Star Wars: Rise of the Machines (To Chapter 10)

[Murazor]

This is a conceptually cool and well written AU.

The plot advances well (I'm quite intrigued about Grievous' decision to return home and, I suppose, recruit the old guard) and the characterization is excellent.

I'll keep reading, that's for sure.

EDIT: Also, I wanted to ask, what's the deal with the changing symbols in the scene breaks?

[NecronLord]

EDIT: Also, I wanted to ask, what's the deal with the changing symbols in the scene breaks?

As it's never likely to actually make it into the story, I'll tell you. It's the (future) symbology of (officer) ranks in the Galactic Confederacy. So far, they are up to Lt. Commander/Major. ■■■■ is General of the Armies/Grand General/Grand Admiral.

[NecronLord]

Chapter 8: Homecoming

Mace looked at the armoured speeder that was perched on the underground thoroughfare access to the Jedi Temple. It was a squat thing that the Army used to control access in cities under martial law, more than fighting Confederate Forces; quite enough to keep a cordon around the Temple though. At least, for ordinary people.

He walked up to it, and a volunteer soldier of the COMPOR who was firmly telling a law college representative that no, there was no way, even if he did have an appointment to search Jedi case files.

For Mace, this was not a problem, he gestured at the armed man, and suggested that he be allowed past, and distractedly the soldier told him that he could pass.

The next line of defences, beyond the cordoned area, was more secure. Red trimmed homeworld security troopers were everywhere, their white carapaces shining like swarming hive bugs. Columns of dozens of clone troopers marched, their long rifles sloped over their shoulders as they drilled, in readiness for any move from the Jedi. Their commanders expected a break-out attempt soon, it seemed to Mace. AT-PTs sat hunched like carrion birds, their guns pointing at the entrances to the temple.

There was no easy way in, Mace decided, and he decided that it would be a mistake to even try and find a way in. Extra numbers would not help him here. He turned back, passing the cordon, carefully erected so that the scale of the troops massing around the temple’s underground accesses couldn’t be seen by the public, and headed into the city.

□□■□

Matalion was known throughout the galaxy as the planet of physicians, stemming from an ancient move during the world’s first settlement eighteen thousand years ago to forever make the planetary charter exempt medical professionals from all taxation, a move originally intended to tempt a few professionals to the mid-rim world. Over the centuries, as the world had grown, along with its surprising natural beauty, it had found itself advantageously positioned, and became a resort and healing world that serviced an entire spiral arm. A billion people came and went from the healing zones of Matalion every day, in countless millions of transports that streamed to the sixteen orbital elevators that decorated the world, leading up to a ring around it, where every conceivable environment was replicated, and hundreds of billions could be treated, reserving places on the opulently blue-blue surface of the world for those who could afford to pay for extended relaxation in its tranquil, fragrant breezes. The world of Matalion claimed to be the greatest concentration of medical ‘droids outside of great Coruscant herself. The modest tax imposed upon fuel sales by the planetary government paid for comprehensive services for its hundred million non-medical population.

High above the world, a quintet of CIS ships appeared, four of them, fan shaped diamond class cruisers, escorted a shining white Banking Clan transport, that burnt its engines on a hard course for the capital city upon the equator of Matalion. The planet’s traffic control authorities protests were barely acknowledged by the droid pilot, who replied to them only with diplomatic declarations of the highest authority and urgency, which proclaimed the ship’s business as a matter of ‘paramount importance to confederate security.’

This was not a phrase that Herimen Scintil, the young woman supervising that sector of the sky had seen before, further, it wasn’t one that had ever even been used before. Nonetheless, the four warships that backed it up seemed to suggest that using the relatively lightweight defence weapons stations and shields to impede the ship’s passage wouldn’t be wise.

By the time her superiors got back to her, the small, fast transport ship had set down vertically on one of the priority landing pads of the city. Herimen could even see it from her location high in the port’s control tower. She watched through macrobinoculars she used for watching the ships land and take off, as a tall Muun disembarked down a ramp, escorted by a trio of fearsome, grey cloaked battle droids carrying very large guns.

They said the war was over, she supposed, so there wasn’t really anything wrong with this, was there?

For a single, long, moment, herimen had the chilling feeling that the ship’s passenger was probably the most important person she would ever see.

She was right.

■□■□

General Grievous’ taloned feet crunched lightly up the steps of the great temple pyramid, the sunlight streaming through the dense jungles that encroached on the small temple complex, which to the trained eye, sported, as well as overgrown, ancient walls, a number of Banking Clan shield projectors and blaster turrets. A large number of kalee could just about be seen in the distance, armed with Republic heavy blaster rifles of a recent design. An avian cawed in the distance, high on one of the outer walls surrounding the valley, and an old man barred his path, leaning on a hooked staff.

They stared at one another for a time, until another echoing caw broke the entrancing silence, and Grievous, prompted by a memory that seemed lifetimes, not years ago, knelt on the top step.

For a moment, it seemed as though the older Kaleesh was considering barring the way onwards, but then he nodded, “Further and bolder your path was than you ever intended. Have you come to complete the rite?”

Grievous knew of what he spoke; absolution after battle for the deeds of necessary war; “No,” he said, “I have come to use the Temple’s communications. I need to speak to those from my past…”

“You cannot meet them?” the holy man said.

“I do not seek those I have neglected,” he said, and the older Kaleesh’s features softened slightly, “Merely those whom I can trust.”

He looked at the cyborg general, the alien, and the ‘droids with him, and nodded, “Come this way.”

□■■□

Grievous stalked onto the bridge of the Unlimited Projection, brushing his cloak back, “Admiral. Order your captain prepare to land the core ship. There is a suitable surface at latitude seven four longitude one fifty three. If you need me, I will be in the communications centre…” he said, turning back to the lift, where his entourage waited.

He punched a trio of buttons and waited, thinking for a moment of the brevity of his stay on the surface. The doors swished open, and he took a seat, contemplating the waste of money inherent in the ship using plush chairs everywhere he went, even though he had no nerves to appreciate it. He punched buttons, a holographic screen appeared, “File new commission, confederate executive authority…”

■■■□

It was fortunate that Mace could recall the access codes from the last time he had business in the back halls of the senate, hunting for spies, as he recalled. The central venting systems of the senate were hot, dry, and dusty. He had spent a few minutes washing his face and hands in one of the toilets, before persuading a representative from Moralan to lend him some clothes, complete with a large, concealing, ritual hood.

It was disturbing to see these hallowed halls so filled with stormtroopers. More so than at any point during the war – a war which wasn’t technically over yet thanks to stalling in the new leadership. The same leadership, that seemed determined to prevent the senate doing business.

That was the problem, he thought. Palpatine’s – ‘Sidious’’ he corrected himself, though he still found it difficult to believe – cronies were still in charge of the Republic.

And at the moment, they still had all the emergency powers they would need to make this state of affairs permanent.

His thoughts were interrupted by a clipped demand of ‘papers.’

Mace turned to look at the guard behind him, “You don’t need to see my papers,” he said, “I’m going the other way. Just wandered off a touch…”

“I don’t need to see your papers,” he said, mesmerised, “be about your business.”

“Thank you sir,” Mace said, with false humility, turning. Angry.

He knew exactly where he was going next. To deal with Pestage and his ilk, it might be illegal, but if there was to be any hope of the Republic restoring itself, then it would need to be liberated from those people. He gritted his teeth. There was only one answer for such extreme corruption, an extreme answer.

He set his jaw and stepped out into the light, hailing a cab.

