Chapter 53

Sullust Orbit, Sullust System
Brema Sector

The 28th Mobile Fleet prowled through the debris field as would vultures upon a killing field, salvaging anything we could get our hands on, whether it be repair modules, proton torpedoes, or ionised gases from ammunition bunkers. Droch-class cutters and boarding shuttles sliced their way through drifting hulks and debris, hunting down signs of biological activity before handing survivors off to the Sullustan Home Guard, whose ageing array of light cruisers and corvettes had finally decided to join us in the black.

It was a surprise, because Sullust was the premier foundry world in this patch of space, the entire planet almost entirely ruled by a single megacorporation that had bought out its own government–the SoroSuub Corporation. This world should not have been so defenceless… until one considers that the vast majority of the Sullustan Home Guard had been taken by Admiral Dua Ningo to Foerost shortly before the war began. 

In any case, the Sullustan Home Guard taking enemy survivors off our hands was a great boon, as the 28th Mobile couldn’t afford to take on extra mouths to feed–not that there were many left at all. With the secrecy swirling around the upcoming campaign, we would have been forced to either abandon them to the void, or launch a search and destroy mission… which honestly may be a kinder fate for the survivors compared to what the Sullustans had in mind. Not that asked–it’s just that the word ‘processing’ in the Sullustan language left enough to the imagination.

They also provided us unlimited use of their shipyards out of gratitude, but we were forced to turn down the offer. After all, the only reason we were still loitering about was the catch up on news from the homefront–now that there weren’t any enemy fleets in the vicinity eavesdropping on our transmissions–and await reinforcements from the south, before we made the fateful jump to Yag’Dhul.

Speaking of reinforcements…

Just as Calli promised, there were Emberlene warships on the system plane, jumping in dramatically late just hours after the battle ended. Twenty Mistryl destroyers, long and sleek and like rapiers piercing through the stars and leaving a backwash of boiling silver in their wake. True to form, clearly these mercenaries weren’t going to get involved in any danger they haven’t already been paid for… or rather, any danger they had nothing to profit from.

Those sleek destroyers were the spearhead of the Emberlene Warfleet, which pledged allegiance to the CAF for nothing more than a carte blanche to rampage and conquer the entire Authala Sector, razing and salting everything they couldn’t carry back to Emberlene. With Emberlene being the homeworld of the Mistryl Shadow Guards–galaxy-wide famous mercenaries–all Emberlene had to do was recall all their agents to acquire themselves one of the most elite warrior corps in the galaxy.

“Are they registered with the CAF?” I asked.

“No callsigns, no beacons, no identifications of any form,” Stelle shot his console a puzzled look, “Even their drive signatures are slowly changing, which suggests highly modified sublight engines. Those ships are ghosts, sir. I don’t think anybody who sees them is supposed to live to tell about them.”

“We aren’t anybody,” Tuff stated coldly, “Widebeam transmission. Request identification.”

“Unknown starcrafts,” Stelle tapped down on the sublight transceiver, “This is the Confederate Navy destroyer Chimeratica. You are flying cold in Confederate space. Please identify yourselves.”

“This is the star destroyer Sharihen,” a woman’s voice returned, speaking with deep maturity and regality, “Your target is in the Itopol Sector.”

“That’s one way to get the message across,” I muttered, waving a hand, “Let’s have them elaborate aboard. We’ll receive them in the hangar.”

Hare’s ears perked up, because when ‘we’ received people it's usually her and I, and I swear to every god I know they gleamed like sharpened blades. Did she secretly carry a whetstone in her internal compartments or something? Because at this rate I’m really going to have to start watching where I put my hands around her.

“Transmitting rendezvous coordinates,” Stelle relayed, “Upon arrival, deactivate your main reactor and standby for tractor beam-guided docking. Acknowledge upon receipt.”

“Acknowledged.”

Chimeratica broke away from the debris field, leaving the burnt out husk of star frigate Repulse to the cold void. Any data that could have been salvaged from that ship already had been, and all that was left of it were depictions of predator and prey that adorned its smoky hull. She was too badly damaged after the 4th Skirmish at Sullust to put up any sort of fight, and even though she could have been repaired–the Auxiliary Division was present–I opted not to. After all, I had to control Alrix into attacking the single spot where Horgo could blast her into stardust.

Aside from some clenched teeth, I showed no outward emotion as the old frigate disappeared into immateriality, as just another wreck among countless others. Where would she end up from here? A Sullustan scrapyard, most likely.

