A strike cruiser—an enormous voidborne beast that had slumbered for millennia in soothing silence. Not long ago, the full fury and wrath of the Dark Gods had come crashing down upon the blessed Adeptus Astartes cruiser, yet even they had not been able to break the Emperor of Mankind's faithful servants. The ancient beast, though battered, still looked formidable, inspiring terror in the hearts of its enemies by its mere appearance. Its wounds gaped as great holes in the armour, which from time to time flared with chains of orange explosions. The ancient plasma drives were silent, leaving the mighty machine helplessly drifting in the void.
A besieged shrine world sent desperate pleas for aid when the Word Bearers fleet entered its orbit. A company of the "Dismemberers," an infamous successor Chapter of the noble Blood Angels, arrived to help the doomed planet long before the crusade forces gathered by the resurrected primarch could reach it. Countless cultists, daemonic creatures, and heretic Astartes met their deaths on the sons of Sanguinius' chainswords. In that battle, the company captain personally disembowelled the traitors' skilled daemonologist who had been responsible for defiling that world with the spawn of the warp.
That feat cost the captain his life, when the daemon prince—freed of its enslaver—tore the Space Marine apart. The campaign cost the company thirty fallen brothers, at least half of whom succumbed to the Black Rage and hurled themselves into the thick of the enemy as inexorable whirlwinds of death. A steep price for a dying Chapter suffering from the genetic flaws of its long-dead father. But it was worth it, if the victory would cloak the Chapter's name in undying glory. Yet that very victory was stolen from under the sons of Sanguinius' noses by the warp-spawn who call themselves the gods of Chaos.
A warp storm, terrifying in its power, rolled over the Chaos-tainted planet like a tide, swallowing up the "Dismemberers'" strike cruiser and the entire impressive fleet of allied Imperial forces that had arrived "to help." Geller fields raised in time managed to shield the Emperor's servants from the man-hostile powers of the Immaterium, but the Gods of Chaos were not willing to let their offenders go so easily. It took only a seconds-long failure of the bubble of material reality enveloping the ship for the vessel's dark corridors to fill with warp-horrors and for a brutal slaughter to begin.
The brothers who had survived the surface campaign were led by a lieutenant drawn from among the Primaris Space Marines recently seconded to the Chapter. Initial distrust of this "Ultramarine in red" quickly gave way to fraternal bonds after a month of savage butchery within the bastion of the Emperor's servants. The brothers endured the ordeal that had fallen to their lot with honour, and in this battle against the daemons of Khorne, the blood god, the sons of Sanguinius won a victory.
The victory came at a high cost. More than half of the mortal crew now fed their souls to the Dark Gods, and the ranks of the angels of death were once again swept by the curse of Sanguinius' heirs, reaping a great harvest. As it turned out, Belisarius Cawl's creations are subject to the same genetic flaw as their firstborn brothers. And so, after their hard-won victory over the daemons, the surviving members of the mortal crew would have to face berserkers driven mad by bloodlust and Space Marines consumed by the final moments of their primarch's life.
Now, in Brother-Sergeant Cleomen Agonia's charge remained a little more than three dozen battle-brothers who had managed to keep their sanity, two dozen madmen who had succumbed to the Red Thirst and the Black Rage, and a mortal crew frightened out of their wits—of whom, by the time of emergence into realspace, barely a third remained. The Chaplain, caught in the very thick of the fighting, had been torn apart by Khorne's daemons, and so, after a brief consultation with the surviving Sanguinary Priest, Cleomen decided to lock his "fallen" brothers inside boarding torpedoes, having no other options.
Having passed through hell, the battered warship now resembled a crypt choked with corpses, drenched in blood and ichor, drifting aimlessly through the void of an alien cosmos unknown to the Emperor's servants.
***
A small group of ships dropped out of hyperspace, breaking the lonely emptiness of the surrounding void. A rare sight for this backwater. It seemed that all sides in the civil conflict blazing across the galaxy had long since forgotten this place on the outskirts of Hutt Space. The Hutts themselves had not become a "pleasant" exception to the rule, either.
Most local planets led a primitive, often not entirely legal way of life, quickly becoming a haven for all manner of pirates, smugglers, bounty hunters, and other such riffraff. Over long millennia of such living, this crowd had formed a peculiar symbiosis with the Hutts: the free brothers shared part of their take with the worms, and the Hutts turned a blind eye to their existence—thus giving the daring folk a reliable refuge and a place to fence all the honestly stolen junk.
Republic Navy forces looked as absurd in a hole like this as a Wookiee trying to master the art of ballet. Nevertheless, they had come here, scattering every pirate gang in the vicinity. In the patrol group of the Grand Army of the Republic fleet, a white Venator-class Star Destroyer sailed in escort of three smaller vessels. The Corellian corvettes looked rather battered, but it was hard to expect anything else in this Force-forsaken place.