□□□■

“I shan’t beat around the bush. You’ll all have summarised that you’re the best neurosurgeons for type D physiology on the planet who aren’t in O.R. right now. You’ll have guessed that I work for the confederacy, and some of you may have an idea of the patient I need you to work on. General Grievous…”

There was uproar, Raes Lengel, the Muun doctor who’d found himself unwittingly acting as the confederate supreme commander’s physician frowned, “Quiet please. Let me present my case!

“I know many of you may object on ethical grounds, but you must consider the current situation. Right now, the only thing that is stopping the war is the goodwill of the Confederate administration. The war will probably restart if the Confederate Council is allowed free reign. The situation has seemed bad until now, but with the betrayal of Chancellor Palpatine, many of them will think they have a strong advantage…

“you may not approve of the general, but right now, regardless of the past, he’s probably, for whatever reason, the best chance to save quadrillions of lives. Now, we’ve got what documentation regarding case history we can, and full scans and system diagrams. The rest will have to wait until you’ve signed on – needless to say, you’ll be compensated well enough to set up any research or practice you like…

“If you’re prepared to act in good faith, you can sign here…”

■□□■

Mace Windu stepped out of the lift toward the apartment of Mas Amedda. Two red robed senate guards guarded the door, before a vast cityscape.

“Stand aside!” he said, and the guards twitched, but did not let him pass.

Mace waved a hand, and they flew aside, with another call upon the force, the doors flew open, “Amedda!” he said, his voice barely shy of a shout, “Where are you…”

It didn’t matter that there were surely clones on the way – with a thought, Mace made the corridor he had entered the room by collapse, like a crushed ration tin.

He could sense the vice chair nearby.

□■□■

“Unlocking the chest cage now…”

The chamber in which the General lay was one that he had ordered moved on board the Unlimited Projection not to perform major procedures, but rather to upgrade his cybernetic body. Nonetheless, it was adequate.

Above, in the observation room, he could see a few kaleesh as well as the translator ‘droid who had attended him recently, though it was difficult to remember names, as unconsciousness overtook him.

The chest cage surrounding what remained of his organs was designed to open, to allow access to them, and the dozens of medical ‘droids, supervised by doctors, clustered around, watched as the

“Isolating gravity,” one ‘droid said dispassionately, activating a system to instil an apparent neutral buoyancy in the subject.

“Locking head in place. Removing face plate…” another said.

Yet another ‘droid monitored the chemistry of the fluid around the cyborg’s brain, as the interior of his skull was revealed, shock absorbent liquids and spongy layers surrounding the artificial fibres that augmented the blood flow to his brain.

The remnants of the general were gradually lifted out, breath pipe, shrivelled oesophagus (entirely separate in Kalee) padded organ sac, and skeletal upper vertebrae, which was riddled with and linked with high bandwidth connector cables, which came free with a jerk.

Blissfully unaware of anything, the cyborg’s closed eyes stared up from a steel skull, skin tautly stretched over its ‘face’ linking to a few salvaged teeth, the remnants of a being staring out from a metal orb.

It – he – floated above his body, as the casing of his ‘skull’ was opened further by the micro-fine manipulators of a surgical ‘droid the apparent perfect buoyancy causing the skull to remain under a layer of translucent fluid.

A scanner system flared into life, cataloguing every particle.

“Engaging stasis field…” the supervisor ‘droid said, as the doctors gathered around the display screens showing the results.

■■□■

Mace stood before the trio of confidantes assembled in the room. They’d tried to escape, of course, but it was trivial to find them and bring them back.

“Vice Chair,” he said, glaring at the three of them – there were others, of course, but Amedda, Pestage, and Isard were enough for his needs, “you will immediately use your occupation of the Office of the Chancellor to rescind all restrictions on free travel and assembly of the senate.”

Dressed in a heavy blue robe of office that matched his skin, Amedda glared back at the jedi from his full, impressive stature. “I will do no such thing, master jedi. That order was given for the protection of the senate against rogue elements. Which, given your arrival I,”

“Shut up,” he said, reaching under the cloak he’d disguised himself to hold his lightsabre, “and do it.”

“You’re going to threaten me with a weapon? That’s hardly in accordance with the jedi code…”

Windu narrowed his eyes, “do as I tell you.”

“No. You will not harm me, jed…” Amedda screamed, as a blade of violet energy sliced one of his horns away.

“Do it!” Windu snapped, as the three politicians stepped back, suddenly. The fear they felt was strong, tempting.

Amedda wavered for a minute, “Security will arrive soon enough. And you will hardly dare to murder me…”

Mace turned to look at Isard, “I don’t need you,” he said, and turned, slowly, holding himself back, trying not to feel, as the man turned, running for a door that led nowhere. The blade penetrated his back, bursting from his chest in a clean, bloodless hole. It would be better if there were blood, better if it were a simple primitive blade, as on Haruun Kal, Mace thought. It would have been harder that way. Less clean.

He pulled the blade back, and looked at Amedda, “Send the message. Now.”

“It, has no legal force under duress…” the bureaucrat whimpered.

“There’s only one force that matters. It’ll be obeyed, just long enough to let democracy do its work.”

Trembling, Amedda walked away, sitting down slowly.

□□■■

The Doctors were careful to plan almost everything in advance, but even the stasis field was limited in its effects due to compatibility issues with delicate implants – the time alteration fields used as part of hyperdrives were less risky – to the point that hyperdrive was used to send a number of patients with the most terminal or contagious diseases around the galaxy, centuries passing for every hour they experienced, tended by medical ‘droids. It was said by some medical professionals that the eldest and richest of those patients had accounts on Muunilist and other banking hubs that could buy entire sectors – an incentive for many doctors to apply to estates for funding into appropriate research. Some of the more fanciful said that over millennia, breakthroughs in medical science had ended depressions and caused market booms.

When they snapped the stasis fields off, each of seven droids had been given a sequence of procedures to perform on the brain in tandem. Removing wires as delicately as only the most expensive machines could.

■□■■

“There, it’s done. All forces on safe planets have been ordered to immediately return to garrisons.”

Mace continued to hold the blade beside Amedda’s trembling head.

“Well. Aren’t you going to let us go?”

“You’re too dangerous to be left alive.”

“But… I resign.”

“It has no legal force under Duress,” Mace said, and swept the blade through Amedda’s neck, turning on Pestage, who had shrunk back into a corner, but, as though bowing to the inevitable, stepped forward, hands at his sides, head held high.

Mace watched his head fall, and let his blade switch off for a moment, holding it up before him, imagining how it would feel as it boiled his brains…

□■■■

Grievous woke. It had taken hours, outside, but inside, only minutes, and something like an hour of unconsciousness as he recovered slightly.

The elongated head of Raes Lengel slipped into his field of vision.

“Is…” he asked.

“It’s done, general. But there is one problem…”

“Even with the best regeneration, you will live three years; five at the most…”

He closed his eyes, and Doctor Lengel was surprised by his reply.

“Good…”

■■■■

Trooper “Legblaster” (a name he’d earnt in a training accident) TZ-898 ducked through the wreckage, rifle at the ready. The scene in the Vice Chair’s apartment was one of carnage. Scorches, from lightsabres, Legblaster guessed, were all around the doorway, and he looked down to see that he’d stepped on a hand, the arm it was from severed above the elbow. A body lay on the floor, wounded in seven places, and killed, it seemed, by a lightsabre blow to the head, that had chopped straight through his face…

“Everyone’s dead here…” Legblaster said, into the comm. “and I think this might be General Windu…”

[Battlehymn Republic]

Grievous is sympathetic and Mace Windu is a villain. This is delicious.

