Chapter 71 (Patreon)

Rendili Approach, Rendili System
Rendili Sector

Uninterrupted hyperspace travel had its risks, that I knew. Every naval officer worth their uniform did. There was a reason prolonged, uninterrupted hyperspace travel in and into enemy territory was unheard of. Yes, it was invariably true that a fleet was virtually and practically invulnerable in hyperspace–but it was also invariably true that a fleet was most vulnerable exiting hyperspace. Simply put, whilst in hyperspace transit, you had absolutely no influence with the rest of the galaxy in realspace, and vice versa.

Your astrogation instruments, tuned to realspace, were more useful turned off than screaming in madness as they tried to cope with the non-Euclidean nature of hyperspace. There was no ‘navigation’ in hyperspace; your fleet was an arrow shot into the wind, and you can only trust you aimed well enough when plotting the jump.

There was no contact either, as there was no technology yet capable of cross-dimension communications, despite the galaxy’s best minds. It was for this reason that fleets often extracted and inserted multiple times over a particularly long travel itinerary, especially when travelling in hostile territory. It was considered far too risky, especially when the enemy could figure out your destination and assemble an ambush force there in advance.

The bare minimum, as established by common galactic naval doctrine, was to extract a few lightyears short of the intended destination, and send a scouting party to investigate first. If the scoutships returned in the stipulated amount of time with the all clear, jump the final leg; if the scoutships do not, consider the destination compromised, and abort. This was conventional naval wisdom.

Following standard procedure, it was expected for the 28th Mobile Fleet to adhere to this wisdom–if not for one problem. The procedure of extracting and inserting again was far easier said than done, and was exponentially harder and longer for every vessel in the fleet. For a fleet of the 28th Mobile’s current size–just under two-hundred vessels–it could take anywhere from half a day to a full standard day to extract, reorganise, correct bearings, recalibrate instruments, plot course, synchronise hyperdrives, slave navicomputers, and insert again.

Trying to jump a fleet of two-hundred was risky business in of itself, considering all it would take was a single misplaced decimal point to cause a catastrophic collision in pseudomotion–on both ends of the jump. We could always forego the pre-jump precautions, as fleets often do in emergencies, but we would still have to wait for the scoutships anyway.

Even half a day was enough time for a battle to start and end, and racing to the help of another fleet, it was a calculated risk to forego scouting ahead in the interest of time. Even the Givin agreed, that if our sister fleet had summoned us for aid, then haste was of the essence. Calli and I made a wordless promise to each other back on Trench’s flagship, and I would not renege on it.

I stood up slowly as the last flashes of friendly pins sprinkled onto the plot. Ahead of us–no, all around us, the grand forces of the Coruscant Home Fleet drawing in like a noose around our necks held a strangely abstract fascination for me, as my throat constricted in… was it fear? Anxiety? Excitement? Or maybe all three? For a brief moment, it was as if I was watching my own back, temporarily disembodied. 

“I count three-hundred warships, sir,” Taylor told me, synthetic voice strung with nervousness.

We have less than two-hundred, I thought, Vinoc and Jorm command near another seventy, but they’re campaigning in the Deep Core. Vinoc’s 4th Battle Division was too far away to rendezvous with us, and had been given the crucial duty of guarding the Nexus Route and flushing out the rest of the GAR’s forces in the region. Jorm’s 6th Auxiliary Division on the other hand, was judged too great of a liability to bring to battle, and thus sent to join the 4th Division.

Is this my first time on the receiving end of a ready and anticipating fleet?

I had no time to dwell on the issue, or on the issue of how exactly the Coruscant Home Fleet knew of our arrival–though I certainly had my suspicions. The forward divisions of the 28th Mobile Fleet were already opening up their batteries, and though they were hardly accurate and hard to describe as anything more than an impulsive reaction–shots oft falling short or fired in random directions–it was enough to incite chaos. 

Though certainly designed to intercept and encircle us, the enemy formation had cut their formation wide, their ranks spread far to cast a larger net. It was no fault of theirs–trying to pin down the exact location of an extracting fleet was borderline impossible, and the fact that they were even able to guess the general area to catch us was impressive enough. Nevertheless, this meant that despite our forward ranks being close enough to dish turbolaser fire, our flanks were relatively free for a precious few minutes. 

The Home Fleet had tried to compensate for this by placing their missile cruisers on their flanks, those Victory-class Star Destroyers of theirs, but our Givin captains reacted much faster than anyone could have predicted. Wavecrest-class frigates spun out to the wings, their PDCs cutting down missiles from the void with an accuracy that would have made even Jedi impressed; and to think they were doing all the calculations and firing patterns in their heads alone, without computers much less the Force.

