Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

One of the original hurdles the Confederacy of Independent Systems had to overcome was its decentralisation. At the outbreak of the war, the Confederacy was split into four different theatres, none of which possessed direct hyperlane connections with each other. As Raxus Secundus blundered through the opening stages of the conflict, the unorganised Confederate fleets lacked the impetus to form a unified front, in large part due to the unfortunate nature of the divorced state.

Operation Sidestep was the first concerted effort to change that nature. Confederate Generals Sev’rance Tann and Grievous spearheaded a two-front assault in the south, carving their way through Loyalist held spacelanes and successfully linking three of the four great theatres and establishing vital logistic routes to the far-flung western corners of the Confederacy’s vast war.

Buoyed by the success of Operation Sidestep, Raxus Secundus authorised the last of the great ‘unification offensives’ in the hopes of establishing a direct hyperlane connection with the second largest theatre in the New Territories. A similarly two-pronged assault sailed down both ends of the Salin Corridor, led by Confederate Admiral Kirst and Commander Drogen Hosh, thrusted by Sidestep’s momentum and eager for a quick and decisive victory.

And Phindar readied her fleets, marshalled her armies, levelled her guns, and turned the Phindar Star System into a cosmic graveyard.

That was the Confederacy’s first attack on the sole Loyalist stronghold straddling the Salin Corridor, Phindar, and the results of that battle engraved Phindar’s legendary status into the psyche of all Confederate officers. Once thought to be an isolated and ill-defended backwater world in the Outer Rim, Phindar was now known to the galaxy as the fortress world Phindar.

That was two years ago.

Soon afterwards, the Republic’s Operation Trident shattered any remaining dreams of unifying the Confederate state, and that defeat at Phindar left lasting consequences on the budding Separatist Alliance. For one, the New Territories were irrevocably divided from the rest of the country, preventing Raxus Secundus’ influence from spreading whilst allowing Serenno to dig in its roots, ultimately leading to this bloody schism that gripped the Confederacy today.

Nevertheless, that dream of unification revived with the overture of Operation Starlance, as the Republic summoned its fleets back to defend the Core. With Operation Storm-Door, a second attack on Phindar was planned, this time to be undertaken by Confederate Admiral Trench and Rear Admiral Merai, with nearly twice the number of warships brought in the first attempt.

And Phindar readied her fleets, marshalled her armies, levelled her guns, and turned the Phindar Star System into a cosmic graveyard.

That was a year ago.

“So that’s fortress world Phindar,” Rear Admiral Diedrich Greyshade of the Twenty-Eighth Mobile Fleet murmured.

And now Admiral Trench has returned to the site of the Confederacy’s greatest failure, with nearly twice the number of warships brought in the second attempt. Invincible cruised forth like a leviathan from her nest, a thousand warships awaiting her command. To her port, the painted warships of the Perlemian Coalition held the left flank, anchored by the glimmering Kronprinz. To her starboard, the battle-hardened veterans of the north, fresh off their recent victories in Calamari Space led by Prosperous.

Three-thousand warships of the Confederate 2nd Fleet Group, and Trench would rather lose none of them to the fortress ahead.

“This is my second time here,” Rear Admiral Merai said bitterly, “And that station continues to haunt me yet.”

As it does I, Trench thought grimly. Fortress world Phindar\'s primary strength, aside from the powerful interdiction nexus housed within the system, lay in its eponymously named orbital battlestation: Phindar Station. Once a bustling spaceport teeming with trade transiting the Salin Corridor, the station had been reforged by the Grand Army of the Republic into an impregnable fortress. Its once-sprawling berths, designed for merchantmen and passenger liners, had been repurposed into vast hangars capable of launching swarms of starfighters. The luxurious lounges, where traders had once struck deals over drinks, were now austere barracks filled with hardened marines awaiting deployment.

Even its once-pristine observation portholes, meant to provide breathtaking views of the stars, had been bricked over and converted into gunports, their purpose now to unleash devastation on any who dared trespass into its orbit. Every square inch of the station\'s massive structure had been pressed into service, crammed with turbolasers, point-defence arrays, missile racks, and heavy naval cannons.

