Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Excerpt from ONE PEOPLE, ONE STATE, ONE DESTINY

“For years, we fought. We bled. We sacrificed everything in the struggle against tyranny. The Republic sought to keep us shackled, to drain our worlds of their wealth, their strength, their future. They called us Separatists. Traitors. Dissidents. They lied. They always lied. All because we dared to demand the one thing they would never grant us: our freedom. We were never the betrayers–we were the betrayed!”

“And when the power of Core came to steal back the future we forged for ourselves, we did not let them! We built the fleets they said we could never build. We mustered the armies they believed we could never muster. And today, I can stand before you not as a rebel, not as a soldier in a war of survival, but as a free woman. A free citizen of a free nation! A Separatist State of our own. A Confederacy to call our home! A Confederacy of Independent Systems!”

“With our own determination, with our own strength, with our own might of arms, we have taken back everything that had always belonged to us! Our wealth! Our freedom! Our future! And we will never let them go again!”

“Our armies, our fleets, our people, have cast off the chains of the Core’s dominion. Look to Coruscant and see what remains of the Republic! Nothing but shattered remnants, grasping at power, fighting over the ruins of their own making, torn apart by the very rot we sought to escape.”

“But do not mistake their downfall for our security. Even in death, the Core’s greed is insatiable. A dictator sits upon Coruscant’s shattered throne, commanding the war machine that would see our ruin once, and will see our ruin again. And what of the so-called ‘Restorationists’ of Chandrila, of Humbarine, of Alderaan? They dream of the old days, when they could rule us from their ivory towers, when our people were nothing more than resources to be exploited.”

“And if we are not ready, they will come for us!”

“They will call us warlords, extremists, and criminals. They will whisper of peace, of compromise, of reconciliation. They are lies. Lies, just as they always have been. They do not seek peace–they seek to undo everything we have fought for! They seek to restore their dominion over us, to demand our obedience, to turn our hard-won independence into another chapter in their history of conquest!”

“Today, we lift our heads high and declare to a new galaxy: they will never again hold dominion over us. We have broken their grip. And we will never bow again!”

“We will not falter. We will not hesitate. We will not be complacent while our enemies sharpen their knives and gather their fleets. This victory does not mark the end of our struggle–it is only the beginning! Many of our brothers and sisters have given their lives so that we may stand here today, free. Let us honor them not with grief, but with resolve! We will not squander their sacrifice. We have fought too hard to let our enemies divide us now.”

“We will not rest until our borders are fortified, until our fleets are unmatched, until every Separatist world is secured, until every citizen of our Confederacy can walk freely beneath our banner without fear! We will not rest until our fleets stand as unchallenged guardians of our borders, until our armies ensure that no foreign power shall ever dictate our fates again! We will not rest until every voice that whispers of submission is drowned out by the great roar of a people who will never kneel again!”

“Let the Core bicker over their scraps! Let them waste their strength fighting over the ruins of their broken empire! We will build anew. We will grow stronger. Until every corner of the Outer Rim, from the South to the Tingel Arm, from the Tion Cluster to the Seventy-Seven Sectors, from the uncharted spacelanes of the Unknown Regions to the lost worlds of Wild Space can all boldly and proudly fly high the six-sided shield of the Separatist Alliance!”

“Our enemies are many, and one day they will march upon us to take back what they lost! And we say to them–!”

“We will not let you!”

“We have torn down one Republic, and we will never allow another to rise in its place to subjugate us again. We stand united now, and we shall stand united forever! Our strength is found in each other! The fleets of the Rimma, the foundries of the Perlemian, and the tradeworlds of the Corellian Run! Only together, can we secure our independence!”

“And to those who still waver, who still doubt, hear me now! The age of submission is over! The age of appeasement is over! It is a new day shining over the Outer Rim! We did not start this war, but we have won it. And we will not apologize for our victory.”

“Our cause is righteous. Our purpose is clear. Our strength is undeniable. We are now masters of our own destiny, and architects of our own fate. Our future is ours alone to take!”

