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Chapter Text

The bridge of the Confederacy Command Ship Icebreaker was a pocket of logic suspended in the heart of the raging, silent chaos visible on the main viewscreen. The low, urgent hum of the ship’s powerful reactor was a constant thrum beneath the deck plates, punctuated by the shriek of sparking, overloaded consoles and the insistent beep of damage control alarms. The symphony of battle was a purely visual one, a silent, terrible ballet of light and destruction.

Three Republic Venator-class Star Destroyers, behemoths of war and Republic might, formed a blood-red spearhead aimed directly at them. Their iconic, exposed dual bridges stood as proud, arrogant targets, symbols of the Republic's confidence. Flanking this trio of predators were four smaller, yet still formidable, Acclamator-class assault ships—less true warships and more transgalactic transports, designed to disgorge armies onto a planet's surface. A living storm of fighters, a mix of the heavy, three-man ARC-170s and the nimble V-19 Torrents, buzzed between the capital ships.

Against this magnificent and terrifying armada, Commander Zíro Varis’s meager task force—three Munificent-class star frigates—looked like prey cornered and waiting for the inevitable slaughter. His own command ship was a subtle act of defiance in itself. While its sister ships wore the standard grey and blue of the Separatist Navy, the Icebreaker bore a custom deep green stripe along its sleek, elongated front plating, sweeping back to frame the primary command bridge section. This vibrant green, a distinct deviation from standard livery, also adorned the front side of its massive, wing-like armor plating, giving the vessel a predatory, almost organic feel amidst the cold mechanics of war. It was a detail paid for not by the Confederacy, but by the Varis family of Centa Primera.

Zíro Varis stood with one of his hands clasped behind his back, his uniform immaculate despite the chaos. His focused gaze scanned the Republic fleet formations as he handed a data pad, filled with the intel on the Republic admiral and the expected fleet maneuvers, to a nearby B1 battle droid without looking.

“Calculations are complete, Commander,” the flat, synthesized voice of T-622 stated from its command post at the central holotable. The advanced tactical droid, its chassis a cold, gunmetal grey, turned its angular head to face the lone human on the bridge. Its optical sensors glowed a soft, analytical blue. “Probability of victory against the current Republic fleet, based on standard combat doctrines, stands at 12.7 percent. Probability of our survival, should we engage, is 7.2 percent. My standing recommendation is a full retreat to the nearest designated safe zone.”

Zíro paid the tactical droid’s dire assessment little mind. His sharp eyes were fixed on the enemy fleet, not as an overwhelming threat, but as an intricate problem. A complex puzzlebox waiting to be unlocked.

“And what is the probability of a successful retreat, T-622?” Zíro asked, his voice a calm, measured baritone that cut through the noise of the bridge.

“The Republic vessels possess superior sublight engine capabilities and a significantly larger fighter compliment,” the droid replied instantly, its vocalizer devoid of emotion. “Factoring in their pursuit vectors, the probability of a successful disengagement is 21.4 percent. Our odds are marginally better if we flee.”

“Not good enough,” Zíro murmured, his gaze sweeping across the Republic formation. It was a classic, textbook deployment. Overconfident. They were preparing for a frontal assault, intending to use their fighters to swarm the frigates sides and back.

The immense pressure of the moment was a physical weight on his shoulders, a familiar companion in his short but meteoric career. It wasn't just the fate of his ships or the thousands of droids under his command. It was the crushing weight of his father’s immense, unyielding expectations, a bargain struck in the boardrooms and halls of power that had placed him here, in this impossible situation.

The memory was sharp, unbidden, cutting through the sterile reality of the bridge. He was standing in his father’s office back in Centa Primera, a vast chamber at the apex of the Varis Spire, a tower of glass and steel that pierced the clouds of the capital city. Rain, thick and grey, lashed against the armored transparisteel, mirroring the stormy look in his father’s eyes.

“They have accepted the terms,” his father, Lord Kaelen Varis, had said, his voice a low rumble that commanded attention. He stood tall and proud, a patriarch whose family’s influence stretched from the mining worlds and shipyards of the Outer Rim, all the way to the boardrooms of the Corporate Sector and the highest echelons of galactic politics. “The Varis name will be etched into the foundation of this new galactic order. Our family will be the single largest private investor in the Confederacy’s war effort.”

Zíro, younger then, his face yet to be hardened by command, stood at a rigid parade rest. “And in exchange for this generosity, Father?”

“In exchange,” his father turned from the window, his gaze as sharp and piercing as a laser scalpel, “they give you a chance. A position of leadership.” He placed a heavy, demanding hand on his son’s shoulder, his grip like iron. “Do not squander it.”

Zíro’s eyes snapped back to the present, the memory fading but its weight remaining. Failure was not a possibility. It was an existential threat to everything his family stood for.

“T-622,” he said, his voice now imbued with a sharp, undeniable authority. “Relay new orders to the Harbinger and the Relentless. Launch all Vulture droids. Every last one. Their primary objective is not to engage the Republic fighters, but to execute a high-speed, direct fly-through of their fighter screen. I want them to appear as a disorganized, panicked swarm. Have them leverage the impossible speed and maneuverability only an unmanned fighter is capable of.”

The tactical droid’s head tilted a fraction of a degree, a subtle sign of computational dissonance. "Commander, that is not a standard attack formation. A scattered charge will result in heavy losses with no clear strategic gain."

“It will give us an opportunity,” Zíro corrected when T-622’s head tilted slightly, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. “The Republic admiral will see a chaotic, amateurish attack. He will assume we are panicking. And what is the standard Republic response to a direct fighter threat heading for their command ship?”

T-622 processed for a moment. “Standard doctrine dictates the immediate deployment of all available interceptors to defend the flagship and focus on neutralizing the immediate threat.”

“Precisely,” Zíro affirmed. “He will open the main hangar doors of his command ship to launch the rest of his fighters. And when he does… he will expose its heart.” He turned to the droid, his eyes glinting. “Once that hangar is open, focus all power to our front shields and our main twin turbolasers. Target that hangar bay. I want a concentrated, triple barrage. Do it.”

“...Acknowledged,” T-622 stated after a half-second pause. “Relaying orders.”

“Roger, roger,” chirped the B1 droids at their consoles in unison.

The three Munificent frigates surged forward as one. From their hulls, hatches slid open and a plague of Vulture droids launched into the void. Their engines flared to life, and instead of forming a disciplined attack wing, they shot forward in a frantic, buzzing cloud, a wave of metallic chaos aimed directly at the heart of the enemy fleet.

On the bridge of the Venator flagship, the Valiant, the Republic admiral would be watching, likely with a smirk. He would see desperation, not deception. Just as Zíro had predicted, the enemy fighters on patrol peeled off to intercept the swarm. But the Vulture droids didn’t engage; they simply flew past, a river of durasteel parting around the Republic fighters. In response to the apparent threat, a vast section of the Valiant’s hull slid open, revealing the cavernous space of its main hangar bay, filled with fighters on their launch platforms.

As the Vulture droids streamed past the Republic fighter screen, a constant exchange of fire painted the void. Blue bolts from the Republic craft crisscrossed with the Separatist fighters' red bursts, a silent, deadly ballet unfolding at incredible speeds. The enemy capital ships, their side turbolasers already tracking the incoming frigates, began to unleash sporadic, devastating volleys. Zíro’s ships shuddered repeatedly as blue energy splashed across their front shields.

“They’ve taken the bait,” Zíro said, his voice a low, predatory growl. “All ships, on my mark. Concentrate all forward cannon fire on that open hangar. Fire!”

The universe outside the viewscreen erupted in a blinding flash of red. The three frigates unleashed a perfectly synchronized fusillade from their forward-facing heavy turbolasers. Six thick, incandescent lances of energy screamed across the shrinking gap of space.

The lead Venator, caught completely off-guard by the aggressive charge, returned fire, its blue turbolaser bolts splashing against the reinforced front shields of the command ship. Each impact was not heard, but felt—a deep, jarring shudder that ran through the deck plates. But its defensive fire was too little, too late.

The Separatist barrage struck home with cataclysmic force. The six red beams converged on the open hangar bay of the Valiant. The effect was instantaneous and horrific. The energy shields of the hangar flickered and died. The beams sliced through the unarmored interior, vaporizing the launch platforms and the fighters. A chain reaction ripped through the ship’s central spine. A spectacular fireball erupted from the hangar, a silent, expanding sphere of white-hot plasma. Secondary explosions blossomed along the Venator’s side as entire decks were torn apart from within.

“Direct hit,” T-622 stated, its voice as flat as if it were reporting sensor readings. “The enemy command vessel is venting atmosphere and suffering catastrophic internal detonations. It is crippled.”

“It is not dead,” Zíro countered, his face a mask of cold focus. “Now, while their command structure is in chaos. Target the bridges. Full barrage. Their shields are barely holding. Don’t let them recover.”

Before the crippled Venator could even begin damage control, a second devastating salvo of red energy lanced out from the Separatist frigates. This time, the beams converged on the ship’s exposed bridge towers. The shields, already weakened, shattered like invisible glass. The towers, with the Republic admiral and his entire command staff inside, simply ceased to exist, atomized in a flash of light. The great ship, its brain surgically removed, began to drift, a dead, burning hulk.

The battle had now entered a more chaotic and unpredictable phase. The loss of their command ship sent the Republic fleet into disarray. Zíro seized the moment.

“T-622, new orders for the Vulture droids. A wing will engage the Republic fighters directly. The rest will break off and begin suicide runs on the two remaining Venators. I want them to get in close and fly directly into the regional shield generators on the ships' hulls, draw their fire away from us.”

“Acknowledged.”

The Vulture droids executed the command flawlessly. Some swarmed the confused enemy fighter squadrons, engaging them in silent, swirling dogfights. The rest, a wing of several dozen, turned their attention to the capital ships, diving towards them and crashing into their hulls in flashes of light.

Meanwhile, the frigates continued their relentless advance. Republic fighters that evaded the Vulture droids attempted to swarm the Munificents, but the frigates' constant, coordinated point-defense fire created a deadly screen of red energy that kept them at bay, preventing them from getting close enough to inflict significant damage.

It was now that Zíro initiated the most dangerous phase of his plan.

“Harbinger, Relentless, advance with us. Maintain a tight support formation, draw their fire. We are punching through the center. Icebreaker will lead the charge.”

“Commander,” T-622 interjected. “To advance between two Venator-class Star Destroyers… all previous combat simulations indicate a 98 percent probability of total destruction.”

“I am aware of the risks, T-622,” Zíro stated, his voice sharp. “If we maintain this formation, we're just trading shots until our shields fail. Their ships are stronger, our shields are already battered. Their victory is a mathematical certainty. Our only chance is to shatter their formation and their expectations.”

The three frigates, now a tight spearhead, surged forward. The Icebreaker plunged into the heart of the battle, flying directly between the two behemoth Star Destroyers. The Harbinger and Relentless followed close, their positions carefully angled to provide covering fire while drawing the attention of the Venators' guns from the front. The bridge of Zíro's command ship shuddered violently as blue bolts from the wider battle struck its shields, which flared and weakened with each impact.

“We are in position,” he announced, his voice ringing with cold triumph. “Target their main turbolaser batteries on both ships! I want them disarmed. After that, we hit their side armor plating. Concentrate fire where their reactors are housed! Fire at will! Unleash everything we have.”

From its new vantage point, nestled precariously between its two giant adversaries, the Icebreaker unleashed a hellish, point-blank barrage. Its powerful side turbolasers, now at close range, spat red energy that slammed into the heavy turbolaser emplacements of both Venators. The Republic ships were rocked by internal explosions as their primary weapons were systematically destroyed. While this neutralized their greatest threat at close range, the Venators were far from helpless. Their opposite sides still bristled with heavy cannons, and smaller point-defense batteries across their hulls spat a continuous, if less effective, stream of blue energy at the Separatist ships.

The two supporting frigates, their guns blazing, supported the assault from the front, their fire raking the partially disarmed Venators. But the Republic was far from defeated.

One of the Venators, its captain clearly a veteran, ignored Zíro's ship and focused all its remaining firepower on the closer of the two sister frigates. The Relentless was caught in a furious torrent of blue turbolaser fire. Its shields buckled, then failed. Beams of pure energy tore through its thin hull, targeting the ship's exposed bridge.

“The Relentless is critical!” a B1 droid reported, its voice flat.

On the tactical holomap, Zíro watched the red icon of the dying frigate flare brilliantly as it fired its main cannons one last time, a final act of defiance before its signature winked out. A vengeful red salvo lanced out, striking deep into the Venator's reactor housing just as its own bridge was vaporized. Secondary explosions tore through the Relentless, ripping it apart into a cloud of silent, drifting debris.

The loss was a cold spike in Zíro’s gut, but he didn’t flinch. “Maintain fire!” he roared. “They have no main guns left on this side! Target their reactors, hangars, and bridges! Do not let up!”

The Icebreaker shuddered again as a volley from the other Venator found its mark. The ship vibrated violently, warning lights flashing red across the consoles as the deck tilted.

“Side shields are barely holding! Power conduits stressed at 90 percent!” a droid officer announced, its voice synthesized but urgent. The repeated impacts felt like giant, unseen fists hammering the ship's hull.

The battle had reached its savage peak. The second Venator, half of its main guns silenced, its hull shredded by the combined fire, and its reactor critically damaged by the final shot from the Relentless, finally succumbed. Its main reactor began to glow with a terrifying intensity, as the Republic Destroyer started to drift away. 

“T-622, that enemy reactor is going to explode!” Zíro shouted, his calm finally breaking. He gripped the edge of the holotable. “Reroute all available power to the side shields! Full power!”

The Icebreaker lurched violently as its engines roared to life, trying to pull away from the dying behemoth. The shields on its side surged with power, forming an invisible field of energy—a fragile barrier against the inevitable.

The Venator exploded. It didn’t make a sound. It simply became a sun, a rapidly expanding sphere of white-hot plasma that consumed everything near it. The command ship, caught in the blastwave, was violently thrown sideways. On the bridge, Zíro was slammed against the holotable, his head hitting the hard surface. Droids were thrown from their stations. The main lights died, plunging them into the red glare of emergency lighting as sirens blared to life. Consoles exploded in showers of sparks, their internal wiring exposed and hissing. The ship screamed in protest, the groaning of tortured metal a sound he could feel in his teeth. He tasted blood.

For a long moment, the only systems online were the weak, flickering shields, life support, and the sublight engines. Then, with a shudder, the main power came back on, revealing a bridge in chaos.

The viewscreen showed the last, heavily damaged Venator turning to flee, its surviving Acclamator escorts following in its wake. There were now two colossal, burning wrecks where Republic flagships had been.

“They’re running,” Zíro said, pushing himself off the table, his voice a low gasp. A trickle of blood ran from his temple. “Do not let them escape entirely. Target the two rear Acclamators. Destroy them.”

The heavily damaged Icebreaker and the battered Harbinger unleashed a final, vengeful barrage. Two of the smaller assault ships, caught by the red fire, were shattered into drifting wreckage as the rest of the Republic fleet vanished into the star-streaked tunnel of hyperspace.

The bridge of Zíro’s ship was a cacophony of alarms and the crackle of exposed wiring. The viewscreen showed a scene of utter devastation: a vast debris field containing the burning, silent husks of two Star Destroyers, two assault ships, and one Separatist frigate. The cost had been immense. But they held the field.

“Damage report,” Zíro ordered, his voice low and weary as he wiped the blood from his brow.

“One frigate lost with its full crew,” T-622 reported, having already righted itself. “The Harbinger is crippled. It has lost its main forward weapons, half of its engines, and its hyperdrive is offline. Our command ship has sustained severe damage to its hull, engines, and weapon systems. The side turbolaser arrays are offline. Fires have been reported on both surviving frigates; damage control units have been dispatched. Of the 144 Vulture droids deployed, 29 have survived, representing a 20.13 percent operational survival rate. However, the objective has been achieved.”

Zíro walked to the viewscreen, looking out at the graveyard he had created. He felt the cold sting of loss, but it was overshadowed by the burning fire of victory. He had been tested, and he had not been found wanting.

“How long until our hyperdrive is stable for a jump, T-622?” Zíro asked, turning from the window of silent destruction.

“Emergency repair crews are rerouting power and patching the primary drive coils on both surviving vessels,” the droid calculated. “Swarms of astromechs are working on the outer hull, while B1 units attend to internal damage. Calculations suggest a stable window in approximately one standard hour. Until then, we are vulnerable.”

T-622 paused, then its head tilted. “Commander. My pre-battle calculations did not account for your strategic model. The successful outcome, despite the statistical improbability, is a result of your effective, non-standard tactics.". I am updating my tactical database with the parameters of this engagement for the future.”

For a tense hour, the two surviving frigates floated in their own debris field, silent save for the frantic work of repair droids, sparks from their welding torches the only movement against the backdrop of stars. Finally, the navi-computer chirped its readiness.

“Take us back to Raxus,” he said softly. “It’s time to report in.”

The jump was a tense affair. Hours later, the Icebreaker limped into orbit around the rust-colored plains and strange, towering rock formations of Raxus Secundus, the Confederacy's capital. The communications droid, its chassis dented from the battle, approached him.

“Commander,” it said. “An incoming priority transmission. From Count Dooku himself.”

Zíro, having changed into a fresh, crisp uniform, hiding the small bandage on his temple, nodded. “Patch it to the holotable.”

The regal, imposing figure of Count Dooku shimmered into existence. His expression was, as always, severe and unreadable, his dark cape settling around him as he clasped his hands behind his back.

“Commander Varis,” Dooku’s deep, cultured voice filled the bridge, carrying a weight that made even the droids seem to stand straighter. “I have just received the full after-action report of your engagement. To not only survive, but to inflict such a decisive defeat upon a superior force is… impressive. Most impressive.”

“We serve the Confederacy, my Lord,” Zíro replied, his voice a steady, respectful baritone.

“Indeed,” Dooku said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “It seems your father’s considerable faith in your abilities was not misplaced. Your victory has sent a clear message to the Republic. As a reward for this remarkable action, your rank of Admiral is hereby confirmed. I am allocating two more Munificent-class frigates to your fleet, and you are also being granted a Lucrehulk-class battleship as a heavy support vessel. You will have access to the funds from your family’s coffers, as per your father's wishes, to retrofit your ships and the droids under your command as you see fit. Your methods have yielded extraordinary results. The Confederacy has plans for an officer of your caliber, Admiral. I will be in contact once your new fleet is back and operational for your next objective.”

The hologram of the esteemed Head of State faded, leaving Zíro alone on his bridge once more. The weight of his father’s expectations had now been replaced by the far heavier, and far more dangerous, weight of the Count’s. He had his victory. He had his promotion. He had his reward. And now, he had the freedom to begin building his army, and his legend, his way.

For Zíro, this war had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The journey from the grit and chaos of Raxus Secundus to the heart of his family's dominion was a study in contrasts. Aboard his personal Sheathipede-class Type B shuttle, Zíro Varis watched as the star-streaked tunnel of hyperspace dissolved into the brilliant blue-white star of the Centa system. Before him, the planet of his birth swam into view, a jewel of deep greens and rich, earthy hues.