[Almightyboredone]

I had thought that this had falen off the face of the Earth. Glad to see it's back!

[Vehrec]

Did windu just do the Samurai thing and kill himself? The trooper only said 'might'.

[NecronLord]

Did windu just do the Samurai thing and kill himself? The trooper only said 'might'.

Not quite Samurai. More self destructive and violent. Windu's thinking is that the only way to allow the Republc to get rid of its domestic enemies is to allow the senate to do business again - which means getting the Vice Chancellor to cancel the orders preventing it, and then make sure it looks as though some enemies slaughtered them after the order was given. It'll be worked out in time - but Windu killing (dismembering!) himself - will stall any investigation by the army long enough to allow a senate quorum to meet and start revoking emergency powers - at which point, his criminal acts don't really matter, or so he hoped, as the Republic will be saved.

Mace Windu loves the Republic so much, he's willing not just to break the law for it (which he does far more obviously here than in the film) but actually kill himself and more-than skirt the dark side. This is also a contributing reason for his suicide - he's fairly certain that such drastic and... un-jedi like action would damn him to fall. However, he's a patriot first, and a jedi second...

[CaptainChewbacca]

So, he opened himself to the dark side long enough to kill the bad guys, and then killed himself before he could fully turn...

[JME2]

Just started reading this today and holy shit. Great work, NecronLord.

[NecronLord]

Chapter 9: Healing

Anakin Skywalker watched his blade slide the head of the chancellor, impotent, harmless, and old, wearier than he’d ever before seen him, from his shoulders. He was dreaming. Dreaming of the murder of one of his oldest remaining friends.

“Anakin.”

The voice was familiar, though it had been years since he had heard it, he recognised it instantly. “master Qui Gon.”

He stood somewhere he could not place. It reminded him of descriptions of hells of fire, a bridge across a great river of lava.

“Where is this.”

“This is where your future would have led you, to your death, if you had not struck down the chancellor.”

“I what? No. This is a dream…” he said, looking at the long haired, bearded, inordinately centred figure that had appeared behind him, that had perhaps always been behind him.

“Yes. But your dreams reflect the last thing you did. You killed the chancellor as he was about to surrender to the Jedi.”

Anger flared inside him at the notion, but it was what he seemed to have been dreaming about forever, he said nothing.

“Remember this place. It is one of the first of those you would have done more murder in his name, had you not reacted impulsively to that treachery. It is where you would be now.”

“What?” Anakin asked, looking around a bleak, unremarkable industrial facility that hung over the river.

Another voice spoke, this one of a taller Jedi, dressed in similar robes, “Sometimes, Anakin, anger is not just the tool of the dark side. That is something we Jedi forget too easily.”

“Master Windu… I am dreaming.”

He gave a little smile, “Alas not. I too have passed into the force…”

“I would remember that.”

“You have been unconscious, Anakin. It happened then. You’ll hear the details soon enough when you wake. In any case, the same applies for me. My presence here is proof of it. They may think poorly of you in the future for your decision there. But you must not allow yourself to regret it. It was the right choice.”

“This would only have been the beginning…” Qui-gon said, and Anakin could see himself, stepping out of a doorway before the bridge, from a chamber with three dozen corpses beyond; somehow he knew what was beyond walls, even without the usual insights of the force.

His duplicate held a blood red weapon, “Darth Vader. Who you would be now if the Chancellor had lived…”

And then, time sped up, he could see his double leading wars that seemed without end; striking down all those dear to him, even the Chancellor, in the end. Unrelenting strife in a galaxy torn between separatists and Republic – no, Empire, he knew, Sith Empire – forever, until greater and greater forces of weapons, some vast battle stations, others, legions of cloned force warriors, blank and dull but ferocious, and more and more lethal ‘droids. Other races fought, almost called by the bloodshed from beyond the galaxy one intervening to try and neutralise both sides, others, warlike conquers who were crushed before their enemies. Immortal, he realised, he would have been, living thousands upon thousands of years, fighting successively more complex machine intelligences and rebel agencies until nothing was left of the galaxy, every planet a war torn wasteland, or scattered to the stars by titanic engines of destruction. In the end, he would be the last man, alone and consumed by insane megalomania, surrounded by war machines that went on forever, fighting the Limitless, Meaningless, war.

“Remember this, Anakin,” Mace said, “always regret the necessity that makes you use force. Never regret that you were ready to do so when that necessity arose.”

“It is time to go, now,” Qui-Gon said, both of the jedi standing in what seemed to be a hospital room, “you have children to see.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t know that yet…” Mace smirked, with suddenly good-natured humour.

“Oh… of course…” Qui-Gon said, and faded from view…

“Wait, how do I wake from this…”

“you just did…” Mace said, disappearing likewise. A medical ‘droid leaned up, shining a light into his eyes.

----□----

The blades twirled through the air, tapering straight swords of impervium smashing into the denser Phrick metal of IG-104’s staff, denting the blades slightly.

Their wielder stepped back as the android stepped toward him, batting the twin blades aside with its staff, twirling its weapon at the wrist, passing inside the other’s wrist and smashing the tip of the electrostaff to its opponent’s chest.

“Contact!” Sisfree said, from a few paces away, “seven all.”

Grievous glowered, stepping back, shrugging from a long dormant reflex, even though he had no muscles that would benefit from the act…

“Again!” he said, and the android twirled the inactive staff back into a guard position, balancing itself again and then lunging forward the second the protocol ‘droid announced ‘begin.’

Grievous stepped forward, the claws of his feet pressing against the deck as he kept a closer eye on his mass distribution; in the past, that had been automated to a much greater degree than it was now. He was surprised to find how consciously he had to lean back to retain a good balance now.

The ‘droid stepped up, parrying the swords, dangerous to most life forms, but essentially harmless to both Grievous and the magnaguard.

“Contact. Eight seven to IG one-oh-four.”

Grievous cursed under his breath, “Again…”

“General…” Karii’saa said, from behind a desk on the opposite side of the room, “If I may. The doctors did caution you that physical exertion for more than thirty minutes per day would hasten… damage…”

The General nodded, after a moment’s thought, and acquiesced, putting the dented swords back on the table, with many more in pristine condition, taking up the lightsabres he had left there, the only two that he carried now, one, formerly belonging to an ancient Sith Lady, and the other, Count Dooku’s.

With a sigh of hormones draining from his system, he disengaged the combat neural enhancers laced within his skull. He wondered when she had taken to calling him general, instead of ‘master.’ It was an improvement, he thought…

The alien woman leaning on the table smiled, “Besides, you wouldn’t want to be late for meeting with the Council. They’ve been waiting on your recuperation for four days. There’s only so much you can antagonise them without consequences. Well, serious ones…” she smirked.

“You have the message from the republic?” he asked.

She picked up a data pad and waved it jauntily.

“Excellent. Then I suppose it’s time I bowed to the inevitable and did some… politics…” he said, with a look back at the table of Lig Swords.

---□□---

Anakin found that he could move, just about. The Doctor, a handsome looking man with light hair, had told him to try and avoid it though, “You’re lucky to have any musculature left, Master Jedi…” he had mentioned, “And you don’t really want to know how much of your skin is grafts. Fortunately, they are very good ones. For whatever flaws, they do good work at Chance-Palp, or whatever they’re calling it now…”

He’d shown him a mirror, and to Anakin’s surprise, he could actually count somewhat less scars on his face, though those that there were were now somewhat more symmetrical, the evidence of small sheets of cultured skin being bonded to his face.

