The ship tore free of hyperspace.
Stars snapped back into place with violent clarity, and Geonosis filled the forward viewport — vast, rust-red, scarred by canyon veins and industrial scarring. For a heartbeat, the bridge was silent, as if the crew needed to see it once with their own eyes before returning to their instruments.
Then the alarms began.
Not panicked. Not chaotic. Measured tones layered over one another as targeting solutions populated screens and shield matrices flared to full strength.
"Entering upper atmosphere," a naval officer reported from the lower pit. "Minor turbulence expected. Anti-air signatures active along equatorial ridge."
The hull shuddered as the first distant impacts struck the outer shields — dull concussions that rolled through the structure like restrained thunder. Not penetrating. Testing.
Kael felt it through the deck plating beneath his boots.
War announces itself.
He didn't look at Yoda. He didn't look at the viewport again. The sight of the planet would not change what came next.
He turned and walked for the hangar.
The corridor descended in a gradual curve toward the deployment decks, vibration increasing with every step. Clones moved past in controlled urgency — no wasted motion, no shouted orders. Just the rhythm of preparation.
Boots striking steel.
Armor plates brushing as units passed one another.
The distant rising whine of repulsorlifts powering up.
The sound grew heavier as the blast doors parted.
The primary hangar opened before them like the interior of some mechanical cathedral.
Rows upon rows of white-armored troopers stood in organized formations stretching the length of the deck, divided by colored markings and unit insignia that caught the amber overhead light in muted bands. Blue-striped line companies stood nearest the forward launch lanes. Yellow-marked command elements clustered around portable holoprojectors. Red-accented heavy weapons teams checked rotary cannons and missile tubes with practiced efficiency.
Above them, suspended in launch racks or resting on magnetic clamps, the first wave of LAAT/i gunship transports hung like predators waiting to drop.
Engines were already spooling.
The air vibrated with it — a deep, mechanical hum that climbed steadily in pitch. Ionized fuel burned faintly in the atmosphere, sharp and metallic at the back of the throat. Deck crews in dark flight armor moved quickly beneath the gunships, disconnecting feed lines, pulling away stabilizer braces, slapping gloved hands against hull plating in final confirmation.
A low announcement rolled across the hangar through recessed speakers, calm and precise.
"First wave crews to deployment lanes. Suppression teams prepare for launch. Entering Geonosis upper atmosphere."
The words carried without urgency. The urgency was already understood.
Kael stepped onto the raised loading platform that overlooked the primary launch corridor. His helmet rested beneath one arm, black beskar absorbing the warm light instead of reflecting it. From here, he could see the scale of it — thousands of men standing in ordered stillness while controlled motion surged around them.
Some troopers broke formation at the signal, jogging toward assigned gunships. Others remained planted, waiting for their wave designation. A pilot climbed the boarding ladder of the nearest LAAT, sealing his cockpit with a solid mechanical lock. Twin beam turret gunners swung into their harnesses, securing themselves into half-exposed firing cradles, rotary cannons lowering with hydraulic finality.
A heavy tremor rippled through the deck.
Outside the hangar's forward aperture, the massive armored doors had split open.
Beyond them shimmered the translucent glow of the magnetic plasma barrier — a luminous field holding atmosphere against vacuum and open sky. Through it, Geonosis burned in layered shades of orange and ash. Dark smoke columns spiraled upward from distant canyon ridges where anti-air batteries had already begun firing into the descending fleet.
Blue streaks of Republic turbolaser fire answered from above.
The hull absorbed another impact. The shield grid flared briefly, bathing the hangar interior in a pale flicker before stabilizing.
No one flinched.
A squad leader moved down his line, checking seals with gloved hands. Another trooper adjusted the shoulder plate of the man beside him without comment. A pilot resting near the forward lane pressed his palm briefly against the hull of his gunship, not in superstition — in familiarity.
Kael watched it all.
This was not fear.
It was readiness contained.
"First wave, move."
The command came from a deck officer near the launch control pit. Illuminated batons cut through the air in precise arcs.
Magnetic clamps disengaged with heavy metallic clunks.
The first LAAT dropped six inches as repulsors engaged, stabilizing instantly in a halo of white-blue glow. Its engines surged, filling the hangar with a rising scream that pressed against the chest.
One by one, the gunships eased forward, drifting toward the plasma barrier in disciplined sequence.
The light beyond the shield shimmered across their armored hulls, violet engine wash mixing with the orange glare of Geonosis' sky.
Kael remained still.
Beside him, Yoda stood with hands folded inside his sleeves, small silhouette framed against the open hangar and burning horizon. The old Master's gaze did not linger on the departing ships. It rested on the men who remained.
The first LAAT reached the barrier.
For half a second, it hovered there — nose angled slightly downward, engines at full output.
Then it pushed through.