Centa Primera was a world without oceans. From orbit, it was a breathtaking mosaic of land and water, where continents were not defined by coastlines but by vast mountain ranges and sprawling forests. A thousand sapphire lakes, some as large as inland seas, were connected by a web of silver rivers that crisscrossed the landmasses like veins of liquid metal.

As the shuttle began its descent, the planet's unique palette became even more pronounced. The air was crisp, the light golden, casting long, dramatic shadows across the landscape. Vast plains were not simply green but a tapestry of amber, gold, and deep ochre, ready for harvest. Forests climbed the slopes of rust-colored mountains, their canopies a breathtaking riot of crimson, orange, and burnished copper. It was a world perpetually poised in a state of graceful transition, exuding a sense of profound, settled peace.

Gleaming cities rose from the plains and valleys, their spires of polished metal and white stone reflecting the golden sunlight. The capital city, Caelus, shimmered in the distance, a sprawling testament to advanced engineering and natural beauty.

The shuttle soared over Caelus, a magnificent metropolis of soaring towers and elegant sky-bridges, before banking towards the private Varis estate. The ancestral home was a fortress of elegance, a sprawling palace complex of dark, polished stone and armored transparisteel built into the side of a mountain, overlooking a vast, shimmering lake.

As the shuttle settled onto the private landing platform with a whisper-quiet hiss, the ramp lowered to reveal Lord Kaelen and Lady Elara waiting for their son.

Zíro stepped out first, and for the first time since the battle, he was seen not just as a commander, but as a man returning home. He was tall, with a lean, athletic build honed by years of military training. His posture was ramrod straight. He wore the standard uniform of a Confederacy naval officer: a dark grey tunic with lighter grey highlights and white piping. A functional black belt cinched his waist, carrying a holstered blaster and, conspicuously, a sleek vibro-sword at his left hip. His dark trousers and polished black boots completed the ensemble. His dark hair was cut short and neat, and his features were sharp and aristocratic. But it was his eyes that held one's attention; they were a cool, assessing shade of steel grey, betraying a tactical mind that was always processing, always calculating. A faint, healing scar was just visible at his temple, the only physical mark of his recent trial by fire.

Behind him, his new entourage disembarked with unnerving efficiency. First came the two BX-series commando droids, their sleek, dark frames moving with a fluid lethality, their photoreceptors glowing a menacing white. Following them, a dozen B1 battle droids marched out in two perfect columns, their spindly forms and chattering speech patterns a familiar sight, but their synchronized precision showed they were a cut above the standard infantry model. Bringing up the rear were four B2 super battle droids, their hulking, heavily armored bodies thudding on the ramp, their wrist cannons a clear statement of power. And finally, T-622 emerged, its gunmetal grey chassis unmarked, its analytical gaze sweeping across the estate, cataloging everything.

Lord Kaelen stepped forward. He was an older, harder version of his son, his hair streaked with silver at the temples, his face a mask of stern patrician pride. He was dressed in opulent but severe robes of black and gold. He did not embrace his son, but clasped his shoulder firmly.

“Admiral,” he said, his voice a low baritone that resonated with authority. He gave a slight, approving nod at the new rank. “A satisfactory victory.”

"Thank you, Father. I am glad to have returned."

Beside his father, Lady Elara was a vision of grace and maternal anxiety. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair elegantly styled, and her fine silk gown could not hide the tension in her posture. She ignored the formalities, rushing forward to gently cup Zíro’s face in her hands, her eyes scanning him for any injury.

“Zíro, you’re safe,” she breathed, her relief a palpable wave. But then her expression shifted, and her gaze hardened. “I saw the tactical readouts. Placing your command ship at the head of the charge was an audacious and incredibly dangerous move. You won, but the risk you took was immense.”

“The risk was calculated, Mother,” Zíro said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly as he allowed himself a moment of warmth. “And it was necessary."

They walked into the grand hall of the palace, its ceilings impossibly high, its walls adorned with ancient tapestries depicting the history of their lineage. Servitor droids hummed silently past.

“Your mother is right about the risk,” Lord Kaelen remarked as they walked, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. “But it paid a significant dividend beyond the battlefield. HoloNet news feeds are calling you the ‘Hero of the Perlemian.’ You've become a celebrity, son. It's a powerful tool for public morale.”

“If my actions inspire confidence in our cause and ensure our people remain safe, then I am glad,” Zíro responded. “You and Mother have always led by example, showing that strength is meant to protect. However, my focus must remain on the objectives I am given, not on headlines.”

They reached a plush seating area overlooking the serene lake and sat. Once settled, Zíro continued, “Speaking of objectives, my initial training on Ryloth was informative. During the blockade, I served under Captain Tuuk. My primary duty was to coordinate orbital fire support for the Techno Union's ground operation. I learned a great deal about fleet positioning from him, and the importance of gathering extensive enemy intelligence before committing to a counter-attack. It was a shame to hear his fleet was eventually defeated after I was reassigned. He was a capable officer.”

“A valuable experience, then, despite the eventual loss for the Confederacy there,” noted his father, ever the realist.

“My duties as Commander then took me to the Perlemian Trade Route. A sector largely quiet, as promised, but not without its challenges. Pirates and opportunistic raiders frequently tested our defenses. It provided valuable experience in independent leadership.” Zíro’s gaze grew distant. “It was during a routine patrol that we encountered the Republic fleet, lying in wait. Not just reconnaissance, but prepared for a full-scale planetary assault.”

“Probability analysis confirms the Admiral's assessment,” T-622's synthesized voice cut in, its tone flat and factual. Its head tilted slightly as it addressed the group. “The fleet's composition and trajectory suggest a 92.7% likelihood their primary target was a high-yield mining operation within the sector, or the agri-world of Felucia. The loss of either would have been a significant blow to the Confederacy's regional supply chain.”

Lord Kaelen’s expression darkened. “A Republic invasion fleet… so deep within our claimed territory. That is concerning intelligence.”

“More than concerning, Kaelen,” Lady Elara added, her voice sharp and clear. “Think of the millions who would have starved without the food shipments from Felucia, or the factories that would grind to a halt without the raw materials from those mines. Zíro’s victory wasn't just tactical; it prevented a catastrophe for countless citizens.”

“You are both correct,” Zíro affirmed, his gaze steady. “Their downfall was overconfidence in their fleet's size and firepower. They underestimated my task force and made tactical errors I was able to exploit. That is what ultimately led to our victory and allowed us to counter a potential invasion.”

“You have done your duty, Zíro, and done it well,” Lady Elara said, her tone a mixture of pride and somber understanding. “But the war has many fronts, not all of them among the stars.”

“The political landscape has shifted dramatically since you left for the academies, son,” Lord Kaelen said, his expression severe. “The war’s tendrils reach everywhere. We’ve had to make… adjustments. Our family’s influence may be vast, but even here, on Centa Primera, there are whispers of dissent.”

“Has there been any direct threat to our house, Father?” Zíro asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Lord Kaelen hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing substantial. Petty squabbles, minor industrial sabotage. We are secure. Which is why your presence here, even for a short time, is a welcome respite from the war.”

They continued to discuss the intricacies of galactic politics and the local goings-on. The conversation spanned the changing allegiances of minor systems, the growing demand for raw materials from Centa Primera, and the social impact of the war on the everyday lives of the citizens. It was a rare moment of connection.

As the golden light of the Centa system began to mellow, casting longer, softer shadows across the lake, Lady Elara finally broke the intense discussion. “It is such a beautiful day. Zíro, it’s been too long since we’ve simply walked through Caelus. The main square is particularly lovely at this hour.”

Zíro, despite his internal concerns about being away from his ships, found himself nodding. “I would enjoy that, Mother. It has indeed been too long.” He hadn’t realized how much he missed the simple rhythms of home.

Lord Kaelen, practical as always, merely grunted. “Very well. But you will take a suitable escort. We shall not have our son, a newly minted Admiral, walking unguarded through the capital.”

“Of course, Father. My droids will accompany us,” Zíro replied, glancing at his waiting entourage.

“And a full complement of the family guard,” his father added firmly. “No debate.”

Zíro merely inclined his head. He knew when to pick his battles, and arguing over a few extra bodyguards on a pleasant stroll was not one of them. He genuinely looked forward to seeing the capital again, to feeling the pulse of his home world outside the insulated walls of the estate. 

***

The main square of Caelus was a masterpiece of civic design, and today it was at its most idyllic. Vast and open, its floor was a mosaic of polished, amber-colored stone that warmed under the setting, golden sun. In the center, a grand fountain shot plumes of crystal-clear water high into the air, the spray catching the light like scattered diamonds. Manicured trees with crimson and copper leaves lined the perimeter, their branches rustling in a gentle, crisp breeze, and floating vendor droids hummed quietly between stalls selling everything from exotic fruits to handcrafted jewelry.

Citizens of Centa Primera—merchants, politicians, families with young children—strolled leisurely. The air was filled with the low hum of conversation and the melodic chime of a distant clock tower. It was an oasis of tranquility, which made the sight of Zíro's entourage all the more jarring.

He walked between his father and mother, a small island of military grey and black in a sea of civilian color. Flanking them were the two BX commando droids, their sleek forms and white photoreceptors drawing nervous glances. Behind them, the larger contingent of B1s, B2s, and the Varis family guard formed a perimeter that parted the crowds like a ship's bow through water. T-622 walked just behind, its head swiveling slowly, processing data.

"I'd almost forgotten how beautiful it is," Zíro admitted, his gaze sweeping across the familiar architecture. "The war puts a grey filter over everything. You forget that places like this still exist."

"They exist because of the order our family provides," Lord Kaelen stated. "And because of the victories men like you secure on the frontier."

Lady Elara gently touched her son's arm, pointing with her free hand. "Do you remember that café, Zíro? The one with the green awnings? You and your friends used to spend entire afternoons there, planning all your grand adventures."

A rare, genuine smile touched Zíro's lips. "I remember. We were going to be famous explorers. Find new hyperspace lanes, chart unknown worlds."

"And look at you now," she said warmly. "An Admiral. I suppose you're doing exactly that, in a way."

As they passed the café, an elderly, well-dressed Twi'lek merchant approached them. “Lord Kaelen, Lady Elara,” he said, bowing deeply before turning his gaze to Zíro. “And Admiral Varis. On behalf of the Merchant’s Guild, allow me to offer my congratulations on your victory. You do your family and all of Centa Primera a great honor.”

Lord Kaelen gave a curt, approving nod. "The Admiral is pleased to accept your well-wishes, Chairman Pli."

"Thank you, Chairman. It is good to see the heart of the capital thriving," Zíro replied politely. Just as the Twi'lek moved on, a family approached—a well-dressed couple and their teenage son, who looked to be about sixteen. The boy clutched a small, intricately carved wooden object, his eyes fixed on Zíro with nervous admiration.

"Admiral Varis," the father said with a respectful bow. "Forgive the intrusion. My son, Kael, is a great admirer. He insisted."

The boy stepped forward, holding out the carving. It was the Varis family crest. "I... I made this, sir," he said, his voice a little shaky. "What's it... what's it like? To be up there, in command of a fleet?"

Zíro’s formal demeanor softened. He accepted the carving, the familiar lines of his family’s sigil feeling solid in his gloved hand. He looked from the crest to the boy. "It is a great weight," he answered honestly. "But a necessary one. To protect all of this." He gestured to the peaceful square around them.

"Thank you, Admiral," the boy's mother said, gently placing a hand on her son's shoulder. "Kael, that's enough. Let the Admiral enjoy his homecoming."

The family offered another bow and stepped back into the crowd. Zíro looked down at the crest in his hand, the small, heartfelt gesture leaving him a few paces ahead of his parents. He let out a slow breath, the tension of the last few weeks finally beginning to melt away in the warm, familiar air.

But as he turned, a sudden, chilling premonition washed over him—a cold spike of pure dread that had nothing to do with logic or observation. The peaceful hum of the square suddenly felt discordant, the air thick with unseen malice. It was a sixth sense, an awareness sharpened by years of relentless training until it bordered on something more, a predatory stillness he had learned to trust implicitly. He was, for a moment, truly at peace. And then the warning screamed in his mind.

That was when everything shattered.

"Down!" Zíro bellowed, throwing himself into a dive without a conscious thought, his body already reacting to the silent alarm in his mind.

CRACK

The sound was singular, sharp, and utterly alien in the tranquil square. A searing blue bolt tore through the air where Zíro's head had been a nanosecond before, striking the fountain behind him. Stone and superheated water exploded outwards.

The scene did not descend into chaos. It detonated.

Civilians screamed, a tidal wave of panic washing over the square. Zíro hit the amber stone, rolling behind the base of a large statue as his blaster leapt into his hand.

As Zíro found cover, his droids sprang into action. Their programming instantly identified the highest priority targets now that Zíro had saved himself. One of the commando droids became a living shield, moving with impossible speed to cover his mother, its rifle already raised. The other slammed into his father, shoving him down behind the lip of the fountain with a heavy thud. The Varis guards swarmed around them, forming a wall of dark green armor.

“Where did that come from?!” Zíro yelled from behind cover, his voice a human shout of shock before it dropped back into the cold, sharp bark of a commander. “T-622, origin point!”

"Rooftop!" T-622's synthesized voice was perfectly calm. "Merchant's booth. North-east. Single shooter. Cycler rifle."

Zíro’s eyes locked on the spot. A shadow was already moving. "They're running! BX-1, BX-2, with me! Guards, secure my parents! T-622, lock down this square!"

He broke from cover, sprinting across the exposed plaza. His two commando droids fell into perfect flanking positions, their movements a lethal, coordinated assault. A second blue bolt ricocheted from the stone near his feet, kicking up sparks. Zíro didn't flinch. He raised his own blaster, firing a volley of answering red bolts that chewed into the permacrete of the booth, forcing the assassin to duck back.

The shooter, clad in dark, non-descript clothing, vaulted from the booth to an adjacent rooftop with practiced ease.

“We need to get up there, now!” Zíro yelled, spotting a maintenance ladder on the side of a nearby gallery.

He hit the ladder at full speed, scaling it with the two droids right behind him. They crested the roof into a maze of ventilation units and power conduits. Fifty meters away, the assassin was already sprinting, jumping a gap between buildings. The chase was on—a blur of pounding boots on tile and the sharp exchange of blaster fire.

"Split up! Flank them!" Zíro commanded. He went left, vaulting a wide ventilation shaft, while the two droids split to the right, their magnetic feet allowing them to run along the angled surfaces of the roofing. Blue energy bolts from the assassin’s rifle scored the rooftop around them, superheating the metal. Answering volleys of precise, deadly red fire from his droids kept the shooter from getting a clean shot, forcing them to stay on the move.

The assassin was skilled, kicking over a stack of maintenance canisters to create an obstacle and then sliding under a low-hanging pipe network. Zíro skidded through the rolling canisters, his long coat flaring behind him, never breaking stride. The assassin was fast, but the coordinated pursuit was relentless. They were closing the distance.

Reaching the edge of a three-story building overlooking a busy sky-lane, the assassin made their move. Without hesitating, they took a running leap into open air.

Zíro skidded to a halt at the edge, his blaster raised. The assassin landed perfectly in the open passenger seat of an unmarked landspeeder that had been hovering just out of sight. The speeder's engine roared, and it peeled away, its repulsorlift wash blasting hot air back at them. It weaved recklessly into the dense stream of city traffic before banking sharply and disappearing behind a skyscraper.

He stood on the rooftop, the wind whipping at his uniform. In the distance, the first wail of militia sirens echoed between the skyscrapers, a sound rising from the chaos they had left behind in the square. The tranquil homecoming was over. The war had found him. And as he stared into the canyons of the city where the shooter had vanished, he knew this attempt was only the beginning.

***

In the deep, sound-proofed confines of Lord Kaelen’s private study, the cold reality of the situation settled. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and the low hum of the room’s security field.

“The official investigation is a farce,” Zíro stated, pacing before his father’s immense desk. “The militia is being led in circles. This was a professional operation, and we are giving them time to disappear.”

“And it will remain a farce,” Lord Kaelen said, his voice a low, grim tone. He sat in his high-backed chair, his fingers steepled, looking not at his son but at the sprawling city visible through the armored transparisteel window. “Because it is not designed to succeed.”

Zíro stopped pacing. “You expected this.”

“Not like this,” his father admitted, his voice losing its usual iron control for just a moment. He looked at Zíro, and for the first time, Zíro saw not just a strategist, but a genuinely concerned father. “I knew a move was coming. A political maneuver, a scandal, something to tarnish our name in the Council. I never imagined anyone would be so brazen as to bring open bloodshed to the capital. To risk this kind of chaos on Centa Primera… that changes everything.”

His composure returned, hardening into cold fury. “The political currents on this world have been shifting for months, son. There are whispers in the Council, new alliances being formed in the shadows. This attempt on your life… it is merely the first overt move. Someone within our own power structure wants to weaken our family’s position, and I suspect they are using this war as the perfect cover to advance a pro-Republic agenda from the inside.”

“A traitor in the Council?” Zíro asked, the implications settling heavily.

“The Council is a web,” Lord Kaelen admitted, the frustration clear in his voice. “Twelve Chairmen, and beneath them, dozens of subordinates, ministers, and aides, each with their own network of interests. The rot could be coming from anywhere, hidden behind layers of bureaucracy and political maneuvering. I have no proof, Zíro. I don't know who to trust. I only have the instincts of a lifetime in politics.”

“So we are paralyzed,” Zíro countered, his hand resting on the hilt of his vibro-sword.

“We are,” Lord Kaelen said, a hard glint in his eye, correcting his son. “Officially. We cannot publicly accuse our own government of treachery without a shred of evidence. It would cause panic and shatter public trust. But you… you are now uniquely positioned. This was an attack on our entire house. I need answers, Zíro, and you are the only one who can get them for me.”

“You approve, then. I will hunt them down myself.”

“I do,” Lord Kaelen concluded, his voice a low command. “But it must remain in the shadows. It cannot be official. You will do it discreetly.”

An hour later, Zíro was a different man. The uniform was gone, replaced by a simple, dark-grey flight jacket over a black tunic and trousers—practical, civilian clothing that wouldn't draw a second glance. His Blaster was still at his hip, covered under his jacket, a necessary precaution. Flanked only by his two BX droids and T-622, all now disguised in civilian attire, their metallic frames hidden beneath long coats and their heads shrouded by deep hoods, giving them a vaguely human silhouette, he boarded his shuttle.

His first stop was the Militia Headquarters, a discreet service access port in a quiet, nearby alley. The lock hissed open under T-622’s silent ministration, and they slipped inside, bypassing the front desk and any official record of their visit. They found Captain Roric Slade in the militia’s sparring chambers, alone, viciously slamming a combat remote against the wall with a training staff.

