Columex Approach, Columex System


    Vorzyd Sector


    Barriss Offee felt cold.


    The very moment the blinding glow of pseudomotion retreated from her vision, an energy of coldness and forceful silence took its place. Something is very, very wrong. She flicked a glance towards Tuff, but the tactical droid was as impassive as ever.


    “Plot to intercept with that dreadnought,” the droid commanded, “And inform Task Force Nardolin of our presence.”


    Dreadnought. The word rang in her skull. She could see it in the distance; a great island of steel buffeted by relentless waves of warheads and lasers. And it did not falter. Every crashing barrage it unleashed was like a hammer to her skull, followed by the cries of the fallen echoing in her ears and the pain of death coursing through her veins.


    The Jedi healer raced to the front of the bridge in sheer instinct, pressing an open palm against the freezing transparisteel. Every fibre in her body screamed out –her training, her duty, it was as if everything had led up to this moment. Barriss was well aware of her talent; empathy was a key trait of a skilled Jedi healer. She was supposed to receive the suffering of others, and respond with comfort and healing in return.


    But she could offer no comfort. Not here… no against this.


    As Messenger sailed through the debris, she was assaulted by visions of crunching hulls and swift bursts of agony. The Force was trying to tell her something, but she was too tired–tired of everything–to apply Master Luminara’s teachings and find out what it was. She didn’t need to know, not when she already knew everything that matters.


    Loyalists were killing Separatists, and Separatists were killing Loyalists. It was people murdering people on a galactic scale, for reasons that did not matter. And as a Jedi, she could only witness. Witness the battle approaching, and soon to take part in the slaughter.


    Barriss wanted none of it. She was a Jedi. She was supposed to have none of it. But as Messenger forged on ever nearer, the cruelly familiar sensations returned. Sensations that once represented the warmth and respite of the Temple, transformed into the bitter swords that led the Republic to battle.


    Jedi Masters.


    There were Jedi Masters in the bridges of cruisers, impassively looking on as they commanded the deaths of thousands. It’s people you’re killing, she wanted to scream, not droids! Do you not realise!? Master Luminara has always preached serenity, to be devoid of emotions and connect with the Force more intimately than ever before. But Barriss had to doubt; was this the meaning of serenity?


    The Force once again pounded her psyche as if it was a shut door. Sinister discomfort continued to rise like bile as Messenger proceeded further into the debris field, her bow shoving steel corpses from her path. Whatever happened here… was so swift and painful it left a hateful rend in the Living Force. An open wound that would heal in time, yet continued to fester with the lingering emotions of the dead. We’re sailing through a graveyard, Barriss realised numbly.


    “Messenger, Kronprinz,” a staggered voice caught her attention, “This is Admiral Greyshade. Do you have the interdiction mines we requested?”


    “Affirmative,” Tuff confirmed, “We are currently on course for intercept the dreadnought’s port flank, please advise.”


    “Very good–” there was a sharp gasp, an abrupt disconnect, and two minutes of silence before he returned, “–We will proceed with the plan. Locate our mark and follow our lead. Shields to starboard beam; you will be running the gauntlet.”


    Barriss stumbled towards the nearest repeater, snatching the droid operator’s shoulder and watching the astronav plot. She could roughly understand the formations of the battlefield through her pounding headache, but with a visual aid, the picture of sheer scale could be fully pieced together.


    The battle lines were in a diagonal slant, with the Republic’s right flank furthest away from the planet and left flank nearest to the defensive line of what appeared to be orbital cannons. There were two Republic star dreadnoughts–the furthest one cutting a bloody swath through… Barriss read a familiar designation; White Hand Fleet. A complicated emotion stirred in her chest, one she did not have the energy to unravel.


    In any case, the nearest dreadnought was spearheading the Republic’s White Cuirass Fleet towards Columex. The navigation droid promptly ignored her, calculating out the dreadnought’s vector in order to modify Unicorn Squadron’s new approach heading. A dotted line was drawn out, extending from the dreadnought’s bow and stabbing into Columex’s orbital defences.


    “Legacy of the Founders is too unwieldy to navigate around the orbital cannons,” Tuff explained, “And presenting a target that large, their only course of action is to close the distance as quickly as possible. And that means they have no choice but to overextend themselves.”


