The Force Wills - Chapter 184 (Patreon)

“There, do you feel it?”

The wild evening in the valley on Dalicron IV resounded in my montrals with the noises of insects chirping in the moonlight. The cool, moist air tickled my skin. The pleasant smell of the dense wood surrounded me. Beyond that, lying not beneath or above, left or right, was hyperspace. Connected to existence in a way that struggled to be expressed with mere words. The mass shadow of the planet cast itself on hyperspace, yet now I saw it not just as a flashlight casting a shadow from an object, but… 

I could feel a fraction of it as it had existed yesterday, as it existed today and will tomorrow; all at once.

It was not just a sphere tumbling through the cosmos, it was a shape that there wasn’t a word for in Basic, so I did my best… spherical tesseract?

I opened my eyes reluctantly and let go of the vision.

Back to the normal, boring three dimensional universe, belatedly nodding to the spirit of Jedi Master Duumas in front of me.

“I do, Master.”

He paced back and forth with pent up energy. It was clear that he was enjoying just the sheer act of teaching and conversing with me. Not that I blamed him, after his centuries long hermitage as a spirit within a tree.

“Good. Now you can sustain Force navigation for much longer without exhausting yourself. Interesting that this form of the technique was lost. I suppose the long period of relative peace meant that shortcuts were taken in the teaching.”

“And Navigators a thousand years ago had to be frugal with their strength by necessity?”

Duumas nodded emphatically, “Oh yes. Doesn’t help when your navigator dies to a Sith boarding party because they’re exhausted guiding the ship through hyperspace. Now remember, you’re still paying too much attention to the noise of the future. This is chiefly what is the culprit to the exhaustion. Echoes of dangers that belong to parallel possibilities rather than the path currently being taken. It is very tempting to explore them, but it’s a distraction. At hyper speeds you can afford no hesitation, and if you react, you make unnecessary course corrections.

“True, actionable danger has weight and persistence, its impression does not fade when examined. It has convergence, multiple threads of possibility being pulled to the same point. It often, but not always, arrives with direction, timing or nature. Let the noise wash past and wait for the impressions that refuse to pass.”

That was precisely my problem, and my habit in precognition of examining alternate possibilities was bleeding over to influence me here.

“I see, Master.”

He came to a stop, gave me a shrewd stare, before nodding, “Good. You gently push against any sensed danger in the Force. Noise will scatter. Genuine threat will sharpen or push back against you. Background noise is often laced with diffuse anxiety. Real danger carries a cleaner,  colder edge. With enough experience, a Jedi navigator will know when the future of their ship is collapsing from many possible futures towards a single violent outcome.”

“Another reason a Jedi Navigator was so targeted in your era,” I pointed out.

“The Sith Brotherhood naturally had their own navigators, but you are correct. Any Jedi could receive a ‘vision’, but it was our navigators who truly guided us, gave us strategic and tactical flexibility. Not only getting our ships to where they needed to be, but also gave us valuable insight into the machinations of the enemy. Now, remember that you must learn to act on incomplete but solid impressions. It is rare for the future to be mapped completely.”

“I will, Master.”

His spirit form suddenly gazed into the distance.

I turned around and only saw the sharp angled bulk of the Conqueror, landed a few kilometers away beyond the forest boundary. Work pods and droids buzzed on the dorsal superstructure in the night. The hull was open again, and my crew was fixing the lingering issues that had been put off in favor of reaching Golatha as quickly as possible. Some of which could only be done with the ship fully powered down and in a makeshift dry dock. It was now the second day of repairs.

“Master?”

“Apologies, padawan. Now if you’ll permit me I must speak on something I’ve sensed in you since your return; that of a corrosive self-blame.” He stared at me expectantly, giving me the chance to deny or affirm it.

I huffed and somewhat helplessly shrugged, “It’s something I’m dealing with, Master. Master Taria has helped and there are moments I feel it behind me and then it will just come surging right back.”

He nodded sagely, “It is not something to shirk off, padawan. I will now speak of what I have learned of the weight of command as a Jedi leading troops. Command is not merely the authority to give orders. It is the permanent acceptance that other lives now move because of your decisions, and that some of those lives will end because of them. Firstly, I will say that in command, responsibility does not equal guilt, but they are equally confused.

“You carry the many faces of those lost in the war under your command, especially those of Scipio; clones, muun, civilians, the Mandalorians of your cohort lost on Golatha. You are responsible for your decisions; you are not responsible for the enemy’s actions or the nature of war itself. Learning this difference and keeping it in mind, is what keeps any commander, especially a Jedi, functional on the battlefield. However, this burden is never meant to be comfortable. Any leader who stops feeling this weight of command has become dangerous. The goal is not to make the burden lighter, but to grow strong enough to carry it without breaking or becoming numb. Numbness is the first step towards treating your soldiers as numbers.”

