Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Chapter 15

Orbit of Ringo Vinda, Ringo Vinda System

Eucer Sector

Trying to procure ships in the Confederate Navy was like trying to wrestle half a dozen cats into a bag. Which is to say, nearly impossible, unless you have catnip.

“Look,” I reasoned, “You know who my sponsor is, after her campaign, she’s going to need ships. Replacements, repairs, refits. She can do that here, if with a bit of convincing.”

Catnip, in this case, was obviously cash. Or clout. While not as great as Kuat’s, Ringo Vinda’s orbital shipyards also served a double purpose as a supply distribution hub. It was in close proximity to the Perlemian Trade Spine, yet also not exactly on it. And that meant it was a hassle and a half to capture, while also able to preside over the entire theatre. All of the major Separatist-backed starship manufacturers had leased out docks here, and were working in close proximity with the Ringo Vindan government.

Think of the manufacturers as franchisors, and the entire orbital station as a single massive franchisee. All the cats were already in the bag; now I only had to wrestle a single bag of cats.

Isquik Tors stroked his facial tentacles, “The Pantoran herself as our sponsor… that is enticing.”

Maybe because I had been out of the social circles for too long–because I was actually fighting the war, mind you–I had missed out on the whole ‘Pantoran’ debacle. See, General Tann’s species was a closely kept secret by… well, even the people keeping the secret were secret. In any case, some cheeky officer started calling her the Pantoran because of her blue skin, and it became a little inside joke.

Pantoran rolled off the tongue easier than Wroonian, you see.

Then some blabbermouth accidentally referred to her as that in a press conference, and it was all over. Anybody keeping up with the war, or even random military geeks, now knew General Tann as the Pantoran. I found it mildly funny. I don’t think she will, however.

“Hmm… very well,” Tors finally said, “I have a feeling the board will be pleased–so long as you uphold your end of the deal.”

“This will undoubtedly be a profitable relationship,” I agreed, “Now, about my ships…”

“Ringo Vinda has eight star frigates on hand,” the Quarren produced a datapad and guided me onto a wheeled transport to tour the graving docks, “Newly built. Two are still going through their trials.”

A data package was sent to my own tablet, which included all the relevant specs and information about the ships in question. Frigate 1027RV, Frigate 1028RV… I scrolled on, noticing they haven’t even received their transponder IDs yet. Tors wasn’t lying, these ships were fresh from the oven.

In comparison, my Repulse and Renown are old women. Old, murderous ladies with a plentitude of kills under their belt, but still outdated nonetheless. That being said, I had no intention of changing my flagship. Repulse is mine, and I have poured too much effort and sentiment into that hunk of durasteel to swap her out for what amounts to a shiny new toy.

Sure, retrofitting her into a C3 frigate took time and money, but my efforts in wooing Senator Singh had paid off well. Repulse was a brand new ship by the time she left Raxus Starbase.

“Is it safe to assume these ships have much of the intel suites stripped away for austerity?” I asked.

They were, because I could see it in the specs. But I wanted to confirm.

“Didn’t expect a field commander like you to ask about backend hardware,” the engineer said, “But you’re right. Most of that space has been replaced with updated sensor packages and fire control systems.”

I tapped the tablet with my fingernails, “How many of the older models do you have? The originals.”

Isquik Tors’ eyes narrowed, his tendrils rustling, “Those don’t have guns.”

Ah. He thinks I’m up to some funny business. Which, granted, I was.

“I intend on using them to spy on Republic military channels,” I clarified, “With the First Fleet absent, it is paramount we stay vigilant.”

Tors nodded slowly, “Hm… if you’re intending on parking them between transceivers, I suppose there’s no need for guns. And it’s not like we’ll miss them… but the higher ups will. I’m willing to buy your excuse, sir, but others won’t.”

I smiled thinly. He thinks I’m going to use the frigates not to spy on the Republic, but to spy on the Confederacy’s government apparatus. He thinks I’m digging up dirt on the politicians. Literally anybody else would buy my explanation without batting an eye, but of course the engineer will pick up on my intentions. It’s his job to know what these frigates can and cannot do, I suppose. Also because he’s into some shady shit regardless.

And he was right. It’s simply that I intend not to spy on politicians, but Sith Lords masquerading as politicians.