    As if on cue, the gargantuan ion drives of the Legacy were in full view, along with two more identifiable blips. First was Kronprinz, a Tionese warship that looked wholly out of place. Her glassy armour shimmered in kaleidoscopic colours surrounded by the hail of red, green, and blue laser bolts, gracefully minnowing through the torrential chaos. She swung around just within the dreadnought’s blindspot, stern narrowly missing the battleship Hexenkoenig, who along with the rest of Task Force Nardolin was holding off the onslaught of the White Cuirass Fleet with determined steadfastness.


    Unicorn Squadron’s vector was gradually spelled out on the plot–to skirt the edges of Legacy’s firing envelopes and deploy their interdiction mines before pushing on to the safety behind the orbital cannons.


    “We are going to… mine it?” she asked.


    “No. We are going to mine our reinforcements,” the droid answered, as if it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.


    ?


    “Dive, dive!” I roared as Repulse was bracketed by a cannonade of furious turbolasers.


    The entire White Hand Fleet immediately turned on a dime, rotating ninety-degrees south–just as it did at Centares–and overclocking their drives the get the fuck out of the Mandator’s range. Unlike her smaller cousins, Pride of the Core was not lacking in ventral firepower, and my personal command was getting savaged. Ten warships disappeared off the map within the first three minutes, and another sixteen followed by ten minutes.


    Twice that number were left disabled, with their stern shields buckling under the intensifying firepower, followed by their engine blocks giving way. Left with only inertia carrying them away, the renewed assault of the Steel Blade was all but certain to eat them alive. Benevolent Mother and thirty-one other ships suddenly pitched upwards, rolling over and punching out three furious salvos into our unexpecting pursuers.


    “Sir?” Stelle looked up at me.


    Fifteen minutes. Half my fleet was gone. Those who couldn’t escape had already chosen the hill they’d die on; slowing down the enemy. I checked the condition of the Clysm Fleet, and found out they had been hit just as hard–if not harder than we were. While the White Hand was stuck beneath the Pride of the Core, the Clysm was unfortunate enough to be trapped in the process of crossing the Cerulean Spear’s ‘T,’ and was now finding themselves between an immovable juggernaut and a vengeful warfleet.


    I prayed for them, and reverted my attention to my own survival.


    “Communications of Renown, sir!” the comms droid shouted–


    “Sir!” Zenith-II hailed me, “Cylinders Seventy-Five to Eighty-Nine are still loaded and ready! And with us out of the way, they have a clear shot!”


    Even when the answer was so damn obvious, it had somehow slipped my mind in the chaos and carnage. I didn’t hesitate to respond.


    “Then have them open fire!”


    Repulse’s transmitters screamed out the order in the general direction of the planet, brute forcing its way through several layers of Republic jamming. Almost immediately, the Steel Blade cut their pursuit and veered away, taking refuge behind the massive bulk of the Mandator.


    Pride of the Core, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky.


    Thump, thump, thump. I could somehow hear the blasts of the Cylinders echo through the vacuum, with the sheer energy output of their gravitic ignitions rocking every warship in the vicinity as if they were dinghies in storm-tossed waves.


    Pride of the Core tanked the first and second shots with hastily prepared kinetic shields, which shattered with the third shot. There was now a race between the Mandator frantically diverting power to her frontal shields, and the Cylinders frantically trying to bring her down. But as buckshot after buckshot of asteroids just disappeared into the dreadnought’s mass, I realised that at this range, the asteroids didn’t have enough time to get up to useful velocities, allowing the Pride to literally tank the barrages with sheer bulk alone.


    I could’ve sword the dreadnought was wracked by an internal ignition following another well-placed shot, with panels of armour bulging out briefly, but her bulkheads must have contained the detonation. A detonation that would’ve completely vaporised a Venator. I had to admit, to my own chagrin, that Kuat really built these things to be unstoppable.


    “All units, return to your stations,” I commanded, “We will reorganise and sweep back around. Stelle, are we able to redeploy Victoria Louise?”


    Victoria Louise. Our dreadnought-killer. Except, there were two dreadnoughts and one dreadnought-killer. Not the most advantageous situation, but if we can get rid of the Pride, the White Hand and Clysm can mop the fragile Steel Blade and flank around the Cerulean Spear and White Cuirass.


