The mining town of Kiffex Drift smelled of wet ore, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of spent blaster gas. Fires from the crashed Separatist hulks still smoldered on the distant ridges, sending thin columns of black into the low clouds. Week three had become week four while we marched; time blurred in the rain.
We took Alto Stratus alive.
He'd been dragged from the wreckage of his command bunker in the northern highlands—unconscious, bloodied, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle from the collapse. His nationalist guards had fought to the last man, but when the Juggernauts rolled over their barricades and clones poured in with wrist blasters spitting, resistance ended in minutes. Alto was bound in mag-cuffs, tossed into the back of a Juggernaut with the rest of the captured nobles—Thorne Kraym and the four others who'd survived the interrogations. No ceremony. No speeches. Just another prisoner in a war that had long since stopped caring about dignity.
We secured the town without a shot fired. The remaining nationalist garrison had melted away days earlier, fleeing into the flooded tunnels or the highlands. Civilians watched from doorways and rooftops—hollow-eyed miners, women clutching children, old men leaning on canes. No cheers. No resistance. Just silence and rain.
Then Orliss Gillmunn arrived.
He came down the main access road at the head of ten thousand loyalists—pro-Republic Jabiimi, armed with scavenged blasters, vibro-knives, and whatever mining tools could double as weapons. They marched in ragged columns, mud-caked boots splashing, faces set with grim determination. Many wore Republic patches sewn crudely onto their jackets; others carried banners of the old Congress seal, faded but defiant.
I met them at the town square, standing atop the lead Juggernaut's hull. Fifty thousand clones fanned out behind me—armor scarred black, wrist blasters still warm from the march. Puck stood at my shoulder, helmet off, face unreadable.
Gillmunn dismounted from a battered speeder bike. He was older than I'd expected—late fifties, gray streaking his beard, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. Ten of his lieutenants flanked him; the rest formed a loose semicircle, watching.
"General Dagon," he said, voice carrying over the rain. "Orliss Gillmunn. Leader of the Jabiimi Resistance. We've waited long for this day."
I didn't respond immediately. I'd never answered his earlier messages—never called for their aid, never coordinated strikes. Ten thousand fighters could have tipped early battles, saved lives, broken nationalist lines faster. But I hadn't asked. Unnecessary losses. Their blood on Republic soil would have been another weight on the scales. Better they stayed hidden, survived, than die in a war that wasn't truly theirs.
Now they were here. Late, but here.
Gillmunn studied me. "You didn't call."
"No," I said. "I didn't."
He nodded once, as if he'd expected the answer. "We came anyway."
We moved inside the town hall—a squat duracrete building half-flooded in the lower levels. A long table had been cleared; clones stood guard at the doors. Gillmunn's people waited outside in the rain.
I gestured to the seat opposite me. He sat. Puck remained standing, arms crossed.
"Tell us about your civil war," I said.
Gillmunn placed a small holoprojector on the table's edge. It activated with a soft hum.
A hologram sprang up: Alto Stratus, younger, standing on a balcony above a cheering crowd. He wore a crisp uniform, shield-and-blade insignia prominent on his chest. The image flickered to archival footage—Congress chambers in flames, senators cut down by nationalist militiamen, Stratus's voice booming over loudspeakers: "Jabiim for Jabiim!"
Gillmunn spoke quietly.
"The leader of the Jabiim Nationalists and a lapdog of the Separatists, Alto Stratus. Last year, he staged a coup and killed most of the members of Congress. Fortunately, some of us managed to escape. Much has changed since then. The families of those who continued to support the Republic have been persecuted. We are hunted by assassins. Alto Stratus is a tyrant who replaced the law with his own will and does whatever he wants. His collusion with the Separatists is a betrayal of the Jabiim people."
The hologram shifted—grainy images of mass arrests, families dragged from homes, children crying in the streets. Nationalist patrols executing loyalists in public squares. The footage was raw, unedited.
A voice rose from the crowd of Jabiimi gathered just inside the doors—Gillmunn had allowed a handful to enter.
"Captain Gillmunn was the only one who dared to stand up to Stratus. But… we have a question: why didn't your troops, who arrived earlier, eliminate Stratus? He is the main threat!"
Silence fell.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"Because we were dying in the mud," I said. "Because every day was another wave of droids, another Nationalist charge, another brother lost. We held one hill—Handuin—while the rest of your planet burned. We killed millions of droids, burned their ships from the sky, broke their elite. But Stratus? He hid. He waited. He let his people die for him."
Gillmunn's expression didn't change. "And now?"
"Now he's in binders," I said. "Unconscious. Alive—for trial, if your people want one. Or execution, if that's your justice. The Republic doesn't dictate Jabiim's future. You do."
A murmur rippled through the loyalists.
I continued. "We've taken the towns. Secured the mines. The Separatist blockade is scrap. Dooku's reinforcements are delayed—maybe permanently. The war here is ending. But it ends your way. Not ours."
Gillmunn studied me for a long moment.
"You didn't ask for our help," he said. "You could have used us. Saved lives."
"I know," I replied. "And I chose not to. Because your ten thousand would have become another fifteen thousand graves. I've buried enough brothers. I won't bury your people for a tactical edge."
He exhaled slowly.
"Then what now?"
"Now we finish it," I said. "You integrate with our columns. We move on the remaining holdouts—Stratus's last bunkers, the die-hard nationalist pockets. You lead the negotiations with the civilians. You decide who stands trial, who walks free. The Republic will support—supplies, medical, security. But Jabiim belongs to Jabiim."
Gillmunn stood. "We accept."
He extended a hand. I took it—firm, brief.
Outside, the rain eased for the first time in weeks. Not stopped—just quieter.
Puck leaned in as Gillmunn's people filed out.
"Sir… you really think they'll hold together? Ten thousand loyalists, plus our fifty thousand. It's a powder keg."
I looked toward the med bay, where Ahsoka still slept.
"Everything's a powder keg on Jabiim," I said. "We just keep the fuse wet."
The Juggernauts rumbled to life again—engines growling low. Loyalists fell in beside clones, mismatched but marching as one.
Week four.
The end was coming.
But the dark side still whispered in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.
And Alto Stratus—unconscious, bound—waited for judgment.