My eyes closed as I pulled in the words, struggling in the acceptance. If there was any Jedi who would know, it would be Duumas and those who had fought the brutal campaigns against the Brotherhood. For so long in this war, commanding the clones in so many campaigns, commanding ships and fleets, I had muddled my way through. See-sawing between remembrance and embracing the burden, to casting it aside when it just became too much.

He stepped forward now and sat opposite me. “Work on it. My words are just sign posts on the journey. There will be no sudden moment of revelation here. Accept that you will spend lives, yet spend them carefully. There is no path in war that does not cost lives. A Jedi commander’s duty is to make certain those lives are spent on objectives that matter, and never through carelessness, pride or hesitation. Examine every victory and even your defeats, ask whether the same result could’ve been achieved with less blood. This is not to torture yourself, but to refine your judgment.

“I note that you have a natural empathy for your men. It is both a strength and vulnerability. You must keep a measured distance in the moment of command. I have seen leaders wall themselves off, becoming strangers to their troops and immediately lose the confidence of their men. On the other hand, there were those who became too close, and were paralyzed in their caring, dreading the coming grief. You must stand in the middle of those two extremes, never falling to either side.”

I let out a trembling breath and a rebellious tear that ran down my left cheek. “It is so easy to say.”

He nodded, “The doing is the measure of whether you are fit. If you cannot, decide it now, and relinquish your generalship. No matter the consequences. Better that, than leading those who will depend on you into disaster. Also, prepare yourself for the solitude; even when you are surrounded by trusted officers, Mandalorian brothers and sisters, fellow Jedi, you are the final arbiter who can give the order that may kill the people who trust you.”

I imagined having to face Padme in the future, telling her that Anakin had died on some battlefield under my command. A scenario that I didn’t dare approach with prescience. I didn’t dare think of the Chosen One prophecy as some magical ‘protection’ that would keep him alive.

The thought tore at my heart mercilessly.

A worst case scenario, certainly. One that was very dangerous and a vulnerability that Palpatine wouldn’t hesitate to exploit to the fullest.

I must become strong enough to endure and carry that.

“I will also teach you ways in the coming days of carrying the dead. You can remember the fallen without letting their memory dictate every future choice. The dead deserve to be honored, but they do not deserve to become chains that prevent you from leading the living effectively.”

The dread and fear of the coming Victory Feast on Concordia.

I looked up into the wild visage of Duumas, swallowed and centered myself, casting off the desperation that threatened to color my voice, “Teach me, Master.”

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I was alone in the Conqueror’s Ward Room, the long table practically buried under various datapads and flimsi with marginally organized chaos.

The local sun speared through the transparisteel with a rare early morning soft hue as I got to grips with the work that had piled up during my brief training sabbatical with Duumas.

Reading this repair report, authorizing another, signing off on consumption logs, reading intel reports from the greater galaxy. More narrow in scope, was signing off on the medical reports of the wounded; on it went in a seemingly never ending snowball. With every report, they were committed to memory and my personal datapad gained more notes, forming the overall picture of the ship and crew.

I completed the eighth requisition request of thirty on my desk, putting a firm denial on it along with a dry explanation to the engineer clone who had sent it, that we were in no position to open up the auxiliary power systems just to eke out an extra 0.9% of efficiency from them.

The door hissed open and Anakin bustled in with a tense energy and body language that I interpreted instantly.

“What now, Skyguy?”

“Just came from the transference room, Yoda summoned me for a meeting in the Temple.”

He didn’t elaborate further and walked to the beautiful view of the outside, folded only his right hand behind his back, straining and squeezing that artificial fist hard enough that I could hear his glove creaking. 

Oh dear.

“And?” I asked expectantly.

“It turns out those kriffing Umbaran Partisans have secretly kept 501st troopers prisoner ever since the Battle of Umbara.”

I felt my own hands straining against the datapad I was holding. “How many?”

“22, most of them ARC troopers who were inserted on the left flank of the initial attack on the airbase. Most were declared dead.”

I understood the logic, since Umbaran weaponry didn’t really leave much room for sustaining injury. Mostly, if you were hit, you were dead.

“So are we going on a rescue mission?”

He huffed, visibly cleansing himself of anger, “No. The Partisans contacted the Jedi Council and negotiated for a prisoner exchange. There are a number of them who are already moldering in prison. Their leader, Rhy Cesca, has given us a list of who she wants in exchange for a release of all 22 ARC troopers.”