    “Cylinder Ninety is lining up their shot against Legacy of the Founders,” Stelle reported, “It will take at least half an hour to modify their station, to say nothing about calculating a firing solution. They’ll have to fire across the length of our battle line. If Victoria fragments, that’ll be the death of us.”


    “So that’s out of the option,” I grunted, tunnelling my attention to Task Force Repulse reforming into an elliptical formation just below the Steel Blade.


    The Steel Blade attempted to take some pot shots with long-ranged missiles, but Benevolent Mother and a handful of other crippled warships had taken up the mantle of being out ad-hoc point defence screen. With their ion thrusters under repair, they were stuck between us and them. The only thing stopping the Steel Blade from completely thrashing the disabled warships was the malevolent threat of our Cylinders.


    We were at an impasse. And every second that ticked away was a second that Task Force Sol and Task Force Clysm had to endure, unsupported and grossly outgunned.


    My mind raced with ideas, for anything that could reverse our fortunes. I had a hard time limit; and that was until Cylinder 89 fired. Meanwhile, the Pride of the Core was ponderously yawing to starboard in order to bring the Cylinders in range of her broadsides, while relieving her beleaguered bow shield generators of pressure.


    “Registering a new drive cone!” the sensor droid called, “They extracted right on top of the Pride. Transferring data… looks to be a Star Destroyer, sir!”


    I leaned forward, checking my sensor repeaters. There was indeed a new signature about a thousand or so klicks above the Mandator, but nothing that outright confirmed its build. Still, Star Destroyer drive signatures were pretty recognisable, but Repulse unhesitatingly identified the ship as a Venator-class star cruiser.


    Even more enemy reinforcements? I wiped my face, blinking away salty tears as I double-checked the Venator’s extraction vector. The easiest way would be to analyse the correlating radiation involved, but Cronau radiation detection required specific sensors, and Repulse’s had either been shot off of disabled for more combat-relevant ones.


    A heartbeat later, thirty more drive cones blinked into existence around the Venator. And Repulse identified them as Separatist warships, from the plumes of their ion drives.


    A droid snapped to attention, “We’re receiving a broadcast on all Separatist scrambles–!”


    “–This is General Sev’rance Tann of the Confederate Second Fleet. Reinforcements have arrived.”


    Short, sweet, and to the point. I’ve never heard more beautiful words in my life. Why the broadcast was coming from the Venator was beyond me, but damn I should’ve always known Sev’rance Tann delivers in the best way possible.


    That feeling swelled as two more masses of drive cones erupted onto the tactical holo. Admiral Tonith and Admiral Trench. It must be. We had won.


    “The enemy is up,” I immediately declared, “All remaining ships, full power to sublight drives and double-up bow shields! We’re rendezvousing with the Second Fleet by taking the direct route!”


    In other words, smashing straight through the Steel Blade while they were still caught off-kilter, and hopefully, sandwiching them from above and below. At the same time, the Second Fleet’s Providences–Ascendant Sky among them–dived down and ripped out a fusillade of ion torpedoes directly into the Pride’s rear, disabling the great monster for the moment.


    “Enemy warships are shifting their attitudes to meet us,” Stelle reported.


    “I can see that,” I growled, “Aim for the spaces in their formation. We’ll blow right past them.”


    And blow right past them we did, travelling so quickly we must’ve exceeded Repulse’s muzzle velocity, even as she and her sister ships Renown and Revenge trumpeted out a series of bleeding bolts from their superheavy batteries in quick succession. I resisted the urge to shut my eyes as Repulse in particular burned so close to two Jedi cruisers that some paint must’ve been scraped off her radiator wings.


    Then, now above the Mandator, I could finally catch my breath as the Second Fleet came to support my forces–and realise the sheer daring of General Tann’s stratagem against the star dreadnought. Her stolen Venator-cum-flagship was caught in some exceedingly queer docking procedure with the Mandator, flipped upside down and hugging the larger dreadnought’s dorsal surface so closely she had slipped beneath the shields. But that wasn’t all–the cruiser’s main hangar doors were wide open, and hundreds of Decimator repulsortanks were ‘falling’ out and onto the Mandator’s hull en masse, somehow having swapped out their repulsors for tractors and reaping the benefits.