The Doctor had pointed him at the ‘fresher, a wardrobe, and excused himself, saying that he’d have visitors in half an hour. Before they arrived, Anakin knew who they were.

Padmé, and his children, he’d not known about them before, nor even guessed at them – or at least, not with any notion of their being part of his life in the near future. As he held them with hands clad in skin as soft as their own, he was sure he could hear distant, good-natured laughter.

--□□□--

The confederate council were gathered in the council room of the Unlimited Projection. As the Head of State walked into the chamber, accompanied by a squad of magnaguards, they burst into half a dozen different demands for attention, like a pack of children, he thought.

“Comrades. Greetings! First, I must thank you all for your patience during the recent days of my recovery. I stand before you,” he watched the basic text scrolling up behind his eyes, he’d dictated a rather less genial speech to Sisfree and simply told him to make it as inoffensive as possible, “refreshed and ready to begin the work of governance, as I’m sure you all are. Therefore, it brings me considerable satisfaction to announce that our initiative to open official negotiations with the Republic has been accepted by the senate on Alderann. I have accepted their timetable and initial cease-fire formalisation proposal, and, in order to facilitate such business, I intend to bring the Council,” which he supposed was more neutral in tone than ‘I’m taking you to’ as he’d originally said “to the Raxus system.

“I am sure there are many issues which need to be discussed, and the actual framing of our initial requirements, is a task I would like you to undertake.

“In addition, it is my intention within three months to call a congress of all aligned systems, in order to ratify an interim constitution for the Galactic Confederacy; we will soon be a recognised state, and it behoves us to act as one, in this, I am sure this wartime body will move on to greater responsibility and prestige. I myself, unsuited save for circumstance,” his original phase had been ‘won’t be able to stand you any more by then’ “for my current position, shall of course, stand down for a replacement as Head of State as soon as a working framework for the selection of a replacement is endorsed by the planets of the confederacy…

“Do you have any questions?” he could see that they were simply salivating at the prospect of being rid of him. Nute Gunray seemed especially pleased.

-□□□□-

Padmé smiled, “Too many clone troopers on Coruscant. After Mas Amedda tried to prevent the senate indicting him by ordering it kept apart by the home regiments, few senators wanted to be anywhere near them. Bail Organa sold Alderann as a temporary home for the senate on the basis that it has no garrisoned army forces.”

“What happened to the vice chancellor?” Anakin asked.

A flicker of unease sneaked across her features, “They say he was forced to rescind the orders, and then killed by Master Windu. And that Windu then killed himself in order to prevent the security forces realising what had happened until after the Senate had selected an interim chancellor who wasn’t part of Palpatine’s group,” she said the last words softly, as though quietness would make the memory of treason distress him less.

Leia squirmed in his arms, and he looked down, smiling softly, shushing her, “Who is the new chancellor anyway?”

“Mon Mothma, of Chandrila,” Padmé said, “She’s been going through and repudiating as much wartime legislation as she can for the past two days…”

“Good,” Anakin said.

“She did ask me to attend the negotiations. But I really don’t feel up to it…”

Anakin nodded, “Is a date fixed for that now?”

“Next week,” she said, “but the war is over now. There’s a formal cease-fire ratified by both sides. Now we’ve simply got to hope that both parties can try to put it behind them…”

“I’ve seen far too much of the Seperatists to have faith in that…”

-■□□□-

“Personally, I think that the Council took that rather well,” Sisfree said, “only one of them called for your immediate resignation…”

“I think San Hill knows I’m going to take great satisfaction in killing him at some point…” Grievous said, sitting down, “perhaps he should be a jedi…”

“I don’t think you need any special talent to see that coming, General” Kari’saa said, slumping back on another chair around the circular table. “If I may, how do you plan to pass this constitution?”

“I’ve not thought that far ahead yet. ‘droid,” a sizeable number of machines turned to look at him, “err, Sisfree.”

“Yes General?”

“How many systems are in the Confederacy?”

“Counting those whose popular support is with us, but occupied by the Republic, seventeen million, four hundred and seven thousand nine hundred and twenty six. Prior to your leadership, twenty million, seventy nine thousand and one.”

“How many are only with us because of ‘droid garrisons.”

“Some nine million of those are only remaining with us because of the fear of force.”

“Two point six million gone and nine more ready to go if given the chance,” Grievous said, “at this rate, there shan’t be anything left to negotiate on behalf of. We’ve been pandering to the council far too much. We need to display our intentions a little more openly…”

“You could copy the Republic Rights of Sentience,” Kari’saa said.

He looked up at the alien woman opposite him, he forgot who’d ‘given’ her to him. But the mention had reminded him of the general details of that ‘transaction.’ He growled quietly, “Excellent idea. So obvious, how many slaves are there in the confederacy anyway?”

The crimson protocol ‘droid tilted his head back, and Grievous could feel him apparently consulting the ship’s data core, “Seventeen billion, four”

“Close enough. How many in my name anyway?”

“Seven thousand two hundred.”

“Order them freed immediately. IG one-oh-two!”

“General?”

“Order all regional ‘droid commands to prepare to enact extraction operations and interdictions in this regard immediately, on all planets… Sisfree.”

“General.”

“Get a copy of the republican rights of sentients… Alter it for language and tone, and knock up a formal version. Inform the Council I want them to vote in one hour…”

At last, he made a point of looking at the most immediate beneficiary of his latest decision. “Where will you go? Is there anything you need?”

“Go? I’m going nowhere,” she said, “at least, not provided there’s a possibility of getting paid to be here. It’s far too much fun here to want to leave…”

-□■□□-

Anakin was in an alderannian hospital, to which he’d been moved at Senator Amidala’s request as soon as he was fit to be moved. Obi-wan had apparently made sure that request was granted with a smirk. It was a surprise then, that his first Jedi visitor was not Obi Wan, but rather, Yoda, who entered with a sigh, pulling himself up onto a chair too high for himself without even a little aid from the force.

“Better, are you?”

Anakin nodded, “Somewhat, Master Yoda.”

“Good,” Yoda said, “Good. Discussed your future, we have…”

Anakin groaned, twisting a little in place, thinking of the warning he’d been given.

“Confer on you the rank of Jedi Master, the council does.”

“Pardon?”

“In recognition for your wartime service…”

“Wow…”

“Master Kenobi suggested for you a leave of absence has, the council agrees.”

Anakin nodded, wondering if Obi Wan knew how much it would be appreciated.

-■■□□-

“Consequently,” the General said, “I have come to regard this matter as one of the greatest importance to the Confederacy…”

The council sat before him shifted nervously; their celebrations had been brief before being ‘called’ to assemble again.

What he’d outlined was familiar enough; and its supposed garuntees were for the most part, tolerable. Until, they discovered, he began talking about the importance of free labour. Of rights of assembly and working conditions, and to organise.

They had begun to fidget.

“With all respect, general…” Nute Gunray had protested, “the founding principles we have worked for are in no small part, economic freedom…”

“Perhaps, Viceroy…” he said, leaning forwards, leering as he did in the Neiomodian’s nightmares, “but do you wish to live in the confederacy where no superfederal rights garuntees stop me from…” reaching under his cloak, he took Dooku’s lightsaber, pressing the activation stud, “doing as I please…”

He fainted unceremoniously, lolling sideways in his chair.

