| abstract
| - Night fell on dusty Tellanroaeg, and the planet’s two moons were rising, one copper and the other silvery. They were barely visible through the wisps of high-altitude cirrus clouds, illuminating the planet’s surface with a pale light. From the air, the open field by the medcenter was distinguished by scars from the Clone Wars. Strewn amongst the craters was the wreckage of hundreds of droids of various types and sizes, their once ominous armaments now burnt husks. The grass had largely been burned away, leaving a desolate, wartorn landscape demarcating the vicinity of the fortifications. Zigzagging across one end of the field like a horrendous scar on the land was a shallow trench into which a few hundred sentients huddled, clutching weaponry of their own. For the moment, all was quiet across the battlefield. In the trench, cleaning his blaster rifle by the light from the moons, sat the ARC trooper Spectre. His command had fallen under heavy attack all day from the Separatist droids, and had sustained heavy losses. However, with nightfall, the droids had stopped their attack to regroup and rearm, though Spectre knew that they’d be back, and in greater numbers. Gently re-assembling the blaster, he placed the weapon at his side. Lying down in the mud and gravel, he attempted to find a comfortable position in the trench—there weren’t any—and tried to doze off, not an easy feat when one was still in full armor. The hours slowly ticked by, with Spectre catching sleep in elusive snatches, but more often tossing and turning on the rocky ground. As dawn approached, the ARC tiredly stood up and pulled on the equipment belts that he had taken off while resting his aching body. The other troops of his command were roused a few minutes later; some by their own natural instincts, some by an alarm they had set, and a few unfortunates by their sergeants. Some of them wore the battered white armor of Jango Fett clones, but roughly half were local recruits that Spectre had trained. They all ate a quick meal of cold rations and waited for the Separatist attack that traditionally started with a deadly rain of artillery fire. However, as the sun rose higher into the sky, the troops were relieved when no attack came. As a matter of fact, no Separatist attack was reported on any part of the planet. “What’s up with the karkin’ droids?” growled one trooper. “Are you complaining?” replied another. Spectre largely ignored the rumor-mongering among the troops. As an officer and an ARC, it was not his place to be idly gossiping. Instead, he continued checking his equipment and scanning the horizon, tasks both boring and absolutely necessary. Equipment had to be maintained to work probperly, and an ARC’s job demanded that he always have an edge in kit. Better to keep watch on the boring, distant landscape than have an unpleasant surprise. Commander Trip walked up to Spectre. “Captain, I have a job for you. We anticipated a major push by the droids, but there hasn’t been one. I want you to take one of the gunships up for a look-see. Engage the enemy only if necessary.” “Yes sir.” Spectre shouldered his weapon and, informing his second in command to look after the locals, took a speeder bike back to the staging area near the medcenter where the LAAT was waiting. The place looked none the worse for the wear. Apparently the clones’ defense had kept the Seps from shelling it too much, which was a good thing considering the number of injured men in the med center. Privately, Spectre wondered if Trip was sending him to his death. Earlier, Spectre had given a Jedi victim of Order 66 a decent burial and had nearly crossed the line of insubordination in authenticating the order. He still found it hard to believe that the Jedi had betrayed the Republic—scratch that, it was the Empire now. However, even if that was Trip’s intention, he had no choice but to obey orders. Boarding the banged-up looking gunship, Spectre signaled the pilot forward. For hours they flew over Tellanroaeg’s surface, the kilometers passing beneath them as the repulsorlifts carried the craft a thousand meters overhead. Spectre kept his visor out for droids, both visually and with the aid of the craft’s sensors, but found no trace of hostiles whatsoever. Taking the craft far beyond the Imperial perimeter, Spectre hoped that this deep reconnaissance, although definitely hazardous, would yield some clue as to what the gearheads were up to. Suddenly, clearing a ridge, the gunship swooped over an enormous mass of droids, both infantry and vehicular. The pilot instinctively threw the craft into an evasive roll, sending Spectre’s stomach churning as the craft lurched and rattled. No amount of jinking would