    They dropped onto the gunnery trenches and artillery decks like a swarm of termites, their turbolasers ravaging everything in arm’s reach. Explosions rocked the dreadnought as isolated gas storages were ignited, blowing up battery platforms as Decimators sowed havoc roaming all over her surface, deploying endless legions of buzz droids as they did so. The Mandator’s great size had become its undoing, as the AT-TE’s and clone commandos deployed to fight off the boarding party now had to fight off the boarding army over indefensibly vast surface area.


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    We won. We won. The mantra repeated itself over and over in my head. The Republic was surrounded on all sides. The Steel Blade Fleet had already seen the writing on the wall, and the first bursts of emergency hyperspace jumps were sparking on the tactical holo. The last of the Cylinders were firing, taking potshots at the enemy’s routing rear. I could imagine it was the same picture all across the star system.


    “Violent energy reading from starboard–!”


    Without warning and like a hammer of God, a blazing pillar of bloody crimson smote Sev’rance Tann’s Venator, along with the Pride’s entire bridge stalk.


    ?


    “The Dark Side is always at hand, Padawan. It is no farther away than a heartbeat, an eyeblink, side by side with the bright side of the Force, separated by no more than a hair. It waits to snare the unwary, wearing a thousand disguises.”


    Out of the many lessons Master Luminara had taught her, this was the one Barriss remembered most clearly. Of course, Barriss had heard that before, many times, and she believed what her teacher said, but she had never really felt or understood exactly what it meant. She had never been tempted by the Dark Side, as far as she knew.


    But as clung on for dear life as Messenger was thrown about, bracketed by offending fire on every side, she reflected on what Master Luminara meant by a thousand disguises. Fighter screens fearlessly threw themselves between the warships, droid and organics alike surrendering their lives to absorb the onset of turbolasers and missiles rocketing from the dreadnought’s artillery decks. All in order to protect the interdiction mines that would somehow–somehow–win them the war.


    “Two klicks to clear,” Taylor reported, “We’ve lost three ships.”


    Unicorn Squadron was accelerating alongside the dreadnought’s tapering prow when Barriss felt herself inexplicably drawn towards the Legacy’s bridge, looming high over them. Her mind was slowly cleared of distractions, of anguish echoing through the Force and visions of destruction, until nothing but serenity remained.


    …


    So this is the Dark Side of the Force.


    “Every conscious move you make, from the smallest to the largest, requires choice. There is always a branch in the path, and you must decide upon which turning you will tread. Do you recall the testing of your ability to sense a remote while wearing blinders?”


    This was among the most basic of Jedi skills. A remote was a small levitating droid about the size of a goldfruit that could be programmed to zip about and fire mild electric bolts at a student. With a blast helmet on and the blinders down, the only way to know the position of the orb was to use the Force. As a student progressed in the use of his or her lightsaber, blocking the remote’s bolts became a standard exercise. Since you couldn’t use your eyes or ears to track the device, the only way to avoid being shocked was to let the Force guide your hands.


    “And did you ever feel during those times like destroying the remote? Reaching out with the Force and crushing it like a wad of scrap flimsi?”


    “Did you know that one student in eight does eventually reach out to destroy the remote? That they usually justify it by saying it is more efficient to stop the source of the damaging bolts than to endlessly deflect them?”


    Compassion and empathy was the Jedi way, and Barriss was not about to take the easy way out. She ripped herself from the grasp of the insidious web, pulling herself back into the turmoil of emotions that defined the battlefield. The consciousness moved, as if it had realised a pawn had wrested themselves from its grasp. Barriss stared up at the bridge of the Legacy, observing the invisible lines that stretched out, and realised that there was the nexus of the mental network. A Jedi Master, presiding over the battle like an omnipresent god, orchestrating the slaughter.


    Any subservient captain–Jedi or not–had their rebellious thoughts forcefully expunged, their emotions mellowed in perfect obedience, making them numb to the slaughter. Unfeeling droids as they carried out their strategy in peerless coordination, unfettered by chains of morality or guilt.


    The Jedi Master was staring at her through the Force, now, staring at the one rebellious piece who would not fold themselves into their artificial hive mind. Barriss stared back, unblinking and challenge raised in the hackles of the Force.


    This is not the Jedi way, she reproached viciously, who do you think you are!?


    “We’re clear!” Taylor leapt to his feet.


    “Inform Kronprinz that the minefield is in place!” Tuff must’ve raised his output volume to the maximum, by how his voice reverberated through the bridge, “Where is Admiral Trench–is Victoria Louise in position!?”


