On the main display of the dreadnought Core Guardian's command bridge, the green dots marking our modified long-range reconnaissance probes were slowly winking out, one after another. They'd crossed the outer boundary of the Expansion Region and dropped fully into the blind zone of the Unknown Regions. Elara had squeezed everything she could out of their transmitters, but even accounting for our new factory-station's powerful relay arrays, any return signal from those probes would take days to reach us — weeks, maybe. And I had no intention of going in there myself, not personally, not yet. My gut had a genuinely bad feeling about the whole thing, and anyone touched by the Force learns to trust that instinct.
Looking over the map of the nearby sectors, I frowned. R.G.A.'s process of coming out of hiding was already in motion, and now all that was left was to wait. But I physically couldn't stand sitting around doing nothing anymore! We'd been camped out here three days already, and in that time I'd tried every trick I knew to fill the downtime, and none of it did anything for me. After everything that had happened — with my life constantly hanging by a thread — sitting still like this felt so... artificial, dull, gray. So I was thinking harder than usual.
We had some kind of financial foundation now, but a problem had come up. We had some kind of army — especially since a handful of planets, Reef included, were already prepared to announce full support for R.G.A. and secede from the Republic Senate, while plenty of others were being worked on through quiet lobbying — so an army we'd have, droids aside. But now we needed ships to move that army around! And I don't feel nearly "Chosen" enough by the Force to send troops into battle on repurposed passenger liners and hope for a low-casualty win. And the worst part — buying decent military hardware just wasn't going to happen, guaranteed. That kind of thing needs embedded black-market contacts, or uncompromised, ideally very well-connected middlemen in the Corporate Sector. All that groundwork would take our "KGB types" a very long, painstaking amount of time, and it would inevitably draw a lot of unwelcome questions from both Republic Intelligence and the CIS — dragging exactly the kind of attention onto us that we didn't want.
Now for the good news — if the Empire wasn't fighting anyone and could focus purely on the rebels (and even then, without much urgency), the galaxy right now was in the middle of a full-blown brawl, which meant a lot of very favorable situations for us. And that's where my thinking landed, in the end — if you need a fleet, why buy one when you can just take it from someone managing it worse than you would?
"General," I called, turning toward the heavy cybernetic figure standing by the right-hand projector.
Grievous turned his head sharply. His new, reinforced durasteel frame gleamed dully under the bridge's harsh lighting, and the metallic rasp of his breathing filters echoed through the silence.
"The Separatists believe you died in the flagship's destruction," I said, pointing at the tactical grid showing CIS logistics routes. "Which means their current supply codes and patrol schedules for this sector haven't been updated yet. Who's currently within our reach?"
Grievous let out a slightly mechanical chuckle, his heavy artificial hand dropping onto the panel to enter a thirteen-digit command key. The hologram reconfigured, displaying the CIS fleet's restricted movement channels.
"Vanguard of the Third Sector Group," he rasped, coughing. "Command is held by a Super Tactical droid. It's escorting a supply convoy through the outer frontier. Look here."
His finger pointed to an isolated, and by the markers on it, extremely unstable system called Elroy.
"The star in that system is undergoing gravitational displacement — constant coronal ejections and hard radiation," I read aloud off the provided summary. "Yeah, even an amateur like me can tell you'd want to make a two-parsec detour rather than fly through there any more than necessary."
"Tin cans, even the ones with a decent processor stuck in them, don't get any smarter for it," Grievous said dismissively, coughing a couple of times. "It operates purely on maximum efficiency and a risk-benefit calculation. As you can see, cutting through Elroy shaves twelve standard hours off the cargo's delivery time. So I guarantee you, that's exactly where they'll fly."
"That's exactly what we need... Elara," I said into the internal comm, knowing she was hanging around somewhere near the main nav terminal. "Spin up the reactor. Set course for the Elroy system."
The deck of the Core Guardian shuddered faintly as the enormous dreadnought disengaged from its moorings at the factory-station and slipped into the hyperspace corridor. While it had been sitting docked, our people had managed to patch it up wherever possible and crew it out — both an actual boarding party and the minimum staff it still needed to function. Living people were practically nonexistent aboard; it was mostly droids.
...
The Elroy system greeted our arrival with a violent, blinding light, harsh even through the bridge viewport's instantly darkened transparisteel. The local star was practically tearing itself apart from internal processes, hurling colossal plasma prominences out into the surrounding space and generating powerful magnetic storms. The Core Guardian entered the system from the shadow side and, using only its maneuvering thrusters, sank slowly into the upper layers of the star's outer corona. It was a razor's-edge maneuver requiring absolute mastery of thrust control, but Elara flew the dreadnought with total confidence, holding the ship's mass at exactly the distance where the heat shields were pushed to their limit but the dense solar radiation fully masked our energy signature from outside detection.
