Of the one hundred fifty who had survived, we held our circle. But not for long. Droids were too many. Exhaustion began to seep into bones and mind.
I turned to Plo Koon, the expert pilot. "Take the best you can and move toward the opening," I said. His eyes narrowed, understanding immediately. A hundred managed to break through. Somehow, neither Count Dooku nor Mace Windu noticed.
The few remaining survivors formed a smaller circle, huddled but ready. The droids obeyed Count Dooku's gesture—they ceased fire, standing rigid, waiting.
I whistled silently. Two thousand at least. Seven hundred more already blown to pieces, littered across the sand. Around us, bodies of humans, Twi'leks, Zabraks, and countless others. Many were unrecognizable, their identities erased in the sand and smoke.
Dooku's voice cut across the field, calm and precise: "Master Windu! You and your Jedi have shown valor worthy of the Order's annals. But it is over. Surrender, and you will be spared."
Speeches, tradition, meaningless inthe moment.
Windu's glare was ice. "We will not be your bargaining chips, Dooku," he said coldly. "I'm sorry, old friend."
The droids raised their blasters. The Jedi raised their sabers.
I crouched slightly, lightsabers horizontal in both hands. Hand-to-hand might be next.
Come on, Yoda. Where are you, you green little bastard? Time for the cavalry.
A rumble shook the sky.
"Look!" Amidala cried.
We turned our eyes upward. Nine LAAT gunships descended from the clouds, spewing fire from every cannon. Droid weapons swung upward, but the gunships' laser cannons tore through them. The droids' return fire only scorched their armor. Green beams shredded droid bodies into scrap.
The nose turrets of the LAATs—light blasters—swept across the field, adding to the chaos.
Time to get out of here.
The gunships swooped low, firing rockets into the stands before descending into the arena. Clones spilled out, unleashing disciplined fire. Blue and red blaster bolts crisscrossed. The surviving Jedi ran to meet them. Naturally, I followed.
Catching my breath, I looked at the Jedi around me: Luminara Unduli herself, and several others—Shaak Ti, Aayla Secura, Kit Fisto. In reality, they were… impressive. Shaak Ti's traditional outfit and makeup commanded attention. The blue-skinned Twi'lek radiated presence. And Kit Fisto, his grin as wide as ever, seemed unshakable.
A dozen clones rode with us, serious men cut from the same mold. Heavy weapons slung over shoulders: rocket launchers, Z-6 rotary blasters, each soldier a walking arsenal.
Fisto grinned at me. I couldn't help but smile back.
The Jedi, however, were quick to notice the hole in my chest.
"Sir, are you all right?" one of the clones asked, chest insignia marking him as a commander of sorts.
"You need medical attention."
"That would be nice. But no time right now."
Clearly, they were trying to place me—and failing. To save them the trouble, I spoke:
"Dagon Marek. Jedi Knight."
I would have bowed, but the gunship jolted violently. Everyone tightened harnesses.
"What's going on?" I asked the clone commander.
"We're approaching separatist positions, sir."
I grunted, steeling myself. The second act of this Marlezon ballet was about to begin.
Above us, the battle raged. Republic cruisers clashed with Trade Federation ships. Some stayed in orbit, others dipped into the atmosphere, dropping thousands of clone troops. A few cruisers even descended to deploy massive SPHA-T self-propelled artillery.
Transports unloaded AT-TEs and waves of clone infantry near Separatist lines.
"Pilot, drop us at the front line!" Shaak Ti ordered.
"Roger that," came the voice through the intercom.
The gunship banked hard, cannons blazing, descending toward the battlefield. We hit the ground running. Clones poured out alongside us. Jedi Masters scattered, rallying troops with grand sweeps of their hands and even grander sweeps of their lightsabers, leading charges into melee.
Apparently, they hadn't learned from Petranaki Arena. Then again, Masters could afford that luxury. We could not.
Grumbling—I had a hole in my stomach, after all—I clenched my teeth and raised my saber.
"Come on! Let's kick their asses! Forward!"
Madness, idiocy, maybe all three—but adrenaline surged through me, steering me toward the droids. Instinct and knowledge honed from Star Wars lore, Empire at War campaigns, and guerrilla fighting guided every step.
Behind me, a squad of clones surged. Three more squads followed.
All hell broke loose. Clone companies advanced steadily. Droids retaliated with rockets from MLRS units.
Colossal spider droids—twenty meters of metal nightmare—swept red beams across the battlefield, cutting down clones by the dozens. AT-TEs fired relentlessly, seventy-five to eighty-millimeter main guns hammering away.
Above, LAAT gunships strafed the droids and Trade Federation ships, launching missiles accelerated by mass drivers.
A shadow passed overhead. Another AT-TE landed, disgorging clone infantry. Our squad swelled to fifty strong, advancing under the tank's covering fire.
I ran forward, barely deflecting the shots. The Separatists were on the verge of collapse. Massive ball-shaped transports staggered as SPHA-T blue beams slammed into them. Forty-meter-long guns erupted, the hull splitting in half, streams of plasma bursting below.
Rockets aimed at us redirected through the Force. I contacted the tank gunner telepathically, sending missiles toward Techno Union transports, striking right at their fuel centers. Explosion and fire cascaded across the battlefield, sending droids and machines flying.
I clenched my teeth, saber raised, and charged forward. Behind me, clones and Jedi followed, a tide of fury and light cutting through the mechanical horde. The sand burned under laser fire, but the Force carried me onward.
Forward. Survive. Fight.