I had the honour of touring a Wavecrest once. Its pilothouse was the definition of ‘spartan’. No computers or calculators in any form, just plots, inputs, and a helm. Everything else that made a ship a ship took place in the brains of her crew.

“Tuff,” I forced myself into an artificial calm, “We need to buy time.”

The droid nodded sharply, practically taking over my role as battlefield commander with all of his objective pragmatism. Droid brain whirring, TF-1726 plugged himself into Chimeratica’s plot and ordered Diedrich Greyshade’s 3rd Battle Division forward. Spearheaded by Kronprinz, thirty heavy warships condensed into line ahead on our right wing before driving forward–then hooking portside and doubling back down our left; creating an upside down ‘U’-shaped wall of blistering broadsides. 

“Looks like your calculations fell short of something, Dodecian!” Diedrich Greyshade roared with an indescribable emotion, his shining flagship’s brutal pulse cannons raging with him.

“Incorrect,” Dodecian Illiet replied, bringing his ships around now that the 3rd Division has relieved them of the pressure, “Our presence has saved the Nineteenth, as intended.”

I immediately looked to the plot, at his words. It was difficult for Chimeratica to see through the storm of lasers and missiles, but through the eyes of another ship’s sensors, I managed to catch a glimpse of a separate engagement several million klicks southeast. It was the 19th Mobile Fleet, presumably, punching their way through a second Republic fleet. Or rather, a Republic fleet that was forced to split in half in order to deal with both of us. If it hadn’t been for our timely arrival, it was probable the 19th Mobile would already have been defeated by the combined firepower of both halves.

“How many ships does the Nineteenth have?” I asked, relying on Tuff to cover my back as I came up with a plan to extricate us out of this mess.

“Four, five-hundred warships,” Illiet reported, using his better sightlines, “They have been completely encircled by the Republic fleet, however, and I am uncertain.”

“Encircled!?” Horgo Shive demanded, leading our rearguard, “Surely our Countess Clysm can do better than that?”

“She can,” the Givin observed loftily, “The Nineteenth is breaking through.” 

“Then we must work to join them,” I grunted, finalising my manoeuvre package and cursing at the lack of Vinoc and his seventy ships. Seventy heavy ships of the line that would have opened up a whole host of more opportunities for us. 

“Easier said than done, sir,” Krett threw in his two credits.

“Dodecian,” I summoned, “How many mines do you have left?”

“Our stores are adequate, Admiral.”

“Transmitting you the command package now,” I told him, fingers dancing over my console, “Execute it forthwith.”

“–Understood.”

“The rest of you–” I sucked in a deep breath, “All ships; dive!”

⁂

“What is he doing?” Flag Captain Terrinald Screed murmured.

“Trying to slip under us,” Admiral Honor Salima ordered.

The Separatist fleet was splitting in twain, its main body translating downwards, attempting to circumnavigate the comparatively vertically shallow Republic formation and break for their allies on the hyperlane ingress. At the same time, Givin Wavecrests rose up like a school of blackfish rising up to nip at crumbs thrown onto a pond’s surface, before diving back down. In their place, a layer of homing mines, preventing the Home Fleet from straightaway pursuing and biting into the enemy’s exposed ventral flank.

“Captain Dodonna,” Honor commanded, “Launch all fighters and intercept the enemy. Home Fleet; translate downwards. Match the enemy’s velocity!”

In the rear, Captain Jan Dodonna’s carrier squadrons opened their mighty hangars, and the starfighters came pouring out, Y-Wings and ARC-170s and thousands more citizen starfighters of the Galactic Republic. They accelerate upwards, giving space for the rest of their wings to join them, then banked hard on their etheric rudders and plunged back down over the lips of their carriers, sweeping around like the spray of an exotic fountain. 

The Separatists scrambled to launch their own droid starfighters, but the Republic's wings, under the command of Adar Tallon, surged forward with calculated precision. Tallon’s pilots dove headlong into the enemy formation with an unhealthy lack of fear, threading their ships through the looming bulks of the Separatist battlecruisers. Their daring manoeuvres disrupted the droid fighters' formations, preventing them from swarming and overwhelming the Republic fighters.

“Good!” Honor swung around, “Autem, launch your missiles underneath the enemy fleet, right along their vector!”

“Orders received, Admiral.”