Grievous let the weapon snap off, and put it away, doing his best to sound charming, “I’m sure you can see my reasons and consider them during your vote, even if the Viceroy here is a little indisposed at the moment…”

-□□■□-

DFS-4181 leapt off the surface of the sleek Banking Clan transport as it dropped out of hyperspace after the long ride from Kalee. It swung its wings around, ready for action, but could only find confederate signals Before it were hundreds of ships, thousands of identity codes. The largest and most powerfully emitted of these labelled itself as ‘The Great Weapon.’ 4181 was unequipped to appreciate the ominous nature of its name, or comprehend the significance of its scale in human terms – though its simple mind was already adjusting to conceptualise the potential capabilities the framework before it would have when complete – it helped to be able to comprehend all allied units.

When it did so, it let out a wordless chatter of excitement to its new flight-mates. As a combat ‘droid, 4181 was quite capable of being impressed by such displays of might.

They passed towards a large armoured construction station that orbited with the vast framework, and 4181 bounced to land on its leg-tips, moments before the transport did so.

All around, as it watched, alert for any sign of enemies, stood hundreds of geonosians of all classes, ranks of warriors, workers, and even leaders.

From the transport, a brown dappled reptilian in light, segmented black armour strode, preceeded by a trio of magnaguards. Its database prompted her that it was a Kaleesh, and a recognition system gave her the title of ‘Confederate Marshal Renaal gel Hieran.’

4181 listened, as did its wingmates, only interested in ensuring the safety of the marshal they had delivered. The largest Geonosian, supported on a hovering dais, identified as ‘Regal Mother Relga IX’ spoke.

“General, it is an honour to be visited by a personal representative of the Head of State. We were beginning to think we had been forgotten.”

“Not forgotten. Your work here is of paramount importance to The General. He has asked me to ensure that you are made fully aware of the new timescale for completion?”

“New timescale?” another Geonosian asked, a query to the station’s computer informed 4181 that he was Baronet Margetan, current over-foreman for the system.

“Yes. The General wishes the completion date of the Great Weapon brought forwards by two months.”

“Two months? This cannot be done. Even working at full speed, we have had difficulties of every kind, and with the importance of this project’s secrecy. We had expected production to be suspended, or even reversed!”

“Many production facilities will be brought here soon when they are withdrawn from occupied planets. You need merely be confident in your design. You will have any resources you need. The General keeps this battle-station’s progress as an uttermost priority, you will have whatever you need.”

[CaptainChewbacca]

Really nicely done. Anakin as a master will almost certainly NOT fall to the Dark Side, and Grievous freeing the slaves? Brilliant!

[Vehrec]

Bravo sir. Bravo indeed. I do especially like that our good General is not a fool and is fast-forwarding the Great Weapon to maybe have it ready as a deterent.

[Spice Runner]

Heh. That scene between Grievious and the confederacy council was nicely done.

[JME2]

Very well done, Necron; I especially liked Anakin's interactions with the Force-Spritis of Qui-Gon and Mace.

[holyknight]

Heh. That scene between Grievious and the confederacy council was nicely done.

Approve my laws, or have a nice session of Lightsabre Enemas? Hmm.....tough choice...

[Shogoki]

Just read the whole thing, it's great, keep it up!

[phongn]

As it's never likely to actually make it into the story, I'll tell you. It's the (future) symbology of (officer) ranks in the Galactic Confederacy. So far, they are up to Lt. Commander/Major. ■■■■ is General of the Armies/Grand General/Grand Admiral.

Sixteen officer ranks, then? Also, the rank placard presumably has some sort of direction-coding so there's no confusion between ■□□□ and □□□■ if someone's flipped upside-down, for example?

[NecronLord]

Actually there's slightly more. □□□, □□, and □ are also on there. Though □□□□ would be 2nd Lt. And there likely aren't many droid officer cadets. It's likely to be stamped on battle droids more than anything, but yes. So far I imagine branch/specialty insignia first. So... † □■□□ or some such for infantry captain, with a sword insignia for ground forces, or some such.

[FireNexus]

I just read through this all today, and I just have to comment on how good it is. Definitely as good as if not better than your other work. Fantastic stuff. Perfectly paced and exciting. Keep up the good work, man.

[Illuminatus Primus]

Necronlord, did you figure that the current system, with not many if any ranks beyond those used in total war in the terrestrial context (World War II; the U.S. system only theoretically goes up to O-11 [five stars] or O-12 [six stars]; presumably your system goes up to O-16 [ten! stars] if four empty squares is 2nd Lt), is untenable in a world where you might have to assault worlds like Coruscant, and you can build siegecraft equivalent to billions of captain-rated starships? Care to share your system?

[NecronLord]

Chapter 10: Peace

“Seems like months, doesn’t it?” Keff said, leaning back in his comparatively spacious centre cockpit, before munching on a much-appreciated slice of bread from a goodwill basket.

“What, since the cease-fire, or since we went on this patrol?” asked the clone behind him in the ARC-170 recon fighter’s aft cockpit. Corr always had been the joker.

“The cease-fire…” Keff said, “Trying to make a serious point, though. What do you think will happen to us if this peace lasts?”

“I’m thinking about a farm somewhere,” Corr said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” the pilot, Marks, said, “Think back to your history of war education,” Corr wasn’t sure if Marks was consciously lording it over more recent clone lineages or not. He was one of the early generation Fett-clones, ten year real-world education and everything. “Every state that’s had to co-exist with an independent rival of equal size has raised a standing army. It’s a new Republic.”

“Hey, old man,” Corr said, “bet you never thought you’d see the end of the war…”

“I didn’t think so, no,” Marks said, “but hey. Glad to have. Thinking about saving for my retirement…”

“Saving with what?”

“Oh, I’ve got some money, came across it in the Fall of Enkellus…”

“Lucky bastard…” Keff said.

The astromech droid between Keff and Corr warbled a warning.

“Right lads, look alert,” Marks said, “seventeenth system, here we come…”

The ship was on a deep range patrol around the planet Arcus, which was itself in a particularly difficult area to travel in. Seventeen systems had taken the clones three days to sweep, and there was another day on their patrol. The blurred perspective of hyperspace snapped back to the darkness of real space.

“Hang on… Picking something up.” Keff said.

“Raising shields…” Marks replied instantly, as his own screen lit up with the familiar shape of a Trade Federation Lucrehulk battleship.

“Attempting to hail it… it’s no good we’re being jammed…”

Corr cursed fluently from behind him, and Keff switched the ship’s s-foils to their deployed position, with a depressing feeling that the extra radiative capacity would do them no good.

“Get the hyperdrive ready!” Marks said, and Keff obeyed.

R3-K4, their astromech, flashed up a warning…

“Only two” Corr said, “now that’s just insulting!”

Two ‘droid fighters were headed out of the enemy ship. “If it makes your pride feel any better, it’s probably tri-fighters…”

“A bit, but not much,” Corr said, warming up the rear guns as the ship came about…

“Hyperspace in twenty…” Marks said.

“They’ll be in range in fifteen… Yeah, Tri-fighters…” Keff added.

“Just long enough to get them…” Corr said with satisfaction.

The seconds ticked by with awful slowness.

“Range…” Corr said, and pulled two triggers, sending streams of blaster bolts back from the ship,

The Tri-fighters exploded, but not before they had launched a series of missiles at the recon ship.

“Any time now, would be good…” Corr said, watching the missiles approaching, firing a few shots, even managing to destroy one. The missiles preemptively exploded in the last second, and for an instant, he thought they had self-destructed. Then he realised they were buzz ‘droid missiles.