And so, after a few dozen long minutes of waiting, exactly as the onboard computer had predicted, came the words we'd been hoping to hear.
"Picking up hyperspace disturbances on vector four," Elara reported quietly, her fingers moving rapidly across the sensor panel, filtering out interference from the solar flares. "Another twenty minutes or so and we'd have had to abort the operation. This environment's just too hostile."
I turned my gaze to the viewscreen. Space in front of us warped, and several hundred kilometers out from the corona, CIS ships began emerging from hyperspace, one after another. But as soon as the tactical grid cleared of static, our plan needed a "minor" adjustment.
"Well. That's not exactly a lightly escorted supply convoy anymore..."
Instead of the expected lone cruiser and a pair of supply frigates, two heavy Providence-class cruisers dropped out of the jump. Their massive prows and rows of gun ports left no doubt about their firepower. Arranged around them in a tight defensive ring were five Munificent-class frigates. This was a full-strength strike vanguard now, capable of crushing any weakly developed planetary defense.
"Looks like the tin can played it safe," Grievous wheezed, stepping forward and bracing his palms against the tactical table. "Recalculated the risks after the chaos you kicked up on Raxus, and reinforced the convoy."
And as if that overwhelming firepower weren't enough, the tactical droid had also deployed several squadrons of Vulture droid fighters to form an outer perimeter, and their main radar arrays had begun a deep, sweeping scan of the surrounding space.
At that same instant, our dreadnought's sensors registered a foreign search wave passing through us. The star's magnetic field was still dampening and distorting those signals for now, but it was only a matter of time.
"They're running a directed search," Elara said, frowning, not taking her eyes off the telemetry monitors. "At that scan density, they'll find us in about ten minutes. What is it about this star that's got them so glued to it... Captain, I probably don't need to spell out that the second they spot us, they'll either pull back to a safe distance and pound poor Core Guardian to scrap with their whole fleet, or jump out and call in reinforcements to seal off the whole system. So — what's the plan?"
Under the circumstances... direct confrontation, the way I'd originally planned it, was no longer an option. Even if the Guardian's armor could survive a simultaneous broadside from two Providences and five frigates, in the middle of a fight that fierce, every potential prize we were after would end up as a smoking pile of twisted scrap. And we needed those ships intact, combat-capable, and ideally with minimal damage to their internal systems. At the very least, capable of flying themselves out of here under their own power.
Still... as always, I already had a few ideas brewing. It's always like that — nothing in my head until the pressure's actually on. Honestly, it hadn't even occurred to me that this particular tactical droid would be so risk-averse, but well. Fine. I'd wanted my adrenaline fix — now I was getting it, and I wasn't allowed to complain.
Meanwhile, according to the sensor readings, another dense sweep of scanning beams tore through the roiling plasma half a kilometer off our port side. The indicators on Elara's tactical table flickered anxiously, switching from green to a warning yellow.
"Revised estimate," she said, quickly flipping a couple of switches. "At that pulse frequency, they'll find us in three minutes, not ten. The right-hand cruiser's shifting its search vector straight toward our coordinates."
Grievous coughed roughly, turning toward me. "We need to get out of here, Sith. They must have somehow picked up our approach — some sensor or other, which is why they're scanning so thoroughly. I'll admit, that's partly my miscalculation too, but we can't wait any longer. We need to leave," he rasped.
I didn't share his enthusiasm for that plan, though.
"Retreat? General, you of all people should know easy paths never bring maximum returns, and real strategy is built on exploiting an enemy's fundamental weaknesses. I know exactly where this enemy is weak — and don't ask me how. I won't tell you. Here's the thing — these tactical droids were built to fight war like some kind of mathematical game, more or less. They process thousands of variables, run combat scenarios, predict how battles will turn out. But their core flaw is precisely that they lack any flexibility of thought. If an enemy does something completely illogical, something that falls outside their probability calculations, it catches them completely off guard. So, Elara, if you would — open the external waste-purge vents and put out a short burst on the radio band. Simulate an emergency coolant discharge and critical reactor instability. Basically, the idea is: let their scanners see an old warship drifting out here, falling apart right now, slowly tumbling into the star from engine failure. Broadcast telemetry showing a fading energy shield. Let them get close, and we take out the most dangerous ships first. Yes, the prizes will come out badly beat up, but better beat up than not having them at all."
Elara "hung" for a second, mulling over the idea — even her fingers froze over the sensor panel — but in the end she didn't argue, quickly triggering a cascade of commands.
