Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Bandomeer Approach, Bandomeer System

Meerian Sector

The Jedi Expeditionary Fleet swept through Bandomeer’s orbit, a great mass of thrust plumes and durasteel that cut through the beleaguered planet’s magnetic field. Venator-class Star Destroyers took the vanguard, their hulls glinting in the pale light of Bandomeer’s distant sun, flanked by a lattice of escort frigates and corvettes, their sensors vigilant for Separatist remnants or incoming reinforcements. Acclamator-class assault ships and Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers carved through the planetary plane, their thrusters flaring against the planet’s dusty surface.

At the bridge of battlecruiser Hyperion, High Jedi General Plo Koon observed the assault transports and gunships breaking through the atmosphere, squadrons of ARC-170 starfighters and Y-wing bombers descending alongside them, their formation razor-sharp as they ran the Separatist gauntlet.

Plumes of smoke and fire rose from the mining complexes below, where the last remnants of Separatist forces clung desperately to their fortified positions. From his vantage point, the planet’s surface sprawled below–a scarred and desolate expanse dotted with deep mining pits, massive refineries, and skeletal conveyor systems stretching for leagues. Bandomeer had once been a verdant agri-world, but the prospect of vast mineral deposits had transformed the world to such a deplorable state.

Nevertheless, Bandomeer was still a Republic world, fallen into the hands of the enemy.

“General,” Clone Commander Wolffe reported crisply, “General Windu and General Kenobi have secured two of the primary mining hubs. Resistance is strong around the third, but armoured reinforcements are en route.”

“Ensure they advance with caution,” Plo Koon replied, his deep voice filtered through the mask that encased his face, “The Separatists may have left traps near the mines.”

“Very good, General.”

Plo Koon diverted his gaze from the viewports to his former Padawan. It was the first time they had been reunited since the Battle of Geonosis, which the old Jedi Master could only consider as an odd twist of fate as the war nears its end. He was glad to have her at his side once more, however, as the young Kuati woman had grown to be a fine and respected Jedi Knight.

“You need not ask for it, Knight Swan.”

Bultar led him back into the Battle Room, where Jedi Knight Lissarkh awaited them, the Trandoshan’s sharp eyes tracing a complex network of icons suspended over the holoprojection table. The overlay flickered with updates–blue markers signifying formations preparing for hyperspace transition, yellow for those still clearing the gravity well, and red for those yet to arrive.

“Master Plo,” Knight Lissarkh hissed from the tactical console, her tongue flicking, “We need your confirmation. Battle Group Wanderer reports they’ve cleared the well. Seventy-eight ships inserting to hyperspace on vector two-six-three.”

“Confirmed,” Plo Koon replied, his steady voice rising above the hum of the bridge, “Ensure their path is clear through to the Harloen System. Have Wanderer relay status updates at the midpoint.”

“Yesss, Master.”

“Update from the Ninety-First Support Squadron,” Bultar interjected next, “They’ve entered the system and are holding position at the designated staging area. Their freighters are requesting additional clearance for cargo transfers before following the main group.”

“Grant their request,” Plo Koon glanced at the incoming traffic, “Inform Master Jaro Tapal of the development and modify Task Force Albedo Brave’s flight plan.”

“Understood, Master.”

The projection shifted again, a cluster of green icons moving toward the planet’s asteroid field.

“Battle Group Selfless reports successful engagement with enemy remnants near the asteroid field,” Lissarkh added, “They’re pursuing to ensure no enemy vessels attempt to escape.”

“Order Master Keelyvine Reus to expedite her sweep,” the Jedi Master, “We cannot risk delays with so many ships converging here.”

“Yes, General.”

Plo Koon’s gaze swept across the bridge, taking in the flurry of controlled activity as officers coordinated fleet movements and navigation updates. The task of managing an armada as vast as the Expeditionary Fleet was daunting, even for the most seasoned commanders, especially compounded by hostile forces and time constraints. The Meerian Sector–and surrounding sectors–had recently been conquered by General Grievous’ Coreward offensive, and whilst resistance was light here, it would only grow more intense as they pushed Rimward. Ṛа

“Status of the Seventh Auxiliary Section?” Plo Koon could hear Bultar inquire.