Most of the orbs missed, but a few shot through the ship’s shields, magnetising and landing. One popped open right in front of him, and sunk a plasma torch into the hyperdrive. The high pressure coolant sprayed out in a jet, catapulting the ‘droid off, but the damage was done. Unless R3 could repair it. And that meant getting rid of the little gremlins. Corr swept one of his guns to the left, hard, knocking a ‘droid away into space.

R3 extended a shock arm from his dome, and zapped at one of the little saboteurs as it shuffled toward him, sideways.

“I’m going out there…” Corr said, reaching up to the canopy and drawing his sidearm.

“Belay that…” Marks said, “that hulk is coming to get us…”

Corr swore again, watching the bright orb in the distance that was the enemy ship firing its engines.

“I’m going to be manoeuvring hard if I want to try and keep us out of their tractor beam… See if you can’t do something with the repulsorlifts instead…” R3 warbled in triumph as he closed the S-foils, catapulting one of the hemispherical droids into space as they squeezed it.

Minutes of frantic manoeuvring followed, finally jarred to a halt by the snare of a tractor beam. The clone ship, now disarmed by the buzz ‘droids was pulled inexorably towards the ring shaped enemy vessel, inside its ring to an ancillary bay.

Waiting there was rank after rank of super battle ‘droids, weapons at the ready, a few crab ‘droids sitting on either side of the waiting formation. A squad of the battle droids advanced, opening canopies, hauling all four occupants of the craft out, holding them in crushingly strong arms.

“What is the meaning of this? This is an act of war!” Marks shouted, trying to impress on the ‘droids the error of their ways.

A heavy, black robed lizard stepped through the droids, and Keff noticed that he wore a lightsaber. With him, a silver protocol droid tottered on unsteady legs. The lizard hissed, and the droid began translating, “Republic scum, the Exalted Varress Sai, Chief of the Heirs of Count Dooku, will not debase himself by speaking your tongue.”

“Whatever you say, scaly,” Corr said, and Keff sighed, “but you’re breaking the cease-fire here.”

“There is no cease-fire…” the translator droid said, “The Exalted Varress Sai has not issued one… Oh dear!”

“What?”

“He says that you are to be executed… I am terribly sorry…”

Keff pulled against the super battle droid holding him, to no avail, and watched as a gaunt, B1 battle droid trooped towards the lunatic lizard, holding a sword. It wasn’t even a vibro-blade, just a piece of metal.

“What is this?” Keff demanded, frantically.

“Oh my… the Exalted Lord Sai says that he does not like his meat cooked… I am sorry!”

Shortly afterwards, Varress ordered the battle droids to take the captured ‘droid for analysis and memory wipe, and retired back to his sanctum, well pleased with the unexpectedly pleasant morning.

-■□■□-

Steam billowed from a slight crack, in a pipe; it wasn’t under terribly high pressure, or very dangerous, but it made visibility low, and more importantly, infrared-scanning, difficult.

NZ-4z4 could barely see its hand in front of its face, hot steam making its photoreceptors almost completely worthless. It trod as lightly as it could, tilting its body from side to side slowly.

The fuel station’s underside was a maze of pipes and tunnels, some of them dating back to its foundation centuries ago, others, brand new, though not much different. The whole place had been forgotten by anything that’d call itself an authority until the war made the planet a stop-over point for Confederate privateers, and with that, various ner-do-wells had come to use the planet as a place to contribute their funds to the war effort by buying the take of raids on the rena-sarmine transit lane, a hyperspace route that put five inhabited planets on an almost straight line from end to end, making the trip particularly fuel efficient.

The planet had no name anyone remembered, and its only real name now was Junktown. But it had a thriving little trade, now drying up, though the unsavoury customers who had purchased there were still happy to do trade on the little planet, among Republic mid-rim worlds.

NZ-4z4 stopped, as its probing hand hit a solid object. It felt to the side, identifying the barrier as a hatch; too simple to have a radio-frequency lock, so it felt around for a few moments to find the wheel, turning it, rust giving way under powerful, mechanical hands, with a loud squeal. It pushed the door open, steam billowing into the next compartment as it leaned forwards, stepping through the door and closing it behind him.

The room beyond was a T-junction of stout cables protected behind insulated wire mesh, a mesh floor, and heavy pipes above, a pair of grilles dispensing and consuming clean air into the chamber.

It stopped, listening, and turned left, disgarding all notion of stealth now, stepping forwards, its heavy, flat feet clumping along as it firmly tore open another door, raising its arm, and firing twice from the blasters on the back of its hand.

The super battle ‘droid watched as the blaster bolts melted through a ladder up to the next level, and searched through its memory banks for the right phrase, “You’re under arrest!” it growled.

Before it, were seven figures, one, a Gran, held a blaster, and looked like she was seriously considering shooting the ‘droid, but wasn’t confident a hot-shot pistol would do the trick. NZ-4z4 pointed its arm at her, “drop the weapon…”

She didn’t obey instantly, and the ‘droid fired, deftly winging her, the blaster bolt puncturing her arm and sending her spinning to the floor.

The other two the ‘droid identified as criminals, a Muun of obviously low rank, and a humanoid alien it didn’t recognise, with towering horns and black body armour, which it kept covered. The other four people were humans, all immature forms, posing no threat.

“You three will not move.”

“What seems to be the problem?” the Muun said.

“You are under arrest for slave trading,” the ‘droid snapped.

The third criminal threw him – a little query flag was tripped in the ‘droid’s brain, it didn’t recognise the physiology – self forwards, and Nz-4z4 slew it with a few neat blasts to the head.

“You will come with me,” the ‘droid said, with finality.

-□■■□-

Akev Felfos eased his way into the levstation’s shelter, one of several around the slim, shining rail. High over his homeworld of Nabinrel, the sun was rising. He adjusted his bag, and sat down.

“Palpaaatinist!”

Akev frowned, “What?”

“That’s what my dad said you SAGs are: Palpatinist. Traitor…”

Akev Felfos’ frown deepened, and he straightened the olive grey SAG uniform he wore, adjusting his backpack, “Leave me alone…”

The drawling youth who barred his way – older than him, at some sixteen years, chuckled, leaning back by the levstation seats – shook his head, “probably going out to conspire against the Republic.”

There were grunts of agreement from the aggressive, blonde haired youth’s comrades, a few more boys, his age. “I don’t think we should let this sith-sucking traitor go until he explains himself, lads.” He shoved Akev’s chest firmly, “so, where are you going?”

“I’m going up to the Crags, camping,” Akev said, truthfully.

“Ah, going to meet other traitors,” was the reply, and Akev stepped forwards. The older boy, the leader, he realised, was the first to act, punching him, it felt; not as bad as Akev had expected, actually. For a moment he imagined he could win, or at least wrestle his way out onto the platform. Then the others grabbed him and held him back.

-■■■□-

General Grievous stepped through the airlock into the ship. The Malevolence-class vessel had been under construction for some time, and he had intended to name her Malevolence II. Now, upon reflection, for a time, he had been tempted by Invisible Hand II which seemed far more appropriate, given how significant her predecessor had been to the galaxy. But he was of two minds on that.

Commemoration was one thing, but there were many things he’d done in the latter ship, which he wasn’t proud of. It was bigger than its predecessor, including an armoured cowling that protected its main broadside armament, and additional anti-starfighter laser cannons, both on its sides, and the aft.

From the airlock, there was a short pathway to the vessel’s command deck, in its aft tower. The chamber was smaller than that of the Invisible Hand but it followed a similar design. So far, there was no crew on board this vessel, save ‘droids, and half a dozen pilot ‘droids were sitting watching him as he surveyed the vessel.