“We’ve brought enough ships this time to overcome Phindar by sheer numbers alone,” Admiral Greyshade assessed, “Phindar Station cannot be everywhere at once. We identify the exact location of the interdiction nexus on Phindar, and the Twenty-Eighth Mobile will act as a strikeforce to destroy it. The Second Fleet will occupy Phindar Station’s attention in the meantime.”

“The losses will be heavy,” Trench visualised the 2nd Attack on Phindar, and the horrors that laid ahead in the battlestation’s weapon envelopes. He could only imagine what a terrifyingly unpleasant surprise the 1st Attack on Phindar must have been for Kirst and Drogen Hosh.

“We’ve brought a surprise of our own as well, Admiral,” Admiral Merai suggested, “Malevolence and Aggressor are ready for deployment. Either of them can render Phindar Station defenceless with a single shot.”

Indeed, far in the rear of the 2nd Fleet Group and far out of sight, were their two superweapons. Malevolence, who made her debut in the Battle of Columex, could completely knock out Phindar’s defence grid with her massive ion cannon; whilst Aggressor could destroy Phindar Station completely with her gravitic waveguns.

However…

“I do not wish to reveal our aces so early, if at all possible,” Trench said, “I would like to parley with the commanding officer of Phindar Station, if only to share a conversation the man who has so readily repulsed the might of the Confederacy time and time again.”

Trench’s two vassal admirals failed to respond in a timely manner, their hesitation betraying their scepticism toward the practicality of their superior’s intentions. The strategic calculus had shifted significantly; the 2nd Fleet Group had more than enough firepower to overwhelm Phindar. Why, then, was Admiral Trench intent on contriving some form of agreement with the Republic commander? Their silence spoke volumes about their doubts.

The truth of the matter was simple: Admiral Trench wished to delay the usage of his aces until the alternative was no longer possible. Trench was determined to delay the deployment of his trump cards until absolutely necessary. Superweapons, for all their devastating potential, carried inherent vulnerabilities. Their scarcity and symbolic value meant they were magnets for enemy attention. No matter the size of the escorting fleet or the density of point-defence systems, a superweapon would always be the priority target number one.

Admiral Trench had studied this reality extensively, analysing the dichotomy of value and risk such weapons posed. His conclusions were as such: there were only two scenarios in which a superweapon could justify its own cost.

The first was for the weapon to systematically obliterate enough enemy assets to offset its own exorbitant expense. However, this approach carried a fatal flaw. With every victory, the weapon’s existence became more exposed, its operational secrets more vulnerable. The longer it remained active, the higher the likelihood of its destruction before it could recoup its cost.

The second was to hold the weapon in reserve until the perfect moment presented itself–a singular, decisive moment where its use would either secure an otherwise unattainable victory or irrevocably shift the tide of war. In this scenario, secrecy became the weapon’s most vital armour. So long as its existence remained shrouded, it could strike with maximum impact before vanishing once more into obscurity.

Ultimately, Trench calculated, a superweapon’s greatest defence was not its structure, or escorts, but the secrecy of its existence. This doctrine was proven at the Battle of Columex.

This was precisely why Malevolence, despite her dramatic reveal at Columex, had not been hunted to destruction. Malevolence demonstrated her worth by turning the tide of the battle–and the war–at Columex, but the moment the battle concluded, Malevolence once more disappeared into the labyrinth of military bureaucracy. Buried in classified files and disinformation campaigns, and without anymore prominent appearances, she faded from public consciousness. Republic Intelligence had made an initial push to locate and neutralise her, but the CAF’s refusal to bring her to the forefront again had rendered those efforts futile.

A superweapon must only be used where there were no other alternatives, in a moment at which only it could achieve the strategic goal. Malevolence turning the battle at Columex was a feat only she could do, and worth far more than a thousand GAR supply fleets sunk, especially when conventional raiding fleets could do the same.

If Admiral Trench could bring his warfleet through Phindar without using his superweapons, then the deployment of those superweapons in the moment could never be justified.

“Communications,” Trench resolved his intentions, “Send a transmission to Phindar Station, disclosing my insistence on a peaceful parley.”

