Chapter 1: First Contact With The Confederacy Of Independent Systems.
Jake Asher hated Unification Day. It wasn't the significance of the event—though the spectacle of multiple Terran ships roaring through the sky and the sight of millions cheering, celebrating the birth of a united front against the Settlement Defense Front (SDF) was enough to make any man stand in awe—it was the noise. The deafening hum of capital ships entering Earth's atmosphere, and the screams of drunken citizens watching the ships like worshippers gazing upon gods. For a man of action, that noise grated against his nerves like an itchy uniform.
But there was something else eating at him. A particular aggravation he couldn't escape. It was a newly assigned task that was meant to "integrate" him into the future of the Terran Navy—a prototype android by the name of AR-113. Jake had been forced to play nursemaid to the damn machine less than an hour ago. An hour of endless chatter, mechanical politeness, and unnervingly perfect efficiency.
"God, will you just shut up? You're giving me a migraine." Jake snapped, quickening his pace, hoping for just a moment of silence. His boots clacked against the metallic floor as he stalked ahead, praying that the cold, emotionless android would leave him alone.
"I am sorry, Lieutenant Asher, but I cannot comply with your request to 'shut up,' as you say," AR-113's voice echoed, deadpan and unfazed. The android's sensors flicked, its optic lenses scanning the hallway as they walked. "I have been ordered to escort you to landing platform seven. Please follow me."
Jake's jaw clenched as his hand brushed against the hilt of his sidearm, a subconscious reflex to the presence of something so...other. He had always found it unnerving, the way the android resembled a human—its skin a synthetic, lifeless imitation of flesh—but its movements, its speech, its calculated expressions were completely alien. It was the perfect replica of humanity, and yet utterly devoid of the essence that made someone alive.
He was used to the human element in war, the camaraderie, the shared experience of loss, of victory. But this...this was something else. Something that only served to remind him of the price humanity had paid in the war against the SDF—a price that had come with new advancements, new technologies...new companions like AR-113.
Just as he was about to rip into the machine again, they arrived at the platform, and Jake was almost grateful to see the transport ship waiting for them, its hull reflecting the blue sky above. He made to push through the door, eager to be rid of his metallic shadow, but then it slid open, revealing a dark-skinned man with short, graying hair and steely hazel eyes—the captain of the Endurance, the flagship of the Terran fleet.
"Oh, good. I see you've already met our newest addition to the crew," the captain's voice was calm and warm, a stark contrast to Jake's current mood. "How are you, AR-113?"
Jake resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"The Lieutenant appears to be...in a less-than-pleasant mood, Captain. But otherwise, we are functioning optimally," AR-113 responded, its voice utterly devoid of concern. Jake could feel the blood in his veins boil as it casually remarked on his mood, like he wasn't standing right there.
The captain chuckled, his hazel eyes glinting with understanding. "I see. Well, let's get going." He turned to Jake, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. AR-113 here will grow on you. Eventually."
Jake didn't answer. He didn't have the energy. He simply made his way toward the ship, letting his frustration simmer in silence. AR-113 followed without hesitation, just a few steps behind, its metallic frame gleaming under the station lights.
As the small transport lifted off from the station, the vastness of space stretched out before them, the familiar blue of Earth receding as they ascended. Jake gazed out the window for a moment, trying to find peace in the sight of the planet he had once pledged to protect. His thoughts were interrupted by the pilot, a man with the steady hands of someone who had spent years in the cockpit.
"We're two minutes out," the pilot's voice broke the silence. "Feel free to take a look outside."
Jake shifted his focus, his eyes narrowing as Earth's familiar blue-green orb grew smaller in the distance. For a fleeting moment, he was reminded of why he fought in the first place, of the years spent in the fight against the SDF. But those thoughts were quickly dashed as the pilot spoke again, his voice tinged with an almost nostalgic tone.
"Hard to believe it's only been ten years since we signed the Unification Treaty with the SDF, huh?" the pilot remarked as he adjusted the ship's trajectory, preparing to join the rest of the fleet.
