Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Coruscant, Coruscant System

Corusca Sector

It was a brand new day in Republic City. The skies were clear and blue, the light of Coruscant Prime’s azure gleam reflected off the resplendent orbital mirrors that hung like blooming zeillas in the heavens. From the spires of the Senate District to the neon-drenched depths of the Uscru Entertainment Sector, the city hummed with the familiar rhythms of daily life. The great skylanes of the ecumenopolis thrummed with the endless stream of airspeeders, the great durasteel arteries of the Republic’s heart.

It was a brand new day in Republic City. And life marched forth as usual, for it had always appeared neither war nor strife ever putting but a misstep in the ever tenacious capital of the galaxy.

But this time, there was something wrong. A distortion in the flow of the morning rush.

Holo-displays flickered between the usual corporate advertisements and something far more jarring–urgent bulletins issued by the Senate Emergency Response, a scarlet banner scrolling across the bottom of every screen:

STATE OF MARTIAL LAW DECLARED. TEMPLE PRECINCT UNDER LOCKDOWN. REPORTS OF A JEDI REBELLION CONFIRMED.

A Jedi rebellion?

The words struck like a bolt of static through the consciousness of the city. Some dismissed it outright–a preposterous fabrication, an absurdity. The Jedi? The guardians of the Republic, the living symbol of peace and justice? But others hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of their disbelief. The Jedi had grown distant in recent years, ensnared in the machinery of war. In these times, their failures were as widely reported as their successes. And there had been rumours of a disaster on the Hydian front…

It rose from the Temple Precinct like a dark omen, thick plumes coiling into the pristine morning sky, scattering ash and soot against the gleaming towers of Coruscant. Citizens on skywalks and balconies and the open-top seats of their airspeeders turned their gazes upward, raised hands shading their eyes against the sun, murmuring amongst themselves. There were five new skyscrapers in Galactic City that day, black and foreboding like spindly fingers grasping for the sun.

Some whispered of a coup. That the Jedi had made a final, desperate grasp for power. That this was the price of their arrogance, of their secret dealings in the Clone Wars. Others argued that this was a purge, that the Supreme Chancellor had finally turned against his former allies.

But no matter which story they believed, the fear was the same.

The Jedi Temple was burning.

–And then, there was the noise.

Galactic City never slept. Even in the dark of night, the constant flow of sky traffic never ceased. Noise was a fact of life in the beating heart of the Republic; a constant, rolling symphony of civilization. The whine of repulsorlifts, the hum of high-speed skylanes, the distant echo of ship horns from the upper atmosphere, the underlying roar of sublight drives, the whisper of wind coursing through the great duracrete canyons of the cityscape. These were the sounds of Coruscant.

But on this new day, there was another added to the great orchestra of Galactic City.

A thunderclap of firepower cracked across the city, rolling like an oncoming storm. The distant rumble of artillery, the deep, percussive boom of siege cannons, the unmistakable, staccato bark of heavy repeating blasters. These were sounds of war, sounds that did not belong here. Not on Coruscant.

The sky above the Temple Precinct flashed with the brilliance of high-powered turbolasers, an artificial thunderstorm cast by the relentless assault on the Temple Precinct’s shields. Sonic booms rattled transparisteel windows, sending tremors through the towering spires. Sirens wailed across multiple districts as security forces scrambled to contain the growing panic. ṟÂŊỘᛒĚṥ

Then there was the shouting.

From the upper levels of residential towers to the crowded plazas far below, people pointed, shouted, recoiled in horror as the towering military walkers of the Coruscant Guard advanced, their artillery pieces thundering against the Temple's mighty gates. Gunships circled like carrion birds, their blasters spitting lances of fire at the great stone ziggurat behind shimmering barriers of blue.

The status quo upheld for the past thousand years had been shattered, crushed under the fist of field artillery. Coruscant had seen war. It had withstood planetary assaults, terrorist bombings, Separatist incursions. But this– this was something else.

Coruscant seemed to be at war with itself.

And that fact was none more clear than within the Jedi Temple itself.

The Temple groaned. The ancient flagstones trembling under the fury of an army. Dust rained from the vaulted ceilings, filling the air with the scent of age and slow decay. Morning light spilled through shattered permaglass, casting jagged beams across the marble floors.

The deflector shields had been exhausted, its generators overloaded under the relentless barrage of the Coruscant Guard.

Beyond the sealed gates, a legion of clone troopers was on the march. Thirty-thousand bodies clad in red-white plastoid, ranks upon ranks of them stretching across the great plaza, their cannons and walkers arranged with droid-like precision. And above, the sky belonged to the Republic; gunships prowled the air, sweeping the outer terraces with laser fire, seeking the smallest breach, the smallest weakness.

Inside, the Jedi held their silence.

The Force was thick in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, in the heart of the Jedi Temple, where the last vestiges of an ancient order gathered. Here, where water once danced freely through tranquil gardens, where light cascaded through skylights in golden shafts, there was now only the hush of people. Younglings clung to their instructors, small fingers grasping at the folds of brown and white robes. Padawans sat in clusters, whispering to one another in voices that strained to be calm. The Knights stood apart, tense, hands never straying far from their lightsabers, seeking assurance in their trusted weapons.

Gate Master Jurokk stood with arms folded, the invisible mantle of his station heavy upon his shoulders; “They’ve moved in the siege cannons. Four of them, each with direct sightlines on the main gate. They’ll breach within the hour.”

“Faster than expected,” Jedi Knight Barriss Offee’s voice was quiet, “And the lower levels?”

“They’re attempting to sap the Temple from below. We’ve already sealed everything beneath the Temple that we could, but it may not keep the clones at bay forever. Especially if they got Intelligence analysts with them,” Drallig exhaled sharply, shaking his head, “That said, the Coruscant Guard knows that too. And they know the hangars are our only way out.”

Barriss Offee studied the holoprojection before them, the Temple’s schematics flickering in unstable light. If the situation was not glaringly obvious enough, there was a big red dot on the main gate, almost pulsating in beat with the staccato of not-so-distant artillery fire.

“We will need to begin evacuating to the hangar bays as soon as the main gate falls,” Barriss murmured, “We can’t let them surround us. Split up everybody here into three, four groups, each to a different hangar. It’ll increase our collective chance of survival.”

“We’ll need to delay the Coruscant Guard for an entire day,” Cin Drallig crossed his arms, ill hiding his apprehension, “I fear to admit, I do not know whether that will be possible.”

“That is unlike you, Cin,” Master Jurokk put his fist in his palm, “Delay them or not, we can only try, and leave the rest to the will of the Force. The Entrance Hall and Great Hall are undefendable; they are far too large. The clones will be able to march their walkers right up the Processional Way, if the central mezzanine doesn’t collapse beneath their weight.”

Another tremor shook the ground beneath them. Distantly, the Temple doors groaned against the weight of a Republic war machine. The sound was muted and far, somehow inevitable, altogether like the thunderhead of an approaching storm. An uneasy silence settled over the gathered Jedi, heavy as the stone walls around them. In the center of the chamber, the holoprojection flickered, the pulsing red dot at the main gate looming larger, brighter, as if it could already feel the heat of the cannons trained upon it.

Barriss Offee turned his gaze upward, to the skylights above. The sky was still blue, cloudless and clear–deceptively beautiful. She wondered how many civilians out there were watching, listening, feeling the distant tremors but not understanding what they meant.

How many believed the words blaring from the HoloNet? That the Jedi had betrayed the Republic? That the Temple, this sacred place, had become a den of insurgents?

There was no time to dwell on it.

The younglings had already been gathered into small groups, each with an instructor, each trembling with an unspoken fear. Padawans straightened their backs, tightening their hands into fists, willing themselves to be stronger than their years. The Knights adjusted their stances, shared glances, fingers clasped around their belts in silent acknowledgment of what was to come.