The door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss. Roric spun around, staff raised in a defensive posture, his eyes wide with surprise and alarm at the sight of the three hulking, cloaked figures and the man who led them.

"Zíro?" Roric lowered his weapon, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "What in the blazes are you doing skulking in the back corridors? You could have been shot."

The surprise in his voice was genuine, but the lack of formal titles was a testament to a long and deep friendship. They had come up together, rivals and allies in the Caelus Preparatory Academy, pushing each other to excel. But where Zíro’s path had led him off-world to the Confederacy’s elite Anaxes Command Academy, Roric had chosen to dedicate himself to protecting his home, rising through the ranks of the militia. The different uniforms had never broken the bond of trust forged in those early years.

"That was the point," Zíro replied, his voice low. His droids fanned out, securing the entrances. "We can't be seen. I need to talk to you, and it can't be on any official channel."

Roric’s expression shifted from surprise to serious concern. "What's going on? Is this about the attack?"

"The attack was only the beginning," Zíro stated, getting straight to the point. "The official investigation is being sabotaged from the inside. My father believes a powerful entity or group is protecting the assassin. We don't know who. It could be a rival House, a traitor on the Council, or the Republic making its move to cause chaos. The trail is being deliberately erased."

The fury that had been simmering in Roric's training session now found a clear target. He slammed the butt of his staff onto the padded floor. "I knew it. I knew something was wrong. Every real lead we get is buried under a mountain of bogus procedural orders from Inspector Kade himself. My team is furious. We haven't done a single piece of real police work in weeks, and now this happens on our watch, and we're only getting to act when the lead is ice cold."

"We need answers, but we can't move through official channels without tipping our hand to the very people we might be investigating," Zíro said, his voice a quiet whisper. "I'm putting together a team to operate outside the system. To hunt them in the shadows. I need you to lead it."

The weight of the request hung in the air. This was more than just bending the rules. "A ghost operation," Roric breathed, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "No official sanction, no backup, no record. Zíro, if we're caught—or if we target the wrong person—we'll be branded as conspirators ourselves. My team would be finished."

"The risks are real," Zíro acknowledged calmly. "But so is my family's authority. This is a necessary operation, and House Varis will take full responsibility. Your men will be protected. It's the only way to uncover the culprits before they dig themselves deeper in."

Roric’s tension seemed to bleed away, replaced by a grim resolve. Zíro was offering him a chance to fight back, to do the job he was trained for, with the one thing he didn't have: political cover from the very top. "Let's see your plan," Roric said, his voice a low growl of determination. "Just tell me what you need."

“We need one more person,” Zíro said, activating his communicator.

The hologram of Lyra Vex appeared, a look of intense boredom on her face. “Zíro. The Harvest Festival preparations are going splendidly, in case you were wondering. That’s the biggest story on this planet right now, apparently.”

“I have a better one for you, Lyra,” Zíro said. “Something more your speed, that is not public yet. The war is starting to cast a shadow here. I think you’ve noticed it, too.”

Lyra’s bored expression vanished, replaced by sharp focus. “The growing black market? The off-world syndicates trying to muscle in on our shipping lanes? Yeah, I’ve noticed. And every time I try to write about it, my editor tells me to focus on more ‘uplifting’ news. What have you got?”

“Can you meet us?”

The new meeting point was a private booth in a high-end cantina. Zíro, now with Roric in tow, met Lyra. His droids stood just outside the booth's privacy curtain, indistinguishable from hulking bodyguards.

“An assassination attempt on you, and the official investigation is being deliberately choked from within,” Lyra summarized after they explained the situation, her voice a hushed, intense whisper. She leaned forward, her journalistic mind already mapping out the web of intrigue. “So the real question isn't just how, it’s who. Who has the power and the motive?”

She started ticking points off on her fingers. “First, there’s Chairman Vectus. He’s the newest member of the Council, ambitious, and an unknown quantity. What better way to consolidate power than to make your father’s administration look incompetent and unable to maintain order? Then there’s Chairman Pli of the Merchant’s Guild. He was all smiles in the square, but perhaps he would profit from a Republic takeover of the planet. Or it could be a direct rival. For example Chairwoman Cyrill’s family has been at odds with House Varis for generations. Maybe she’s decided to escalate politics into open conflict.”

“Your hypotheses focus on a single, high-level conspirator,” T-622’s synthesized voice stated calmly from just behind Zíro, making Lyra jump slightly. “Alternative scenario probability: 32%. A mid-level official—a ministerial aide or a senior records clerk—with access to procedural systems is being blackmailed by a Republic operative. This single compromised individual could then generate the necessary bureaucratic obstacles to shield the assassin, manipulating superiors who are unaware of the true motive, believing they are simply following protocol.”

“Vectus, Pli, Cyrill… anyone from the Council or a ghost in the machine being blackmailed by the Republic,” Zíro said, his gaze steady as he looked at his two allies. “These are all good theories. But right now, that's all they are: hunches. We have no concrete starting point, no hard evidence to link any of them to the shooter. We need a real lead.”

“Which is why we’re going to get one,” he continued. “Lyra, I need your sources in the underworld. It's our best chance to find the triggerman. Roric, I need your tactical knowledge of the city and a small, loyal team you can trust. My droids will provide the muscle if needed.”

“What’s your part in this, Zíro?” Roric asked. “You can’t lead a raid.”

“No,” Zíro said, his expression cold and determined. “I won’t be leading. I’ll be doing the opposite. I’m going to play the part of the victim, the best kind the assassin can dream of.”

Lyra’s eyes widened. “You’re making yourself a target. Publicly.”

“Exactly,” Zíro confirmed. “The assassin failed once. Professionals study their targets, looking for routines, for weaknesses, for another opening. I will resume my public life as if nothing happened. And while their eyes are on me, learning my patterns, we will be watching them. While their attention is focused on me, your team, Roric, will be the trap. And your information, Lyra, will tell us where to set it.”

Roric and Lyra looked at each other. This was dangerous and unsanctioned. It was also a direct, effective plan.

Roric leaned back, a slow, grim smile spreading across his face. “You offer me to finally do my job, this is something I have been waiting for a long time. We can catch an assassin and a traitor as well. Count me in.”

Lyra’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous thrill, her journalistic instincts ignited. “This is the story I’ve been fighting to write—a conspiracy that connects the war to the criminal underworld growing right here in our capital. There is no way I’m letting this go.”

Zíro nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his steel-grey eyes. The team was assembled. The hunt can truly begin.

***

The following days settled into a tense, calculated rhythm. To the public, it was a display of defiance—Admiral Zíro Varis, heir to the planet's most powerful house, refusing to be intimidated. He was visible, enjoying his limited time at home before returning to the war. To his team, it was the first phase of the plan: creating a pattern for the assassin to study. He frequented the same high-end café, strolled through the Imperial Gardens, and dined at prominent restaurants, always flanked by his two silent, commando droids. He looked relaxed, confident, almost careless—the perfect target.

While Zíro played his part, Roric and Lyra hunted from the shadows.

In a dusty, forgotten records room in the militia's archives, Roric had assembled a small team of officers he trusted implicitly—veterans who cared more about justice than politics. Using Zíro's authority as a shield, he bypassed official channels. "I don't care what Inspector Kade's official directive is," he said in a low voice, pointing at a holographic city map. "I want round-the-clock surveillance on these three known Republic sympathizers. I want every credit they spend and every person they talk to logged. And I want it done quietly." His team poured over transit logs, cross-referenced security footage, and analyzed the assassin's likely escape routes from the first attack. It was frustrating, meticulous work, hunting for a single data-point in a sea of millions.

Lyra’s hunt took her to the lower levels of Caelus, a world of perpetual twilight beneath the gleaming spires. In a booth that smelled of stale ale and alien spices, she sat across from a nervous Rodian information broker, a small stack of credit chips between them. "I'm not asking for a name," Lyra said, her voice a smooth, persuasive whisper. "I just need to know about any recent, unusual sales. High-end weapon components, military-grade energy cells... anything an off-worlder with expensive taste might be looking for." The Rodian's antennae twitched. "Such talk is dangerous..." Lyra slid another chip onto the stack. "Not as dangerous as being an accessory to the attempted assassination of Lord Varis's son. The official investigation may be slow, but the Varis family's memory is very, very long." The veiled threat worked. "There was a man," the Rodian hissed. "Human. A few days before the attack. He bought a precision targeting scope and military-grade Tibanna gas cartridges. Paid for them with clean, untraceable Republic credits."

That evening, Zíro’s public performance took him to ‘The Golden Aerie,’ a restaurant perched atop one of Caelus's tallest towers, known as a favored meeting place for the planet's elite. It was no surprise when a group of Council Chairmen, already dining there, invited him to their table. The table was a microcosm of Centa Primera's power structure, a table of powerful allies with a potential snake hidden among them. He was greeted by the imposing figure of Chairman Lorian Vectus, the head of Planetary Security, a man with a politician’s smile and a predator's eyes.

"Admiral," Vectus began, his voice smooth as polished stone. "A pleasure to see you out and about. We were all so terribly concerned."

"Thank you, Chairman," Zíro replied, taking the offered seat. Also at the table were Chairman Pli of the Merchant’s Guild; the impeccably dressed and calculating Chairwoman Sola Javik, who oversaw In-sector Politics; the notoriously blunt Chairman Varlo Rhydan of House Rhydan, whose industrial power has made him a rising and ambitious rival on the Council; and the elderly, respected Chairman Valerius of Education.

"A shocking breach of security," Chairwoman Javik stated, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Utterly unprecedented. It reflects poorly on all of us, and on our ability to govern."

"More than that, it projects weakness," Chairman Pli chimed in, leaning forward with a concerned expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "How are we to negotiate new trade agreements from a position of strength when we cannot even secure our own capital square? Our neighbors are watching, gentlemen."

"Weakness is bad for business," Chairman Rhydan grunted, his voice a low rumble. Unlike the older aristocratic houses, his family's power was new, built on asteroid mining, and he had little time for political subtleties. "An attack like this spooks off-world investors."

"These are trying times, Chairmen, Chairwoman," Vectus countered smoothly, not rising to the bait. "The war brings many undesirable elements to our doorstep. We are, of course, re-doubling our efforts. In fact, my office has already directed the port authority to tighten security and increase random inspections, especially around the eastern cargo depots."

Zíro kept his expression neutral, but inside, a cold alarm bell began to ring. Roric had told him just hours before that his request for the eastern depot's shipping manifests had been one of the first things Inspector Kade had personally denied.

"A wise precaution," Valerius said, his old eyes kind but weary. "We must all stand together. Your family has our full support, Admiral."

"I appreciate that, Chairman," Zíro said. The conversation moved on, but the tension remained. It was Javik who turned it back to him directly.

"Speaking of the war, Admiral," she said, her tone analytical. "The HoloNet reports are so often contradictory. What is your assessment of the situation in the Outer Rim?"

"It is a war of attrition, Chairwoman," Zíro answered, his voice calm and measured. "The Republic has the advantage in member systems, but our resolve is stronger, and our supply lines are more secure. Victories like the one on the Perlemian are happening more frequently. We are bleeding them, slowly but surely. It will be a long fight, but it is one we are positioned to win."

"A reassuring analysis," Vectus said with a thin smile. "It is good to know our faith—and our investments—in the Confederacy Navy are well-placed."

Zíro simply nodded, meeting the Chairman's gaze. Vectus's words echoed in his mind. The Chairman had just casually revealed he was not only aware of the specific direction of Roric's secret investigation, but that he was already creating a public justification for the very obstruction he was orchestrating. It wasn’t hard proof, but it was the first tangible crack in the conspiracy's wall.

That night, the three of them convened in the war room at the estate. The air crackled with a new energy.

"It was a Republic-funded operation," Lyra began, finishing her report. "Human male, professional. My source says he bought a top-of-the-line targeting scope and military-grade Tibanna cartridges. Paid in untraceable Republic credits."

"My team got a match," Roric added, bringing up a grainy holographic image captured from a street cam. It showed a nondescript human male in a long coat, his face obscured by shadow. "He's been casing the Ambassadorial Plaza for the past two days. He's meticulous. He’s planning something."

Zíro looked at the city-wide events calendar T-622 projected next to it. "Tomorrow," he said softly. "The dedication ceremony for the new Outer Rim trade embassy. My parents and I are the guests of honor."

"And so is the entire Council of Chairmen," Lyra added, her eyes narrowing. "It's the first major public event your family will attend since the attack."

Roric nodded grimly. "High-profile event. Huge crowds, dozens of sniper's nests. It's the perfect location for a second attempt. He'll expect you to be in the main viewing box with the other dignitaries."

A cold, predatory smile touched Zíro's lips. The trap was set.

"Your team will close in," he said, turning to Roric. "I want your best troopers on every rooftop, your men in the crowd, and every exit covered. Lyra, your information will guide them. Pinpoint the most likely sniper positions based on sightlines and escape routes."

"Understood," Roric said. "And you? You stay in that armored viewing box and don't move a muscle until we give the all-clear."

Zíro walked to the holographic map of the plaza, his expression unreadable. "The viewing box will be the focus of the security sweep, yes. My parents and the Council will be there." He tapped the glowing structure on the map. "But a professional won't take the shot then. Too many variables. Too much potential for escape."

His finger then traced a path to the main dedication podium, making it flash red. "They will take the shot here."

Lyra stared at the exposed location. "That's the main podium. It's completely open."

A look of dawning horror crossed Roric’s face. "Why would the assassin focus there unless... Zíro, what have you done?"

"I have arranged to give the opening dedication," Zíro stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "An unscheduled address from the guest of honor. It's a perfect, irresistible opportunity. While the shooter's attention is fixed entirely on me, your teams will close the net."

"By the stars," Roric breathed, staring at the map and then at his friend. "You're not just being bait. You're handing him the loaded rifle yourself."

Zíro met his friend's horrified gaze without flinching. "Yes," he said, his voice a low, steady calm in the tense room. "But the rifle is aimed at the heart of our government. This is our one chance to see who pulls the trigger. I am trusting your teams, Roric, to have him in their sights before he can take the shot."

He turned his gaze to Lyra. "And I'm trusting your information to put them in the right place."

He looked back at the holographic map, a flicker of cold, hard resolve in his eyes. "The assassin will find that I am not a helpless target, but it will be too late. I will make my own preparations. But the trap, the net that catches him... that will be yours to close."

***

Night had fallen on Caelus, but the Ambassadorial Plaza was a beacon of brilliant light. Powerful spotlights illuminated the grand stage, casting sharp, dramatic shadows. Floating globes of soft golden light drifted among the crowd, and the ambient glow from the city's towering spires and sky-lanes painted the dark sky in hues of blue and purple. The dedication ceremony was a formal affair, the thousands of attendees dressed in their finest, their faces upturned towards the stage where the planet's elite were gathered. Lord and Lady Varis sat with the Council of Chairmen, a picture of unity. Chairman Lorian Vectus was seated directly behind Zíro’s empty chair, his face a mask of civic solemnity.

On a cold, windswept rooftop three hundred meters away, Roric lay prone, the city lights reflecting in the lens of his electrobinoculars. "Eyes on all primary and secondary nests," he whispered into his comm, the wind whipping at his words. "Lyra, what's the word from the ground?"

In Zíro’s shuttle landed in a private dock a block away, Lyra’s face was illuminated only by the glow of a dozen security feeds. "My people in the crowd have spotted him. Our suspected shooter. South-west corner, near the fountain, disguised as a maintenance worker. He's not in a sniper's nest. He's planning to take the shot from the crowd."

"He's changed his pattern," Roric swore under his breath. "All ground teams, converge on the fountain. Subtly. We take him the moment he makes a move."

On the stage, the master of ceremonies stepped forward. "And now, it is my great honor to present our guest of honor, a son of Centa Primera and a hero of the Confederacy, Admiral Zíro Varis!"

Applause thundered through the plaza as Zíro walked to the podium. He began to speak, his voice calm and measured. "Citizens of Caelus, members of the Council. Tonight we dedicate a symbol of connection," he began. "In a time of galactic conflict, it is easy to believe that the only connections that matter are battle lines. But an embassy like this is a reminder that we are fighting not for destruction, but for a future built on order, stability, and mutual prosperity."

Roric’s men, disguised as civilians, began to slowly close the net around the maintenance worker, who stood unnervingly still by the fountain.

Zíro's tone began to shift, a hard, passionate edge creeping into his voice. "But that prosperity is under threat. The Republic speaks of peace while sowing chaos. They send their agents into the shadows, not to fight soldiers, but to terrorize civilians, to strike at the heart of our homes!" His voice rose, captivating the crowd. "But I am here tonight to tell you that Centa Primera will not be terrorized! As of this morning, my fleet is fully repaired, re-armed, and ready to defend this sector!"

On cue, a squadron of Vulture droids screamed through the night sky, their engines a fiery cyan against the darkness. Massive holoprojectors flared to life, casting a shimmering, colossal image of Zíro's fleet against the clouds. The crowd erupted into a deafening ovation.

Zíro held up a hand, silencing the crowd. "But before we can defeat the Republic in the stars," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level, "we must first defeat their treachery here at home." He turned slowly. "Droids, arrest Chairman Vectus for high treason."

The maintenance worker’s hand moved towards his toolkit. "He's making his move!" Roric yelled. "All teams, now!"

Time seemed to freeze. The BX droids grabbed Vectus, hauling him from his chair. Just as Roric’s men were about to tackle the assassin, the man ripped open the toolkit, revealing a powerful hand blaster. He raised it, firing one, desperate shot before he was buried under a pile of militia officers.

The blue bolt slammed into Zíro’s chest, the impact throwing him backwards. He collapsed to the floor of the stage, utterly still. A collective scream of horror rose from the plaza. Vectus, struggling in the grip of the droids, found his political voice, his words laced with venom as he addressed the shocked crowd.

"You see!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the Varis family. "This is the chaos they have brought to our peaceful world! By siding with the Separatists, House Varis has painted a target on all of us! The Republic only seeks to restore order! This violence is their legacy, not mine!"

A wave of shock and despair washed over the plaza. On the stage, Zíro lay unmoving, a fallen figure under the harsh glare of the spotlights. To Roric on the rooftop, to Lyra in the shuttle, to his parents on the dais, for a long, terrible moment, the only sound was Vectus's triumphant ranting and the rising panic from the crowd. He was gone. The pride of Centa Primera, struck down in the heart of his own city.

Then, a new sound cut through the chaos, amplified by the podium’s still-active microphone. A sharp, metallic scrape. Followed by a low, pained groan that seemed to silence the entire plaza in an instant.

Zíro, helped by T-622, slowly, unsteadily, pushed himself to his feet. "This is the 'order' you offer, Vectus?" he said, his voice strained but clear. "Hired assassins and treachery in the dark? The Confederacy is here to fight this very brand of chaos, not invite it." He reached up and pulled down the collar of his uniform, revealing the scorched, smoking, and deeply dented plating of a military-grade blast vest. "Take this traitor away!"