“Roger roger…” the droid trailed off, “Uh– sir? We’re getting an incoming transmission from… somewhere?”

Trench whirled around, mandibles snapping in irritation, “Somewhere?”

“It’s coming from a ship, sir,” the droid scratched its faceplate, “But there’s no callsign or transponder code. Should we put it through?”

Trench paused. A direct long-range transmission without an open frequency could only mean the sender not only knew Invincible’s transceiver code, but was also integrated into the CAF’s communications network.

“Patch it through.”

“Roger roger!” the droid chirped hastily.

Trench did not expect the sender, to say the least.

“Admiral Trench,” Rain Bonteri’s voice greeted him, “I consider it a miracle that I was able to reach you.”

“...As do I,” the Harch Admiral responded in kind, “Might I remind you that the nature of your mission is of total secrecy?”

“You need not, Admiral. I am acting in total secrecy,” Trench could somehow see Bonteri’s smirk on the other side, “Unless, of course, you are able to extrapolate from where exactly I am sending this transmission.”

“I am unable,” Trench allowed, “Nor shall I ask your methods in the interest of said secrecy. But I must insist that the nature of this communique be severe.”

“I have no interest in being punished for breaching radio silence without good reason,” Admiral Bonteri mollified, “This is a matter of utmost importance, I assure you.”

“Indeed? Then I am listening.”

“The Republic has launched an all-out assault on Serenno,” Bonteri explained, “They call it the Jedi Expeditionary Fleet, and it numbers ten-thousand ships in total. They intend on reenacting Operation Trident, replacing the Perlemian with the Hydian Way.”

“This is from PRIESTESS?”

“It is,” he continued, “In unrelated news, a rogue faction in the Republic, led by a handful of rogue Jedi, intends on launching a coup against the current administration on Coruscant.”

“...Severe news indeed,” Trench clicked, claws curling around his cane.

“The reason for which I seek your judgement: Conqueress is at an impasse. We could continue to Gravlex Med via the Veragi Trade Route, but we would not return before the campaign is over. If you intend on Conqueress participating in the Supreme Commander’s objectives, then you must order me to abort the mission and head for Celanon at once.”

Trench rose to his full height, never once losing sight of his objectives, “At this moment, Admiral, I stand before fortress world Phindar with three-thousand warships.”

“If you shatter Phindar immediately, you could hope to intercept the Expeditionary Fleet,” Bonteri mused, “But that depends on Star Station Independence’s wishes. You could wait, and allow Serenno and Coruscant to bloody themselves against each other before sweeping up the remnants. Or, you could side with one faction against the other. I know not what our Supreme Commander wants.”

“Our Supreme Commander wants peace,” Trench answered, “Peace and stability to solidify her position amidst Raxus’ constant ebb and flow.”

“Then we must eliminate her only rival, Count Dooku.”

Trench nodded, “We will side with the Jedi.”

“In that case…” Admiral Bonteri paused, “If the commander of Phindar’s garrison is a Jedi, then I may have a way to open their gates. But first, your orders sir?”

Trench did not linger on his decision, “Is Conqueress fully operational?”

“Not fully, but operational.”

“You will not continue to Gravlex Med, nor will you return to Celanon,” Trench commanded, “You will wait. You will wait until a most opportune moment, in which the deployment of Conqueress can turn the conflict in our favour, and only then will you enter battle. If I cannot trust your judgement on this matter, then I can trust your strategic instinct.”

“You think too highly of me, Admiral,” Rain Bonteri sighed, “Far too highly… but I understand. Your orders have been received, Admiral.”

“Very good,” Trench chittered in satisfaction, “Now tell me this method you have devised to seduce the enemy.”

“This will only work if the commander is a Jedi,” he warned, “But if so, then keep this channel open as I send you a manifesto. This is what you should do…”

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Admiral Trench listened in silence, his six unblinking eyes fixed on Phindar, every trace of emotion concealed behind the impenetrable mask of his inhuman visage. As Bonteri outlined his plan in deliberate, measured tones, the old Harch Admiral found himself reflecting on Sev’rance Tann’s glaring misjudgment of character. Brilliant in the arts of war though she was, she lacked the keen intuition required to read people, a deficiency Trench found both amusing and unsurprising. Politics was the domain of character and subtlety, and Sev’rance Tann had little patience for either.