“We are all one people, we are all one state, and we all march towards one destiny! This is our future! And by our will, by our strength, by the blood and sacrifice of all who fought for our right to be free, our Confederacy shall endure for a thousand generations!”

⁂

Raxus Secundus, Raxus System

Caluula Sector

Raxus Secundus, the beating heart of the Confederacy, pulsed with the thunder of marching legions. The great boulevards of the capital–lined with banners bearing the six-sided shield of the Separatist Alliance–were a flood of motion, a spectacle of martial glory assembled in triumphal procession.

The streets were choked with bodies, a sea of raised fists and banners, the air filled with the ceaseless tramp of boots and the thunderous clatter of droid formations moving in perfect, mechanical sync. Leading them, organic soldiers, warriors of a hundred species, dressed in the colors of their homeworlds, their banners rippling in the midday light. The soldiers of the Confederacy, flesh and metal alike, had come to claim their triumph.

The Parliamentary Palace loomed above it all, a massive edifice of white stone and granite, its columns wrapped in banners of deep blue, each emblazoned with the Separatist Hex. From its great terraces, Sev’rance Tann stood before them, her voice carried by amplifiers, by holoscreens, by the sheer force of will that had brought her here. She spoke of war, of blood spilled in defiance of the Core’s dominion, of victory snatched from the Republic’s dying grip.

And when she was done–when her final words rang out over the capital–the world itself seemed to shake.

“One People! One State! One Destiny!”

The chant took hold like fire in dry grass, spreading from the plaza to the boulevards, to the open-air balconies and high towers, roaring out from every throat. The sound of it dwarfed the rumble of repulsortanks, rolling forward in slow formation, their armor gleaming beneath the midday sun and turrets raised in salute. Walkers tramped forward like iron giants, casting long shadows over the celebrating masses, their steps pounding into the stones of Raxulon’s streets like the drumbeat of war.

Above them, the sky belonged to the pilots. Starfighters, bombers, and interceptors of every make streaked in formation, cutting across the sky in sweeping formations, banking in perfect sync in a grand, choreographed war dance. The cheers from the streets rose even higher in response, their voices nearly drowned by the deep rumble of heavy engines from the capital ships above them still.

“One People! One State! One Destiny!”

The Confederate Second Fleet held position in parade formation just beyond the stratosphere, its massive warships silhouetted against the planet’s upper atmosphere. They hung in orbit like victorious valkyries, their vast hulls cast onto massive city-wide holoscreens so that even those in the deepest alleys of Raxulon could look up and see them. The people roared at the sight of them, for they knew what those ships meant. They were the defiance that repulsed the Galactic Republic; they were the power by which they carved out their nation; and they were their security should war ever come them again.

And it would come again.

“One People! One State! One Destiny!”

It swelled like a rising tide, voices merging into a singular, rolling thunder through the streets and avenues, carried on the wind to every corner of the capital. Soldiers pounded their fists against their chests; battle droids raised their rifles in synchronized salute; banners were thrust skyward as thousands of hands reached up toward the terrace, as if in supplication to the warlord who had secured their independence.

Beyond the terrace, within the cool shadows of the palace interior, Admiral Trench, Admiral Rain Bonteri, and half a hundred more military officers waited in silence. If there was ever a single image of proof that it was a military junta ruling the Confederacy, all one would need to do was take a picture of the room. The doors stood open behind them, letting in the noise, the light, the heat, and the sheer resounding pressure of the moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eon basking in the jubilee of the crowds outside, the Old Spider sensed the Supreme Commander turning around to reenter the Parliamentary Palace. The Admiral of the Second Fleet Group took a good look at the room he had gathered–none of them sharing in the joy of celebration, but rather a grim determination between them–and nodded in satisfaction. He moved purposely, positioning himself to intercept her as she entered.

“Admiral Trench,” Supreme Commander Sev’rance Tann smiled thinly upon finding the Older Spider placing his great mass in her way. She glanced to the side, and took in the gathered audience. If there was anything those gleaming red eyes of her caught, it was that every single one of them belonged to the Second Fleet, “Is there an occasion?”

There was a long pause in the room, and for a moment the only sound was the continuing roar of the masses beyond the terrace.

