Jedi Insurgency 223 (Interlude 31)

Close to two months had passed since the great siege of Eriadu. Over the course of that time, one capital ship was produced in her drydocks every single day, alongside a compliment of corvettes, frigates, destroyers & other warmachines. 50 million native Eriaduans had signed up, and more than 10 million active armed servicemen from the local PDF (planetary defense force) had sworn themselves to the Republic. 

Dozens of battlegroups comprised of three Venators, six supporting vessels, and ten troop transports became the optimal configuration for waging war upon most ordinary planets. Generally speaking, 250 to 500,000 men were deployed upon each theater of war. 

Commander Pots & Rear Admiral Clip had not remained idle, sitting on their hands awaiting Revan's return. Per the General's orders, they had begun to consolidate the trade routes around Eriadu, and secure the nearby systems. To this end, Commander Pots had found himself on the godsforsaken world of Triton. 

A great ball of sand, Triton had low population, no worthwhile natural resources, and was almost completely worthless. However, it sat upon two trade routes, and was ‘south’ of Eriadu on the galactic map. This natural chokepoint was a necessary defensive location for securing Eriadu's flanks, as well as a key piece in the Confederacy's defensive strategy. For the last two months, the 22nd Legion of the Imperial Stormtroopers had laid siege to this CIS stronghold. Due to its low population, hilly terrain, and vast plains of desert, it served as a deathworld for organics, was prone to massive storms, and vicious wildlife. 

At this very moment, Commander Pots was taking cover behind a blown out AT-TE. The once stable four legged behemoth was scorched black, and halfway slumped into the sand. The four worlds he had visited before arriving at Triton for relief had all fallen easily. However, for the last week, he had been bogged down in brutal fighting, as the 22nd were full of vets, outnumbering his own forces three to one. 

Errant bolts of red, green, and blue flew over his head as an endless wall of sand and wind screamed onto the scene. Visibility was so low, he could barely see ten feet in front of his own face. 

Pots’ armor-once the pristine white of the Republic-was now scoured raw by grit and heat, painted in streaks of ochre dust and carbon scoring. The markings of the Starcrusher Corps were barely visible beneath the abuse. His visor flickered as it struggled to filter through the storm, reducing the battlefield to a shifting haze of silhouettes and muzzle flashes. The only thanks he had, was that the General had personally crafted this set of beskar armor for him, saving him from the worst of the desert sun. Additionally, his visor-and the visor of every armor constructed by Revan-benefitted from advanced code, and somewhat cut through the haze. 

“The left flank is collapsing!” A trooper shouted over the comms, his voice fractured by static. “We can’t see them, sir, they’re-”

The transmission cut off in a sharp burst of static. 

Tapping the side of his helm, Pots began to give his instructions: 

“Hold formation. Our gear is superior to theirs, and reinforcements are on the way. Trust in your brothers. Pots out.” 

Seconds later, he raised his arm, and a blue flare shot upward. Although the dim flare was instantly swallowed by the storm, the following explosion of light burned bright enough that no man could ignore it. 

Around him, the remnants of the Starcrusher Corps tightened ranks. They moved with the steady confidence of brothers who had fought together across a dozen worlds, their discipline and training had formed an iron resolve. They would not yield. 

Blasterfire cracked through the storm in erratic bursts at a higher intensity. Red and blue streaks flashed blindly through the haze, as if the enemy could sense that something ominous was approaching. 

Pots watched on emotionlessly as several men were randomly struck. Ordinarily, standard issue armor would knock them unconscious if they were lucky, or dead if that was fate's decision. However, their well-worn beskar merely glowed orange for a split second, before dispersing the round. Of course, any man who took a rocket to the chest, beam lasers, or concentrated fire was at risk of death, but casualties were at an all time low. A counter at the edge of his vision updated him in real time. Of those who deployed in beskar, only 30 had perished since last week. And those who weren't issued a set, wore the old tritanium armor, about 2,500 of those brothers had passed. 

