Star Wars: Jedi Trial

by Sherman, David

  “You started out with a million battle droids; throw them all in at once and overwhelm this rogue force.”

  “My lord,” Tonith responded patiently, “I have far fewer than a million droids now. Wave attacks are wasteful and bad tactics. If I were to do that I’d be left with a severely reduced army and no reserve. The opposing commander is very shrewd. He keeps his lines close enough to my own that I can’t bring my heavy weapons to bear effectively without sacrificing my own forces and weakening my own defenses.”

  “We all must make sacrifices,” Dooku said dryly.

  Tonith paused, mustering his dwindling patience. “Lord, his ships are keeping mine at bay in orbit so I can’t rely on reinforcements from their crews, and they cannot engage the ground forces with their onboard weapons systems. I repeat, if the Republic sends reinforcements before—”

  “He cannot replace his losses at all, can he?” Dooku smiled.

  “No, my lord,” Tonith replied sharply, “but if the Republic has been alerted and dispatched a force against us—”

  “—so your enemy is being worn down by attrition.”

  “—and they get here before my reinforcements—”

  “They will not. Keep your foe engaged. Hold your positions. Help is on the way. I have confidence in you.” The transmission went dead.

  Far, far away Count Dooku smiled. That Pors Tonith was a feisty one, but a bit too cautious—just like a banker, he reflected. But he was the right officer for the job. Things were going precisely according to plan. It just wasn’t the plan Tonith thought he was following.

  12

  An army travels on its stomach, I’m here to tell you,” old Quartermaster Mess Boulanger stated, his bright blue eyes sparkling. No one before now had ever asked him the details of his duty as a quartermaster officer, and since this young commander—Skywalker was his name—had inquired, old Mess was not about to let him go without a thorough lecture on what he called “the sinews of war.”

  Carefully, Mess caressed his long, drooping brown mustaches and regarded Anakin balefully. He held up a bony forefinger. “Many think it’s valor, planning, the offensive spirit that wins battles, sir, but I say, ‘Pish!’ I’ll tell you what wins battles, sir. It’s logistics! The sinews of war, I call it, sir. Logistics! That’s the thing, I’m here to tell you. That’s what makes armies function. Well—” He made a deprecating gesture with one hand. “—that is if they’re not droid armies.” He spat out “droid.” “With them, all you need is lubricants and spare parts, but!” He held up his forefinger again. “That’s logistics, too! Yessir, even with an army of machines, you’ve got to know how much lubricants, spare parts, electronic components to stow in your ships! But with living beings, it’s far more complicated, far more, I’m here to tell you. We’re lucky this time, sir. Clones all eat the same foods. But when you have other creatures along, well, you’ve got to figure in their special diets. Very complicated, sir. But it’s been done, I know the formulas…” His voice trailed off as if he were contemplating those very formulas.

  “Remember this—” Boulanger perked up again, although he looked askance at Grudo, not sure whether he should be talking about sensitive matters in front of someone he wasn’t convinced wasn’t really on a bounty hunting mission. “COMETS-Q! Yessir, it’s COMETS-Q that gets you to the battlefield, sustains you once you’re there, and gets you home again. That’s the combat-support branches of modern warfare, sir: Chemical, Ordnance, Medical, Engineer, Transportation, Signal, and Quartermaster.”

  Anakin was about to ask a question when Mess suddenly added, “And that’s not all. Not at all! Do you know, sir, what an army consumes in just one day of heavy combat? Do you know how many calories an infantry soldier burns up in just one day’s fighting? Eh? Well, I do, I’m here to tell you, sir! You have to know this if you’re going to supply your army in the field. You have to estimate casualties, too, yessir, very important. You may think that’s impossible, the nature of combat being unpredictable in the extreme, but it’s not, it’s not.” He nodded his head firmly so his mustaches waggled. “Before we even left Coruscant, I conferred with your operations staff, and we estimated that by the third day of battle you’ll have lost ten percent of your fighting force. So we stocked enough medical and hospital supplies to accommodate such losses. Remember, for every one soldier killed in battle, three others are wounded!” He held up his forefinger again as if this were an immutable law of nature that permitted no argument.