“If I may have a moment of your time, Supreme Commander,” the Old Spider rumbled.

Sev’rance Tann met his six eyes, and wore a mask of blankness, “You may. It is your fleet in orbit over Raxus Secundus, is it not?”

“We wish to discuss the future of the Confederacy,” Admiral Trench moved aside, allowing the Supreme Commander to step further into the room. Despite their strength in numbers, the gathered captains of the Second Fleet seemed to melt away before her, “Must we elaborate upon our concerns?”

Her footfalls slowed to a halt… “The Confederacy’s existence is not yet secured.”

“And when will that be?” Trench chittered violently, “ We have shattered the might of the Republic, and Core can no longer rival our united front. Our warfleets reign triumphant over every front. The insurgents in the north are of no concern to our base of power, and Count Dooku is in our custody and at our disposal.”

“The war is over,” he pressed harder, “You have confirmed that yourself when the order was issued to stand-down the frontline fleets. It is obvious that we have come to an agreement with Coruscant! So what more, exactly, must we accomplish to ensure the Confederacy’s longevity?”

“So long as Count Dooku still lives, we must sleep with one eye open,” the Supreme Commander of the Confederate Armed Forces whirled upon him, “For there will always be those loyal to him, and willing to do his bidding. He does not have the best interests of the State in his heart. We must remove

Rear Admiral Merai suddenly could not hold his silence any longer, and the Mon Cala officer strode forth in obvious disbelief, “With all due respect, sir, but you would hold our newfound nation hostage over your… your personal vendetta against Count Dooku?”

It was as if the noise drowned away, and a glacial frost enveloped the increasingly claustrophobic chamber. Trench remained impassive, the shifting of his mandibles the only sign of movement as he regarded the Mon Cala officer. Sev’rance Tann, however, did not move at all. She had turned fully now, standing face-to-face with Merai, her expression a glacial mask of unreadable scrutiny.

Sev’rance Tann was the Supreme Commander of the Confederate Armed Forces, but Admiral Trench had always been her peer. Indeed, he was now the only real rival for her position, and it was only through his continued support that the Pantoran enjoyed such complete control over the many internal factions of the CAF. But Merai was not Trench. He was a lesser admiral, not just in rank, but in standing. And he had overstepped.

Nobody knew how Sev’rance Tann would react, especially to such implications that rang like the toll of a bell in the hush that followed. Trench moved to protect his subordinate.

Admiral Bonteri moved faster.

“Supreme Commander,” he said, his voice level, as if the tension in the air was something he had not noticed at all, “We all recognize the danger of leaving loose ends untied. Count Dooku is a liability–but he is also the Confederacy’s founding father.”

Tann’s gaze flicked toward him, but never with the same intensity it did Merai. Because while Rain Bonteri may also be a lesser admiral in rank, he may as well be an equal to the Pantoran in standing. Being one of Sev’rance Tann’s first supporters notwithstanding, Rain Bonteri was the Battle Hydra, and the Confederate Second Fleet contained no shortage of Perlemian-born captains who respected if not revered him. A dead man he may be, but even still he has been remembered on all sides as one such admiral the Confederacy could have never done without.

“His crimes are real,” Bonteri continued, inclining his head slightly. “And you are correct; there are those who would die for him, even now. But there are also those not loyal to him, but to the dream he represented, before any of us did.”

He gestured, lightly, toward the great windows that overlooked the city. Below, the victory celebrations were still in full force, the Confederacy reveling in its newfound freedom.

“It is these people,” Bonteri explained, “Whom we must consider first. Not our enemies, not the loyalists lurking in the shadows–but those who look upon our banners and see their own reflection. The workers, the soldiers, the statesmen and the citizens who marched for this dream. To them, Count Dooku is not merely a man; he is a symbol.”

His eyes darkened, “And symbols do not die so easily. Not one still existing in living memory.”

Bonteri allowed the moment to stretch, then pressed on.

“Even if we were to execute him,” he said then, “Even if we were to strike his name from our records, the Confederacy will always be his in the eyes of history. His death as a criminal would cast a shadow over our future, a blot upon our legitimacy that would never fade.”

