Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Yag’Dhul Orbit, Yag’Dhul System

Harrin Sector

“I am pleased to report that the Republic presence in the Yag’Dhul Star System has been completely routed,” I told the holographic figures of Admiral Trench and General Ambigene, “It will take some weeks for the effects to begin to show, but the GAR’s Second Sector Army should now be feeling the pressure to recapture Yag’Dhul or open up new supply lanes.”

“They will undoubtedly target Malastare in order to secure their short-term fuel requirements,” the great Harch calculated, leaning heavily on his cane, “But with our grip on Yag’Dhul as tenuous as it is, we must expect a task force dispatched back north to dislodge the Twenty-Eighth’s efforts.”

“Let the Republic come,” Ambigene’s aide-de-camp, a fallen Jedi by the name of Wiffa Zett, hissed, “We have expected this. The only thing they will find at Malastare is their own deaths.”

“What my overzealous adjutant is trying to say, Admiral,” the ‘Tombmaker’ said curtly, as if he was not at all overzealous himself, “Is that we will be expecting the Republic at Malastare.”

“Make sure you do not destroy Malastare with the Republic fleet, General Ambigene,” Admiral Trench chuckled throatily, if not a little snidely, “Be aware the Confederacy requires Malastare’s natural fuel resources as much if not more so than the Republic.”

“We are aware,” First General let the veiled remark slide off him like water would off a duck’s back, “And we are aware of the Perlemian Coalition’s situation. Yag’Dhul is a point of concern for all of us.”

“I will hand over command of the Forty-Sixth Guard Fleet to Commander Marath Vooro and have them stationed at Yag’Dhul,” I reassured, “But I must add that the Twenty-Eighth Mobile has taken significant casualties in our prolonged campaign. Thanks to the Givin Shipyards, we can salvage much, but we will also be grounded for about a week, and our operational capacity for… other endeavours… will be found lacking. It is for this reason I must request additional reinforcements to fill our ranks before the next offensive.”

I did not point out Operation Starlance, because I was unsure if Horn Ambigene was in the know and decided to play it safe. Nor did I mention Marath Vooro was a Trade Federation customs vizier turned CAF officer, for the same reason. Nevertheless, both men were nodding along in understanding, though I imagined for different reasons. Unlike Admiral Trench, I’d rather tiptoe around Horn Ambigene.

Because while it may not seem that way even to me right then, I was bluntly aware I was standing in the presence of a mass murderer of billions. I looked into the eyes of a man trillions across the galaxy must consider the devil incarnate, and saw little more than an old man wearing a uniform he was right at home in. Rather, his aide Zett looked more like the devil instead, clad in black armoured robes and visible signs of supernatural corruption around her eyes, made blatantly apparent upon her ghastly pale flesh.

But no, one was a young woman who snorted a little too much dark side spice, and the other was the man who gave the order to deep fry an entire planet for two whole days without so much as blinking.

“Can the Twenty-Eighth be reinforced, General?” Trench inquired.

“The Republic realised their mistake the moment the Twenty-Eighth appeared at Yag’Dhul,” Ambigene replied grimly, “They have erected interdiction arrays in every inhabited star system along the Rimma Trade Route. Once the Battle for Malastare is won, and we have linked our Lower Hydian territories, we can use Hydian Way and Harrin Trade Corridor to circumvent the Republic’s defences.”

“But it will take time.”

“Correct,” Ambigene confirmed gruffly, “Reinforcements will not be arriving in any timely manner.”

“That will be a problem,” Admiral Trench clicked his mandibles, “Where is the Second Army’s line of defence right now?”

“We are fighting in the stretch between Vondarc and Sullust,” Wiffa Zett answered, “Resistance is proving heavy in the Induparan Crown Worlds. We can match them in the black, but the armies of Jedi Generals Ry-Gaul and Aayla Secura are making each planet a quagmire to liberate. In fact…”

Wiffa Zett glanced sideways–and her hologram violently shivered–before returning her attention to the conversation at hand, “The Second Battle of Medth is ongoing as we speak. Along with the Second Battle of Indupar, Battle of Starforge Nebula, Battle of Eiattu, and Battle of Tshindral.”

“Your point has been made abundantly clear,” I sighed, casting a worried look at Admiral Trench, “In this case, my fleet and I may be forced to undertake something drastic.”

“Is this undertaking a concern of the Fourth Fleet Group?” General Ambigene questioned harshly, his dark eyes flitting between Trench and myself suspiciously.

“No… it is not,” the Harch Admiral drawled, ending with a crystal clear click.

“Then I will not hear the start nor end of it,” Ambigene said, “If there is nothing else that must come to my attention, I will take my leave. I have a Summertime War to attend to.”

After a brief pause to confirm his presumption, Ambigene saluted sharply and departed. Only Ambigene, notably, and I then realised he and Wiffa Zett were not in the same place at all. The fallen Jedi looked at me, with a vague mix of curiosity and obsession, as if wondering how I would taste under the knife.