  “Ask him.” Boulanger gestured at Grudo, who’d sat silently throughout the lecture. “If he’s been around as much as he claims, he’ll tell you.”

  Grudo nodded and said, “It’s all true.”

  Boulanger bowed his head in satisfaction.

  “Quartermaster, we may have to supply Captain Slayke’s forces when we arrive on Praesitlyn. Have you planned for that?” Anakin asked.

  “Yessir, I have, I have! You know, of course, that Praesitlyn is an uninhabited world—no forage there for an army, none, unless you want to poison yourself on the horrid plant and insect life. It’s a quartermaster’s nightmare, I’m here to tell you! And yes, Captain Slayke’s command is a mixed bag, I’ve been told, humans and others, all living, breathing, eating entities who must be fed, clothed, and quartered. So before we shipped out I took care, careful care, sir, to stock rations that I knew were palatable across the board, as it were, food that we can all live off.

  “And another thing. What does an army do with its waste? Aha! Yes, what an army eats is turned into waste and you have to account for that in garrison and camp and depot! Ever consider that? No, I didn’t think so.”

  Boulanger fell silent again, then went on: “I have been at all the staff meetings, you know.”

  “Yes?” Anakin answered, his attention focused on the array of charts and lists and inventories that cluttered the screens in the quartermaster’s compartment. “What?”

  “I have been at all the staff meetings,” Boulanger repeated. “What did you think of the logistics annex I wrote for your operations plan?” He leaned back, crossed his hands on his potbelly, and glared defiantly at Anakin, daring him to say anything derogatory about his work.

  “Yes, Quartermaster, excellent work!” Anakin answered quickly. He kicked himself mentally for not having had the foresight to study the logistics annex before this visit. He’d given it only a cursory glance when it had been presented by his divisional chief of staff. And he’d never noticed Boulanger at the briefings.

  “No one ever asks me any questions about my work. That’s because they don’t have to. I’m good at what I do.”

  “Yes, Quartermaster Boulanger, you are and you have and I thank you for your excellent work.” Anakin nodded at Grudo and they both rose, shook hands with the quartermaster, and headed for their shuttle. Anakin resolved that as soon as he got back to his quarters on the Ranger, he’d call up that logistics annex and go over it as thoroughly as he had the other parts of the plan. Once done, he’d call for Boulanger, sit down with the logistician, and go over every detail with him until they were firmly fixed in his own mind. He would memorize how many metric tons, long or short, of supplies, fuel, and ammunition a force his size needed to sustain itself in combat, and how many ships it took to transport those commodities to the battlefield. He had to know what was on which ships, too, in case any were lost in the landing or fell behind the rest of the fleet because of mechanical problems. In his many talks with Halcyon about tactics and strategy and leadership, this subject had come up frequently and the older Jedi had emphasized its importance, but they had not discussed it in any detail. Anakin would now. He vowed to discuss logistics with Halcyon as soon as he’d boned up on it.

  “Don’t be the kind of commander who leaves the details to others,” Grudo had warned him. He wouldn’t.

  “You have dealt with Captain Slayke, Grudo, tell me about him.” They were in the shuttle going back to the Ranger after their meeting with Quartermaster Boulanger. “I would als
o like to know how you came to be friends with Master Halcyon.”

  “It would be better if you talked directly to Master Halcyon about those things,” Grudo answered.

  Anakin was silent for a moment. “I have asked him, but he’s been very vague about it. I know the three of you were involved in the incident on Bpfassh. I’ve asked him, indirectly, about Slayke, but all he would ever say was that he held no grudge against him and would work with him as his comrade once we reach Praesitlyn.”

  “Yes, that’s Nejaa Halcyon! Fair in all things.”

  “I know, Grudo. But I must work with Slayke, too. I have to know more about him, and since Master Halcyon is reluctant to talk about what happened, I have to ask you.”

  “Is that an order, sir?” Grudo asked formally.

  “Yes,” Anakin replied just as formally. “If that’s the only way I can get you to talk, it’s an order.”

  “Very well. Slayke is a warrior. A great warrior, too, not some fat-faced man with milky-smooth skin. He’s a very big man. He fights with head, heart, strong right arm! He’s a being of principle, and brave, too. Handsome for a human, or so I’m told.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what he looks like—I’m going to see him soon enough.”

