace full-heartedly and whispers in return: “No matter what you ask, I shall call you blood and do as I can. Be it water or food, blood or sweat.”

  “Maker keep us.” They both finish in unison before breaking the hug.

  “This means celebration!” Thraken barks happily, “Oh, we’re meeting up on my Little Revenge after this! I’m breaking out my finest Corellian!”

  “Sure sure, just let me sit and get ya the bad news first.” Elix replies as the two get to business.

  “What is it?” Thraken asks, sobering up immediately and tone concerned.

  “That Clone you wanted looked into? He’s dead. Had a mental break, but that’s all I could gather. Apparently one of your old subordinates was one of the last guys to see him coherent.” Elix confesses.

  “Shit.” Dericote responds, “I’ll need to look into that now that I know for sure he didn’t just go radio silent.”

  “Sorry, but I got something else.” Thraken raises an eyebrow as Elix takes a sip of the wine, continuing once his glass returns to the table, “The Republic garrison’s been … manhandling some of the more radical syndicate organizers. Ya know, the ones who wanted even more power to the syndicates and unions than what was already bargained for. No one’s dead yet, but with the last round of Republic emergency powers given to the executive they haven’t even given trial dates and won’t take bail.”

  “That ain’t good.” The Admiral mutters.

  “Pa’s lodged a formal complaint and there’s a handful of petitions going about. Decent enough support on both ends so far. People are a bit worried. Doesn’t help the Republic’s been demanding increased ship production and Fondor’s support on a new battleship prototype.”

  “A new battleship?” The Navy officer’s tone seeping with curiosity.

  “Yeah, some Kuati design. Looks a bit like those Victory cruisers they and Rendili are making. But get this, no hangar bays! It’s like they don’t expect the need to resupply the damn things with shuttles!”

  Thraken’s excitement is almost immediately buried in disgust: “Of course the Kuati would think they need a ship with no hangar. Karking lizardshit for brains having corpos.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Elix chuckles as the two move on to a more enjoyable topic.

  I was sending Elix off, giving him one last wave goodbye as his ship leaves the hangar bay for his return voyage to Fondor, a slightly sad smile on my face. It was always slightly painful to say goodbye. It certainly didn’t help that all my family was on the other side of the galaxy. I sigh as the engines flare and his transport, laden with Mon Cala shields and various aquatic foodstuffs races into the void, towards the closest hyperspace egress point.

  It should be a pretty good haul for him. Fish wasn’t exactly expensive most of the time, with Bestine so close to Fondor, but Mon Cala was well known for its sealife and a couple tons of seafood could snatch a pretty chit. And the shields would sell well too. Either to the Fondorian Defense Force, whose Hammerheads could certainly benefit from improved shielding, or the various wartime merchants who may want for that extra bit of protection.

  I shake my head and turn around to leave the hangar bay, patting R4 on her dome as I do. I still had quite a bit of paperwork to sign off on. A shipment of heavy turbolasers had gone missing a few days ago while in transit from the Core to Dac and the investigation was starting to get heated. Some were blaming my privateers, others were blaming the Mon Cala shipyards, it was a bit of a mess.

  I feel the blast before I hear it. The explosion flings me forwards before the vacuum of space starts to suck me and the oxygen within the room towards the void of space. My eyes widen in horror before the training kicks in, I press down on my palm and the vibroblade within my arm emerges. I grab hold of it before stabbing it into the floor. It lodges within, barely, as I get pulled closer and closer towards the vacuum. The alarms were blaring, but I could barely hear it over the voiding air. Why weren’t the emergency doors activating?

  The knife dislodges and I feel myself falling above the floor, towards my likely doom, when the emergency doors finally activate, racing to cut off the internals of the space station from the void outside. I slam into it as it continues to close and cry out in pain as I feel my spine scrape against metal.

  Finally the alarms stop blaring and I collapse onto the floor below me. R4 trundles up to me and pokes me with her arm as the doors to the inside of the hangar open to reveal my escort of arms-men, helmets ready for voiding and blasters equipped with cable launchers.

  I slowly pull myself up and straighten out my tunic. My damn officer’s cap was gone. Great. I’ll need to get a replacement for that filed. Last thing I need right now.

  “Sir, are you alright?” The Sergeant asks.

  I inhale deeply before exhaling slowly. Another deep inhale, then a voice cold as ice: “Detain the maintenance crew on this station, the station supervisor, the station owner and the last man to give this hangar bay an all clear on its functionality review.”

  “I’ll call up our men on the Little Revenge.” The Sergeant says.

  “You haven’t answered the question, sir.” The youngest arms-man among them point out.

  “I’ve survived worse.” I mutter back defiantly, “Now hop to!”