At the same time, far below on the planet's surface, panic rippled through the command levels of the Separatist installation.
A thin, pale Neimoidian officer — one of barely thirty surviving orbital crew who had descended with the core module — rushed into the command chamber.
"Sir!" he stammered to the Chief Trader. "We are under attack by Republic forces! A warship of unknown configuration has assaulted the orbital platform — it is practically destroyed!"
The Chief Trader stiffened.
"Destroyed?" His thin fingers tightened around the armrests of his chair. "Where did they come from? Launch all fighters! Activate the combat droids! We will not give them this planet!"
He leaned back, trying to appear composed.
The war had been inevitable. Years of tension, treaties unraveling, banking interests maneuvering in shadows. But he had not expected it to reach this fuel-production world so quickly.
And certainly not like this.
The problem became clear within seconds.
Most of the droid complement — starfighters and ground units alike — had been stored in orbital holds aboard the Lucrehulk frame. Planetary control required only a fraction of their total strength. Of more than one hundred and forty thousand battle droids, barely thirty thousand had been stationed planetside.
Only four C-9979 landing craft were deployed.
Fifty heavy MTTs.
Five hundred AAT tanks.
A token force compared to the thousands still drifting in shattered orbit.
The surface hangar could house no more than one hundred droid starfighters.
Worse still, the orbital structure had not merely been a dockyard frame.
It had been integrated with a **Golan I Space Defense Platform** — the first model manufactured by Golan Arms. Armed with fourteen port and fourteen starboard medium turbolasers, dorsal and ventral proton torpedo launchers, and multiple heavy tractor beam projectors, it was designed to withstand fleet-level assaults.
To destroy such a station required a task force.
Or something far more concentrated.
"Send a message to the Regional Trade Hub on an encrypted channel immediately!" the Chief Trader snapped. "We require reinforcements at once!"
A tactical droid turned from its console.
"Sir, incoming debris. Launch operations impossible until impact risk subsides."
"What?!" The Chief Trader hissed. "Those Republic fools planned this?"
Massive fragments of the shattered orbital ring began burning through the atmosphere, streaking across the sky like artificial meteors.
"Sir," another droid reported, "enemy vessel adjusting orbital vector. Possible bombardment posture."
"That will not succeed," the Chief Trader replied sharply. "These shields are rated for fleet engagements — even Mandator-class dreadnought bombardment—"
He stopped.
"…Why is the energy reading blue?"
The answer came a fraction of a second later.
A concentrated sphere of blue plasma wrapped in violent lightning tore through the upper shield envelope. The shield matrix flared, destabilized, and collapsed in a cascading overload.
The projectile struck the top of the planetary command ship.
For an instant, there was silence.
Then the upper half of the bridge — and everything above it — vanished in incandescent light.
The Chief Trader never finished his sentence.
---
### Republic Landing
"Orbital platform neutralized," Ethan reported calmly over the command channel. "Surface command structure destroyed. Captain Ragnos is organizing ground deployment."
So it would not end in orbit.
A ground operation was initiated immediately.
Under cover of fighter sweeps, Republic gunships descended in disciplined waves. The first infantry battalions deployed with precision, supported by ten armored tanks. They advanced in full view of the smoking remains of the Separatist command ship.
Strangely, there was no resistance.
No counter-fire.
No organized defense lines.
"General," Commander Blam reported from the surface, "enemy droid units appear inactive."
I frowned slightly.
If the primary droid charging and coordination systems had been tied to the orbital grid… and if the lightning discharge had propagated through linked infrastructure…
An electromagnetic cascade.
Unintentional.
But effective.
The opportunity was seized without hesitation.
An Acclamator-class assault ship landed ten kilometers from the wreckage of the merchant core module, its massive ramps lowering to deploy additional infantry and armor. Light cruisers established a perimeter in orbit to prevent escape attempts by any surviving traders attempting to flee in their spherical core ship.
"General, all units have landed safely," Commander Blam confirmed.
"Excellent," I replied. "Advance on remaining Separatist positions. Secure all infrastructure."
Ahsoka stood near the tactical display, clearly restless. Throughout the orbital engagement she had wanted to join the forward assault, glancing at me repeatedly for permission.
I had ignored her.
Precision had won this battle — not heroics.
"It's too easy," she murmured quietly.
"Yes, sir," Blam continued, reviewing casualty reports. "Confirming… General, casualties are zero. No wounded. No fatalities."
A perfect opening engagement.
Then the comm chimed again.
The captain of the *Marat* spoke, voice tight.
"General, we have a problem."
A cold tension settled across the command deck.
"Clarify."
"There has been an update from perimeter patrol. Correction — we have seven problems."
The holotable flickered, updating with new hyperspace emergence signatures.
Three Lucrehulk core ships.
Four Munificent-class frigates.
They materialized at the edge of the system like patient predators.
I recognized the Munificent silhouettes instantly — crescent hulls, forward directional heavy guns visible even in hologram. Impressive at first glance.
Though I remembered something from old technical analyses: their main-caliber output was not significantly superior to that of an Acclamator's heavy batteries. Production shortcuts. Focusing lens inefficiencies. Banking Clan cost-saving measures.
Still, seven capital ships were seven capital ships.
Ahsoka looked at me.
"Reinforcements?" she asked quietly.
"No," I said.
I opened a channel to the forward artillery deck.
"Prepare the SPHA-T."
If they had come expecting a conventional fleet engagement…
They were about to learn otherwise.