“They’re ssstill navigating the inner orbits,” Lissarkh replied, “Their lead elements should clear the well in twenty minutes, but their bulk transports are reporting minor engine delaysss.”

There was a hint of annoyance in Lissarkh’s sibilant, rasping voice. Frustration, perhaps, at her current responsibility of shepherding the Expeditionary Fleet to their next waypoint at Harloen. Plo Koon could sense it, a subtle knot in the Force that echoed the tension in her words. The Jedi Master avoided faulting her for it; Jedi Knight Lissarkh was once his apprentice too, and he knew not all Jedi could distance themselves from the innate nature of their species.

He had taught her much in the ways of patience and duty, but ultimately, this role of coordination and oversight must have felt like an exercise in endless tedium for a hunter species. Not such a dissimilar plight as Obi-Wan’s, Master Plo mused lightly, considering his tribulations with Ahsoka. Trandoshans and Togrutas were both hunter species, and their heightened senses made any form of serenity and stoicism an ordeal to perform. It was why Jedi Masters like Shaak Ti were so respected.

“General,” Commander Wolffe stormed into the Battle Room, face set grim as the helmet tucked under his arm, “We have a situation.”

Plo Koon looked over his shoulder, “Greater resistance than expected?”

The Clone Commander nodded sharply, “Requesting to deploy the Wolfpack Battalion planetside.”

“Granted,” Plo Koon turned his attention to his former Padawan, “Knight Lissarkh, you will be commanding the Wolfpack.”

Lissarkh snapped up, her pupils dilating in surprise, “Master? But–”

“We will be pleased to have you, Commander,” Wolffe saluted.

“Your orders are to capture the mining hub before rendezvousing with the Seventh Sky Corps,” Plo Koon commanded, “Any following orders will be given to you by General Kenobi. Understood.”

Jedi Knight Lissarkh hastily bowed, “I will not fail, Master Plo.”

“That I do not doubt. May the Force be with you.”

Plo Koon and Bultar Swan watched the backs of the two as they departed, the Trandoshan Jedi already attentively listening to Commander Wolffe’s mission brief. Lissarkh couldn’t quite conceal her eagerness at the change of pace.

“I am afraid you will have to cover for her, Bultar.”

Jedi Knight Bultar Swan bowed dutifully, “That suits me well, Master Plo. I’d prefer not to fight.”

“A noble stance, one all Jedi should strive towards,” the Kel Dor Master clasped his clawed hands behind his back, “But not one appropriate right now.”

Bultar Swan was a Jedi raised in an era where simply igniting a lightsaber was justification enough to warrant a cessation in hostilities. In this tumultuous time, however, the outcome is more often the opposite, where a lightsaber has become a weapon of war rather than a means for peace.

Despite Bultar’s hopes, Plo Koon had a feeling that the time when their lightsabers may be restored to their original purpose was still far off. Bringing Dooku to justice besides, too many lines have already been crossed in this galaxy, and too many bridges broken. It has become exceedingly clear to all that, despite Palpatine’s best wishes, a reunification of the galaxy would no longer be a simple matter. Just as there have been lines crossed, so have there been lines drawn in the sand, and trenches dug in the dirt.

The frontlines have been established, state borders drawn onto maps and starcharts. The Separatist Alliance could no longer be written off as a mere rebellion, an unrecognised state. This has been the case since that peace conference on Onderon, where by agreeing to talks the Republic had unofficially recognised the sovereignty of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Perhaps that was the Pantoran’s stratagem all along; to lure the Republic to the negotiating table and guarantee the legitimacy of the Confederacy–before smashing the negotiation to pieces and re-seizing the initiative.

“–relieve the blockade,” Bultar spoke into the comms, her brows furrowing, “Understood, Master Piell. May the Force be with you.”