“How do you do it, Admiral?”

“Pardon me?”

“How do did you defeat three fleets at Yag’Dhul?”

I smiled wryly, “You will find that the whole lot of it boils down to having the right timing, Commander Zett.”

She didn’t look at all pleased with the answer–maybe she wanted the answer to be some superweapon or magic trick or something–but nodded in acceptance regardless. With a mutter of closing pleasantries, her hologram too, winked out of existence, leaving me alone with Admiral Trench.

And Admiral Trench wasted no time; “You must launch Operation Starlance now, Bonteri.”

“Understood,” I replied, “As soon as my fleet is back in fighting shape–”

“Not as soon as your fleet is repaired, Rear Admiral. I mean now.”

His tone edged on anxiety, an emotion I’ve never heard elicited from the massive spider, and that anxiety soon infected me as well, though I knew not the reason for it. I produced my datapad, navigating to my personal notes where I had written down the 28th Mobile Fleet’s itinerary.

“But… we are still within the timetable’s projections,” I raised my concerns, “As far as we had planned, the Twenty-Eighth isn’t behind schedule, albeit by taking more casualties than initially predicted. Regardless, we should still have enough time to repair and recuperate the fleet. So… what happened? If you don’t mind my frankness.”

“Something happened in the Kashyyyk System,” Trench grimaced, “Something that prompted the Nineteenth Mobile Fleet to act prematurely. Rear Admiral Trilm had given the Open Circle the slip and struck Commenor.”

Fortress world Commenor. A single hyperlane route entered the Commenor System from the Rimward side, and four hyperlane routes exited the Commenor System on the Coreward side. It was the obvious and expected destination of the 19th Mobile Fleet, if one knew about Operation Starlance. Because there was only one possible reason for a Separatist fleet to strike a world as heavily guarded and defended as Commenor; to break into the Core Worlds.

To any Republic spectator, it can only appear as if the 19th Mobile Fleet was attempting to retrace Sev’rance Tann’s Sarapin Campaign conducted a year and half prior, which had also struck Commenor on the route to Sarapin.

“She… jumped the gun?” I repeated, somewhat astonished.

“I will not begin to presume her reasons, but the situation is dire,” Trench told me, “A single fleet in the Core, even with the Bulwark Fleet, is easy pickings for the Republic’s Home Fleet. Which is why the Twenty-Eighth must join the Nineteenth immediately, before the GAR can react. Your timetable has been accelerated.”

“But… I need to repair my ships!” I argued, “Half of the Twenty-Eighth is in fighting shape. I can still bring that fraction up to three-fourths, even without reinforcements, but I need time and space to repair. My crews also need to rest; they’ve been fighting back-to-back battles for the last seven days. Not to mention they also need to be briefed–”

Trench nipped my fretting in the bud, “The Twenty-Eighth is a Mobile Fleet. I do not need your fleet to attack the Republic, I simply need them present in the Core. And I need the Republic to know your fleet is present in the Core. Find some out-of-the-way system and repair there, and lead the GAR on a wild bantha chase with what available ships you have. At least until your fleet is operationally capable once more. We simply need to take pressure off the Nineteenth.”

The Harch Admiral paused, as if thinking of his next words. Then;

“As for your spacers; they came this far.”

⁂

“Fleets on the horizon,” Tuff told me as I was mulling–not brooding, mind you–over how to break the news to my officers, “Over a hundred vessels.”

“Vector of insertion?”

If it was from the south, it would be the Jorm’s Auxiliary Division, who we were waiting upon to begin the strategy conference. If it was from the west, it would either be Anakin Skywalker’s Open Circle Fleet or Naradan D’ulin’s Storm Fleet. Honestly, we really weren’t in any condition to take on Anakin Skywalker, and if it did turn out to be him, I was half-tempted to just withdraw elsewhere and abandon Operation Starlance.

The only reason I was half-tempted was because abandoning Operation Starlance would be tantamount to abandoning Calli Trilm and the 19th Mobile Fleet. Well, I’m sure she was wily enough to extract herself in one piece–she doesn’t go anywhere without a plan, after all–but it would still be quite damnable of me to abandon the 19th Mobile after the conversation we had over Nanth’ri.

“West. It’s a freighter convoy, Admiral.”

On the other hand… I didn’t really feel like talking to Asajj Ventress. If she was alive. I’d prefer her alive on a strategic level, obviously, but I personally didn’t feel like dealing with her. Even if that meant her general non-existence. As I watched the Storm Fleet and the Intelligence Division slide into the Yag’Dhul Star System, I also watched for any sign of pursuers; because why wouldn’t the Open Circle be pursuing them?

As the minutes, then hour, ticked away with no sign of the dagger-shaped hulls of Star Destroyers, however, my eyebrow slowly perked up in hopeful disbelief.