The plasma field rippled around its frame as it passed, surface distortion briefly warping its outline before the gunship broke clean into open air.
Outside, it banked hard left, cannons already firing. Blue lances of energy streaked downward toward canyon ridgelines, followed by the second ship, then the third.
The hangar filled with the echo of departure.
Each gunship's engines roared past in sequence, sound cresting and fading as they crossed the barrier and vanished into smoke.
Through the shield, flashes of distant explosions bloomed along the horizon. Anti-air fire answered, green plasma arcing upward in violent retaliation. One impact struck somewhere along the ship's dorsal plating — a deep, resonant удар that rolled through the deck beneath their feet.
The barrier flickered.
Held.
More gunships advanced.
Below the platform, troopers of the second wave began shifting toward boarding lanes, movements measured but quicker now. Helmets locked into place. Weapons mag-clamped against chest plates. Final diagnostics flashed green across wrist displays.
Kael's eyes tracked the last of the first wave as it pierced the orange haze.
He felt them in the Force — faint, disciplined sparks diving into uncertainty.
No speeches. No grand gestures.
Just men leaving steel for sand.
The final suppression craft cleared the hangar.
For a brief moment, the launch lane stood empty.
Then the deck officer's voice cut through the engine hum.
"Second wave crews to embarkation."
The hangar did not grow quieter.
It grew heavier.
And the sky beyond the barrier continued to burn.
The last of the first-wave gunships vanished into the orange haze, their engine trails swallowed by smoke and distant flares of anti-air fire. For half a breath, the launch corridor stood open and empty, the plasma barrier rippling softly where metal had just passed through.
Then the deck officer's baton cut downward.
"Second wave, move!"
The hangar shifted from contained readiness to motion.
Troopers broke formation in disciplined bursts, boots striking steel in accelerating rhythm as squads ran toward their assigned transports. The sound layered over the engine whine — armor plates brushing, magnetic seals locking into place, the sharp metallic clack of rifles snapping to chest mounts. A heavy weapons team moved past at a jog, one trooper steadying the rotary cannon slung across his partner's shoulder. Medics threaded between columns with compact stretchers folded against their backs. No one shouted. Orders had already been given.
Overhead, the next line of LAATs dropped from their clamps in sequence, repulsorlifts flaring bright as they descended into loading position. Their hulls trembled under rising engine output, violet exhaust bleeding against the amber hangar lights.
The ship shuddered again — closer this time.
Through the barrier, green plasma streaked upward from the canyon floor. A distant explosion blossomed in the sky, briefly silhouetting the descending bulk of the Acclamator fleet beyond.
Kael stood at the edge of the platform, helmet secured beneath his arm, watching the second wave assemble. The air felt hotter now, thinner somehow, charged with ionized fuel and expectation.
Beside him, Yoda's small frame remained steady against the surge of motion.
"Pressed for time, we are," the old Master said, voice low enough that it did not need to compete with engines. "Friends of ours… surrounded, they remain."
Kael nodded once, eyes following a squad leader counting his men as they boarded.
"Of course, Master."
There was no bravado in it. Just an agreement.
Below them, a line of troopers ran past toward a gunship whose side doors already stood open, interior lights casting pale white across armored silhouettes. One stumbled slightly on the incline of the loading ramp; the trooper behind him caught his shoulder without breaking stride.
Yoda began walking.
Not hurried. Not slow.
Deliberate.
Clones parted around him instinctively, white armor creating a corridor as he approached the assigned LAAT. Its engines were already screaming at near-launch output, cockpit canopy sealed, beam turret gunners locking into their harnesses with heavy metallic clicks.
Kael fell into step at his side.
The deck vibrated harder as another anti-air impact struck somewhere along the dorsal plating. The plasma barrier rippled violently, light distorting for a heartbeat before stabilizing.
Through it, the sky burned.
"Rescue them, we must," Yoda continued, gazing forward. "Before numbers overwhelm."
"I know," Kael said quietly.
The base of the loading ramp came into view. Clone troopers already filled the troop bay inside, mag-boots locking against deck plating as they secured themselves to interior rails. Their armor bore fresh markings — some blue, some yellow — paint too new to be scratched by war.
They looked at Yoda as he approached.
Not with awe.
With focus.
Yoda paused at the foot of the ramp and turned slightly toward Kael.
"Quickly, I will return," he said, as if commenting on the weather rather than walking into a furnace. "Hold the line, you must."
Kael met his gaze.
"May the Force be with you, Master."
A faint glimmer touched Yoda's expression.
"And you as well, young Vizsla."
The words were not ceremonial. They were personal.
Yoda ascended the ramp without assistance, cane tapping once against the metal before he stepped fully inside. The clone escort shifted to make room, closing around him with quiet efficiency.
The side doors began to lower.
Hydraulics hissed.