“Have they arrived at Taris?” Plo Koon asked.

“Yes, Master,” she answered, “Battle Group Insolent should be lifting the Siege of Taris right now.”

“...Master Piell must not underestimate his opponent,” the Jedi General set his shoulders, “We must not forget that General Grievous is the singular source of all of our Order’s woes.”

Confederate General Grievous… after taking Bandomeer, his fleets were poised to strike at either Taris or Mandalore. While both worlds were in strategically important locations, Grievous ultimately decided to continue up the Hydian Way and invaded Taris. It was a logical decision; Taris was a Loyalist ecumenopolis–a city-world–whilst Mandalore was an ostensibly neutral wasteland. Regardless, it meant the GAR had a vested commitment in liberating Taris–a responsibility they could have shrugged off should General Grievous had attacked the neutral Mandalore instead.

As the Jedi Expeditionary Fleet traversed the Hydian Way, it was only natural it fell on them to liberate General Grievous’ conquests. However, the Taris System laid a thousand light-years north of the Hydian Way, and so the decision was made to have the Expeditionary Fleet continue Rimward, whilst a battle group was dispatched to repel Grievous from Taris. That battle group would be commanded by Jedi Master Even Piell of the High Council and Jedi Master Luminara Unduli.

As for Grievous… there was once a time the Grand Army feared he would be their greatest enemy. Making his appearance in Operation Sidestep, General Grievous slaughtered the Republic’s planetary armies during the Battle of Christophsis, killing nearly half-dozen Jedi Masters and Knights in the process. As General Sev’rance Tann hastily made for Bothan Space, it was his fleets that routed the GAR 13th Sector Army across the entire galactic south.

It was that fateful battle on Christophsis that drove a stake of uncertainty into the Jedi Temple’s reputation, and the source of so many of their political troubles.

Come to think of it, it was the galactic south that spawned so many of the Confederacy’s best soldiers. If he remembered correctly, the Battle Hydra wrote his name into the battle chronicles of the galaxy at Christophsis as well, after repulsing General Kenobi’s relief fleet there. Admiral Trench was a well-known commander even before the war, but nevertheless also made his name fighting in the Andoan Wars in the south. A year later, General Horn Ambigene turned Eriadu into a tomb, and made his moniker feared throughout the stars.

“General Grievous will not fight fairly,” Plo Koon continued, staring intently into the holoprojection, “And if there is one thing we must learn from the Separatists, it is how to think out of the box. They have always strove to invent new technologies, new doctrines, and new stratagems to even the playing field, in light of all of the Republic’s inherent advantages. General Grievous will be the same.”

Bultar Swan paused, uncertainty fleeting across her face like a passing shadow, before inclining ever so slightly, “I will warn them, Master.”

Jedi Master Plo Koon was aware of the subtle ripple in the Force, neither loud nor urgent, but like a scent of petrichor preceding a storm. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing the Force around him like a protective shroud, seeking clarity. His clawed fingers tightened slightly behind his back, but his unease went by neither seen nor noticed. The leathery, masked face of a Kel Dor was impossible to read, if the Kel Dor did not allow it.

May the Force be with you, Master Piell.

⁂

Taris Approach, Taris System

Ojoster Sector

“Knight Swan thought to warn us of General Grievous,” Master Luminara Unduli’s hologram smiled wanly, “How considerate of her.”

“Plo Koon’s words,” Jedi Master Even Piell said gruffly, crossing his arms.

“We should heed them,” the Mirialan Jedi Master warned.

“We should,” Master Piell nodded, eyes darting to and fro across the viewports, “Because this does not look like a world under siege.”