I sighed, standing up and leaving for Chimeratica’s main port airlock as Sharihen approached the rendezvous, portside docking flange extending out of her hull. Timing my arrival perfectly, I approached the airlock just as it hissed open, an escort of Onderonian Guardsmen at my back for insurance. 

I could immediately recognise the woman who appeared from the disinfecting smoke as the voice I had heard earlier. She was tall, though perhaps not quite my height, with a pitch black mane of hair that fell down in a dozen gold-tasselled braids, and prominent cheekbones that framed her blue-black lips. What caught my eye the most, however, were the luxurious purple robes draped over her black body suit–which all Mistryl Shadow Guards wore–tied at the waist by a lavender sash. 

Indeed, the rest of the Shadow Guards that emerged at her back only wore the hooded black suits as befit their title, which really made them look more like a cabal of assassins… which the Shadow Guards also acted as at times. 

“Where’d you get those drapes?” were the first words out of my mouth, prompting a single raised eyebrow, and no other reaction from the rest of the Guards.

“Ootoolan weave,” the lead Guard said, “A gift from the Princess of Ootoola for my prolonged service.”

That must be her previous employer, then, and considering the mild fondness in her voice, she must have been quite dissatisfied with Emberlene’s complete recall of all deployed Shadow Guards. 

“It looks like quality–” maybe even better than Onderonian silk, I thought as I inspected the fabric’s lustre, “–Hare, remember Ootoola for me.”

“You won’t be welcome,” the Shadow Guard told me, “The royal family was overthrown and executed by purist rebels. That was twelve years ago.”

“The Princess must still be alive, if you are wearing that,” I pointed out, “Which means you served as her bodyguard. Hare, where is Ootoola?”

“Morshdine Sector, in the New Territories.”

“We’ll have to invade them later.”

“Yes, Master.”

Now that elicited a reaction–a few startled looks from some of the shorter, and likely younger, members of the Guards. I disguised a triumphant smile with an enigmatic, self-assured one that suggested I might not actually be joking with that statement.

“All for some seaweed?” the head Guard narrowed her sharp eyes.

“My family got rich off producing silk,” I waved them in, “If I didn’t join the war, I imagine I’d be a weaver. My name is Rain Bonteri, but I’m sure you knew that. Welcome aboard the Chimeratica.”

“Naradan Du’lin,” Naradan introduced herself, “This is my personal squad, and fleet. We were hired by Calli Trilm.”

“Did she pay upfront?”

“The down payment,” the Shadow Guard informed as she took after me, “We were led to believe you will pay the rest as the job is completed.”

I tried not to betray my disbelief as I hummed in thought, “Will the job remain between us?”

“Nothing can be promised.”

Well, I tried. They were state-sponsored mercenaries, after all. A cut of their pay definitely goes towards Emberlene’s coffers, as was how the Shadow Guard system operated for as long as the organisation existed.

“The Pantoran doesn’t enjoy mercs and bounty hunters,” I called down a turbolift, gesturing to the other elevators in the lobby to accommodate the other two dozen or so Shadow Guards, “How did you get past the Fourth Fleet Group?”

“General Ambigene was more than accommodating,” Naradan crossed her arms, “As soon as the standing order was lifted, he bid us well with the guise of pursuing a fleet of fleeing Loyalists.”

“Where are those Loyalists now?”

“Chased them as far as the Uvena System before we decided it was safe to head here. There’s a fleet gathering there, for your information. The Republic’s Eighteenth Army may have been shattered, but their General Teshik is still rallying the remnants at Uvena Prime. Those Loyalists–Maarisa Zsinj and the ORSF–were just another fragment of a new fleet he is piecing together there.”

There was a long pause, and even as the turbolift doors slid open, nobody made a move to enter. Naradin Du’lin stared at me, her eyes like chips of blue diamond, saw something on my face, and made to address the bantha in the room.

“And considering what is happening to Eriadu as we speak,” she said, “I would advise caution, as they are a lost legion with nothing left to lose.”

She was, of course, referring to the momentous event that heralded the official beginning of the Confederacy’s Operation Storm-Door; the Decimation of Eriadu. Or, as various extremist Separatist mouthpieces were already so chillingly declaring it; the Emancipation of Eriadu. General Horn Ambigene’s complete and utter purging of Eriadu’s crust. A planet of twenty-two billion souls, the most populated world in the Outer Rim outside the Tion Cluster, reduced to a blasted wasteland.