Meanwhile, the Imperial clones of the 22nd Legion fought like wraiths in the storm. Their commander wasn't stupid, and realized the difference in their equipment immediately. Trying to single out those wearing beskar, the 22nd reserved their heavy weapons & artillery specifically for these elite members of the Starcrusher Corp. Even if it meant losing a position to tritanium wearing troops, the Imperial commander was willing to sacrifice a dozen men if it meant he could destroy one of the ‘invincible’ soldiers. Unfortunately, the Starcrusher Corp was split thin across a dozen theaters, and were busy leading the Eriduan regulars on several different fronts. For this operation, only 50,000 elites had been dispatched. 

Whilst he was coordinating his men, a bolt screamed past Pots’ helmet, close enough that his HUD flashed a proximity warning.

He dropped to one knee, returning fire in a tight, controlled burst toward the muzzle flash he’d glimpsed a fraction of a second before. A figure stumbled in the storm as it collapsed into the sand.

To his right, an Eriaduan regular went down with a strangled cry, clutching his chestplate as it smoked and melted inward. Another dragged him back, only to catch a shot through the shoulder that spun him off his feet.

“Medic!” Someone yelled. 

“There are no medics!” Another voice snapped back in a somewhat hysterical tone. 

“All units, dig in, repeat, all units, dig in, and give them hell!” Pots ordered the men in his immediate surroundings. 

“Sir, they’re pushing through the storm. We’re getting flanked.” A clone Sergeant said in concern. 

Pots scanned the battlefield for a second with his macrobinoculars, and furrowed his brow. The wind slammed into him like a physical force, sand hammering against his armor in a relentless barrage. Visibility dropped to nearly nothing, but Pots didn’t rely on sight alone.

Perking his ears, and relying upon his instinct, he breathed in the subtle rhythm of battle. The cadence of blasterfire. The timing of movements. The way the storm bent around bodies, however slightly.

There.

Pots pivoted and fired three precise shots. A figure emerged from the storm, hit twice in the chest and once in the helmet, crumpling before it even fully appeared.

“Contact front! They’re probing the center! Do not worry about the flanks, reinforcements are on the way!” Pots roared, unloading into the enemy as he tried to rally the men, and raise morale. 

The line steadied under his command. His unyielding presence in the storm of sand and blasterfire was a beacon of stability. Where he stood, the clones fought harder, and even the regulars took inspiration from his courage. 

“No retreat, no surrender!” Pots roared as he tanked a shot to his center mass, then blasted a hole into the helmet of the man who shot at him. 

At the same time, a sudden explosion tore through the left flank, sending a plume of sand and shattered armor skyward.

“Sir! They’ve breached the left flank, the 22nd is pushing through, their walkers have punched a hole in our defenses!” A message came in through the comms. 

The words were drowned out by a surge of red blasterfire cutting through the storm, forcing the squad Pots was with to take cover, as their left side was completely exposed. 

“Starcrusher. This is the moment. Do not break. Hold the line.” Each word of Pots's was steady, and spoken with deadly calm. 

Blasterfire intensified as the distance between the two forces collapsed into brutal, close-range chaos. Figures slammed into each other, firing point-blank, grappling, striking, and stabbing at one another with vibroknives. The storm turned men into shadows, and it was only thanks to the ping of the IFF in their helmets that they knew who to murder, and who to spare. Fighting broke out into a melee, and blood flowed freely upon the scorched sands of Triton. 

A clone lunged at Pots through the haze, to which Pots twisted as a bolt grazed his shoulder as his own shot punched through the trooper’s throat. The enemy staggered, choking for one last gasp of air, before falling to his death. 

Another came from the side, to which Pots drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s helmet, cracked it sideways, and then fired twice into his chest for good measure. 

The Commander didn’t stop moving for a second. Whilst he was actively killing the enemy, he was constantly giving orders. 

“Right flank, pivot inward! Box them in! Don’t give them space to retreat!” 