The vast, glistening planetwide city of Taris sprawled before Battle Group Insolent, seemingly untouched by war. There was a distinct lack of Separatist warships over the planet, despite the frantic claims of Taris’ distress call. Any lesser commander might assume the Tarisians to be lying, or at least mistaken, but Even Piell thought otherwise. The battle-hardened Jedi Master soberly analysed the situation, his combat senses tingling. Insolent’s sensors were not picking up any hostile warships…

But Taris was silent, absolutely silent. A truly unsettling anomaly for an ecumenopolis. Nor were her planetary shields raised, which would’ve been the only thing that could block all radiation from the city-world. It could only mean that Taris’ shields had been torn down, and in a matter of weeks at that! General Grievous must be in possession of some truly overwhelming firepower. And despite that, there were no signs of orbital bombardment on that planet at all.

Does the lack of Separatist warships indicate that Grievous had withdrawn prior to their arrival then?

Master Piell was about to voice his thoughts, when noticed Garland’s scanners were pointed at the closest of Taris’ four moons.

“Something the matter, Master Unduli?” he questioned.

“The Battle Hydra once ambushed me by hiding his warships behind moons after luring my ships closer to the planet.”

“Captain Tarkin,” Even Piell beckoned his flag captain, “Launch four snub wings to investigate the Tarisian moons. I want a deep scan of the star system before we approach any closer to the planet.”

“Our scans are already indicating no enemy warships in the vicinity, General,” Captain Wilhuff Tarkin pontificated, “Should General Grievous’ fleet remain in-system, then he must be preparing for a counterattack. We should secure Taris quickly and establish defensive positions around the Tarisian moons.”

Captain Wilhuff Tarkin was a rather contemptuous and opinionated man, one unafraid to voice his concerns about the Jedi–but Master Even Piell found that he was loyal to the Republic nonetheless, and he was not one fault others of their character, so long as they were loyal and dutiful. Captain Wilhuff Tarkin was both, especially proven after the destruction of his homeworld by the Tombmaker, Captain Tarkin did not once stray or falter from his responsibilities as the Flag Captain of Jedi General Piell’s fleet.

For those reasons, the Lannik Jedi Master could tolerate and even respect Captain Tarkin’s presence by his side.

“Captain Tarkin,” the diminutive Jedi General crossed his arms, “The Separatists are known to be in the possession of a long-range weapon, one outranging anything we have to offer.”

“All the more reason to begin securing Taris, General,” Tarkin looked down at him seriously, “This General Grievous may be an uncivilised brute, but even he would not devoid the Separatists of Taris’ resources and industry.”

“You intend to hold the planet hostage?” Even Piell raised a scarred, hairless eyebrow.

“I intend to work efficiently and logically.”

Even Piell found himself deep in thought. Despite Captain Tarkin’s less-than-upstanding reasons, his words were indeed logical and sensible. Despite that, the old Jedi Master still had the feeling it would be a dire mistake to make. The Force warped thickly around the planet like a thick fog, as if Taris itself was shrouded in Grievous’ schemes.

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“Begin identifying insertion sites as soon as the moons are secure, Captain,” the Jedi General finally commanded, “Master Luminara, I would have you split your task force from Battle Group Insolent and prepare to land on the opposite side of the planet. Make every attempt to contact the planetside authorities.”

“Understood, Master Piell. May the Force be with you.”

With a click, the connection was severed, and Task Force Garland began pulling away. The holographic display shimmered as Master Luminara's image faded, leaving Even Piell alone on the bridge deck. Garland’s ships began adjusting their formations, peeling away from the larger fleet in orderly precision. As they moved, fighter squadrons and troop carriers launched from their motherships, manoeuvring into their escort patterns like a well-rehearsed dance.

Behind him, the quiet hum of the command bridge buzzed with subdued activity, officers murmuring into headsets and datapads flashing with status updates. Even Piell’s presence was enough to keep them focused, though he felt the weight of their unspoken questions pressing on him. He couldn’t ignore the uneasy thrumming in the Force, the sense of something dark moving just beyond the edge of their understanding. With a low sigh, he turned to the nearest comms officer.

"Inform all ships to maintain heightened readiness.”

“Yes, General.”

“General!” a sensor chief suddenly shot to his feet, “We’re picking up unknown signatures from planetside!”