“The Sharihen is hailing us, sir,” Kavia Slen informed me. It was just Kavia, Tuff, and I in the pilothouse of the Chimeratica then, along with a handful of naval marines from varying alien races. The Battle of Yag’Dhul had been an all-hands job, and the vast majority of the carrier-destroyer’s spacer droids were being serviced in the deep recesses of the ship’s many workshops.

I forced a cheerful smile onto my stiff face. Tuff didn’t care; he’d seen it too many times. Kavia’s eyes widened, before her gaze diverted. She pretended not to notice.

“Pick it up.”

“Right away, boss,” the Onderonian guardsman-cum-engineer hopped over to the nearest console and patched the transmission through.

“We returned as swiftly as possible,” Naradan’s voice greeted us, “But I see my fears were unfounded.”

“What can I say except I told you so?” I paused, then asked, “Where’s Skywalker? Dead, hopefully?”

Far be it from me to wish for somebody’s death, but the anticlimactic invalidation of the Chosen One prophecy would really do wonders for the galaxy… and more importantly my mental health. Sorry, Anakin, it’s not anything personal.

“You’ve certainly made your mark on the galaxy with this one. As for Skywalker… unfortunately not,” Naradan replied, “That man was a walking nightmare. We ended up using Plan E.”

I nearly doubled over in surprise, “Dooku actually betrayed Ventress?”

“Seems that way. She’s currently recovering from wounds Anakin Skywalker dealt her. Will we now proceed to Geonosis as planned?”

So Ventress was unconscious? I could breathe a sigh of relief. Plan E meant Skywalker was stuck in the Llon Nebula for the time being, and Ventress could now be used as an asset against Count Dooku. It was an unlikely scenario, granted, but Naradan and I had evidently prepared for every scenario we could. With Ventress in our hands, however, we now had the key to Dooku’s most powerful weapon in a coup.

The master codes to every battle droid ever produced by the Confederacy. With Geonosian Industries having been contracted to design the master codes, there was virtually no way to infiltrate or sabotage the codes. After all, Geonosian Industries was simply a front for Poggle the Lesser’s Stalgasin Hive to do business with the rest of the civilised galaxy. Unless you were in Dooku’s inner circle, or a Geonosian yourself, there’s no way of getting even a foot through the door.

Luckily, we now have someone from Dooku’s inner circle. Now, here’s hoping he hasn’t realised Ventress is still alive, and failed to mention anything of the sort to Poggle the Lesser. We also have the Storm Fleet–not all of it, evidently–but enough of it to approach Geonosis without raising any alarm bells. All the ingredients to secure Geonosis for ourselves were here, and I could only allow myself a little bit of peace knowing at least something was going my way.

However… in the case the Geonosis campaign goes awry, the Storm Fleet will need a little bit of muscle. Soldiers. Troops. There were the Mistryl, but they were more suited to being covert operatives. Useful for this sort of mission, but it was better to have insurance. Considering our target, it would be most unwise to use battle droids.

I cast a brisk glance around the bridge, identifying different members of the 28th Mobile Fleet’s naval marines.

“Tuff.”

Tuff swivelled his head towards me with barely a whisper, indicating that his servos were recently lubed and services.

“Prep our dropships,” I commanded, “I want our Koorivar Fusiliers, Skakoan Commandos, and Onderonian Guardsmen transferred over to the Storm Fleet.”

Corporate Alliance, Techno Union, and Onderonian elites; all factions loyal to our little cause against Count Dooku and the Serenno Government. Let the Trade Federation and Commerce Guild marines remain with the 28th Mobile as we jump into the Core Worlds. Keep your friends close, your enemies much closer. Close enough to keep a gun to their heads at every waking moment.

“Us Onderonians as well?” Kavia asked in alarm, “Even… even them?”

“The whole Onderonian fleet,” I confirmed, “Where the Twenty-Eighth’s going, we won’t need marines. Where the Storm Fleet is going… you know, we might finally be able to find out just how aggressive Demon Moon flora is when seeding desert worlds.”

Kavia Slen grinned, “I suppose I will be…?”

I shrugged, “This entire operation was your idea in the first place. I don’t see why not.”

Kavia skipped over to Tuff and punched him the shoulder cheerfully, somehow knocking back the six-feet tall hunk of steel. Tuff’s photoreceptors blinked in surprise, staring down at his feet, which had taken a half-step back, as if mentally calculating just how much strength was necessary to push him in the first place, and whether a human was capable of such a feat. I, on the other hand, stared down at my own arm, and wondered if I could pull off such a thing too, considering I was Onderonian as well.

And then I remembered Kavia was once a guardsman herself, before she was an engineer. She could probably bench press Tuff without breaking a sweat, for that matter, much less snap me in half like a twig.

“Alright, Sharihen,” I called, “I’m transferring some troopships to your fleet. On the other hand, I’m taking back my Intelligence Division. Do you need a port of call to repair your ships?”