The HoloNet was a physical object–countless physical objects, in fact. The HoloNet was the millions of hyperwave relay stations littered across the galaxy and the S-threads that linked them all into one intricate web made of countless matrices. When the only other method of interstellar communication was sublight transmissions, these relays represented the only practical form of long distance contact.

And it was expensive to operate. We’re talking about millions of space stations strewn throughout the galaxy here, can you imagine their upkeep? It was affordable all considered, thanks to economies of scale, but the service gets pricey quickly.

Then, by process of elimination, who could send messages from Coruscant to Serenno; a distance that was essentially halfway across the galaxy? Voicemails were cheap, voice calls were accessible; videomail and you’d have to be middle class, middle-upper for live video; holograms on the other hand? Ah, now we’re reaching population percentages you can count on both hands.

Then, who can send full resolution, low latency, full-body rendered live holocalls across that same stretch on a regular basis? That’s getting into the super rich territory, or at least those with government privilege.

And now, what if the galaxy was at war, and the HoloNet was cut right down the middle? And with the Non-Communication Law recently passed by the Republic Senate, which outlaws any form of communiqué between Republic and Confederate officials? Know what you were looking for, and it’s remarkably easy to find it by elimination. That’s why transmissions were typically encrypted–even more so for the privacy conscious–and usually nobody has the time, money, or effort to crack them.

And that’s where the Munificent-class star frigate comes in. Originally designed by the IGBC to serve as what was essentially a mobile hyperwave transceiver. Mass produced, and they created their own comms matrix isolated from the HoloNet in order to securely process financial transactions. That matrix was still being employed by the Confederate military, in fact.

It’s impossible to tap into S-threads, but I can still take a page out of the IGBC’s playbook and park a Munificent right next to a relay, and listen in–or more daringly, redirect the transmissions through the ship itself. All I had to do was find the most direct S-thread between Coruscant and Serenno, find one of the relays it runs through, and slice into it. Fuck, common bounty hunters can do it, why can’t a literal espionage frigate fitted with state of the art tech?

Palpatine and Dooku can encrypt their transmissions as much as they’d like, but that’d just make the thread easier to find. Shit, I don’t even need to be that specific. Dooku contacting anyone on Coruscant? With my frigates, I can crack open any amount of encryption. The automation was just icing on the cake; I can just leave them there and check in once in a while.

I have three years. I have time. I have money. And I’m more than willing to put in the effort.

Truthfully, I was making it up as I went along. But building up a case against Dooku to present to the Senate was a good start–and so was crafting new command codes for my fleet, as I didn’t want to get Mustafar’d. I’d need to get my hands on some engineers for that… another task for the bucket list.

“Then turn them into warships,” I suggested, “The first wartime frigates were those with barbettes taped onto their hulls. I’ll tell the board we need as many ships as we can get for defence.”

Tors hummed in agreement, “We won’t be able to fit the superheavy cannons, but you won’t need that. The comm packages will also need some touching, but we can make it work. You have the credits for this?”

“Dare to ask General Tann that?”

I don’t think General Tann will pay much attention to a few million more credits in the bill… but if she does, well, I’ll let future me deal with that.

He laughed, “Right, right. Does the Pantoran want Lucrehulks to go with that order?”

“Providences,” I corrected, “Not the dreadnought kind. Should be cheaper than battleships.”

The Quarren checked his stock, “You’re in luck, sir. We have two old destroyer models, and one carrier. But if your pockets are deep, QFD is running trials for three of our latest carrier-destroyer variants right here in the system.”

Not sure if I like the whole combining niches thing. In my experience, when someone tries to have their cake and eat it, it leads to overengineering, unreliability, and worse performance in both aspects.

“These carrier-destroyers,” I leaned back, “Are they reliable?”

Tors’ eyes shone, “I see what you’re asking. Trust me, they’re more expensive for good reason. More hangar volume, but not by sacrificing emplacements. I’ll tell you a secret; all we did was revise our design, installed new automation systems, removed vestigial hardware, and ended up with a lot of wasted space.”

“So all you had to do was shuffle around the internal systems a bit to get more hangar space.”

“That’s right,” he grinned beneath his tendrils, “Everything aft of amidships? That’s all birdnest now. Tell you what; buy these, and I can get you a discount.”

Right. This was a business to them. These new carrier-destroyer variants were a new product, and they needed advertising. Many captains will likely have the same doubts as I do, and wanted to use me as a flying billboard. Selling out it is.