“And we’re sure she actually has them, there is sufficient proof of life given?”

“Yes, I watched and analysed the holo footage myself. R2 looked over it as well.”

“Where is the exchange taking place?”

“Bespin. Cloud City.”

I didn’t even need to reference a star chart. It was a single sector north from Dalicron, within the Anoat Sector Cluster, just over a day’s travel away.

“That’s a long way to go from Umbara, just for a prisoner exchange,” I pointed out, suspicion lacing my tone.

“The Council and RI can only conclude it’s for the relatively neutral location it offers. The locals have remained staunchly neutral and have declared for neither side. They believe that the Partisans are also using the opportunity to negotiate for black market arms sales, which is another reason we want to make this prisoner exchange happen.”

I nodded thoughtfully, “Spy on the transactions, map the finance trails and black market shipping, gain any intel on the Partisans from the captive troopers.”

“Master Yoda was also being rather cryptic and mysterious, that there was something else we would learn or need to do.”

“As usual,” I smiled wryly, focusing briefly along the probability line, which did indeed indicate we would both be heading in Bespin’s direction within the next day. I didn’t look closely though, as I felt the flow of events pushing back at me in a way that only happened when the mere act of knowing would influence events. There was also another anomaly in the Force along that probability line, that I couldn’t give a name to. “All right, I can sense why Yoda’s being cagey. Something is disturbing the Force around Bespin.”

“Can’t be another ancient Jedi Master this time, can it?” he asked with exasperation.

“Best I don’t speculate. Rendezvous point for the umbaran prisoners?”

“Nothoiin system. The transport will be there when we arrive. There are nine of them, and if we have to bring back 22 troopers, we should use the Omen.”

“Be nice to give her a run again. I’ll grab Chewie and Ursa, we can be on our way after I’ve organized and handed over the Conqueror’s command.”

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The Omen sped through hyperspace and intercepted the Lipsec Run within less than two hours from Dalicron.

My personal Kom’rk class fighter-transport was now modded to the point that it could boast a speed just a few decimal points off from the future Millennium Falcon, able to cruise at a 0.59 hyperspace factor.

We blitzed into the Anoat Cluster in another four hours, cruising through four systems on the trot in another seven hours.

The Omen burst out of hyperspace in Nothoiin.

It was only a modestly developed star system, straddling the convergence of two hyperlanes. Its primary world, Nothoiin IV, was essentially a planet of rolling plains and a single major ocean that swirled around the only mega-continent.

It was also on fire.

That was the only descriptor that I could give as the Omen inserted itself into a high orbit.

Looking down, you could see long lines of wildfires stretching across the entire mega-continent, criss-crossing on itself like an orange-red spider web, sending clouds of smoke that were streaming across the planet.

“Now that is something you don’t see every day,” Ursa muttered from the pilot seat. She had taken it upon herself to do most of the flying, with R2 doing the navigation.

“It’s also the fourth decade this specific wildfire has been burning,” I shook my head in disbelief.

“Have the locals not heard of fire prevention?”

“Perhaps,” I shrugged. “The Nothoiin were the dominant species of this sector for many centuries. They’ve since backslid into decadence, especially when ur-diamonds were discovered on their only moon. The planet is also in the fifth decade of a drought.”

Ursa blinked in astonishment, “Well, it’s not like we’re in a position to point fingers, given the current state of Mandalore. Approaching rendezvous, Manda’lor. Looks like an Arquitens light cruiser.”

The wedge shaped cruiser in red Republic livery swung into view as Ursa aligned the Omen for an approach.

I keyed a standard hail frequency into the comlink, including current encryption.

“Republic Cruiser Challenger, this is General Ahsoka Tano onboard Omen, approaching your starboard side. Request docking permission for prisoner transfer." 

The reply was brusque and definitely from a clone, “Transmit authentication code, General.”

A swipe through the air brought up a holo-interface and with rapid taps on the Aurebesh keypad, I sent my own 24 digit identifier.

What should’ve been a quick process, stretched into long seconds of silence.

I keyed a passive scan of the Challenger.

“Something wrong, Manda’lor?” Ursa’s hands gripped the control yoke harder, tensing.

I was about to answer when-

“Code confirmed, General. You are cleared for a hard dock on the port side.”

“Thank you, Challenger. Tano out.” I stood from the co-pilot seat. “Bring the ventral airlock to bear, Ursa.”

“At once, Manda’lor.”

I put on my helmet and a quick hop down the ladder into the main troop compartment, found Chewie, R2 and Anakin double-checking and scanning the adjustments they had made to nine of the trooper harness alcoves.

“Is everything going smooth down here?”