On the hulls of all four warships, the easily recognisable insignia of the Outer Rim Fleet could be seen. The flagship cruiser—the symbol of the Republic—bore scars from previous battles that spread across its plating like black blots. For some reason, after yet another engagement, the damaged monster was assigned to rear-area patrol duty instead of undergoing expensive repairs, where its mere presence could frighten off the local riffraff.
Such a state of affairs stung the pride of Jedi Master Taron Malicos. An experienced Jedi, a successful general, an excellent commander… had, in essence, been exiled to this hole because he was too good at his job.
Separatist forces had occupied a mining complex in an asteroid belt rich in natural resources. No matter how cheap a standard battle droid was to produce, the factories assembling those walking misunderstandings still required stable supplies of raw materials to manufacture combat units. Having that much in the Confederacy of Independent Systems' hands greatly complicated the position of Republic forces in the sector. Factories running at full capacity simply crushed the clone legions with freshly assembled "cannon fodder."
It could not go on like that for long. The Grand Army of the Republic risked not merely defeat, but the complete loss of the sector to the Separatists. The task of solving the problem fell upon the shoulders of General Jedi Taron Malicos—who had already proved himself in the battles for nearby star systems—and his 404th clone legion, and by the Force, he accomplished it brilliantly.
The lightning attack plan he devised worked perfectly. A combination of a diversionary manoeuvre and a cunning sabotage caught the enemy off guard. Suffering minimal losses, the clone commandos—led personally by the Jedi General—managed to demolish the mining complex, burying most of their enemies under tonnes of rock. The triumph of the victory and its importance to Republic forces fighting on numerous planets in the region were obvious, but the Republic would not be the Republic if things were that simple.
The mining complex itself belonged to a major corporation that, even before the Clone Wars, had been part of the "friendly" family of Trade Federation companies. As it turned out, corporates really dislike it when "blockheaded jarheads destroy their private property!" The Trade Federation's representative threw a full-blown tantrum in the Senate, accusing the military of trampling the very foundations on which the Republic was built. How exactly their private property had ended up in Separatist hands, the Neimoidian, of course, preferred not to mention—but the damage was already done.
Doubling down on the effect of the public outburst with visits to the offices of the right senators and influential figures in the Republic's leadership, the Trade Federation "shrimps" achieved the desired result. Yet again, democracy bowed under corporate influence, and the disgraced Jedi general was, by direct order, exiled to patrol the remote fringes of the Galaxy—chasing pirate gangs and smugglers.
For a time, Taron hoped for help from the Jedi Order, but as the civil war escalated, the once-revered guardians of peace across the galaxy managed to lose a significant portion of their support among the people. Wise knights who had once served as arbiters and diplomats, striving to extinguish any seeds of likely war, now voluntarily led an army in the ranks of its generals. Was it any wonder that, by the war's third year, the Jedi Council had sunk neck-deep into politics?
The first alarming bell was the case of the terrorist attack at the Jedi Temple. Back then, a very young Padawan girl was made out to be responsible for undermining the Republic's authority. The heavy accusation fell upon Ahsoka Tano, apprentice to the infamous "Chosen One," Anakin Skywalker. The Jedi Council, unwilling to enter into direct conflict with Chancellor Palpatine, decided to expel the Padawan from the Order and hand the unfortunate girl over to the Republic authorities. As was discovered not long afterward, the organizer of the attack that claimed many lives was a Padawan of Luminara Unduli—Barriss Offee—disillusioned with the Order's teachings.
Skywalker's apprentice was released from custody right in the Republic courtroom, but the triumph of justice could hardly fix anything for the better. The very fact that a Jedi had been capable of such things, once it reached the press, threatened a massive scandal. Public opinion—which already regarded the Jedi with distrust growing at an alarming pace—seized the bone that had been thrown to it and erupted like a volcano of boiling righteous fury.
After that, the "wise" Council decided not to stick its neck out again, so as not to provoke the public into an undesirable escalation of the conflict. Put simply, in cases like Taron Malicos's, the Jedi preferred to look the other way and pretend nothing was happening. The result of this cowardly policy was that even a famed general and Jedi Master like Malicos fell victim to the millstones of Republic politics. By the Force, in moments like these the Jedi Master truly understood the motives that had driven the future Separatists of the Confederacy of Independent Systems to take up arms.
"General, estimated time to target: ten minutes." A familiar clone voice pulled the Jedi out of the trap of his own memories, not allowing him to keep digging in that dangerous direction.
When sending Taron into exile on the galactic fringe, army command had still permitted him to take part of his legion with him. Most of the legion, under the temporary leadership of Clone Commander Ti-Ray, remained fighting Separatist forces at the front. Malicos had no Padawan of his own, and so command of the legion was entrusted to the clone—Taron's deputy—until such time as a new Jedi arrived at the unit.
