In the opulent chambers of Serenno's grand palace, Count Dooku sat enthroned amid holographic projections, his aristocratic features etched with calculated composure. The Separatist Council—or what passed for it in these trying times—convened via secure hololinks, their faces flickering in the dim light. The air hummed with the low whine of encrypted transmissions, a symphony of discontent from the galaxy's industrial titans.
First came Wat Tambor, the Techno Union's Foreman, his metallic voice modulator crackling with indignation. His skakoan pressure suit loomed large in the holo, the green-tinted visor reflecting unseen schematics. "Count Dooku, the raid on Aridka was catastrophic! Our hidden missile fabrication facilities—buried deep in the Hertae sector—lie in ruins. Two Hammerhead cruisers and a squadron of bombers struck without warning. Orbital docks crippled, a primary station obliterated. Production of Hailfire munitions is halted indefinitely. The Republic... how did they know? Our secrecy was absolute!"
Dooku inclined his head slightly, his silver beard catching the light. "The Republic's intelligence grows bolder, Foreman. But losses are inevitable in war. What of your redundancies?"
Tambor slammed a gauntleted fist on his console, the sound echoing like a malfunctioning droid. "Redundancies? We've lost transports, raw materials—debris still rains on the surface! This delays our droid reinforcements by weeks!"
Before Dooku could respond, another hologram solidified: Shu Mai, the Gossam president of the Commerce Guild, her reptilian features twisted in fury. "And what of Gwori, Count? Gwori Revolutionary Industries—our jewel in the Clacis sector! Pelta frigates and Accumulator cruisers bombarded the surface yards. Ammunition depots, fueling plants—gone in proton torpedo salvos. Over two hundred Munificent-class frigates destroyed on the slips! Our orbital defenses were absent, patrols diverted. This is sabotage from within!"
Murmurs rippled through the council feeds. Poggle the Lesser, the Geonosian Archduke, chittered angrily in his native tongue, his translator droid rendering the words in clipped Basic. "The hive suffers too! Echoes of these strikes reach our foundries. Republic commandos probe our edges. We demand action, Dooku. The Confederacy bleeds credits and materiel!"
San Hill of the InterGalactic Banking Clan leaned forward, his Muun skull elongated and pale. "Financially, this is ruinous. Loans to rebuild will strain our reserves. Why were these assets unprotected? Our fleets are spread thin, but Jabiim—Jabiim should be a fortress! Reports indicate no capital ships in orbit. No blockade to crush the invaders. Why?"
Dooku's eyes narrowed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The question hung like a vibroblade. Jabiim, that mud-soaked backwater, had been a straightforward conquest: rally the nationalists under Alto Stratus, flood the planet with droids, and bleed the Republic dry in attrition. Yet now, whispers of setbacks filtered through. "Indeed," he said smoothly, his voice a silken blade. "Our orbital presence over Jabiim was to be reinforced. Munificent frigates from Gwori, Lucrehulks for transport. But these raids... they target our supply lines with precision. Someone anticipates our moves." He paused, his mind racing. The Jedi? Or this enigmatic General Dagon, whose name surfaced in fragmented reports like a shadow in the Force.
The council's complaints swelled into a cacophony—Tambor demanding reparations, Shu Mai accusing lax security, Poggle screeching for vengeance. Dooku silenced them with a raised hand. "Enough. These are but skirmishes in a greater war. We will redirect assets from Raxus and Hypori. Strengthen your defenses. The Republic overextends; their victories are pyrrhic."
As the holograms faded one by one, a priority transmission pierced the quiet: a encrypted burst from Jabiim itself. Alto Stratus's face materialized, haggard and rain-streaked, his nationalist uniform muddied and torn. Behind him, the dim interior of a bunker flickered with emergency lighting, the distant rumble of artillery audible even through the link.
"Count Dooku," Stratus began, his voice raw with desperation. "The situation here is dire. Constant Republic attacks hammer our positions. Their general—this Dagon—strikes without mercy. Our latest assault on Handuin failed utterly. Six hundred thousand droids, fifty thousand of my militiamen, two companies of Nimbus commandos... slaughtered. Their walkers—AT-TEs, AT-ATs, Juggernauts—cut down our forces before we could close. A crippled Recusant destroyer, one of ours, crashed amid our advance, incinerating thousands more. Bodies everywhere—burned, broken. Pools of oil from shattered droids mix with the blood of my people."
Dooku's grip tightened on his throne's armrest. "Explain, Stratus. Your numbers should have overwhelmed them."
Stratus's eyes burned with rage. "Dagon's weapon—a lightsaber rifle—picked off our vanguard from afar. The Nimbuses couldn't even sabotage their vehicles; rotary cannons shredded them mid-air. No survivors among the elites. And my cousin... Cordelia. Captured. She's their prisoner now, likely to be interrogated or executed. My people die by the droves, Count. The rain washes away their remains, but not the Republic's advance. We need ships—orbital bombardment, reinforcements! Why is the sky empty?"
The transmission cut, leaving Dooku in silence. Stratus's plea echoed San Hill's query. No ships over Jabiim. The raids on Gwori and Aridka had severed the lifeline. This Dagon—Force-sensitive, perhaps a rogue Jedi—had orchestrated it all. A chill ran through the count; failure was not tolerated in his master's eyes.
As if summoned by the thought, another hologram ignited: a cloaked figure, hooded in shadow, emanating an aura of malevolent power. Darth Sidious, the Dark Lord of the Sith, his wrinkled visage twisted in fury. Yellow eyes gleamed like twin suns in eclipse.
"Dooku," Sidious hissed, his voice a venomous whisper that slithered through the chamber. "Reports reach me of chaos in the Outer Rim. Jabiim slips from our grasp. Shipyards burn, hidden bases exposed. Your grand alliance crumbles, and the Republic endures. Why do you fail me?"
Dooku bowed deeply, masking his unease. "My Lord, the Jedi grow cunning. This General Dagon—"
"Excuses!" Sidious snarled, a surge of dark energy crackling through the holo, making the air thicken. "Jabiim was to be a graveyard for their clones, a quagmire to drain their resources. Instead, your puppets—Stratus, the council—whine like children. Gwori's frigates destroyed, Aridka's missiles silenced. No orbital support circles that wretched world. You promised victory, Tyranus. Deliver it, or I will find another apprentice more... capable."
The threat hung heavy. Dooku felt the invisible noose tighten. "It will be done, Master. Reinforcements are en route. I have contingencies."
Sidious's lips curled in a sneer. "See that you do. The war must escalate. Break the Republic's spirit—or I will break yours." The hologram dissolved, leaving Dooku in the oppressive quiet of his palace.
He straightened, composure returning like a well-fitted cloak. Contingencies indeed. He activated a secure channel, one reserved for his most lethal assets. The connection established, and a hulking figure appeared: Savage Opress, the Nightbrother warrior, his yellow-and-black tattoos stark under Zabrak horns, his mechanical arm gleaming. Transformed by dark magick and Sith training, Savage was a blunt instrument of destruction, loyal and ferocious.
"Master," Savage growled, his voice a guttural rumble.
Dooku wasted no words. "The time has come, Savage. Begin your operations. Rally the shadow fleets from Mustafar. Strike at Republic supply lines in the Mid Rim—cripple their reinforcements before they reach Jabiim. Show no mercy. This Dagon... if you encounter him, bring me his head."
Savage's eyes lit with savage glee. "As you command. The Republic will bleed."
The link severed. Dooku leaned back, gazing out at Serenno's stormy skies. The board shifted; pieces moved. Jabiim would fall, or the galaxy would burn trying.
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