As Vectus was dragged away, sputtering impotent threats, the plaza exploded into an ovation ten times louder than before.

Across the stage, Zíro met his father's gaze. Lord Kaelen gave a single, slow nod—a look of grim approval and profound relief. Beside him, Lady Elara sat ramrod straight, her expression a mask of tightly controlled shock, but her eyes were shining with a fierce, almost painful pride.

As some time passed, the initial adrenaline faded. The plaza was now quiet, cordoned off by guards. Zíro, Roric, and Lyra stood on the empty stage.

Zíro winced, pressing a hand to his bruised chest. "I needed him to break," he admitted, his voice low. "To think he had won, even for a moment. I was counting on him revealing himself in his moment of perceived victory."

Lyra stared at him, her expression a mixture of emotions. "You planned to get shot?"

"My father and I discussed it," Zíro confirmed. "A conventional investigation was impossible. We needed something drastic to force the traitor's hand. Now, my father has the public mandate he needs. He's already assembling a quiet, internal team to follow Vectus's trail and root out any other sympathizers in the government."

He looked at his two oldest friends, his expression turning serious. "This hunt showed me the limits of my own training. I trust my tactical instincts, and T-622's assessments are flawless for a fleet engagement, but this conspiracy wasn't a problem I could solve with firepower. It was a war fought on the ground, in the shadows. It required a deep understanding of urban operations, investigative tradecraft, and the criminal underworld—skills my droids aren't programmed for, and I am not trained in. A commander cannot be an expert in everything. So, I petitioned my superiors. I used this incident as a direct example of why we need more than just droids to win this war. They've authorized me to create a new command model—a fleet that integrates specialists for specialized roles. They want my command to be the test case."

He looked directly at Roric. "I know your duty is here, protecting this city. It's valuable work. But out there, we're fighting to protect thousands of cities just like this one. My fleet needs a Ground Operations Officer. A chance to be a soldier on a galactic scale, without bureaucrats tying your hands."

Roric was silent for a long moment, the weight of the offer settling on him. "My whole life has been about these streets," he said finally. "Leaving them... it's a hard thought. But you're right. The threat isn't just to Caelus anymore. It's to everything we believe in." A slow, determined smile spread across his face. "I signed up to be a soldier, not a politician. It's time I started acting like one again. I accept."

Zíro then turned to Lyra. "And you. You hunt for the truth in a world where men like Vectus are desperate to keep it buried. You see the bigger picture—the growing underworld, the war's effect on peaceful planets. You have a voice that is being deliberately silenced." He offered a small, sincere smile. "The fleet needs a Head Communications Officer. It needs your insight, not just to report the news, but to understand it, and to make sure the galaxy hears the truth."

Lyra looked out at the slowly departing crowds, then back at Zíro's intense gaze. "Leaving Centa Primera... I never thought I would," she said thoughtfully. "But what's the point of uncovering the truth if a corrupt editor can bury it to protect his advertisers? With you, I wouldn't just be reporting the news. I'd have a hand in shaping it." She met his eyes, a thrill of purpose in her own. "You need a voice. I need a platform. It's a perfect match. Let's get to work, Admiral."

A sense of profound relief washed over Zíro. He nodded, the pain in his chest momentarily forgotten. He looked at his two oldest friends, standing with him under the artificial lights of the capital. He was an Admiral of a droid army, a symbol of a new, logical order. But he saw now that to forge a new future, he couldn't discard his past. He had to bring the best of it with him. He wasn't just taking on new officers; he was bringing his home, his conscience, to the very front lines of the war.

Chapter Text

The briefing for their first mission took place on the bridge of the Icebreaker as the ship tore through the swirling blue-white tunnel of hyperspace. Roric Slade arrived first, his new grey officer's tunic looking stiff and unnatural on his broad frame. His short-blond hair, rugged features, and the perpetually alert eyes of a tactical officer made him stand out against the sterile efficiency of the droid crew. His expertise was in urban pacification, leading rapid-response teams against terrorist cells and pirate rackets within the Centa system. But the last three days had been a maddening crash course with T-622. He'd spent the time learning a new language of war, one of cold logic and droid-assault simulations, and he was still adjusting to it.

Lyra Vex strode onto the bridge a moment later, her fiery red hair a stark splash of color against the ship's muted greys. It was tied back in a functional bun; her sharp dark eyes were energized. She had made the communications hub her home, devouring technical manuals and mastering the fleet's intricate communication systems. The sheer torrent of information was a puzzle she was already learning to solve, one that made her old job as an investigative reporter seem quaint by comparison.

"This is a retrieval operation," Zíro began, his voice cutting through the hum of the bridge. "Our objective is the extraction of Doctor Val Zapal, our lead cryptographer, from a Republic intelligence spire on Taris." A map of the planet glowed before them. "General Grievous has just launched a major offensive along the Corellian Run. This has left Taris vulnerable, defended by only two Venator-class Star Destroyers, according to our spies. We have approximately twelve standard hours to get in, secure the doctor, and get out before a Republic response fleet arrives."

A soft chime echoed across the bridge, signaling their imminent arrival. Zíro glanced at his two new officers. They were poised, but in very different ways.

Roric had his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the swirling vortex of the viewscreen. "It's one thing to run simulations, Admiral. It's another to see it live. The logic is sound... let's see how we handle a real fight."

Lyra's knuckles were white as she gripped her console. "Just give the order," she said, her voice quiet but vibrating with a cold, controlled intensity.

Zíro caught her tone. He didn't need to ask if they were ready. 

"Exiting hyperspace in five... four... three... two... one," T-622 announced.

The swirling blue vortex on the viewscreen dissolved into a spray of starlight. The ship reverted to realspace with a barely perceptible shudder, the growl of its engines the only sound on the bridge. Before them hung the urban-grey sphere of Taris, and guarding it, like two proud sentinels, were the dagger-like forms of the two Republic Venators.

The silence on the bridge lasted only for a heartbeat. Before the Republic crews could even register the scale of the fleet that had just appeared on their doorstep, Zíro’s voice rang out, sharp and decisive.

“Power to forward shields. Icebreaker with frigates two and three will target the lead Venator. Frigates four and five, with the Lucrehulk, will target the second. All ships, open fire. Do not stop until they are dust.”

The command was executed instantly. The entire Separatist fleet unleashed a non-stop, overwhelming torrent of turbolaser fire. The space between the fleets became a wall of scarlet energy, a tidal wave of destruction that slammed into both Venators simultaneously. Their powerful shields flared brightly, shimmering under the impossible onslaught as they absorbed gigatons of energy.

Roric could only stare at the viewscreen, a sense of profound awe washing over him. The sheer, unrestrained violence of battleships tearing into one another was both terrifying and magnificent. “This isn’t war… this is an execution,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

The Republic ships, caught in the deluge, desperately returned fire. Their own heavy turbolaser batteries spat defiant bolts of blue energy, but the shots were too few, too scattered. They splashed harmlessly against the forward shields of the Separatist frigates, their power utterly eclipsed.

“Admiral, distress signal has been sent,” Lyra reported calmly, her voice a stark contrast to the chaos she was monitoring. “They're broadcasting on all emergency channels, requesting immediate support.”

“The timer has started,” Zíro said, his eyes flicking between the two besieged Venators as they visibly buckled under the sustained fire. “They are launching fighters.”

“Frigate Two, Frigate Five,” Zíro ordered precisely. “Deploy Vulture droids to intercept their fighter screen.”

A targeted swarm of droid fighters detached from the specified frigates, swarming the Republic V-wings and overwhelming them with superior numbers and a merciless, coordinated attack.

“Calculating shield failure probability,” T-622 interjected, its voice cutting through the noise. “Lead Venator shields at 16 percent. Second Venator at 29 percent. Both shields are destabilizing.”

A few moments later, a ripple of energy cascaded across the lead Venator as its shields finally collapsed.

“First shield is down,” Lyra confirmed. “I'm intercepting a priority warning from their bridge to planetary command. They're warning ground forces of an imminent invasion.”

“Focus fire on their weapon emplacements, engine blocks, and bridge tower,” Zíro commanded, his tone surgical. “Target every vital point.”

The concentrated fire of three frigates now had a naked hull to feast upon. The effect was devastating. One by one, the Venator’s turbolaser towers exploded in silent flashes of light. A final, focused volley of scarlet bolts struck the bridge tower. The structure shattered, shearing off from the main hull and tumbling into the void. All across the massive ship, lights flickered and died. It went dark and began to drift, a crippled, lifeless wreck with plumes of escaping atmosphere venting from its wounds.

“First target neutralized,” T-622 stated. “Second Venator’s shields have collapsed.”

“All ships,” Zíro ordered, his voice echoing with cold finality. “Concentrate fire on the remaining Venator. Gut it.”

If the first ship’s fate was a surgical disabling, the second’s was a brutal execution. The full might of Zíro’s fleet, including the Lucrehulk’s colossal batteries, fell upon the last defender. The relentless barrage didn’t just damage the ship; it unmade it. Heavy turbolaser bolts punched clean through its armored spine. Entire sections of the hull were blasted away, revealing the superstructure beneath. Fires raged on every deck, the orange glow visible through the newly carved holes in its frame. It became a burning, hollowed-out husk, a skeletal wreck still glowing with internal fire but utterly devoid of life or function.

The orbital battle was over. The space around Taris, now a graveyard for its two mighty defenders, belonged to them.

“All hostile capital ships have been neutralized,” T-622 confirmed. “Assessing fleet status: All ships are fully operational. Frigate Three reports forward shield integrity at 65 percent from minor impacts. Twenty Vulture droids lost.”

“Minimal losses,” Zíro stated. “Phase one complete.” His gaze swept over the scene of total victory. “T-622, you have command of the fleet. Establish a blockade. Lyra, you will monitor all long-range transmissions and report any word of a response fleet directly to T-622 and me. Roric, you're with me. Let's see how Taris looks underneath the dust and smog .”

Zíro stood from the commander’s chair, his orders given, and strode from the bridge without a backward glance. Roric gave a quick, affirming nod to Lyra, who was already immersed in her sensor data, before hurrying to follow. The two men moved in silence through the ship's internal corridors, the quiet of the Icebreaker a stark contrast to the violence they had just unleashed. Their destination was the hangar bay and the ground assault that awaited them.

They arrived in the hangar where Zíro's personal shuttle awaited, flanked by its elite guard of twelve BX Commando droids. Eight carried their standard-issue blaster rifles, while the remaining four were equipped for breaching, holding tall, angular yellow shields marked with distinctive hexagonal patterns in one hand and their standard blaster rifles in the other. As he and Roric strode up the ramp, Zíro tapped his wrist comm.

"T-622, execute bombing run," he ordered, his voice all business. "Hyena bombers are to proceed with Vulture droids. Target planetary defense batteries and clear a landing zone in the Cauldron Market district. I want it sanitized."

"Acknowledged, Admiral," T-622's synthesized voice replied instantly from the comm. "Bombers are away. The two C-9979s are launching from the Lucrehulk."

"We'll be right behind them," Zíro said as the shuttle ramp sealed with a hydraulic hiss. 

The shuttle launched from the Icebreaker, following in the wake of the two massive landing crafts. They plunged into the polluted atmosphere of Taris, a world-spanning city where skyscrapers were mountains and avenues were canyons.

High above the designated landing zone, the Separatist bombers went to work. Explosions blossomed across rooftops, plazas, and parks as planetary defense batteries were silenced, and various military targets were destroyed. Then, with devastating precision, the Hyenas carved a landing zone out of the sprawling market, their proton bombs obliterating stalls and structures in a cacophony of destruction, creating a large, mostly flat space for the army to land.

Before the dust even settled, a handful of Vulture droids peeled away from the air-support group. In a marvel of engineering, their wings folded and reconfigured, becoming long, sharp legs. They landed with heavy thuds on the cracked pavement, shifting into their walker configuration. A patrol of clone troopers who survived the bombardment opened fire, but the Vultures' blaster cannons answered instantly, cutting the clones down and securing the area.

Moments later, the two C-9979 landing craft cast colossal shadows over the plaza, their wide double wings blocking out the polluted sky like immense, descending platforms as their repulsorlifts groaned under their weight. They settled onto the smoking, cracked pavement, and with a thud that shook the ground, their massive forward ramps slammed down. For a heartbeat, there was only the hum of their engines and the distant sound of destruction. Then, the tide of durasteel poured forth.

It began with the B1s. Thousands of them, emerging in a perfect, synchronized march. The rhythmic clank of their identical footsteps was a horrifying, metronomic sound that echoed off the surrounding skyscrapers, a metallic heartbeat that quickly overran the market. The army emerged in formation, their ranks swelling to form perfect, dense blocks, their blaster rifles held at an identical, menacing angle.

Flanking this core of infantry, the heavier, more menacing silhouettes of hundreds of B2 super battle droids thudded onto the pavement. They moved with a ponderous, intimidating weight, their wrist cannons gleaming in the dim Taris light as they established a hardened perimeter, their armor a dark counterpoint to the B1s tan plating.

Finally, the echo of repulsorlift engines deepened as the Armored Assault Tanks rumbled out from the cavernous holds. Eight of the heavy tanks fanned out, their repulsorlifts kicking up dust as their heavy cannon turrets swiveled with a low electric whine to cover the forward avenue.

In less than ten minutes, the bomb-carved market had ceased to exist. It was now a wall of battle droids and tanks, a perfect assault formation of identical soldiers, stretching across the plaza and into the surrounding streets, awaiting their next command.

Just as this colossal force settled into place, Zíro’s shuttle touched down behind the armored line. The ramp lowered, and the twelve Commando droids fanned out, the four shield-bearing units taking the front, forming a tight, protected barrier.

"Roric, I need you at the command center," Zíro ordered without wasting a minute, gesturing towards a command pod that was being unloaded from one of the landing craft. "Oversee the main push. I'm taking a tank."

He strode towards one of the AATs in the middle column. Four of his commando droids—two with shields, two without—broke from the main perimeter and fell into step behind him. As Zíro climbed up and settled into the open commander's hatch, the droids took up positions on the tank's hull, magnetizing their feet to the armor and raising their weapons, ready for the battle awaiting.

"I'll have a forward vantage point from this tank," Zíro stated, his voice coming through Roric's commlink, his tone perfectly level. "Simulations are one thing, but this is my first command of a full-scale planetary assault. I need to see the battle flow firsthand, to get a proper feel for the timing. I need to be versatile. My focus will be on the advance. That means I'm relying on you for the bigger picture. Watch the flanks, coordinate the reserves, and tell me what I can't see. Orbital scans and Probe Droids are at your disposal."

Roric, already moving towards the command pod, tapped his own commlink in response. "Understood, Admiral," his voice came back, crisp and professional. "The holomap is live. I'll be your eyes."

Roric's confirmation was the final piece. Zíro, already in position in the tank's open hatch, activated the army-wide command channel. He spoke a single, low command, heard only in Roric's headset and the internal processors of every droid in the plaza.

"All assault groups. Forward."

The response was instantaneous. The single clank of thousands of metallic feet taking their first step in unison was a harsh sound, overtaking the market. Then the rhythmic, thundering march began, and the entire droid army surged forward.

The avenue was narrower than the plaza, a canyon of permacrete and transparisteel. The army advanced as a single, massive column, an articulated beast built for urban pressure. Leading the way was a dense river of five hundred B1s, their rifles held at ready, their footsteps a metronomic drumbeat echoing off the high walls. Immediately behind them marched a solid phalanx of one hundred B2 super battle droids, their heavy frames adding a deeper thud to the rhythm. Following the infantry screen were the first two AATs, gliding next to each other, their cannons high. The pattern then repeated—more B1s, more B2s, more AATs—a mile-long serpent of droids and armor. Zíro, his AAT positioned behind the second line of tanks, watched the tactical display. From time to time looking into his macrobinocular to scan the road ahead. 

From his command pod back at the landing site, Roric’s voice was a professional, steady presence in his comm. "First contact, Admiral. Clone troopers, behind overturned speeders and standard barricades. Two hundred meters."

Zíro watched as the front line of droids marched, unstopping. As one, they raised their E-5 blasters and began to fire, sending a steady, inaccurate stream of red bolts spattering against the barricade. Clones answered with disciplined, precise blue shots. The front ranks of B1s crumpled, some of their parts skittering across the pavement, but the droids behind them simply marched over the wreckage, maintaining the relentless fire.

"B2 units, suppression fire on the barricade," Zíro ordered calmly. The hulking droids behind the B1 screen raised their wrist cannons, adding a heavier, more concussive barrage to the assault. "Front tank line, fire on my mark." He watched the exchange for another few seconds. "Fire."

Two shells shrieked over the heads of the droid infantry and detonated, punching through the barricade and killing most troopers behind it. This was, however, only the beginning.

The first hour was a grind. The clones had set up three more such roadblocks, each one more heavily defended than the last. Each time the B1s advanced, the B2s provided suppression, and the AATs blasted the hardpoints to rubble. The clones fought bravely, but they were fighting an algorithm, and they were losing ground, trading lives for minutes. The avenues became choked with the smoking, tan-and-white wreckage of droids and clone armor.

"Making steady progress, Admiral," Roric reported, his voice tight. "But clone resistance is stiffening. They're falling back towards the processing district intersection in Sector Twelve. Expecting heavier fortifications there."

They were approaching a dark, older section of the city. An abandoned, partially collapsed residential spire stood sentinel on the east side of the avenue in Sector Nine, casting long, unnatural shadows. The building looked empty, its windows dark, its structure scarred from previous conflicts. The droid column continued its relentless march towards the intersection beyond it.

Suddenly, Zíro felt it—the same cold spike of premonition he’d felt in the Caelus square. A wave of unseen danger washed over him, focused intensely on that derelict tower.

"All units, halt!" he commanded sharply over the army-wide channel.

The effect was instantaneous. The entire mile-long river of droids stopped dead in its tracks. The rhythmic marching ceased, replaced by a surprising quiet, broken only by the low hum of the AAT repulsorlifts.

"Admiral?" Roric's voice crackled, laced with confusion. "What happened? My sensors are clear."

"The building," Zíro said, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the crumbling spire. "Something feels wrong with..."

He didn't finish the sentence. A series of bright flashes erupted from the base of the old tower. Detonation charges. A deep, groaning sound echoed through the area as the building's already compromised structure gave way. With a scream of tearing metal and collapsing permacrete, the entire upper half of the ancient structure leaned outward and then collapsed directly onto the avenue below.

The front ranks of the droid army—perhaps two hundred B1s and a few dozen B2s—vanished under an avalanche of rubble. A thick cloud of choking grey dust instantly filled the street, reducing visibility to near zero.

"Ambush!" Roric yelled, confirming the obvious. "They used the building itself as a weapon! They blocked the avenue!"

Before the dust even began to settle, the trap fully sprung. From the intact buildings on both sides of the now-obstructed avenue, dozens of windows exploded outwards. Clones, equipped with heavy repeating blasters and rocket launchers, opened up from multiple levels, pouring a devastating crossfire into the stalled, dust-choked droid column.