"Excellent," Malicos said with an approving nod to the clone. "Tell the troopers to prepare for a boarding operation… Command insists on a detailed study of the object."
Indeed, it was not the need to deal with yet another band of brazen pirates that had brought the disgraced Republic general to this backwater. Somehow, through Intelligence channels, a report reached the Grand Army of the Republic command about the discovery of an unidentified ship of impressive size. Just think of it—five kilometres long! Against it, even the Venator, a little over a kilometre in length, looked like a drab dwarf who had been sick too often as a child. And the tiny Tantives were downright embarrassing to mention aloud.
"Still, dragging a flotilla out here with a fully loaded air wing…" Commander Sheldon shared his thoughts, squeezing his long-suffering helmet in his hands. "Doesn't that decision seem a bit excessive to you, General? Should serious resistance be expected?"
Future soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic were bred to carry out any orders without asking unnecessary questions. At least, that was what the paperwork said. In reality, clones were not devoid of battlefield sense, from which doubts about leadership competence could sprout. Unlike certain other Jedi—like the infamous General Krell—Taron welcomed, within reason, the expression of independent thought among his troops. It encouraged creative thinking, and as a result the unit's overall effectiveness on the battlefield rose exponentially.
"We're here as a scarecrow, Sheldon." The Jedi gave his comrade a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "We'll frighten off the local riffraff before they pull this ship apart piece by piece, long before the research team reaches our backwater."
It sounded simple. In truth, Malicos knew little more than the clone did. The top brass do not share secrets with disgraced generals. The only reason they had suddenly remembered him was time. Taron's small flotilla was the nearest to the site of the unidentified ship's discovery, and knowing how quickly the thugs of Hutt Space had learned to strip captured ships for parts, Malicos had quickly become a "necessary evil" for them.
"If the information reached us through third hands, then the locals must have left nothing but a bare skeleton of that tub," the clone objected, his voice barely concealing skepticism.
If only that were the case. Taron tried to seek an answer in the Force, but over the past few days it had been as if it had gone mad, and the Jedi had not managed to learn anything worthwhile.
"In that case, consider it a sort of leave," the Jedi said with a smirk. "For once, there's a chance to get off those patrol routes that have rubbed the eyes raw."
"General, visual contact with the target!" one of the clones on the bridge reported.
As if challenging the clone commander's words, an enormous steel monster appeared before the Jedi's eyes, slowly drifting in the emptiness of space. It was heavily damaged in places, but this was clearly not the work of local pirates. Intelligence had not lied—the steel colossus truly showed no signs of life.
"And we're supposed to board that iron?" Even as an "infantry" clone, Sheldon knew warships and their design quirks very well.
This so-called iron caused what civilians tended to call culture shock. From head to toe, the huge ungainly beast was hung with rather peculiar heraldry and decorative objects: a great red drop on a white disk, whose shape resembled a circular bone-saw of the kind widely used by medical droids of various models.
The Jedi did not recognize this heraldry. No, seriously—who in their right mind decorates a warship with golden statues?! Even the gaudy Neimoidians had not sunk to such madness.
"Ugly or not, its guns are in perfect order," Malicos noted grimly.
Indeed. The flanks of the monster were literally studded with weapons of every calibre. In other words, to fire all its guns, that "iron" would have to roll onto its side. Republic naval commanders sometimes employed such a manoeuvre, but it was considered a rather risky step, used case by case. Turning yourself into a big convenient target for turbolasers is not the best idea.
That "Star Destroyer" must have possessed an impressive deflector shield and heavy armour, far tougher than a Venator's plating, if it could afford to fight in such a manner. The other option was too insane to be true, but Malicos simply could not explain the leviathan's prow construction any other way: a massive armoured cap with, welded to its underside… uh… a ram?! No. That was too much.
"No pirates visible, sir." The clone passed along the radar report.
"If they'd abandoned everything when we entered the system, we would have seen at least some traces of their presence," Sheldon voiced his observation.
Exactly. The ship stood utterly untouched, and the Jedi did not like it at all. Instincts hammered into him by the war blared warnings. Ideally, Malicos should have ordered the leaky tub to be riddled with turbolaser fire. It would be more reliable—but thinking like that was a short road to a court-martial. The order, thrice-cursed, had been to "cordon off and, if possible, study."
"Sheldon, order your men to be ready," Taron said seriously. "Have them prepared to fire at the slightest sign of movement. No surprises. No bodies, either."
"Yes, General, sir!" the clone saluted before putting on his helmet.
The general currently had a regiment of troops under Commander Sheldon, with an attached company of ARC Commandos. Assigning a full hundred of the best of the best was the last bone thrown to the disgraced general on the assumption that he would finally go away and stop being an eyesore to the top brass. Now the Jedi had only the Force to rely on—and the hope that the strength at hand would be enough…