“And what would you have me do?” Sev’rance Tann exhaled slowly through her nose, “Let him live? Let him continue plotting from the shadows he so readily controls?”

Admiral Bonteri did not hesitate.

“The Parliament must decide,” he said, “Not the military. Not the Supreme Commander. If we are to be a nation, if we are to endure as something greater than a coalition of warlords, then our laws must carry weight and consequence. Let the Parliament choose his fate, and we will abide by it. This is the only way this State can achieve longevity.”

“Parliament will never sentence him to death.”

And is that why you would not return the government to them? Trench began building a mental picture of the Supreme Commander’s ends. She wanted Dooku dead, but the senators would never allow it. Therefore, she would not reinstate the Parliament. Simultaneously, she could not execute Dooku, because it was Admiral Trench’s Second Fleet that held him in custody–the same Admiral Trench that wanted the Parliament reinstated in order to curb the Supreme Commander’s authority. Leaving them in a three-way political deadlock.

“We can, of course, negotiate with the Parliament,” he said, his mandibles clicking softly. “A compromise, one that both sides find… favorable.”

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

“Indeed?”

Trench inclined his head slightly: “Exile.”

Tann raised an eyebrow, “You would sentence Dooku to exile? What’s to say he will not return?”

“It is a simple solution,” Trench explained smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “one that removes him from civilization while ensuring his followers have no martyr to rally behind. The location would be an uninhabited world on the edge of Separatist space–isolated, forgotten, but monitored. The Confederate Armed Forces will be given full authority over his continued banishment, and to the public… we will say he has chosen voluntary retirement.”

Tann studied him, her expression unreadable.

“And how,” she said at last, “do you intend to convince Parliament of this?”

Trench’s mandibles twitched in the barest hint of amusement.

“If they agree, the Confederate Armed Forces will relinquish its hold on the government. The Parliament will be reinstated, a general election announced, and the Confederacy will officially return to civilian rule. Their only real concern is his execution–exile will seem a far more palatable alternative.”

Silence. Sev’rance Tann did not respond immediately, and the weight of her pause was felt by every officer in the room. They first thought she had delved into one of those future-seeing trances she was known for, but the continued blinking of her red eyes eliminated that possibility. Of course, why would she make herself vulnerable at such a fragile moment? This was all mental calculation.

Even Trench could not resist squeezing the hilt of his cane.

To refuse would mean war. Not on the battlefield, not with fleets and armies, but behind closed doors. It meant the Confederacy fracturing before it had even solidified itself. Would Sev’rance Tann allow that?

If Trench knew Sev’rance Tann, he would say; no, she would not.

“There will be no trial,” the Supreme Commander decided, “I will not give Dooku the liberty of speaking to a court, open or closed. I will not allow him to sway any of their minds. If you can convince Parliament of this, I guarantee Star Station Independence will withdraw from Raxus Secundus, martial law will be lifted, and civilian rule will return to the Confederacy.”

Trench inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

“Of course,” the Old Spider murmured, sharing a knowing look with Admiral Bonteri.

The agreement was struck, and with the past dealt with, the newfound nation took its first step into the future.

⁂

OHS4140-02 System Transit

Ash Worlds

“So?” Asajj Ventress could hear Naradan D’ulin question behind her, “Is that our target?”

She observed the lone vessel through the Sharihen’s scopes, identifying it as a Munificent-class star frigate, painted in the Second Fleet Group’s livery.

“Must be.”

Ventress was no stranger to the Confederate Navy, and she knew enough to be certain that Munificents don’t travel alone. If they did, then it was almost definitely for the purposes of an undercover mission of some kind. Advanced recon, long-range transceiver operations, communications tapping… or the secret transportation of a VIP.

The Mistryl Team Prime nodded towards the helm– “Bring us closer to that ship, and perform a bio-scan!”

In times past, Ventress only ever took orders from a person: Count Dooku. And even now, she was not one to listen to commands. This time, however, she was more than willing to oblige with the request she received. As for the Mistryl… those mercenaries would do anything so long as it paid well, and it would appear their new commission would have all the wealth and influence of the Separatist State behind it.

