"Attachment is not compassion". Jedi code
Master of the Jedi Order, Shaak Ti, wandered across the battlefield, stepping carefully among the remains of combat vehicles, cratered sand, and twisted droid carcasses. Yet her thoughts were far from the ruin before her.
The battle on Geonosis had raged for twelve brutal hours and only recently concluded. Republic ships descended to collect troops, while medical frigates landed directly on the battlefield to treat the wounded as quickly as possible. Evacuation teams of clone medics and meddroids scurried across the plain, aided by squads of clone infantry.
Despite their speed and skill, casualties were unavoidable. Master Yoda had sent untested troops into combat, and Shaak Ti knew all too well that theory could never replace practice. Clones were created as weapons, yet each one was alive, unique—even if indistinguishable at a glance.
The fighting had spread across nearly the entire planet. Wherever Trade Federation and Techno Union droid factories or transport ships were located, the ground had become a churning, deadly battlefield. Republic forces numbered at least 150,000 clones, supported by armored vehicles and the fleet's ships: fifty Acclamators, thirty-five Consular-class corvettes, and twenty-five MedStar-class hospital ships. Fighters in the hundreds filled the skies.
The Separatists had deployed one hundred ships in orbit and another three hundred on the surface, unloading millions of battle droids—from B-1 infantry models to the most advanced, lethal designs.
Space itself had burned with conflict. Trade Federation Lucrehulk-class core ships, heavily modernized, unleashed torrents of turbolaser fire. The Republic fleet, despite losing ten Star Destroyers and sixteen frigates, scored near miracles: eighty-three enemy ships destroyed, seventy-three of them Trade Federation vessels. On the ground, Republic forces crushed hundreds of droid transports, though many enemy ships still escaped intact—thanks in no small part to Plo Koon, who had guided Jedi through gaps in the Separatist lines to control the skies.
Ground losses were staggering. Hundreds of armored vehicles destroyed. In twelve hours, twelve thousand clones dead, another eight thousand wounded. Even with the medics' heroic efforts, the injured had to be loaded onto assault ships already packed beyond capacity.
Shaak Ti's heart ached. Losses weighed heavy—each life extinguished rippled through the Force. Two hundred and twelve Jedi had participated in the rescue mission. Sixty-five had fallen. Coleman Trebor, Vurk Council member, had been gunned down by Jango Fett during an attempt to strike Count Dooku. Only 148 Jedi survived the arena, and many of them were haunted. Twenty-five had already succumbed to despair, their minds shattered by the carnage.
Count Dooku had escaped. Obi-Wan Kenobi and his Padawan, Anakin Skywalker, could not stop him. They had pursued the Sith to a hidden hangar carved into the rocks, but he proved too powerful. Both would have perished without Yoda's timely intervention—though they emerged gravely wounded. Skywalker had lost an arm; Obi-Wan bore injuries to his shoulder and leg.
Trade Federation ships had escaped as well. Many were damaged, but under the protective swarm of Vulture droid starfighters, surviving Lucrehulks vanished into hyperspace. Republic pilots paid dearly: dozens lost in the dogfights, though Jedi in their Delta-7 starfighters destroyed 370 Vultures while losing only eight of their own.
Shaak Ti lingered in thought, reflecting on the cost. Few understood the gravity of what had just transpired. The galaxy had changed irrevocably in those twelve hours, and yet only a fraction of the consequences would become clear in time.
A shout broke her reverie. Clones called out, pointing to incoming vehicles. "We got transports coming in! Looks like the last of the forward battalions!"
Shaak Ti considered the frontlines. "Those were the units most successful in clearing enemy gun positions," she murmured, "or casualties would have been far higher."
A young Jedi approached, robes scorched, head streaked with scars, blood, and oil. His steps faltered, his chest heaving.
Dagon Marek's voice, hoarse but urgent, cut through the chaos. "We need medical—over a hundred wounded… I think I won." His words trailed off as he collapsed.
"Take him to the medical frigate immediately!" Shaak Ti ordered. For a Jedi, even one wounded, life mattered. Every survivor from the Temple was precious.
"Yes, ma'am," the clones responded. They lifted Dagon onto a stretcher and loaded him onto a BARC speeder bike modified with side-mounted racks, capable of speeds up to four hundred kilometers per hour. In moments, he was racing across the battlefield toward the medical frigate. Every second mattered; for the injured, every minute could be the difference between life and death.
Shaak Ti watched them go, her mind heavy with the weight of battle. Geonosis had been secured, but at an unimaginable cost. Victory was not triumph—it was survival, sorrow, and the relentless reminder of the fragility of life.