Jake grunted in acknowledgment, unwilling to engage in small talk. He wasn't here for reminiscing. He wasn't here for AR-113, either.
His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts drifting to the war he knew was far from over. The SDF had been defeated, but the true battle, the one for control of the mankind's future, was just beginning. The Terran fleet was about to face something far darker, far more dangerous than they could ever imagine.
And Jake Asher would be in the thick of it, alongside a crew that included both flesh and steel.
Meanwhile, on the outer rim of the Sol system, a massive starship hovered just beyond Pluto's orbit, its dark hull reflecting the distant light of the sun. Inside, the ship's sensors worked overtime, scanning the system for any signs of intelligent life. The ship's crew had been on high alert for days, prepared for this moment—the moment when they would make first contact with a civilization that had no idea what was coming.
As the system's scans completed, the results were relayed to the command center. The officer in charge, a cold, calculating figure, reviewed the data, his expression unreadable.
"Report," he ordered flatly.
The technician at the console quickly input the data and relayed it to the officer. "Sir, the scans confirm... There are nearly 15 billion lifeforms on this planet. If the scans are accurate, the system is rich in resources, far more than we anticipated. This could prove crucial in the upcoming war."
The officer's gaze narrowed. This was unexpected. The upcoming war with the Galactic Republic was about to enter a new phase, and this discovery could tip the balance in the Confederacy's favor. He turned to the crew, his voice low and deadly.
"Prepare the ship. We make first contact."
Sol System — Outer Edge
Beyond the gas giants and ancient debris fields, a vessel tore into real space with predatory grace. Matte-black, dagger-shaped, and over 800 meters long, the ship was silent save for the mechanical whisper of scanners mapping the system.
"Scan complete," intoned a metallic voice inside the bridge. "System contains Class IV habitable world. Estimated population: 14.8 billion. Energy signature saturation: high. Industrial output: considerable."
In the command chamber, General Grievous—more machine than man now—watched the glowing report scroll across a holographic display. His breathing rasped, metal ribs rising and falling beneath his tattered cape.
"This planet will serve us well," he said. "Transmit contact protocols. Prepare the signal."
—
Pluto Orbit — Terran Listening Post Kronos-4
"Sir, I've got something... new."
Technician Avery Calhoun's voice cut through the low hum of the station's operations bay. He twisted in his seat, staring up at the older man who'd just entered.
Administrator Marcus Dorrell was a thickset bureaucrat with tired eyes and nicotine-yellowed fingertips. "Something 'new'? As in debris? Ice fragments? Or another false ping from Europa?"
"No, sir. This one's real. It's maneuvering, holding outside Pluto's orbit. No registry. No transponder. No signal."
Dorrell's gut twisted. "You're sure?"
"Yes, sir. Nothing scheduled near Terminus Station for another seven hours. Supply drone. That's it."
A beat passed—then a transmission hit their network.
Audio only.
That never happened.
"Put it through," Dorrell ordered.
Crackling static, then a broken male voice.
"...unknown ship... massive... request—" The message died in a burst of white noise.
Dorrell's skin went cold.
"Alert Terran Central Command," he said, backing away from the console. "Code Black. Put every fleet element on high alert. Scramble fighters. I want Pluto, Mars, and Earth running full surveillance."
—
Earth Orbit — T.N.S. Endurance (Terran Navy Supercarrier)
Jake Asher was halfway into the cockpit of his Predator-class interceptor when Captain Royce Mallin stopped him with a look.
"Keep your head out there, son."
Jake gave a tight grin. "You keep saying that, and I keep coming back in one piece."
"Cocky bastard," the captain muttered, eyes narrowing under his cap.
The canopy hissed shut around Jake. His gloved fingers flew over the control interface—fuel mix, oxygen seal, weapons armed. The launch tube lit green. Seconds later, his fighter screamed into the void alongside dozens of others.
The black was suddenly alive with motion.
Fighters soared. Frigates realigned. The T.N.S. Resolute and Retribution-B, two heavy cruisers, powered up forward batteries and repositioned in low orbit, shields up, hulls gleaming in the distant sun.