Red tracers lashed through the grey haze as the droids returned fire. Blue bolts and rockets found their marks with deadly precision. Rocket trails streaked down, impacting the AATs with devastating force. One tank exploded in a ball of fire, showering the surrounding area with debris. Another took a direct hit to its repulsorlift, slumping sideways, crashing into the side of a building. A third was gutted by a well-aimed shot, detonating as well. The air became a maelstrom of blaster bolts, explosions, and pulverized concrete as the clones’ high-velocity rotary cannons chewed through the exposed droid infantry.

"Admiral, we're taking heavy fire!" Roric shouted over the comm. "They are working to grind the front army up. Recommend withdrawal to regroup!"

Zíro watched the unfolding chaos for a second; he did not have time. He knew the clone's objective: delay. Stall the advance until their relief fleet arrives. Retreating now, with the column stalled and exposed in this kill box, not knowing what the clones have planned, if they were expecting a withdrawal. They'd lose far too many units, far too much time. There were far too many unknowns. The only viable path was to fight the ambushers.

"Negative, Captain," Zíro stated, his voice regaining its cold calm. "They planned this out. It would cost us more time and units than pushing through. We neutralize the threat. Coordinate suppression fire. All remaining units focus fire on both towers. Saturate every window from level five to fifteen. Pin them down."

"Understood! Suppressing both targets!" Roric confirmed, redirecting the main army's torrent of red energy, hammering the buildings flanking the street.

"I'm taking a strike team into the east tower," Zíro continued. "Roric, deploy B1 and B2 companies into the west tower under the covering fire. Split their focus. We clear both buildings floor by floor."

He vaulted from the tank hatch, landing lightly on the debris-strewn street. His four BX droids dropped down around him. He turned to one of the shield-bearing units. "Give me your shield."

The droid silently handed over the tall, angular yellow shield. It felt heavy, unfamiliar in his grasp. He drew his blaster pistol. "Commando team, with me. Bring a B2 Company." Twenty hulking B2s detached themselves from the main line, their wrist cannons ready. The BX droids instantly formed a protective wedge, with Zíro and the other commando forming the shield front. The B2 Company formed up behind them.

"T-622," Zíro said into his comm, "I am entering the east tower, Sector Nine. Maintain orbital scans for reinforcements. Keep them away!"

"By your command, Admiral," the droid replied from above.

Under the ferocious covering fire hammering both towers, Zíro led his squad across the deadly avenue towards the east building's main entrance. Blue bolts snapped around them, spattering harmlessly off the energy shields but chewing craters in the pavement nearby. One B2 stumbled, hit in the leg joint, but kept moving.

They reached the shattered transparisteel doors of the lobby. Inside, chaos reigned. Clone troopers, caught off guard by the assault team, were scrambling for cover behind overturned furniture and decorative planters.

"Breach!" Zíro ordered.

He and the shielded commando surged forward, the shields absorbing the initial volley. The other BX droids followed immediately, their precise blaster shots dropping clones with single hits. The B2s lumbered in behind, adding their overwhelming fire to the fray, saturating potential cover points. The Commando droids were most efficient in close quarters, flowing through the lobby like lethal flashes.

Zíro found himself reacting on pure instinct and training, deflecting blaster bolts while his pistol barked, clearing corners. He dropped a clone, setting up a repeating blaster behind a concierge desk, then pivoted to take down another firing from a mezzanine above. This was nothing like the detached command of a fleet battle. This was visceral, immediate, and brutally personal.

"Stairwell secured!" one commando reported. "Elevators confirmed disabled!"

"Upper floors," Zíro commanded, gesturing with his blaster. "B2s, take floor ten. Clear it room by room. Commando team, with me. We'll take eleven."

They split at the tenth-floor landing. The heavy thump-thump of the B2s' footsteps receded down the main corridor, accompanied by the immediate eruption of heavy blaster fire and faint, desperate clone shouts. "Contact! Heavies!". Zíro led his four BX droids up the next flight of stairs. Floor eleven was quieter, initially. They moved tactically, clearing offices and apartments. They found evidence of clone presence—discarded ammo packs, empty ration bars—but most of the troopers had either fallen back or moved higher.

Suddenly, heavy blaster fire erupted from the floor below. Zíro heard the distinctive shriek of armor hitting the floor, followed by explosions. "Roric, status on my B2s?" Zíro asked, pressing himself against a wall near the stairwell.

"Heavy resistance on ten, Admiral," Roric reported grimly. "Lost five B2s to entrenched positions and grenades. They're making progress, but it's slow."

"We proceed to twelve." Zíro decided against going back down; speed was essential. They pushed upwards, encountering pockets of resistance. The BX droids were relentless, their precision deadly. Zíro, fighting alongside them, recalled his studies of the Grand Army of the Republic. The clones were engineered from a Mandalorian bounty hunter. He respected Mandalorians. Watching these troopers fight with such tenacity and courage against his droids, a grim respect began to form for them too. Now, however, they were in his way.

The sounds of the battle outside were a constant roar, punctuated by the heavy thump of AAT shells impacting the building's structure, shaking dust from the ceiling. Roric was keeping his promise, pinning down the clones in the towers while his droid teams fought their way up inside it.

They reached the fourteenth floor. "West tower teams report floors five through nine clear," Roric's voice updated over the comm. "Heavy fighting on eleven and thirteen."

"Acknowledged," Zíro replied. "Floor thirteen, east, clear! Moving to fourteen!"

They pushed upwards, the fighting growing fiercer as they neared the roof access. Finally, they reached the fifteenth floor. A squad of clones, including a rocket trooper aiming his launcher down the stairwell, was making a last stand by the rooftop access door.

"Rocket!" Zíro yelled. The rocket trooper fired. The BX droids reacted instantly, dropping low as the projectile screamed over their heads and detonated further down the stairwell. Before the clones could press the advantage, the three commandos surged past the shields, blasters firing, overwhelming the defenders in a final, brutal melee.

"East tower, secure," Zíro reported into his comm, breathing heavily, the adrenaline finally starting to fade. "All heavy weapons destroyed."

"Confirmed, Admiral," Roric replied, relief evident in his voice. "West tower is secure as well. B2 team reports floor thirteen east is clear; they're moving to the lobby to rendezvous. Suppression lifting. Enemy fire has ceased." He paused. "We took losses... lost another AAT during the tower assault, call it four total. The forward elements took heavy casualties from the building collapse and the ambush. Overall losses... estimated over a thousand units. But the sector is clear."

Zíro looked out a shattered window at the avenue below. It was a ruin. The mountain of rubble still blocked the path. "Status report," he ordered.

"We're four hours and fifty minutes into the window, Admiral," Roric said grimly. "The Sector Twelve intersection remains completely blocked from that road."

Zíro looked at the spire, still tantalizingly close, yet unreachable via this direct path. "Find me another way, Captain. As fast as possible, we have no time to waste."

"Already routing," Roric replied instantly. "There is one alternative relatively nearby. Avenue 7-G. Runs parallel, three blocks north. Wider, better sightlines, less opportunity for those kinds of traps. But..."

"But what?"

"We'll have to backtrack almost two full sectors to reach the access point," Roric finished. "And there's no guarantee it isn't fortified. Could be jumping from the frying pan into the fire."

Zíro considered for a moment. Time was running out. "It's the only logical option. Reroute the army. Get us moving."

"Understood, Admiral," Roric said. "All units, move to sector eight, coordinate Three-Six-Seven-Five/Six. New route designated."

Zíro and his commando droids descended through the silent, corpse-littered tower. Less than half of the B2 Company that had entered with him met them in the lobby, their armor scarred and dented. They returned to the battered AAT. Zíro handed the shield back to the BX droid, the phantom weight leaving his arm aching. He climbed back into the hatch, the commander once more.

The droid army, significantly depleted, began the slow, laborious process of turning around in the choked avenue and backtracking. They reached Avenue 7-G forty minutes later. It was indeed wider, flanked by newer, more stable commercial towers. It was also eerily quiet.

The advance resumed, cautiously. The remaining B1s spread out slightly, forming a wider screen across the broad avenue. Behind them, the B2s formed a solid second line, followed by the four remaining AATs fanned out behind the droid front. They passed two intersections without incident. The spire was visible again, closer now.

Then, the front line stopped abruptly. The entire column halted behind them.

"Roric, report," Zíro said, his voice tight.

"Admiral... barricade ahead," Roric said, his voice low and grim. "Heavy fortifications. And... they brought out the big guns."

Zíro raised his macrobinoculars, the advanced optics cutting through the smoke haze. At the far end of the boulevard, maybe 600 meters away, the clones had built a fortress. Prefabricated bunkers, repeating blasters, and dozens of clones at the ready. And standing guard in front of it all, like two immovable mountains of gray armor, were the Republic's answer to his tanks.

Two All-Terrain Tactical Enforcers.

The AT-TEs were formidable war machines. Each walker stood on six articulated legs, their heavily armored body bristling with weaponry. Four ball turrets dotted the front hull, with another two covering the rear, their gunners already tracking the droid army. But Zíro's eyes were drawn to the primary weapon mounted dorsally on each walker: a massive mass-driver cannon, its long barrel already elevated and glowing with power.

"Those will be hard to crack," Roric breathed over the comm. 

Zíro ordered his tanks to lock on to AT-TEs. His remaining tanks wouldn't survive a well-aimed hit from its main cannon. The clones hadn't just been delaying them. They had been preparing. This was the real defensive line.

As he watched, the main cannon of the lead AT-TE turned, ready to fire. It was aiming directly at his position.

***

While Zíro's ground force was slowly, brutally pushing its way toward the spire, the bridge of the Icebreaker was the quiet, cold heart of the operation. The blockade held its place in orbit, watching out into the cold space. The skeletal wrecks of the two Venators drifted nearby, trophies of the battle that had already been won.

At the heart of the bridge, T-622 stood utterly still before the holotable, projecting Confederacy forces locations as red icons and every known enemy position as blue ones. Its synthesized voice would cut through the bridge's hum, directing the in-atmosphere forces with chilling, unfeeling precision.

"Vulture Squadron Seven, intercept inbound LAAT gunships, J28 approach vector One-Two-Zero-Eight. Eliminate." On the tactical map, a cluster of red fighter icons already in the battlespace adjusted their course, diving toward blue Republic symbols rising from the planet's haze. "Vulture Squadron Nine, sensors detect V-wing interceptors rising from Z9. Engage and destroy."

T-622's head tilted a fraction of a degree as a new alert flagged on its main sensor feed. "Planetary scan detects a heavy armor convoy moving from the southern barracks. Ten Republic Turbo Tanks." Its voice remained perfectly flat. "Bomber Wing Two, you have new coordinates. Interdict that armor column at the Sector Five bridge. Do not let them reach the Admiral's position."

Beside the unmoving droid, Lyra was a whirlwind of focused energy. Hunched over her communications console, bathed in the shifting holographic glow, she navigated a storm of intercepted signals. Earpieces fed her a torrent of raw, unencrypted clone chatter—a chaotic soundtrack to the battle below.

"—Fall back to the intersection! There are too many of them, they're pushing right through!" "Command, we can't get any air support off the ground! Their droids are shooting down everything we send up!"

Then, a new voice cut through the panic: "All batteries, this is A3-Command. Artillery is operational. We are tracking the main Separatist column. They will be in our firing solution in ten minutes. Standing by."

Lyra's eyes snapped open. Artillery. That would tear Zíro's forces to pieces. Her fingers flew across her console, isolating the signal's origin point. "T-622," she called out, her voice sharp, "high-priority intelligence. I've isolated a clone forward artillery battery in Sector A3. They're tracking the Admiral's army and estimate they'll be in range in ten minutes."

"Confirmed," T-622 replied. "That sector corresponds to a high-density industrial park. Rerouting bombers." The droid's voice cut through the air again, "Bomber Wing Five, new coordinates locked. High priority target: enemy artillery, Sector A3."

Lyra let out a tense breath, watching the bomber icons on the holomap change their vector. She had just diverted a new, major threat. She'd thought she was prepared for this, but the reality was jarring. She knew this was war, but hearing it from this vantage point—a god-like view of both sides—was profoundly unsettling. One moment, she heard T-622's cold command, and the next, she heard the raw, human panic of the clone soldiers on the receiving end. It was a grim, disturbing equation, and one she was struggling to get used to.

Zíro's own voice, tight and urgent, cut through her earpiece and the bridge speakers simultaneously.

"T-622, I need air support! Avenue 7-G! Two AT-TE walkers are pinning down my advance! I need bombers immediately!"

***

There was no time for finesse. "All units, fire at will!" Zíro commanded over the comm, his voice a sharp, cold crack. "AATs, concentrate fire on the walkers, target their main cannons and legs! All units, suppress the infantry in those bunkers!"

The battlefield erupted. The four remaining AATs unleashed their heavy cannons, a rapid volley of red bolts that streaked across the 600-meter gap. The shots hammered into the AT-TEs thick frontal armor, scorching the hull and causing the walkers to shudder, but not penetrating.

The AT-TEs returned fire. Their main cannons were brutal bunker-busters, firing heavy, armor-piercing shells. The first shell slammed into the pavement just shy of Zíro’s tank, the explosion so powerful it lifted its front end and sent a rain of shrapnel across its hull. The second walker’s cannon fired, striking another AAT head-on. The tank’s armor buckled, and it slumped to the ground, immobilized and smoking.

"We lost another tank!" Roric’s voice was tense from the command pod. "We're down to three! Bombers on the way."

Worse, the walkers' eight ball turrets and the entrenched clones opened up. A hellstorm of blue blaster fire swept the avenue, chewing through the droid screen as if it were paper. The B2s fared better, advancing steadily, their wrist cannons adding to the din, but they were taking heavy, focused fire.

Zíro watched as the lead AT-TE, enduring the fire from his tanks, began to charge its main cannon again. It was still aiming for him.

"Evasive!" he yelled at his pilot. The tank lurched to the left, but the walker’s gunners corrected. It was a race he couldn't win. "Bail! Bail now!"

Zíro vaulted over the side of the hatch. His three BX droids jumped with him. The fourth, the one providing cover fire from the hull, was a fraction of a second too late.

The AT-TE's cannon fired. The shell struck the AAT dead center. The tank exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. Zíro, still in the air, was slammed into the permacrete by the shockwave, the blast searing his back. He landed hard, his vision flashing white, his ears ringing with a single, deafening tone. The air was sucked from his lungs.

He lay stunned for a moment, the battle a muffled roar around him. He smelled ozone and his own scorching uniform. He tried to push himself up, a sharp, searing pain lancing through his ribs.

"This way, Admiral!"

One of his shielded BX droids was hauling him up, its metal hand an iron grip on his arm, dragging him behind the smoking, crippled husk of the other AAT they had lost. His other two commandos were already there, returning fire.

"Status..." Zíro gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain. He saw the burning wreckage of his own tank.

"We're down to two AATs, Admiral!" Roric's voice was grim. "We are losing way too many units. They're just grinding us down!"

Zíro, no longer a detached commander, was just another soldier on the line. He raised his blaster pistol, resting it on the edge of the wrecked tank. His three commando droids fired beside him in precise, deadly bursts, dropping clone gunners in the bunkers. It wasn't enough.

The two AT-TEs began to advance, their six legs clamping down with thunderous steps, a slow advance that was pushing his depleted army back. The lead walker, its main gun damaged by the AATs' concentrated fire, was sparking but still functional. It fired again, another near-miss that sent droids flying.

"Roric, where are those bombers?!" Zíro snarled, ducking as a volley of blaster fire chewed the metal above his head.

"T-622 to Admiral," Lyra's voice suddenly flooded the comm, cutting through the panic. "Bombers are on final approach! Thirty seconds!"

It was the longest thirty seconds of Zíro's life. The last two AATs were falling back, firing continuously. The clones, sensing victory, began to advance from their bunkers, moving under the cover of their walkers.

Then, a new sound cut through the chaos—not the thoom of the walkers or the chatter of blasters, but the high-pitched, screaming shriek of starfighters in a steep atmospheric dive.

"Bombers! Bombers in the air!" a clone's voice, barely audible, caught Zíro's attention.

Through the smog-polluted air and black smoke, he saw them: six Hyena bombers, their wings folded, screaming down the artificial canyon.

They were aiming for the entire defensive line.

The first proton bombs were released a hundred meters in front of the walkers, landing among the clone infantry and the wreckage of droids. It was not a single explosion, but the start of a rolling, thundering wave of destruction. The ground heaved as the bombers, flying in formation, carpeted the entire fortress in a single pass.

The world dissolved into a wall of fire and concussive force. The prefabricated bunkers, the clone infantry, and the dug-in heavy weapons vanished in a series of overlapping, blinding-white detonations. The two mighty AT-TEs, caught in the heart of this storm, were engulfed. Zíro watched as multiple bombs struck their heavy armor. They weren't just hit; they were battered, slammed by a dozen simultaneous, overwhelming explosions.

Their thick hulls protected them from complete vaporization, but the damage was absolute. The lead walker's main cannon was blown clean off, its front legs shattered, and it collapsed forward, crashing to the ground. The second AT-TE was hammered sideways, its entire right side a mangled wreck of breached armor and internal fires, its cockpit blown clean off. It slumped to the ground.

For a full ten seconds, the battlefield fell into a stunned, deafening silence, broken only by the crackle of burning wreckage and the echo of the bombers' disappearing engines. The entire clone defensive line—walkers, bunkers, and all—had been erased, replaced by a smoking, crater-filled ruin and wreckage.

Zíro, covered in dust and soot, slowly pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he clutched his bruised side. He looked at the battlefield. It was a scrapyard. His two remaining AATs were scarred but functional, and the still functional droids were barely a third of their original numbers. He had lost six of his eight tanks and thousands of droids.

"Roric," he said, his voice a low rasp.

"...Admiral.The path is... it's clear. The way to the spire is open."

"Good." Zíro turned to his three remaining commando droids. He looked at the droids that remained of his proud assault column. "All units. We are close to our objective. Advance."

The advance on the spire resumed, no longer a single, massive column, but a grim, efficient assault force. The army, though heavily depleted, was still formidable. A wide vanguard of B1 and B2 companies, their ranks intermingled for a mix of expendable numbers and heavy firepower, secured the front. Immediately behind them, the two remaining AATs glided forward, their heavy cannons scanning for threats. The rest of the B1 and B2 companies formed a solid rearguard, their disciplined march clearing the avenue as they moved past the burning, smoking hulks of the AT-TEs. They pushed through the rubble of the final barricade.

The final stretch of the boulevard was undefended, but the atmosphere was thick with tension. It took them a long, grueling fifteen minutes to cross the remaining, exposed ground.

And then, they were there.

They stood at the base of the Republic Intelligence Spire. It was a pristine, defiant needle of white metal and glowing lights, untouched by the chaos and destruction that had torn the city apart. Its heavy, armored blast doors were sealed.

The remaining droids—the two functional AATs, the depleted B2s, and the rest of the B1s—fanned out without orders, forming a wide, defensive perimeter around the base of the building, their weapons facing outward, sealing the area.

