Orbit of Christophsis, Christoph System


    Savareen Sector


    I reviewed my assets; twenty-three Munificent-class frigates, six Lucrehulk-class battleships, and a disabled Providence-class dreadnought. The greatest taskforce I have commanded yet, and I could already feel my bones trembling in excitement. The Jedi taskforce, on the other hand, had only four Venator-class destroyers–all of which are still in their carrier fits. God, this will be a cakewalk–if it weren’t for the evident presence of Jedi.


    First things first; “Tell me something about Invincible, Tuff.”


    “Command software is being relocated to the aft bridge, sir,” the droid said, “The ship will be operational within hours.”


    “Biological signatures?”


    “...A faint biological signature has been detected in the forward bridge.”


    What? That old bugger Trench was still alive! I shouldn’t have underestimated that spider–if he survived total annihilation at Malastare, I should have expected that unkillable bug could do it again. Damn, it felt good. Now I can take all the glory for winning this battle, without the oppressive shadow of his death looming over all the paperwork and explaining that I was going to have to do.


    Tuff, however, did not seem to share my enthusiasm.


    “Well!?” I slammed my fist against the armrest, “Have you mounted a rescue effort!? Can spiders survive the vacuum of space?”


    The tactical droid met my gaze unflinchingly, his white eyes digging into mine. It was difficult to stare into what was basically a pair of lightbulbs for so long, but I managed.


    “...What is it?” I asked, confused.


    “If Admiral Trench does not survive, I predict that you will be promoted in his place,” Tuff gestured, “I calculate that it will be more beneficial for him to die.”


    I paused. He does have a point. Just like at Corvair, if I distinguished myself here when my commanding officer had just eaten bricks in the initial strike… that would definitely earn me some favours with the higher ups. Not to mention, I could spin this real well back on Raxus–I could imagine it; Captain Rain Bonteri, saving battle against certain defeat after death of infamous Admiral Trench.


    It would go over well with Voe Atell’s faction in the Senate, and I could use Mina’s contacts to turn me into a war hero… but that was pushing it, Mina wasn’t terribly enthralled with my idea of joining the military in the first place. Even back on Onderon.


    Besides…


    “Ah, but Tuffy,” I stood up and jabbed his faceplate a couple times, “You need to see the bigger picture! The long-term benefits of keeping Trench alive. I like the way you think, yes, but I can achieve the same effect if I keep Trench indebted to me, understand?”


    “I do not understand,” the droid said robotically.


    “No, of course you don’t,” I shook my head, “Favours as a concept must be alien to a droid. But it is not to us sapients. A favour… can go a long way. Get some cutters out and tow the Invincible back to the rear, then transfer Trench to the medical facilities on a Lucrehulk.”


    The droid held my order for a long moment–long enough that I was beginning to think something went wrong in his drives.


    “...Yes, sir,” Tuffy finally said, before warbling away.


    I think I must be rubbing off on him. I do prefer individualism in my droids, and have painstakingly manually defragmented those I deemed worthy of my trust to retain some personality models, but I place obedience just a rung higher on the ladder. Another memory defragmentation is probably in order.


    Sitting back down, I located a B1 model with a yellow-painted head, “You there, the OOM. What’s your serial number?”


    The droid spun around from his station, “I am OOM-two-two-zero-zero, sir.”


    “I’ll call you…,” 2200… 22… I suppressed a smile, “I’ll call you Taylor. Alright Taylor, how many bridge shifts have you served?”


    “Uh,” the B1 scratched his head, “Seven, sir.”


    “A low number,” I observed, “I guess you were assigned here one… two refits ago?”


    “Two, sir,” he confirmed.


    “Then open up your memory banks, because I want you to learn how I like to wage battle,” I stiffened my voice, “Tuff should have already calculated us an approach vector. Now, I want to prepare my order of battle. Send all our available naval elements to my datapad.”


    “Roger roger!” Taylor nodded enthusiastically, spinning right back round to his station.


    I produced my tablet just as it received a data package. Opening it, a stream of military assets began flooding in, and I started navigating through the cards I had at my disposal. Invincible and the Lucrehulks will be left behind to maintain the blockade. Not only were they far too slow for what I had in mind, but I needed them as a last line of defence against any Republic vessel trying to give us the slip, including the space submarine still at large.