  “Maybe you’ll see him,” Grudo said darkly, “maybe not. Everyone dies, more die in combat.”

  “Yes, Grudo, as you have told me. More than once—as I’ve seen many times for myself over the past two and a half years,” Anakin said sharply. “Please continue.”

  Zozridor Slayke had established his reputation prior to the outbreak of the Clone Wars as the commander of a Republic corvette, Scarlet Thranta. His background was obscure, and it was assumed he had worked his way up in the navy to command his own warship through talent and ability. Profoundly dissatisfied with the Senate’s dilatory approach to dealing with the Separatists, Slayke had decided to do something on his own. Without orders, he’d detached his vessel from its command and proceeded to launch a series of stunning raids on Separatist shipping and naval forces. He was immediately labeled a pirate, and a bounty of forty-five thousand credits was put on his head.

  But Slayke didn’t see himself as a pirate. He mistreated neither the civilians nor the military personnel he captured during his raids, and the proceeds from prize ships and their cargoes were evenly distributed among his crew or donated to worthy causes. The last transmission he’d sent to navy headquarters from Scarlet Thranta set the tone for his subsequent enterprises: “While the Senate sleeps, a great evil threatens the peace and freedom of the peoples of our galaxy. Our politicians, who neither work nor sacrifice, have forgotten, if they ever knew it, that freedom is not free, that the price of freedom is constant vigilance. We, the crew of Scarlet Thranta, are the children of your beloved Republic! We are your sons and daughters. We are the Sons and Daughters of Freedom! Follow us!” This message became a clarion call for oppressed beings everywhere in the galaxy, and in a very short time Slayke had put together a small but formidable fleet that not only caused considerable embarrassment to the Republic Senate, but served as a thorn in the side of the Separatist powers, as well.

  “I know this because I was with Captain Slayke,” Grudo said. “You see, Slayke has the right personality to command, the personality to lead. Soldiers follow him.”

  At loose ends, as he often was between wars, and entirely on his own at the time, Grudo had volunteered for service with the Sons and Daughters, not out of sympathy with their political views, but because the group was illegal and the prospects of some good battles looked promising.

  “Tell me about Slayke, the man,” Anakin asked.

  Grudo’s snout twitched. “Captain Slayke is a commander you can talk to. He listens to every soldier, and there were many times I heard him tell his soldiers that the only difference between him and them was ceremony, privileges of rank, you know. He said that every soldier who fights alongside him is his sibling, that rank has no privilege in combat. Not with the Sons and Daughters, anyway.”

  “And Halcyon?”

  “He came to arrest us.”

  At the special request of the Senate, the Jedi Council had selected Jedi Master Nejaa Halcyon to command an expedition to apprehend Slayke and bring him to Coruscant to stand trial for piracy and treason, not necessarily in that order. To his credit, Halcyon had protested the order. In his opinion, Slayke was only doing what the Senate should have done on its own. When asked what he would do if the decision were up to him, he’d answered boldly, “I’d go to his aid.” But the Council’s decision was that no matter how just the cause, the threat to the Republic could not be met by renegade captains operating on their own without the authority of the Senate. Orders were orders, and Halcyon obeyed.

  Halcyon’s ship was Plooriod Bodkin. He shadowed Slayke’s fleet for weeks, waiting for an opportunity to pounce on his flagship and arrest him. He knew, rightfully, that once Slayke was in custody, the Sons and Daughters movement would dissolve and no longer be able to interfere in galactic politics. He thought Slayke had made a fatal error when he dispersed his fleet to various ports to refit and recruit and, aboard his own flagship, Scarlet Thranta, made for Bpfassh in the Sluis sector. Halcyon followed.

  “But Slayke didn’t make a mistake,” Grudo said. “You see, we knew we were being followed. Slayke also knew there was a Jedi in command of the force sent after him. How he knew this, I don’t know, but Slayke told me that himself. He also told me that those who command the Force are very dangerous, but that he, Slayke, uses his brain, which is more powerful than the Force.” Grudo hooted softly. “I don’t know, but that time Slayke was right.”