Jake's HUD pinged as his wingman, Ensign Luka Virelli, came online.
"What're we looking at, Luka?"
"Not sure, Lieutenant. But... damn. Object is massive. 825 meters long, maybe more. Some kind of spinal-mounted weapons... heavy plasma displacement."
Jake's breath caught as the object crested over the far side of the Moon.
The thing was unlike any ship in the Terran registry. Black as sin. A brutal silhouette, bristling with weaponry that could shear through a battleship in a single barrage.
Jake keyed into the fleet-wide channel. "This is Lt. Jake Asher. All ships: hold fire unless fired upon. Repeat—do not engage unless engaged first."
—
Bridge of the Malevolence-Class Vessel, CIS Designation: Trident of Malachor
A drone turned from its terminal. "Enemy fleet forming defensive perimeter around Planet Three. Combat readiness: high."
Another drone spoke. "Sir, recommend requesting reinforcements—"
The sentence ended with a shriek of servos as a blue blade burst through the drone's chest, cleaving it in two.
General Grievous deactivated his lightsaber and stalked forward, his mechanical feet pounding the deck.
"No reinforcements. No fear. Link into their comm net."
"Connection established," another drone said, trembling.
Grievous' yellow eyes glowed brighter. He leaned forward, his face twisting beneath his breathing mask.
A Terran frequency opened. He spoke.
"This is General Grievous of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. You may call us... the CIS."
A racking cough overtook him, metal lungs rattling before he pushed through it.
"You stand on the threshold of galactic war. Join us—and live. Resist—and burn."
—
Earth — Terran Central Command, Geneva Dome
President Alexander Ostrovsky stood before the war room's central screen, flanked by armored guards and a tight-lipped aide team. Fifty-three years old, former general, and Earth's fifth elected president since the Unification Accords.
He adjusted his collar and opened the line.
"General Grievous. I am Alexander Ostrovsky, President of Earth and Commander-in-Chief of the Terran Defense Forces. I will meet you in orbit. Do not approach further. Any hostile movement will be considered an act of war."
The message cut.
He turned to his aide.
"Prep the diplomatic team. Load transport. If this goes bad..."
"It won't, sir."
"It already has, I can feel it" Ostrovsky said grimly.
Minutes later, his armored shuttle lifted off from the Terran surface and threaded its way through a corridor of Terran warships before entering the alien hangar bay. Droids lined the landing deck. At the center, a towering figure waited.
Grievous stood unmoving, cloak rippling, lightsaber hilts at his waist.
Ostrovsky disembarked, flanked by elite Presidential Guard soldiers in exo-armor. No words were exchanged. They entered the ship's inner chamber, footsteps echoing in tension.
The conference room was lit by a single strip of overhead light.
There, Earth and the Confederacy would speak.
And the galaxy would never be the same.
Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away...
Within the tall, silent spires of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, a storm was brewing—though not of wind or fire. A storm of uncertainty, of debate, of fear. The High Council Chamber pulsed with subdued tension. Masters sat in their iconic semicircle of seats, their expressions lined with caution and concern.
At the center of it all, Master Yoda leaned heavily on his gimer stick, his ears tilted forward, his gaze intense.
"Found, a wormhole has been," he said, voice like rustling leaves. "Beyond charted space it leads—unknown, it is."
Gasps rippled through the room. Even the most composed Masters exchanged wary glances.
Master Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped forward, arms folded. "We know General Grievous entered it. We cannot afford to delay. If the Separatists mean to find new allies or resources through this... gateway, we must respond."
He didn't voice what else was clawing at his mind—that if he'd been only a moment faster on Hypori, the general would be dead. The war might already be tilting. Instead, the cybernetic monster had escaped, and the galaxy continued to burn.
Master Mace Windu's brow furrowed. "Do we even know if it's stable? Or survivable?"
"A question, that is," Yoda replied slowly. "But act, we must."
"We need someone strong in the Force," said Master Shaak Ti. "Skilled. Balanced."
"Poik could—" began Master Kael Vihn, a stern-eyed member of the Kriess species, reptilian and stoic.