A second later the heavy dreadnought shuddered, and behind the Core Guardian's stern a cloud of spent exhaust gas billowed into the superheated plasma, while a distress signal, warped by static and half-drowned in interference, went out on the ancient frequencies of the Sith Empire. This was the core of my plan, since I'd personally received direct instructions from Dooku that any relics or ships from that era were to be recovered at any cost, and delivered to him personally as quickly as possible. So I was betting he'd given similar instructions to his tactical droids.
After a couple of long, tense minutes of waiting, both massive Providence-class cruisers did indeed change course sharply toward us, leaving their escort to hold position. They closed in fast on the shortest, most aggressive possible approach vector — the droid was clearly in a hurry to claim its "prize" before it dissolved into the star's corona.
"Fish took the bait," I said quietly, watching the two enormous dots on the hologram confidently cross the invisible line marking our tactical range. "General, you're up. The ships have entered the zone of gravitational instability and possible electromagnetic interference."
Grievous stepped up to the ballistics console, nudging the standby droid aside. His upper limbs split apart, taking position over the manual targeting controls for the heavy artillery. In that moment he looked every bit the predator finally getting his hands on his favorite thing in the galaxy.
"I'd recommend targeting the aft stabilizers," Elara chimed in, explaining at my questioning look, "that's where the primary structural load falls when a ship's holding orbit this close to a gravity well as strong as this star."
The Core Guardian's gun turrets slowly rotated. The dreadnought didn't carry modern turbolasers; its main argument in this fight would be old-model heavy plasma cannons, firing superdense, oversaturated bolts of ionized gas.
Three powerful volleys shook our ship's hull. Bright, blindingly blue spheres of plasma crossed the gap between us and slammed into the aft sections of both Providences. The heavy rounds crumpled and effectively overloaded the enemy cruisers' navigational shields, and the resulting detonations blew their outer maneuvering thrusters and gravitic compensators to pieces.
The Separatists' modern shields, designed to dissipate fast-moving laser bolts, weren't built to handle the sheer kinetic and thermal mass of those ancient guns. Both cruisers lurched violently. Having lost control and stabilization, the two enormous vessels began sliding slowly but inexorably down the gravity slope, straight toward the blazing heart of the Elroy star. Their main engines roared at full capacity, but without maneuvering thrusters, the ships simply couldn't correct course.
"You're a surprisingly good shot," I said with a grin. "Now let's add a bit of chaos to the mix. Maul, your turn. Time to work together."
Darth Maul, who'd been standing silently somewhere in the shadows until now, closed his eyes and began drawing anger and fury up from within himself. Even I could feel that suffocating wave of malice, which the Sith, after a few dozen seconds, shaped into a directed pulse and unleashed straight into the minds of the living crew members aboard the enemy ships. I'll be honest — I could never have pulled that off myself. From there, the rest was simple.
I took out my focuser and, concentrating, sent a suggestion out to the entire living crew — Neimoidian officers, comms operators, navigators, all of them — planting the idea that their tactical droid was, right at that very moment, fully prepared to coldly irradiate them all to death just to complete the mission.
And, remarkably, it worked flawlessly. We couldn't hear what was happening aboard, but both ships simply froze in place, showing no sign of intending to attack us. And the escort left standing off to the side, apparently getting no orders from their commander, didn't move either.
"And now... why not finish them off? Elara, I know you've got something to add here. Go ahead." I turned to the girl and gestured invitingly toward the enemy ships.
The Ice-Pick smirked back and started rapidly clicking away at her imposing transmitter setup. This, of course, involved the same virus we'd used to save the General. There was one significant difference this time, though — using information pulled from the cyborg, we'd substantially improved it, so it would stay active for quite a while. Though I honestly have no idea just how long that particular loophole would keep working.
At that moment, the enemy ships' engine output shifted, and their descent slowed to a stop just a few kilometers short of the critical line. Both Providences settled into a stable, if extremely low, orbit — immobilized by the virus, and further hamstrung by the confusion running through their living crews.
The Munificent-class escort frigates, left with no coordination from the flagships, began scattering into disorganized formations, running chaotic evasive patterns. Without orders from the tactical droid, their primitive processors couldn't produce any coherent defensive doctrine against an "invisible" enemy hiding inside the solar corona. Within a minute, three of the five frigates banked hard and jumped, one after another, into hyperspace, abandoning their heavy cruisers. The remaining two support ships followed a few seconds later, leaving the Elroy system entirely at our disposal.
"Movement vectors stabilized," Elara said with a short nod, still not taking her eyes off the lines of system code scrolling across her screen while her fingers finished syncing our computers with the captured network. "The virus has fully isolated the CIS operating systems. Both Providences are switched to manual control from our bridge — their main drives are just holding orbit now, and they're basically under our full control... Assuming the crew inside doesn't suddenly decide to commit suicide and overload a reactor, or something like that."
I looked at the viewscreen, where the two enormous Separatist cruisers now sat lifeless against the blazing disc of the star. Not a bad haul, all things considered.