“...Alright,” I finally agreed, “I’ll get the three.”

“Great, great…”

I tuned him out as we passed by the prow of a half-built Recusant-class star destroyer. Its frame was still skeletal, and huge mechanical arms hanging from the ceiling were lowering a massive dome of armour onto the warship’s spine. Kind of looks like a magnified version of fitting together a plastic model… which I suppose was the point.

“How does fitting a droid brain into a warship work?” I asked.

Tors side-eyed me, “A Recusant’s superstructure is specially designed to house the droid brain. It’s not as easy as installing software, so you can’t just rig it to a frigate, if that’s what you’re asking. Just buy a Recusant, if you want a droidship.”

“They don’t have a very good reputation,” I commented, “I hear they perform well in wargames, but not on the field.”

“Because people keep using them wrong,” the Quarren grumbled, “You can’t ask a computer to act on the fly–you have to program it in advance, which is why they work in wargames. Formation flying, lines of battle, any manoeuvre that needs high levels of coordination between vessels; you won’t find a better ship. But you can’t just charge them in and start brawling, because then you’re asking the brain to program itself while in battle.”

I eyed the ship again, noticing how its bow was so much more heavily armoured than its rear. Coordination, huh? I wonder how they would perform in a battle lattice… or–

“What about on the strategic scale?” I probed further, “Synchronised jumping, hit-and-fades; stuff that’s taxing on the astronav.”

“Read the documentation and write the code for it,” he shrugged, “Like I said, as long as you don’t overstep their operational parameters, they’ll perform perfectly. That’s how it is for all droids.”

…Huh. Is that so?

“Get me four Recusants–” Tors looked at me in surprise, “–And your best software engineers. I want to try something.”

⁂

Coruscant, Coruscant System

Corusca Sector

The sun was rising over Coruscant, twilight’s gloom chased away by the glory of a new day upon the strumming heart of the Republic. Even amidst the greatest conflict the galaxy had seen in a millenia, the blazing soul that was Coruscant never faltered in its relentless march onwards. Life goes on.

Anakin stood in the centre of the training grounds, surrounded by ornate tiling and drifting leaves of gold. The ancient tree that stood there was a comforting presence, but Anakin did not feel it then. Just as he did not realise dawn had once again graced the capital.

Unlike the capital it nested in, the Jedi Temple stood like a solemn mausoleum over the sea of transparisteel. The Clone Wars was a mighty hand that had flung the Jedi throughout the stars, leaving only a few senior Jedi Knights in the temple at any time. How many of those fighting out there would never return to this place? Force knew. Anakin felt like he did too.

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The answer was too many.

The Jedi Temple was mourning. These days, it seemed like it always was.

Anakin was mourning too, in his own way. For his Masters, his fellow Knights, and for the brothers-in-arms he fought besides. He had thought to clear his mind by working off his stresses in these grounds, but ended up standing vigil the entire night. If Obi-Wan saw this, the Jedi Master would undoubtedly say something along the lines of ‘so you finally found a way to meditate, have you Anakin?’ His lips quirked at that thought.

But war was like a cog–it went on unceasingly, mercilessly. His time was consumed by meetings, debriefings, press conferences, endless paperwork, banal bureaucracy, and… funerals. Too many funerals. Master Mundi, Master Koth… two councilmembers lost in a single battle. It was a sobering affair. If the war wasn’t yet real enough, it was now.

And when Anakin wanted nothing more than to visit his recently freed men, he had to find out they had been transferred to a deep space medstation. Visitors unallowed, presumably because it was being swarmed by Republic Intelligence.

I’m a Jedi General, Anakin fumed silently, if anyone has the right to see his own soldiers, it’s me!

“Anakin,” a familiar tone awoke him from his reverie, “Have you been standing there the entire night?”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin holstered his saber and swung around, “...And, who’s this?”

A young Padawan, a Togruta girl, and yet a tween from the length of her lekku. And her height, Anakin added dryly, and her height. She’s tiny. A child. Dismay rose in his throat like bile.

“Anakin, meet Ahsoka Tano, my new Padawan,” Obi-Wan gestured, “Ahsoka, meet Anakin Skywalker.”

Ahsoka looked up at him with large, starry eyes, and it made him feel sick, “I’m at your service, Master Skywalker.”

The girl tried to be restrained, but couldn’t help from giving a broad smile. All teeth, too. Sharp, dagger-like teeth. Because Togruta were natural predators, and she bore the vestiges of her ancestors.