Yoda interrupted with a small shake of his head. "On Delmara, Poik is. Another must be chosen."
For nearly an hour the chamber rang with names, arguments, counterpoints. The force swirled and shifted between them—tension gathering like an oncoming storm.
Yoda, at last, closed his eyes.
The Force whispered.
When he opened them, his voice was certain.
"Anakin Skywalker... the one it must be."
There was silence. And then, predictably, protest.
Obi-Wan rose from his seat, his concern etched deep.
"He isn't ready, Master."
Yoda looked at him—not with challenge, but understanding.
"Were you ready, when your trial came?"
Obi-Wan hesitated. "No... Master, I wasn't."
"And yet passed, you did. Grew, you did. So too, will he."
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly and lowered himself back into his seat. His thoughts turned to his former Padawan—no, his brother in all but name. He saw the boy who had defied death again and again, who'd grown more powerful than any Jedi his age had a right to. And yet... he saw shadows too.
Still, the Council had decided.
Anakin would be sent into the wormhole.
Obi-Wan could only trust the Force would keep him alive.
—
Jedi Temple – Outer Halls
Anakin Skywalker leaned against the balcony rail, a bored look on his face. Below him, the traffic lanes of Coruscant flowed like rivers of fireflies. Padmé had already returned to her quarters, and he'd been left with nothing but silence and pacing for hours.
When the doors behind him hissed open, he turned to see his former master approaching. Obi-Wan looked... different. Troubled. Distant.
"Master? What's going on?"
Obi-Wan fell into step beside him. "A mission. You've been chosen to enter the wormhole and report what lies beyond."
Anakin blinked. "Alone?"
Obi-Wan nodded. "You'll pilot the Phantom-class recon ship Destiny's Hand. Stealth field and hyperspace tether are ready."
The younger Jedi raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound excited."
"I'm not," Obi-Wan admitted. "This is dangerous. But the Council believes in you."
"And you?"
Obi-Wan stopped walking and turned to him fully. "I've seen what you're capable of, Anakin. More than most. But you must be careful. Don't let the unknown tempt you."
Anakin cracked a smile. "I've gotten better about that."
"Mm." Obi-Wan allowed himself a rare smile. "Remember Felucia? When you 'accidentally' brought down an entire gunship depot?"
"That was one time."
"One time too many," Obi-Wan said with mock severity. "And don't lose this lightsaber. It's embarrassing."
Anakin grinned despite himself. "I'll be fine."
"I know," Obi-Wan replied.
But in his heart, doubt still lingered.
—
Coruscant. The Senate District. Deep within the shadows of his private chambers, Senator Palpatine stood before a flickering hologram of a Trade Federation official.
"You assured me our mining rights were secured," the alien snarled, static cutting through his transmission. "And now I hear reports of not one, but two Jedi sniffing around our facilities. If this isn't handled, I'll be removed from office by cycle's end."
Palpatine's face remained still, unreadable as the hologram stabilized. Then his voice dropped, calm and biting.
"Don't you dare pin this on me," he said. "It was your greed that exceeded our agreed-upon shipments. The Jedi would have noticed eventually."
He turned, hands folded behind his back.
"Wipe your data-tapes. Erase every manifest. I can't protect you this time. They're watching me more closely than ever."
With a wave of his hand, the hologram vanished. Palpatine exhaled slowly, his gaze falling on the city skyline outside. The war was nearly upon them. The gears had been turning for years—everything was aligned. He needed only one final spark.
And soon... the Jedi would fall.
—
Jedi Temple Docking Bay 04
As always, the docking bay buzzed with coordinated chaos—ships rising and landing with mechanical precision, crews loading equipment, droids moving in regimented lines. Somewhere amid the noise, a single fighter stood prepped and gleaming under the lights. Inside it sat R2-D2, beeping in idle anticipation.
Anakin Skywalker approached with measured calm, his cloak flowing behind him. Obi-Wan stood nearby, arms crossed, unease shadowing his expression.
"Anakin," he said softly. "May the Force be with you."