“Hostile warships!?” Captain Tarkin rushed to the edge of the data pit before he did.

“N-No Captain!” the chief’s fingers scrambled across his console, “They look like unarmed transports! Three… four of them!”

“They’re approaching us,” Even Piell identified the tiny blinking lights beyond the viewport.

“Guns!” Captain Tarkin roared, sending the bridge scrambling into full combat readiness, “Comms, demand a full transponder readout, now! I want a full-spec sensor scan on those ships!”

Master Piell narrowed his single eye as the transports creeped closer, his senses heightening. They looked innocent enough; four A-class bulk freighters, of the old and fairly common PCL 27 design, with the kind of exteriors that came from either a lifetime of honest work or else a short and spectacularly unsuccessful career of piracy.

Their cargo bays registered completely empty, and there were no weapons emplacements that the Insolent’s sensors could pick up.

“We’re picking up biosigns!” the sensor chief shouted, “All of them are full of biosigns!”

Captain Tarkin’s eyes narrowed in alarm, “Refugees?”

“We got a transponder! Iron Gull, out of Corsin! They must’ve come here on a routine freight run until the Separatists fell on them!”

They’re all legitimate, Master Piell thought as he scanned the codes, “I want to talk to them.”

“You’re patched through on open, General.”

“Iron Gull, this is the battlecarrier Insolent of the Republic Navy,” Even Piell spoke forcefully, “State your purpose at once, or we must consider you a hostile vessel!”

“...W-Wait!” a young, frantic voice suddenly responded, “This is Iron Gull! This is Iron Gull! We… uh, we’re carrying refugees out of Taris! We’re seeking asylum! Don’t shoot! You need to help us!”

“Iron Gull!” Captain Tarkin marched forward, “Cut your engines at once! Where are the Separatists!?”

Iron Gull didn’t cut her engines, and the small convoy of four continued burning hard towards Insolent.

“N-No! You need to help us!” the voice’s desperation was genuine, the Jedi Master could sense it, “The Separatist fleet left after they destroyed the planet’s shields with a giant laser! They could blast the entire planet to–”

There was a dull bang followed by a loud yelp in the background, followed by stark silence.

“...Cut your main drives, Iron Gull!” Captain Tarkin’s gaze was completely fixated on the approaching convoy, “I will say this for the last time! Cut your engines or we will be forced to open fire!”

“There are people on those ships, Captain,” Master Piell warned, “Tens, if not hundreds of thousands of people.”

“If there would be a Separatist trap, this would be it,” Wilhuff Tarkin snarled, and Even Piell couldn’t refute him. This was exactly the sort of thing the Separatists would do.

“General, Captain!” the sensor chief shouted, “We’re picking up more signatures! Hundreds, thousands! They’re all transports!”

Thousands of twinkling lights were emerging from Taris’ celestial shadow, all unarmed transports bursting with biosigns, likely following Iron Gull’s lead. They could not know the situation planetside with the apparent communications blackout, but with the Separatist fleet withdrawn, millions of Tarisians seemed to be seizing their chance to escape to the safety of Task Force Insolent in orbit.

“We can’t let them approach, General,” Captain Tarkin told him firmly.

“I agree.”

“All Tarisian vessels, this is the Republic Navy!” Captain Tarkin immediately announced into the comms, “Break off your approach vector and head to the established staging grounds for processing. If you fail to do so, we will open fire!”

The fleet of transports hesitated for a breathless moment, their chaotic formations wavering like leaves caught in a swirling wind. Then, one by one, their engines flared and they altered course, shifting to the staging grounds in orbit hastily designated by the frantic staff officers. Their departure was a sluggish process, ships clustering together in nervous groups as they manoeuvred away, reluctant to stray too far from what they perceived as their best hope for safety. All except for the Iron Gull.

The fleet of four bulk freighters maintained its course, stubbornly accelerating toward the fleet's heart. Their navigational lights blinked in defiance, and even without words, its intent was clear: they weren’t stopping.