It was for this reason that the Mistryl warfleet had diverted from its course back to Raxus Secundus from Geonosis, taking a detour deep into the dead patch of space known to the galaxy as the Ash Worlds. Behind her, Naradan D’ulin leaned over the tactical console, his feline yellow eyes narrowing as the Sharihen’s scanners worked their magic.

“Bio-scan complete,” she suddenly reported, “Single organic signature detected. The rest of the vessel is read as non-organic crew. Droids only. This settles it; it’s our quarry.”

Ventress’s mechanical fingers flexed, curling against the armrest of her seat. Only one organism aboard. One. Alone. Vulnerable. She leaned forward, pressing a command into the console before her. The Mistryl warfleet could obliterate the frigate from here, reduce it to atoms if they wished. But no. That was not what she had come for.

She came to find answers.

“My girls can fight through the clone crew,” Naradan warned, “But droids? We aren’t trained for that. Our weapons won’t be so effective.”

Ventress turned to her with a raised eyebrow, “That crew is all droids for a reason. We have their codes.”

“The master control codes from Geonosis,” the Mistryl murmured, “But these are the colours of the Second Fleet. You think…?”

“His death would only be a benefit to everyone involved.”

A crackle of static. The Sharihen’s comms officer nodded; “Transmitting the codes now.”

Asajj Ventress exhaled once, then spoke, “Confederate Frigate, this is the Sharihen. You are ordered to disengage your sublight drives and unlock your airlocks for boarding.”

There was a pause. A long pause.

Then, as expected, the Munificent shuddered, its engines sputtering out, and the vessel only carrying forward on its own momentum. Sharihen matched its velocity to the much larger vessel, extending her boarding tube.

“Convenient,” Naradan D’ulin arched an eyebrow, “Now then, let us collect our bounty.”

Ventress stood in one smooth motion, her twin lightsabers clinking softly against her belt as she strode toward the boarding bay. She felt the thrum of the docking clamps locking into place, sending a deep, resonating tremor through the hull of the Sharihen. The air around her vibrated with the muted hum of the ship’s systems, the occasional static crackle of the comms. The ship's outer airlock lights blinked from red to green as the frigate accepted their docking request.

She stood at the threshold, her body still, her mind anything but.

She could not have expected this moment to arrive so soon. She had imagined a thousand possibilities. Turned it over in her mind like a blade on a whetstone, sharpening the thought into something fine as a sliding stiletto. Now that she was here, she could feel it all go, leaving behind a raw, burning heat behind her ribs. She felt it, filling in the empty void left by the absence of her one hand.

A hiss of air cut through the silence as the boarding doors slid open.

“Where to?” Ventress asked quietly.

One of the mercenaries pulled up the schematics on her wrist display, scanning the glowing red outlines of the ship’s layout. It was all familiar to Ventress. Too familiar. She had fought aboard Munificent-class warships countless times during the war–boarded them, defended them, sabotaged them. Everything and anything her former Master had wished of her.

Up until the moment he discarded her like the Jedi discarded Ky Narec.

“The ship’s hold,” the mercenary answered.

Her boots echoed off against the boarding ramp as it extended into the Munificent’s docking bay, the outer hull still cold from vacuum exposure. Around her, the Mistryl Shadow Guards moved into formation, their weapons held at the ready. The Mistryl split off into their squads out of practice, fanning out through the corridors, sweeping every junction and passageway with all the facility of seasoned mercs.

Not that they would encounter any resistance.

A single foot over the airlock and Ventress knew that. This wasn’t a ship meant for war.

This was a hearse. A slow transport to nowhere, carrying a ghost of a war that had already ended.

The whir of servoes filled the silence as her hands clenched at her sides.

He was here. She could feel it. She didn’t even need the schematics anymore–Ventress set off, all but mindlessly following the trail in the Force like a wolf seeking its kill. A red glow bathed the walls as emergency lighting flickered on, dim and intermittent, casting the hallways in eerie crimson. Ventress allowed her memory to carry her to the main access corridor leading to the internal hold, until she ran into the reinforced blast doors separating the two compartments.