Zíro Varis stood at the foot of the fortress, his uniform torn and scorched. He looked up at the impassive tower.

"Roric. Status."

"We're seven... seven hours into the window, Admiral," Roric replied, his voice showing the strain. "We have just under five hours left."

Zíro sighed, the pain in his ribs a dull throb. He had reached his objective. "We are in time. Now, we go inside. Roric, the way is clear. Bring the shuttle and the rest of the commando team. Meet me at the front door."

"Acknowledged. On my way."

For the next ten minutes, they waited. The depleted droid army held its perimeter, a wall of scarred durasteel facing outward, ready for any possible clone reinforcements, but none came.

A sleek Sheathipede-class shuttle descended from the smog, landing gracefully in the center of the plaza that surrounded the spire. Its ramp lowered, and Roric emerged at a jog, followed by the eight other BX Commando droids from Zíro's personal guard, their shields and weapons gleaming, their armor untouched by the battle.

Roric’s eyes went straight to Zíro’s scorched uniform and the way he was favoring his side. "The AAT blast?"

"A few bruises, maybe cracked ribs," Zíro said, dismissing it with a wince. "The droids outside will hold the perimeter. We go in. What do we know from the inside?"

"Lyra's patched in," Roric said, tapping his helmet. "She's got the schematics the Count provided. The clones will have their own security, but she can guide us. The main command center is on the top floor, as expected. The prison block... is deep. Sub-Level Four."

"Good," Zíro said. He looked at the massive, sealed blast doors. "A frontal assault is what they'll expect. We give them one. Roric, assemble three squads from the B1s and B2s. A full company."

"A diversion," Roric nodded, already relaying the order.

"Exactly," Zíro said. "They'll breach the main entrance with demolition charges. Their objective will be the primary command center on the top floor. They'll be loud, expendable, and will draw every spare trooper in this tower up. Lyra, find us another way in."

"Already have it," Lyra's voice crackled in both their comms. "On the western flank, there's a maintenance hub. It has direct access to the service lifts. It's our best bet for a quiet entry, but you will need to cut your way inside."

"Then the plan is set," Zíro said. He turned to his full contingent of eleven BX droids. "We go in quietly. Roric, you lead."

A moment later, a massive BOOM shook the plaza as the diversion force's charges detonated, blowing the main blast doors off their hinges. The rhythmic clank of the feint squads marching in, blasters firing, was immediately met by the sound of return fire and alarms blaring from within the spire.

"That's our cue," Roric said. "Let's move."

While the main lobby erupted in a chaotic firefight, Zíro, Roric, and the eleven commando droids moved to the western maintenance hub. Four of the droids immediately went to work, igniting high-energy plasma torches and beginning to carve a precise circle into the durasteel door. The air hissed and filled with the scent of molten metal. As the cut was completed, the droids slipped their fingers into the fresh-cut groove, pulling the heavy disc free and setting it silently on the floor beside the opening. They slipped inside, the sounds of the main battle already fading to a dull roar behind them.

"You're in," Lyra's voice whispered. "Take the service lift at the end of the hall. Go down. The clones are scrambling... all chatter is about the main lobby. They're pulling reserves from the prison block to meet the main assault. You should have a clear path."

"Should," Roric muttered. "Never does."

They reached the lift and descended into the cold, sterile depths of the spire. The air was cool, the corridors a stark white and gray. Zíro, his ribs aching, took a position in the rear with two droids, his blaster pistol held ready but his primary focus on the tactical flow, leaving the point to Roric and the shield-bearing commandos.

They exited the lift into a long corridor. Halfway down, a squad of four clone troopers, likely on their way up to the battle, rounded the corner.

The clones froze, if only for a heartbeat. "Clankers!"

They never got a second word out.

The commandos were a blur of lethal motion. The shield-bearers advanced, soaking up the panicked blue bolts, while the others fired with inhuman precision. In three seconds, the four clones were down, their armor smoking. Zíro hadn't even fired.

"Corridor is clear," a droid stated.

"See?" Roric said to Zíro. "No problem."

"Don't get cocky," Zíro replied, gesturing for them to advance. “We don't know what the clones are up to.”

"You're on Sub-Level Three," Lyra's voice whispered in their comms. "The prison block is one level down. You need to cross this floor to the central stairwell. Schematics show two guard posts, so be ready for possible patrols."

"Understood," Roric whispered. He led the way, his team moving in a silent wedge. They passed a mess hall and a barracks, both empty—their troopers likely drawn into the main battle above. As they rounded a corner, they came face-to-face with a two-man clone patrol.

Before the clones could raise their rifles, two droids surged forward. One droid disarmed a trooper with a brutal melee strike while the other dropped his partner with a single shot to the helmet's visor.

"Threat neutralized," a droid stated as they stepped over the bodies.

They continued for another fifty meters, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. "This is too easy, even with the distraction," Roric said.

"They're confident in their security," Zíro replied, his eyes scanning every alcove. "Or they've concentrated their defenses deeper in."

They reached a junction. It was the main access corridor to the prison block, and it was blocked by a floor-to-ceiling red ray shield. A particle barrier. A control panel was clearly visible on the other side.

"Well, there's the security," Roric said, sizing it up. "We can't slice it from here. And that's hardened against blaster fire."

"A shield is only as strong as its power source," Zíro said, his gaze fixed not on the shield but on the wall beside it. He pointed to where a heavy-duty power conduit ran into the wall. "They've armored the emitter, but they've left the cable vulnerable. We'll just cut the power. A charge placed here will sever the line."

Roric nodded. He pulled a small, circular sticky grenade from his belt. "This will be loud, Admiral."

"I never said it would be subtle, Captain," Zíro replied, his tone dry. He tapped his commlink, his voice shifting to pure, detached command as he spoke to the fleet. "T-622, our objective is in sight. Send a C-9979 from the market plaza to our coordinates. Begin loading the main army for immediate extraction. The second landing craft can return to the Lucrehulk; it's no longer needed."

"Acknowledged, Admiral. One lander is en route," T-622's voice replied.

Zíro's gaze snapped back to Roric, his focus returning to the immediate problem. "Ready when you are."

Roric jogged forward, slapped the charge onto the emitter panel, and ran back. "Take cover!"

The charge detonated with a sharp CRUMP and a flash of light. The emitter sparked, popped, and the entire red ray shield collapsed with a low-power-down whine.

The corridor was silent for a half-second. Then, a loud, wailing klaxon began to sound throughout the sub-level.

"So much for quiet," Roric grumbled, the wailing alarm echoing painfully in the confined corridor.

"We're out of time," Zíro stated, his voice a pained growl. "They know we're here. Roric, we need the door guarded!"

They surged through the smoking checkpoint and into the main prison block. It was a circular, cold space, two tiers of cells lined with glowing red energy shields. A single, unattended control station sat in the center.

"Kriff!" Roric swore. "Alright, spread out! Check every cell! You six, guard that entrance! Their teams should be on the way."

The team split. Six BX droids formed a perimeter facing the doorway they had just entered, their weapons raised. The other droids, led by Roric, began a frantic search, moving from cell to cell.

"Cell 3-A... empty!" Roric yelled. "3-B... a Rodian. 3-C... empty! Check the upper tier!"

Zíro strode to the central control station, his fingers flying over the console as he accessed the main prisoner registry.

"Roric!" he called out, not looking up from the screen. "I will find the cell. They'll be here any second. Take the rest of the team and cover that entrance. Leave two droids with me."

"Understood!" Roric yelled, instantly grasping the new priority. "Droids, form a defensive line at the door! You two, with the Admiral!"

Roric and the rest of the commando droids sprinted back to the smoking checkpoint, their shields and blasters aimed at the corridor. The two remaining droids flanked Zíro at the console.

"They had a lot of prisoners lately," Zíro muttered, his eyes scanning the list. "Here. Got him. Prisoner 7749... Doctor Val Zapal. Cell 41-B, upper tier."

He typed the override command. On the second tier, the red energy shield on the cell flickered, sputtered, and died with a hiss.

"Shield's down. Let's go," Zíro ordered his two droids.

The three of them moved quickly from the console and ascended the stairs to the upper tier. Just as they reached the landing, Roric's voice boomed from the entrance below.

"Clones! They're here!"

The prison block erupted in a storm of blue and red blaster fire as Roric's team engaged the inbound troopers.

"Hold them!" Zíro commanded, his focus locked on the objective. He and his two commandos reached the dark, open doorway of Cell 41-B.

The cell was a small, damp cube, rank with the smell of sweat and despair. Slumped on a low metal cot was a man who looked decades older than his fifty years. He was human, rail-thin, with a shock of greasy grey hair and a pale, gaunt face bruised with the dark purple and yellow of repeated interrogations. His thin prisoner's jumpsuit was torn, and he flinched at the sudden light and the new silhouettes in his doorway, his eyes wide with a dull, familiar terror.

"Doctor Zapal?" Zíro asked, his voice low.

The man didn't respond, just huddled further against the wall.

"Doctor," Zíro said, a bit gentler this time, holstering his pistol as a sign of peace. "I am Admiral Zíro Varis of the Confederacy. We're getting you out of here."

The man’s eyes slowly focused, taking in the grey-and-blue uniform, so different from the clones' white armor, and the angular, menacing shapes of the commando droids. The despair in his eyes didn't vanish, but it was joined by a profound, dazed confusion.

"Confederacy...?" Zapal whispered, his voice a dry, disbelieving rasp. "How.. You're... you're actually...?"

"Later," Zíro said, cutting him off. The sounds of Roric's firefight at the prison block entrance were intensifying. "Get him up."

One of the BX droids moved in, its movements efficient, and hauled the weak doctor to his feet. Zapal cried out in pain as his legs buckled, and the droid was forced to carry him out of the cell.

"Roric, what's the situation?" Zíro yelled, his blaster back in his hand.

"We're holding, but they're pushing hard!" Roric roared back over the sound of blaster fire. "If we're leaving, it's now!"

"We're moving out!" Zíro yelled into his comm.

They ran down the upper tier's gantry and clattered down the stairs, emerging onto the main floor. The prison block was a kill zone. Across the open room, Roric and the commandos were in a fierce firefight, using the central console as cover against a growing number of clones pouring through the main corridor.

"Roric, cover us! We're crossing the open!" Zíro yelled.

"Now, Admiral! Go!" Roric roared back, tossing a grenade toward the clone line. "All droids, covering fire!"

Roric's team unleashed a furious volley, forcing the clones to duck. In that brief moment, Zíro and his small group sprinted across the open floor, joining Roric behind the cover of the console.

"They've pinned us in!" Roric said, reloading his blaster. "What's the plan?"

"The plan hasn't changed," Zíro said, his voice a pained growl. "We go through them. Back to the lift." He turned to the full commando team. "All droids, on my mark, we push out. Form a wedge. Shields at the front. Roric, you and I take the Doctor in the center. Go!"

"Form up! Go, go, go!" Roric commanded.

The droids surged out of the doorway as a single, brutal unit. A wedge of shields and blasters formed around Zíro and Roric, who were half-carrying, half-dragging the stumbling Doctor Zapal between them. They slammed into the clone squad that was preparing to breach. The clones, caught off guard by the sudden, aggressive push, were thrown into chaos.

"Push them back!" a clone officer yelled. "Get a droid popper in there!"

As the droids advanced down the corridor, a clone trooper tossed a small, blue-glowing grenade. It arced over the shields and landed in the center of the formation.

"Grenade!" Zíro yelled, pulling the doctor away. The explosion was a sharp, electrical charge. Two of the BX droids, too late to jump away, were caught in the blast, sparked, convulsed, and crumpled to the floor motionless.

"Keep moving!" Roric roared, pulling Zíro up.

They were back in the service corridors, but the quiet was gone. Alarms were blaring, and clones were firing from a junction ahead.

"Lyra, we're out of the block, but we're cut off!" Zíro snapped into his comm.

"The alarm has lit up that entire sub-level!" Lyra's voice was urgent. "They'll be moving to contain you at that main junction. According to the schematics, there should be a maintenance crawlway to your right! It bypasses the junction and leads straight to the lift!"

"You heard her!" Roric yelled. He and a commando droid reached the crawlway first—a simple, grilled cover set into the wall.

"Get it open!" Zíro yelled, dropping a clone as the newly arrived troopers at the far end of the hall opened fire.

Roric and the droid gripped the edge of the grate and tore it from the wall with a single, powerful pull, tossing the metal cover aside with a loud clang. "Go! Get the Doctor in!"

Zíro shoved Zapal through the opening first. Roric and the droids scrambled in after him. A new, heavy squad of clones rounded the corner behind them, their blaster fire tearing through the droid rearguard. Three more BX droids fell, their armor shredded, as they held the line for Zíro's group to escape into the crawlway.

They burst out of the crawlway, the lift shaft in sight. A final, two-man clone patrol, drawn by the noise, rounded the corner, their rifles already rising.

Supporting the stumbling Doctor with his left arm, Zíro didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he raised his free hand, his blaster pistol firing twice. Two precise red bolts found their mark, and the clones crumpled to the floor, their own shots firing harmlessly into the ceiling.

"Get in!" Zíro yelled, shoving the Doctor into the lift, stumbling in himself. Roric and the remaining droids piled in after them. The doors hissed shut just as more clones rounded the corner, their blaster fire pinging harmlessly off the closed doors.

The ride up was the first quiet moment they'd had. Zíro, breathing heavily, looked at his battered team. He had entered with eleven commandos. He now had six left.

"We're not out yet," he said, checking his blaster's charge.

The lift doors opened. The maintenance hub was clear, but the sound of the main battle in the plaza outside was deafening.

"Roric, you first!" Zíro commanded.

Roric and the two remaining shield-bearers burst out of the maintenance door, back into the smog-filled, smoky air. The scene was one of total chaos. The C-9979 landing craft sat in the center of the plaza, its ramp down, as the last of the B1s and B2s marched dutifully up into its hold. Zíro's personal shuttle waited nearby, its ramp also open.

A small squad of battle droids, part of the rearguard, was holding a tight perimeter around the maintenance door, firing up at the surrounding buildings. As Zíro emerged, helping the doctor, one of the B1s swiveled its head, its rifle blazing.

"We've got company!" the B1 piped over the din, just as a blue sniper bolt slammed into a droid next to it. Clones were firing from the rooftops, trying to pick off the retreating droids.

"T-622, we need cover!" Zíro yelled, helping the doctor out.

"Acknowledged, Admiral," T-622's voice replied, and an instant later, four Vulture droids screamed overhead, their blaster cannons strafing the rooftops and silencing the clone snipers.

"Go! To the shuttle!" Zíro ordered.

They sprinted across the last eighty meters of open ground. The C-9979's ramp began to rise, its engines whining as it prepared to lift off. Zíro, Roric, Zapal, and the droids ran up the ramp of the shuttle.

"We're in! Punch it!" Roric yelled at the pilot droid.

The ramp sealed. Zíro dropped Dr. Zapal into a chair, the doctor groaning in pain. The shuttle's engines roared, and Zíro was slammed back into his seat as it rocketed into the sky, away from the ruined plaza and the burning city.

He let out a long, ragged breath, the pain in his ribs flaring. He had the package. The army was extracting. They had made it.

"Admiral..." Lyra's voice cut through the comm, but her tone wasn't one of relief. It was tight, strained.

"Go ahead, Lyra."

"We have a problem. T-622 is tracking a massive hyperspace signature. It's decelerating. Admiral... the Republic relief fleet is here. They're early."

Zíro’s blood ran cold. The momentary relief of the escape vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline that completely eclipsed the pain. "How many? What composition?"

"T-622 counts eight Venators, Admiral. Eight. And a full dozen support cruisers. They're dropping out of hyperspace in V formation, cutting off our primary escape route!"

Before Zíro could even process the odds, the shuttle lurched violently in the air, throwing them against their restraints. An explosion blossomed in the smog just off their port side.

"They're firing!" Lyra’s voice was a strained yell. "T-622 is engaging, but the fleet is already under heavy fire! They're concentrating on the Icebreaker!"

"Get us docked! Now!" Zíro roared at the pilot droid.

The shuttle juked hard, evading a stray turbolaser bolt, and then slammed into the Icebreaker's hangar bay, the landing clamps engaging with a jarring clang. The hangar was a scene of pure chaos. Red emergency lights bathed the deck, and alarms blared. The ship shuddered violently, a deep, groaning sound of tortured metal.

"Roric, get the Doctor to the medbay!" Zíro yelled, unstrapping. "He is your only priority! Get him deep into the ship, and keep him safe! Go!"

"Understood!" Roric yelled. "What about you?"

"The bridge!"

The ramp slammed down. Zíro, Roric, and the droids burst out. 

Roric didn't hesitate. He and one of the BX droids grabbed the stumbling doctor and disappeared into the smoke-filled corridor.

Zíro sprinted for the bridge turbolift. The ship was rocking under the relentless barrage. As he ran down a main corridor, a console on the wall exploded in a shower of sparks, forcing him to duck behind a bulkhead.

The turbolift doors opened, and he practically fell onto the bridge.

It was a vision of hell. The bridge was lit only by the flashing red of the alarms and the constant, blinding-white glare of turbolaser impacts against the dying forward shields. Droid crew members were thrown from their stations.

T-622 stood at the central console, its chassis smoking from a nearby electrical fire, but it was still calmly directing the battle. "Forward shields at nine percent," the droid stated as Zíro took his command position.

The main viewscreen was a wall of blue and red light as the Venators and his own ships fired at each other.

"Lyra!" Zíro yelled over the din. "Is the army extracted?"

"Yes! The C-9979 just docked with the Lucrehulk!" Lyra called out from her console, her knuckles white. "We're sealed!"

"Good!" Zíro's objective was complete. There was no reason to fight. "T-622! All ships, full retreat! We use the secondary jump vectors!"

"Admiral," T-622's voice was flat, but the words were dire. "To align with the vector, the entire fleet must expose its flank to the enemy armada."

"We have no choice! Do it!" Zíro commanded.

On the tactical display, Zíro watched as his fleet and the battered Icebreaker began its slow, agonizing turn, showing its side to the Republic armada.

The Republic crews were not fools. They pounced.

"They're concentrating fire on the turning ships!" Lyra yelled. "Frigate Four! Its shields are down! It's taking direct hits!"

Zíro looked at the viewscreen just in time to see the Munificent frigate shudder as a dozen turbolaser volleys struck it amidships. A silent series of chain reactions blossomed along its thin spine, blossoming into bright, internal fireballs. The ship snapped in two, its superstructure shattering as massive chunks of armor and debris were flung outward into the cold void.

"Frigate Four is lost," T-622 reported.

The shields, already at two percent, collapsed completely. The ship was hammered with a relentless, brutal barrage. The lights died, plunging the bridge into a terrifying darkness lit only by exploding consoles, fires breaking out on multiple decks. The ship screamed, a high-pitched, tearing sound of its hull being ripped open.