And the Masters–some who have guided the Jedi Order for years–stood apart, their faces expressionless. And they breathed their entire lives into the hands of the Force..

Then it came. A blinding flash. A thunderous impact. The Temple doors buckled.

Inside, the Jedi felt it fall. They looked at one another. Then, without a word, they moved.

⁂

To say Admiral Honor Salima of the Coruscant Home Fleet was entirely confused would be a grave understatement, though the stern-faced woman did not show it. The situation for the past day and night was enough to keep even the most carefree spacer up and pacing through the hours.

Not because the situation was worrying–thought it was; or even tense–though it was; but because the situation was simply that absurd.

First, the Home Fleet’s transceivers had been flooded with zettabytes of junk data from Republic Intelligence. For the Home Fleet’s comtechs, who obviously had no possible context behind the sudden denial of service attack, their only conclusion was that Republic Intelligence’s servers had been sliced into. The mere thought of that alone was enough to send the Home Fleet’s officers into the frenzy.

Because Republic Intelligence being sliced into?

Republic Intelligence of all people?

To say it was hardly believable would be an even larger understatement.

Admiral Honor immediately ordered dispatches be transmitted back planetside, demanding a situation update, to no response. It took the better part of an hour for the Home Fleet’s comtechs to discover it was not Republic Intelligence, but the military comsats over Coruscant that had been sliced into, and that the sudden freak show was not only occurring to the Home Fleet, but to every military hyperwave transceiver across the galaxy.

That naturally led into the next absurd conclusion; these military satellites had been recently replaced after Separatist Admiral Dua Ningo’s Attack on Coruscant. Was it possible that they had all been sabotaged? But for all of them to be exhibiting these symptoms… just which part of the production line had they been compromised? It was Ansible Incorporated that had manufactured these comsats–had Separatist saboteurs undermined Ansible’s production line? Or was it a new technological terror, a Separatist sleeper agent of sorts, wreaking havoc in a last ditch effort to impair the GAR’s comlines as Serenno fell? Or was it, stars forbid, an inside job?

No matter what they speculated, the only conclusive fact was that Coruscant would be effectively isolated from the rest of the galaxy for however long until Homeworld Security resolves the situation. For the citizens of Galactic City, this could be waved off as no more than a sudden network failure–something they were now more or less accustomed to with the war raging on across the galaxy.

For the Grand Army of the Republic, however, the situation was much more concerning. With their secure comlines down, they would have to rely on unsecure commercial and civilian lines of hypercommunication.

And then, hours later, Republic Intelligence finally made another secure transmission. Except, instead of it being a situation update or reassurance or anything that could have put the captaincies of the Republic Navy at ease, it was the command to execute Order 66. The Jedi have rebelled against the Republic, it was announced, and have allied with the Separatist State to perform an attempted coup of the Galactic Senate and unlawfully execute the Supreme Chancellor.

For the Coruscant Home Fleet, the situation had just gone from mildly worrisome, to downright ludicrous.

The Jedi Order, betraying the Galactic Republic?

That was not to say the Home Fleet, and the Republic Navy by extension, were by any means champions of the Jedi Order. Hardly, in fact. But in some ways, the Home Fleet and Republic Navy were intimately familiar with how the Jedi operated.

Were the Jedi naive and inexperienced? Certainly!

Were the Jedi arrogant beyond their ability? Definitely!

Were the Jedi entirely unfit for their military offices? Of course!

But were the Jedi ever not well-meaning in all that they do? Few GAR officers would answer yes.

Because for all the Jedi were foolhardy and downright stupid at times–from the perspective of a bonafide career officer, of course–the Jedi never acted out of spite or animosity, no matter how much friction was present. If they did, they would not be Jedi after all.

So, the Jedi suddenly betraying the Republic? The Jedi who had not one political bone in the bodies? Betraying the Republic?

The captaincies of the Home Fleet had a sneaking suspicion it was the Galactic Republic betraying the Jedi Order, not the other way around, and Admiral Honor was of no exception. Not that they would ever admit it out loud, of course. Because the fall of the Jedi Order benefited them in every way, and honestly speaking, it was not a rare opinion in the GAR that the Jedi Order was well past its time.

And thus, in the end, would Admiral Honor Salima and her Home Fleet do anything as the Jedi were slaughtered across the galaxy?

No.

The Home Fleet was crewed by noble scions and political personages. Over the Crisis in the Core, Admiral Honor Salima had done much to elevate the Home Fleet’s station above ‘glorified sinecure’ to ‘battle-honoured fleet element’ since, but at the end of the long day, the officers of the Home Fleet were still entirely politicians in military uniform. And during times of great upheaval, there was nothing politicians were known for better than sitting on the fence before falling into the camp of the winning side.

Suffice to say, it was obvious the Jedi Order was not winning.

The sight of the Temple Precinct burning through the Arlionne’s scopes was evidence enough of that.

“So the Chancellor has taken action,” Flag Captain Terrinald Screed said as if it was a verified fact, “He’s removing the last roadblock between himself and unfettered authority.”

Nevertheless, it was a difficult assumption to argue against, considering how the Supreme Chancellor has been manoeuvring the last few weeks. With the Galactic Senate’s latest vote to maintain his office into the fourth term, the Chancellor must have decided he knew held all of the Republic’s institutions in his bag… all except for one.

One, which he was now finally ridding himself of.

And yet, there was a reason why the Supreme Chancellor had to resort to destroying the Jedi Order, rather than subverting or compromising it as he did the other organs of the Republic. The Jedi Order had ten-thousand years of history at its back. The institutions of Coruscant were as ephemeral as the tides of Spira, and they ebbed and flowed with every administration. But the Jedi Order? The Jedi Order was the one constant of Coruscant, as solid as the earthen spire their ancient ziggurat was built atop.

The Jedi Order was unassailable by political means. Even in a galaxy increasingly lukewarm to their presence, there were still legions of soldiers, politicians, and regular citizens of the galaxy willing to rush to champion their name for no gain but to preserve their venerable memory.

For the Supreme Chancellor to finally decide the Jedi Order is at its most vulnerable, vulnerable enough to uproot entirely… they must have committed a blunder truly undefendable.

Admiral Honor Salima tapped the console idly, “Do we have any insight into what heinous act the Jedi had committed recently?”

Captain Screed gestured at the digital dispatch, “They rebelled, sir.”

“How?”

Terrinald Screed frowned, “A Jedi party attempted to assassinate the Chancellor in his apartment, it appears.”

“Which Jedi?”

Arlionne’s Flag Captain swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with the mounting pressure, “...Well, the names reported are Adi Gallia, Shaak Ti, Yoda, among others. They’re still being identified–the situation’s fresh as it could be.”

“Adi Gallia, Shaak Ti…” Honor’s brows furrowed, “If I recall rightly, those two were put in charge of that Homeworld Security investigation of a Separatist cell in the Works.”

“...Are we to interfere in any way?” Captain Screed asked hesitantly, unsure of his superior’s questioning.

Honor Salima raked her hawkish gaze across the Battle Room, “Are we in any position to?”

There was a deafening pause in Arlionne’s Battle Room, brief and no longer than a second, but perceived by all within. Honor made no accusation, no claim, and no judgement, but whatever imagined implication contrived by the overactive minds of the officers present was enough to strike the room into dangerous silence.

Thankfully, before their collective imagination could escalate, the Arlionne’s comms chief hastily approached Admiral Honor with a dispatch fresh from the transceiver, almost too eager to change the atmosphere. The Admiral of the Core raised an eyebrow as she snatched the tablet from his hands.