“We need to get onto the Harrin Trade Corridor before the Republic cuts it off,” Naradan answered as my fifty frigates broke off from her fleet, even as the Storm Fleet continued navigating to the jumpzone, “So we’ll have to decline.”

I shrugged, though she wouldn’t be able to see it, “Have it your way. Continue with Plan E, and send Ventress my regards. Godspeed.”

“I might start believing in your God if he promises neverending victory.”

“He promises a final victory,” I replied, “It’s a comforting thought, where I’m concerned.”

“...It is.”

“Make this work, Naradan, and I’ll share a drink with you and Ventress the next time we meet. Finest the Wheel has to offer. On me.”

Naradan laughed, and it was a harmonious thing, “I will have to take you up on that offer… if you are willing to shoulder the tab for my entire squad, that is.”

“If that’s the price for good work. Gladly.”

I stood up, popping my spine satisfyingly as I did so. Tuff was dispatching orders, and four outdated-looking ships–Amanoa’s Wrath, Nausicaa, Gleaming Fey, and Wandering Castle–were separating from the main cluster of vessels, angling their bows onto interception vectors with the transiting Storm Fleet. At the same time, dozens of glittering lights danced between huge battlecruisers; troopships, veritably tiny compared to ships of the line, and no more significant than fireflies in the vastness of space.

Still, those troopships might just be key to winning the Confederacy of Independent Systems its final victory. Over Count Dooku, at least.

But that was only one half of it, wasn’t it? Even as Kavia marshalled together Chimeratica’s marines and organised them into the shuttles, my mind was still filled with half-baked strategies to penetrate and survive the Core Worlds.

“Master Rain,” from the corner of the bridge, a little LEP droid woke up from its hibernation, “I have been connected to the PRIESTESS Network.”

There was a pregnant, second-long pause as Tuff and I dropped everything in our hands and minds to stare at the tiny metal rabbit as it mindfully unplugged itself from the charging port.

Then–

“Error. Error. Recalculating probability matrices–”

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Holy shit! She actually did it! I slapped Tuff in the back, elated, and the droid stumbled forward two paces.

⁂

With the return of the ‘6th Auxiliary Division and the ‘7th Intelligence Division, the 28th Mobile Fleet’s numbers were bolstered to just over a hundred fighting ships. A far cry from the original three-hundred or so that initially mustered over Nanth’ri. Still, there was a silver lining, which I clutched onto desperately like a lifeline.

We managed to salvage another hundred or so warships that we could plausibly resuscitate and bring back to life. As much as I flirted with the idea of commandeering captured Republic vessels, especially capital ships, I had to face the reality that the GAR and CAF operated on wholly different scales when it came to manpower requirements. We could still take in some of the smaller GAR corvettes and frigates, but the burdensome crew numbers necessary to fill out even a single Venator-class battlecruiser was simply not worth it.

As such, that was the state of the 28th Mobile Fleet as its six flag officers sat around a sullen table in one of the Chimeratica’s boardrooms, all physically in attendance. They were patiently waiting for Commander Jorm’s appraisal of the situation, as the logistics officer inspected the status reports submitted by each flag officer.

“We’re running low on repair modules and expendable munitions,” I supplied, just to break the awkward quiet.

Difficult to protect and slow as they were, the self-propelled manufacturing facilities called auxiliaries were vital to getting this fleet into the Core and back. As long as they could keep the fleet supplied, that is. We all knew this would be their first real test, and I in particular was deathly afraid of finding out whether they would fail it. Failure would be a death sentence.

“We can top off the fleet’s fuel cells no problem,” Jorm agonisingly went through the requirement lists one by one, “Expendable munitions can be restocked from the Givin Shipyards. Repair modules and turbolaser gas is the problem.”

“...Why?” Vinoc painstakingly got out, “Why are they the problem?”

“We don’t have the raw materials,” Jorm answered bluntly, “And we really don’t have the gas.”

I nearly smashed my forehead against the table. The only reason I didn’t do so was dignity.

“Well why don’t we?” I demanded, resisting the urge to pound the armrest of my seat anyway, “The auxiliaries were last resupplied at Sullust! How could you already be out of battle damage repair materials?”

In hindsight, the answer was really obvious. Maybe we should have realised it as Jorm was looking at all of us as if we were infants. Well, maybe Krett realised it, from how the Neimodian was rubbing his face tiredly.

“The auxiliaries were supplied with the presumption that the fleet would be getting into less battles,” Jorm’s answer came like a crashing brick wall regardless, “And taking much less damage. We can manufacture more than enough fuel cells to top off the entire fleet twice over, but asking us to repair a hundred vessels and practically rebuild a hundred more is a fool’s errand. You’re better off asking a Hutt for alms.”

One could just here Jorm muttering ‘fucking fools’ beneath his breath while the other five grown men at the table just sat there like chastised children before their irate mother.