She had described Rain Bonteri as a viper, Calli Trilm as a spider–apt enough metaphors on the surface. But as Trench dissected Bonteri’s proposal, unravelling the intricate threads that hinted at deeper, unseen schemes, it became abundantly clear that the exiled lord of Onderon was no more the viper than he was the spider, weaving an elaborate web of machinations. Bonteri, naturally, cloaked his true designs behind a facade of ignorance and carefully rationed information. Yet Trench, old and experienced in schemes himself, could see the truth glinting between the strands. After all, was he not a spider himself?

Since when, Trench found himself wondering, have you been spinning your web to tear the Republic apart from within?

Was this part of the Supreme Commander’s grand contingency plan? He doubted it. Had it been, she would not have reacted so precipitously to Dooku’s mad rebellion. Panic had driven her actions, not the calm assurance of one holding a hidden trump card. No, whatever game Bonteri was playing, it was his own, a gambit independent of the Pantoran’s designs–and one that Trench suspected had been in motion far longer than anyone realised.

“It is risky, but sound in sense,” Trench allowed at last, “I will hearken your advice as I speak to the enemy commander.”

“This will all be for nothing if the Supreme Commander cannot image where and when the war ends,”

Rain Bonteri warned, “There is no point in war without purpose.”

“Admiral Bonteri,” Trench measured the name carefully, “From the very start, as soldiers of this state, we have loaded ourselves into the chamber of this Confederacy. We would not have done so if we were uncertain of the finger pulling the trigger.”

“Admiral Trench,” Bonteri measured his name carefully, “I fear the owner of that finger has changed, and the purpose of pulling the trigger changed with it. We are indeed but ammunition to be expended, but even a bullet would like to know their destination.”

“Is that all?”

“I will take my leave.”

“As you should.”

Trench held his stance even as a click notified him of the disconnection. He turned to the comms droid.

“Has the enemy commander responded?”

“Yes, sir,” the droid saluted, “But… uh–”

“They have a condition, I presume?”

“Yes,” the droid nodded quickly, “They will only speak to you in-person aboard Phindar Station.”

Admiral Trench did not have to expend effort imagining the protests of his subordinate admirals and officers. He levelled six red eyes against Phindar Station, and imagined the man he was about to meet instead.

“That is…” he clicked, “...acceptable.”

⁂

“I am General Rahm Kota of the Grand Army of the Republic,” General Rahm Kota greeted Admiral Trench as he descended the shuttle’s ramp, standing firm on the deck of Phindar Station’s hangar bay, “You are Admiral Trench of the Separatist Alliance.”

“I prefer the Confederacy of Independent Systems,” Admiral Trench made no effort to disguise his blatant curiosity as he scanned the interior of Phindar Station, “I greet you as a capable and respected opponent, from whom I seek peace.”

“You speak of peace,” General Rahm Kota spoke harshly, “Whilst making plans to crush me.”

Trench’s cybernetics were indeed more than capable of analysing the hardpoints and combat potential of Phindar Station as the Harh quite literally internalised the visual and scan data from his brief examination.

“As is my duty,” Trench extended an arm as he approached the Republic General, “For until we have spoken of peace, we are at war.”

Rahm Kota was a Human. A severe, long face, with hard eyes and a soldier’s visage. His hair, black and oily, slicked back and tied, whilst a sharp goatee pointed his chin. A lightsaber hung conspicuously from his belt, though his apparel was not of the standard white plastoid armour preferred by Jedi Generals. Trench looked around again, this time not at Phindar Station, but of the men garrisoning it, and saw not a hint of white plastoid armor.

No cloned troopers? That is interesting for a Jedi General.

“I harbour my doubts of your conviction,” Rahm Kota would be no easy person to convince, “I am not yet convinced I will hear anything but trivial banalities and vile conspiracies from your mouth. Understand this, Separatist: I will not humour whatever schemes you may peddle. Phindar has not fallen, and will not fall so long as I and my men hold aloft its war banner.”

