As soon as Dooku's fleet had stabilized after dropping out of hyperspace, it immediately went into action. The hangar bays of the heavy Providence-class cruisers opened wide, releasing a veritable flood of Vulture droid starfighters and Hyena bombers into open space. On top of that, a large number of proton torpedoes were launched toward Praxis in the same wave.
Just as I had expected, it did not look like we were going to get a direct fleet engagement. To be fair, I would have done exactly the same thing in his position if I were confident that the enemy did not have some superior force hiding nearby. Why risk the main fleet when you could attack from a distance and force your opponent to respond from an unfavorable position?
The first missiles struck the base's defensive shield with deep, reverberating impacts, making the bridge deck tremble noticeably beneath our feet.
"I assume no one here is going to argue that charging them head-on right now would amount to suicide?" I said thoughtfully while tracking the course of another incoming wave of bombers across the tactical display.
"The stationary shield generators have enough output to absorb direct hits from this distance," Elara replied as her fingers rapidly shifted the load graph for the defensive emitters onto the central screen. "But if they maintain the current volume of fire, the outer shield layer will collapse in approximately four hours."
Four hours might have sounded like a long time, but on the scale of a star system it was barely anything. Our own weapons could not reach Dooku's armada effectively because energy dispersion at that range reduced their effectiveness too much, and our supply of long-range torpedoes was hardly impressive.
If we wanted to preserve both the station and the shipyards, we needed to force Dooku to move closer, directly into the range where we could fight him properly.
Another light vibration traveled through the deck as the next group of proton torpedoes detonated against the defensive field, accompanied by a brilliant flash beyond the armored viewport.
"The ground garrison made up of sector workers and HK-50 droids should be able to resist a conventional landing force," Elara said with a frown as she studied streams of security reports. "But if the shields completely collapse and they throw everything they have at us, we definitely won't hold the lower levels."
She glanced toward me before continuing.
"What about that supersoldier project? I saw some of the researchers' reports about the clone growth program. Is Steel Vanguard actually combat-capable yet? It's only been four days since you activated the growth cylinders. Is that really enough time?"
From what I remembered of the lore, forcing clones through a growth cycle measured in days inevitably resulted in the condition known as clone madness. When a hundred identical minds developed simultaneously, the resonance of their "souls" in the Force damaged their mental stability beyond repair.
The Kaminoans avoided the problem by giving their clones years of training and at least some degree of individuality, while Thrawn had used ysalamiri to completely suppress the Force during accelerated clone development.
Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea what planet those Force-blocking lizards inhabited. I had already spent a considerable amount of time in this universe, and yet that particular bit of useful information had somehow never fallen into my hands.
The "slow solution," meanwhile, was obviously not suitable for us, as the name itself implied.
"It's resource-intensive, but solvable," I replied. "Mostly thanks to one unexpected gift from the past. The so-called Suppression Obelisk. I had it pulled out of one of the deepest storage vaults at my request. It's an ancient artifact of the True Sith Empire."
Elara looked up sharply from her datapad.
"An artifact? You put developing clones inside the influence field of that Sith 'magic' of yours?"
"It isn't magic. It's a very specific technological form of radiation," I corrected her. "The Obelisk creates a complete local vacuum in the Force within a radius of forty meters. It suppresses all mental and empathic fluctuations. Originally, it was used to imprison Jedi. That is the main reason this project is even possible."
"If everything is working so smoothly, why do the biologists keep calling this batch 'prototypes' in their reports?" she asked, frowning.
That was, unfortunately, a very good question.
"Because the ancient equipment is unstable," I said with an irritated sigh. "Forced isolation from the Force combined with extreme metabolic acceleration produced a side effect in the nervous system. They are hyperreactive. Under normal conditions, they are obedient, completely controllable soldiers with loyalty to me as their leader effectively hardwired into them."
I paused before continuing.
"The problem appears when their adrenaline levels exceed a certain threshold during combat. At that point, the defect activates. I would describe it as Blood Rage. In that state, they become almost completely insensitive to pain and lose virtually all restraint."