Even the mere indirect mention of the event was enough to make the turbolift lobby freeze. Chimeratica’s every compartment was maintained at a steady eighteen standard degrees to keep its automated systems and droids cooled, but just then it felt as if the temperature made a precipitous drop to zero. In this era of technology, even hundreds of light years were only a few hours away, and to think the next city over was being massacred down to the last child was enough to make you trick yourself into hearing the screams in your head.

Or was that an echo of the Force?

As soon as the 7th Battle of Sullust ended, Vinoc reportedly experienced pounding migraines that ‘threatened to split his skull open’ as he put it himself. And Ventress, she was nowhere to be found, but if I had to guess, she was either drinking in the suffering as one would a smoothie, or puking out its bitter taste. Maybe both. Maybe it was an acquired taste.

I met her gaze as I stuck an arm through the automatically closing lift doors, feeling cold metal brush my sleeves before retreating, saving me an unintended amputation, “Then it will be an even match.”

And this time, I was actually being serious. The Supreme Commander chose the Perlemian Coalition’s Armadas for Operation Starlance for a reason. The scale of destruction caused by the GAR’s Operation Trident was just as severe, if not even more widespread than the ongoing Emancipation of Eriadu. But widespread death and destruction was simply the effect of war, while the concentrated firepower unleashed upon Eriadu in particular was considered mass-murder. 

One was more sensational than the other.

But the people of the Near Perlemian didn’t quite think so. Among the 28th Mobile Fleet alone, reactions to Horn Ambigene’s massacre were mixed, but not quite negative. The Sy Myrthians, whose world had been briefly besieged but otherwise unmolested, were politely concerned at the political implications. The Trogans clicked their tongues in disapproval. The Columexi cheered, though they seem to always be in high spirits ever since the decisive battle their home system played host too.

But how about those, as Naradan so tactfully put it, had nothing left to lose? The Bryxi, the Pzandians, whose worlds were left devastated, and still remained in GAR hands; they celebrated. Entire warships converted into parties of triumph and toasts to Ambigene’s name not as the devil incarnate, but as the man who carved an eye out for an eye.

I could only imagine what was occurring in our sister fleet, the 19th Mobile Fleet, whose crews consisted of the likes of Salvarans, Centareans, and Abheans, all victims of the 12th Sector Army’s hasty advance and the levelled cities and indiscriminate slaughter that naturally spilled forth from them. Their homeworlds suffering under the yoke of military occupation, their people persecuted as popular insurrections them; they must be weeping tears of blood. Tears of joy.

They had it coming. 

That was the prevailing sentiment across Separatist space. Eriadu was, ultimately, an Outer Rim world that had a choice to, but didn’t side with the Outer Rim. In fact, they actively distanced themselves from the Rim, pandering to the Galactic Interior. They were already traitors, in a sense, pariahs to the larger Rimward community. There was backlash, obviously, but if Horn Ambigene wanted to make an impact large enough to shake the galaxy to the core, yet limit backlash from the Rim-dominated Confederacy, Eriadu was the perfect target.

And considering the devastation was still ongoing, with no signs of prohibition from the Office of the General… then this event must have been something Sev’rance Tann had accounted for, or even planned for. 

As for myself… I found it surprising that I couldn’t bring myself to care. In fact, I cared more about rescuing the Republic survivors here at Sullust than trying to stop Ambigene. Oh it was surprising, even shocking, no doubt. If you asked me what a man like Ambigene was capable of right after I met him through the holo, I would have never guessed this. It was suffering and death, but in another place, one that did not matter to me on a personal level.

At Centares, it was my responsibility to burden the loss of lives under my command. At Christophsis, and now here at Sullust, I had personally defeated enemy fleets, and caused the deaths of thousands. The least I could do as the opposing commander was respecting their effort and grant them the opportunity to fight another day. There were thousands of people dying here and now, caused by my own hands, and not doing anything about it when I could–it would definitely keep me up at nights to come.

But Eriadu? There were billions of people dying there and then. I was reading it in the news, and I looked at a number with a few too many zeroes and commas for me to process, and I took it as an interesting statistic. A case study, of sorts, about orbital bombardments. A new chapter in a history book, or military textbook, to read about in a couple years. It was a monumental event in history, an exceedingly rare one in which you knew it was a monumental event as it happened, but that’s all it was. Call me cold, or callous–because I certainly do–but the truth of the matter was, I was only concerned by the implications it would have on my own personal plans.

For one, the fallout will be immense. Eriadu was the ‘Coruscant of the Outer Rim.’ The destruction of a world with a few million, or even a billion lives could be overlooked–they were overlooked–as you don’t really see anybody talking about the Destruction of Euceron, but twenty-two billion? The so-called Bastion of Civilisation in the Outer Rim? 