    That means I have two dozen star frigates to mess around with. My personal Repulse Squadron will take the centre, as some of my most trusted droid captains commanded these ships, which included Renown and Resistance. I didn’t even have to look at their readouts to confirm all three ships were operating at over 90% efficiency. As a commander, I could be described as industrious in my efforts to keep my ships up to par–even if it entails bringing them in for refit thrice as many times as their compeers.


    An unpleasant feeling began to stir in the pits of my stomach as I keyed in the other ships’ real-time readouts on my datapad, however. Right flank, Frigate 13–not even named, the poor thing–running at overall 63% efficiency. I checked–it was a loanship from the Trade Federation. Typical. The pitiful frigate probably hasn’t been scrubbed down since its launch day.


    Admiral Trench knew it too, which is why he stationed her at the flanks of the blockade, along with the rest of her like. Too keep them out of the way.


    “All vessels operating below seventy-percent efficiency aren’t assets,” I said aloud, “They are liabilities. They’d take an entire rotation to respond to orders, and we can’t have that. Group them together in Division Three, and bring them a hundred-thousand klicks in front of the blockade. Standard order… no– inverted bow-and-quarter line. They’ll be our reserve.”


    “Roger roger.”


    “How many ships do we have left, Taylor?”


    “Uh– eleven ships, sir.”


    Jesus Christ, over half the fleet is operating beneath acceptable limits. I chewed my fingertips, mulling over my strategy. I had this battle pretty much in the bag, until Separatist incompetence reared its ugly head and gave me a tight slap across the cheek. So now I had what– twelve ships left? A quick consultation with my datapad revealed I could count the number of them operating above 80% efficiency on one hand–not including Repulse Squadron, thankfully.


    Fuck it, I can do with eight ships.


    “Arrange the ships operating over eighty-percent into Division One,” I ordered, “And quarter them into four squadrons; Repulse, Renown, Resistance, and… Graceful Promising. Standard Battle Order Three, one-fifty-thousand klicks forward.”


    My personal ships can act as linchpins for the main spine–I could only hope the Corporate Alliance’s Graceful Promising will live up to its name. Slowly, Repulse’s seven ion thrusters reared up and brought us forward into position. Along the entire blockade, Munificents were breaking the line and arranging themselves into formation.


    “Group the remaining four in Division Two,” I scratched my cheek, “Put them on the flanks. They’ll keep the Republic cruisers right where I want them.”


    “Roger roger.”


    Tuff’s clanking caught my attention, the tactical droid rejoining us from his detour to communications.


    “Admiral Trench has been relocated to Impounder,” he duly reported.


    “Very well,” I leaned on my fist, “Familiarise yourself with our battle order. I want you to submit probabilities round the clock– and assume there is a Jedi General in command of the enemy.”


    “Yes, sir.”


    The command bridge was silent, save for the background hum of digital interfaces and repeaters that made Repulse what it was–a decorated star frigate in the CIS Navy. Most Munificents don’t survive past their fourth battle–if they even get there–but Repulse has seen twice that number. The bridge crew conducted its business with brisk, well-maintained efficiency–and with the touch of a button a nest of readouts and repeaters sprung up around me, feeding me a constant stream of relevant information.


    A personal touch, unique to my ships. It made us all one machine.


    Even without my word, green lights popped up on the system checks, and all the ships began calling in around Repulse’s flag. As soon as the final ship–Shadow Price–called in from her assigned station, I stood up.


    “Alright folks,” I declared, “Let’s make this quick.”


    ?


    Beyond the bridge’s main viewport, the Separatist blockade had advanced forward. Eight frigates were now positioned halfway between Leesis and Christophsis, presenting themselves as a clear barrier between them and their target.


    “Anakin!” Obi-Wan reached for the holodisplay table in the Battle Operations Room, “Are you certain you disabled the enemy flagship? Because they’ve just broken the blockade and are coming right for us!”


    Anakin’s projection stood atop the wide holodisplay table, the form of Senator Bail Organa right beside him. Even as he spoke, Obi-Wan could hear him trying to raise his voice over the background noise of blaster fire and explosions.