He turned to the quarren shipwright at his side, trying to remember his name; it was something like Lakessef, but he wasn’t sure. After the Destruction of Pammant, many of the senior staff of this space-based out-system installation were recently promoted juinors, “Are the weapons operational yet?” he demanded.

“The ship’s turbolasers and secondary ion-cannons, as well as her tertiary weapons, have all been tested, before and after installation. The primary cannons have not yet been fired, though they have been powered up.”

He nodded, “Good… Good. I have some modifications I require. I understand your reticence to begin them at this time, but they are essential. You will need to work with the hyper-communications cartel. Sisfree…”

The ‘droid handed over a compressed data-card, containing the requirements for upgrades that the General wished to have made to the ship. “You’re not staying, General?” the designer said, trying, and failing, to hide his relief from Sisfree’s sophisticated multi-species voice-stress analysers.

“No,” Grievous said, standing with his arms clasped behind his back, “I must continue a tour of pertinent facilities before talks begin,” he had a number of things he wanted done, his next stop being a mining facility on Gromas Sixteen. “Thank you for your time,” he said, turning to leave.

-□□□■-

It had become his home, Anakin reflected. He had no desire to see his original home any more, and at times, he felt more and more an outcast from the Jedi Temple. But here, among the placid lakes of Naboo, he truly felt at home. He sat on the balcony where he’d been married, savouring the peace around him, letting it temper and influence the force flowing through him, healing. Although the doctors had certified him as being fit to be discharged, he certainly didn’t feel at his peak. Bone regeneration rarely left muscles in an optimal state, and he was spending hours every day in healing trances.

In the reserved, trance state, he could feel and hear everything around him in a curiously detached way. He could feel every breath of wind, and every falling leaf or word spoken for hundreds of meters, he heard in his hyper-awareness. But none of it seemed to matter.

He could hear the breathing of his children, a few steps away from him. He could hear Padmé nearby, speaking.

“With all respect, Bail, I really don’t think we can trust her…”

“Maybe not,” was the reply, slightly electronic, “but her influence in this matter is sufficient to make her inclusion worthwhile.”

“What if she does derail things, though? We could be dealing with another war…”

“And we could be dealing with a civil war if we’re seen as traitors who don’t negotiate hard enough. Not even the most slanderous news-casters will dare accuse the senator from Humbarine of being soft on General Grievous.”

“They’re really that bad?”

“You are terribly cut off from the galaxy, aren’t you? Unfortunately, yes. It doesn’t take long for some people to begin thinking that we won, somehow. The logic is simple; if Grievous is willing to stop killing, he must be really weak.”

“It doesn’t take long to forget, does it?”

“People want to…”

-■□□■-

Patriot Fist drifted in a constellation of similar class ships over the planet of Raxus II, watching with ever-so-slight mechanical jealousy and haughty disinterest as several of its compatriots blasted Raxus II. The planet had no population, nor any great resource value. But it had one valuable asset; it was in close proximity to Raxus Prime, the ancient and polluted world on which the Confederate Council had first been headquartered.

Its temperature was too low to support organic life, and its surface was buried under miles of ice. But in order to make a congenial location for talks, the Head of State had ordered that the planet’s atmospheric temperature be increased.

It would in fact, be a one-way act; as the bombardment increased the temperature, parts of its frozen oceans and frosts would melt, and in turn release warming gasses that would bring its temperature up – below the peak at which the talks would be held, for a time. Yet eventually, the entire world would become an oceanic, temperate world, suitable for the introduction of life.

The tremor of a ship emerging from hyperspace tickled Patriot Fist’s senses for a moment, and without choice or thought, it relayed its sensor impression of the incoming ship to its bridge.

It could hear the challenge issued by the nearby command ship; Unidentified Craft it began [Type: CEC Barloz-class Light Freighter] You have entered a military restricted zone. Retreat beyond six light seconds immediately, or you will be required to come-to and be boarded.

The ship didn’t obey, and some part of the multi-story processor in the Patriot Fist that housed its limited intellect knew what was coming next. Sure enough, a moment later, a remote command to intercept the ship filtered into its consciousness. The light destroyer swung around, locking on its forward cannons, powering its engines to one tenth their maximum rating.

The ship was powering its engines and reactors down, evidently not wanting to be blown out of the sky, and one of Patriot Fist’s pilot ‘droids used its scanners to check the ship wasn’t carrying explosives.

Suddenly, the ship ahead transmitted a recognition code. It was months out of date, but it was legitimate, and not blacklisted.

Patriot Fist linked in with the processors of a squad of ‘droids as they were activated, from its reserves, and trooped towards the nearest airlock. It was a contingent of four ‘droid marines, and the ship reinforced the boarding-airlock with a contingent of destroyer ‘droids. Policy on such boarding operations was to send in the ‘droid marines – a minimum cost upgrade of the basic B-1 model – in case the ship being boarded self-destructed. Meanwhile, ‘droidekas would remain on the armoured interior side of the confederate ship’s airlock, to prevent jedi and similar enemies sneaking out of such vessels.

Through the sensors of a Vulture ‘droid tailing the incoming ship, Patriot Fist could see that it was battered, well used, and had probably changed owners a few times. There was a single gun turret on the upper side, but it had been damaged. Its engines had obviously been patched, one of them radiating light at an odd frequency, presumably from a fuel line blockage. Further, the engines on one side were a completely different model from those on the other.

It activated the tractor beam easily killing the momentum of the diminutive vessel, and slowing itself down, and brought the ship in close to its side, linking a docking hatch with its own side, before discovering that the starboard docking hatch on the tramp freighter was out of action.

It turned the ship around, making a hard lock with the port side airlock, and waited for a moment as one of its living crew authorised a start of the operation. A moment later, the ship sorted its way through an archive of back-doors, eventually opening the airlock outer door, in the same moment, uploading the deck-plans of the captured ship into the memories of the boarding team.

They advanced in twos, through the narrow, telescoping airlock, blaster rifles and, in one case, a pistol, at the ready.

The upper cargo deck’s empty… one reported.

“Proceed to the cockpit,” the junior officer of the deck ordered, and the ‘droids moved up across the cargo bay. The ship was aware of everything the ‘droids saw, and could track their location compared to the standard deck plan. They advanced along the port access corridor, up a short flight of stairs, and into an empty, four-being cockpit. They found it deserted, the consoles left on.

“It’s like a ghost ship…” the third ‘droid said.

“Cut the chatter,” the leading one said, holding his pistol at his side, stepping up to the sensor station seat, “cover the door,” he said. He flicked a series of switches. Unfortunately, the ship’s sensors didn’t seem to be able to be reflected back in on themselves to scan for life forms. He engaged his communications unit “No one on the bridge. We’re searching the ship,” he said.

-□■□■-

The General held his arm out as the mechanical ‘droid detached his third hand, and then his forearm. It was bizarre to watch such alterations. A moment later, the entire arm was removed, and he tilted his head to watch as its replacement was screwed in by another ‘droid, closing a locking plate and testing the moving parts. A new lower arm followed, and then a new, clawed hand. The black, unpainted metal shone in the high lights above.

He was having a large number of parts replaced, which was always an interesting experience. And it seemed necessary, given the wear some components had experienced.

Sisfree stepped into the chamber, “General. We have received a report from Raxus. Asajj Ventress was found attempting to arrive at the planet in a tramp freighter…”

He looked up, pupils narrowing to slits, “Curious…” he said.