The Core Worlds must be shitting their pants. The First General had just set a precedent, a declaration to the entire galaxy. If he was willing to purge an Outer Rim world, just what would he do should the war reach the Interior? Not to mention the GAR will be much more liberal with indiscriminate bombardment as well. 

But my greatest fear will be the possibility that the Jedi Order decides that it was no longer just Dooku, but the entire Confederacy that deserves to fall. That will be a problem, as it will make removing the Supreme Chancellor from power so much more difficult. Still, the Jedi were not a necessity for my plan, just an extremely preferable addition. So long as our agent in the Temple does her job, it will only be a matter of time before the Republic caves in.

“You seem confident,” Naradan observed, “Even as Anakin Skywalker and the Open Circle is headed here. You are trapped between two fleets.”

“Where exactly is the Storm Fleet?” I ignored her.

“When the Storm Fleet came to Emberlene to forcefully enlist us in the Separatist cause, they didn’t know we are quite capable of holding grudges,” she answered, “We have tracked them to the Llon Nebula, in the Topola Sector.”

“Where is that?”

“Standard Galactic Grid K-Fifteen,” Hare relayed from her massive database, “Fifteen-hundred parsecs from Yag’Dhul, absolute bearing two-three-seven degrees.”

“A day’s transit for our ships,” Naradan said, “But that’s nothing said about destroying two-hundred battlecruisers.”

I didn’t deign to answer, concentrating on mapping out the coordinates in my mind’s eye. The 28th Mobile Fleet was stuck between the 18th Sector Army to our south and the Open Circle Fleet to our north. Yag’Dhul was the key bottleneck for the GAR supply line, and should it be cut, their entire offensive strung out across 4,000 parsecs of the Rimma Trade Route would begin to falter. But it wasn’t undefended. Not only was there the Siege of Yag’Dhul, there was another Republic fleet at Fondor to the northwest, and another at Mechis-III to the northeast.

To liberate and hold Yag’Dhul, we might have to contend against three, if not four separate Loyalist fleets. Then there was the Storm Fleet…

Let’s start breaking down the problem. 

The highest priority threat was the Open Circle. Anakin Skywalker. If I remove him from the board, I remove the most troublesome enemy. Right now he is in hyperspace transit, and so I can be certain he doesn’t yet know of Rees Alrix’s defeat, or the Emancipation of Eriadu. If I also consider the location of the Storm Fleet…

If I time this perfectly, I can eliminate him as an immediate threat without firing a single shot. A plan began to formulate in my head.

“Hare,” I said aloud, “Inform the fleet to prepare to jump to Yag’Dhul immediately.”

“Yes, Master,” the rabbit droid pulled out her tablet and began navigating the communications interface.

“What are you thinking?” Naradan Du’lin demanded, “Are you planning on having us fight with you at Yag’Dhul?”

“Not at all,” I returned smoothly, “I’m thinking we will have a nice, long chat over tea during our transit, where I tell you my convoluted and frankly confusing plan which you will then carry out. Depending on which backup plan you inevitably fall back on, you will be awarded the appropriate hazard pay.”

Naradan looked at me critically, as if trying to find any deeper meaning in my words, before glancing around at her comrades. After a moment’s thought, she shrugged, tasselled braids bouncing.

“Very well.”

“Uh, Rain?” Hare looked up at me with her perpetually wide eyes, “We are detecting an unauthorised inbound transmission.”

“Recipient?”

“Dark Rival.”

There was a pause, then laughter. My laughter. Looks like even the powers that be are finding their pants lit on fire. Did Ventress really think she could pull the same stunt twice? After nearly sabotaging our mission at Teth? The 28th Mobile Fleet had seven subdivisions; the sixth was the Auxiliary Division, and seventh was the Intelligence Division. A necessity for the Mobile Fleet that had to always remain a dozen steps ahead of its enemies so as to not get caught.

In other words, half a hundred state-of-the-art intelligence frigates, packed full with cutting edge sensor and jamming suites, electronic warfare systems, and long range subspace transceivers. They were the very reason we even knew the Open Circle Fleet was blazing down the Rimma Trade Route to our position.

“Go and prepare that tea,” I told Hare, before turning to Naradan, “Mind if we add one more unwilling guest to our conversation?”