    “I did!” Anakin shouted into his handheld projector, “I saw Trench blow up with my own eyes! He must have had contingencies–”


    “Or a second-in-command,” Admiral Yularen entered the projection, “Do not underestimate him. He escaped death once, he could do it again. General Skywalker is right; I would not put it past Trench to have a number of backup plans.”


    “This is worrying,” Obi-Wan mused, “Even when you were withdrawing, Anakin, Admiral Trench did not decide to pursue. It is odd that only after his death, that his fleet decide that they are now the attackers.”


    “Whatever the case, General Kenobi,” Senator Organa pleaded, “We need your reinforcements on the ground. Thanks to General Skywalker and his supplies, we can hold out for a couple more rotations, but that is only delaying the inevitable.”


    Cody shot him a glance. That was the problem. Not only did they have transports to protect, all of their cruisers were outfitted with ground troops, AT-TEs, artillery cannons, and other elements meant to reinforce planetside instead of their usual complement of starfighters–which served as a Venator’s main anti-ship assets. Obi-Wan had hoped to pierce the Separatist blockade, dispatch reinforcements, and retreat before their ships were too badly damaged.


    Now, he doubted that was possible.


    “I can get the stealth ship back up there and hit them from behind,” Anakin suggested, “It’ll take some pressure off you, and I can create an opening for you to slip through.”


    “Don’t, Anakin,” Obi-Wan shook his head, “They will be expecting you, and being so rash will only draw more attention to the surface. I need you to help Senator Organa hold out for as long as possible while we break through the blockade.”


    Anakin frowned, but accepted it nonetheless, “Yes, Master.”


    With a toggle, the projection of the three men winked out and was replaced by an expansive view of their battlefield.


    “With all due respect, General,” Cody started, “But we have neither the firepower or the positioning to break through the blockade. Whoever’s in control of the Seps now, they have us in a bind.”


    Obi-Wan tugged at his beard. The Clone Commander was right; the Separatists had thrown quite the hydrospanner into their plans by splitting their fleet into three layers–with the battleships in the original blockade position, there were now two more lines of frigates between Leesis and Christophsis. And worryingly, there was also a squadron of four frigates stationed to their starboard, pinning his taskforce against the moon. Whoever the new enemy commander was, they had no intention of letting them retreat unscathed.


    “We are going to need reinforcements from the Jedi Council,” he mused.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    “I’ll patch a line,” the communications officer said.


    “Should we fall back?” Cody asked, “We can use the moon to cover our flanks.”


    Obi-Wan observed the holoprojection. Cody’s idea was to use Leesis as a shield, preventing them from being enveloped by the numerically superior enemy force, and endure until reinforcements arrive. It was a sound strategy, if they could be certain that reinforcements would arrive. Because if not, the strategy came with the side-effect of entrapping themselves.


    Then, he noticed something. The Separatist vanguard was still pushing forward, even out of range of their flanking squadron.


    “Why are they overextending themselves?” a sharp-eyed clone naval officer asked, “Their lines in the rear can’t support them this far out.”


    Obi-Wan closed his eyes, “It is a bold move, abandoning their advantage of numbers like that. This is not the work of a droid.


    “You think it’s a… gloryhound, sir?” Cody said.


    “Eight frigates is a far more even match,” he said, “And if we triumph over them, the four trying to flank us will be wildly out of position.”


    “We can defeat them in detail,” Cody nodded approvingly, seeing the plan, “I’ll prepare the men, sir.”


    ?


    “We are intercepting subspace transmissions between the Republic fleet and planetside,” Tuff reported.


    “Can you unscramble it?” I pinched my cheek.


    “Tide of Progress has the facilities to do so,” Tuff said, “But it will take a long time. We should jam them instead.”


    “If we jam them, they’ll stop communicating,” I pointed out, “We don’t want that. A talkative enemy is a stupid enemy. Begin unscrambling their frequencies.”


    “Yes, sir.”


    “Sir, we’ve crossed Division Two’s support arc,” Taylor harped, “Contacts bearing relative zero-zero-zero and–”


    “Quiet,” I snapped, glancing at all the critical readouts around me, “Bring us down twenty-thousand klicks, into their blindspot. I want a… sixteen-degree upwards pitch rotation. Fire our prow turbolaser mounts on my command.”


