A lone woman walked through the vast corridors of the Kaminoan facility, boots echoing against the polished white floors. Her eyes scanned each intersection, each observation deck, memorizing sight lines and defensive positions. She'd contributed her tactical assessment to the battle plan during the briefing, but now she needed to see the terrain herself—to understand the angles, the choke points, the places where defenders could make their stand when the Separatists came.
Her hand touched the datapad concealed beneath her jacket. A close friend had asked her to find something specific here, before the fighting started.
The city's alarm klaxons erupted like thunder, their wailing echoing through every corridor.
Her stride quickened. She rounded a corner and fell into step with a squad of clone troopers double-timing toward their defensive positions, their armor clattering as they ran.
Throughout Tipoca City, starfighters launched from hangar bays, repulsorlifts screaming as they punched through the atmospheric shield into Kamino's perpetual storm. Anakin, Windu, War Machine, Falcon, and Plo Koon led the first wave, with dozens of V-19 Torrents, ARC-170s, and BTL-B Y-wings following in tight formation.
In distant orbit, the Republic fleet hung like a constellation of steel, weapons charged, shields raised. Bridge crews stood at their stations, hands hovering over firing controls.
Then space itself seemed to darken as the Separatist armada dropped from hyperspace—wave after wave of frigates, destroyers, and dreadnoughts, their hulls blotting out the stars.
Aboard his flagship, General Grievous rose from his command throne, cape billowing. "Attack formation Echo-Three."
Tactical droids across the bridge chorused acknowledgment, their photoreceptors flickering as they processed targeting data.
"Status report," Grievous demanded, his mechanical voice cutting through the ambient bridge noise.
"Deflector shields at maximum. Destroyers holding position. Forward batteries charged. Landing craft prepared for deployment."
Grievous's clawed hand swept through the holographic display. "Commence bombardment."
The Separatist fleet opened fire. Turbolaser bolts streaked across the void in brilliant green streams, slamming into Republic cruisers. The space between the two armadas erupted with explosions and debris.
At the center of the Republic formation, Captain Wilhuff Tarkin stood on his command bridge, ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. His sharp eyes tracked enemy movements on the tactical display. A clone officer approached, datapad extended.
"The Separatist fleet is concentrating fire on our center line, sir. They're attempting to punch through our defensive perimeter."
Tarkin's thin lips pressed together. "Focus all forward batteries on their flagship. Deploy cruisers in staggered formation—I want overlapping fields of fire. When they commit to their breakthrough attempt, we'll collapse on their flanks."
The clone officer saluted sharply. "Yes, sir."
Above Tipoca City, the two fleets tore into each other. Turbolaser fire crisscrossed the orbital space in blinding networks of energy. Starfighters wove between capital ships, engaging in furious dogfights. Explosions bloomed like deadly flowers against the backdrop of Kamino's storm-wracked atmosphere.
In Tipoca City's main command center, Lama Su stood beside Obi-Wan, Shaak Ti, Captain America, and Black Widow. Their eyes tracked the holographic display showing the orbital battle unfolding overhead. Commanders Rex, Cody, and Ponds monitored tactical channels, coordinating ground defenses.
"Reinforce the eastern perimeter," Cody ordered into his comlink, his voice steady despite the tension crackling through the command center.
Shaak Ti's head-tails twitched as she studied the enemy fleet composition. "They've committed significant forces."
"Their numbers exceed our intelligence projections," Ki-Adi-Mundi observed, his elongated head tilted as he examined the tactical readout. "By at least thirty percent."
Obi-Wan gestured at a cluster of unfamiliar fighters on the display—sleek, angular craft with unusual weapon configurations. "They're deploying Umbaran starfighters. Their newest allies are making their presence felt."
Kit Fisto leaned over the holographic projector, studying the engagement patterns. "Those fighters are wreaking havoc on our forward squadrons."
In orbit, Anakin's Jedi starfighter rolled through a cloud of debris, War Machine and Falcon flanking him on either side. Behind them, several squadrons of V-19s, ARC-170s, and Y-wings formed up in attack formation.
"Good to see you up here, Generals, Colonel Rhodes," came the familiar voice of Broadside through the comm channel.
"Beats being stuck in the command center," Anakin replied, pulling his fighter into a sharp climb toward the enemy fleet. "At least up here I can actually do something."
"We still need to show these rookies how it's done," War Machine added, his suit's sensors tracking multiple bogeys converging on their position.