⁂

It was a web of pain, reaching to the even furthest frontiers of the galaxy from its empty cocoon, curling up and dying. It was a never-ending choir, singing through the waves of the Force, expanding, compounding, as a million new voices joined to its plaintive wail with each passing minute.

Asajj Ventress meditated within the dark recesses of her ship, timing her breaths with the ebb and flow of the Force, feeling each and every swell and fall in her mind and muscles. She wasn’t like that failed Jedi, Vinoc, who struggled to withstand the assault of Eriadu’s collective will. She was made who she was on Rattatak, by Rattatak, and she has struggled and fought against the galaxy since she was but a child. She left her girlhood behind the day her Master, Ky Narec, died in her arms. 

She wore her kills on her clean shaven skull, twelve dagger-shaped marks, for one of each of the twelve warlords she had killed after swearing their deaths. She herself was a dagger, forged by Rattatak, yes, but tempered and sharpened by Count Dooku. In a galaxy cluttered with hate, it was easy to fuel oneself with fury–but blind fury was as common as sands in a desert. It was easy to dip into the dark side of the Force and let it control you, but to command the dark side… that was what Vinoc lacked, and she had.

Direction.

Lashing out blindly, aimlessly, was no way to live, much less fight. One must be focused, directed, acting with purpose and speed. Ventress was the rose and thorn; the sound of a long knife driving home, and the taste of blood upon one’s lips.

Similarly, the Devastation of Eriadu was concentrated, directed, and purposeful. That was what made its echo in the Force so powerful, it was a knife that cut into the unsuspecting. She was not one of the unsuspecting. She knew the true nature of this damned galaxy from the beginning. Twenty-two billion lives? Just another day in the galaxy. 

People only cared about this one because the world was on the HoloNet a few times in the past thousand years.

Ventress peeled her eyes open as the holoprojector before her blinked, shining like a beacon in the blacked out stateroom. She already knew the person on the other side, without even checking. Slowly, she shifted from her meditative stance to a kneel, and accepted the transmission.

“Master.”

“Asajj.”

It was Count Dooku, just as she expected. The ways her scars throbbed, the phantom sensations of scorching lightning dancing across and digging into her flesh, the dormant bruises on her cheeks that seemed to awaken just to throb again. She knew.

“Is it finally time to act against Sev’rance Tann, Master?”

Count Dooku was as imperial as she had last seen him, standing straight with square shoulders that belied his age. Indeed, the white-haired Count wore his eighty-two standard years far better than most humans half his age, deft as he has become with the Force. 

“She has always worn a streak of rebellion,” Dooku said, “But always manageable. Until now.”

Until now. Ventress could have told her Master that years ago, back when she still seeked favour. Validation. Proof her life was worth something after Kate's death. The echo of a girl who still had something to prove, lingering far after it lost its welcome. She had strived to serve Dooku, learning what scraps he had to offer, like a starving cat begging for more food. How many other Dark Acolytes were just like her.

Compared, Sev’rance Tann was far more stoic. The blue-skinned alien took every lesson and every punishment in stride, never complaining when Dooku taught her some lesser art when he hinted at greater ones, never flinching when the threat of cackling electricity erupted from his fingertips. 

The Force ran differently around Tann, through her bleeding red eyes that seemed to view the world with a calculative impartiality. Ventress considered the rest of the acolytes beneath her–they weren’t so worthy of the Count’s attention–but Sev’rance Tann? She so desperately needed to prove she was better than the woman. 

Time and time again, Ventress trounced Tann again and again in their duels and sessions. And time and time again, Dooku chose Tann to join him in his strategising, privy to his closest plans and secrets. Everybody has their strengths, Ventress didn’t need anybody to tell her that. But the growling beast that is envy was not so reasonable. 

But Ventress was observant. Sev’rance Tann was the oldest of them, Ventress knew, but never respected the relationship between master and apprentice. She listened and learned, but never stooped to deference. Never once did she ever refer to Dooku as her master–always ‘the Count,’ or ‘sir.’ She even looked down on the Count as if his age was dulling his intelligence, when not even Dooku could keep up with her intricate predictions, as if anybody could keep up with her foresight.

One day, Ventress told her Master, Tann would betray them, once she no longer had any use for them. To that, Dooku merely said;

“I know. It is the unhappy hazard of embracing the dark side.”

But it was never about the dark side, was it, Sev’rance? Ventress knew. She had warned Dooku time and time again, against growing exasperation and irritance. When their fellow acolytes sweated and squirmed in the midst of writhing ancient texts, Sev’rance regarded them with a clinical eye, as if dissecting the stupidities of Sith long dead rather than learning their arts.