She squinted, “From battlecarrier Prudence… unknown and unregistered vessels sighted approaching inner planets from the OboRin Comet Cluster… numbering twenty to thirty. Bearing oh-nine-six absolute on the Corellian Run. Prudence reports indications of recent extraction from hyperspace and enlarged drive cones.”

“Acceleration,” Terrinald Screed caught on quickly, “Their extraction point is a bit far out, isn’t it? Is the interdiction net raised?”

Honor glanced at the nearby plotting board, where deckhands were already getting to work plotting out the speed and vector of their incoming contacts. The board was by no means empty. Coruscant was the beating heart of the galaxy, and there was a constant influx of contacts popping in and out of the system every second. The Coruscant System’s interdiction net was not raised, nor would it ever be without the Home Fleet being notified.

Captain Jan Dodonna’s Prudence had singled out their new guests for a reason. Whether it was their inactive transponders, their suspicious extraction zone, or simply a leery gut feeling, Honor Salima was not one to undermine the judgement of one of her capable captains. Besides, with the unprecedented upheaval gripping Coruscant right now, there was no reason to not be overly careful. Any number of parties–Separatist or not–could be looking to take advantage of the situation.

“Order Prudence to keep her distance,” Honor flicked her wrist, giving the tablet back to the comms chief, “She will deploy a recon wing to investigate further. They will identify themselves, or be disallowed from crossing the inner planets.”

“Right away, sir!”

“We could commit a task force to intercept them,” Captain Screed suggested.

Admiral Honor narrowed her eyes, “Have you no faith in Captain Dodonna’s abilities?”

Terrinald Screed shook his head, “Not so, Admiral, but Prudence’s meagre picket line may not be able to intercept this flotilla should they be warships.”

“...Very well. We’ll deploy the–”

“–Incoming transmission from the Regal, Admiral!” the comms chief came dashing back, breathing heavily, “Separatist warships sighted bearing one-seven-eight absolute on the Koros Trunk Line! At least seventy of them! Task Force Regal is moving to intercept!”

Bearing 178°? Koros Trunk Line? They’re coming from the Deep Core?

Admiral Honor Salima’s tactical sensibilities were already kicking into drive. Her immediate conclusion: a pincer attack! However, looking at the ranges involved, if this was a pincer attack, it was a poorly executed one. One pincer was far too close, and the other pincer was far too distant. The Separatists could be described in any number of ways, but incompetent was not one of them. It was a credit to the efforts of Separatist admirals and generals that their breakaway state had survived to this day.

So the comsats were sabotaged by the Separatists after all? And the timing… the Jedi really had allied themselves with the enemy?

“Dispatch Task Force Dragon to rendezvous with the Prudence immediately!” Admiral Honor commanded at a brisk pace, “Helmsman, bring us around to the Coreward egress! We’ll meet Regal there! And get me a scope sync with the Regal!”

The scope synchronisation came quickly, the displays scattering with static before fizzling back into a high quality feed of the Regal’s scopes. The spacers of the Arlionne were then seeing what the spacers of the Regal were seeing. A moving constellation of seventy–no, more than that–some eighty new stars quickly approaching. Honor didn’t even need the registry to identify the drive cones. A mere glance at the smear of ion and gas had her identify them as Providence-class battlecruisers, the backbone of the Separatist navy.

“Bring us to battle stations!” Captain Screed roared, and the lights thudded to blood red and klaxons wailed in the background, “Prepare for combat!”

“–Sir!” the comms chief shouted again, “Regal is standing down and awaiting further orders!”

“Oh– by Caraya’s soul!” Screed nearly grabbed the chief by his collar, “What the hell is happening out there, man!? Out with it!”

“T-Tetan transponders!” the man gasped, “Regal’s identified and verified the Royal Cinnagar! It’s the Empress of the Deep Core!”

⁂

The training gallery was burning.

What had once been a luminous corridor of polished stone and towering statues was now more akin to a war zone. Smoke curled against the vaulted ceiling, choking out the midday sun that once spilled through shattered windows. The air reeked of scorched fabric, blaster ozone, and the acrid bite of charred duracrete.

And in the center of it, Barriss Offee fought possessed by a void-shrouded revenant.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she pivoted on her heel, sweeping her blade in a wide arc to deflect a flurry of blaster bolts. She was heel deep in corpses, shattered statues, and blackened craters where blasterfire had struck home. Above, the vaulted ceiling trembled under the pounding of artillery fire, dust sifting down like the first flurries of an approaching avalanche.

Her lightsaber moved in arcs of liquid fire, cutting through blaster bolts and carving the marble floor with errant strokes. The Coruscant Guard advanced in squad formations, their visors aglow in the flickering light, their rifles spewing sapphire death. She ducked, rolled, lunged–deflecting one shot into a trooper’s chest, then pivoting to sever the rifle of another. But there were too many.

Barriss danced back, her free hand outstretched, hurling a shattered column into the advancing formation. It bought her a moment–only a moment–and she exhaled sharply. Her tattoos burned, a sensation unfelt since the day Master Luminara put a pen to her skin. She took a glancingly brief moment to look around.

The Mirialan Jedi was guarding one of the approaches to the Room of a Thousand Fountains with a dozen other Jedi Knights and a single Padawan Learner braver than he should be. They were buying time, time that seemed to be slipping through their fingers. But Barriss would not believe that their desperate bid to buy time was hopeless. Every hour they fought, every minute they struggled, every second they bled for, was a single grain of sand in the hourglass the cavalry could spend to reach them in time.

She spotted a heap of fallen robes, and rushed to bring the injured Knight to their feet. A bolt clipped her shoulder, sending a burst of heat through her zeyd-cloth dress, but she bit back the pain. She could hear the clank of approaching walkers outside, the steady pounding of boots as more clones stormed the halls.

Her jaw clenched. Is it time to fall back to the next crossroad?

Her errant thought cost her dearly. By the time she released the dead Jedi, a clone was already aiming a blaster carbine right between her eyes. She twisted–but there was no angle left, nowhere to go.

Then, the clone’s body jerked violently, his rifle spinning from his hands. Another toppled beside him, his helmeted head snapping to the side as if struck by an invisible hammer. The rest turned in alarm, shifting their formation–

And then the whirlwind descended.

The first thing Barriss saw was a flash of red and blue. A cerulean lightsaber carved through the clones with mocking ease, slicing through plastoid armor like a scalpel through supple flesh. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement–just sheer precision, a surgeon’s scalpel to the throat of the clone formation. A shocktrooper spasmed violently and collapsed, a smoking hole punched through his chest. Another fell, then another, their bodies twisting as unseen blows struck them from behind.

A blur of fluttering cloth and jewels leapt through the carnage. Clones were thrown off their feet, slammed into the walls with bone-crunching force, lifted and crushed by unseen hands. Their shouts turned to scratchy screams, their formation shattered in a blink.

And then, standing amidst the fallen, robe torn at the shoulder, lekku bloodied, expression unreadable–

Jedi Master Shaak Ti.

Barriss stared, heart hammering, “M-Master Ti?”

The older Jedi turned, her chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths.

“We need to move,” she said with utterly no sense of urgency, “I’ve already been briefed on the situation.”

Barriss swallowed a lump in her throat, a hundred questions flashing through her mind, none relevant to the situation.

She nodded, turning to shout at the surviving Knights, “Let’s go!”

Together, they ran.

They fell back to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Central as it may be, the Force was still strongest there, and it was still the most defensible section of the Jedi Temple. It was a frying pan, surrounded by the fires of the Coruscant Guard surrounding it, but abandoning the room would be leaping straight into said fires.