“However,” Jorm continued drily, “The Givin Shipyards are right here. Give me a week, and I’m sure I can bring this fleet back into fighting shape for our next campaign.”

Even as the other officers nodded along, relieved the logistics chief wasn’t about to lay into all of their bucket-headed skulls, I audibly winced. And in the contrite silence of the boardroom, everybody heard me. I could basically hear Jorm’s neck creaking as he turned to stare at me.

“Anything you need me to know, sir?”

The word ‘sir’ was doing a lot of heavy lifting in restraining his undoubtable urge to sock me from across the table, and I let it slide. Because honestly I didn’t blame him.

“Something for everyone here to know,” I corrected, producing a stack of printed flimsi sheets to pass around the table.

“Flimsi maps!” Krett gaped as he leafed through the files, “In this day and age!”

He was right. Among the sheets were cartographic maps of the southern Core Worlds, with sectors and worlds and annotations scribbled across them. It was my research, essentially, of which I was too busy–lazy–to reorganise into something presentable. I’m sure they didn’t mind though. As for the research; it was a bit of a background check into the Tapani Federation, whose space we will have to pass through to access the Galactic Interior.

Unfortunately, when Octavian Grant withdrew from the Yag’Dhul Star System, I’m pretty sure he shut the door behind him.

“...Hold on a second–” I don’t know who spoke up first, but I ignored them and bulled on ahead.

“Star Station Independence introduces Operation Starlance. Take a good look,” I didn’t take a good look at their faces, focusing on the papers before me, “Our mission is to penetrate the Core Worlds, wreak as much havoc as possible, and extract, hopefully with Admiral Dua Ningo’s Bulwark Fleet in tow. Now, our comrades in the Nineteenth Mobile Fleet have already launched their offensive, so we are behind schedule.”

I paused to catch my breath, and finally looked up in expectation of protest and outrage. All it took was a brief read to realise that this operation was a suicide mission, after all. But for some reason, the room had fallen into contemplative silence, with each officer deeply engrossed with the material before them, even Jorm. Maybe it was the mention of Star Station Independence that quietened them, or maybe it was the mention of our sister formation that went ahead. Whatever the case, I accepted the small blessings as they were, and forged on.

“From Yag’Dhul, we only have two feasible ways to enter the Core. Continue up the Rimma Trade Route to Thyferra and Fondor, or pivot onto the Corellian Trade Spine to Foless and Corellia itself,” I continued, tracing the inked hyperlanes with a finger, “The problem I’ve identified is that we’re going to have fight through the entirety of the Tapani Federation either way.”

“Is the Tapani Federation expecting us?” Commodore Greyshade questioned snidely, “Because we certainly weren’t expecting ourselves.”

“Well then Octavian Grant is a much better strategist than we’ve credited him for,” I replied, “Because he certainly figured it out.”

“I figured he retreated because he realised he couldn’t win,” Horgo Shive said mildly, wetting his pale lips.

“Our Recon Division has discovered the existence of interdiction arrays in the Thyferra and Mechis Systems. A handful of our ships were caught, but they managed to send back images before we lost contact. Images of forward defensive positions, new fortifications. Even orbital defence platforms. Thyferra and Mechis-Three are under siege, mind you. Have you seen defence platforms put around a besieged world before? We must expect them to be expecting us.”

“In that case…” Krett muttered, “How by the living stars are we supposed to pull this off?”

I slapped my hands down on the table, sending sheets fluttering, and looked around, “That’s why we’re here. And now, we also have to contend with only having a hundred fighting ships out of the original three-hundred we were supposed to have, and a critical lack of materials to repair any more. So… any ideas?”

A lull in voices followed as the table fell into pensive silence, the compartment filled with only the ambience of distant generators and gentle fluttering of papers. After the prolonged reticence, Horgo Shive was the first to speak.

The Muun tapped the sheets in front of him, “How long has Starlance been in the works? The original composition of the Twenty-Eighth Mobile…”

“Seemed purpose-made for this offensive,” Diedrich Greyshade finished, “While other fleets would share independent deepdock and auxiliary squadrons, the two Mobile Fleets possess their own auxiliary divisions.”

“Operation Starlance was formulated alongside Operation Storm-Door,” I answered honestly, “I have only just been permitted to reveal the details of the mission.”

“I can imagine why,” Krett folded his arms on the table, leaning forward, “But I imagine the sheer importance of Operation Starlance to the Separatist cause means we will be forgiven for operating as if we are in possession of a blank cheque from the CAF?”

I perked up, glad someone other than myself had a bright idea in the works, “I’m all ears.”

“We round up every hyperdrive-capable Republic ship in the star system,” the Neimodian suggested, “Rig them up with droid skeleton crews, and use them as mobile supply bunkers.”

“...Not as warships?”