Captain Sagoro Autem brought his Star Destroyers into a sharp descent, their angular hulls tilting downward and missile banks erupting with flare and smoke. Wings of white smoke plumed in the abyss, killing pinions racing beneath the Separatist formation and erupting directly in the middle of their downward vector. With the Wavecrests trapped on their ventral flank and main battle line pinned down blocking the incessant fire from the Home Fleet’s frontal batteries, the Perlemian Coalition’s Armada had no other choice but to stop their descent for if they continued their descent, they would be ripped apart from the underside. 

Honor Salima could almost imagine the Rain Bonteri halting and reassessing his position, trapped between Arlionne’s relentless bombardment and Arcenciel’s devastating missile volleys. They were running out of time, as even their mightiest battleships couldn’t last forever under the Home Fleet’s claws. Unfortunately, for Rain Bonteri, however, Honor had already foreseen his next move.

After all, the key to victory on the field was control of the battlespace. Control the battlespace, and you can dictate your enemy’s actions, and so long as you maintain the initiative you can lead your foe to their own death. It didn’t matter if the battlespace was the size of one star system, or an entire star sector. This was the trick of the ‘Battle Hydra.’ Controlling the battlespace was integral to every single one of their stratagems, and their primary objective at the beginning of every engagement was to wrest that control out of their enemy’s hands.

They did that with Columex, using tractor beam superweapons. They did that at Yag’Dhul, using manoeuvre warfare. It didn’t matter how mad the strategy should be, so long as it threw the enemy off their feet just long enough for him to snatch control away. That was what can be concluded if one reviewed his operational records.

And what happened when he couldn’t control the battlespace? The Battle of Centares–when Oppo Rancisis splendidly ripped away control by introducing a Mandator-class dreadnought onto the plot, forcing him to cut his losses and retreat. The Battle of Metalorn–where Plo Koon did much the same with his revolving arrowhead. The Battle Hydra was no more than a mutated snake if they couldn’t control the battlespace, so it was with this man, and so it was with the mythical creature he took his moniker after. Even the mighty dragons of the Gordian Reach knew better than to fight a foe it couldn’t overwhelm.

In this sense, Rain Bonteri was more akin to the Dxunian warbeasts that plagued his homeworld, who picked fights with anything that so much as moves.

So, Honor Salima decided, it didn’t matter what mad strategy she used, so long as it kept Rain Bonteri off his feet. Every second she didn’t let him devise a plan was a second in which he could not control the battlespace. 

“Keep up the fire!” she flicked her hand, “Captain Dodonna, bring your Venators around and enclose their rear! Captain Autem, turn starboard and prepare to broadside the enemy!”

As she had envisioned, the Coalition Armada then did what she had expected; try to break out at the second most vulnerable spot in the Home Fleet’s line of battle. At this point, both fleets were arrayed in the shape of a horseshoe, with the Home Fleet’s three-hundred and the Coalition’s sub two-hundred on the inside. After failing to escape through the bottom, the Battle Hydra ordered his captain with the shining solar sailer to force his way out the back, or the open top of the horseshoe.

With his division already stretched out in a line ahead, all Diedrich Greyshade had to do–and she did know who he was, as she knew his cousin Senator Simon Greyshade more than she would’ve liked–was follow through the natural curve of the horseshoe to its end.

Unfortunately for him, Captain Dodonna had already manoeuvred Prudence to intercept the Kronprinz at the forefront of her advance. Meanwhile, Captain Autem’s line had adjusted to mirror the Separatist Providences, aligning beam-to-beam for a direct confrontation. Honor studied the tactical display with meticulous focus, tracing the vectors and calculating the next likely response from Rain Bonteri. Simulations ran in her mind’s eye as she assessed how to puppeteer the enemy fleet next.

“Our left wing, Admiral,” her Flag Captain advised, “With our main firepower shifted to our right, I’d reckon Greyshade will come around in full circle with all his momentum to punch through our left, Chimeratica and the rest of the Armada in tow.”

The Bloodhound’s ears absorbed his words, and the Bloodhound’s eyes applied it to the plot.

“If–when–Kronprinz crosses the vertex of her turn, have the rest of our ships translate portside to meet her as she comes around,” Admiral Honor Salima commanded.

“That will put a gap in between us and Captain Autem, sir,” Captain Screed warned.

Honor chewed for a brief second, then personally held down the transceiver, “Arcenciel, Arlionne, have your rearguard prepared to double back the moment you see a gap widen between our divisions.”

“Prepare to double back, copy that Arlionne.”