Our conversation was interrupted by the sudden shriek of an emergency siren. A red indicator on the station-sector schematic began flashing with frantic intensity.
"Outer shield breach!" Elara reported loudly as she rapidly cleared away overlapping warning messages. "A heavy torpedo salvo from the bombers penetrated a section already weakened by overheating in the ever-unlucky Sector Four. The shipyard's outer hull is damaged, and we have decompression in three auxiliary docks."
I looked toward the holographic display. The crimson Confederate formation continued methodically and mercilessly launching wave after wave of fighters, steadily widening the breach.
Dooku was winning the war of attrition without even entering a proper battle.
Our opponent clearly had both the advantage and a great deal of experience, but every situation had more than one side. For example, it was obvious that he wanted the data and archives stored here from the True Sith Empire. Otherwise, his forces would not have been acting so... carefully.
That meant we were, to some extent, protected from complete annihilation.
And if that was the case, it would have been almost rude not to play along.
"Elara, overload the cooling lines in cargo compartment Four and issue the command to dump the technical concentrate," I said while watching the movement of the enemy fighters across the hologram. "And prepare the broadcast."
"All right, all right, Captain," she replied, immediately understanding what I intended. "We'll simulate a detonation in the primary cooling circuit."
Thirty seconds later, the station's hull shuddered from a series of deliberately triggered explosions. Through the section of hull that had already been breached, a gigantic plume of burning fuel feedstock erupted into open space, creating the appearance of a catastrophic reactor-compartment fire.
At the same moment, Elara transmitted a deliberately distorted and panic-filled maintenance signal across unsecured radio channels that the Confederate fleet would easily intercept.
"...plasma-circuit breach! Reactor overheating! Automatic formatting of all classified data will begin in twenty minutes! Maintain readiness according to emergency instructions. Repeat, emergency evacuation procedures are now in effect..."
The response came almost immediately.
Long-range bombardment from the Separatist heavy cruisers stopped.
Forty seconds later, hundreds of troop transports and heavy boarding pods detached from the Confederate formation under fighter escort and accelerated toward the station.
The first dozens of boarding drills slammed into the weakened armor of Sector Four at full speed. Steel claws bit into the hull, and the narrow corridors of the station filled with the shriek of cutting equipment and the booming impact of breached pressure doors.
R.G.A. worker detachments, regular soldiers, and the small number of HK-50 droids tried to establish defensive positions around the important intersections, but against heavy B2 battle droids, advancing droidekas, and BX commandos, they had very little chance.
The enemy advanced rapidly toward the main computing node.
I turned to the lower-level communications terminal and opened a secured channel connected to the deep-freeze bunkers.
"Activate Protocol Vanguard," I said slowly into the comlink.
Interlude
Facility Vanguard-01
His first sensation was a sharp, penetrating flash of pain at the back of his skull as an autoinjector needle entered directly between the cervical vertebrae and released a massive dose of concentrated stimulants into his bloodstream.
How did he know what the sensation meant?
Knowledge was already embedded within his mind.
A great deal of knowledge.
Most of it related to killing.
Cold vapor from the cryogenic fluid hissed from the valves as the door of his capsule opened with a heavy crash. The newborn warrior's vision remained covered by a cloudy haze, but even through it, another piece of knowledge surfaced within his mind, something likely implanted during the earliest stages of embryonic development.
The face of the General Secretary.
The image of the Leader.
The one whose commands represented absolute law.
The heavy duranium armor covering his body had not even received its final polish, yet thanks to the engineering skill of the R.G.A. workers, it already felt like a second layer of skin.
One hundred warriors emerged from their cells at the same time and stepped onto the concrete floor of the bunker.
The automated systems inside his helmet clicked quietly as the neural interface connected.
At that exact moment, he experienced something strange.
It was the first time he had ever felt it, but he knew exactly what it was.
Rage.