Shaak Ti and Barriss weaved through the chaos. The corridors shook with detonations, the walls buckling as the shocktroopers pressed their advantage. The Jedi moved in small groups, covering each other as they fell back. Yet, while they retreated, unblemished white robes still fluttered gloriously as Temple Guards stepped back into the haze of the battle, twin-bladed sabers carving golden arcs through the smoke.

Nameless, faceless, and unfearing of death. For there was no death, only an eternity in the Force.

At the end of this long day the Jedi may or may not escape, but not a single Temple Guard will live past sundown. That was the oath they swore, that was the duty they gave their lives to the moment they donned the gilded mask they wore. They were to protect the Jedi Temple, and if the Jedi Temple was to fall, it would only be after each and every single one of them was dead.

Master Jurokk met them at a crossroads, his blade igniting as he cut down an advancing squad. His face was streaked with soot, his expression grim.

“We’re losing ground,” he said without preamble, barely taking notice of Shaak Ti’s sudden attendance, “We’ve led the Coruscant Guard to believe we’re all gathered in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The moment the defence becomes untenable, we’ll retreat through the evac corridors.”

“Are they secure?” Master Shaak Ti asked.

Master Jurokk smiled wanly, “We know the Temple better than they do. Not a single clone has been spotted in the corridors as of now. In any case, the Room of a Thousand Fountains is the perfect place to slow the clones down–being an artificial jungle and all. We’ve decided Master Cin Drallig and his Temple Guards will remain behind when the time comes, and delay the clones for as long as possible there.”

“They won’t survive,” Barriss stated.

“The rest of us will.”

⁂

The Royal Cinnagar was a Tetan Supremacy-class attack cruiser. It was a conservative size, only a little half-kilometer from bow to stern. But that didn’t make it any less grand to the eyes. Its hull was curved and slender, sloped at bow and stern in the traditional oceangoing style, hearkening back to more ancient times. But that was not what caught the eye. Its superstructure was more beautiful than practical, a veritable gothic cathedral sat atop its hull, sensor masts for spires and autocannon banks for buttresses.

Very much so, Admiral Honor Salima had decided, a luxurious flagship worthy of an empress.

But the Empress herself? Not so much.

Empress Eara Lota was a slight of a girl, barely an adult by galactic standards. She clearly fashioned herself an empress, the colours of her imperial regalia somehow visible through the blue-scanned filter of the hologram. It was enough to make Terrinald Screed shift nervously beside her, and make the officers on deck tense up.

Why were dozens of grown men and women terrified of a little girl?

Well, because in the Home Fleet, they were all still politicians in military uniform at the end of the day.

More specifically, because there was a reason the Tetan Monarchy was one of the last galactic governments still able to style themselves the imperial dignity. Empress Teta was the veritable throneworld of the Deep Core, one of few worlds capable of coming close to rivalling Coruscant in luxury and splendor, in no small part due to the high habitability of the Tetan Star System. The reason why the Tetans had arrived was obvious; they were long-time allies of the Jedi Order. In fact, the very founding of the Tetan Monarchy five millennia ago was partially credited to Jedi aid. Not to mention that the Jedi Plo Koon had recently aided the Tetans in rebuking the Battle Hydra’s occupation of their capital system.

Admiral Honor Salima was not ignorant to the senatorial crisis occurring on Coruscant. The Senate’s confirmation of the Chancellor’s fourth consecutive term had seen no small number of senators withdraw from the government. The antagonism of the Tetan Monarchy, one of Coruscant’s longest standing allies, would be a severe blow to the Legitimist Republic, as much so as Alderaan’s, Humbarine’s, or Duro’s.

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A diplomatic trespass against the Tetans could not be afforded. Not just in fear of the political fallout, but also the strategic fallout. The discovery of a secret hyperlane through the Deep Core, exploited by the Separatist Admiral Rain Bonteri to strike at the Core Worlds and Agricultural Circuit, was the linchpin of Empress Teta’s military significance, and it was no small significance indeed.

“I will make this brief,” Empress Eara Lota said simply, “My delegation wishes to confirm Empress Teta’s position in your Chancellor’s new Republic.”

There was no hesitation in her words, no uncertainty in her bearing. Honor Salima had dealt with enough rulers, senators, and generals in her time to recognize that Empress Eara Lota was not asking for permission. The Empress was immediately making it abundantly clear that the ‘Admiral of the Core’ did not rank above the ‘Empress of the Deep Core’.

Beside her, Terrinald Screed stood rigid, his lips pressed into a thin line. The officers on the command deck had the same stiffness about them. The weight of the conversation hung in the air.

Honor inclined her head slightly, “Your Highness, I take you understand the delicacy of the situation.”

Eara Lota’s expression did not change, “Continue.”

The Admiral of the Home Fleet swallowed her indignation, “Then Your Highness understands that the Jedi are in open rebellion against the Republic. Coruscant is under emergency security measures. I cannot permit foreign warships to make landfall as of now.”

A faint flicker of something–amusement, perhaps–crossed the young Empress’ face, “So you consider us a foreign fleet?”

Honor’s brows arched slightly, “I am no person to play with words, Your Highness. As of this moment, all armedfleets not flying the flag of Coruscant are considered a foreign warfleet.”

Eara Lota’s smile died, a doorway closed off to her. She continued nonetheless; “Empress Teta is one of the Republic’s most steadfast Coreward members. We have stood with Coruscant for well over five millennia. And yet, I have received no official notice of this so-called rebellion. No declaration. No formal communication from the Senate. All I have seen are unverified reports and scattered transmissions.”

“The Jedi had sabotaged our communications infrastructure to ensure their attempted coup goes smoothly,” Admiral Honor smoothly replied, “Fortunately, Homeworld Security acted swiftly, preventing the Supreme Chancellor’s assassination.”

“Is that so?” the Empress trailed off in thought.

Honor took her gaze away from the girl’s form, to the viewports. To the Separatist warships.

Her Flag Captain followed her attention, “They all have verified Tetan signatures, sir. Must be warships captured from the Battle Hydra.”

“Why would she bring them here?” Honor grumbled.

“...To make a point?” Terrinald wetted his lips in uncertainty.

“Have we gotten any reply from planetside yet?” she hissed at him, “We can’t keep them here forever.”

Captain Screed promptly whirled on his heel and marched back into the Battle Room with all the intensity of a hurricane, urgently demanding updates.

“–Nevertheless, this situation regarding the Jedi Order is a matter of concern to me,” Empress Eara Lota smiled apologetically, “I’m certain I won’t have to explain why. As such, I would like to confirm the situation for myself… and assure certain agreements with the Senate.”

“I have been receiving certain transmissions you see, Admiral,” the girl continued, “From Chandrila, Duro, Alderaan, and half a hundred others claiming to be the true ‘Restorationist’ Republic. Alarming transmissions.”

Salima exhaled slowly, “I do not question your loyalty to the Republic, Your Highness, but–”

“But I do question the Republic’s loyalty to us,” Eara Lota interjected, “Tell me, Admiral, does the Chancellor’s Republic still count Empress Teta among its allies? Or does it now consider us an enemy? As it does Chandrila and Alderaan? This is what I am here to make certain.”

A silence fell over the command deck.

Honor Salima did not move. Did not blink.

This girl, this barely-adult Empress, had backed them into a corner.

To deny her would be to publicly snub the Tetan Monarchy, an insult with consequences that stretched far beyond this moment. If the Tetans decide to align themselves with Chandrila and the Secessionists… the political ramifications alone would be enough to make the Legitimist Senate tremble. The military ramifications–blocking one of the few hyperlane-rich Deep Core powers from Coruscant–could shake the very foundation of not just war effort, but the Republic’s future itself.

And Eara Lota knew it.

The moment stretched.