Captain Tarkin’s eyes narrowed as he observed the vessel's audacity.

“They test our resolve, General,” he said coldly, a hand resting lightly on the edge of the ship’s console.

Even Piell’s sharp features remained impassive, though his mind churned. Through the Force, he could sense the panic radiating from the freighter, a desperate determination tinged with fear.

“Captain,” he said evenly, “Hail them again. Let us see if reason can prevail before we resort to more… persuasive measures.”

Tarkin nodded sharply, “Iron Gull, this your last warning! Shut down your main drives now or we will open fire!”

They waited a beat, and another, and the Iron Gull continued roaring towards them hell for leather.

Captain Tarkin looked at the Jedi General. The Jedi Master could acutely sense the mounting tension on the bridge as they awaited his judgement.

“Aim for their engines. Low power shots.”

The Flag Captain saluted stiffly, turning around with a click of his heels, “Aim for the thrusters of those transports! Minimum power setting–shoot to disable, not destroy! Open fire!”

Insolent’s guns thundered to life, a handful of dim blue bolts streaked toward the Iron Gull and the three other freighters veering toward them on collision trajectories. The hulking vessels shuddered under the impacts as explosions tore through their aft sections, all of their impetus dying and leaving them listing forwards on the invisible rails of inertia. For a precious moment, it appeared as if the threat had subsided–until the Iron Gull’s forward freight door yawned open, breaking off shards of ice and–suddenly, the cargo bay was no longer empty.

One of the deck officers sucked in a breath. A tight-packed mass of something was in there, totally filling the space where Insolent’s sensors had read nothing. A mass that was even now exploding outward like a hornet’s nest out of the Iron Gull’s gaping maw. A familiar scene was shared across all four transports.

At first, the objects seemed inert, metallic pods tumbling free in chaotic spirals, like the flotsam of some shipyard scrap heap. Then the pods began to power up, their surfaces glowing faintly with embedded emitters. A collective gasp swept the bridge as the tactical officer’s panicked voice broke through the tension.

"Alert! Interdiction mines! Hundreds–no, thousands of them!"

Even Piell’s heart clenched as he realised the magnitude of the trap. The Force surged with urgency, and he stepped forward sharply. “Target those mines! Prioritise point defence!”

Insolent’s point-defence batteries lit up, their rapid-fire bursts painting the void in dazzling streaks of fire. Turbolaser bolts and flak rounds erupted from escort ships as the Republic fleet scrambled to react. But for every mine neutralised, another slipped through, screaming towards them on ion manoeuvre thrusters.

It was then that the Jedi Master saw them. Bodies. Human bodies. Aqualish bodies. Duros bodies. Nikto bodies. Quarren bodies. Rodian bodies. Twi’lek bodies. Thousands of them, streaming out of the now open cargo bays, frozen and tumbling in the void among the debris. The freighters hadn’t been carrying only mines. Civilians–likely the very Tarisians seeking escape–had been packed into the cargo bays like cattle and launched toward the fleet as grisly distractions.

“Shoot down those mines!” Tarkin howled, unable to completely hide his own alarm, “General, your orders!?”

There was no time to dispense orders.

“General!” the sensor officer shouted, “Cronau radiation detected! Separatist fleet emerging from hyperspace! Bearing one-four-five mark oh-two-two! Range–they’re right on top of us!”

Even Piell didn’t need the Force to feel the shift in the room. Every officer froze for a fraction of a second as the enormous hulks of Separatist warships snapped into existence right on top of them, captured by the artificial mass shadows generated by the interdiction mines, led by a massive Providence-class dreadnought.

General Grievous had sprung his trap perfectly.

“Shields to the dorsal aft!” the Jedi General barked, his voice cutting through the panic, “Form up defensive wedges! Have the rearguard engage the enemy! Recall Task Force Garland at once!”

“A second fleet just exited from hyperspace, bearing oh-three-three mark three-oh-four! Range pending!”