"Don't I get a say in the training curriculum?" Plo Koon's calm voice interjected with dry humor.
"Focus," Windu's stern voice cut through the banter. "We're about to engage. Watch your flanks. Target those Umbaran fighters—we need to assess their capabilities firsthand."
The Republic fighters dove toward the Separatist line. Y-wings broke formation, angling toward enemy cruisers with proton torpedoes armed and ready.
The dogfight erupted in earnest. Blaster fire and missile contrails filled the void.
A Republic cruiser shuddered under sustained turbolaser bombardment. Its shields flared, overloaded, then collapsed. The next salvo tore through its hull, secondary explosions rippling along its length before it broke apart.
Several smaller vessels suffered similar fates—most fell to Umbaran starfighters. The angular craft employed unusual tactics, their pilots using advanced shielding and unusual ballistic missiles that detonated with devastating effect.
"These shields are ridiculous," Falcon muttered, pouring blaster fire into an Umbaran fighter. His shots splashed harmlessly against its energy barrier. "Takes half my magazine just to get through."
"Broadside, watch your six!" Falcon called out, spotting an Umbaran closing on the clone pilot's Y-wing.
"Get this guy off me!" Broadside's fighter shook as enemy fire hammered his rear deflectors. "I can't shake him!"
Falcon adjusted his approach vector, matching the Umbaran's movements. His targeting computer achieved lock. The enemy fighter's shield profile appeared on his HUD, highlighting weak points.
"Hold steady, Broadside."
Falcon squeezed the trigger. Concentrated laser fire punched through the Umbaran fighter's rear shield generator. The barrier flickered, failed. His next burst tore through the hull. The fighter exploded.
"Thanks for the save!" Broadside peeled off, already engaging his next target.
Elsewhere, Mace Windu's fighter carved through a formation of Vulture droids, his precise piloting and Force-enhanced reflexes making him nearly untouchable. "Command, this is Windu. Enemy assault continues unabated. They're pressing hard."
His starfighter rolled, evading incoming fire, then strafed a Separatist frigate's exposed weapon emplacements.
"Should we call in reinforcements?" War Machine asked, his HUD showing another wave of Tri-fighters approaching.
Tarkin's voice crackled through the command channel. "Negative. Our losses remain within acceptable parameters. Hold the line."
Burning debris from destroyed Separatist fighters began raining down through Kamino's atmosphere, trailing smoke and fire as they plunged toward the endless ocean below.
In the command center, Shaak Ti watched the orbital battle with narrowed eyes, her hands resting on the holographic projector's control panel.
Captain America leaned forward, studying Grievous's flagship on the display. "He's abandoned his transport fleet. Left them exposed while protecting his command ship."
"He's using them as cannon fodder," Obi-Wan said quietly, stroking his beard. "Forcing us to waste ammunition and time cutting through chaff."
Something nagged at the Jedi Master. This felt wrong. Too straightforward. Too brutal, even for Grievous.
Deep beneath Tipoca City's surface, in the dark waters of Kamino's ocean, Asajj Ventress stood in her infiltrator's cockpit. Water pressure creaked against the hull. Her pale face reflected in the viewport, illuminated by the red emergency lighting.
An aqua droid commander approached, its vocabulator distorted by the aquatic modifications. "Orbital engagement confirmed. Republic forces fully committed."
Ventress's lips curved into a cold smile. "Deploy the aqua droids. Begin assembling the assault craft."
"Acknowledged."
Back in the command center, more tactical data streamed across the displays. Anakin's hologram flickered to life, his face flushed with adrenaline. "Master, request permission to press the attack. We can hit their flagship while their fighters are occupied."
Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. "No, Anakin. We hold position."
"But Master, we've got them—"
"This feels too easy," Obi-Wan interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "Grievous doesn't make reckless frontal assaults. He's a tactician."
"The battle's in space, not on the ground," Anakin protested.
An explosion rocked the facility. The command center's lights flickered. Everyone grabbed the edges of the holographic table for balance.
"That wasn't from orbital bombardment," Cody said, checking his tactical readout. His expression darkened. "That came from inside the city."
"The falling debris," Obi-Wan said, realization dawning. "It's not just debris."
"What are you thinking?" Shaak Ti asked, her montrals twitching with concern.
The Togruta Jedi Master turned to Kit Fisto. "Master Fisto, would you care to join me for a swim?"
Despite the gravity of the situation, Fisto's face broke into a wide grin. "I thought you'd never ask."