“We’re ready, Snips. Once these prisoners sit down, there’s no getting up unless we let them.”

“Good.”

The Omen shuddered slightly as it docked. 

Chewie, in his own combat armor, approached the ventral airlock on the far end of the troop compartment and began working the controls embedded in the floor.

The hiss of equalization echoed as the atmospheres of both ships briefly competed with one another. The clatter of thick durasteel airlock doors pulled apart by motivators echoed.

Chewie stood to his full height and looked down. 

I felt no small amount of fear and apprehension from the nine umbarans as they stared up right into a nightmarish scene. It was not every day that you saw a towering wookiee in tailored combat armor awaiting you within the confines of a small ship.

“What are you waiting for? Climb!” he growled, before his translator module helpfully repeated it in Basic to the incoming prisoners.

I had to hold in my giggles as I took position on the furthest end of the prisoner harnesses, acting as the solid barrier that would prevent the umbarans from walking deeper into the Omen.

The first umbaran’s hands appeared on the lip of the inner door, before he pulled himself up warily.

They were all still clad in their bright orange prisoner jumpsuits, their hands cuffed with thick maglocks, whilst their heads were covered in a partially polarized transparent dome helmet that shielded their ultra-sensitive eyes from the relatively bright interior lighting of the Omen.

The umbaran looked around the troop compartment interior with inscrutable white eyes and deep indigo-black pupils. He spotted Anakin first, then those eerie eyes widened a fraction when he saw me. The shadow worlder was tall, lean, with the chalk-white skin of his species, with a faint bluish undertone to his complexion. He had the kind of face that gave him a permanently calculating expression. 

“Move,” Chewie gave the umbaran a push that nearly sent him sprawling face first onto the floor.

He barely managed to catch his footing and obediently approached me.

I gestured to the seating harness, “Sit.”

As he turned and carefully descended butt first into the harness, I spotted his name on the jumpsuit lapel; Luco Bronc.

The moment he was in position, a brief use of Mechu-Deru, caused the harness to constrict and lock.

The next to arrive was a female umbaran who had such a manic energy about her, that she looked ready to fight me, despite the odds against her achieving anything.

“Don’t Ilma,” Bronc warned with a commanding tone.

The bald woman glared at me through her helmet, sneered at her leader before almost throwing herself into the harness.

I locked her in place and held my open hand in front of her.

She gave me a confused look, before I closed my hand into a fist.

The Force enclosed her entire body. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe, her eerie white eyes rolled in panic.

I let her have three seconds of near paralysis in Force Stasis before opening my hand and letting go.

“A small reminder Ilma Vevoon,” I said flatly. The prisoner manifest Yoda had transmitted to us hadn’t been gripping reading, but I made sure to memorize the highlights. Vevoon was close to holding the record for starting fights and altercations in Coruscant Central Prison for women on the capital planet’s moon, Centax II.

The remaining prisoners were seated and locked down without further incident.

Anakin stood in front of them, gaining their attention instantly, whilst Chewie closed and cycled the airlock.

“Listen carefully. I will not be repeating myself,” Anakin declared as the Omen shuddered, releasing the hard dock with the Challenger. Chewie and I come to stand behind him with folded arms, completing the very intimidating picture for them.

“You are part of a prisoner exchange. I will receive 22 of my men for you. Your crimes against your own government would normally merit the death penalty. The only reason you are still breathing is because the Republic intervened. That protection can be withdrawn in an instant and this entire deck voided to space, should you make a nuisance of yourself.

“While you are on this ship, you will remain in those harnesses. If you require the use of a refresher, speak up, you will be escorted by either myself, Sergeant Chewbacca or General Tano. Try anything and you will not enjoy the consequences. Otherwise, you will not speak, unless spoken to. You will not test the restraints. You will not attempt to move, signal or communicate with each other in any way I do not permit. If you do, the restraints will tighten, and you will be rendered forcibly unconscious.

“As you can see, there are Jedi, Mandalorians and a Wookiee on this vessel. None of us are in a generous mood. You are being delivered alive at the exchange point because that is what the agreement requires. That is the only protection you have. When we reach rendezvous, you will follow every instruction immediately and without comment. Any resistance, delay, or heroics, will end badly for you and will not help your cause.

“You are cargo until this exchange is complete. Behave like it.” He met the gaze of each prisoner in turn, probing and intimidating with the Force. “Pray that your partisans keep their side of the bargain and my men come home.”

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Approaching Bespin from space, you would be forgiven for thinking it was just another unremarkable gas giant among the near-uncountable collections of gravitationally bound gas that existed in the galaxy.