“Then allow me to prove to you of my good intentions by speaking not of peace, but of war,” Trench bowed, using his cane to steady himself, “Are you the man who has thwarted us time and time again?”

General Rahm Kota flicked his head, and the marines stepped back, giving the two enemy commanders space to walk side by side. Trench raised one of his arms, and his escort of super battle droids fell into formation. The Jedi General frowned, but did not disallow his security detail.

“I have been stationed here since Operation Trident,” General Kota said, “It was not I who repulsed Admiral Kirst, but my predecessor. That was a desperate time.”

“It pains me to hear my first attempt was an easier affair than Kirst’s,” the Admiral of the 2nd Fleet Group admitted.

“It should not,” the General of Phindar Station replied, “Back then, Phindar Station was but a tradeport, unsuited for fending off anything more than pirates. My predecessor was a far more capable commander than.”

And now Phindar Station is the most powerful battlestation in the Outer Rim.

“I would like to meet him,” Trench told him truthfully.

“As would I,” Rahm Kota looked around as well, at a billboard repurposed into a combat clock, “He was a native Phindian. Killed in action during Admiral Kirst’s boarding attempt. Nevertheless, his sacrifice allows me to stand here today.”

They walked on in silence, boots clanging softly against the reinforced durasteel decking, the hum of distant generators and the muffled buzz of voices filling the void. Trench’s eyes roved over the surroundings, his keen mind cataloguing every detail. The station’s walls bore the scars of its transformation: old tradeport infrastructure fused with military-grade reinforcements. Every corridor was a statement of pragmatism, lined with racks of rifles, emergency sealant kits, and makeshift bunkers hastily installed in anticipation of boarding actions. Even the air carried a faint tang of ozone and lubricants, a reminder of the constant maintenance required to keep the station’s immense arsenal operational.

The air was taut with tension, the kind that always accompanied a fortress bracing for battle. Trench’s multifaceted gaze flickered to the men and women at their posts. Those who looked at them recognised him. Confidence, fatigue, determination–he saw all these emotions playing across their faces, but none of the fear he might have expected.

And no clones.

“You have my praise, General Kota,” Trench said, his mandibles clicking, “Not many Jedi, much less Loyalists, would humour a negotiation with a Separatist.”

“You think wrongly, Admiral,” Kota replied stiffly, his tone as solid and unyielding as the bulkheads around them, “It is my responsibility as a Jedi to suffer negotiations with the enemy, no matter how despicable or underhanded they may be. To refuse is to discard lives without reason.”

“These are your men, General?” Trench gestured with a claw to the marines patrolling the corridors, their armour worn but spotless, their eyes sharp and ever-watchful.

“They are,” Kota confirmed, his chin lifting slightly, “I dislike, and distrust, the Clone Army. They are bred for war, but soldiers with neither impetus nor motive are not fit to be soldiers. As you can see, Admiral, I am not like most Jedi.”

“Nay,” Trench replied, his multifaceted eyes glinting with something unknown, “You are more Jedi than most, General Kota.”

Kota’s gaze flicked toward the Harch admiral, his brow furrowed slightly, “That is not something I hear often.”

“They fight for you? For your cause? They fight willingly?” Trench pressed.

Kota’s eyes darkened, shifting momentarily, “Most of them.”

“Better than none,” Trench said, folding a pair of his arms behind his back.

As they continued down the corridor, their path took an unexpected turn. They stopped before a door of rich wooden carpentry, its surface scarred but polished, its presence a stark contrast to the sterile utilitarianism of the battlestation’s metal corridors. Behind it, faded wallpaper peeked out from beneath the scuffs and wear of time, and the carpet underfoot, threadbare and hard, whispered of thousands of booted feet marching over it daily.

“I must request your escort to wait outside as we speak,” General Rahm Kota dipped his chin, “As will my men.”

“A most acceptable request.”

The Jedi General opened the door and strode inside, beckoning Trench after him. A single battle droid came forth to the threshold, scanning the room up and down, before finally permitting the Separatist Admiral entry, whose own cybernetics began analysing the place of their dialogue.