It was all a transaction for her. The dark side was merely but a pathway to power, and the moment she found another, shorter ladder, she would reach away without a moment’s hesitation. She did find another ladder, in the halls of politics and military might. 

And… I had a taste of that power. Ventress had already placed her foot on the first rung of this ladder, crafted by Rain Bonteri’s hand. It wasn’t the same as seeing the fear in her enemy’s eyes in person, but watching hundreds–thousands–die painfully in service of their twisted Republic with nothing but a few well-timed sentences and a finger on the trigger… there was something delectable about that too.

Nevertheless, Ventress was finally proven right. Vindication outweighing deference, the Dark Acolyte said nothing, cocking a hairless eyebrow.

“I will presume,” Count Dooku recognised her stance, “Your intention is not to gloat.”

“I like to think you taught me to be above such things,” Ventress lied.

“Naturally,” Dooku seriously agreed.

A beat of silence passed between them.

“That said,” Ventress smiled bitterly, “I told you so.”

A flash of irritation that she was so familiar with crossed his face, before it was reigned with patrician command and aristocratic weight. Dooku opted not to trade barbs, partially because it was beneath, and partially because she was right.

“You thought you could betray her first, didn’t you?” Ventress continued fearlessly, “You thought she was incapable of plotting to oust you of your own power right beneath your nose.”

“That is enough from you,” Dooku said softly, and Ventress’ heart constricted, crushing her chest, “Ventress.”

“...Y-Yes,” she choked out, bowing her head, “Master.”

The Count didn’t even lift a finger.

“The only reason she succeeded,” Dooku told her coldly, “Was because of traitors within our ranks.” 

And who’s to be faulted for that but your lack of action and political blunders? This time, Ventress kept her inner thoughts concealed. Who were the pillars of Sev’rance Tann’s regimed? Admiral Trench, for one, the damnable spider. The Harch once served Dooku loyally, until the Count trampled over his pride by introducing a complete nobody to take the position he vied for in the shape of Grievous. 

The Perlemian Coalition, of another, and its two leaders. Calli Trilm and Rain Bonteri. The former was Dooku’s personal aide, the latter a nameless noble from Onderon. Could they have been accounted for? Perhaps, perhaps not. But it would have helped if Dooku had not tried to install his own puppet to control the CAF, alienating the vast majority of high-standing military figures within the Confederacy and creating a vacuum through which the Perlemian Coalition could fill.

“As you say, Master,” Ventress agreed obediently, “How will we eliminate Sev’rance? She remains protected aboard the Independence, surrounded by her personal fleet and guarded by her most loyal pawns. Not even I can infiltrate the star station.”

“Leave the girl to me,” Dooku told her, “Sev’rance may control the CAF as if it is her personal kingdom, but not even she can act against the Raxus Government so blatantly just yet. The Independence has been summoned to Raxus Secundus for a hearing on Horn Ambigene’s actions. I will deal with her personally.”

“And I, Master?”

“You will eliminate her two closest vassals,” her Master instructed icily, “Calli Trilm, and Rain Bonteri.”

“I understand,” Ventress said.

Is this right? They might be Tann’s creatures, but they also serve the Confederacy. Would we have beaten back the Republic on the Perlemian, if not for Calli Trilm’s unifying figure and authority? Would we have won here, at Sullust, if not for Rain Bonteri’s skill? The Confederacy was on the verge of its greatest counterattack, an offensive to crack the Interior wide open and instil the fear of gods and death into the corrupt, decadent Core Worlds. 

To eliminate the two spearheads of this offensive… would be crippling.

“Having an attack of conscience, Asajj?”

“No, Master,” Ventress swallowed, “But there is no time for me to board Bonteri’s flagship now. We are about to jump to Yag’Dhul.”

“You couldn’t kill him if you were on the same ship anyway,” the Count waved a dismissive hand, “Bonteri commands a legion of cortosis battle droids. Even if he does fall to your blade, you would lose your life as well, and you are far too valuable for that, my apprentice.”

“Then how will I–”

“Patience, Asajj.”

Asajj Ventress bowed her head again.

“I have prepared a secret fleet for you, a mere day’s travel southwest of Yag’Dhul,” Dooku’s eye gleamed, “Two-hundred advanced battlecruisers. Enough firepower to destroy Bonteri’s entire fleet, damn tactics and strategy.”

Ventress’ breath quickened, “Understood, Master. I will do as you bid for me. Where will I take command of this fleet?”

“The Llon Nebula.”