    It was a dangerous manoeuvre–foolhardy at best–but only if the Venators had their usual LAC complement. These ones don’t, otherwise we’d be swamped with starfighters by now. Which meant these are ground support ships. They were, in other words, lobotomized carriers.


    Interstellar combat takes place in three-dimensions, but the brains of all terrestrial creatures are hardwired for two. A thousand years of relative peace followed the Ruusan Reformations, and in that time all but a handful of shipyards have forgotten how to build warships. And it showed.


    The Munificent’s design was flawed. A curious trait of the frigate design was that most of its turbolaser emplacements were located on its ventral prow, hidden beneath the flared armour belt that encompassed most of the ship’s habitable areas–a level of protection the pilothouse was excluded from, notably. This meant that to exploit the full potential firepower of the ship, the target must be beneath it.


    Of course, that relied on advertently discarding the protective qualities of the frigate’s main armour belt, but I liked to believe that fault laid in the retarded naval architects from Hoersch-Kessel, rather than me.


    However, with this in mind, it is my belief that there is no ship more egregiously designed in this entire god-forsaken galaxy than the Venator-class star destroyer. In fact, that ship was probably designed by three slightly damp quasi-sentient sea sponges in a British pillbox during World War Two, because all of its eight heavy turbolaser batteries were placed nestled around its dorsal superstructure, with not a single turret covering its ventral side. It was as if Kuat designed a seafaring vessel, and not a spacefaring one.


    This was a cognitive blindspot not even ten millennia of naval tradition could fill. Not even the vaunted Jedi were immune from it.


    Once the bellies of the cruisers were in full view of our transparisteel windows, I simply ordered, “Open fire.”


    Sparks darted across the tactical holo as sixteen red turbolaser-charged gas packets were punched into the abyss. Several seconds later, they smashed into the ray shields protecting the enemy cruisers’ ventral face.


    The Venators predictably started pitching downwards to get us downrange of their guns, accelerating faster and faster. Since they were trying to break through the blockade, I suspected their primary armament this time was pure forward momentum.


    I had them right where I want them.


    “Battle Order Four,” I felt an odd, godlike sense of detachment, “Bring Shadow Price, Needful, Tide of Progress, and Hound’s Tooth up by forty-thousand klicks. Slowly. The Jedi are wary of tricks. We must coax them into the gauntlet.”


    Division One split into four pairs, with the four below continuously firing into the enemy’s underside, while the top four started ascending like breaching whales. As vectors and numbers swam across my eyes, I felt like a god, for I could see every move the Republic made, though they couldn’t even guess I was watching them.


    Their ships slid onwards, driving ever deeper into the trap as my own vector intersected theirs, and I smiled.


    ?


    The command bridge was only a short corridor away from the Battle Room, where a whole cadre of officers were gawking out the transparisteel viewports, at the enemy’s admittedly baffling tactics.


    The Separatists had split their vanguard into two lines stacked atop each other, and were slowly widening the space between as their two forces hurtled towards each other. Negotiator was still pitching downwards, however, fixed on previous orders to target the ships in their blindspot. Now, they were in a predicament. Obi-Wan’s cruisers did not possess ventral turrets, so they could only target one axis at a time–the question was above or below?


    “Belay that order,” he called, “Pitch upwards and intensify all our firepower on the ships above.”


    Munificent-class frigates had their main turbolaser batteries on their ventral prow, which meant it was the ships above that posed the largest threat to them right now. Besides, the enemy was also discarding all of their physical armour in exchange for more firepower, placing all of their trust in their deflectors. Now with clear shots, Negotiator’s eight heavy mounts thundered away, soon echoed by Resolute, Dauntless, and Pioneer. The black abyss was filled with darting bolts of red and blue.


    Still, it remains that the Force continued to press into the back of his head. A latent warning, that he was moving straight into a trap. But he did not have a choice, if he wanted to keep Christophsis from falling into Separatist hands. But just as he attempted to dig a little deeper, Obi-Wan felt a tingle of perception, and lifted his head. Something was coming.


    “Sir?” a voice called down from the portside crew pit just as he expected it, “Sir, I have an incoming transmission from the Jedi Council.”


    The clone comm officer pressed a finger on the transceiver plugged into his ear.


    Obi-Wan strode to the edge of the pit and leaned over, “Recorded or real-time?”


