Kamanair Maruk sat imposingly in his throne-like chair aboard the bridge of the LH-1740, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Beyond the vast transparisteel viewport stretched the hostile surface of Diado — jagged greenish-blue rock formations rising like frozen blades from plains of white ice. In the light of the distant sun, the ice gleamed like polished steel.
Maruk was a typical Neimoidian corporate official. He had served the Trade Federation for over seventy years before finally achieving governorship — though on a world considered economically marginal.
Then the war began.
At first, he followed events with cautious interest. Under orders from the Directorate, he expanded production in the planetary droid foundries to maximum output. The Techno Union had provided advanced fabrication systems, broadening the manufacturing range: B-1 infantry units, B-2 super battle droids, droidekas, and armored support platforms.
Despite the rising tensions, Maruk had hoped the conflict would pass him by.
It had not.
Two Republic ships had appeared in orbit days earlier. With considerable difficulty — and the loss of one Munificent-class star frigate — the initial landing had been repelled. A portion of the Republic ground force that made it to the surface was now trapped within one of Diado's deep glacial gorges. Attempts to eliminate them had failed so far.
Maruk dared not commit his remaining fighter wings to atmospheric assault. His orbital defense already strained his resources: only two hundred Vulture droids remained fully operational.
In orbit hung a single Lucrehulk hull — stripped of its central sphere — guarded by four Munificent-class frigates. The Republic fleet, having been forced back, seemed to be waiting.
For reinforcements.
"I must succeed," Maruk muttered. "I must."
He had heard what happened to a fellow governor who failed to reclaim a minor refinery world. The Republic destroyed his droid forces, obliterated a valuable Golan defense platform, and shattered his regional fleet. The Viceroy had recalled him in disgrace.
Corporate mercy was… limited.
"Losing is survivable," Maruk whispered to himself. "Losing capital is not."
The promised reinforcements arrived at the end of the first day: five Acclamator-class assault ships, newly commissioned, crews entirely clone personnel. Each carried three regiments, twelve AT-TE walkers, and twenty-four LAAT gunships. One hundred fifty V-19 Torrent starfighters accompanied each transport.
I redistributed assets immediately — transferring fifty V-19s to the Akagi for base defense and retaining the remainder for orbital superiority operations.
Once troop transfers were complete, we ascended into orbit and prepared for a sequence of hyperspace jumps.
Hyperspace navigation in this galaxy never ceased to amaze me. A direct route to Diado would have required seventy hours. By using established hyperlanes and doubling the distance traveled, we reduced transit time to fourteen.
Absurd. Efficient. Effective.
After the first jump, I sealed myself inside my quarters and ordered that I not be disturbed.
The infocrystal awaited.
Commander Kinaun had not exaggerated. The archive was vast — ship classifications, strengths and vulnerabilities, fleet formations, engagement analyses, historical case studies. Reports from squadron leaders and captains. Tactical diagrams. Orbital geometry breakdowns. Maneuver doctrines.
It was likely only a fragment of the Kinaun family's strategic archive — but even this fragment could occupy a month of study.
Sleep would suffer.
Worth it.
Our fleet emerged into the Diado system.
Two damaged Acclamators lingered near the edge of the operational zone. One vented smoke and frozen debris from a damaged starboard hangar.
On the tactical display: five Munificent-class frigates and a Lucrehulk hull.
Fewer than expected.
"SPHA units to forward firing positions," I ordered calmly.
From the forward bays of the Acclamators, the massive SPHA-T cannons aligned and discharged.
Two Munificents vanished in lances of coherent energy before their shields stabilized.
The remaining three attempted evasive burns — too slow. Heavy turbolaser batteries from our five Acclamators ripped through their formations, tearing apart hull plating and reactor cores in coordinated volleys.
The Lucrehulk attempted to pivot broadside.
"Concentrated torpedo pattern Aurek."
Five Acclamators launched simultaneous salvos.
The so-called "bagel" erupted under sustained proton impact. Secondary detonations rippled across its ring structure before it fractured and dissolved into expanding debris.
Silence fell across the tactical board.
Orbital superiority achieved in under four minutes.
"Ahsoka," I said without looking away from the screen, "prepare for transfer. We'll coordinate with General Squater directly."
"Yes, Master."
She stood beside me, bundled in heavy Donovian furs. Only her eyes were visible beneath the hood. She had protested the clothing all the way until orbital insertion.
Now she looked almost pleased to be vindicated.
"Captain Ragnos," I continued, "V-19s maintain orbital patrol. No vessel leaves this system. TIE Interceptors deploy for close-range interception and atmospheric support. Ethan will pilot the Silencer for precision strike coverage."
Ragnos nodded. "Understood, General."
We approached Squater's flagship aboard a Raven gunship.
Jedi Master Finion Squater awaited us in the hangar. The Kubaz did not conceal his relief.
Six fresh ships. Orbital dominance restored in moments. Hope returned.
The gunship doors opened.
Clones of the Thirteenth Legion emerged first, armor marked with our distinctive insignia. Behind them, I stepped onto the deck, removing my helmet. Ahsoka followed, fur-cloaked and alert.
Then the detail that caused visible confusion: two B-1 droids in white and red livery stepped down the ramp behind us.
Squater's antennae twitched.
All seven of his sensory organs confirmed the sight.
"Greetings, Master Squater," I said formally. "Jedi Knight Mikore Vikt. Responding to your request for reinforcement. This is Ahsoka Tano, my Padawan."
"I am… grateful for your swift arrival," Squater replied carefully. He studied me through the Force. "My Padawan, Kam'archik, remains cut off on the surface with two regiments. Droid fighter density prevented extraction. We have already lost many gunships."
"We'll correct that," I said. "Brief me."
He turned immediately toward the command center.
Ahsoka and I followed, accompanied by one of the OOM droids. The clones and the second B-1 remained behind.
A Republic clone lieutenant approached my troopers in the hangar.
"Where are you from?" he asked, eyeing the unfamiliar armor markings. "And what's that tin can doing here?"
One of my legionnaires answered evenly.
"Thirteenth Legion. Under General Vikt."
He casually patted the B-1's shoulder.
"And this is our trophy."
"What? What?" the droid protested.
"Nothing," the clone muttered. "Stand still."
"Roger, roger!"
The lieutenant stared for another moment, then shook his head.
War did strange things to everyone.
On Diado, it was about to get stranger.