Insolent’s EWAR suites howled in alarm as enemy targeting systems locked onto the Republic flagship and singled her out among the fleet. Holographic displays lit up across the bridge, a web of blue vectors converging on the Providence-class dreadnought bearing down on them. The Separatist flagship’s jagged hull bristled with turbolaser batteries and missile launchers, its aggressive dive towards the Insolent deliberate and focused.

Grievous is aiming for my head. He even brought in a second fleet to box us in.

“Enemy flagship on direct intercept course!” Captain Tarkin reported, his voice taut with urgency, “Registry confirms–callsign Invisible Hand! Range nine-thousand klicks and closing fast!”

Insolent’s inertial compensation systems strained as the ship banked sharply, her sublight engines roaring to life in a desperate attempt to evade the collision course. But the Invisible Hand pursued with terrifying determination, shrugging off the defensive volleys from the Republic’s heavy cruisers as though they were mere nuisances. Explosions rippled across its shields, lighting up its prow, but the leviathan didn’t slow.

“Forward batteries, focus fire on their bridge!” Captain Tarkin barked, his composure like a blade honed to deadly sharpness, “Divert auxiliary power to the dorsal and forward shields!”

Even Piell’s senses tingled with forewarning as the Force whispered its warning. This was no standard assault; General Grievous was making a statement, throwing caution to the void in his singular pursuit of the Insolent. The Jedi Master tightened his grip on the edge of a console as the deck pitched beneath him, the ship’s frame groaning under the strain of emergency manoeuvres.

“They’re swarming!” an officer screamed as a boiling black tide of droid starfighters rose up and down in a tidal pattern.

“Deploy our fighter wings!”

The tactical holoprojector was alive with frantic activity. Hundreds of glowing icons swirled across the display in a storm of overlapping vectors. Starfighter squadrons from both sides tangled in a deadly dance of intercepts and bombing runs, their desperate dogfights lighting up the void around the Insolent.

“Shields down to seventy percent!” shouted a young officer, her voice cracking under the strain.

“Where is General Unduli?” Captain Tarkin demanded, his tone ice-cold despite the chaos.

The Invisible Hand loomed larger in the viewport with each passing second, its prow glowing ominously with the light of charged energy weapons. Insolent’s proximity alarms shrieked in unison as Grievous’ flagship closed the gap with reckless abandon, its massive form casting a long shadow over the beleaguered Republic fleet.

“Garland’s engaging the of Separatist rearguard, sir!” another officer reported. “ETA for closest reinforcements–seventeen minutes!”

Insolent trembled as the titanic bulk of General Grievous' flagship pulled alongside, its beaked prow blotting out the stars. The ship's interior was a symphony of chaos–alarms blared in a shrill, relentless chorus while amber emergency lights bathed the corridors and bulkheads in a flickering glow. The deck beneath their feet vibrated as another volley of turbolaser fire rattled the shields, the booming impacts reverberating through the ship like distant thunder.

“We don’t have seventeen minutes,” Tarkin muttered, his expression grim as he turned to the tactical display. The Providence-class dreadnought alongside them was highlighted in ominous red, its proximity threatening to engulf the Insolent. “All batteries, concentrate fire on the Invisible Hand!”

“They’re preparing to board,” General Piell said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the chaos. He turned toward the internal comms station, “Alert all decks. Prepare for close quarters combat.”

The bridge shuddered violently as another salvo of enemy fire connected, and Piell braced himself against the nearest console. The Force surged around him, heavy with impending violence. A harsh metallic screech echoed through the ship, heralding the unmistakable sound of docking clamps biting into Insolent's hull.

“They’ve attached boarding tubes on decks five through seven! Droids are pouring in!”

“Deploy all available troopers to the breached decks,” he ordered calmly, centering the bridge around him.

The Jedi Master retreated into the Battle Room with Captain Tarkin in tow, his one good eye fixed on the tactical display as red icons swarmed through the holographic representation of the Insolent. The vibrations of explosions and blaster fire rattled through the deck plating, clones shouting reports over the comm channels, their voices punctuated by the sharp staccato of blaster fire and the unmistakable clanking of droid footsteps.

