**Sartorius Dittmar – POV**
Four weeks. That was how long the entire campaign on Jabiim had taken. Sartorius Dittmar stood quietly on the bridge of his Acclamator-class assault ship *Yorktown*, his hands clasped behind his back as the flowing river of hyperspace filled the great forward viewport. Silver-blue streaks of distorted starlight streamed past the hull, forming an endless tunnel that hummed faintly through the ship's structure. The vibration was subtle, almost soothing, but Dittmar barely noticed it anymore. His thoughts were fixed on the reports that had arrived over the past month.
Four weeks. Three weeks of relentless fighting—and a final week where Dagon Marek had simply taken the planet.
Dittmar exhaled slowly as he watched the hyperspace currents bend around the prow of his ship. The battle reports had arrived in fragments while he remained stationed at the Twelfth Sector base awaiting orders that never seemed to come. At first the information had been typical battlefield noise: incomplete transmissions, scattered reconnaissance data, and conflicting casualty reports from units struggling in Jabiim's nightmare terrain. The planet was infamous even before the war began—an endless expanse of mud, cliffs, and violent electrical storms that interfered with sensors and turned ground operations into chaos. Entire battalions could disappear into the red sludge or vanish inside storm walls thick enough to swallow armored columns.
Yet as the days passed, the reports became clearer.
Dagon Marek had begun the campaign with sixty-five thousand clones.
By the end of the third week of fighting, that number had dropped to fifty thousand.
Fifteen thousand gone.
Dittmar remembered staring at that figure when the updated casualty lists arrived. Fifteen thousand trained soldiers lost in less than a month would have crippled most Republic operations. In many sectors, such losses would have forced a full withdrawal until reinforcements could arrive. But Marek had not withdrawn. Instead, the fighting intensified. Each new dispatch described brutal engagements—fortified Separatist artillery lines destroyed by daring assaults, supply convoys ambushed in the endless rainstorms, and droid armies ground down in a war of attrition that seemed almost medieval in its brutality.
And then, suddenly, the tone of the reports changed.
Victory confirmed. Jabiim secured.
Dittmar had read the message three times before setting the datapad aside.
The Separatists had fielded the larger force, fortified the planet's natural defenses, and deployed heavy mechanized formations. Every military analyst studying the campaign predicted the same outcome: the Republic would stall in the mud and eventually withdraw. Instead, Marek had turned the campaign into a grinding machine that consumed enemy forces piece by piece. When the droid army finally collapsed, Marek used the final week not to celebrate but to consolidate control. Mining facilities were secured, planetary leadership reorganized, and orbital defenses brought online under Republic command before the Senate had even approved reinforcements.
Dittmar shifted slightly where he stood. Since the earlier victory at Togoria, he had begun to look at the clones differently. Before that battle he had regarded them as tools—exceptionally capable tools, but tools nonetheless. They were bred for obedience, trained for efficiency, and produced in numbers that made them seem almost interchangeable. The Republic treated them like expendable assets, and Dittmar had accepted that logic without question.
Togoria changed that.
He had watched clones hold defensive lines that should have collapsed within minutes. He had seen small squads improvise battlefield tactics that rivaled veteran officers. Most importantly, he had watched Marek lead them not as a distant Jedi issuing commands from orbit, but as a commander who stood beside them in the mud and smoke. The clones followed him with a loyalty that could not be explained by genetic programming alone.
That battle had altered Dittmar's perspective.
It had also earned him his promotion.
Admiral.
Even now the title felt strange. He was younger than most officers who reached such rank, and he knew many in the Senate viewed the promotion with skepticism. Yet the Republic needed competent commanders, and Marek himself had recommended Dittmar for the position. When Marek supported someone, doors opened quickly.
Dagon Marek had a talent for doing that.
He elevated people.
Or destroyed them.
Sometimes both.
The memory of his father's voice drifted back through his thoughts as hyperspace shimmered outside the viewport. Lord Nobel Dittmar had always been blunt when discussing politics. "The battlefield is simple," he once told his son during a long conversation about interstellar governance. "But the Senate is not. Remember that. Wars are fought by soldiers, but empires are shaped by politicians."
Dittmar understood the truth of that warning now more than ever.
His homeworld of Yulant had always maintained a careful distance from the political networks dominating the Core Worlds. Many of those worlds belonged to the Agricultural Circuit, a powerful coalition supplying food across the Republic. Entire fleets moved according to the interests of those agricultural corporations, whose influence in the Senate rivaled that of major shipbuilding sectors.
Yulant had chosen a different path.