  “How did Slayke manage to capture Master Halcyon’s ship?” Anakin asked. He couldn’t imagine anyone being smart enough to steal a Jedi Master’s ship. But Slayke had.

  “That was my doing,” Grudo told him.

  Taking refuge on the double planet Bpfassh was a brilliant move on Slayke’s part; with its complex system of moons, sparse population, and vast wilderness areas, Bpfassh was an excellent place to hide a starship. Besides, the inhabitants, while not sympathetic to the Separatists, were not exactly allies of the Republic, either. As far as any of them were concerned, Slayke was a pirate, and that would assure their silence if questioned by his pursuers. Slayke had no intention of disabusing them of that notion.

  “It took time for Master Halcyon to find us, but he did.” Grudo tapped a suction-cup-tipped finger against his snout as he contemplated a spot in a far corner of the compartment. In his mind he was on Bpfassh again, reliving the event. He sighed. “I fought Nejaa Halcyon in personal combat. Just him and me. It was wonderful, wonderful.” He lapsed into a happy silence; it was some time before he continued.

  Halcyon’s plan of attack had been simple and direct. Once he’d located Scarlet Thranta, he simply swooped down on the camp, disembarked his force, and rushed the place. Slayke’s defensive plan was also simple and direct. He had dispersed most of his crew to lose themselves in the Bpfasshi towns and cities, keeping with him only enough men to operate a starship—and Grudo.

  The only being Halcyon found in the camp was Grudo, armed with every weapon in a bounty hunter’s armory, hooting challenges at the Jedi and his landing party in Rodian, which few of them could understand, but which made clear that he was not going to come along peacefully.

  “Where is Captain Slayke?” Halcyon had thundered.

  In answer, Grudo had hurled two knives in his direction. Everyone ducked except the Jedi Master. The weapons thunked into the ground between his legs, a clear challenge to combat. Grudo eschewed the use of the blasters slung on his hips and drew another pair of knives. Brandishing the weapons, Grudo advanced menacingly a few paces.

  A lieutenant took aim at the Rodian with his blaster, but Halcyon ordered him not to fire. “I’ll take care of this,” he told the man. He picked up the knives, tested their balance, and went out to meet Grudo in individual combat.

  “I never knew why he did th
at,” Grudo reminisced. “His mission was to take Scarlet Thranta and capture Slayke, not fight an individual combat. But fight we did, and everybody saw us. He never drew his lightsaber. When I dropped my knives and weapons belts, so did he, and we fought hand to hand. Ah, what a warrior! You know the business about Jedi not feeling anger or hatred, but that day—ah, Nejaa Halcyon needed a fight! He didn’t fight like a Jedi at all. It was very strange, very wonderful.”

  Anakin shifted uncomfortably.

  “I’ve never known how Slayke knew this fight would happen,” Grudo mused. “When he left me in camp he told me, ‘Grudo, let no one pass!’ He told me it was very important that I stand my ground. He told me, ‘Grudo, have no fear, the Jedi will never hurt an unarmed being.’ Sooo, we fought, and what a fight it was!”

  Halcyon had not wasted any time maneuvering to get a position of advantage over the Rodian; he just waded right in, and Grudo advanced to meet him. Halcyon’s party formed a large circle, and some of them took bets on who would win. Their attention was fully focused on the contest before them.

  “Halcyon seemed unwilling to use Jedi tricks”—Anakin assumed he meant the Force—“and fought like an ordinary warrior. So I used his momentum against him. Many times I flipped him to land jarringly on the hard gound. But Halcyon sprang back up every time and came right back at me.” He hooted a soft laugh. “He was fast enough to get through a few times, and he hit hard enough to bruise—including a couple of bone bruises.”

  Covered in perspiration, his clothes torn in many places where Grudo had grabbed him to throw, Halcyon had pressed home his advantage of speed and dexterity while the Rodian, hurting from the many blows the Jedi Master had rained upon him, managed to keep out of Halcyon’s grasp. Each time one or the other struck a blow or made a throw, Scarlet Thranta’s crew sent up a roar of approval. Soon the ground the two fought on had been churned into a morass. Both contestants had lost any sense of time, and as the fight dragged on they began to stumble and miss opportunities as physical exhaustion began to take its toll.