help them dodge this many droids, Spectre realized. They were doomed. He braced himself and waited for the laser bolts to burn through the gunship, but nothing happened. “Wait!” Spectre called to the pilot. “They’re not firing at us.” Spectre wasn’t wrong. No lasers fired at them, no missile locks set off the warning sensor. The droids apparently hadn’t noticed the gunship—an impossibility considering the capabilities of Separatist hardware and the low altitude and obvious visibility of the airborne craft. “Take us down lower. If they were going to shoot us, they would have done so by now. They’re not even tracking us.” The pilot complied, taking the craft down until they were a sparse few dozen meters above the droids. Spectre quickly realized that the droids were inactive, completely powered down. As the gunship roared over the army of droids, Spectre saw that every one of them had stopped, as if switched off. “Pilot,” he called. “Take us to where we believe the main Separatist camp to be. I want to check something out.” “Roger that, sir,” replied the pilot. Gunning the throttle, the ungainly gunship roared over the dry plains of Tellanroaeg, deeper behind enemy lines. For better or worse, Spectre was now unavoidably jumping right into the rancor’s mouth. Passing over an alkali lake, Spectre saw a group of droid starfighters crashed into and around the lake. Peering at them through his electrobinoculars, he was perplexed by the lack of battle damage. Were the Separatist forces experiencing problems with their droids? Had someone blown the control node for the droids? Spectre didn’t know, but he began to suspect that the droid army had somehow been deactivated or sabotaged. The lack of concrete answers bothered Spectre, needling him with pinpricks of doubt. Soon enough, halfway built into a large mesa, the Separatist command post was easily visible. Massive landers, protected by freshly constructed turbolaser turrets on the ground, sat silently on landing areas, their droids disgorged from their bellies in preparation for war. Storage facilities, support facilities, maintenance shops, sensor posts, weapons caches and all the other necessary structures of a military base were evident, all made of the same drab pre-fabricated material typical of Confederacy military architecture. The mesa had hangars carved out of it, sealed off by thick blast doors and with sensors and comm gear protruding from the top of the formation. And still, they drew no fire from the defenses. The pilot kept the craft low, trying to stay out of sight of any enemy gunners. The complete lack of enemy fire both relieved and bothered Spectre. If an Imperial commando team had managed to disable the droids, why hadn’t they reported in the accomplishment? And if it had been an Imperial commando team had done the job, why were no signs of a struggle or attack, aside from four crashed droid starfighters that, once again, displayed no signs of battle damage. Even ARC troopers couldn’t get into a base that silently. Trip had already told him that all the Jedi on the planet were dead, so it couldn’t have been one of them, and yet a Jedi was the only type of combatant Spectre knew that could penetrate an enemy’s defenses so easily. Perhaps Trip was mistaken. At any rate, it was time to check out the command post. If no one was there, it would easy to get into and explain the mystery behind the inert battle droids. Spectre signaled the pilot to set down at what he suspected to be the main command center entrance, built directly into the mesa. Leaping off the gunship, blaster ready, he advanced on the main gate. Elsewhere on Coruscant Selu Kraen walked the streets of Coruscant. Thoroughly tired of being cooped up in Sarth’s residence, he now wandered freely since his rescue two days ago. Clad in a set of Sarth’s clothing, he also sported a raddan leather spacer’s jacket that Sarth had bought for him instead of his cloak. He still wore his utility belt and boots, but now tucked his lightsaber away into a concealed pocket in the jacket, his blaster and holster also securely hanging from his belt. The Republic—the Empire now, as the reins of power had recently been taken by Palpatine, he had learned—was out to kill all the Jedi. Hopefully, his growing of a short beard and having his hair cropped closely to his skull would help disguise him from those searching for Jedi. He ambled by the various businesses, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells, and above all, trying not to look conspicuous. The crowded walkways, filled with sentients of all shapes and sizes going about their business, made it easy for him to blend into the crowd, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He