I’m no Master, he wanted to say, and I’m not who you think I am. Anakin’s stomach sank even more. But it distracted him from his brush with darkness, and he seized the chance. A change of problem was as good as he’ll get.

Anakin ignored her, “We’re at war, Master. This is the worst time to train a Padawan; they’re a liability.”

“Hey!” Ahsoka protested, her eyes narrowing, “I’m not a liability!”

The little Togruta drew herself up to her full height to make herself look larger, which wasn’t saying much.

Anakin whipped around, his eyes frozen into chips of ice. Ahsoka shrunk back at his glare, face falling. He crossed his arms.

“Really?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, “You weren’t… most of the time, anyway.”

“Seriously?”

“The best way to learn is on the job, I think you can agree,” his old Master said, “For both the Master and the Padawan. The Council has convened, Anakin, and Master Yoda believes it is in your best interest to take on a Padawan.”

Anakin had to hold back from outright snarling, “You’re kriffing kidding me. I can’t take a Padawan.”

I can’t trust myself with one. Not when so much is at stake. Not when I can fail–and lose them too.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to retort, but slowly closed it soon after. His old Master must’ve felt something in the Force, as he gave Anakin a meaningful look.

“Ahsoka, why don’t you find your friends?”

The Togruta craned her head to look up at both of them, and Anakin could see her previous image of them–and yes, he did know what image the HoloNet presented them in–crumbling within her eyes.

“Y-Yes, Master,” she hesitated, “...I’ll go find Scout.”

Obi-Wan waited until her presence in the Force retreated, “I know what the war does to you, Anakin. I’ll admit, Ahsoka isn’t what I expected in terms of self-discipline, but neither were you. Give the thought a chance.”

You don't know what it is to love, Master. Or to lose. You didn't even know your own mother.

Anakin didn’t know what to think of his former Master–and he still called him Master. Once, it was all so simple; Master and Padawan. Now? Sometimes, Obi-Wan represented safety and stability, and other times he was an overbearing sibling who held him back or competed with him.

And you didn't want to take me as a Padawan, did you? You only did it out of duty.

“Look at this way,” Obi-Wan led him back into the Temple, “If you want to be a Master, training a Padawan to Knighthood is a requirement.”

Anakin would have been enthusiastic at that, once. Now, he wasn’t sure if he even deserved the esteemed title. From where he stood, Jedi Master seemed so far over his head. Too far.

He brushed it off–Anakin often found himself ambushed by unwanted thoughts. He has faced countless battlefields, Korriban or Jabiim or Christophsis or that Tusken village on Tatooine, and he has faced them over and over in his nightmares. But it was one thing to face the ghosts of his failures, and another to face the sporadic resentment he felt towards a master and friend he cared about.

He wasn’t sure which was harder.

When he shared that with Padmé, she was taken aback.

And besides, that wasn’t the whole truth, was it? After all, what was Obi-Wan Kenobi if not a collection of half-truths and hyperboles? Anakin knew him too well, he didn’t even need the Force.

And Obi-Wan knew that too.

“Fine,” Obi-Wan finally sighed, “The truth then. Jabiim and Christophsis have done a number on us, and we need more Jedi on the field. COMPOR is doing a swell job of keeping up appearances, but the entire Grand Army is reeling.”

“We’re losing too many Jedi,” Anakin said softly.

“Too many everything, Anakin. Christophsis was the straw that broke the bantha’s back,” Obi-Wan replied grimly, “Yularen and his officers are raising hell in the Admiralty. High Command is forced to reorganise its operational theatres after virtually losing an entire Sector Army, and we haven’t received any word from Admiral Wurtz either. They’ve been heckling Jedi Command for more commanders and generals, and that means more Jedi.”

We’ve failed then, Anakin thought bitterly. Was this what the Clone Wars made of them? A bunch of jaded soldiers exploiting the enthusiasm of children to toss them into grinding jaws of the Separatist war machine, under the guise of for the greater good? Anakin considered himself lucky; he had long been tempered by previous experiences before the war began. But these Padawans?

How many will emerge from the crucible of war hardened and resolved, like he did? How many will emerge warped and broken, or shattered? How many will not emerge at all, their legacy being a name and date typed into a routine obituary? Obi-Wan said the best way to learn is on the job, and it was. Because with the state the galaxy is in, you only get to fail once.