It was a huge orange-yellow marble that hung in space and occupied the third orbital position around its parent star, with six moons. The largest of which was two unremarkable icy bodies named H’gaard and Drudonna, which was tapped to supplement the water supply for the six million sentients who called Bespin home.

How could Bespin have any sustainable population at all?

It was a question I had handwaved away in another life. The idea of a floating city within a gas giant was too fantastic and amazing. Now, with the planet rapidly growing in front of me and a galactic nav database at my fingertips, the reality of the situation became clear.

Bespin was a tad smaller than the mean average of gas giants in the galaxy, sitting at 118k km diameter. It had a solid metallic core of 6000km, followed by layer upon layer of various metallic gasses. The pressures and composition was naturally lethal at these depths to any ship or creature. This changed at roughly 200km from space, where the winged Tibannuck roamed and fed on Bespin’s primary export; a unique highly energized form of tibanna gas.

At 180km from space, was the habitable layer of the gas giant; a 30km life zone, where a rich oxy-nitro atmosphere had formed. Neatly explaining how a wounded Luke could hang from an antenna underneath the city’s ventral surface, in just his standard gray cargo outfit.

That didn’t address the question of ‘how’ such a convenient layer could form within a gas giant, just above the primary tibanna gas layer.

The chances of it were literally astronomical.

Many gas giants in the galaxy were tapped for their bounty, but it was usually done from orbit with tethered scoops that were extremely capital intensive. The price of just one of those scoops was close to a modern dreadnought.

Bespin was unique in that tibanna prospectors could harvest gas in a ship that cost 20k credits and just like the story of many mining concerns and discoveries, eventually small communities were founded in servicing these prospectors and their families.

After almost 2000 years, the planet now had a permanent population of six million, housed in floating habitats.

The largest of which was Cloud City, the capital. It was also not alone in the skies of Bespin and had two competitor cities; Tibannopolis and Ugnorgrad, the latter home to a colony of ugnaughts.

The Omen decelerated, tipping forward slightly under Ursa’s expert guidance to begin the long plunge.

In the beginning the ride was almost serene. I admired the uppermost layers, a haze of soft whites and diluted amber that streamed past the forward cockpit viewports in mild sheets. There was only a mild trembling in the ship’s hull as it met the outer atmosphere, the wings and angular frame cutting a clean path downward.

The clouds thickened.

The colors outside began to deepen; oranges, deep purples, bands of sudden turquoise that twisted and folded around the Omen.

It began to shake in a more constant rhythm.

Crosswinds sheared across the hull with unpredictable force, slamming us sideways one moment and dropping several meters the next. It translated through the inertial dampeners only enough to give Ursa proper feedback on her piloting, so everyone on board shared the stomach churning ride.

The structural frame groaned around us as the pressure outside rapidly increased.

Omen moved through a layer boundary, clearing the view enough for a breathtaking sight.

Lightning sheets were blooming in the distance; vast walls of silent blue-white energy that illuminated entire cloud continents for a moment, before vanishing.

The destructive beauty of it seared into my eyes and memory.

The turbulence grew heavier.

Omen bucked and rolled as it punched through denser strata of gas. The view outside collapsed into a streaking, chaotic blur of color and vapor. For stretched seconds, I saw Ursa fight the controls as the artificial instrument horizon became useless; only her skill and the ship’s stabilizers kept the descent controlled.

The sudden, violent shear layer hit us like a physical blow, going beyond compensator limits and gave us a 5G slap across the body. Our harnesses being the only thing keeping us in our seats.

Omen yawed hard, engines flaring and whining so hard, I felt the sympathetic vibrations in my lungs and montrals.

For a moment, it felt like the entire ship was going to be torn apart by the opposing gaseous currents.

Then it punched through.

Below the worst of the storm bands now, the ride gradually steadied.

Frakking hell, my hat off to Han Solo for getting his malfunctioning ship through that in one piece!

The clouds opened into broader, slowing moving formations of soft gold and rose. The shaking faded into a deep, continuous vibration.

A glance at the sensor holos, showed pressure and temperature readings moving towards survivable ranges.

Ahead, through breaks in the vapor, the first glimmers of the Life Zone appeared and the vast shape of Cloud City floating serenely in that breathable layer.

From our approach angle it looked like a massive saucer with city buildings perched on its dorsal central core. It was 16 kilometers wide and only when we dipped beneath the city’s altitude could we see it was more like an inverted teardrop, with a huge stalk hung beneath the ventral hull that dipped straight down to bring its overall height to 17 kilometers.

It was that stalk that the city itself could dip into the tibanna layer below to directly harvest the precious gas.

I couldn’t help but put my hand on Ursa’s armored shoulder. “Nice flying, Captain.”