and Sarth both met up back at the inn for a short lunch. Sarth had been trying to find more information about the impetus behind the deadly attack on the Jedi Temple, but so far his searches had turned up little. Throughout the day and on into night, Selu continued his walks through the vast urban maze that was Coruscant, still amazed at the sights, sounds, and smells of the city, which he had rarely ever been able to explore as a Jedi. Bright lights, even more than illuminated the city during the day, lit up, at night. Passing by a holoprojector shop, its windows displaying active examples of its merchandise, Selu watched the replays of Palpatine’s institution of the New Order from earlier that day. Shaking his head in disgust, he continued on, amazed at the disregard that ordinary citizenry seemed to give such monumental events. For them, life continued as normal, republic or empire. And in such a dynamic place as Coruscant, even the traces of the devastating Separatist assault on the planet were rapidly being erased by a legion of cleaning and construction droids. The planner of that assault, the dreaded General Grievous, was no more, thankfully, but now Selu was certain a greater threat loomed over the planet of Coruscant. Selu’s steps eventually led him back to the shoddy inn where he and Sarth lived. Entering the code he’d been given, he opened the door and found Sarth sitting at his desk, fiddling with the room’s computer. Selu felt a pang of regret as he realized that he’d barely gotten to know his brother. He had been preoccupied by the grief and loss he carried within him and Sarth had wisely given him space. “Hey, Selu. Did you have a good walk?” Before Selu could respond, he felt a massive disturbance in the Force, nearly knocking him over. This, unlike the deaths of the Jedi he had felt when Order 66 was executed, was more like an intense storm or raging battle rather than a shockwave. “Whoa, easy there. It was just a question,” said Sarth. “It’s not you. Something big is happening,” Selu responded hoarsely. “Mmhmm. More Jedi stuff.” Selu felt the disturbance again, the clash of dark and light sides locked in a titanic struggle. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the colossal conflict between raging uncomfortably close. “It’s coming from the government district,” Selu said. “I sense Master Yoda . . . and a great darkness. We have to get over there now! He’s fighting against something . . . someone and they’re very powerful.” “What? What are you going to do?!” replied Sarth. “I’m going to help Master Yoda. Isn’t it obvious?” “You can’t do that.” “Oh? Why not?” “First off, you haven’t thought things through.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Selu tried to keep from sounding indignant, but he had little time for a brother who thought he knew more about the Force than he did. “Even us common folks know who Master Yoda is, and if he can’t beat whatever it is, chances are that you can’t be much help.” Before Selu could protest, Sarth continued. “Second of all, even if you could, his opponent is probably behind the attack on the Temple. That means that he’ll have clones sealing that place off to keep Yoda from escaping. If you go in there, and assuming you find the same loophole that Yoda used to get in, they’ll probably spot you and block off the hole. Then, assuming you do defeat whoever that is, both you and Master Yoda will be cut off by an endless supply of clones. You’ll both die.” Selu’s mouth worked as he tried to find a way to reason past Sarth’s argument or persuade him to get him to help Yoda. Unfortunately, he’d never been good at Force persuasion and it only worked on the weak-minded anyway. “How do you know all of this?” “I’m an engineer, Selu, and a damn good one at that. Don’t let the spacer’s garb and the crude dwelling fool you. I’ve been trained to analyze, to think, to examine everything. This is just a temporary layover until my employer returns.” Selu tried to come up with a reply, but was distracted by the roiling currents of Force energy emanating from the government district. His Force senses seemed to be at the verge of a storm in greater magnitude than he had ever sensed. “And under no circumstances will I take you there,” Sarth continued. “You’ll get us both killed for nothing. Look, I know losing the Order is painful for you, and I’m sorry—I really am—but there’s no point in throwing your life away for nothing. I’ve always admired the Jedi, and I’ve always been proud of having a Jedi brother, but you’re going to have to face some facts.” “Like what?” “First off, no one’s going to stop Palpatine from seizing power. People weren’t really happy with the Republic, and if