“And if I say no?” he asked obstinately.

Obi-Wan shrugged, “The Council will get you assigned one anyway. Look, the Apprentice Tournament is in a week. Why don’t we go over and see if anyone catches your eye?”

“I thought it was postponed because of the war.”

“Well, now it’s been advanced because of the war.”

A single sentence that weighs so heavily, Anakin closed his eyes. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to feel the safety and warmth of Padmé’s embrace.

⁂

Orbit of Ringo Vinda, Ringo Vinda System

Eucer Sector

The station’s war room was large, to say the least. It was once a boardroom, but had all of its conferencing systems ripped out and replaced after Ringo Vinda shifted its stance into wartime economy.

A state of the art ARENA holoprojection table dominated the vast majority of the central space, appearing larger than it was thanks to all the consoles and control panels needed to operate the thing. Even more holoprojectors peered down from above, and when all activated, could turn the entire room into a three-dimensional battlespace. Or, they could project the figures of hundreds of Separatist captains and commanders all glaring at the head of the table–me.

The war room was large. I knew it, because I stood in it when it was empty.

But when even the walls had to be used as monitors to accommodate the number of commanding officers stretching on into what seemed like oblivion, I felt both claustrophobic and chilly at once. Clearly, no expense had been spared, because there was not a single hazy blue spot among them. If I hadn’t known they were holograms beforehand, I would’ve believed I just stepped into a live amphitheatre. I could make out their exact skintones, and even the colours of their eyes.

I didn’t know whether to be more impressed by the virtual image tech, or by all the comms frigates breaking their backs to make this possible.

As I waited for the last attendees to drop in, I focused on scanning the faces to see if I recognised any. It was somewhat awkward, because I’d have to turn around to face the dozens of men and women standing behind me–but soon the system beeped that we had reached the maximum number of participants for the holoconference.

Honestly, already far beyond my expectations. Really goes to show just how monotonous it was operating out of the Foundry.

Even then, nobody spoke for a long time. We were all sizing each other up in silent power plays; scanning uniforms for allegiances, reading ranks to formulate a totem pole, and even blatantly searching names. But most were staring right at me. Most with plain curiosity, to see what all this was about, some with recognition, and others with displeasure. I spotted Rel Harsol among them–based on Calli’s description–trying to merge himself with the crowd.

I cleared my throat, and leaned forward, resting my palms on the rim of the table–painfully conscious to not accidentally toggle a switch and make a fool out of myself.

“I am Commodore Rain Bonteri, attached to General Sev’rance Tann of the Confederate Second Fleet,” I met as many I could in the eye, “Some of you know me, most don’t. But all of you know where I’ve fought.”

Of course they did. Anyone who has served under the Second Fleet and survived until now boasts as shiny a portfolio as one could get this early in the war.

“You summoned us for a wargame, Commodore,” a Muun commander pawed his chin, “What sort of game requires this much importance?”

There were mutterings of agreement. I had to thin the crowd for this to work.

“I am unable to force any of you to stay,” I ignored him, “This wargame will require you to feed ARENA with data from your ships, and the session may take a whole day or even more. If you are unable to accept these conditions, I advise you to leave now. But be aware that your invitation was a one-time affair; you will be unable to return.”

A ripple rang through the accumulated officers, and almost immediately the number of them plummeted by half without a sound. The room suddenly became a lot more spacious.

“Second, you will acknowledge my authority as the ranking officer in the room,” I said firmly, “This will be a sober affair, and if you are unable to act with the dignity of your rank, I will have you leave.”

“Your authority?” A Neimodian captain pressed, “Who will play the other side? What about their authority?”

“ARENA will be our opponent,” I answered plainly.

A Sullustan scoffed and disconnected, taking a handful of others with her. The remaining few suddenly became a lot more unsure about the whole affair. I peeked at my tablet–33 remaining. It was a good number.

“Alright, sir,” the Muun sat down, his chair materialising beneath him, “What’s the scenario?”

“What’s your name, Commander?”

“Commander Horgo Shive,” he replied, “Of the Havoc Squadron.”

I nodded at Vinoc, who had been still until now. The Commander moved towards ARENA and loaded in the scenario–an expansive star map of the Perlemian Trade Spine and its adjacent regions burst out of the table in all of its three-dimensional glory. Half a hundred pinpricks popped up around several systems, standing for the assets of the officers still present.