    “Transmitting… the Fourth Fleet is waiting a micro-jump away. Kronprinz is coordinating their extraction vector!”


    A series of friendly pins faded as Task Force Nardolin was finally overwhelmed and annihilated by the White Cuirass Fleet. Only Kronprinz’s flag squadron managed to withdraw in any semblance of order, armour plates shattered and cannon bores ruptured and red-hot from overheating. But their sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.


    A new minefield now existed between the dreadnought and the rest of its fleet, effectively isolating it. Yet, as Barriss watched for any surviving formations that could take advantage of the situation… she found none. Task Force Nardolin had been decimated, and any cohesion in the Separatist right flank had broken down into headless, panicking ships. The closest reinforcements were thousands of klicks away.


    “This is General Sev’rance Tann of the Confederate Second Fleet. Reinforcements have arrived.”


    The missing pins were replaced with a boiling onrush of hundreds of Separatist-coloured markers directly behind the Republic’s right flank. Soon after, the further star dreadnought’s drive signature sputtered out and disappeared from the map, leaving behind only a faint outline that denoted its last known position.


    The Republic is going to lose, she realised. The Steel Blade was surrounded on all sides, and the Cerulean Spear was too weak to sustain its momentum. Their every hope of victory now rested solely upon the shoulders of the Legacy and the White Cuirass Fleet.


    Her sightline was interrupted by six colossal freighters, each at least twice as long as the Messenger, surrounding an equally massive asteroid that looked the size of a small moon from her warped perspective. And Barriss realised how the Separatists had held on for so long–and she realised how they were planning to destroy the Legacy of the Founders.


    “To destroy the remote is, in itself, not necessarily a wrong choice. If you have developed sufficient skill to block the training bolts and you arrive at the decision through logic and with a calm mind, then you can justify using the Force to stop the attack at its source. Some of the more gifted students do just that. But if you do it out of anger, or pain, or fear, or any emotion that you have allowed to control you, then you reach for the Dark Side. If you offer that the end justifies the means without mindful thought to determine that it indeed does, you have succumbed to the insidious energy.”


    In a flash of brilliant light, the behemoth emerged, heralded by a shockwave that swelled through the void, even the stars bobbing like lilies floating over a disturbed pond. The dreadnought had shot right past Messenger in pseudomotion, before impacting the interdiction field and violently ripped out of hyperspace. In the blink of an eye, a five-thousand metre long warship suddenly materialised right beside the Legacy in an impossibly precise extraction. Clad in rippling grey steel adorned with navy blue markings that seemed to pulse with a stormy tempest–doubly so while blacked, fractured and steaming from the mines–the deafeningly silent whine of its sixteen oversized ion drives reduced the carnage of the battlefield to a standstill.


    The Separatists have star dreadnoughts. That wasn’t something you could build in a year. Even someone as admittedly ignorant as herself would realise that. Just how long has Dooku and his Separatist Alliance been preparing for the war? Since the very beginning?


    Energy readings spiked.


    A great disc on the side of the dreadnought blazed to life, shining and crackling with ionic radiation like the birth of a newborn star.


    Messenger shut its eyes, viewports automatically blackening.


    And Barriss was still knocked back, shielding her eyes from the blinding discharge of energy. A great sphere of lightning crashed into the Legacy’s portside beam, completely overwhelming her deflectors in a concentrated lance. Vicious ionisation ripped through the Legacy’s flank like a horde of insatiable massiffs, burning straight through cannon towers and shield generators alike, frying the entire ship from the inside out.


    When the last sparkles finally dispersed, the oversized Star Destroyer was listing to portside, her entire left flank blacked out and steaming. With no shields or weapons on the correct flank to defend herself, the Separatist dreadnought laid into the half-disabled Legacy with impunity.


    “Admiral Trench has arrived,” Tuff buzzed with pure satisfaction, “We have won.”


    Four-hundred new markers spawned onto the tactical plot–this time a safe distance away–spearheaded by a second Separatist dreadnought. It was just as long, if not longer, and sported a malevolent, bloody maw instead of a bow. A cannon unrivalled in size to anything the galaxy has to offer, aiming straight for the Legacy, and it open fired in a pillar of flame.