"We're burning!" Lyra yelled, her voice thick with panic. "Direct hits on the shield generators! The main power is failing! Weapons are offline! Engines are holding!"

Zíro gripped the console, his knuckles white, his entire body rigid against the pain in his chest and the violent death of his ship. "T-622! Are we aligned?!"

"Vector locked," the droid's voice cut through the inferno. "Jump calculation complete."

"Engage," Zíro breathed.

The stars on the viewscreen streaked, elongated, and then pulled into the swirling, merciful blue-white tunnel of hyperspace.

The bridge was a wreck, dark, and filled with smoke. Zíro, Lyra, T-622, and the crew were illuminated only by the red emergency lights and the sparks of shorting consoles. They had made it. But the Icebreaker was in a bad shape, one of his frigates was gone, and his army was a fraction of what it had been. 

But they had the doctor. The objective was complete.

***

The tactical display on the bridge of the Resolute was a chaotic mess of red and blue icons. Now, the red icons had vanished, leaving only a lingering energy signature and a spreading field of debris where the Munificent frigate had been destroyed.

The bridge was tense. Clone officers moved with grim efficiency, their voices low as they coordinated search-and-rescue for any of their own fighters caught in the crossfire.

Admiral Yularen strode over to where General Anakin Skywalker was standing, his arms crossed, staring intently at the spot on the viewscreen where the Separatist fleet had vanished into hyperspace.

"They're gone, General," Yularen reported, his voice tight with professional frustration. "They timed their jump perfectly. We managed to destroy one of their frigates and scored significant, heavy damage on their flagship, but... they escaped."

Anakin didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on the debris field. "Their flagship... That was the one."

Yularen frowned. "The one, sir?"

"The one I felt," Anakin said, his voice distant. He finally turned to Yularen, his brow furrowed in thought. "I've been in a lot of fleet battles, Admiral. Droid commanders... they're predictable. Even Grievous has a pattern. This was different."

"Their reaction was fast," Yularen agreed. "They sacrificed that frigate to cover the flagship's escape. That was a cold, droid-like calculation."

"No," Anakin said, shaking his head. "That's just it. It wasn't cold, not like a droid. I felt a presence on that ship. It was... calculating. Dark. Focused and in control."

Yularen's expression grew serious. "A new Separatist commander?"

"Maybe," Anakin replied, his gaze drifting back to the stars. "Whatever it was, it's smart, and it's dangerous. I need to report this to the Council. And to the Chancellor."

Chapter Text

Deep in an uncharted asteroid field in the Outer Rim, a Separatist automated shipyard clung to the shadowed interior of a massive, hollowed-out asteroid. The station, manned by only a minimal crew of Neimoidian technicians and a legion of droids, was a secret nerve center. Its small, sterile medical wing was an afterthought, four white walls buried deep within the durasteel.

For seven days, this room had been Zíro's universe. His cracked ribs were a dull, persistent ache as he stood at the viewport, forced to look at the consequences of his last mission.

In the dock outside, the Icebreaker was a corpse. One of its armored, forward "wings" was gone entirely, sheared off at the hull. The entire aft section was a blackened, scorched ruin.

"Final after-action report, Admiral," T-622's synthesized voice stated from behind him. "Total losses: fifty-eight Vulture-class starfighters, four Hyena-class Droid Bombers, one Munificent-class frigate, six AATs, 2,147 B1 units, 236 B2 super battle droids, and six BX-series commando droids. The Icebreaker is confirmed as a total loss. However, the primary objective was met."

"The objective?" a dry, rasping voice asked from the corner.

Zíro turned. In a bio-bed, Doctor Val Zapal was sitting up. His face was bruised, but his eyes were clear and sharp. "Is that what I am? The objective?"

"Doctor," Zíro said. He paused, his usual flat tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Excuse our manner of speech. I am not used to... these kinds of tasks. I am glad the mission was a success, that you are safe."

Zapal let out a short, pained laugh. "Stop. Please. Drop that mask you put on when you lead your fleet; you will not need it with me. I've spent weeks being treated like a datapad by Republic interrogators. I know deflection when I hear it." He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "You don't have to act like one of your droids, Admiral. I saw your eyes in that cell. That coldness... it's a shield."

There was a long silence. Zíro's gaze drifted from the doctor to the broken ship outside.

"Those calculations, that coldness, are what kept me alive on more than one occasion, Doctor," Zíro said, his voice quiet, losing its hard edge. "I was... surrounded by people who see every aspect of life as a game of Dejarik. You learn to think that way, or you get taken off the board."

He looked back at Zapal, his expression almost apologetic. "My apologies. Sometimes it's hard to change back to being me, not just the Admiral. I have been stationed with droids for the better part of a year. They are effective... well, often." He glanced at T-622. "No offense."

T-622 slowly turned towards Zíro. "I will presume you are referring to the B1 units, Admiral, whose performance is, statistically speaking, frequently suboptimal."

A small, genuine smile touched Zapal's lips. He saw the effort. "So there is a man in there after all. Whatever you call your methods, Admiral... I am forever in your debt."

The door to the medbay hissed open, breaking the moment. Roric and Lyra entered.

"You look terrible, Zíro," Roric said, his eyes glancing over Zíro's medical tunic before nodding respectfully to the doctor. "Glad you made it, Doc."

Zíro allowed himself a small, pained smile, the expression pulling at his bruised ribs. "At least I have an excuse. What's yours?"

He then glanced at Zapal, who was watching the exchange with mild amusement. "You see, Doctor? I can still be me after all. Just need to be reminded sometimes."

Lyra rolled her eyes, though a small smile played on her lips. "While you two are comparing your rugged good looks, T-622 has new information about the fleet."

"A replacement command ship has been assigned," T-622 announced, cutting through the banter. "A Providence-class Dreadnought, serial number 7734. It is supported by two Lucrehulk-class battleships and eight Munificent-class frigates, awaiting your inspection in Docking Bay Twelve."

Zíro processed this, his face unreadable. A full armada.

"It's a blank canvas, Zíro," Lyra said softly, stepping forward. "But I took the liberty of requisitioning a new livery. Just like the Icebreaker, the flagship is already being painted with your family's colors."

Zíro's eyes met hers, a flicker of surprise and gratitude in them. "That was... considerate, Lyra. Thank you."

Just then, a 2-1B medical droid walked into the room, scanning Zíro. "Admiral Varis. Your vital signs are stable. Cellular regeneration on the fractured ribs is 84% complete. You are cleared for active command duty. However, direct battlefield engagement is contra-indicated. You will likely experience numb, residual pain for the next two to four weeks."

Zíro nodded, his posture straightening instinctively at the clearance for duty. The simple movement sent a sharp, involuntary twinge through his side. "Understood."

He turned away from them all, facing the viewport. His gaze locked onto the broken silhouette of the Icebreaker, floating in the cold light of the station. The room and its occupants seemed to fade away. He stood in silent, unmoving tribute, his eyes tracing the familiar lines, now scorched and ruined—a final, private farewell to the ship that had served him ever since he was an independent commander.

Finally, he let out a slow, quiet breath and turned back, his face once again the familiar, cold mask of the Admiral.

"Now, let's see that new flagship."

***

The bridge of the Providence-class Dreadnought was a vast, shadowy cavern of dark durasteel. The cold, green glow of angular consoles illuminated its three-tiered layout. The lowest level was a wide, sunken pit swarming with B1 battle droids, their clumsy movements and chattering voices echoing in the enormous chamber.

Above them, a raised mid-deck held navigation and secondary systems.

At the very apex of the bridge, on the third and highest dais, was the command center. A single, imposing command chair sat in the middle, facing the massive viewport. This platform featured Zíro's custom modification: flanking the central chair were four additional, fully-equipped command stations—two on each side—creating a dedicated nerve center for his core officers.

"It's just... bigger. Much bigger," Roric said, his voice echoing slightly as he took in the scale from the command dais. "But she looks ready to fight. Just topping off the tanks and loading the last of the droids?"

T-622 joined him. The tactical droid's chassis, previously a standard dull metal, had been repainted in a dark, matte green that matched the bridge's color palette. Its photoreceptors now glowed with the same sharp, green light as the consoles.

"Correct," T-622 stated, its voice emanating from its vocabulator. "Primary systems are fully operational. We are currently concluding the intake of fuel and ground transport cargo. We will be ready for departure shortly."

Zíro walked past them, his footsteps silent. He placed a hand on the cool metal railing of his new command center. His family sigil—a striking gold-filigreed crest set on a field of deep, dark green, featuring a stylized golden wing on one side and a sharp, silver spear bisecting the center—was emblazoned on the bulkhead above the bridge door.

Lyra joined him, settling into one of the new side-stations.

"How are you, Zíro?" she asked, her voice low. "Really."

Zíro's gaze remained fixed on the viewport. "The ship is... impressive," he said, deflecting.

"That's not what I asked."

He was silent for a long moment. He traced the golden wing of his family crest with his eyes. "Doctor Zapal," he finally said, his voice quiet. "He made some... valid observations."

Lyra waited, her console casting a faint green light on her face.

"This 'Dejarik' mindset," Zíro continued, rubbing his temple as if trying to massage away a headache. "It is efficient during battle. But it... lingers. Even now, in the quiet, I find myself calculating casualty ratios and thinking of fleet positioning. It is becoming difficult to find the switch to turn it off."

He looked at his hands, then back to the viewport. "I fear that if I am not careful, the mask will become the face. That I will let this war hollow me out until there is nothing left but the rank."

"That's why we joined you, Zíro," Lyra said firmly. "Roric and I... we aren't just officers. We're here to accompany you, not just in battle, but in the quiet as well. You just have to trust us."

Zíro looked at her, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly. "It definitely helps," he admitted softly. "But, I will need to adapt."

"We're all adapting, Zíro," Lyra said, bridging the gap between the emotional and the practical. "I've used the downtime to start studying slicing. If you need a locked door opened or an encrypted file cracked, I can handle it. We change so we can help end this war, one way or another... but we stay together so we don't lose ourselves during it."

Zíro gave a short, sharp nod. "Precise. And correct." He looked from her to Roric's distant figure on the command dais, then back to her. "Your gesture with the livery. I am grateful for your insight."

Lyra offered a small, supportive smile. "Always, Zíro."

As if her words had made a final decision for him, Zíro reached into a pocket of his tunic. He pulled out a small, crudely carved piece of wood—the sigil given to him by the young boy on Taris.

He sat down in the imposing command chair for the first time. The chair was cold, and the view was vast. He looked at the wooden carving for a second, then firmly pressed its small, flat base onto the wide armrest of his new chair. It sat there, a tiny, warm, handcrafted object in a sea of cold, green-lit metal. A reminder of a free galaxy they are fighting for.

"Admiral," T-622's voice cut in, its synthesized tone jarring them both. "I have finished interfacing with the shipyard's tactical network. Your new directive from High Command has been decrypted."

Zíro straightened, his hand resting near the wooden sigil. The mask of command settled back into place. "On-screen, T-622."

A low, mechanical hum filled the bridge. From the ceiling, directly in front of the command dais and overlaying the top section of the main viewport, three large, rectangular Tactical Displays descended.

The center screen flickered to life, its light casting a sharp contrast against the bridge's gloom. It displayed a navigational map of the Atravis Sector.

"Over the past three weeks, seven high-value Separatist transports have been engaged in the Atravis Sector," T-622 stated. "The attacks occur at the Atravis Choke—a mandatory meteor field navigation point where ships must drop out of hyperspace to recalibrate jump vectors."

"Sitting ducks," Roric muttered, leaning forward on his console.

"Precisely," T-622 continued. "However, the outcome of these attacks is... inconsistent. High Command has dubbed the assailant the 'Phantom Fleet' due to the lack of survivors. Some vessels are found drifting, disabled by precision ion fire and stripped of cargo. Others are found as debris fields, obliterated by heavy proton torpedo saturation."

"So they rob some and vaporize the others?" Roric asked, frowning. "Sounds like pirates. Or someone flipping a coin."

"Your directive is simple, Admiral," T-622 concluded. "You are to take your new armada to the Atravis Sector, identify the 'Phantom Fleet,' and deal with it as you see fit."

Zíro stared at the tactical display. Hunt. A simple order, but the inconsistency bothered him.

He looked around his crew. "The Republic believes they are the judges," Zíro said, his gaze sweeping across the new bridge.

He turned to Roric, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Do you remember what you told me at the Academy? Before the final live-fire simulations? You said: 'Justice is a debate. War is a verdict.'"

Roric smirked, crossing his arms as the memory surfaced. "I remember. And I was right."

Zíro turned to T-622's console. "Then let us make it official."

His eyes locked onto the flashing sector map on the center screen.

"T-622. This ship requires a designation. Change its registry from Serial Number 7734 to the Verdict."

"Acknowledged," T-622 replied. "Registry updated."

Zíro placed his hands on the armrests, the dull ache in his ribs a distant echo. "We leave in one hour, get ready."

***

The Verdict's bridge was quiet, the only motion the mesmerizing, blue-white tunnel of hyperspace streaming past the viewscreen. On the command dais, Zíro, Lyra, Roric, and T-622 were gathered around, focusing on the Tactical Displays. The glowing blue map of the Atravis Sector illuminated their faces, littered with red markers indicating the ambush sites. They were dissecting the data from the previous attacks, searching for a pattern in the chaos—trying to determine a logical starting point for their hunt.

"I have filtered out the noise from the initial reports," T-622 stated, its fingers moving rapidly across the interface of a console. "However, the temporal data is erratic. Unlike standard interdiction patterns, there is no preferred kill zone."

The droid highlighted three distinct clusters on the map.

"Two vessels were engaged immediately following hyperspace reversion. Three were intercepted mid-transit while navigating around the meteor field. The final two were destroyed moments before calculating their exit jumps. The targets were exclusively unescorted Hardcell-class transports and Baleen-class heavy freighters."

"And the cargo?" Zíro asked, his eyes scanning the red dots.

"Inconsistent," T-622 replied. "Manifests included raw dolovite ore, refined durasteel, construction prefabs, and bulk food rations. Only one vessel carried military-grade hardware—a shipment of E-5 blaster rifles. As for the assailants... there is a total data blackout. No survivors, no distress beacons, and no sensor logs transmitted prior to destruction."

Roric leaned back, crossing his arms. "Ore? Food? Random attack times on lone, unescorted ships? That screams pirates, Zíro. They aren't hunting; they're scavenging. They hit whatever looks easy, grab what they can sell, and run before a patrol shows up."

"It fits the profile," Lyra admitted, though she sounded unconvinced. "Scavengers wouldn't care about the timing. They just wait for a ship that looks vulnerable."

Zíro shook his head slowly, his gaze locked on the "total blackout" status of the ships.

"It fits the profile too well," Zíro said, his voice low and cold. "Pirates are messy. They leave survivors to ransom. They leave debris. And they certainly don't possess the capability to jam Hardcell's sensors so completely that not a single packet of data escapes."

He pointed to the map. "Look at the cargo again. If you steal heavy weapons or secret codes, you bring down the wrath of the High Command. You get a fleet hunting you."

"But if you steal food and ore?" Zíro looked at Roric. "You get dismissed as a nuisance. A local law enforcement problem."

"You think the cargo is a deception," Roric realized, his brow furrowing.

"I think it is camouflage," Zíro corrected. "I suspect this is the Republic. They are testing something—new maneuvering thrusters, prototype ships, or a new ambush tactic. They are using our low-priority shipping lanes as a live-fire testing ground. They choose targets that won't trigger a massive retaliation, keeping their test secret."

"So we aren't hunting pirates," Roric said, a dangerous grin forming. "We're hunting a Republic black-ops test."

Zíro straightened. "That is the working theory. But without sensor logs, we are blind. We cannot predict where they will strike next."

"Then we stop trying to predict them," Lyra said, looking between the two men. "We make them come to us."

Zíro turned to T-622. "What is the inventory of our hangar deck?"

"We have a full complement of Vultures and Tri-fighters," the droid replied. "And one Sheathipede-class Type B transport shuttle, unarmed, used for diplomatic envoys."

Zíro stared at the map for a moment longer, then turned to the viewport as the blue tunnel of hyperspace began to dissolve, signaling their arrival.

"What is the status of the Sheathipede shuttle?"

"Fueled and flight-ready, Admiral," the droid replied.

His mind was already calculating the geometry of the trap. "Prepare a droid squad. We are going fishing."

"Fishing?" Roric asked, raising an eyebrow. "You want to use the shuttle as a lure?"

"No," Zíro corrected, his voice sharp. "The shuttle is merely the ride. To catch a predator, we need the correct bait. We are going to find a freighter on the shipping lane, commandeer it, and turn it into a trap. We hide inside, and when they crack the airlock to steal the cargo... we will be waiting."

"A risky gamble," Lyra murmured. "We'd have to find a ship before they do."

"Calculated risk," Zíro said.

The swirling tunnel of hyperspace outside the viewscreen suddenly snapped to the pinprick stars of realspace. The Verdict had arrived at the edge of the Atravis Sector.

"Admiral," Lyra called out from her station, her voice sharp. "I have a contact. Immediate range. It’s a BulkTender freighter, CIS registry."

Zíro and Roric spun to the main viewport. A massive, bulbous cargo ship was lumbering through the vacuum, its engines flaring as it prepared for the navigation around the meteor field.

"It just jumped in," T-622 confirmed. "It is not on our manifests. Likely an independent contractor running off the books."

Zíro stared at the new icon on the Tactical Display. A faint smile touched his lips.

"Fate is efficient," Zíro said softly. "The bait has arrived before us."

He turned to Roric, his voice shifting from theoretical to tactical command. "Roric, this is your play. Take the shuttle and the droids. I want you on that freighter before it starts the journey."

Roric stepped forward, checking the charge on his blaster. "And the crew?"

"Bribe the captain, lock him in the brig, I don't care—just make sure that ship looks like it's on a normal run," Zíro ordered, his eyes like ice. "Let the 'Phantom' disable that freighter. Let them hard-dock. The moment their boarding party is inside, you create chaos. You capture their team, you take the fight to them, and you buy me time."

"Time for what?" Roric asked, moving toward the lift.

"Time for this," Zíro said, sweeping his hand towards the viewscreen, where the Verdict and its support ships were holding position at the absolute edge of the sector's sensor range.

"We will be waiting just outside the choke, engines hot. The second that 'Phantom Fleet' fires its ion cannons, Lyra will get a lock on it. The moment your team engages, we jump. As a wall, cutting them off."

Roric's grin was all teeth. "A trap inside a trap. I like it."

"Just give me five minutes," Zíro called after him. "Don't get yourself killed before the party starts."

The lift doors hissed shut. Zíro turned back to the silent bridge.

"T-622, Lyra. Maintain a precision lock on that freighter. Monitor all energy signatures," Zíro ordered, his voice low and intense. "If the enemy charges lethal weaponry instead of ion cannons—if they decide to destroy the ship rather than board it—we jump immediately."

He gripped the armrest, his thumb brushing the wooden sigil.