“A pleasure, Manda’lor.” She kept a good stoic facade, but I could sense her internal relief.

I keyed the comlink, “Cloud City Control, this is Mandalorian Transport Omen, requesting vectors for landing.”

“We have you on screens, Omen,” replied a human voice, slightly distorted. “We scan your ship as armed. Please be aware that any power up of weapons will result in immediate fighter launch and sanction.”

“Understood Control. We are just here for a business meeting with Rhy Cesca.”

There was a brief silence.

“We copy. Transmitting vectors for landing pad Xesh One Three. Have a good day and welcome to Cloud City.”

“Thank you, Control. Omen out.”

I quickly brought a holo scan of the city towards me, referencing exactly where that pad was.

“North-western quadrant of the city’s saucer, 110 meters from the dorsal core,” I muttered.

Dropping Cesca’s name to the controller should’ve put things in motion. Xesh One Three was part of a series of six landing pads in the quadrant, connected via single concourse, with only a single route into the main city from them. It was entirely possible to create an access control point there and isolate those pads from the general public.

“So we can assume that Cesca will be in Xesh One Two or One Four,” Ursa nodded, adjusting the Omen onto the provided vectors streaming into the cockpit HUD.

With grasping motions I zoomed the holo in until I had an isometric overview of the pads, adjoining cargo spaces, cargo handling, refueling systems and customs checkpoints. There were direct routes between the pads, but it could also be flown with a jetpack if you were confident enough to brave the winds.

Anyone attacking would have to come from the single connection point to the city, fly directly from above or have hidden themselves in the many cargo pallets that were lying around.

When the Omen was a few hundred meters away, I went full active scan and picked up a cluster of muddled lifesigns in the large customs area for pad Xesh One Four, which the computer eventually refined as being umbaran and human. There was also a singular human lifesign at Xesh One Three. In the Force, that was an entirely different story.

This close, the anomaly I had sensed, resolved into greater resolution. It felt like nothing I had ever sensed before in any lifeform. There was definite sentience there, but it was muddled like someone or something had distorted it badly. It was also constantly shifting, with stringing tendrils connecting multiple nodes that were moving. It was also coming closer, but I couldn’t grasp it enough to deduce a direction to apply farsight.

“Things seem normal, so far, but there is going to be trouble. Bring us in for landing, Ursa.”

“As you command, Manda’lor.”

I headed down to the troop deck where Anakin and Chewie were waiting, the latter was casually holding his massive Bowcaster and doing a very good job of keeping the umbarans nice and quiet as they stood in a line, waiting to disembark.

‘Skyguy, do you sense that?’

He gave a nod of assent, ‘Yes. I can’t make sense of it. Figures that Yoda wouldn’t just choose us for a simple prisoner exchange, whatever my connection to the 501st.’

‘We’re walking into an ambush.’

‘Yes, but not one really intended for us, I believe.’

The Omen touched down smoothly in the sheltered circular landing bay and the rear embarkation ramp hissed open.

Anakin took the lead, “Follow.”

The nine umbarans trotted forward in his wake obediently, with Chewie on the flank and myself taking up the rear to police the tail of the formation.

Well, this is going to be interesting.

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They had barely covered a dozen steps on the landing bay when they were met by a man wearing an official and elegant dark blue uniform with calf length polished boots.

Anakin narrowed his eyes, taking note of the blaster holstered on the official’s hip and the formal bearing, which didn’t quite match up from what he was sensing of the man’s emotions.

“General Skywalker,” the man nodded his head. “I’m from Cloud City Security, Captain Prisa.”

“Captain,” Anakin greeted, not reacting to the clear lie. “Are you here to escort us?”

“Yes, General. The City wishes for a safe and uneventful conclusion to the business that brought you here.”

“Then let’s get this over with,” Anakin gestured towards the main door, inviting Prisa to lead the way.

‘So, who do you think he works for?’ Ahsoka’s thoughts pinged into his mind as the prisoner formation passed through the large door and turned into a large airy corridor.

‘Could be either RI or Separatist, can’t say for sure. I’m learning towards RI, that walk is very similar to someone who’s spent time learning how to march in the Grand Army. He disguises it well, but the rhythm is unmistakable.’

‘A volunteer.’

It wasn’t common, but in such a large galaxy with so many people, it was almost inevitable that there would be those who felt the call to defend the Republic out of a patriotic duty and weren't prepared to just leave the fight only to the clones.

The prisoner formation turned a corner and two large double doors, marked Xesh One Four, parted and revealed the expansive customs area that served the landing zone.