She took a breath, exhaled slowly.

And then, with nothing more than a gesture of her hand, she reached out through the Force, fingers curling invisibly around the mechanisms buried in the walls, twisting, unlocking, and overriding.

The doors hissed apart.

She stepped through.

What had she expected? Many things.

She did not expect this.

Dominating the centre of the vast hold, a single rectangular box, standing upright. It was alive, blinking with lights, beeping with noise, and hissing with mysterious gas, breathing in and out like a mechanical lung. She approached the monolith cautiously, a hand reaching for the lightsabers at her waist.

“Would you look at that,” Naradan murmured, “Do you think the box has a kill-switch?”

Ventress hesitated. A part of her listened to the Mistryl. Her fingers flexed. Her hands burned to reach for her lightsabers, to ignite them and carve through the box, to strike first, before he could weave his poison into her mind again.

But she wanted more than just his death. She wanted answers. She wanted to know what everything–what all of it was for. Had his dream just been one long, elaborate lie? For what purpose had she knelt before him on Rattatak? For what purpose had she sworn herself to him, given everything, killed for him, bled for him?

The box had a single viewport–a red-tinted window levelled directly at the eyes of the prisoner inside. And eyes, there were. Open, wide, and so utterly awake. For a long moment, Ventress did not move.

The hum of the ship’s systems was distant, muffled, as if the entire frigate had sunk into silence, waiting. The viewport of the sarcophagus glowed a deep, bloody red, casting its light against the dark steel of the chamber. And within it, within the narrow frame of that single rectangular box, was him.

Count Dooku.

His eyes were wide, unblinking, locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch despite herself. She had never seen him like this; not broken, not panicked, but contained, trapped in something not of his own design. The great Sith Lord, the master manipulator, the man who had ruled battlefields and senators alike with the flick of a hand, was now nothing more than a prisoner in a cage.

And yet–

And yet.

The way he looked at her made her stomach twist.

There was no fear in his eyes.

She had expected fury, hatred, maybe even resignation–but there was none of it. Instead, Dooku studied her. Cool. Unwavering. As if the circumstances of their last encounter had been inconsequential. As if their history had been rewritten and he was seeing her for the first time.

How dare he!

Her fingers clenched at her sides.

“Finally run out of people to betray, have you?” she asked, her voice laced with venom. If he could hear her, he made no show of it.

Behind her, Naradan D’ulin shifted slightly among her mercenaries, “He’s awake?”

“He is.”

“How…?” the Mistryl Shadow Guard wondered, glancing at the control panel, “He’s being pumped full of drugs. Half of his bloodstream is narcotics, the other half is sedatives.”

“...I want to talk to him,” Ventress finally decided.

“I don’t need to tell you that that would be a mistake.”

Ventress toggled the latch anyway. The sarcophagus hissed, another burst of gas venting from the seals, and the cover yawned open–revealing the Sith Lord’s bound figure inlaid into the steel like a grotesque embossment. Those who captured him certainly took no chances, for this was only a single step away from outright carbon-freezing. Ventress traced the wiring that kept him bound like a straightjacket, the tubing that kept him pumped full of drugs, and couldn’t help but share Naradan’s wonder as to how he managed to remain lucid.

Something bubbled up in her chest. Laughter.

“Was this the grand outcome you envisioned, Dooku?” Ventress mocked, “Was this the galaxy you dreamt of? Did everything come as you had desired?”

She clawed her fingers, and pried off the rigid gag that kept him mute. The moment it fell away, Count Dooku exhaled, slow and shallow. His throat worked once, adjusting to the absence of the restraint, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, brittle, but still carrying that same unmistakable regal detachment.

“Asajj,” he murmured, almost conversationally, as though they were merely picking up from their last conversation, “I would imagine that it is Sev’rance behind your… presence.”

Sev’rance, Sev’rance, Sev’rance–!

“Who did you strike a deal with to keep you alive?” Ventress sneered, “Trench? Bec Lawise? The corpos? Unfortunately, those who would see you alive… are far outweighed by those who want you dead.”

Dooku’s lips curled, “And you would do their bidding?”