    A pillar of flame that sailed comfortably over the Legacy’s bridge and disappeared into the abyss, accidentally striking a warship further down the battleline and completely vaporising it from existence. Barriss released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.


    “They… missed?” even Tuff sounded confused.


    But his droid brain would not allow that state for more than a second.


    “Cylinder Ninety, I am commanding you with the authority of Commodore Bonteri,” he quickly rebounded.


    Barriss snapped around, realising Cylinder 90 was referring to the orbital cannons right next to them. The Force pulsed in her head. She could stop him. Right now. She was a Jedi. A Padawan, but a Jedi. And with the Force, not even every droid in the bridge at once could stop her.


    But should she? Should she stop him from putting an end to a mass-murderer, Jedi Master or not? The only reason the Republic is still fighting is because of the Legacy, and destroying it would put a definitive end to the slaughter.


    “If you remember nothing else from this talk, Barriss, remember this: Power wants to be used. It must be kept under constant vigil, else it will seduce and corrupt you. One moment you’re swatting an annoying training toy; the next you’re paralysing an offending being’s lungs and choking him to death. You do it because you can. It becomes an end in itself. As a Jedi, you always live on this edge. A single misstep, and you can fall to the Dark Side. It has happened to many, and it is always a tragedy. As with an addictive drug, it’s too easy to say, ‘I’ll do it just this once.’ That’s not how it works. The only thing that stands between you and the Dark Side is your own will and discipline. Give in to your anger or your fear, your jealousy or your hate, and the Dark Side claims you for its own. If that happens you will become an enemy to all that the Jedi stand for—and an enemy of all Jedi who hold to the path of right.”


    Master Luminara’s lesson echoed in her head, every fragmented piece coming together in her memory. Awareness came to Barriss sharp as a knife into her back, twisting in her spine.


    But what if the entire Jedi Order has already fallen to the Dark Side, and it’s that nobody has noticed yet?


    Count Dooku didn’t create the Separatist Alliance, he only helped them accelerate what was already inevitable. There aren’t any Sith here, only people. People fighting for their freedom, and the Republic is trying to crush them underfoot. For what reason? Why do the Jedi partake in all of this bloodshed? Just for Dooku? Barriss couldn’t quite convince herself that was the case.


    What will you do, the Force seemed to ask her, what would a Jedi do?


    “This is Cylinder Ninety,” time was running out, “We have confirmed your codes, Messenger. Go ahead.”


    A swell of hatred rose within her. Hatred for the injustice of the war. Hatred for the Jedi Council’s juvenile lies. Hatred for the Republic’s false narrative. Hatred at her own inability to accomplish anything. All this time, she’s been a passive observer, witnessing one bloodshed after another without doing anything about it. And each and every time, she told herself excuses.


    “I’m trapped.”


    “I’m only a Padawan.”


    “Someone will save me.”


    “I can’t do anything about it!”


    “–So you expect someone else to do something for you?”


    Barriss blinked.


    “–Just who in Nine Hells do you think you are?”


    Her eyes flashed towards the tactical droid on the captain’s podium. In a split second decision, the Force flooded into her body with a familiar recall, like an old friend’s embrace. Energy gathered in her limbs, pulsing a power that billowed like vapour down a block of frozen air.


    The nav droid besides her must’ve sensed something amiss, because he hastily swung around, steel limb whipping out.


    Barriss caught his arm in an open grip, twisted and snapped it at the elbow, and Force pushed him away. Scrap metal hit the transparisteel viewports as the droid slammed into the console and shattered at the joints.


    Two dozen droids whipped around. Barriss ignored them, singling out the tactical droid with the precision of a raptor. Power surging, she was right above him in three bounds, ripping out the command console from the floor with a harsh tug of the Force and thrown across the bridge–scrapping three more. The very air seemed to pulse with fervour as she closed in on the droid–as she caught the source of her every problem by the throat with one hand and ripped the comlink from his grip with the other.


    She grit her teeth, somehow lifting the eighty kilogram droid off his feet with strength beyond her means, “I won’t sit idly by, droid!”


    Tuff stared down at her with baleful eyes, “This was an expected response.”


    Her grip slackened against her will; a sudden shock of freezing burning through her muscles and nerves. Barriss dropped to the floor, unable to control neither her legs nor arms. She attempted to speak, but surrendered after only a slurred noise came from the attempt.


