Any hyperlane could become a death trap with those things, as any fleet could find itself ripped out of Hyperspace and surrounded by enemy ships.
Where the hell had they come from?
Ah, he had more important things to focus on.
...
"How do we resolve our fuel problem, gentleman?" Grib queried the room. "We can't import fuel from the rest of the Galaxy, and we can't produce enough of our own to sustain our fleets. Do we need to start requisitioning civilian fuel supplies?"
Neeg swallowed audibly, trying to speak, but his throat was too parched and all that came out was a croak. He quickly poured himself some water and took a loud slurp past his thin, quivering lips, before finally he was able to speak. In a quivering, fearful voice. "Grib. We can't requisition civilian fuel. From a legal perspective, it's just not possible under our corporate code without a declaration of emergency."
"Which we are not doing." Grib said firmly. "But we can go outside the Corporate Code. We can send scalpers-"
Himera shook his head, terrified. "No, no. Grib, I understand we need the fuel, but we can't even operate agriculture without our fuel. Imagine a famine inside the Corporate Sector, because we can't move food from one planet in Bonadon to another? Imagine what that would do to our share prices if it got out?"
Vinwe nodded furiously, scattering skin flakes from his scalp everywhere. "Exactly. Grib, it's just not possible."
Grib hated to agree with the council of fools, but on this one he suspected they were probably right. Besides, the last thing he needed was civilians trying to flee the Sector to escape his requisition teams. "Fine. So we consolidate our current fuel supplies into the fleets at Olsumpex and Cadomai. How many working ships does that leave us with?"
They all looked at each other, unsure. One of them, a younger board member named Sinjh, got out his compad and began typing. "Assuming that each ship still has somewhere between sixty and eighty percent of its fuel reserves in their hoppers, we'll be able to operate somewhere between two thousand four hundred, and three thousand ships. The rest will have to be mothballed."
Grib clenched his jaw so hard he worried his teeth might crack. "So, even in the best case scenario, today we're being defended by less than three fifths of the ships we were at this same time yesterday?"
There was a long pause, broken by Neegs whimpering, "Andhlo was right."
"What was that?!" Grib snarled at him, and the man flinched.
"But he was!" Neegs pleaded. "We weren't ready for war! Our fleets weren't in a state of readiness, and they're not being led by the right man."
There were nods of agreement around the table, that stopped as Grib stared them all down one by one. Still, none of them seemed to change their mind. After all, Andhlo had been proven correct. They weren't prepared for war, and no amount of Grib bullying and cajoling them would change that.
"Perhaps… Perhaps we should ask Andhlo to come back?" Neegs suggested.
"Too late for that, I'm afraid." Grib grunted, falling back down into his chair. "He committed suicide. They found him overdosed in his home office just a few days ago."
They all stared at him.
"Was it suicide?" Vinwe asked. "Or… 'Suicide'?" He repeated, but this time he made finger quotes.
"What kind of a savage do you think I am?" Grib growled at him. Rather than wait for the answer, he reached under his desk and took out a number of glasses, along with an expensive bottle of whiskey. He pretended to not notice the fearful way they all exchanged glances with each other. "Still, even if he isn't with us anymore, we can re-examine his plan."
None of the others seemed eager to stick their necks out after learning about their friend's fate, so Grib got started. "Before this war started, half our fleet was already outside the Corporate Sector. They'll still be able to buy fuel on the market, and they can do so on credit under our name. The problem is they're all scattered across the Galaxy. Easily picked off in isolation. We'll need to gather them up somewhere, and then once we've got an armada large enough it can't possibly be defeated, crush Botajef and Raxus."
Finally following his directions, Himera glanced at his friends, before saying, "We'll need to appoint an overall fleet commander." Then he looked at Grib, "You can't micromanage a fleet from the other side of the Galaxy, Siv."
Grib froze at that, and glared at the fat neimodian. He took a long drink of his liquor, "You think I don't already know that!" He snarled and slammed his cup down. " After what happened at Zygerria it is clear that most of our field commanders are incompetent, and it is up to me to find the right sentient for the job."
"Calm down, Grib. We all make mistakes." Neeg consoled.
Grib grunted, bitterly, pouring himself another glass.
Neeg took a glass for himself, and poured his own shot when Grib didn't do it for him. After swallowing a mouthful of the stuff, he coughed and wiped at his lips. "But listen, Grib, we're actually in luck."
"Oh?"
"Don't you remember? Andhlo's plan called for a new commander of the Reformed Fleet. Grievous? Remember?"
Grib did remember. After that incident he took the time to look Grievous up, and had mixed feelings about what he'd read.
The general's real name was Qymaen jai Sheelal, Grievous was just some kind of cultural moniker. He was born a backworld savage, fighting with a primitive slug thrower. When his barbarian world was invaded by the more advanced Yam'rii, he united his people in bloody conquest, and drove the enemy out completely. Not even satisfied with that, he cobbled together a fleet of captured enemy ships and secondhand vessels purchased from the black market, and launched an invasion of the Yam'rii's Home System. After utterly destroying every single Yam'rii colony, he then launched an invasion of the Yam'rii homeworld and damn near conquered it. A complete reversal, carried out by a technological primitive, a feat unheard of anywhere else in Galactic history.
By the time Republic Judiciary Forces finally intervened to put an end to the conflict, Grievous was organising a campaign of complete genocide against his enemies, sparing neither nesting famales or larvae. Despite it being the Yam'ree who had started the conflict, Grievous and the Kaleesh were defeated by the Jedi, and forced to pay reparations to their foe. After decades of devastating war, and the creation of an incredibly expensive fleet, Kaleesh was utterly bankrupt and wracked with poverty and starvation. In desperation, Grievous joined up with a Trade Federation subsidiary to begin paying back his people's crippling debts.
No doubt the man was a military genius, but he was also a complete maniac. Grib swirled the liquor in his glass, staring at his own reflection. The kind of frightening potential Grievous possessed left Grib feeling… concerned.
Controlling the primitive was going to be hard enough, but his capacity to learn new technologies, new strategies, new methods of war… It was a kind of aptitude that was frightening to consider. What happened when Grievous decided he should be in charge of the Trade Federation? Would Grib have any chance of outmaneuvering him?
Giving Grievous control over the Reformed Fleet was a gamble. There was no doubt that if anyone was up to the task of breaking the Alliance, it was him, but what happened once that enemy was defeated?
"What do you think, Grib?" Himera pressed. "Do you think Grievous is our man?"
"The other commanders won't like it." Grib pointed out. "They won't want to take commands from an alien."
"We're talking about saving the Federation, here." Himera replied, folding his hammy arms on top of his bloated belly. "They'll have to live with our decision, or we'll relieve them of command. Besides, I can't think of anyone better?"
Grib couldn't. He looked up from his drink and surveyed the men in the room, weighing his choices. Would these fools try to promote an alien over him when the time came? Who was he kidding, of course they would. These corpulent toads would fold at a stiff breeze, let alone a barbarian warlord.
In the end, Grib's only real assurance was his Master. He was in place because greater powers desired for him to be there, and those greater powers wouldn't choose Grievous over him, not when he was a rank outsider. Perhaps his Master would seek to initiate the primitive, and if that ever happened, Grib would be in a lot of trouble. For now, as long as he kept a close watch on Grievous, just in case he made any unexpected trips to Sojourn, Grib should be okay. In the end, what the Master really wanted was results, and he wouldn't care who Grib used to get them.
"Fine." Grib glanced at his other chairmen. "Do we all agree to this? I don't want anyone whining that they had objections three months from now if this turns out to be a disaster?"
There were nods and hums of agreement all around the room.
...
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