Anakin climbed the ladder and slipped into the cockpit. "And with you, Master."
The canopy closed with a soft hiss. Anakin leaned forward.
"You ready, Artoo?"
The astromech chirped affirmatively, and the engines hummed to life.
Obi-Wan watched the sleek fighter ascend, a weight pressing against his chest. Lately, the Force had grown... muddled. Clouded, as if veiled by something just beyond comprehension. He turned away, suddenly resolved.
It was time to speak to Master Yoda.
—
Meanwhile...
In his private sanctum, Senator Palpatine paced like a caged predator. The incompetence of the Trade Federation was staggering. One mistake and everything—years of manipulation, positioning, deception—could crumble.
Assassination was out of the question. Not now. The Jedi were watching him too closely.
As he schemed, a hooded servant entered and knelt.
"My lord," the servant said, head bowed low. "A man going by the name Pollito Violett awaits you below."
Palpatine narrowed his eyes. The name was familiar. He stared at the servant long enough to make the man tremble, memories of childhood fear rekindled.
Then, at last, Palpatine's expression softened.
"Good. See that he is taken care of. This meeting cannot fail."
The servant rose with palpable relief and vanished down the corridor. Palpatine returned to his window.
There were always more pieces to move.
—
Jedi Temple – Yoda's Meditation Chamber
Obi-Wan stepped into the quiet, shadowed room where Master Yoda sat cross-legged, still and silent as stone.
"Master," he said as he bowed. "I've come seeking clarity. I've... felt something."
Yoda didn't open his eyes. "Worry, I sense. Focus, you must."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, drawing inward. He reached out with the Force. At first, only silence met him. Then—visions.
Anakin, blade ignited, clashing against General Grievous. Sparks of red, blue, and green lighting the gloom.
A crowd of strange humans, flanked by Separatist droids.
A blue-green planet—Earth—shrouded in a spiderweb of orbital light. Ships, sleek and unfamiliar, moved in formation.
He opened his eyes, heart thudding.
"Master... what does it mean?"
Yoda slowly stroked his chin, his eyes now open but distant.
"Unclear, it is," the ancient Master said. "Meditate on this, you must. Answers you seek... there you will find."
Yoda rose, cane tapping softly on the stone floor.
"But remember, Obi-Wan—" he said as he neared the door, "the Force shows us only what might be... not what will be. The truth lies not in what we see... but in what we feel."
With that, the door slid closed behind him, leaving Obi-Wan alone in the dark.
UNSA Earth Defense Command – Flagship: U.N.S. Victoria Orbiting High Earth Orbit, Sol System
"Captain," said the executive officer, snapping the quiet with a tone of urgency. "Terminus Station is reporting another ship contact. Smaller than the last one. Possibly a fighter. Trajectory suggests it came through the wormhole as well—origin vector Moon-side, near that... thing."
Captain Elias Rhys said nothing at first. He remained standing at the massive bridge viewport, arms folded, eyes locked on the alien dreadnought still hovering over the dark side of the Moon.
It hadn't moved an inch in two days. No signals. No demands. No responses. Just... silence.
The tension was eating everyone alive.
Elias's jaw clenched. The first ship—an enormous, unregistered vessel—had already sparked twenty-four-hour alerts across the solar system. Every active-duty ship in the fleet was now either on standby or in orbit. And now a second contact.
Not good.
The ghost of old pain stirred in his gut. Ten years ago, the Martian Republic had shattered Earth's upper atmosphere with their orbital strike cruisers. The smell of scorched air and the cratered ruins of New Atlanta still lived in his nightmares—along with the news that his father had died on the first day of that hellish war.
That war had made Elias the man he was.
And he was not about to let history repeat itself.
He turned back to the bridge. The command crew had gone silent, waiting for orders.
"XO," he said. "I want Jake and Samuel in intercept fighters—launch from Bay 2. I don't care if they fly it in or shoot it down, but that bogey doesn't get anywhere near Earth without our say-so."
"Yes, sir."
He stepped closer to the tactical station, tapping through telemetry feeds as the unidentified craft was marked and tracked on-screen. It was smaller, sleeker than the massive warship. Fighters, he thought grimly. Just like last time.