he’s championing something better, no one’s going to stand in his way, even if they could. I hate to break it to you, Selu, but the Republic might not have been worth all those Jedi dying for.” Selu sat back, trying to absorb what his brother was telling him, drawing on his reserve of Jedi calm. Recalling what Yoda had said about truths depending on one’s point of view, he nodded, indicating for Sarth to continue. “Second, and this is going to be hard for you to hear, not everyone liked the Jedi Order. I mean, more than just the criminal types that feared you guys. But the populace was sick of the almighty Jedi running around in robes waving glowing swords. I mean, you got called “baby-snatchers” on a daily basis and the Jedi just sat in their walled off temple. If anyone didn’t like it, that was just too bad. And some people blame you for the war, something that the official feeds say a lot about, also. Now, I’m not saying it’s true, but that’s what people say.” “So you’re saying that people don’t want the Jedi back? They don’t care about the death of the Order?” Selu asked, incredulous. “Oh, some of them do. But a lot don’t. At least, not until their own personal lives are affected. It’s just how people are.” Selu sat down on the bed. He’d been prepared for an argument or a lecture from Sarth, but hearing the apathy of the populace for the Jedi Order was new to him. He’d assumed that the few people on the streets grumbling about the Jedi had some grievance against them, and that the negative vibe was isolated. Well, that little delusion had just been shattered. “Fine,” he said slowly. “If the people don’t want the Jedi, then this Jedi isn’t going to protect them anymore.” “What do you mean?” said Sarth. “I’m not a Jedi Knight anymore, Sarth,” Selu said bitterly. “Jedi keep the peace, preserve order and justice. I’m not going to do that anymore, especially if it’s going to get me killed and put you in danger.” “Just like that—you’re going to renounce all those oaths you took when you got knighted?” said Sarth. Now it was his turn to sound surprised. “Heh. Might as well—I’ve already broken a bunch of others getting out of that temple.” Selu recalled his touching the dark side in killing the clones, his attachment to Serra and Skip, his admission of love to Serra on her deathbed. “Speaking of that—I’m curious. What did happen in the temple? I haven’t heard any accounts besides the official government news.” Selu’s eyes flashed as he recalled the carnage of the attack, freshly evoked by Sarth’s words, and his voice dropped an octave and gained a new edge. Not wanting to get into a fight with Sarth or discuss the temple raid, he continued on his original thought. “Why not break these last ones also?” “Well, that’s simple. Because you don’t want to.” “Sure I do. The populace hates me. The government wants to kill me. It’s the only way to save myself.” “Then why have you been carrying that lightsaber inside your jacket all this time you’ve been going out on the street?” Sarth asked pointedly. Selu stopped in mid-rant, fingering the hilt of the weapon. “I—I guess I have been carrying it, out of the hope that somehow, all those horrible things were a dream that I couldn’t wake up from. Because it felt right.” “Exactly. The Jedi Order isn’t totally dead, Selu. Not as long as you or some other Jedi is still alive somewhere. It’s in exile. That’s what you’ve got to do—go into exile. Wait until the time is ready and see if the populace wants you back. If they do, jump for it. If not, hit the thrusters and keep doing whatever you’ve been doing.” Selu mulled over Sarth’s words for a minute. “I suppose you’re right, but I have no idea what to do in exile.” “I might. My employer should be here soon. Whenever he gets here, I’ll talk to him and see if can use another employee,” said Sarth, smiling. “This employer of yours better be good,” Selu said. “Don’t worry about a thing,” replied Sarth. “Huh. My former master told me that once,” commented Selu skeptically, ignoring the pain caused by memories of his master. “Oh? When was that?” “Right before the Battle of Rendili.” “Oh. Just trust me then.” “Funny, he said that too.” Tellanroaeg Spectre flattened himself against a wall as two red blaster bolts sparked past him. Leaning out, he unloaded his blaster into the nearest guard, shredding his chestplate and leaving a smoking crater in his torso. Apparently, the Seps hadn’t been stupid enough to have entirely mechanical forces. A pity, but at least he hadn’t been dodging droidekas. Fortunately, the Neimoidian warriors he had encountered weren’t fairly bright, and their long blaster rifles were downright awkward. He’d taken out the first pair silently, with a vibroknuckler