    The officer checked, “Recorded, sir.”


    “Listen in at your station,” he pulled away, “What does it say?”


    The comm officer tapped a key and kept quiet, finger on ear, as he hung on to every recorded word. Obi-Wan felt his senses tingle as he tried to anticipate the message.


    “It’s from Master Yoda, sir,” the clone looked up at him, “Admiral Wurtz is onroute to our position with reinforcements.”


    “That’s good to hear,” Obi-Wan allowed himself to feel pleased, “Cody, I need you to check Admiral Trench’s battle registry and find any records of this tactic.”


    “I already did, sir,” the Clone Commander stiffened, “There was no mention of it.”


    “Well, that’s interesting,” Obi-Wan crossed his arms, “Patch us with Senator Organa’s headquarters planetside. Perhaps Admiral Yularen would know, as he had fought Trench before.”


    ?


    “Another enemy transmission,” Tuff buzzed, “Tide of Progress has unscrambled the Republic’s frequency. Should we tap into their transmission?”


    Leave it to Jedi to have such poor radio discipline.


    “Be subtle,” I warned, “Taylor, have someone trace the line back to the sender and pull a dump of their databanks. I want to know the callsigns of who we’re dealing with.”


    “Roger roger,” Taylor said as he keyed in for the trace.


    The light of the sun was gradually eclipsed by the Jedi cruisers navigating right over them, engaged in a heated battle with Shadow Price and its half of the Division. Repulse and its half couldn’t shoot upwards, since our light dorsal turrets were puny at best, and little better than mild annoyances to their deflectors.


    I didn’t want to draw attention yet, so we continued to lurk below like sharks, letting the Republic continue cruising over us in ignorance.


    “It’s a data package, sir!” the comm droid announced, “From the enemy flagship, Negotiator. They… they were sending battle data to their army headquarters planetside?”


    The droid seemed almost uncertain by the time he finished that sentence.


    “What… are they trying to get advice on the fly?” I was just as confused.


    “It is too late,” Tuff was audibly certain, “I calculate there is now an eighty-six-point-five percent chance two of their cruisers will be destroyed.”


    “Only two?” I frowned.


    “There is a present seventy-seven-point-two percent probability the enemy will notice our trap. From the central registry, the last known commanding officer of Negotiator is Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Tuff explained pridefully, “Since the moon blocks escape from his portside, he will either accelerate, decelerate, or veer to starboard. From my observations of General Kenobi’s battle record, he will be too cautious to accelerate. I predict that he will veer to starboard out of instinct, since decelerating at their current vector will take too long. This means enemy cruisers Negotiator and Pioneer will escape before our trap is sprung.”


    This is why I loved working with droids. It was like playing a RTS, except I had the expert AI setting on my side.


    “Good work,” I praised, impressed, “Bring Division Two forward, full power to sublight drives.”


    “Sir,” Tuff straightened his spine, “We are in position. Orders?”


    If the tactical droid had lips, I could imagine him licking them right now in anticipation. Nobody loved a well-executed plan more than a tactical droid, and I could empathise with every fibre in my body.


    “Very well,” I grinned like an animal, “Repulse, Renown, Resistance, Graceful– I want a one-hundred-eighty degree port roll rotation! Forget the shields, full power to ventral turbolasers! Rip them apart!”


    ?


    “I’m sorry, General,” Admiral Yularen said bitterly, “But I do not recognise this formation any more than you do.”


    “I see,” Obi-Wan stood over the holodisplay table, “That is… disappointing.”


    “What is this?” Anakin fizzled into view, his battered armour showing signs of battle.


    “See for yourself, General,” Admiral Yularen took a step back to let Anakin view the battle projection, “I have never seen any formation like this before, even from Trench.”


    A sharp, almost painful flash of awareness crashed into Obi-Wan, who swiftly realised it was emanating off Anakin like a beacon of light. A variety of expressions crossed his former Padawan’s face–curiosity, confusion, worry and anger, and then dread.


    “Obi-Wan, you need to get out of there!” the Jedi Knight shouted, “You’re heading straight into a trap!”


    “I know it is a trap, Anakin,” Obi-Wan struggled to keep calm, perturbed by the usually unflappable Jedi’s panic, “I am trying to figure out what kind of trap–”


    “You recognise this formation, General Skywalker?” Admiral Yularen pressed.