He hated that the design was so unlike anything human. Nothing angular. No heat vents. No signal codes. Just clean, alien efficiency.
This wasn't another Martian splinter fleet.
This was something new.
"Lieutenant," he said, not looking up. "Patch me into fleet command. I want eyes on that thing from every station we've got. Tell Lunar Command to prep the defense batteries—just in case."
As the crew scrambled to obey, Elias Rhys took one last look at the alien vessel parked above the Moon.
Somehow, in his bones, he knew—
This day was going to change everything.
"R2, how're you holding up?" Anakin asked, glancing at the droid behind him. Sparks fizzled from a scorched conduit.
A series of annoyed beeps and whistles answered.
"Alright, alright—no need to call me that," Anakin muttered, trying not to smile.
More binary squawks.
"I said drop it. We've got company."
Two blips appeared on his sensors—fast, closing in. Within seconds, sleek, unfamiliar fighters flanked him. They were unlike anything he'd seen. No astromech ports, no modular thrusters—pure human engineering, but not Republic. Not even Separatist. Just... alien.
Anakin's fingers hovered over his controls, mind racing. Who were they? Even in the Outer Rim, ships had familiar cores. These didn't. The silence unnerved him more than any dogfight.
R2 gave a worried chirp.
"I know," Anakin whispered. "This isn't right."
A crackle of audio broke through—three calls, repeating. A language he didn't recognize but a tone he understood: land. Now.
He complied.
As his ship was tractor-beamed into a massive hangar bay, Anakin's eyes locked on something in the distance. Suspended above the Moon was a ship he did recognize—General Grievous's command vessel.
His blood ran cold.
If these people were in league with the Separatists...
He had to get home. Warn the Council. But first, he had to survive.
—
The moment his ship's landing gear hissed against the hangar deck, soldiers flooded in. Dozens. Their armor was heavier than clones, black and blue in color, visors down. They were organized. Efficient.
And their weapons were trained on him.
"Hands where I can see them!" someone barked.
Anakin stepped out slowly, lightsaber on his belt.
A tall officer—late 40s, hard eyes—stepped forward. "Name."
"Anakin Skywalker," he said.
One soldier moved to take his saber. Anakin instinctively reached out to stop him—but the click of twenty rifles stopped him cold.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the officer said coolly. "You're surrounded and outgunned. Only a fool would try anything."
The trooper who took the weapon examined it, confused. "What the hell is this—"
The saber hissed to life.
In one swing, the blade carved clean through the man's head and exited with a crackle. His body collapsed.
The others backed away in horror. A few vomited. Guns were raised again.
The officer didn't flinch.
"That... was unexpected," he said. "Mind telling me what it is?"
Anakin forced himself to breathe. "It's a lightsaber. It's my weapon."
Another soldier cautiously picked it up, far more carefully this time.
The officer eyed Anakin again. "Where are you from?"
"I'm human."
"You look human. But you're not. We've never seen anything like that weapon. Or you."
"I said—I'm human!" Anakin snapped.
Guns lifted again.
"Stand down," the officer ordered. "We're taking him in."
—
The room was cold, metal, sterile. Anakin was shoved into a chair. One guard stayed outside. Another waited inside, fists clenched.
"What are you?" the officer asked again.
"I told you—I'm human."
"Not what I asked. That blade isn't Earth tech. Or Martian. SDF's got black projects, but nothing like this. So tell me: what are you?"
Anakin stayed silent. These people weren't ready. Not for the Republic. Not for what lay beyond their stars.
The officer's face tightened.
"Fine."
The first punch nearly broke his nose.
"Stop," Anakin coughed. "Please—"
Another blow.
Anakin reeled but didn't retaliate. He could've ended this in a second. But that would only prove their fears right. Still... this man was strong. Too strong. There was something else beneath the surface.
A shadow of the Force?
"Talk, you robed bastard!" the officer roared, tossing Anakin across the room like he weighed nothing.