and outright strangulation, but subsequent guards had proved more troublesome. However, if the central computer was correct, there were fewer than twenty of them in the whole place. Twenty Neimoidian wannabe soldiers and a few Geonosians against one ARC. That was almost fair. Now it was fifteen to one. Definitely bad odds. Tapping into the comm system—the pathetic encryption routine on the computer systems had taken him less than five minutes to slice—he activated the command center intercom system. “This is the Grand Army of the Empire. Throw down your arms and surrender, and your lives will be spared. This is your one and only offer.” Whoever was listening apparently didn’t deem it fit to respond in any way, but it did draw a quartet of guards bursting into the room where he had accessed the comm panel, rifles ready. Fortunately, Spectre was no longer at the console, having shot the surveillance holocam and ducked into an adjoining hallway. As the blank-faced armored Neimoidians looked around nervously, Spectre carefully withdrew a small orb from a belt pouch. Silently depressing a button at the top, he held the weapon for two agonizingly long seconds before bending down and swiftly rolling it towards the guards. The Neimoidians had just enough time to look down at the metallic object at their feet and realize it was a detonator before an orange fireball consumed them. Spectre smiled grimly under his visor as he continued his journey through the narrow corridors. He despised the insectoid architecture carved into this rock—it reminded him of too many Sep bases on too many worlds. As he advanced through one hall, the hair on the back of his neck prickled and his scars throbbed. Recognizing correctly the danger thanks to his warrior’s instincts, he threw himself into a forward roll, coming up on one knee as a two meter force pike thudded into the ground right where he had been. Suddenly, a cloud of Geonosians descended from the ceiling, some armed with force pikes and vibroblades, and others with the deadly sonic weapons that they were infamous for using. Chittering wildly in the clacking and popping speech common among their kind, they clearly hadn’t expected Spectre to evade the thrown pike. The ARC gave them no time to react. He rose partially, grabbed the force pike in his left hand, and then used his new crouching stance to propel himself into a forward leap at high speed. In midair, his blaster wielded one-handed, he loosed three blue bolts of fire at the Geonosians and heard at least one. Lowering his armored shoulder, he crashed into the first insect in a crunch of broken chitin while he smashed another’s gun arm with the force pike. Having negated their sonic weapons by closing to melee range, Spectre went into action, swinging and stabbing the pike or planting exoskeleton-breaking kicks on the relatively slender bodies of his adversaries. Dropping the weapon, he finished the last pair off, one with a quick snap of its skinny neck and the other, who had tried to choke him from behind, with a shoulder throw topped off by a decisive vibro-knuckled punch. Wiping some of the mess from his visor, Spectre decided that he was tired of playing by these rules. Sooner or later, some blasted Sep was going to get lucky. Uncoiling a fibercord and grapnel, he slung the line upward into the shaft the Geonosians had spewed from. Unsurprisingly, when he yanked the line taut, it came back to him, a flailing Geonosian attached to the grapnel. Spectre quickly pulled his blaster into firing position and shot the Geonosian before rewinding the cord and replacing the grapnel with a more standard piton used in ascension guns. “Stupid bug. If you’re going to stalk a clone trooper, you shouldn’t flutter your wings in areas where sound carries,” Spectre addressed the splattered insect lying next to his fallen comrades on the stone floor. Firing the piton, he hauled himself up into the dimly lit shaft. Unlike the hallway, which had been illuminated by an unsettling orange glow, the shaft was completely dark. Switching his helmet visors to infrared, Spectre crept through the narrow shaft slowly, alert for any possible ambush. Hauling himself into a room at the end of the shaft, he noticed a sealed off pair of blast doors up at one end of the room, patrolled by a pair of Neimoidians. “Oh blast,” Spectre said as a Neimoidian launched a projectile at him. Reaching up to bat it away, his fist connected with it just as it detonated, releasing a crackling blue surge along his armor. Ion charge, and one that probably couldn’t have harmed him if he’d recognized what it was instead of thinking it was a grenade. “Fierfek.” His blaster and grenades useless, and his armor