“They’ve breached onto deck four!”

“We’re engaging droidekas on deck six! Reinforcements needed immediately!”

“They’re coming into the portside hangar!”

“This is the engineering team! We’re pinned down in the main reactor room!”

Piell’s gaze swept to a side monitor showing live feeds from the ship’s internal cameras. Through the grainy, flickering images, he saw droids pouring into the corridors in precise formations, their blasters cutting down clone troopers holding defensive positions. A group of BX commando droids darted with unnerving agility toward the reactor core, their movements methodical and lethal.

“They want to deactivate the main reactor,” Master Piell murmured.

“They don’t want us to blow the ship,” Wilhuff Tarkin answered.

Another screen showed the escape pod bay, where a squad of battle droids methodically dismantled the control panels, ensuring no survivors could escape. Farther aft, boarding shuttles continued to disgorge fresh waves of reinforcements into the port and starboard hangars, overwhelming the remaining defenders. Insolent’s point-defence cannons had been swamped too quickly to repel the onslaught.

The largest contingent of droids was marching relentlessly toward the bridge. The trooper squads and blast doors slowed them, but only for what felt like moments. Blaster fire tore down the corridors, and when the clones' resistance grew too fierce, the droids resorted to thermal detonators, leaving walls blackened and corridors choked with bodies and debris.

The Battle Room went stiff as a camera feed shifted to reveal a towering, skeletal figure at the head of the boarding party, flanked by cloaked MagnaGuards. General Grievous moved through the smoke and wreckage with an unsettling grace, tattered cape billowing in the breeze of escaping atmosphere. His hunched frame loomed impossibly tall, his mechanical limbs elongated and spindly yet radiating a lethal strength. Each motion was precise, almost eerily fluid for a being composed mostly of duranium and cybernetics.

He was a grotesque amalgamation of technology and organic remnants, plated in armorplast. The faint outlines of once-living tissue clung stubbornly beneath his chest plates, the subtle rise and fall of his ribbed chest suggested life–artificial though it might be–fueled by a cybernetic heart that pulsed with a muted hum.

General Grievous slowed right beneath the camera, as if sensing their watchful gaze, each clawed footfall striking sparks from the deck, durasteel talons gouging into the metal in an almost casual effort. His hands, skeletal and razor-sharp, gripped the white helmet of a clone trooper.

His head tilted upwards, his sunken, sulphurous eyes burning as he stared into the hidden camera. His mechanical arm rose, lifting up the helmet to the camera.

“Run, Jedi,” the monster’s voice was a chilling cacophony of grinding metal and rasping amusement; a guttural, mechanical snarl that dripped with malice and yet echoed like the dying gasp of a wounded predator, “Run, Jedi, run!”

His clawed hands flexed, crunching down on the helmet–and white plastoid was tainted with a bloody red gore as he popped the decapitated head like a balloon.

“Hah… hah-hah… HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!”

That tortured, mocking laughter bounced off the walls as the unnatural creature proceeded, not even bothering to disable the camera and leaving them all staring at the empty, death-strewn corridor.

Jedi Master Even Piell shared a grim look with his Flag Captain, before turning his attention to the heavy blast doors sewn shut. Despite that, he seemed to hear the heavy metallic footfalls encroaching ever and ever closer. He unhooked his lightsaber and cautiously approached the door, flanked by dozens of clone troopers and staff officers taking up small arms, some determined, most frozen with justified fear.

Then, with a shriek of lacerated metal, the blast doors shuddered violently. Four thin beams of blue-green light slashed through the heavy steel like a hot knife through butter, their edges sizzling with molten heat. The lightsabers twisted and spun, carving wide, deliberate arcs as they melted through the reinforced door. Sweat dripped down the old Jedi Master’s forehead.

“Run, Jedi, run!” General Grievous laughed from the other side, knowing full well there was nowhere for them to go, “Ruun! Ruuun! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!”