Terrinald Screed returned, face glistening with sweat. He shot his Admiral a glance, and nodded frantically.

Then, Honor Salima inclined her head.

“My apologies for the inconvenience, we have just received an update from the Galactic Senate,” she said, “Your Highness may seek further instructions from ground control.”

Eara Lota beamed, “Perfect! I will only proceed with my imperial flotilla to avoid panic. The captured ships will remain here under your close purview.”

“Our thanks,” Admiral Honor got out, “For your consideration.”

The hologram flickered, then vanished.

The silence remained.

Terrinald Screed exhaled sharply, “This is a mistake.”

“Who are we to stop it from happening?” Honor Salima clenched her fists, “Just what has this galaxy come to?”

The sublight drives of the Royal Cinnagar’s cathedral-warshipsbloomed gold, and their sleek forms were thrusted past Arlionne’s formation, teardrop hulls gleaming in the Coruscant sunlight. Honor watched them pass, wondering what would come of it. Then, she turned her attention back to the Separatist warships, their leviathan-like silhouettes close enough to draw out a sense of hair-raised, edge-of-your-seat anxiety any veteran Republic spacer would be closely familiar with, even despite their friendly status.

“The Senate made their decision,” Honor continued, impassively gazing towards her should-be enemies, “It is out of our hands. Now, what of Dodonna’s report? Those unregistered vessels in the outer planets?”

Terrinald looked to his datapad, and paused, eyes widening, “Prudence has identified them as Separatist warships, sir.”

A beat passed. Honor stared at the Separatist warships outside Arlionne’s viewports. A new, dark light shone in her eyes, as if a longtime suspicion of hers had just been confirmed.

“Actual Separatist warships?”

“Yes, sir,” her Flag Captain nodded shallowly, “No organic crews detected. Prudence suggests they are stragglers, left behind by the Perlemian Coalition in the wake of Rendili.”

Honor’s eyes narrowed, not once taking her attention off the captured Separatist warships. Everything just seemed a little too… convenient. Her tactical sensibilities were screaming at her. All signs were pointing towards a– pincer attack! Pincer attack! Attack them now!

At the same time, her political sensibilities screamed back. If she fired the first shot, it would be a– diplomatic trespass! Diplomatic trespass!

Ultimately, the decision came down to Honor the Politician, or Honor the Admiral.

“–Should we intercept the Tetan contingent?” Screed’s attention was now following the cathedral-warships transiting through the Home Fleet’s formation.

Honor Salima shook her head. The Senate had just ordered the Empress’ dignitary flotilla through. And said Empress had just confirmed these Separatist warships to be captured and commandeered by the Tetan Guard. Could it all just be one large, terrible coincidence? For a moment, Honor the Politician was winning.

But Honor Salima wasn’t a politician or senator or bureaucrat. Honor Salima was the Admiral of the Core.

If Empress Eara Lota had come to Coruscant with a diplomatic flotilla, why would she choose to bring Separatist warships of all choices? All that achieved was raising unwanted tension. Was Terrinald Screed correct, that she was testing them? That she was making a point? Or did the Tetans arrive with the assumption that negotiations would end disastrously, and that they would have to fight their way out?

…Fight their way out?

“...Captain,” Admiral Honor Salima murmured, “Get me an analysis of their formation. And as soon as the last Tetan vessel clears our formation, modify our lines of bearing into a bow-and-quarter line, starboard echelon forward.”

“Right away, sir!”

Minutes later, the individual warships of Coruscant Home Fleet began subtly shifting their stations, engines quiet as thousands of miniscule microthrusters got to work adjusting megatonne hulls around. Honor Salima stood like a statue on the bridge, eyes tracking the Separatist warships opposing them. And she watched them move too.

Her Flag Captain returned with data in hand; “They’re modifying their own formation in response to ours. And… uh–”

“Yes?”

“Their turbolaser batteries are tracking our hardpoints.”

At that moment, Honor Salima the Admiral won.

“Order Prudence and Dragon to intercept our unwanted guests. Thirty warships should pose no issue to them,” the Admiral of the Core commanded promptly, “As for these fellows right before us… set all deflector shields forward. Have the Regal fire a single warning shot–make it go wide.”

Terrinald Screed relayed the orders so smoothly it was as if his Admiral had not just ordered him to play chicken with a clearly battle-tested Separatist warfleet. The Coruscant Home Fleet and the Perlemian Coalition Armada stared each other down in hammerlock range, gunners on both sides with their fingers curled around the trigger.

And the Home Fleet shot first.

The Perlemian Coalition Armada shot back.

⁂

Thousands of clone troops swarmed the Jedi Temple. The Coruscant Guard poured through shattered doorways, boots pounding against scorched stone, pressing forward in death squads. The Temple Guards and Jedi Knights made them fight for every step, every corridor, every corner. Blaster fire streaked through the hallways, ricocheting off pillars and burning through banners that once bore the insignia of the ancient order.

But not even their supernatural abilities could stem the unrelenting tide of armoured shocktroopers storming the Temple, and gradually, the Jedi began to flag. It became a scene repeated a hundred times; the Jedi guard a doorway, the shocktroopers push, and the Jedi retreat to the next door. Over, and over, and over again, for hours upon hours, as morning stretched to midday, until it became clear to the Coruscant Guard where the Jedi were retreating to.

The Room of a Thousand Fountains. Consulting their holoplans of the building, that was the conclusion they made. The Jedi must be going to stage a last stand there.

So that’s where they went.

They surrounded the confines of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, securing every known exit across all seven floors. They set breaching charges on the doors–and a heavy explosion sent a tremor through the walls as a squad of clones blasted open the archway to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Smoke and dust billowed outward.

And the shocktroopers stormed the front, fully expecting an army of lightsaber-wielding Jedi waiting for them.

There was none.

The Room of a Thousand Fountains was completely empty, and eerily quiet.

They advanced into the thicket, cautiously, expecting the Jedi to be hiding in the deep underbrush. In that vast misty gloom, one of the clones caught a glimpse of someone moving beyond a stand of Hylaian marsh bamboo.

“Halt!” he shouted, “You there! Don’t move!”

The shadowy figure darted off into the gloom, and the clone turned to his squad brothers.

He didn’t have time to even utter a word of warning.

Jedi Master Cin Drallig’s emerald saber cut the first clone down before his boots had even touched the broken stone. Around him, his Temple Guards erupted from the jungle-like undergrowth, their white masks flickering in the haze, their pikes igniting in arcs of molten gold. From behind trees, from the mist of flowing waterfalls, they struck–darting, slashing, fading into the shadows before blaster fire could catch them.

The Coruscant Guard faltered for the first time since entering the Jedi Temple. The Coruscant Guard, masters of urban warfare, entered headfirst into the one terrain they would never expect on the city-planet capital of the galaxy.

An entirely alien, hostile jungle.

Commander Thorn of the Coruscant Guard watched as his men struggled to find their footing. Through the thick mist and foliage, all he could see were flashes of gold and green, followed by the harrowing screams of his brothers through the comms. Did he, for even a moment, doubt what he was doing?

Not really.

All he felt was a deep and terrible hatred for those who killed his brothers. Say what you will of the Coruscant Guard, but they overcome any and all challenges. Ultimately, they were cloned troopers of Kamino, and they always found a way to finish their mission.

Commander Thorn’s expression hardened as he stepped over the bodies of fallen Jedi. He was losing men too fast. The jungle was too thick, the mist too dense. The Jedi were dragging them into a fight, a fight on their terms.

And that was not what Thorn was here to do.

He toggled his comms.

“This is Commander Thorn. We’re going to need flamethrowers.”