“If it grants me no end to self-satisfaction,” she replied, “I gladly would.”

The Count of Serenno made something between a smirk and a wince, “I thought you might.”

She narrowed her eyes, “And you? Does this end give you any satisfaction? To be left to rot on some blasted tombworld while the galaxy moves on without you? Is this what all your planning, all your scheming, amounted to? Nothing?”

Dooku closed his eyes for a moment, as if considering. Then, he exhaled softly.

“A poor ending,” he admitted, “I will grant you that.”

Ventress felt her fingers twitch toward her lightsaber.

“But why?” she hissed, leaning in, her hands gripping the edge of the sarcophagus, her eyes blazing, “Why did it have to end like this? What good would my death have done for you? When you took me off Rattatak, you told me your dream–is that dream still real?”

“Certainly,” Dooku’s eyes snapped open, and for the first time, a glimmer of something sharper crossed his face. Something lucid, something awake and alive, “That dream has been realised. Without me, but realised all the same. I could hope for nothing less, now.”

“But why had it been realised without you!?”

“Because it had never been my dream to begin with,” he answered, almost amused, “The Confederacy was never meant to… win. The galaxy should have never fractured so.”

It cut through her like a vibroblade. Ventress barked a disbelieving, incredulous laugh, all but stumbling backwards. At the admission, not even the Mistryl mercenaries could have kept their silence.

“–You spent your life’s work building an empire out of the Outer Rim,” Naradan demanded, “Just so you could see it fall to the Republic again!? For what purpose?”

Dooku barely spared her a mote of his attention, keeping his gaze fixed on his former apprentice, but he answered all the same, “The Confederacy, fall? Yes. To the Republic…? That was never the intention.”

For a long, terrible moment, Ventress could only stare. The words rattled inside her skull, clashing, contradicting, breaking apart and refusing to fit.

“The Confederacy was never meant to win.”

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense.

She had fought for this. Killed for this. Had watched men and women–soldiers, officers, droids, mercenaries, entire worlds–burn in the name of this. And not just her, but trillions of beings all across the Outer Rim, pledging their entire lives to the six-sided shield.

The Confederacy was a cause. A revolution. A galaxy-shaking upheaval of the corrupt, decaying Republic. That had been Dooku’s dream. His vision. The thing he had whispered to her all those years ago on Rattatak, when he had lifted her from the ashes and given her a purpose. And now he tells me it was never real.

Her hands clenched into fists.

“That’s impossible,” she growled, shaking her head. “This wasn’t a game, Dooku. This wasn’t some–some exercise in politics! You shattered the Republic. You tore the galaxy apart. For what!?”

Dooku’s expression did not change.

“The Confederacy was a tool,” he said simply, “A mere means to an end.”

Ventress felt something snap inside her. She had always known he was ruthless. Had always understood that he saw people as little more than instruments to be used and discarded. She had lived through that firsthand. But this–this was something else.

She staggered back from the sarcophagus, her breaths coming short, sharp.

A tool. He had called an entire galactic movement–the blood and sacrifice of trillions upon trillions–a tool.

It didn’t make sense.

Unless–

Unless it was never his.

Her pulse spiked. The pieces clicked, slotted together with a kind of inevitability that had always been in plain sight, a picture she had never even thought to see. The words were already leaving her lips before she had time to fully understand them.

“You weren’t the Sith Master.”

A beat. Count Dooku tilted his head ever so slightly, acknowledging the truth without confirming it.

She had always known Dooku was powerful–more powerful than any Jedi, more ruthless than any politician, a leader of men, a warrior, a ruler. He had played the Republic, played the Jedi, played the entire galaxy into war, and for what?

For this? For exile?

No. It was simply that he had never been in control.

Because it had never been his war. Because Dooku had never been the Sith Lord. Because someone else–someone in the Republic–had held his leash all along. Count Dooku was just another pawn being moved on this gameboard, same as them rest of them, only pretending to the galaxy that he wasn’t–that he was a player.

And the very moment his usefulness reached its end, he had been cast aside; just as he had cast her aside as easily as breathing; and now he had learned how it felt. Because betrayal is the unhappy hazard of the dark side.