“Not as warships,” the support officer confirmed, “We put them under Commander Jorm’s purview. They fly with us, jump with us, and supply the fleet with critical munitions, gas, and military-grade material while on the move.”

Vinoc furrowed his brows in confusion, and at that moment I empathised, “Do you intend to fill the hangar bays of Venators with materials? I’m pretty sure cargo capacity isn’t the problem. We have a resource shortage.”

“No…” Jorm had picked up the shopping lists again, “Krett intends on using the ships themselves as resources. We can break them apart mid-flight. Take their munition stores, leech their liquefied gas bunkers, cannibalise their hulls while on the move. We won’t have to mine asteroids, refine raw ore, and manufacture new parts from scratch. Theoretically, they’re all already pre-fabricated for us.”

“But are they?” I raised a reasonable concern, “We all know Separatist warships are built from pre-fabbed sections and compartments… it’s a quality trade-off we must make for our lack of shipyards; but are Republic warships too?”

We shared glances, and came to the conclusion that none of us were engineers, much less naval architects or shipwrights.

“I mean,” Shive said weakly, “It’s not about capacity, is it? It’s about efficiency, and there’s no faster way to pump out warships than pre-fabbed sections.”

“Does it really matter?” Vinoc banged the table, “We already have sophisticated components and military-grade alloys all in one place. Let’s not ask the stars to blink at our command too. What’s more important…”

Vinoc fixed his attention to Commander Jorm, “Can we really make this work?”

“...It’s going to be inefficient,” Jorm said at last, “Dismantling the pressure hull is simple enough, but the internal compartments? It’s not just alloys and bulkheads that make a warship, it’s also the machinery and its vital components. There’s no promise my engineers can break down Republic tech without wastage. What’s really critical are the trace elements, found and used in small quantities. One wrong move, and we could easily destroy or contaminate whatever sources of them that exist.”

“Can’t we rip out the schematics from the Republic ships’ databanks?” Vinoc scratched his beard.

“It’s SOP for all military craft to wipe their banks before capture,” Diedrich pointed out, rightly so, “The Republic ships that surrendered to us did so on their own terms. Such schematics would no longer exist.”

“Well,” I leaned back, “We’re going to have to figure this out, because we’ve got no better idea. Let’s break it down and deal with the problem in more manageable parts. Krett, you’ll round up the Republic ships and produce an inventory list. Jorm, you’ll round up the Separatist ships in need of repair and restoration and produce a shopping list. Prioritise hyperdrive components first. Vinoc, you’ll round up all of the Republic engineers we’ve captured and get them talking.”

I breathed out, meeting their gazes. There wasn’t any argument; they had their jobs, they were going to do it. Maybe we identified more problems than we’d like, but we also figured out a solution on the spot, and had a plan to carry it out. Each man present had their strengths and weaknesses, but I counted myself fortunate they were all solid performers regardless. That’s more than many in my position could say with a straight face.

“Meanwhile,” I rubbed my eyes, feeling the great urge to sleep yet knowing full well just how far it was out of my grasp. I forced myself to give the table a confident look, as if I had never doubted our ability to handle the problem, “Diedrich, Horgo, and I will figure out a way to get into the Core. Let’s get this started.”

⁂

“Operation Starlance is split into two search zones,” I gestured at Hare’s holographic starchart; a fine upgrade from the flimsi maps we had been using, “Our designated AO is the Southern Core, while the Nineteenth’s designated AO is the Arrowhead.”

The Galactic Interior was partitioned into four distinct quadrants. The first three were centred upon Coruscant itself; the Negative Regions, Northern Dependencies, and Arrowhead. West, north, and east of Coruscant respectively. The final quadrant was the Southern Core, which laid across the Deep Core. As such, the Southern Core had always been politically distant from Coruscant, and home to a number of autonomous nations such as Atrisian Commonwealth, Daupherm States, Botor Enclave, Herglic Space, and the Tapani Federation.

Of the five, it was the Tapani Federation that came to dominate the Southern Core, as did Coruscant dominate the northern half.

“I intended on using Fondor as a safe port,” I explained, “But that’s now out of the question. The Fondorians have always been dicey about the Confederacy, but it looks like the Emancipation of Eriadu pushed them over the fence. Regardless, we now have to contend with our foot shoved out the door.”

“We can’t afford to get engaged in another battle,” Diedrich pursed his lips, “Especially not against the Tapani. We need to prioritise finding a resource-full system that’s either protected by obscurity or security, and bunker down until Jorm can do his magic.””

“We have a base on Kiffu,” I pointed out some options, “A little west of the Rimma Trade Route. Or we can also try heading for Koorivar, the homeworld of the Corporate Alliance. That’s only a day’s jump from here, east of the Corellian Trade Spine. I’ve last heard Koorivar’s been conquered by the GAR’s Twentieth Sector Army, however.”

“Are those our only two options for bypassing Octavian Grant’s blockade?” the Columexi officer mused aloud.