Meanwhile, as Master Cin Drallig and the Temple Guard desperately fought to buy time, columns of Jedi moved swiftly through the ruined corridors, the soft shuffling of boots on temple stone drowned beneath the distant, ceaseless thunder outside the walls.

Barriss led from the front, her green blade flashing as she struck down the first trooper to round the corner. Behind her, the Jedi Knights formed a protective vanguard, fanning out to intercept the enemy while the Padawans and caretakers herded the younglings through the wide causeways and up the flights of stairs. They made their way up, and up, and up. To the Temple hangars.

Children clung to their caretakers, the smallest of them cradled in the arms of nurses and medical droids. Some sobbed, their cries muffled in the folds of their robes. Others were silent, eyes wide, their innocence stolen in the span of a single day.

"We're almost there!" Barriss said, not sure if she was speaking to her comrades or to herself.

As they made their way up, they all naturally made their way out, towards the outer shell of the great ziggurat. And that was when they heard the roar of engines.

Gunships.

Dozens of LAAT gunships circling above the Temple spires, mass driver missiles ceaselessly slamming into the armoured doors of hangar bays in the attempt to pry them open. The only way out for the Jedi were through the hangars, after all, so that was where they would strike. Missile after missile struck the ziggurat superstructure, one volley sent durasteel scaffolding plummeting into the causeway ahead, cutting off one of the routes to the secondary hangars.

Another volley struck the base of the Tower of Reconciliation.

With an explosive crack, the great spire split from its foundations.

It collapsed in almost like in slow motion; stone groaning, duracrete fracturing, banners tearing loose from their moorings as it twisted downward, down toward the hangar bays. Barriss barely had time to shout a warning before the impact slammed through the Temple, sending bodies tumbling to the floor. Dust erupted into the air, blotting out the glow of the firestorm above.

"Get up!" she urged, pulling a dazed Padawan to their feet, “We need to keep moving!”

“Keep moving where!?” the Padawan cried, a certain hopelessly spilling from their lips.

“To the next hangar,” Shaak Ti simply replied, montrals standing rigid high, “And we hope that one hasn’t been destroyed too.”

At the same time, a hundred floors beneath the fleeing Jedi, the air shimmered with heat.

And the gardens burned.

The waterfalls–those gentle cascades that had once bathed the chamber in eternal serenity–had turned to steam, thick plumes hissing as they met the inferno. The pools boiled, sending scalding mist spiraling upward in great clouds, rising to mingle with the smoke. Trees crackled, leaves curled into embers. The winding stonework paths, polished smooth by centuries of flowing water, cracked and shattered under the intense heat.

Cin Drallig felt it in his lungs, how the oxygen in the room was being devoured by the flames, the way every breath took more effort than the last. The Jedi around him fought not just against the clones but against the fire, against the heat that pressed in from all sides, stealing the air, pulling sweat from their skin only to turn it into steam before it could fall. Their robes clung to them, soaked through, smoldering at the edges. Some had already collapsed, their bodies curled in on themselves, hands clawing weakly at their throats.

The clones, sealed in their vacuum-rated armor, pressed forward, undeterred.

The Temple Guards still fought, emerging from the smoke, striking down troopers before vanishing once more into the burning mists. But for every clone that fell, three more took their place. The Temple Guards were outnumbered, outgunned, and now, slowly, suffocating. The Force can only abide them for so long.

Beyond the Room of a Thousand Fountains, the Jedi Temple was suffocating from the inside.

Smoke billowed outward, thick and choking, spilling into the corridors, curling into the passageways of the Temple like the grasping hands of some ancient, vengeful spirit. The murals and inscriptions of a thousand years vanished behind black clouds that drew serpentine shadows as they slithered from hall to hall, the golden-hued walls darkened with soot. The Temple’s errant defenders–those Jedi who had split off to lead the clones on wild chases through the ancient mazes–were now running for their lives, coughing as they staggered blindly through the acrid haze.

Some had found themselves in sealed meditation chambers, clawing at the doors as the rooms filled with smoke faster than they could find another way out.

Others had chosen their battlefields poorly.

A lone Jedi Master, saber in hand, had lured an entire squad of clones deep into the archives, weaving through the towering shelves of ancient holobooks. She had thought to lose them in the labyrinth of knowledge, to buy time, to disrupt their advance. But when the smoke had reached her first, when the heat had grown unbearable, she realized it had been a mistake.

After hours of fighting Jedi Master Jocasta Nu collapsed in a corner of the corpse-filled library, lungs heaving, throat stripped bare, her bloodied saber falling from her grip. The Chief Librarian of the Jedi Temple searched through her robes with the last of her strength, producing a tiny, unassuming device.

The clones reached her moments later. She couldn’t see their faces behind the cold, impassive visors of their helmets, but she could see down the hollow throats of the blasters pointed at her. And she could also feel the cold metal touch of the detonator in her hand.

And in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, a distant explosion boomed as the last sworn defenders of the Temple made their final stand, the flames rising around them, the shadows of their blades flickering against the raging firestorm.

Jedi Master Cin Drallig fought on.

His lightsaber spun in emerald arcs, deflecting fire, severing blasters, cutting through armor. His Temple Guards had dwindled to barely a handful, their white masks now streaked with soot and blood. Tongues of fire surrounded them now, licking at their robes, lashing at their skin. A blast sent another Jedi to the ground, their body disappearing beneath the creeping inferno.

Cin Drallig gritted his teeth.

The air was gone. His lungs burned, his body ached, his vision swam in the wavering heat.

A familiar sound met his ears–a voice, distorted through a helmet speaker, flat and impersonal.

“Found him.”

And the last Temple Guard in the galaxy struck the burning earth.

⁂

From the pilothouse of the Royal Cinnagar, Vinoc watched as the crystal-stone urban sprawl of Coruscant grew closer. It was a sight so familiarly unknown to him, the endless thrum and bustle of the capital of the galaxy. When was it last, he did wonder, he had last set foot on Coruscant? Too many years ago, he knew, so much so that he felt nothing for the planet he once called home.

It had not been a departure of joy, that much could be said. Vinoc recalled that bygone memory; the sensation of standing at the pinnacle of the Tower of Reassignment, feeling as if he was being crushed by the mountain the Temple sat upon. The Reassignment Council may have exhorted and sermonised the honour and purpose found in the Jedi Service Corps however much they liked, but every Jedi Initiate knew what being sent to the Service Corps meant.

Failure.

You spend your whole life as an initiate, learning in the ways of the Force, the high walls of the Jedi Temple as your entire world. Only to find out you failed your Initiate Trials. Only to find out no Jedi Knight or Master would take you as their apprentice. Only to find out you would never be a Padawan, and never be a Knight. Only to find out you were never worthy of that hallowed title; Jedi. Only to find out you were not worthy.

They called him a ‘fallen Jedi’ many times during his time with the Separatists, but Vinoc knew the truth; he had never been a Jedi at all. Vinoc had been a glorified farmer tossed to the corner of the galaxy, forgotten by the Jedi Order that raised him. And when Folende rose in arms to join the Separatist Alliance, Vinoc and the rest of the AgriCorps in the world decided that they may as well remain with the people who they’ve lived with for years, rather than fight to return to Coruscant.

Little did they know about Count Dooku’s desire to build a new Jedi Order then, Vinoc mused wryly, but that was a tale for another time.

“Feeling homesick?” ‘Empress Eara Lota’ asked curiously.

“Not at all, Your Highness,” Vinoc told her wistfully, “Just wondering what could have been.”

The ‘Empress’ nodded slowly, “I would be bitter if I were you, sent to rescue the Jedi that forgot you.”