"The trap is the priority, but not at the cost of the boarding party. We do not lose him. Understood?"

"Understood, Admiral," Lyra replied, her fingers flying across her console to set the fail-safe parameters.

Zíro sat back, his eyes fixed on the lonely icon of the freighter drifting toward the meteor field.

"Now," he whispered. "We wait."

The Verdict's main hangar was a city of steel. Roric was already moving before the last of Zíro's orders had finished echoing. He grabbed his heavy blaster rifle from a weapons locker, slinging it over one shoulder. His sidearm was already heavy on his thigh.

"Is everything ready, T-622?" Roric barked into his commlink, jogging toward the launch bay.

"Affirmative, Commander," T-622's voice replied from the comm, patched in from the bridge. "Per the Admiral's directive, the two support squads are boarding the shuttle now. Your BX-series escort is awaiting your arrival at the ramp."

"Good." Roric broke into a run, passing neat lines of Vulture droids. He saw his targets: four lean, dark-grey BX commandos, waiting. They were clustered at the ramp of a Sheathipede-class shuttle. Behind them, two squads of B1s and B2s were clomping into the shuttle's troop bay.

"Alright, you tinheads," Roric said to the BXs as he boarded, slapping the stock of his rifle. "The ship is the bait. We... we're the welcoming party. Means we get to have all the fun."

The four commandos tilted their heads in unison, their metallic voices overlapping in a deep, synthesized: "Roger. Roger."

He strapped into the cockpit seat as the last droid clanked aboard. The ramp sealed.

"Roric, status," Zíro's voice, cold and clear, came over the comm.

"Shuttle sealed. Droids are ready. We're launching," Roric replied, his hands flying over the controls. The shuttle's engines whined, and he detached from the Verdict, accelerating fast toward the coordinates Lyra was feeding him.

"Approaching the BulkTender," Roric said a few minutes later. The freighter was an ugly, lopsided brick of a ship, its engines straining. "Designation: Azir’s Vault. What's the plan with the captain?"

"He's a Trandoshan named Slar," Lyra's voice cut in. "He's already under a Separatist contract to haul that ore. We're uploading a high-credit chit to your datapad. Offer him a... 'hazard bonus' to comply. If he refuses, you are authorized to arrest the crew for the duration of the operation and take the ship by force."

"Understood. Bribe first, arrest second. My kind of plan." Roric grinned.

The shuttle docked in the freighter's cramped hangar bay with a hard clang. The moment the ramp hissed open, Roric was met with the confused looks of two Weequay crew members and a pit droid, all of whom backed away, hands raised.

"Move!" Roric barked, striding down the ramp, his rifle held at a low ready.

"You four," he said to the BX droids. "With me. Rest of you, secure the main cargo hold. If you find any crew, escort them back to this hangar. No blasters unless they draw first. We need this ship intact."

The ship's interior was greasy and smelled like ozone and unwashed scales. Roric, flanked by the four silent commandos, stormed the bridge. The Trandoshan captain was on his feet, hissing, a rusty vibro-knife in his hand.

"What in the--! I didn't call for--"

Roric didn't stop walking. He slid the datapad onto the console. Slar's eyes darted from Roric's heavy rifle, to the four BX droids fanning out, to the glowing credit amount on the datapad.

The knife clattered to the deck.

"The Confederacy," Roric said, "is taking a personal interest in this cargo. We're your new security detail. You fly your route, you don't talk to anyone, and you get paid this bonus. We'll be in the cargo hold."

"Security... yes! Security," Slar hissed, his beady eyes wide as he scooped up the datapad. "But my crew... they will panic!"

"Then tell them not to," Roric said, pointing to the ship-wide comm. "Tell your crew to go to their quarters and lock the doors for their own safety."

Slar, sweating, quickly grabbed the comm. "All hands, this is the Captain! We have... an… inspection. For your safety, you are ordered to return to your quarters immediately. Lock your doors until the 'all-clear' is given. Slar out!"

"Bridge, we're in," Roric whispered into his comm as he walked back to the cargo bay, which was filled with crates of dolovite ore. "The captain is... cooperative. His crew is bunkered. We're on course."

"Copy, Roric," Zíro's voice returned. "We are in position. You have the bait. Stay sharp."

The next hour was the worst part. Roric and his BX team hid behind massive, metal-banded crates of dolovite ore, listening to the ship creak. In the adjacent hangar bay, the B1s and B2s were powered down, clustered inside the shuttle and crates to avoid detection. The only sound was the occasional ping of small asteroids deflecting off the freighter's shields.

"Freighter is almost out of the detour, Roric," Lyra's voice murmured in his ear. "Approaching the jump calculation point. T-minus two minutes to jump window."

Roric quietly motioned to the BX droids. They rose from their crouched positions, silent as death, and took up firing positions by the cargo bay doors. He could hear his own heartbeat.

"All quiet," he whispered. "Too quiet."

"Roric," Lyra's voice was suddenly tense. "I'm reading a massive, localized energy spike! A new ship just appeared on top of you!"

"Zíro, we have contact!" Roric yelled.

A split-second later, a sound like a giant's hammer hitting the ship screamed through the hull. The Azir's Vault lurched violently, throwing Roric against a pillar. The ship's engines died instantly. The lights went out, replaced by the terrifying, dim-red emergency floods.

"Kriff!" the Trandoshan's voice shrieked over the ship-wide comm. "We're hit! We're hit! All systems down!"

"Roric! They've fired!" Zíro's voice was urgent in his ear. "Report!"

Roric pulled himself up, grinning in the red-lit darkness. He hefted his E-5C, clicking the power cell up to max.

"They hit us, Zíro. Right on cue. The trap is closing."

The red emergency lights cast long, demonic shadows. The Azir's Vault was dead in the water, the only sound a high-pitched, metallic screech from the hull.

"That's our cue," Roric growled, leveling his rifle. "All droids, wait for my signal."

The metallic screeching intensified—it was a plasma cutter. A rectangular, glowing-orange line appeared on the cargobay’s massive doors.

"Zíro, they're cutting in!" Roric yelled into his comm. "Right... now!"

The cut-out section of the door fell inward with a deafening crash, revealing a dark, tunnel-like boarding bridge. A squad of white-armored clone troopers stormed in, their rifles sweeping the dark hold.

"Cargo hold clear," one clone reported. "Move up. Check the hangar."

"Wait for it..." Roric whispered.

As the squad leader passed his crate, Roric bellowed, "Light 'em up!"

The cargo bay erupted into a storm of red and blue blaster fire. The B1s clattered out of the hangar, firing wildly, while the B2s advanced, their heavy blasters tearing chunks from the crates the clones dove behind. The clones returned fire with disciplined bursts, shredding B1s and forcing a B2 to stagger back, its armor sparking.

"Roric!" Zíro's voice was electric in his ear, now overlaid with the screaming alarms of the Verdict's bridge. "We are out of hyperspace! All batteries ready. Disable that ship!"

"Good news!" Roric yelled, firing a three-round burst that sent a clone sprawling. "It's a Republic stealth ship! Looks like a prototype! They're still docked!"

"I see it!" Zíro replied. "Roric, change of plans. Get on that ship! They boarded you; now you board them! We are moving the Verdict in. Go!"

"You heard him!" Roric shouted, his grin visible even in the red gloom. "All units! Push! Push! Push!"

This was no longer a defense. It was an assault. The surviving droids—B1s, B2s, and BXs—charged as one wave.

"Fall back! Fall back! It's a trap!" one of the clones yelled over the comms, tossing a flash grenade.

Roric dove. The grenade exploded, but the droids kept pushing. The surviving clones, realizing they were outmatched, turned and fled back down their own boarding bridge.

"Don't let them close the door!" Roric bellowed, chasing them. He and his entire remaining squad sprinted through the smoking breach, pouring into the narrow tunnel.

A clone trooper in the stealth ship’s doorway threw a grenade back into the tunnel. It detonated against the lead B2, blowing it apart. A BX, caught in the blast, was hurled against the tunnel wall, its photoreceptor dimming for good. The explosion created a momentary dam of wreckage.

"Roric, they're decoupling!" Lyra's voice screamed in his ear, just as Roric vaulted over the sparking chassis of the B2. "Get off the bridge!"

"Negative!" Roric shouted back. He leaped from the tunnel, landing hard on the gleaming white deck plates of the Republic stealth ship. The corridor was stark, functional, and brightly lit by recessed overhead panels, a perfect mirror of a Venator's interior. "We're on! We're on!"

A massive groan of metal vibrated through his boots as the Azir's Vault was jettisoned. Roric looked back through the closing doorway to see the boarding tunnel tear free. Three B1s still in the passage were instantly vented, their metallic bodies flailing silently into the void.

Through a viewport, he saw the Verdict fill the stars, a mountain of grey metal, its cannons tracking. A massive, rose-colored beam with a brilliant white core shot from one of its cannons, hitting the Republic ship's aft section.

The bright, white overhead lights on the ship instantly went out, plunging the corridor into darkness. A second later, dim red emergency lights flickered to life, bathing the corridor in the same bloody glow as the freighter.

"T-622!" Zíro's voice continued, cold as the void. "Tractor beam. Bring it inside. Hangar bay two."

The ship lurched as the tractor beam locked on.

"They're taking us!" the Republic captain's voice shouted over the stealth ship's internal comms. "All hands, repel boarders! To the bridge!"

"You heard the man," Roric said to his mismatched squad. "Let's go say hello."

The fight was brutal and fast. Roric's droids cleared the now-dark, red-lit corridors—BXs moving with precision, B1s and B2s providing support fire. The remaining clone troopers made a last stand at the bridge door. "Open it!" Roric yelled. His B2s blasted the door off its hinges, and the BXs executed a flawless breach, followed by the B1s spraying suppression fire.

Roric was the last one in.

The bridge was stark white, built with the same Venator-style paneling as the corridors—a sharp contrast to the dark-gray interiors of the Confederacy's vessels. The consoles flickered with faint blue lights, but the entire room was overpowered by the dim red emergency floods.

Four clone troopers lay on the deck, cut down in the droids' initial breach. The two remaining troopers had their blasters raised, ready for a last stand.

A Republic Captain—human, not a clone—stood next to his command chair, his own blaster in hand.

"Wait," the Captain ordered.

The troopers hesitated, their rifles still trained on the droids.

Roric's BXs and the surviving B1s aimed their rifles at the captain's head.

Through the stealth ship's front viewport, the cavernous, brightly lit interior of the Verdict's hangar bay was visible, closing in around them. They were completely and totally captured.

The Captain looked at Roric, then at the droid fleet outside, and finally at his tactical console, which showed his ship disabled and his crew overrun. He let his blaster clatter to the deck.

"This... is Captain Kalus of the Republic cruiser Nightshade," the man said, his voice tense but resigned. "I am formally surrendering my ship and my crew. I wish to speak to the commander of this fleet."

Roric kept his blaster trained on Kalus, but he keyed his comm.

"Zíro, you're not going to believe this. The package is secure. And... I think the captain wants to talk."

Hangar Bay Two was a cavern of pressurized calm. The captured Republic stealth ship, the Nightshade, sat under the harsh white lights, its hull scorched by the rose-colored ion bolt.

In the center of the bay, a single, bare metal table had been placed.

On one side sat Captain Kalus, flanked by his two remaining clone troopers, who stood rigidly at attention. Behind them, a dozen Republic crew members sat on the floor, under the silent guard of Roric and his surviving, battle-scarred boarding party—three BXs, a pair of B2s, and a handful of B1s.

On the other side of the table sat Admiral Zíro Varis. He was flanked by Lyra and T-622. Behind him stood a battalion of fresh battle droids—ranks upon ranks of B1s and B2s. They were a silent, steel wall of intimidation.

"Captain Kalus," Zíro began, his voice calm and amplified slightly in the vast hangar. "You are flying an unregistered Republic warship in our territory, committing acts of piracy against civilian freighters."

Kalus, though his face was bruised, sat straight. "I am a Captain in the Republic Navy. We are legitimate combatants, engaging legitimate Separatist targets."

"'Legitimate combatants'?" Zíro repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "Legitimate combatants engage military targets. They fight for strategic objectives."

He leaned forward, his eyes cold. "You... hunted civilian freighters, even if they were contracted by the Confederacy. BulkTenders hauling dolovite ore. Hardcells carrying food rations. These are non-combatants, Captain. That one legitimate military shipment of weapons you found hardly justifies the slaughter of the other six crews."

Zíro laced his fingers. "You murdered them—not for military gain, but for one reason: secrecy. To ensure no one could report the existence of your new... toy." He gestured with his chin toward the Nightshade.

"This is not war," Zíro stated, his voice dropping. "This is terrorism. State-sanctioned piracy to protect a research and development project. How... efficient. How very Republic."

Kalus's jaw tightened, but he had no reply.

"By all articles of war," Zíro continued, "I should designate you all as pirates and have you spaced. It would be... just in the eye of the law."

There was a long silence, broken only by the hum of the hangar lights and the creaking of the hull.

"But," Zíro said, steepling his fingers, "you are, as you pointed out, a Republic Captain. And your ship... is very interesting. You are, in short, more valuable to me alive. I will not play the part of the judge, nor the executioner here. "

He leaned back. "You and your crew will be granted full Prisoner of War status. You will be transferred to a secure holding facility. You may consider this my... courtesy. Your... methods... however, will be noted in my report."

Kalus looked from Zíro to the army of droids and back. He knew what this was: a political move. He was a valuable prize, a propaganda victory. "On behalf of my crew... we accept your terms."

"Good." Zíro stood, signaling the end of the negotiation. "Roric, escort our guests to the brig. See that they are secure."

"With pleasure," Roric said, motioning with his blaster. "All of you, on your feet. Move."

As the Republic crew was marched out, Zíro turned to his remaining team. He looked at the captured stealth ship. "T-622, Lyra. Let us see this Republic project for ourselves."

The Nightshade's bridge was dark, lit only by the dim red emergency floods and the glow of the Verdict's hangar bay through the viewscreen. The air was thick with the smell of ozone from the ion blast.

"T-622," Zíro ordered, his voice echoing in the small space. "Access their data cores. Find what their captain failed to erase."

"Understood, Admiral," the green tactical droid replied. It marched to the main engineering station and began searching inside the ship’s system.

Lyra ran her hand along a console. "It's incredible. Its stealth capability is something I never even heard of, the communication systems are the top of the line and even the energy-dampening signatures are unique. No wonder it was so hard to detect. I am no engineer, Zíro, but I think every system, every part of this ship is custom-made."

"The crew will have wiped the primary systems," Zíro said, walking past the captain's chair. "The navigation logs, the mission directives... they will be gone."

"Confirmed, Admiral," T-622's voice interrupted. "The primary data cores have been subjected to a complete data wipe. All operational files are permanently corrupted."

Zíro didn't even turn. He was expecting it. "But not the deep systems, T-622. Not the refueling history, the engineering logs, or the sub-system diagnostics. They wouldn't have time. I don't care what their mission was. I want to know what this ship is designed to do, and what it's capable of."

He looked at Lyra. "The Republic built a ship that could ambush a fleet. And they gave it to a man like Kalus, to test it on civilians. We didn't just capture a ship, Lyra. We captured a foundation of a new kind of warfare."

Lyra looked at the dark consoles, a new understanding dawning. "And now... it's ours."

"Begin the scan, T-622," Zíro said, his hand resting on the back of the captured captain's chair. "I want to know everything we can learn."

***

The briefing room on the Verdict was dark, the air cold. Zíro stood at attention, flanked by the newly green-painted T-622. The room was dominated by the holographic figures of the Separatist Council. At the center, his image larger and more imposing than the rest, was Count Dooku.

"A prototype Republic stealth ship," Nute Gunray's reedy voice said, his image leaning forward. "A significant asset, Admiral. The Trade Federation demands it be delivered to our shipyards on Neimoidia at once!"

"Unacceptable, Viceroy!" Wat Tambor's mechanized voice whined. "Its stealth technology is a Techno Union matter! It will be delivered to our research facilities on Geonosis!"

"Geonosis is a mudball!" Gunray snapped. "My facilities are superior!"

"Silence."

Dooku's single word cut through the argument. The bickering viceroys went quiet.

"Archduke Poggle," Dooku said, his voice calm. "Foreman Tambor suggests your foundries. Can you accommodate this new asset?"

A series of sharp, guttural clicks came from the hologram of Poggle the Lesser. A tactical droid beside him translated instantly. "The Archduke must refuse, Count. The Geonosian foundries are operating at maximum capacity. The new Supertank project demands all our resources. We cannot accommodate a new research project at this time."

"A pity," Dooku said, his expression unchanged. "Then the matter is settled."

He turned his gaze back to the fuming council members. "A captured asset is a wasted asset if it is left sitting in a dock, vulnerable to Republic spies. The Nightshade will remain active and mobile, where its true capabilities can be studied."

He turned his full attention to Zíro. "The ship stays with your fleet, Admiral. It is a secure, mobile base of operations."

"Count, this is an outrage!" Gunray sputtered.

"However," Dooku continued, cutting Gunray off, "Viceroy Gunray and Foreman Tambor make a valid point. Its systems must be cataloged. You will accommodate technical teams from both the Trade Federation and the Techno Union. They will... assist your crews in analyzing the ship's data."

Wat Tambor's vocoder buzzed in what might have been satisfaction.

"Understood, my Lord," Zíro replied, his face an unreadable mask.

Dooku then turned his gaze to the only other military figure present, General Grievous. The General's holographic form was imposing, and even as a projection, his fury was palpable.

"General," Dooku said. "Your report from Malastare."

Grievous's voice was a low, mechanical growl, building into a rasping snarl. "The Republic cowards used a new weapon! An electro-proton bomb! It paralyzed my entire army—left them standing like useless statues! They did not dare face me in true combat!" He was seized by a series of harsh, barking coughs. "They only won... because they refused to fight!"

Dooku was silent for a moment. "That is a... concerning development, General. We will discuss the... details... of this setback privately. You will stand by for a new deployment."

The General's hologram snapped off. Dooku turned back to Zíro.

"Admiral Varis. You have a new assignment. The Perlemian Trade Route. Our supply lines have become vulnerable. You will take your fleet and patrol the route. See that our cargo arrives safely."

"Patrol duties. Understood, my Lord," Zíro said, his voice betraying no emotion.

"Do not disappoint me," Dooku said.

One by one, the holograms faded, plunging the room into near-total darkness. Zíro and T-622 stood in the silence.

"Admiral," T-622's voice broke the quiet. "Our new orders are clear. A patrol."

Zíro turned to leave the room. "A patrol... and a new research project." He looked towards the door, his face a cold mask in the shadows.

"Get our engineers and Lyra to the Nightshade. I want a full diagnostic report on its cloaking and ion systems by the time we reach the Perlemian Trade Route. They will get... assistance... from the new technicians once we arrive."

"At once, Admiral."

The doors of the briefing room hissed open, revealing the dark, green-lit corridor beyond. Zíro strode out, and T-622 fell into step right behind him.