The room was spartan, possessing only a single desk devoid of refreshments and two chairs. There was an empty corner that perhaps housed a bed, but the bed was missing, with only scuff marks on the floor as proof of its once existence. A reinforced transparisteel viewport lay before them, affording a full and commanding view of the Separatist warfleet arrayed beyond the void.

“Well then,” Rahm Kota gestured to a seat whilst taking his own, “Let us hear your dream of peace.”

“Of course,” Trench accepted the offer, “You took a risk accepting me onboard your battlestation. How can I not reciprocate and speak with sincerity?”

“A risk, indeed, you may call it,” the Jedi General’s face hardened, “But I call it insurance. With you aboard, your fleet would never dare firing upon this battlestation.”

Trench let nothing show. “I fail to understand. Phindar Station is far beyond the range of my fleet–”

“The survivors of Korphir reported a blue comet materialising from the outer planets without warning,” the Jedi General snarled, “Crashing into their battlestation and killing tens of thousands. Admiral Trench, comets do not travel at the speed of light. As the guardian of this Salin Corridor, it is only natural I remain in contact with the satellite fortresses in the Gordian Reach. As it is only natural I remain up to date with your superweapons.”

Trench leaned back, the Human-sized chair creaking underneath his weight, “And you believe I have brought such a superweapon with me?”

“I know not what you have brought, and that is why I must exercise caution.”

“If I have such a superweapon as you suspect,” Trench reasoned, “Then why must I feel so inclined to insist on negotiating my fleet’s transit of your star system? I could so easily destroy you before you even see such a comet approaching.”

“You may destroy this Phindar Station, but you would not destroy the Phindar Fleet,” General Kota spread his arms, “As you can see, I have spread my fleet across the planets, so that your superweapon may not reach them. Phindar Station is but one facet of fortress world Phindar’s defence network.”

Trench remained silent. Rahm Kota’s eyes twinkled darkly.

“As we speak, the single greatest concentrated effort to end the war sails Rimward on the Hydian Way,” he continued, unabated, “The Jedi Expeditionary Fleet. You wish to intercept it, despite possessing only a third of their number… nay, most of the Expeditionary Fleet are troopships, whilst your warships are all combat-capable. Nevertheless, you wish to transit this star system without losses, which is why you speak to me now.”

“An intriguing analysis, General,” Admiral Trench chuckled, a most inhuman sound that disturbed even the stalwart Jedi, “But erroneous nevertheless. Count Dooku is the enemy of the Raxus Government. I seek his head, as do the Jedi. I intend on assisting the Expeditionary Fleet.”

Rahm Kota froze in disbelief–then shot to his feet, his features twisted in a rictus of rage.

“Lies! I warned you, Separatist, that the ploys you peddle will find no purchase with me!”

“You see a Separatist,” Admiral Trench told him tiredly, but earnestly, “Look at me, and see the Confederate Admiral Trench.”

Jedi General Rahm Kota looked at him, and slowly returned to his seat.

“Look at me,” Trench leaned forward, six red eyes unblinking, “And tell me. Is this Admiral Trench known to lie?”

“...No, Admiral Trench is not,” General Kota closed his eyes, and breathed out, “In this case, your fleet may remain on Raxus’ side of the Salin Corridor, resting assured that the Expeditionary Fleet will deliver to the galaxy Count Dooku’s head.”

“And if they do not?”

Rahm Kota barked a laugh, “What hope does Serenno have? Surely, an Admiral as venerated as yourself would realise Dooku is a cornered rat with nowhere to run.”

Admiral Trench placed a tablet on the desk, and slid it towards the suspicious Jedi General.

“And what is this trickery now?”

“No trickery. It is simply intelligence we have intercepted from Coruscant, that I am now sharing with you in good faith.”

Rahm Kota eyed both the Harch and the tablet sceptically as he picked up the tablet and switched it on. Trench allowed the minutes to tick by as the Jedi General wordlessly read the manifesto, eyes skimming across the screen, completely enraptured by the rhetoric contained within.