Rage toward the enemies who had dared attack the Leader and those under his protection.
The massive pressure doors of Sector Four opened.
Ahead, through a smoke-filled corridor, B2 battle droids advanced in a solid wall while continuously firing their compact blaster cannons.
The warrior who had been given the designation Vanguard-01 released an almost animalistic growl and charged.
Red blaster bolts slammed into the unfinished duranium plates covering his chest, leaving only melted scratches across the surface without causing meaningful damage.
Closing the distance took two seconds.
Vanguard-01 crashed directly into the formation of B2 droids, seized the nearest machine, and ripped both of its arms free from the shoulder joints with a violent metallic crack.
He then brought one massive armored fist down onto the droid's head.
A droideka deployed on his left and immediately raised its energy shield.
Vanguard-01 did not slow down.
He stepped forward, pushed his armored hands directly through the humming shield field while ignoring the unpleasant plasma discharge across his gauntlets, seized the shield emitter itself, and tore it out of the machine's titanium chassis.
The now-unprotected droideka was instantly crushed beneath the feet of the other advancing Vanguard soldiers.
Rotary blasters thundered throughout the corridor.
The giants in gray duranium armor advanced like an unstoppable machine, grinding through metal and electronics as they tore apart the Confederate boarding force.
End of Interlude
When Maul and I entered the central distribution hall of Sector Four, we were finally able to see the true scale of the slaughter.
Steel Vanguard had fought like a natural disaster suddenly released from captivity, though their rage clearly required careful direction.
A group of roughly ten agile BX commandos attempted to flank the Vanguard soldiers using maintenance recesses running along the ceiling. The droids raised vibroswords and blaster rifles, preparing to strike at the exposed joints in the clones' armor.
I raised my right hand, focused the Force, and struck them with lightning.
The discharge hit the lead commando directly, instantly shorting out its shield before jumping into the nearby droids.
A moment later, the disabled machines crashed lifelessly onto the floor.
At the same time, Maul used both hands in one smooth motion to direct a wave of telekinetic force into an approaching column of B2 battle droids.
The focused impact crushed roughly a dozen metal bodies together into one twisted mass, which the Zabrak then threw directly into the narrow passage behind them, creating an improvised barricade that blocked the enemy's retreat.
"Drive them into the corridor bottleneck!" I shouted, pointing toward the trapped Separatist formation.
Cut off from reinforcements, the remaining droids found themselves directly in front of the Steel Vanguard line.
The clones' rotary weapons roared even louder as they fired into the remnants of the landing force at point-blank range.
Heavy duranium boots crushed processors and metal frames beneath them as they advanced over the fallen machines.
Exactly eight minutes after I had given the order, silence settled over Sector Four.
The only remaining sounds were the hiss of ruptured hydraulic lines and the heavy, uneven breathing of a hundred armored giants.
The corridors were filled with pieces of mangled metal, burned cables, and dark machine oil.
Hundreds of damaged or destroyed boarding pods remained embedded in the breached bulkheads, reduced to twisted wreckage and serving as silent reminders of the battle that had just ended.
Overall, it had been a success.
The enemy boarding force had been completely eliminated in less than ten minutes.
The giants of Steel Vanguard stood motionless among the wreckage.
Thick vapor hissed from the exhaust valves of their helmets.
Their unfinished duranium pauldrons and chestplates were covered with soot, deep blaster scoring, and oily splashes.
A group of medical personnel responsible for creating Vanguard slowly emerged from the internal passages.
They were already engaged in an intense argument among themselves and seemed almost completely oblivious to the destruction surrounding them.
One of those responsible for the project approached after I signaled him forward, studying his creation with unabated curiosity.
He quickly introduced himself as Kell.
When he noticed my questioning expression, he hurried to explain what they had been arguing about.
Every one of the hundred soldiers had a heart rate exceeding two hundred beats per minute.
Their blood levels of adrenaline and noradrenaline were more than five times above the critical threshold.
Blood Rage had not disappeared immediately after the destruction of the final enemy, contrary to the researchers' predictions.