It had a breathtaking view, giving visitors to Cloud City a floor to ceiling transparisteel view of the distant turbulent tibanna clouds below, stretching to the horizon, whilst broiling multicolored exotic clouds heralded the ceiling of the Life Zone.

Anakin’s eyes were immediately on the gathering of 22 clones, stripped to their under armor, kneeling on the floor with hands held interlaced behind their heads. Six armed umbarans in their unique blue-white combat armor guarded them, whilst a seventh, a female, stood in the clear lead.

He scanned each subtly unique face of the clones, finding familiar traits, scars and tattoos, sensing their presence and health.

He stopped the umbaran prisoner formation at the halfway point in the circular room.

“General Skywalker,” Rhy Cesca said in greeting, casually clutching her blaster rifle.

“Cesca. My troops don’t seem to have enjoyed your hospitality. Have you been starving them?” he asked dangerously.

“Umbara has been starving under your occupation, Skywalker. The Republic Navy takes its time letting food shipments through the blockade and has started to use it as a weapon. Your men received the same rations as my soldiers.”

Anakin would not take an enemy’s word for it, especially Cesca’s. Someone who had betrayed her own people twice over. He could sense her twisting the truth, but it was a truth. 

‘Something to definitely look into,’ Ahsoka grumbled unhappily in his mind.

“Let’s get this over with.”

He took a purposeful step aside, giving Luco Bronc a clear path to the walk to the umbaran side of the room and twitched a finger.

The clatter of nine mag cuffs unlocking supernaturally and falling to the floor echoed through the room.

Bronc winced and rubbed his wrists, giving Anakin a wary look.

“Clones, on your feet!” ordered Cesca.

The captured 501st troopers obeyed with reluctance written in their every mannerism.

The umbaran guard also stepped aside and the two sides being traded caught each other’s eyes.

Hardly any coordination or order was needed. The first step was taken by Bronc and the clones followed suit carefully.

The clones shifted into a line formation to match their opposite and both sides began a steady walking cadence. 

Anakin immediately recognized the lead clone trooper.

“Dozen,” he nodded with a mild smile.

“General,” said the clone in greeting. His visibly thin face from weight loss, smiled openly with relief. “I knew you wouldn’t forget about us.”

Anakin patted the trooper on the shoulder, letting the rest of them pass. Ahsoka and Chewie immediately began organizing them, where she didn’t waste any time, placing her hands on each to do health checkups.

‘It’s as you could expect, old combat fatigue injuries, only treated minimally, left to heal and early stage malnutrition,’ she reported after a few checkups. ‘Nothing good food, a mild antibiotic and bacta bandages can’t deal with.’

“We didn’t know you were alive, Dozen,” Anakin revealed, not willing to lie or obfuscate the truth.

Dozen’s angular tattoos on his forehead stretched into a frown, scratching his decidedly non-regulation beard, “I see. Well, at least it’s over now. We can get back to where we belong.”

“It’s good to have you all back though. I see you looked after your men well. Rex is going to have quite a few words for you.”

Dozen groaned with despondence, “Maybe the umbarans can take me back?” he joked, clearly not relishing the thought of being raked over the fire by the 501st’s clone commander.

Anakin chuckled, “Now get yourself checked by General Tano.”

“Your padawan got promoted?”

“She did, go on.”

The reunion on the other side of the room was certainly different in nature.

The umbarans welcomed their own back with the typical clasping hands, nods and even half-hugs, but the reunion between Cesca and Bronc was of an entirely different variety. The Force became alive with the joy of two lovers.

Cesca grabbed Bronc by the neck of his helmet, and pulled him close until the faceplates of their respective helmets were touching each other.

Her white eyes burned with longing emotion, staring deep into her partner’s with an intensity Anakin could feel from across the room.

“I will seek you under every sky,” she whispered to Bronc.

“Until the last star burns out,” he replied.

Both flipped their face plates open and embraced into a lip lock with closed eyes, enduring the extreme relative brightness for each other.

“Hmmm, they say there’s a lid for every camtono,*” Prisa commented with a mild smirk in appreciation for the rather public display of affection. His accent significantly changed, forgetting himself and in a clear mistake that no proper RI agent would make.

“That camtono has been killing good soldiers and her own people, who she views as having sided with the enemy.” Anakin folded his arms and speared Prisa with a look. “Who are you working for? It’s not Cloud City security.”

The Force shifted noticeably in the moment with impending danger and the open customs door behind the umbarans snapped shut. They whirled in surprise and it was enough to break apart the two lovers from each other. The doors on the Republic side of the room snapped shut a moment later.

Prisa reacted with impressive reflexes, hand instinctively going to his blaster, instincts perking that something was wrong.

‘Snips.’