systems non-functional, Spectre nevertheless pulled out two breaching charges. As the surprised Neimoidians raised their blasters to finish him off, Spectre hurled the charges one after another, each into the flat Neimoidian faces, knocking them unconscious. Mindful of the blaster graze he just received, he used a datacard from the guard’s belt to open the sealed blast door. Retrieving one of the ungainly Neimoidian blasters, he burst into the room. It was the main droid control hub, and it was utterly deserted. The only thing of importance was a cylinder with a rapidly blinking light on top in the middle of the room. A bomb. Striding forward, Spectre was relieved to see that it was a relatively straightforward device and a type he’d encountered before. In seconds, he had the bomb disarmed, which was good, because that was all the time remaining on the countdown clock. Looking out the transparisteel viewports that overlooked the mesa, Spectre heard the rumble of repulsorlift engines as three Sheathipede-class shuttles soared out of one of the hangars built into the mesa face, heading for space and leaving the burning wreckage of his gunship behind. It appeared the Separatist controllers, finding their droids unresponsive, had decided to flee the world. Returning to the command center, Spectre found the comm console after a short search and activated it, dialing in the primary military frequency. After a few seconds of static, Commander Trip’s hologram shimmered into view. “Commander, Spectre here.” “It’s about time, Spectre. We’ve been trying to raise you for hours.” “Sorry, sir. I’ve captured the main Separatist base. All the controllers have fled, save for a few guards and the droids are—,” “Deactivated, I know. That’s what we just learned. The war is over, at least for now. It’s not just here, it’s all across the galaxy.” “I see, sir.” “We’ll send a couple transports to take possession of the base. Stay put and we’ll have you out of there by sunset.” “Yessir. Spectre out.” The ARC stood back from the comm display, switching it off. So, the war was over. Without a droid army, the Separatist leaders would be almost powerless. Spectre had no idea what he would do next, but decided to preoccupy himself with fixing his gear instead of random thoughts of a post-war future yet to be realized. Several minutes of torturous repairs and testing of equipment later, Spectre picked up his blaster rifle. It was time for the last, dangerous part of taking the base. It was time to clear out the last few guards, cornered in their lairs, to pave the way for full occupation of the base. The guards had the home terrain advantage, to be sure, but they clearly didn’t know that fighting an ARC was a losing proposition. Spectre tightened on his helmet and descended the stairs leading to the rest of the base, weapon at the ready, starting the hunt. By the time three distant specks had resolved themselves into three more larty gunships, loaded with an occupation crew from the main base, Spectre had secured the entire base. True, his armor had sustained some more damage, and he had a positively skull-splitting headache from having his head bashed into a wall by a pair of overzealous Geonosians that had ambushed him, but he hadn’t had the worst of that encounter. Their smoldering corpses were still cooling from when he’d thrown them both next to a cylinder of fuel and blasted it. Landing, the gunships unloaded their complements of troopers and engineers. The troopers spread out into a defensive perimeter while their leader, a lieutenant, walked up to Spectre, who was sitting by the gunship wreckage and cleaning his vibroknuckler. “Nice of you lads to drop by.” “What’s the situation, sir?” “Base is secure. All hostiles eliminated, but you boys have fun.” “All by yourself, sir?” “That’s correct, Lieutenant. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking one of these gunships back to base to get my kit fixed and myself patched up.” “Yes sir. Carry on, sir.” The trooper saluted and Spectre returned it before heading to the gunship, his head throbbing. Those pesky Geonosians had given him a bigger headache than he had originally thought, blast them. Lying down in the troop compartment, he tried to blink the dizziness out of his head as the pilot lifted off and took the ship back to the main base. Beneath them, dry kilometers of Tellanroaeg flashed by, oblivious to the major changes in galactic civilization or in the military situation on the planet’s surface. Hopefully, he would soon get a transfer back to a more civilized world, or some other new option would open up with the war’s end. One could only hope anyways.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)