“Apparently so.”

Horgo Shive, who had been quiet until then, suddenly perked up, “This is ridiculous.”

“Pardon?”

“We’re orbiting the homeworld of the galaxy’s most gifted astrographers,” the Muun said with no small amount of exasperation, “And we aren’t asking for their opinion? Not to mention they’re master shipwrights and engineers too! They can probably figure out our issues with the Republic ships as well!”

“You want us to ask the Givin for help?” I raised a sceptical eyebrow, “It was already an effort and a half to have them help defend their own star system. What makes you think they’ll provide anything substantial?”

“The Givin make their decisions in binary,” Horgo explained, “There’s no compromise in their society, because that would mean compromising their decision-making process, which is hard mathematics. There’s no nuance in mathematical equations, only the answer. That’s how they operate on a societal level. Notice how the Givin only came to our aid when we were fighting the Open Circle Fleet, and not a moment before? I’d wager the reason behind that can be boiled down to the gambler’s fallacy.”

I slowly found myself nodding along, becoming convinced of his argument. The gambler’s fallacy is essentially the oft mistaken belief that a statistically independent event can affect the probability of the next event in a series. For example, consider the repeated toss of a fair coin. It appears logical from afar then should a coin land on heads five times in a row, it is far more likely for the next toss to result in a tails. This is the fallacy in action, since each toss is statistically independent, and thus a 50-50 probability of heads or tails each time, as unintuitive as that sounds.

In the case of the Battle of Yag’Dhul, consider each engagement to be a coin toss. There had been four engagements in total, and if we simplify it so that the probability of victory at each one to be 50-50, it could be argued that to achieve victory against the allied Republic fleets, the 28th Mobile Fleet had a one in five chance of winning. Once we defeated the siege fleet, the odds of victory were then one in four, then one in three once we defeated the 20th Armada.

Improving odds, it appears. That was incorrect. Every engagement we fought was an independent 50-50 percent chance of victory or defeat. Similar to a series of independent coin tosses.

Following this argument, the Givin only came to our aid once we were on our final of four coin tosses, against the Open Circle Fleet. Because if they came any earlier, they could weigh the coin that one instance, and only that once because the enemy would then adapt to make the coin ‘fair’ again. If they came in on the final coin toss, however, they could weigh the coin in our favour and can decisively bet on our victory. Which was exactly what occurred.

Obviously the real statistical calculus behind the Mathematocracy’s decision making would be far more complicated, but for some reason I found myself convinced by Horgo Shive’s theory using the gambler’s fallacy. Because in other words, it means that so long as we can prove the likelihood of success was greater than the likelihood of failure, the Givin would be more or less convinced by their own formulas and equations to aid us in the venture.

The Givin weren’t altruistic. They didn’t initially ask us to withdraw and refused to help because they wanted to save our lives or any such thing like that. They were simply obeying the results of their calculations that weighed the probabilities of victory and defeat. If we wanted them to participate in Operation Starlance, the matter was as simple as stacking the deck in our favour.

It was fortunate, then, that we just received a brand new deck of cards.

“In that case,” I stood up, “Let’s find ourselves someone to speak with.”

Nor was it difficult to contact the Givin Senator, Daggibus Scoritoles. In fact, his scream-shaped exoskeleton almost seemed to tilt in expectation as he greeted us with a standard, mind-numbingly complicated mathematical equation. It was related to vectors, likely tailored to be answerable by officers such as ourselves, but there was simply no way to mentally evaluate the equation in any reasonable timeframe. I was half tempted to start scribbling on a sheet of paper, if it wouldn’t make me appear the absolute fool in front of the Givin, even moreso than standing there for the better part of an hour, blank-eyed as I fumbled with figures inside my skull.

Luckily, we had ourselves a Muun. Within three minutes, Horgo Shive produced a reasonable integral as an answer, and Senator Scoritoles tilted his head in acceptance. Diedrich and I breathed out a sigh of relief.

“The Body Calculus has already deduced the intentions of your fleet, Admiral Bonteri,” the Senator started, rather condescendingly, “And must express its grave disappointment at such an undertaking of foolhardy proportions.”

“It will be a sacrifice made for the continued survival of the Confederacy,” Diedrich argued coldly, “Surely the Body Calculus can understand that? We have our orders, and have every intention to follow it through. What the Body Calculus can do is decide whether we must simply sacrifice the time and effort, or our lives as well.”

“We need hyperlanes to access to Core Worlds,” I pleaded, “Hyperlanes bypassing the main ones that Tapani fleets preside over. And we need a way to navigate the Core, and extract from the Core, safely. These are all things the Body Calculus can provide us.”