“No… I may have been young and bitter then, I am no longer,” Vinoc released a laugh, “The older and more mature initiates knew the right of it; service in the Service Corps was respectable. Moreso than being Jedi Knights, in some ways, directly helping the galaxy from the level of the citizens. But most of us were children who spent our entire lives in the Temple, taught that the entire galaxy was our birthright. Once we became Jedi Knights, the world would be at our feet, and we could do whatever we want, go wherever we want–”

“Only to be crushed underfoot by reality,” the ‘Empress’ sighed emphatically. Vinoc had a feeling she knew the feeling more than anybody, considering how her own life had panned out.

Vinoc shrugged, “I do admit, I find it ironic that I all of people would be leading this rescue operation. All things are the will of the Force–if this is the road it has laid out for me, I can only laugh at its cosmic humour.”

There was a long silence as the Royal Cinnagar continued descending, gunships of the Coruscant Guard rising to meet them before falling into escort positions. They could see the rising columns of smoke now from beyond the ridges of duracrete, as they approached the Senate Precinct.

“I have to thank you, Your Highness, for assisting me in this absurd demand,” Vinoc turned to the small girl.

She shrugged, “I have lived a life of service since the day I was born. For a body double, this rescue operation is one of the most exciting things I have ever participated in. For this, it is I that must thank you.”

“Nevertheless, we could have never made it this far without the role you played.”

“It is just another part of the… job…”

‘Empress Eara Lota’–for she had no name of her own–froze, eyes widening as her gaze locked onto a sight on the horizon, the words she spoke lost to the rising whine of repulsorlifts. Vinoc followed her sight then, and found himself unconsciously clenching the metal cylinder at his belt, as if to strike a man down at that very moment.

The sun was setting upon Galactic City.

And the Jedi Temple was ablaze.

Smoke billowed from every shattered window, curling around the ancient ziggurat like the coiled body of a massive black serpent. The five iconic spires that once proudly rose over the city were now charred skeletons of their former selves. One of them had collapsed entirely, its ruin strewn across the decks below, massive slabs of stone and duracrete forming a graveyard with headstones of rubble.

Gunships swarmed like fleshflies around a corpse, searchlights cutting through the gloom as they patrolled the airspace around the Temple. On the ground, clone companies pressed their advance through the shattered main doors, white armor gleaming against the orange glow of the flames. The great doors of the Jedi Temple had been blasted apart–now a jagged wreckage that saw host to clone battalions and military walkers grinding masonry under their durasteel feet.

And above it all, the dark side reigned.

Vinoc felt it, his connection to that addictive fuel never stronger. The sheer weight of it pressed against his senses like the scent of rain and incoming lightning. Vinoc, who walked that line in the sand, heard that echo of despair and triumph both. But that scar remained, the scar made by the triumphant inflicter, borne by the despairing inflicted. The echo lingered in the air, just as that wound refused to close.

The ‘Empress’ was the one who disturbed his reverie, approaching him with news; “Captain Jorm reports that they have been shot at by the Home Fleet.”

Vinoc’s head snapped to the viewports, where Coruscant Guard gunships flew nearby.

“That quickly? Jorm will keep the Home Fleet pinned until the rescue is completed,” he answered, “As for us, we should make it quick. Let’s begin painting the extraction zone for our droid friends.”

“Certainly. And how should we respond to the Coruscant Guard?”

“Plot an escape vector, and shoot back.”

Three billion klicks away, two sister ships were leading a battered fleet of thirty-two frigates and destroyers right into the jaws of the enemy. Recusant-class star destroyer Lexington counted over sixty Republic Star Destroyers approaching at a blistering pace, a force vastly outnumbering and outgunning their small force. For any other commander, it would be a daunting confrontation.

The thirty-two warships Lexington commanded rusted old hulls, remnants of the White Hand that survived solely by being captured and interned at Commenor years prior. They and their droid crews had been forcefully reawakened by PRIESTESS via Handler One, but they were still far from operational. Low fuel, diminishing ammunition reserves, unmaintained engineering bays and questionable system integrities all led her to the conclusion that the incoming battle was hopeless.

If their intention was to battle, that was.

>Incoming shortburst from CND_1.911.812.01.571_1310RV

>Initiate handshake

[From CND_1.911.812.01.571_1310RV] QIOSRMHBMHNANTHXYNJPFPPWOXUGMEFWLQZLMUHASUW

>Access naval encryption key rotors

>Decrypt session

[From CND_SARATOGA_1310RV] CONNECTION ESTABLISHED. EXTRACTION ZONE ARRANGED.

[To CND_SARATOGA_1310RV] ACKNOWLEDGED.

[From CND_SARATOGA_1310RV] CONTACTS TWELVE MINUTES TO INTERCEPT. PLEASE ADVISE.

[To CND_SARATOGA_1310RV] STANDARD INTERCEPT PROCEDURE. FALL BACK AND INSERT.

[From CND_SARATOGA_1310RV] ACKNOWLEDGED. EXECUTING MANEUVER.

Lexington and Saratoga abruptly cut their engines, ‘falling back’ into the formation behind them and disguising themselves as one of the many Separatist hulls in the fleet. As the White Hand engages the Home Fleet in a sacrificial manoeuvre, the two droid hulls would make the microjump into Coruscant’s atmosphere.

Normally, hyperdrives have built-in safeties to prevent this from happening. Most hyperdrives automatically disengage upon detection of an incoming mass shadow, but for droids with full control of their hulls, disengaging those safeties was a simple affair. Regardless, few organic crews would attempt such a daring jump anyway. Attempting to extract right above the surface, yet avoid being swallowed by the planet’s mass shadow, was much like threading a needle in on the first try. There were simply too many factors to take into account, as compared to ordinary jumps which had literal million-klick rooms for error.

Fortunately, Lexington and Saratoga had not a single organic cell in their kilometre-long hulls.

[From CND_SARATOGA_1310RV] HOSTILES INTERCEPTED. EXECUTING JUMP. AGREE?

Their astronavigation computers were synchronised, ensuring they would insert into the same

hyperspace tunnel. Destination: Temple Precinct, Senate District, Galactic City.

[To CND_SARATOGA_1310RV] AGREE.

⁂

It was at one of the Jedi Temple’s many hangar bays that Barriss was rendezvous with Master Jurokk. His evac team had arrived first, whilst Barriss’ team had the unfortunate luck of their goal being blown out right in front of them. Or perhaps that was fortunate, for they had not been there when it happened.

Nevertheless, the well-lit chamber that once saw the comings and goings of diplomatic envoys, Jedi on assignments, and supply shipments had seen better days.. Smoke clung to the durasteel rafters like a specter, a choking haze illuminated only by the emergency lights lining the landing zones.

Starfighters, speeder transports, and old Jedi shuttles stood idle on the launch pads, some barely functional, others prepped for takeoff. This one reality immediately struck Barriss. With the sudden influx of more Jedi than what they had prepared for, the rows of shuttles on standby now appeared alarmingly inadequate.

“Drallig bought us time,” Master Shaak Ti informed Jurokk of the situation, “But we don’t have long before they breach the hangar doors.”

She gestured to the blast doors behind them, sealed shut to prevent the burning smoke from invading their last sanctuary. And of course, to stop the advance of the Coruscant Guard.

“What about the other evac teams?” Barriss pressed Jurokk, “Were they able to reach their hangars?”

Master Jurokk shook his head, “We don’t know. The clones are jamming our comms. We have no contact with anyone outside of this room.”

Barriss turned to the shuttles, to the transports, to the frightened faces of younglings clutching at their instructors’ robes, to the weary Padawans standing in clusters, whispering among themselves. The Knights had formed a perimeter at the main doors, sabers in hand, their eyes locked on the thick durasteel blast doors that rattled with each distant explosion.

Too many Jedi. Too little ships.