Terrinald Screed’s single eye gleamed. Just as he had predicted, Diedrich Greyshade ultimately decided to forego breaking out the back, likely due to the momentous casualties the effort would result in, and instead resolved to cycle back around to the front. All of that built up impetus, however, needed to go somewhere, and hemmed in on all sides by Republic Star Destroyers, this battlespace was not Sullust, and Honor Salima was not Rees Alrix. The Hydra had not the physical space nor time to maintain a revolving death spiral.

As Kronprinz crossed Chimeratica’s vector, the latter's sublight drives ignited in a sudden burst, propelling the Separatist fleet flagship violently forward toward the Arlionne. Meanwhile, the rest of the Home Fleet steadily shifted to their left flank, amassing strength in anticipation of the expectant Separatist counter-charge… to the point where the area between Arcenciel’s aft and Arlionne’s beam had widened into an empty rift. Predictably, almost absurdly, the Separatist fleet instantaneously deflected their vectors and surged toward the opening, like a flow of water naturally carving out the path of least resistance.

Just in time for Arcenciel’s rearguard to spin around and plunge straight back into the gap.

“HARD RIGHT, HARD OVER!” Flag Captain Terrinald Screed roared at the top of his lungs, more beast than man in that very moment, and Arlionne swung around, missile bays roaring upon like a proud lioness baring her steel fangs. 

Honor Salima marched up the bridge of her flagship, staring out the viewports where the tide of desperate Separatist refugees flooded through the gate. It was the perfect pincer, one in which even Rain Bonteri had no choice but to try his hand at. Somewhere in that chaotic tide lurked the infamous Battle Hydra.

“We have the Perlemian Coalition dead to rights!” Honor Salima announced to the Home Fleet, “All ships; sink the Battle Hydra! We’ll ram him if we have to!”

The Home Fleet roared in reply, and the noose snapped taut.

⁂

“THE TWENTY-EIGHTH’S HERE!” someone whooped in glee over open comms, the words crackling through the chaos like a thunderbolt.

Three, four, words, soon mostly lost in the din of battle. Nobody knew who shouted it, or which ship it was from–likely one of the 19th’s. Nobody even knew if the words were true. But as they were all fighting for their lives in the gauntlet of the Open Circle Fleet, the words sounded true, every man and woman fighting wanted it to be true. Those four words became the hope ever spacer and soldier clung to like a lifeline, and that illusion was enough to ignite the embers of defiance, breathing a second wind back into the exhausted Separatist fleet. 

With renewed determination, the fleets surged forwards, desperate to outrace Republic Admiral Block’s elastic centre and break free from Olge Plavi-Dol’s and Obi-Wan Kenobi’s tightening encirclement. Calli Trilm, Dua Ningo, and Jace Dallin, the three commanders of the combined fleet, kept the cordon tight and disciplined as the three fleets pushed their way forward. As the engagement prolonged, and as the alliance continued to hammer away indiscriminately at the Open Circle’s centre, one of Admiral Block’s squadrons faltered.

The Republic defences had reached their threshold, buckled, and opened a temporary breach. Against all better judgement and seizing the moment, the Separatist vanguard scrambled forwards. With a savagery fit with bared fangs and claws, the Rendili Victorys plunged straight into the breach, tearing their way straight through the Open Circle’s wall of battle. Their broadsides erupted at point-blank range, filling the rift with smoke and fire as they fought to pry open an escape route for the rest of the combined fleet.

At that point, the noise filling all three flagships must have sounded the same.

“Forwards!”

“Forwards, forwards!”

“Forwards, forwards, forwards!”

It became a pounding drumbeat of battle that replaced the heartbeats of every spacer, filling them with a single-minded focus to smash free into open space–and towards home. The Separatist arrowhead formation honed itself into a razor-sharp spindle, focusing all their impetus on piercing the breach. On the flanks, Admiral Dua Ningo’s Bulwark-class battlecruisers extended outwards, seizing the shattered ends of the Republic battle line. With the spent Victorys falling forwards and out, the Bulwarks locked into place like the armoured phalanges of two black iron gauntlets, holding the breach open just long enough for the rest of the combined fleet to surge through.

For an entire heart-stopping minute, Calli Trilm forced her eyes held open as Star of Serenno thundered her way through the breach, rocked to and fro and Republic fire and Separatist counterfire. Systems blared and alarms flashed red, screaming warnings in her ears as the ship shuddered with each impact. And then–suddenly–silence. The explosions and the thunder of turbolaser batteries faded into a distant murmur, like a receding storm.

They were home free.