Dooku’s fingers twitched against the restraints, “Perhaps. But tell me, Asajj–what is it that you believe in?”

The rage built in her so fast, so deep, she nearly choked on it. Her lightsaber flashed to her hand, and before she knew it, the crimson blade ignited, its glow filling the chamber, burning against the metallic sheen of the sarcophagus, illuminating the angles of Dooku’s face in its bloody glow.

What did I believe in? She wanted to scream. I believed in everything you believed in!

And now she learnt he had been lying all along!

Count Dooku did not flinch. His face remained still, his gaze locked on hers, but his breathing was slower now, more deliberate. As if he had already accepted what came next.

Ventress’s hands trembled on her weapon.

How could she not dream of this moment? She had every right!

He had stolen years of her life. Had turned her into a weapon, a shadow, an assassin, a tool for a war that was never meant to be won. He had ordered her execution without hesitation, had discarded her like nothing–and now he was here, trapped in a machine that kept him alive only long enough to suffer.

She could end it.

She should end it.

It took every fibre of restraint in her body to resist the urge of running him through right then and there.

“Why do you hesitate?” Dooku asked, almost genuinely curious, “Why do you hesitate the easiest kill of your life?”

Ventress stilled, and a long, ragged breath tore from her lungs. And her lightsaber deactivated with a hiss. It would be too clean. Too easy. Too much like the death of a Jedi, a Sith, rather than the death of a discarded failure. Her former master’s expression remained unreadable, but she caught it, just for an instant–the barest flicker of something in his eyes. At that moment, Ventress couldn’t care less what he thought.

She took a step back, slammed the sarcophagus shut, and reached for the panel on the sarcophagus. A red light flashed on the console, a long beeeep was heard, and the silhouette behind the viewport violently convulsed. And when she peered through the viewport again, Count Dooku’s eyes were closed.

The founding father of the Confederacy would make it to his place of retirement, and he will never return again.

“...What now?” she could only utter.

“Now?” Naradan D’ulin mused, “Now, I take my girls to Raxus Secundus and collect our bounty, then return back to Emberlene as heroes. You, however, have your own road to take. Dooku had a point, I am afraid. What do you believe in? What do you want to do?”

For a long time, Ventress could not answer. All her life, she had only done the bidding of others, learning their teachings, following their orders, dreaming their dreams. What do you want to do? Well, to her… that question felt a little alien. She deflated.

The Confederacy may not have been Count Dooku’s real dream.

But it had become one anyway.

It had become real for her, for millions, for quadrillions across the Outer Rim who had fought and bled for it. He had used them–just as he had used her–but now he was gone, and the Confederacy remained. He was dead, but the war had been won.

What did that mean for the people who still flew that six-sided shield? For the fleets that still stood on the edge of the Core, bracing for the next war? For the soldiers who had never questioned whether their cause was real, because they had made it real through the price of their own blood?

Was it still a lie if they had willed it into truth?

Ventress had never cared for the ideals of a state, not truly, and never looked beyond the blade of her lightsaber and the next battle, the next hand that would use her until she was of no further worth.

She had spent her entire life fighting in other people’s wars, believing them to be her own.

And now Count Dooku was dead, and his dream–whatever it had been–had died with him. And her dream? Could her dream of a better Republic–a Confederacy of Independent Systems–still stand on its own two feet, without him?

Asajj Ventress finally had her answer–

“I suppose I’ll have to find that out.”

Naradan smirked, and turned on her heel, “Let’s send this frigate on its way. Can’t raise any suspicions that it didn’t arrive at its destination.”

The Shadow Guards left with her. Their job was finished. They had their payment waiting for them on Raxus Secundus, their return voyage home already in mind. But Ventress lingered a moment longer, staring out the viewport at the stars beyond, the ones that belonged to the Confederacy now.

Count Dooku had died an ignoble death, in silence, never to be revealed until years in the future, and maybe that was fitting. It was just another useful lie to append to his long career of lying.

But the dream he had forced into existence?

That was still alive. It had grown without him, beyond him, until it was out of his control.

And no longer did it belong to him.