“Copy!”

The clones obeyed, tightening their formation even as bodies fell around them. The sand was turning dark beneath their boots, yet no one had time to pay attention to this or the screams. 

For a moment-just a moment-it looked like they might hold. Then the storm shifted, and the enemy AT-TE's were revealed. 

A wave of Imperial clones burst through the haze, firing in coordinated volleys that tore into the Starcrusher line. Two troopers next to Pots went down instantly. And a third screamed as his leg was blown out due to heavy cannon fire. A trio of AT-TE's unloaded their front mounted blasters, lancing through beskar after a sustained burst. The heavy artillery cannon mounted on top of one AT-TE took aim at Pots. Rolling out of the way from the sharp cone of blue death, Pots evaded a direct hit, yet the concussive force of the blast sent him rolling down a small hill of sand, and into a dry gully. 

“Sir, we’re breaking apart!” The Sergeant from earlier roared. 

Pots felt it too, the subtle fracture in the line. The tipping point was fast approaching. He clenched his jaw. Not here, not like this…if they retreated now, he doubted less than 30% of them would make it out alive. 

Then, as his worst defeat since becoming Commander of the Starcrusher Corp was all but confirmed, the dense sound of mechanical feet pounding on the sand reached his ear. 

Pots’ head snapped toward the horizon, and saw a thick, red beam descend from the sky, and deal some serious damage to the Imperial AT-TE. Five OG-9 Homing Spider droids walked onto the scene, and began blasting the Imperial line. Swarming out from underneath them, countless B1 & B2's emerged from underground tunnels, directly behind the Imperial flank…caught like meat between the bread of a sandwich, the 22nd Legion had nowhere to go!!! 

“Contacts incoming!” A Republic clone yelled in a panic.

B1 battle droids marched through the sand like heralds of death. Their skeletal forms were unbothered by the storm that blinded others. Behind them came heavier units, the B2 super battle droids shrugged off the wind as they unleashed torrents of blasterfire.

“CIS units on the field!” The Sergeant shouted in stunned disbelief. 

Pots allowed himself the faintest exhale, pleased that the reinforcements had finally arrived. 

The droids advanced in perfect, mechanical formation, their targeting systems-improved by Revan-cut through the storm with ruthless efficiency. Where the clones struggled to see, the droids acted like NPC's in a videogame with cheat engines. 

The Imperial 22nd Legion faltered.

Their advantage in mobility, stealth, confusion, and numbers evaporated like butter on a hot skillet. 

“Starcrusher! Advance! Use the droids as a spearhead! Drive them back!” Pots roared his orders. 

The clones surged forward, their momentum & morale reignited.

Fighting side by side with the droids-former enemies, now allies of necessity-they pushed into the storm.

Blasterfire intensified, but now it was the men of the Republic on the offensive. The Imperial clones were being forced to dig under exploded AT-TE's, yet they had nowhere to retreat to, as their formations unraveled under the combined assault.

Pots led from the front, cutting through the enemy with brutal efficiency. A shot here. A command there. Every death was recompense for the men he lost. 

An Imperial officer appeared through the storm, barking orders, trying to rally his men. Pots raised his rifle, and the man dropped dead. 

“Surrender or die!” Pots said across an open channel. 

In the past, he would feel sympathy for his brothers, and to a degree, he still did. But this was war. A war for the survival of the Republic, a conflict where he could demonstrate his loyalty to the General. Those poor bastards had been chipped. All too often, there was no saving them. 

“For the Emperor!” Came the reply. 

The men of the 22nd unhesitantly rose from their foxholes, and charged them in one final, last desperate assault. 

“So be it. Starcrusher Corp, leave no survivors!” 

As the men of the 22nd died to the last man on this hellforged desert world of Triton, similar battles, skirmishes, and bloody tales took place across the galaxy. 

A new phase of the Clone Wars had ended, future historians, and current contemporaries would soon know this new conflict by a new name: 

The Succession Wars.