Anakin lay there, breathing hard. Then finally said:
"I'm a Jedi Knight. We are defenders of peace and harmony in the galaxy. For over a thousand generations."
The room went still.
"Jedi... what?"
"I came through a wormhole," Anakin said, voice heavy. "Beyond your system. That ship outside—the one above your Moon—it belongs to General Grievous. He's a killer. A warlord. He leads an army of machines, and he's hunted Jedi across the stars."
The officer's eyes went wide. He bolted upright.
"Oh God," he whispered. "The President. He's on that ship."
Then he ran for the door.
"Wait—stop! You don't know what you're walking into!"
But the officer was already gone, sprinting down the corridor toward his shuttle.
Anakin followed, blood dripping from his mouth.
He had to stop this. Before it was too late.
Anakin's boots echoed down the steel corridor as he raced after the captain. His mind spun—what could he say to make the man see sense? To help him understand the scale of the threat he was charging into?
"Sir, you mustn't do this," Anakin said once close enough. "Your men are no match for him. You must know that."
The man didn't stop. His eyes were like twin chips of ice—unwavering, unflinching. "Send word to the Yorktown and the Gettysburg," he said to a nearby officer. "Deploy a boarding team. If we fail, fire everything we've got."
The younger officer nodded and sprinted away.
Anakin followed him onto the bridge. It was a controlled chaos—officers barking into headsets, hands flying across touchscreens. A tactical ballet of precision and order. For a moment, Anakin was reminded of the clone units on Geonosis. Only here, there was no Force. No Jedi. Just pure discipline. Pure will.
The captain surveyed the room with cool detachment. "We will either rescue our President," he said, "or we'll turn that ship into space dust."
Then he turned to Anakin. "Now, what were you saying?"
Anakin hesitated. For a moment, he was speechless. Surely the man understood—surely he knew this was suicide. Yet here he stood, ordering the assault anyway.
"You don't understand what you're up against," Anakin said, voice tight. "You'll need more than soldiers. Let me go with them."
A mechanical voice cut through the air behind him.
"Excuse me, sir. AR-113 reporting."
Anakin turned—and stopped.
A droid.
But not like the battle droids he'd faced. This one moved with purpose. Poise. Its frame gleamed silver, humanoid in shape, eyes glowing softly with artificial intelligence. It felt alive.
"I'm no droid," the machine said, hearing his whisper. "I'm AR-113. Assault-Recon. Built by the Riox Corporation, 2148. Awaiting deployment orders."
It turned to the captain. "Orders, sir?"
The captain didn't answer right away. He studied Anakin for a long moment before nodding.
"He's going with you. Keep him under watch. Report everything."
"Yes, sir," AR-113 replied. "I'll track his every move."
They left the bridge and made their way to the armory. Inside, two dozen soldiers—men and women in gleaming exo-suits—checked weapons, ran diagnostics, or sat in silence. This was not a green squad. These were veterans. Anakin felt it in the way they carried themselves.
A nervous armorer stepped forward. In his hands: Anakin's lightsaber. He handed it over slowly, carefully, as if it might bite.
"Your weapon, sir," the man said.
Anakin took it, nodding in gratitude. "Thank you."
The man smiled sheepishly. "Frederick Wilkinson. But most folks just call me Wilks. Or... the Boom Boom Man."
"The... what?"
Wilks chuckled, scratching at the metal brace on his leg. "Used to blow stuff up. Mines, charges, all of it. Leg ended that. They stuck me here. But I like it. More time to... well, breathe."
Before Anakin could answer, a grizzled voice barked from the troop shuttle.
"Hey, sword guy! Get your ass on board!"
Anakin moved toward the dropship. As he stepped inside, he took a long look around.
These people—they weren't Force-sensitive. They weren't trained in lightsaber combat. And yet... something about them felt familiar. The discipline. The camaraderie. The unspoken willingness to die for each other.
As the hatch sealed behind them and the shuttle lifted off, Anakin couldn't shake the feeling.
This encounter—this mission—was no accident.
The Force was at work here.
And the battle to come would be the first spark of a storm that would shake two galaxies.