Independent governance.
Limited participation in galactic trade alliances.
It reduced their political influence, but it also protected them from manipulation by larger economic powers. Dittmar suspected that independence was precisely why the Senate hesitated to support Marek's campaign on Jabiim.
Three weeks passed before reinforcements were authorized.
Three weeks.
By that point the battle was already decided.
The reason was obvious to anyone familiar with galactic economics. Jabiim's crust contained valuable metal deposits used in large-scale industrial production. Control of those resources meant control over war manufacturing contracts. For certain senators, the question was not whether Marek survived the campaign but who would control the mines once the fighting ended.
Politics, as always, outweighed strategy.
A soft shift in the hyperspace tunnel pulled Dittmar from his thoughts. The swirling corridor of starlight began to distort ahead of the ship. Navigation indicators flickered gently across the bridge consoles as the *Yorktown* prepared to exit hyperspace.
"We're approaching the exit point," a clone officer reported calmly.
Dittmar nodded. "Take us out."
The tunnel collapsed in an instant.
Stars exploded back into existence as the fleet returned to realspace.
And before them hung the immense golden sphere of **Coruscant**.
Even after years of service in the Republic Navy, the sight remained overwhelming. The entire planet was a city—an endless ocean of lights stretching across the horizon. Orbital traffic lanes surrounded the world like glowing rings filled with thousands of moving vessels. Defense platforms rotated slowly above the atmosphere, their weapon emplacements visible even from this distance.
Dittmar stepped closer to the viewport as his fleet emerged behind him. One by one the accompanying ships dropped from hyperspace—Acclamator assault carriers, escort frigates, and support vessels forming a disciplined formation behind the flagship.
Not the largest fleet in the Republic.
But still formidable.
And all of it ultimately answered to Dagon Marek.
The thought lingered in Dittmar's mind. It was not Marek's military skill that concerned him—few commanders in the Republic could rival it. What troubled him was the political implication of so much power concentrating under a single Jedi general.
The Senate feared that kind of authority.
And Marek was gathering it rapidly.
A communications officer turned toward him. "Sir, Coruscant traffic control acknowledges our arrival. They've granted us clearance for high-orbit holding position."
"Maintain formation," Dittmar replied.
The fleet adjusted its trajectory as the ships settled into orbit above the planet. From this vantage point the sheer scale of Coruscant became even more apparent. Towering structures pierced the upper atmosphere while massive orbital platforms rotated slowly in their assigned lanes.
Another fleet signature appeared on the tactical display.
Kinaun.
The veteran naval captain had arrived with his own group of ships.
Kinaun was an experienced officer from the old Judicial Forces, known for discipline and careful strategy. But unlike Dittmar, he had little experience navigating the dangerous political currents of the Senate.
Which was precisely why Marek had summoned Sartorius Dittmar to Coruscant.
The Senate was full of snakes.
And Dittmar knew how to avoid them.
A chime sounded across the communications console.
"Admiral," the officer reported, "incoming shuttle from the Senate."
Dittmar turned slightly. "Already?"
"Yes, sir. They're requesting permission to dock."
Of course they were.
The Senate never delayed when power was involved.
"Grant docking clearance," he said calmly.
The officer acknowledged the order, and moments later the tactical display highlighted the approaching vessel. The shuttle was sleek and polished, bearing the formal crest of the Galactic Senate across its hull.
Diplomatic.
Ceremonial.
And almost certainly carrying officials eager to evaluate the situation surrounding Dagon Marek.
The shuttle moved steadily toward the *Yorktown's* forward hangar. Magnetic clamps engaged with a solid metallic thud as the craft settled into place.
"Docking complete," the officer confirmed.
Dittmar looked once more toward the glowing world below. Somewhere on that endless city-planet, senators debated mining contracts, military budgets, and political alliances. Somewhere down there, **Sheev Palpatine** himself watched events unfold.
And soon, Dagon Marek would arrive as well.
With fifty thousand hardened soldiers.
With fleets converging from multiple sectors.
With victories that were rapidly transforming him into a legend among the Republic's forces.
Dittmar suspected the balance of power within the Republic was shifting.
The doors behind him slid open with a soft hiss.
He turned away from the viewport and began walking toward the exit.
"Maintain orbital position," he ordered over his shoulder.
"Yes, Admiral."
The corridor beyond the bridge waited in quiet readiness.
Behind him, the stars shone above Coruscant.
Ahead waited the politicians.
Dittmar stepped through the doorway and allowed himself a final thought as the doors closed behind him.
So it has begun.