A white-faced Jedi Knight approached them. Barriss Offee already knew what terrible news he would utter. She knew it when she saw the shuttles and ships filled to the brim with writhing bodies, and she knew it when she saw a circle of younglings still huddled together on the permacrete.

“The ships are full. There’s not enough space for everyone.”

Oh, how those words settled over them like a death knell.

Barriss’s stomach dropped as she looked around, and counted the numbers again, as if somehow she had miscalculated the first time. But she hadn’t. There simply wasn’t enough space, not for all of them.

Master Jurokk stared at her. Perhaps he did not mean it, but Barriss felt the meaning of that look anyway. Not enough space for you, it said, you and the ones you brought here without warning.

He was the first to speak, “Some of us will have to stay behind.”

A tense silence fell between the Masters. The question was obvious.

Who?

Barriss recalled the single word spoken to her years ago–the word of a young Atrakenite girl with her brother in her arms. And she knew her answer then.

“Empty the shuttles and board them again,” Barriss stepped forth firmly, “Padawans and younglings first. Caretakers and instructors next, then Knights, then Masters.”

Jurokk stiffened. “How can the Jedi Order survive without its Masters?”

The next words Master Shaak Ti said appeared to have been stolen right from Barriss’ mouth before she could utter them herself.

“Survive?” the Togruta Master questioned, “This is not a question of survival. We have not come this far to preserve what has already passed. We are here to ensure the future of the Jedi. We are not that future–they are.”

They looked toward the shuttles, where the youngest of them sat huddled together, too exhausted even to cry. Some were only toddlers, barely aware of the nightmare unfolding around them. Others were old enough to understand, but not yet old enough to fight.

“The Force is a gift, one we’ve already opened and spent,” Barriss said softly, “They haven’t. We owe it to their parents that they live to do so.”

Jurokk closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, there was something raw in his expression, “Fine. But we need at least one Master to go with them. All the Jedi on Coruscant are dead; we don’t know the fate of the Jedi in the galaxy. We need assurance that they’ll survive beyond the hangar gates.”

“Master Shaak Ti is the last Councilmember left, that we know is still alive,” Barriss pointed out.

Master Jurokk looked at the Councilmember, not that the title meant much at all anymore.

“...If it is demanded of me, I will serve,” the Jedi Master said at last.

Jurokk nodded decisively, then marched off towards the transports. They turned to the others, to the Knights still holding the line, to the pilots in the cockpits of their shuttles, to the Masters standing silently by the ships they would never board.

“All of you, out!” Master Jurokk commanded, “The younglings first, then the Padawans! In an orderly fashion, everyone. Stay with your creches!”

One by one, the smallest of them were ushered aboard. And not a moment too soon.

Behind them, the muffled screams of cutting torches could be heard through the agonised groan of the blast doors. The red glow of plasma sliced through the durasteel, and the Knights at the front tightened their grips on their weapons. Master Shaak Ti was the last to board a shuttle, and as soon as she did, Master Jurokk turned back to join the last Knights of the Jedi Order.

Barriss Offee was standing by the lever to unfold the hangar gates. What awaited them on the other side, she did not know. At the end of it all, it could be the galaxy’s final joke for the Jedi Order, for thousands of point defence guns outside to be aimed directly at the hangar gates in taunting expectation of their escape attempt.

She exhaled, and pulled down on the lever hard.

Age-old gears screamed and shuddered. The hangar gates unfolded like a paper fan, revealing an amber dusk falling over Republic City. Barriss internally braced for the storm of missiles crashing into the hangar–but there was none.

Those dreaded gunships of the Coruscant Guard were gone, now preoccupied with greater matters. For the fires of battle have spread beyond the Jedi Temple, and were now rising to consume that magnificent forest of aeries that rose above the clouds.

For every red-painted LAAT gunship, there were three shrieking Vulture droids. For every AT-TE turning their mobile artillery around, there were two C-9799 transports descending through the stratosphere. For every clone battalion formed on Precinct grounds, there were five droid legions touching down.

There were two Separatist destroyers hanging in stasis directly over the Senate District, massive spindle-shaped ships that hung verticall–bows pointed down and afts rising higher than any skyscraper–like twin swords aimed directly over the heart of the Republic. Barriss recognised what had happened; they made a hyperspace jump, and extracted right before they smashed into the planet. Even now, Barriss could feel the terrifying roar of retrothusters and repulsorlifts straining to keep the two warships from crashing.

Their turbolasers thundered, droid starfighters spilling out of their rafters and shell-armour, landing transports cutting through the smoke shrugging off attempts made by shocktroopers to shoot them down. Enough firepower to take a small city.

One of them–its running light flashed lengthwise, as if winking at her, and air came rushing back into her lungs.

It's them! They’re here!

Barriss exhaled violently, turning to Master Shaak Ti, poised at the open door of the last shuttle.

“That’s them!” she shouted, “You need to go now!”

The Togruta Master glanced at the sight beyond the hangar gate, then back at her, “The Separatists?”

“Are we really in any position to turn down help where we can get it?” Barriss shook her head, “We should be grateful anyone is willing to come save us! Head for those destroyers, and don’t look back!”

Shaak Ti closed her eyes for a long moment, and finally told her– “Come aboard! We can still make space for you!”

Barriss laughed, “Thank you for the offer, Master, but my mission is still incomplete. Now go!”

Maybe the Jedi Master saw it on her face, or felt her meaning in the Force, but she did not argue. A moment later, the first shuttle lifted off. Then the second. Then the third.

And then, the blast doors behind them gave way. Shocktroopers stormed the hangar, coming face to face with the army of exhausted Jedi ready and waiting.

“May the Force be with you!” Shaak Ti shouted as her shuttle lifted into the fire-filled sky of Coruscant.

“As you!”

Jedi Knight Barriss Offee watched the shuttles rise into Coruscant’s evening sky, their hulls glinting in the last rays of sunlight as they broke free of the suffocating Republic. Beyond them, in the distance, silhouettes emerged against the darkening horizon, beyond even the Separatist destroyers–flying palaces, gothic spires suspended in the sky above the Senate District, a sight so out of place that it almost seemed unreal. But she knew what she saw.

And she knew what it meant.

A single word surfaced in her mind, carried from the lips of an Atrakenite girl over two years ago.

Hope.

A breath, steady and measured.

Hope was not something given. It was not a force of nature, not an immutable law of the universe. Hope was made. It was willed into existence by those too stubborn, too desperate, and too foolish to let go.

She had sworn herself to this mission knowing what it would cost her. And with that oath came another, one she had spoken only to herself. She had not done this for the Separatists. Not for the Jedi Order. She had done it to burn down the Old Republic and the rot that festered in its core. Until that self-made promise was fulfilled, her work was not yet finished.

Barriss turned her gaze toward the sunset, toward the open galaxy beyond, vast and unknowable. There, the survivors of this fallen order would scatter like embers on the wind, drifting toward whatever future they could carve for themselves. A part of her wanted to be among them–to take part in something new, to help shape what would come next.

Then she turned back.

And the light of the setting sun paled in comparison to the glow of the fire consuming the Temple. The air was thick with the stench of scorched stone and flesh, of ozone and smoke. The great halls that had once stood for a thousand generations were now a churning storm of fire and blaster bolts, of screaming and dying, flashing with crackling thunder and lightning strikes of lightsabers, backlit by the amber glow of advancing flames. The darkness was absolute.

Down with the old, she had promised, and up with the new.

And the old has not been downed yet.

Barriss Offee raised a hand in a final farewell to the departing shuttles, then let it fall to her side.

She ignited her lightsaber. Blue fire roared to life in her grip.

She caught an errant blaster bolt on the edge of her blade, turned, and stepped back into the hell.

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