“It is not that I do not understand,” Daggibus Scoritoles raised a bony hand to prevent further argument, “Fractal Heresies aside, not all among the Body Calculus are so inflexible. Many of us are sympathetic to your cause, even more so after the masterful execution of manoeuvre warfare that took place in this very star system. The seventy ships that came to the aid of your fleet are all willing and able to permanently reinforce the Twenty-Eighth Mobile Fleet, and you will realise, that while the Body Calculus is disappointed at the lack of care in the planning of this offensive, it is not averse to it.”

My heart leapt up to my throat, though I did not show it.

“Does that mean…”

“When I personally tendered the Articles of Secession to the Republic Senate, the justification of the Body Calculus behind that decision was the mounting failures of the Republic bureaucracy. Sooner or later, the Body Calculus had calculated, the Republic would collapse, if not by the Separatist movement, then itself. The threats of remaining were greater than the threats of secession.”

“Has the Body Calculus changed its mind?” Horgo narrowed his eyes.

“Incorrect. That assessment is still invariably true. However, the Body Calculus has come to the conclusion, independently of the Confederate Armed Forces, that the existing Separatist State will collapse before the Galactic Republic does,” the Givin Senator bluntly declared, “And it is already far too late to avoid such an outcome.”

The three of us shared a wary glance.

Diedrich was standing a little straighter, hackles raised, as if he had been personally threatened by the prediction, “So… both states will collapse?”

“Correct. What matters now is not when–that has already been determined–but rather why, and how,” the Senator said dispassionately, “This operation–”

“Operation Starlance,” I provided.

“–Operation Starlance is a method of changing how the Republic collapses,” Scoritoles continued, impervious to interruption, “Into one beneficial to the existence of a surviving Separatist State. Which is why the Body Calculus is holding a vote as we speak, so to decide how to best proceed.”

I swallowed, pushing out all the implications of the Senator’s words in favour of focusing on the here and now, “How do we get the vote to pass?”

“Incorrect question. The vote will pass. The correct question is how long will it take to?”

For a moment, confused silence hung in the air. I was pretty sure that wasn’t how a voting system worked, at least, any contemporary voting system I knew of. Once again, it was Horgo that provided valuable insight into what exactly the Givin were up to. Maybe it was because both Muun and Givin shared very vertically elongated skulls.

“I think that means the Body Calculus isn’t so much as voting as calculating how to make Operation Starlance a success,” the Muun muttered to us, “So that according to their probability models, they have no choice but to pass the vote.”

“Correct,” Scoritoles heard him anyway, “Currently, the Givin-Paigun Probability Calculus suggests that Operation Starlance has a forty-six percent chance of succeeding as per the objective of facilitating the collapse of the Republic state in relation to Operation Storm-Door. Therefore, you may assume this vote is forty-six percent in favour of passing the Body Calculus.”

“...The Body Calculus is wargaming,” I summarised, “The Body Calculus is wargaming and will only support us if they wargame their way into a victory.”

Daggibus Scoritoles blinked. Or rather, I’m pretty sure he blinked behind those void-filled eye sockets of his. And right then, I could just feel the Givin’s urge to say ‘incorrect.’

“...Correct,” I almost laughed at how the Senator seemed physically pained by just uttering the word, “However, it is not as simple as you may believe. To achieve the conditions of victory, the Body Calculus must not only predict the movements and reactions of the GAR, but also the reaction of the Republic’s political apparatus. As the Republic is predominantly governed by emotion-driven, illogical beings, the Body Calculus has no choice but to design an entirely new probability model in order to predict possible outcomes.”

I paused, and then a lightbulb went off in my head, “I believe I have just the thing to speed up that process.”

“I find it difficult to believe any human invention can affect the calculations of the Givin.”

I wordlessly transferred the Senator an access grant to the PRIESTESS Network. The network that oversaw every encoded transmission coming in and out of Coruscant. It was a virus, self-replicating and quasi-sentient, spreading through the airwaves and S-threads to every GAR-administered communications satellite it could. PRIESTESS operated on only three rules; propagate, report, and cause as little disruption as possible.

Essentially, PRIESTESS was our eye in the sky over the Republic. A spy virus engineered by the Techno Union at the behest of the Supreme Commander that definitely doesn’t trigger any red flags about artificial intelligence and definitely won’t come to bite the entire galaxy in the ass in near future… because the Techno Union was surely smart enough to package safeguards into the virus, right?

Nevertheless, with the sheer exabytes of data at PRIESTESS’s disposal every second, if the Body Calculus required a large data set to build their probability model… there was none larger or more true-to-life than this.

“Will this work?” I asked smugly, “How long will the ‘vote’ take with this at the Body Calculus’ disposal, would you reckon?”

Daggibus Scoritoles looked at his datapad, and then at me, and somehow, the perpetual scream carved onto his exoskeleton curved into a pleased smile.

“You may depart in thirty system hours,” the Senator answered confidently, “You have my word, the Body Calculus will provide seventy Wavecrest-class frigates, an attached engineer corps, and a hyperlane route through the Deep Core.”