Several of the soldiers slowly turned toward the medical personnel.
The fingers of Vanguard-01 tightened convulsively around the grip of his rotary blaster.
"Back," I ordered, extending one hand to stop the doctors from moving any closer while placing myself between them and the Vanguard soldiers.
"Allow me," Kell said politely before shifting into a much firmer command tone as he addressed his subordinates. "Do not approach them directly and do not make sudden movements. Administer neural sedatives through the external valves at the rear of the collar plates."
The experienced medical team immediately adapted.
They moved in wide arcs, remaining outside the clones' direct field of vision.
Pneumatic injectors connected to the rear ports of the armor with quiet clicks, delivering concentrated suppressive compounds directly into the bloodstream.
Only then did Vanguard-01's shoulders finally relax.
The rotary cannon lowered until its barrel pointed toward the floor, and the giant's posture, which had been pulled tight like a cable under tension, loosened slightly.
Unfortunately, we had not managed to integrate an automatic injection system directly into the armor.
It was already a miracle that the suits had been completed at all.
Even so, our new "weapon" had demonstrated phenomenal effectiveness in confined environments.
The soldiers had crushed elite Confederate droids without losing a single man.
The defect in their nervous systems, however, made their permanent deployment on the front line far too dangerous for the moment.
Without carefully measured chemical suppressants and constant supervision through the Force, these soldiers could potentially slaughter their own allies just as easily as the enemy.
"Record their current condition, return them to the bunker, and place them under medically induced sleep," I ordered the leader of the medical team. "Engineering crews are to begin sealing the breached bulkheads and recovering intact components from the enemy boarding pods."
By the time I returned to the command bridge of the Guardian of the Core, the tactical situation displayed above the holographic table had changed dramatically.
Elara was rapidly entering new information into the system, while Grievous stood nearby with his arms crossed, occasionally producing one of his characteristic coughs.
"The fake self-destruct timer expired three minutes ago," Elara reported without looking away from the console.
On the holographic map, the crimson arc formed by the forty Confederate vessels had stopped maintaining its previous distance of one hundred and fifty thousand kilometers.
The long-range bombardment had ended completely.
Dooku had apparently realized that he had wasted his boarding forces and responded with the only logical order available to him.
I doubted his ships were carrying unlimited numbers of ground troops.
The heavy cruisers and frigates brought their main engines to full power.
The massive armada reorganized into a dense wedge formation and began advancing toward the station at maximum speed, ignoring the dangerous regions filled with gravitational anomalies.
Dooku had abandoned caution and decided to bring the entire fleet directly into weapons range, apparently intending to erase Praxis, its shipyards, and every soldier stationed there through overwhelming numbers and superior turbolaser firepower.
"It appears he no longer cares about recovering the archives intact," Grievous said as his metallic fingers tightened into fists. "They will likely begin saturation bombardment of the entire sector. Their advance elements will enter effective range of our heavy artillery in six minutes."
I had no idea what exactly had caused the Count to change his approach, but he had finally committed himself to a full offensive.
"Let them come," I replied as I moved toward the edge of the tactical table and studied the approaching crimson wedge. "At least now we'll finally be able to hit them."
At that moment, I sensed something through the Force.
Or rather, someone.
The atmosphere of the command bridge seemed to fill with dense, icy pressure.
A cold and extraordinarily powerful mental presence pressed against my senses like the edge of an impossibly sharp blade.
I had felt it before.
There was no possibility of mistaking it.
Maul, standing at the opposite side of the console, immediately straightened.
His hand instinctively settled on the hilt of his double-bladed lightsaber, and his yellow eyes narrowed.
"He is here," the Zabrak said quietly.
The long-range detection systems highlighted the flagship cruiser positioned at the very center of the advancing Confederate wedge.
The ship accelerated ahead of its escorting frigates and absorbed the first scattered ranging shots from Praxis against its forward shields.
Count Dooku had come personally.
End of Chapter