“A forgery. Another Separatist trick,” he said emotionlessly.

“You know that to be untrue.”

“...Master Plo Koon, Master Adi Gallia… Master Yoda,” the lines on Rahm Kota’s face deepened, “Supported by Alderaan, Naboo, Chandrila, Humbarine, Ithor, Mandalore, Brentaal, Procopia…”

And a thousand other worlds besides.

“You believe it,” Trench stated factually.

“I believe it,” Rahm Kota replied cautiously, “Nay, I not only believe the veracity of this document, but I believe it. I believe every word written here. This is not something a Separatist could have produced. The Republic is dead, and this document– this manifesto, will rip off the livery maintaining the illusion of life. However…”

Trench nodded sympathetically. “If we, the Separatists, could intercept it–”

“Then Republic Intelligence would have already done so,” the Jedi General’s face hardened to stone once more, “And these people are none the wiser? How many Jedi are involved!?”

“I do not know.”

General Kota gnashed his teeth, “The Expeditionary Fleet–I must warn them!”

“Is the Expeditionary Fleet all Jedi?”

His eyes widened, “You fear the Expeditionary Fleet will tear itself apart with this knowledge.”

“It will,” Trench stated decisively, “And it will when Republic Intelligence makes their counter-move. But if my Second Fleet could reach an accord with the Jedi, Republic Intelligence would dare not make that move.”

“...You think Republic Intelligence would make their move so soon?”

Trench pointed at the document, “We intercepted that as it was leaving Coruscant. General Kota, the coup is imminent, and so must be Republic Intelligence’s counter-strike.”

“If matters turn awry,” Trench continued, “Phindar is the closest friendly port to all Jedi. They will be relying on you to provide safe harbour should–”

“You appear oddly sympathetic to us Jedi despite being a Separatist.”

“I respect you, Jedi,” Trench told him, “We may be opponents, but that is a matter of circumstance. The Republic, many Jedi included, see us Separatists as alien harbingers of chaos and disorder… but many of us in the Separatist Alliance still view the Jedi as what the Jedi are.”

“And what would that be?”

“Guardians of the Galactic Republic.”

“...”

“Which is why it is natural for you to be our enemy,” Trench said, “It simply cannot be helped. The Jedi are misguided, yes, and guardians of the fallen order, yes, but the Jedi are still Jedi. For the Outer Rim, this is war fuelled by grudges against the Core Worlds. At the same time, many worlds in the Rim have been touched by the Jedi’s good deeds. Your Jedi Order is still very much steeped in legend and myth out here, which is why we so easily followed Count Dooku, a Jedi himself.”

“Former Jedi.”

“We do not know the difference.”

“...I see. True or not, you speak convincingly.”

“The truth is the most convincing of all lies,” Trench stood up, “I seek not the fight at all, much less against the Jedi Order. All I seek is peace in the Outer Rim, for the Confederacy I fight for. I outstretch a hand of accord to you now, but you need not respond immediately. I will remain on Phindar Station for three days, should you permit, so that you may make your decision with peace of mind. Should you decline my offer of accord, then I will return to my fleet and begin my assault on Phindar forthwith.”

Trench made to leave, but Rahm Kota stopped him before he could. The Jedi General offered an open hand.

“I am not an indecisive man,” the Jedi General told him, “I invest my trust in you, Admiral Trench, and the character your legend speaks of. I can only hope you will not betray this trust, and prove my worst fears about the Separatists right.”

“I will not.”

Admiral Trench’s massive clawed hand grasped General Kota’s.

“We have an accord.”

“We do.”

“May the Force be with you, Admiral.”

“So it does you.”

It is the first month of a new year. Admiral Trench stood before the site of the Confederacy’s greatest failure, attempting to cross fortress world Phindar, with nearly twice the number of warships he brought in the second attempt.

And Phindar stood down her fleets, withdrew her armies, lowered her guns, and deactivated her interdiction net.

It is the first month of a new year. Three-thousand warships of the Confederate 2nd Fleet Group under Admiral Trench bloodlessly transits the Phindar Star System, and crosses into Serenno space.