The realisation took a moment to settle in. Calli Trilm blinked, almost disbelieving the sudden calm that had replaced the chaos. Her flagship, scarred and battered, had made it through. The bridge lights flickered, the alarms dimmed, and the relentless barrage that had rocked the ship just moments before now felt like a distant memory.

Her breath caught, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to exhale. They had done it—they had broken through the Republic lines, escaping the clutches of Obi-Wan Kenobi for… the third time. She could laugh. They were sailing away now, keeping up the momentum. It would take some time for the Open Circle Fleet to regroup and pursue, and it would be too late for them to prevent the Separatists from jumping.

“Damage report?” she requested, her voice surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. The bridge crew sprang into action, their hands moving quickly over consoles as they assessed the situation. There was a palpable sense of disbelief among them, a shared understanding that they had survived against all odds.

Tex turned to her after taking stock of the situation, “We’ve taken significant damage. Engines are stable, shields are holding at fifteen percent, but we’ve lost half of our primary weapons. Still, we’re operational.”

“And the… the fleet?”

“We count three-hundred and seventy-two ships with us,” Tex continued steadfastly, “Seven-tenths of our combined fleet made it out.”

“Not that,” Calli looked around, “Our fleet. The Nineteenth Mobile.”

“We lost a quarter,” the droid answered bluntly, “Fifty-four warships.”

The 19th Mobile Fleet began this expedition with three-hundred warships. Half were left. Half. The word echoed hollowly in her mind, stripped of any real meaning by the stark reality of their losses.

But…

“We did it,” Rel Harsol said breathlessly, as if trying to convince them along with himself, “We did it.”

“Well done, Rear Admiral,” Admiral Dua Ningo praised, “We can finally go home.”

“For you, maybe,” Captain Jace Dallin was far more reserved, “It was my fleet that cleared the way for you… and we’ll be leaving home, if we follow through with this.”

“Cold feet, Captain?” Calli Trilm asked, not unkindly.

“I have my orders…” he breathed, “But when the Confederacy achieves its final victory… promise me we will return for Rendili.”

“I can make no such promise,” Calli replied, “Only the Pantoran can make such assurances.”

“...Very well.”

“Indeed,” Admiral Dua Ningo’s voice was coloured with relief and satisfaction in equal measure, for he had been trapped in Core for longer than any of them, “Shall we make for Manaan?”

At that moment, Calli Trilm was so desperately inclined to agree. They could finally, finally, go home. But one issue dug into the back of her skull.

“Wait… what of the Twenty-Eighth?” she raced to the plot, and looked to the north.

Or rather, it was northwest now, as their battle with the Open Circle Fleet had displaced them by a handful more million klicks, and her breath caught in her throat. The 28th Mobile Fleet was encircled, much in the same situation they themselves had been minutes prior, but with neither the numerical or firepower superiority the combined Separatist fleet enjoyed. They were trapped, and dying. 

If it weren’t for them occupying the Home Fleet, it would have been the 19th Mobile Fleet trapped and dying. And now they were to leave their saviours for dead?

“Can we make it?” Calli wondered out loud.

“We can,” her tactical droid confirmed, “But it will be close, by my calculations.”

That was all she needed to hear. 

“Admiral Ningo, Captain Dallin,” Calli spoke, steeling herself as she did, “You will continue to Manaan as we had planned.”

“And you will not?” Admiral Ningo replied, sensing the undertone across the transmission.

“We will join you later,” she replied simply.

“...Blessed are those who help their friends in need, Admiral,” Captain Jace Dallin told her, “And upright are those who repay their debts. May the Force be with you, and stars watch over you.”

“I will await you at Manaan with drinks, Rear Admiral Trilm,” the old Sullustan bid his farewells, clearly unwilling to argue her intentions or stay behind any longer himself, “I am in your debt.”

With some two-hundred flashes of light, the Bulwark Fleet and Rendili Defence Fleet disappeared into the stars. She had expected some of her own captains, those of the 19th Mobile Fleet, to follow them, but by her count, every single one of her remaining hundred-fifty ships remained, even those so badly damaged they could hardly even return fire when the time came.

“Once more into the fray, eh, boss lady?” Rel Harsol chuckled as Sa Nalaor swung around onto a vector towards the rear of the Coruscant Home Fleet.

“You’re going to have to follow me this last time, gentlemen,” Calli Trilm gently led her battered fleet back towards the enemy.

“That’s the duty,” one-eyed Aviso grunted, “That’s the fight. We won’t leave our allies behind.”

And was that not the founding principle of the Separatist State, the very declaration of the Confederacy of Independent Systems? If we are to leave the Republic, we will leave together.