‘Ready, Skyguy. When the ambush drops, I’ll guard the troops with Chewie.’

Feeling reassured he put an immovable right hand on Prisa’s shoulder. “The truth, now.”

“Hey,” Prisa winced. “We’re ridin’ the same dewback here. I’m working for Republic Intelligence. We’ve been hired to hunt down a Separatist unit. Their leader is Kundri Fathom and-”

Anything he would’ve said was interrupted when the primary holoprojector at the customs desk, intended for public notices, lit up into a huge display.

The shoulders and head of a woman with sharp features appeared. Her skin was fair and slightly weathered, marked by faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Dark brown hair, nearly black, was kept in a practical shoulder-length cut and a few early strands of silver threaded through her temples. Her most striking feature though, was her eyes; a clear, cold gray green. Her face was also oddly patterned with near golden scarring on her forehead and cheeks that he couldn’t tell if it was ornamental or some form of growth.

She gazed down at them with careless amusement.

“Ah, and there she is,” Prisa gestured with frustration and a clear despondent wariness on his features.

“There are some creatures so vast and thoughtless,” began Fathom, her voice mildly echoing in the room. “That they lumber on for hours even after the killing blow has been dealt.”

Multiple shuttles rose into view from above and below.

“Just so with the Republic,” Fathom continued tonelessly. “It pours out blood and credits in great torrents, blind to its inevitable end. There can be no negotiation with such a beast. Only total war.” She turned to stare directly at the umbarans. “Rhy Cesca!” she declared ominously. “The Separatist Council forbade you from pursuing this exchange, but you persisted.”

There were now five shuttles, filled with droid and organic signatures.

“For your treachery… the Council sentences you to death.”

Anakin had to fight to contain his amusement, as he noticed Ahsoka had her eyes closed and the Force was weaving around her beautifully.

Fathom frowned in confusion, looking off to the side, then down at her own control panel. “What are you waiting for? Open fire! Stupid droid!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ahsoka declared with mock contrition, stepping forward and igniting all her lightsabers. “I’m afraid your communication system is experiencing a malfunction, Fathom. You could’ve given the order immediately, but you gave me so much time with your little speech to us, that I’m afraid I’ve cut your direct link to your forces here. As far as they’re concerned, you’re still grandstanding to us.”

Fathom glared, “General Tano, I must admit, I’ve been looking forward to the day-”

The woman’s eyes widened, her hand coming into view as she clutched at her throat, trying to draw breath, but finding that her lungs wouldn’t move. The invisible constriction wrapping around her chest.

Her eyes bulged, she lurched forward, reaching frantically towards the invisible controls, practically collapsing and the holo connection cut.

“Snips!” Anakin remonstrated sternly.

“She has some basic knowledge of the Force, it seems,” she sighed with regret. “I wasn’t going to kill her with the Force itself, Master. That was just… sowing confusion.”

“Really?” he folded his arms and glared.

“Yes, I’ve bought us forty seconds of time before Fathom reestablishes contact, and orders the HMP gunship hovering fifty meters above us to kill everyone in this room.”

“I’m sorry darlin’ but what the kriff was that?” Prisa gaped in astonishment at Ahsoka.

“Thirty five seconds. There are more shuttles who also dropped enemy troops, they are congregated outside both corridors in flanking positions and the Omen’s been locked down with the landing bay shield.”

“Partisans!” Cesca shouted. The umbarans moved towards what cover there was. The former prisoners immediately sprinting for a very non-descript crate on their side of the room, which was lifted open to reveal a weapons cache of blaster rifles. “Skywalker! There’s thirteen left! Take it!”  

Recognizing the opportunity immediately, he didn’t hesitate, and used the Force Pull.

The weapons crate flew through the air and clattered with a heavy thump right next to Dozen’s position, who swiftly took charge to distribute them.

The clone troopers and Chewie had also squeezed themselves behind what cover there was and Ahsoka was literally ripping at the walls and floor to make more.

“Holdin up in here is suicide against an HMP,” Prisa declared grimly, drawing his blaster.

Anakin unclipped his lightsaber and ignited it, glaring outward at the hovering enemy shuttles. He lifted his right hand and formed a fist. The floor in front of the undercover operative bent and twisted upward with screaming durasteel, going high enough to kneel behind.

“Watch and learn, Mr Prisa. Watch and learn.”

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A/N: *Camtono - a cylindrical secure container, commonly used to transport low volume high value items such as physical credits, precious metals etc.

So begins the Bespin/Zero Company arc. I've always wanted to visit Cloud City in this story somehow and the stars aligned for it.

Hope you enjoyed and have a great weekend. Stay awesome folks!