"And one last thing... Kem, you didn't really think I'd leave you out of the fun, did you? Your turn," I said, opening the internal comm to the boarding bay. "Begin the boarding operation. There won't be any resistance from the droids, so your job is to isolate the organic personnel on the bridges and in the engineering sections. I'll say it again — isolate! Do not kill them, understood? Though, feel free to scare the daylights out of them — they should still be under our little mental trick's influence anyway."
"Understood," the Dashade spat back, with obvious disappointment, but didn't dare argue with me.
Markers for our boarding shuttles appeared on the tactical display, detaching from the Core Guardian and heading toward the captured cruisers' landing bays.
Before long, Elara had also patched in the feed from the Providences' internal cameras, so I could follow Kem's progress almost in real time.
As expected, the CIS's organic crew — mostly cowardly Neimoidians — didn't even attempt to resist. Terrified supply officers and navigators lay down on the deck without a fight the moment our droids leveled blasters at them. I saw no point in senseless cruelty; these prisoners represented an excellent strategic resource all on their own. There was a great deal of useful information to squeeze out of them — current Confederate cipher codes, the location of rear-echelon supply depots, internal disputes within the Separatist Council. And beyond that, live Neimoidians from well-connected families always made for good bargaining chips down the road.
Grievous walked over toward my terminal, surveying the rows of deactivated B1 and B2 battle droids standing in the cruisers' transport holds. "Two divisions' worth of standard CIS infantry," he rasped, pointing a finger at the monitor. "Thousands of heavy super battle droid units, and three hundred droidekas. We need to reflash them onto our internal frequencies immediately, before Dooku wipes their serial numbers from the Confederacy's shared network. With these ships and this army aboard, I think we can carve out a solid position in this sector."
"I was thinking the same thing. Hmm... Elara, how long to get the Providences ready for a jump to our base?"
"About twenty minutes," she said, frowning as she checked the readings on the captured ships' reactors. "I need to manually confirm workaround nav routes on both flagships, since their standard autopilots are locked out by the virus. I don't want to risk jumping this close to a gravitational anomaly."
I nodded, going back to studying the holographic map, when suddenly the silence of the command bridge was torn apart by a sharp, piercing alarm coming from the Core Guardian's long-range detection array. The detection system indicators flared a warning crimson, drawing everyone's attention at once.
"Single object detected!" Elara said quickly, her fingers instantly switching the main display over to optical zoom. "Exit vector thirty-two, coming straight out of the Unknown Regions. Emergency deceleration — the object was pushing its hyperdrive to the absolute limit."
On the screen, amid the residual flares of the spatial distortion, a small angular shape appeared. I recognized the silhouette immediately, despite its original geometry being severely warped. It was one of the three reconnaissance probes we'd sent out a few hours earlier to check the coordinates of that mysterious signal from the True Sith Empire.
The probe was drifting on momentum alone; its maneuvering thrusters were clearly dead. Once we zoomed the optical sensors in, there was plenty to see. The device's metal hull was, quite literally, scorched through. Deep, melted gouges punched straight through the armor plating, exposing mangled internal boards and severed waveguides. The mottled gray scarring along the cut edges of the metal pointed unmistakably to thermal damage from plasma weaponry of colossal, inhuman power — well beyond anything standard Republic or CIS shipboard turbolasers could produce. The probe hadn't simply run into an obstacle — it had been deliberately, viciously shot to pieces, and had only survived by sheer chance, managing to trigger the emergency-return program Elara had built into it just in time to jump back to the Core Guardian's current position.
"Elara, pull everything usable off it," I ordered, stepping forward toward the central screen.
"Connecting through the secure engineering channel," she said, quickly entering a series of commands, routing around the probe's damaged comm nodes. "The device's memory is basically destroyed, but there's a looped data packet still intact on the main drive — recorded right before the jump. The system's already converted it to audio format automatically. Playing it on the bridge now."
The Core Guardian's speakers first put out a heavy burst of static-laced noise, cutting with a sharp whine of interference, but a second later the interference cut off abruptly and a voice came through, sharp and clear. The tone carried no discernible emotion, but a hard, unyielding force ran through it unmistakably. The voice spoke in an ancient, hissing dialect of the true Sith. And yes — I recognized it, even though I'd never spoken it myself.
"The Masters are gone, but their will remains unchanged," the words rang out through the speakers, making even Maul turn toward the screen. "We have waited for those who would inherit the Empire. You have crossed into a forbidden sector. State your verified Ministry of War access code, or die."
The recording cut off mid-sentence, and the dreadnought's computer immediately looped it back to the start. We stood there on the bridge, listening to it play again, and again, weighing exactly what kind of trouble this was about to bring down on us...