    With every ounce of control she had left, the girl craned up her head to see a familiar droid bending down to pick up the fallen comlink. For the briefest moment, her eye’s met Taylor’s, and then the blaster in his hand.


    Of course… she closed her eyes, and the mental barrier she’s been maintaining finally fell.


    “Have you fallen to the Dark Side, young Padawan?” an old, hushed voice called out to her, in almost a murmur.


    Barriss lifted herself into an upright sit with trembling arms, coming face-to-face with the hem of a dirt-coloured robe. A gruff, sandpaper sound betrayed the long, reptilian tail hidden just within it. She looked up, gaze following the trail of an unkempt white beard that led to a mass of silvery hair that concealed a green-scaled head.


    She recognised them. There was no Jedi Master so distinct in appearance.


    “Master Rancisis…?”


    The ancient Jedi Master took a good look at her face, and recognition danced within his beady eyes.


    “You resisted my battle meditation. Master Luminara trained you well,” he acknowledged.


    Indignation rose within her in a boil, “You! Is it the Jedi way to turn every man and woman in this fleet into your slave!?”


    A small piece of her wanted to cringe at the mere thought of shouting at a Jedi Master, much less a Councilmember. But the larger whole of her found that she no longer cared.


    Oppo Rancisis looked down at her as if she was an impertinent child who knew nothing of what she was talking about, and the indignation only grew.


    “Everyone was willing, else it would not have worked,” Master Rancisis slithered towards the viewports, turning his back on her, “It was unfortunately necessary, Padawan. The Republic could not afford to lose this battle.”


    “Republic? And what about the Jedi!?” she screamed, “Look around you! Millions are dead! Is this the Jedi way you preach!?”


    The Thisspiasian Jedi didn’t deign to reply, instead silently folding his arms behind his back as he regarded Cylinder 90 and Victoria Louise. Still too weak to stand, Barriss pulled herself forward, scraping her nails bloody against the flooring as she did. Claxons blared in the background; panicked footsteps crashing all around her as the Legacy’s crew tried to coordinate a response.


    Nobody noticed the girl on the ground dragging herself forward, even as their boots stamped inches from her head.


    “Shouldn’t the Jedi be stopping the Republic from going too far?” she pleaded, tears bubbling up, “Answer me! Why are you enabling the Republic!?”


    “So you have fallen to the Dark Side,” the Jedi Master lamented, pivoting to face her again, “Perhaps I should rescind my previous statement. Do you truly believe Dooku’s lies? Master Luminara will be sorely disappointed in you.”


    The… the arrogance. Has Master Rancisis always been this arrogant? Have the Jedi? Has Barriss been part of it for long she became accustomed to it? Something within her finally snapped.


    “Are you willfully blind!?” she cried, “It’s the Jedi who have fallen to the Dark Side! We’re perpetrating a war that means nothing to us! Instead of keeping the peace like we should’ve, we are waging war on behalf of the Senate! No wonder Count Dooku left us; he must’ve realised the truth!”


    Master Rancisis sullenly shook his head from side to side, ignoring her once more. Barriss could feel the Force unravelling; the vision falling apart at the seams. The Jedi Master finally had enough of her, and wanted her gone.


    “I’ve seen the war,” she told him, “I saw what went wrong. It’s the Republic. The Republic has corrupted the Order; made us into something we’re not.”


    There was no answer. The dreadnought’s bridge was fracturing. The viewports were being blown out, crew pits crumpling like flimsi and crushing everybody inside them, and plating peeling apart like the skin of jogan fruit and exposing the bridge to the void.


    “I will save the Jedi,” she made a promise; a promise to the unhearing master, and to herself, “I’ll stop the Republic, the Separatists. I will find out the truth behind the war. I’ll return the Jedi to the right side!”


    “You’re only a Padawan. What can you do?”


    Barriss didn’t know if it was Master Rancisis who said that, or her own mind.


    “I’ve been making excuses this entire time,” she replied anyway, “This time, I’ll face it. If I’m helpless until the end, at least I know that I tried.”


    Tuff’s emotionless voice reverberated through her skull– “Aim for the bridge. Open fire.”


    With a new determination settled in her chest, immovable as permacrete, Barriss closed her eyes one more time. This time, however, she resolved to do something about it the next she opened them.