    “Yeah– right,” Anakin palmed his face, taking in a deep breath, “I last saw it at the Battle of Corvair. Master Luminara’s reinforcements had arrived, and the Seps were on the backfoot, so I pursued. But it was a feigned retreat–just as my fleet caught up with them, the Seps doubled back in that formation! All my starfighters were lost, Redeemer and Defender were ripped to scrap metal. The Resolute barely got out of there in one piece!”


    “Listen, Master,” Anakin spoke with urgency, “The frigates beneath you are going to flip on their backs like a Nabooan otta and light a fire right under you!”


    A brief moment of clarity flashed through Obi-Wan’s head as everything Anakin had said suddenly clicked together. Then– panic.


    Commander Cody was thrown off his feet as Negotiator shook violently, sending clone officers stumbling around the Battle Room like headless krahbu. The blast doors separating the Battle Room from the command bridge hissed open, and an officer barely let it stop moving before he stumbled through with wild eyes.


    “General!” the clone held his discipline admirably, “The Dauntless– it’s gone!”


    Obi-Wan all but raced out of the Battle Room, wildly scraping his vision across the wide-angle viewports. Dauntless was the ship holding their port flank, closest to the moon. The Jedi Master stopped himself right in the middle of the central walkway, staring out of the transparisteel viewport.


    Both Resolute and Dauntless were trapped–sandwiched–between two frigates, and just as Anakin predicted, the bottom frigate was turned upside down, tearing into the cruisers’ defenceless ventral surfaces with all their firepower. Dauntless had already lost its engines and stabilisers, and was wildly listing to portside in an uncontrollable roll, the ship torn apart as it was captured by Leesis’ suffocating gravity.


    The Resolute was faring no better, held in a death choke between its two frigates. Right now, Anakin’s flagship was nothing more than a slab of meat in the jaws of a krayt dragon.


    “Orders, sir!” a bridge officer stumbled out of the starboard crew pit.


    Obi-Wan breathed out, and reached into the Force to feel his chances. The swiftest path out of their predicament was to continue accelerating until they were through the gauntlet–until he felt the secondary line of Munificents lurking in the abyss in front of them, just waiting to pounce. The enemy commander had clearly anticipated that manoeuvre.


    That left decelerating, or swerving to starboard. At their present speed, decelerating will take far too long.


    “All ships!” Obi-Wan commanded, “Hard right, hard over!”


    He adjusted his footing as Negotiator veered to the right, writhing as it was pummelled to hell and back. Behind him, he could hear exclamations of alarm as Resolute began to break up, its retreat vector unfortunately coinciding with the attack vectors of the two ships Negotiator had just escaped from.


    The deaths of so many clones–people–pressed him like a boulder weighing down his mind. He could hear the distant screams of Dauntless’ brave crew as they were flattened against the moon’s frozen surface. He felt Resolute’s pain as one of its fuel bunkers was struck, filling its main hangar with gas before a turbolaser bolt sparked it. Anakin’s flagship burgeoned–and then exploded, its hollow spine acting like a balloon filled to the brim. He felt the helplessness of tens of thousands of men who should be on the planet fighting the good fight against the Separatists, and not being slaughtered in their cabins.


    And the faint hopes of those who made it to the escape pods in time, jettisoning into the abyss.


    Obi-Wan could sense Anakin’s anxiety, his worry and his rage, so potent it was that he could feel it an entire void away.


    But Negotiator and Pioneer escaped the gauntlet. Bruised and bleeding, yes, but they escaped.


    “...Sir?” the bridge officer muttered.


    The Force continued to pound his head, like an incessant child. Obi-Wan lifted his head, and saw four frigates racing towards them, their forward turbolaser batteries already lighting up the void with baleful red. The flanking force.


    His heart dropped.


    “We can still jump into hyperspace, sir,” the officer suggested weakly.


    He was advising retreat. Obi-Wan wanted to protest, but he could see there was no other recourse. He cast a forlorn gaze at the cracked, crystal surface of Christophsis. Yes, they can still regroup with Admiral Wurtz''s taskforce, lick their wounds, and return. He could only hope Anakin and Senator Organa can hold out for that long.