“Pardon me,” a thin human spoke up, “This is Captain Jorm of the fuel tanker Aurora. This invitation was sent to all naval captains…”

Captain Jorm trailed off as more and more eyes stopped on him, and he shrunk slightly. His worry was obvious; are auxiliary ships really needed here? Despite being among ranking peers, it was apparent he and the other auxiliary captains were viewed as lower standing.

“You will find that the Aurora may be the most important ship among us, Captain Jorm,” I smiled.

Another person left wordlessly. 32 people left.

“Is that so…”

“Shall we begin?” I swept across the room, before nodding sharply, “The situation is as such; a Republic fleet has been spotted gathering at Lantillies, conceivably to launch an assault on Raxus. The enemy will be the Open Circle Armada and Cerulean Spear Fleet. However, ARENA may also mobilise the Blazing Claw Fleet and Third Mid Rim Army if necessary.”

Commander Trilm’s brows furrowed silently, but another human officer was less courteous–

“Has serving the Pantoran denigrated your mind, Bonteri!?” the captain snarled, “We have what– a hundred ships among us? Open Circle and Cerulean Spear have three times that number shared among them! Forget the other two, Malachor will sooner be colonised before we are able to defeat them!”

“...What’s your name, Captain?”

The human snapped upright, heels clicking neatly, “Captain Aviso of star destroyer Bronze Serpent, sir!”

“–Captain Aviso is correct, sir,” the Neimodian added, “This is Captain Krett of battleship Fortressa. With all respect, the Pantoran is not among us. We have neither her skill nor genius.”

“Agreed,” I circled around ARENA, resisting to flinch a I passed through the hologram of a Aqualish captain, “That is why the conditions of our victory is not to defeat this force, but to delay them long enough for the First and Second Fleets to reinforce us.”

“Our objective is survival,” Commander Vinoc summarised, “This is Commander Vinoc of star destroyer Crying Sun.”

Silence continued, but a different kind. It was one with turmoil boiling beneath the surface, a stolid determination tinged with bubbling excitement. See, not every officer on the Perlemian was a result of nepotism. The Separatist cause was built on the backs of Separatist worlds, and Separatist worlds possessed Separatist officers. Experienced officers, veterans of local planetary or system conflicts. Some even fought in the Stark Hyperspace War, or Andoan Wars. Commander Merai himself was a veteran of the Quarren War.

These were the people I was looking for. Soldiers who were willing to treat a wargame not as a game but as a strategic conference, and had enough discipline to do so for hours. Mostly because they have done so before, when they served their homeworlds’ Planetary Security Forces. My way of filtering them out was blunt and erroneous, but it did the job. As long as I have a core of veterans, I can build a coalition around them when the time actually comes.

“Very well,” Captain Aviso was struggling to hide his grin, “I think I speak for all of us when I say you have our attention.”

“Aye,” Rel Harsol spoke for the first time, “This is Captain Harsol of star frigate Sa Nalaor. Where do we start, Commodore?”

“We must be wary of any incursion from the Gordian Reach,” Commander Shive pointed, “So we should start with our forces stationed at–”

“No, Commander Shive,” I broke in, “We start the scenario with our ships exactly where they are now. After all, if we move them to the front, we will be giving ourselves away.”

“Pfassk off,” Commander Trilm crossed her arms, “This is Commander Calli Trilm of the Clysm Fleet, stationed in Salvara. You all better have your shit together, because I’m the one about to get mauled.”

Even as she said that, however, there was an amused smile on her face. Captain Krett laughed weaselly in his Neimodian way, as did several other captains. Meanwhile, I toggled a button, and half of the star map turned into a hazy red.

“Red represents enemy territory and the fog of war,” I said, “Every standard day in-game will be two hours here. Once this session is over, the recording will be deleted from the system. Have all of you synced your feeds?”

There was a chorus of agreements, and the officers took their places around ARENA–the pins of their ships blinking to green across the map as they checked in. For a brief moment, the red haze flashed, revealing hundreds of enemy pins amassing around Lantillies and Phindar, before disappearing. Someone chuckled nervously.

“Hold on,” Captain Harsol raised a hand, “You never told us how long it will take for reinforcements to come.”

“A standard month.”

There was sweating now, though in excitement or anxiety I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

“The mission is to survive for thirty-five standard days,” I announced, “Let’s begin.”