“She said she has an urgent message for you…”

“Bring her here… We cannot leave this system until our transactions are complete…”

Sisfree nodded, looking at the half-disassembled ‘droid general, “As you wish, General.”

-■■□■-

Mas Amedda frowned, looking at the syringe. He had no idea if it was safe. Not only was this cylinder rather illicit, but he’d had no direct contact with the provider, doing everything through holonet channels and droids. He was easily recognisable, and the Republic’s bounty on his head was enough to buy entire worlds. Never mind that mere reports of him would bring hordes of jedi down on whatever world he happened to be on.

Thus, he had no idea of the providence of this genetic alteration serum. It was supposedly military issue, to change one’s genes to disguise as someone else. But there were horror stories. A wrongly measured dose could treat half the body, and leave the immune system at war with one’s own tissues. Poor quality work could also change one too much, resulting in agonising bodily changes as the impact of altered genes ripped through the body. Even when it worked, there was a risk of riddling one’s body with hard to treat cancers and growths.

Nonetheless, he was desperate. He picked up the syringe, and injected his forearm, watching the fluid drain into his bloodstream.

-□□■■-

Asajj Ventress was familiar with the Unlimited Projection Core-ship. She’d been there several times before; but she’d not been to the General’s quarters there. They were more spacious than she’d expected. No less than six magnaguards had escorted her here from the support destroyer, which she found to be overkill. But then, Grievous had always liked overkill.

He was taller than she remembered, and had changed his appearance somewhat. He looked less leering, and more dignified, his posture very similar to Count Dooku’s. He wore a crimson cloak and a high gorget that changed his posture, and leaned ever so slightly – this was clearly an affectation, of course – on a coral-covered walking stick, capped with a stunning ruby corusca gem.

His room was sprawled with data-pads and holographic screens of notes. An enormous map of the galaxies divided into blue and red, hung behind him. Several ‘droids and living beings lurked around tables, clearly working on negotiations. “Asajj Ventress… Welcome back…” he said, “what brings you to my little battleship?”

A waiter droid offered her a drink on a tray, and she waved it away, “Well, as you have probably discovered by now, I’ve been lying low on the outer rim.”

“I did wonder. Most reports said you were dead…”

“I managed to find a little mining colony, Laxan’s Halt,” she said, drifting toward the window, looking out on the space over Raxus, “where the prospectors were so isolated, they’d barely heard of the war. I claimed to be a deserter from the Republic Labour Corps, which they found convincing enough. It was quite relaxing, really, and they liked having someone who could move machinery with a wave of the hand around.”

“So, what brings you back now?” Grievous asked, following.

“Someone found me. Varress Sai, he was another of Dooku’s Acolytes during the war. You may have heard of him.”

“I think he petitioned me to be involved in the invasion of Kashyyyk, but he was still assigned to the outer rim by Count Dooku.”

“That’s him. In any case, he claims to be part of a group called the Inheritors of Dooku or something to that effect. They’re convinced that Count Dooku and Chancellor Palpatine were setting them up to take over the galaxy, and that you’ve denied them that opportunity. They want to see you killed and then try and begin where the Sith left off. The usual dark side stuff. They wanted me to lead them…”

“And you’re here because?” Grievous asked, watching his guards tighten the grips on their staves behind her.

“I’ve had enough of war. I told him that I would consider it, and then bought a ship and came here. I don’t think he’s likely to accept anyone denying the wonderful opportunity to hitch their wagon to some deranged troublemakers. If I just wanted to stay, I expect he would have just melted the planetoid. So I thought I’d warn you. He claims to have some plan to break the cease-fire, which he’s going to put into action during your summit with the Republic. He wouldn’t give me any more details than that without some commitment to help his cause, though…”

[NecronLord]

Ahah! Yon fanfic stirs into life like the reanimated remnants of a cyborg general! Posting simply because it's an awesome writeup Barloz-class tramp freighter deckplan. And the Grievous picture that partly inspired some bits of this chapter (though there are plot/in-universe reasons, too, though I've tried to keep them subtle for now). I'm not sure about my depiction of Ventress; she's quite hard to get right, and I'm trying to convey the impression that she's matured greatly since she ran off to the boonies to avoid the war.

Necronlord, did you figure that the current system, with not many if any ranks beyond those used in total war in the terrestrial context (World War II; the U.S. system only theoretically goes up to O-11 [five stars] or O-12 [six stars]; presumably your system goes up to O-16 [ten! stars] if four empty squares is 2nd Lt), is untenable in a world where you might have to assault worlds like Coruscant, and you can build siegecraft equivalent to billions of captain-rated starships? Care to share your system?

There may be some discrepancies here, as my original notes on this have since been lost due to a malware infestation claiming my last computer.

Code: Select all

□	Officer Cadet
□□	Lower Lt.		Ens					
□□□	Upper Lt.		Lt. JG					
□□□□	Captain (Infantry)	Lt.					
■□□□	Major		Lt. Cmdr					
□■□□	Lt Colonel		Cmdr					
■■□□	Colonel		Captain					
□□■□	High Colonel	Line Captain				
■□■□	Brigadier Gen. 	Commodore					*
□■■□	Major Gen.	Rear Admiral					**
■■■□	Lt-General	Vice Admiral				 	***
□□□■	General		Admiral						****
■□□■	Captain-General	General-Admiral					*****
□■□■	Surface-Marshal	System Marshal					******
■■□■	Sector Marshal	Fleet Admiral					*******
□□■■		Region-Marshal						********
■□■■		Confederate Marshal					*********
□■■■		FORCE Commander-General				**********
■■■■		General of the Confederacy of Independant Systems		***********

The lower officer ranks would be a mix of OOM series officer droids, and living staff and support officers (I expect that, at this stage at least, there aren't actually warrant officers in the CIS' armies, for the simple reason that it would be rather hard to get neiomodians and similar organics to obey droids. This is partly an explanation for some of their more hideous tactical screw-ups; logistics clerks can order the droids around, even when the droid officers have rather more sense.

Surface/System Marshal would represent the senior officer on or around a developed system, controlling all forces within a terrestrial battle zone. One might imagine Whorm Loathsome from the Clone Wars film in this role.

After that, one has senior officers in command of sector forces, of roughly equivalent size to the sectors represented by a senator. Then larger regions, and eventually, 'Confederate Marshals' in command of either singularly important commands (such as the Great Weapon) or entire regions of the galaxy (such as a large part of the outer rim, or deep core). The ten star general rank is roughly equivalent to a US Joint Chief, though it is a distinct rank, essentially divorced from any field command, with the responsibility of providing galactic oversight for procurement, training, strategic policy, and so forth. Replace 'FORCE' with 'Navy' 'Starfighter' 'System Defence' 'Ground Forces' 'Logistics' and whatever other areas seem appropriate. GCIS is of course, Grievous himself, for the time being.

These ranks would be worn (by organic officers) in much the same way Republic/Imperial rank plaques are, with gold and silver, or black and white, squares, as depicted by divisional, regional, or species preference. They'd also be somewhere on relevant droids, most likely painted on in a similar style.

[Pelranius]

Great job. Still surprised that Mas is still running around.

I don't imagine that Mon Mothma or Organa are just going to let the ceasefire be. They're too fanatical in their pursuit of the perfect republic just to settle for half the loaf.

Glad to see this update!

[JME2]

It lives! Great update!

[Count Chocula]

* hacking coughs * Very good work, Necron! I see you've read my biography. You live another day.

Hugs and Kisses, Grievous