The LAAT's engines climbed another octave, repulsors brightening as the craft lifted inches from the deck.
For a fraction of a second, Kael could see Yoda framed in the open doorway — small against armored soldiers and glaring engine light.
Then the doors sealed.
The gunship rotated toward the launch corridor, nose dipping toward the shimmering barrier.
Kael did not move until it crossed through.
The plasma field rippled as the LAAT pushed into open atmosphere, engine wash scattering vapor across the hangar threshold. Outside, it banked sharply and disappeared into the orange storm toward the distant arena complex where faint flashes of blue and green light now flickered — lightsabers igniting against encroaching droid ranks.
Another impact struck the hull, heavier this time.
The deck tremor rolled upward through Kael's boots and into his spine.
He exhaled once.
Behind him, the rush of troopers continued — third wave staging, artillery teams moving toward lower lifts, officers coordinating descent vectors over clipped comm chatter. The war did not pause for partings.
Kael secured his helmet over his head.
The world narrowed to the muted glow of his HUD.
Targeting data flickered to life along the periphery of his vision. Atmospheric readings. Descent timing. Gunship casualty estimates are being updated in quiet red numbers.
He turned away from the open hangar and began walking toward the surge of remaining troopers.
Not hurried.
Not reluctant.
The second wave had vanished into smoke.
The third would follow.
And below them, Geonosis waited.
The hangar did not empty after Yoda's departure.
It compressed.
Where the second wave had surged forward in a single disciplined rush, the third moved with heavier purpose. These were not extraction teams. These were line breakers. Walker crews, artillery spotters, command elements, reserve infantry — the force that would not skim the surface and leave, but dig in and hold.
Outside the barrier, the sky had grown violent.
Flashes no longer flickered at a distance. They pulsed constantly now, green and blue and white bursting through layers of ash-colored cloud. The sound reached them even through shielding — a dull, sustained thunder rolling beneath the scream of engines.
Another impact struck the hull.
The tremor was sharper this time, a jarring shudder that rippled across the deck and up through Kael's boots. Overhead lighting flickered once before stabilizing. A few troopers shifted their weight instinctively, then stilled.
"Minor shield degradation, dorsal quadrant," a voice announced over the internal comm. Calm. Controlled. "Structural integrity holding."
Holding.
Kael stood near the forward edge of the launch platform, helmet sealed now, violet reflections faint in the curve of his visor. The third-wave LAATs descended into final loading positions, their hulls bearing heavier plating, reinforced for escort duty and atmospheric fire. Beneath them, deck crews cleared the lanes with quick hand signals.
He sensed CC-4377 before he saw him.
The commander approached from the staging line below, yellow markings catching the amber light as he removed his helmet and secured it at his hip. His expression was composed, though the noise around them forced a slight tightening at the corners of his eyes.
The third wave began to lift.
Repulsors flared, engines rising into a layered crescendo that swallowed conversation for a moment. One by one, the gunships drifted forward toward the barrier, interior bays packed tight with troopers who would guide descending carriers and secure landing corridors under fire.
Outside, anti-air batteries adjusted.
Green plasma streaked upward, closer now — close enough that the glow washed across the interior of the hangar as if lightning had cracked overhead.
Another tremor rolled through the hull.
Kael turned his head slightly toward 4377.
"You ready?"
The question was simple. Not ceremonial.
4377 didn't hesitate. "We are, General."
Behind him, lines of troopers stood waiting for carrier deployment. Helmets sealed. Rifles secured. A few shifted with contained energy — not impatience, but anticipation.
"The boys are ready," 4377 added after a beat. "Some of them… eager."
There was no bravado in it. Just truth. This was what they had been built for.
Kael watched as the final third-wave LAAT cleared the barrier and vanished into orange smoke. Through the shield, one of the escort craft banked sharply to avoid a rising stream of anti-air fire, its side cannons answering in blue streaks that detonated along a canyon ridge.
"Well," Kael said quietly, "that's good."
The last gunship disappeared from view.
For a moment, the launch corridor stood open to the burning sky — empty, luminous, violent.
Then the deck officer gave a sharp signal.
The massive hangar doors began to slide inward.
Metal groaned as armored panels sealed the aperture. The plasma barrier dimmed and vanished as steel met steel, shutting out the roar of the atmosphere and replacing it with the contained hum of interior systems.
The sudden reduction in noise was almost disorienting.
Battle still thundered beyond the hull — felt more than heard now — but inside the hangar, the sound became internal: engines cycling down, walker reactors warming in lower decks, boots shifting in disciplined lines.
The tremor of distant artillery continued to ripple faintly through the structure.
They were lower now.
Closer.
Kael could feel it in the Force — not the clarity of a duel, but the broad, chaotic churn of thousands of lives colliding. The arena's flare of lightsabers still burned somewhere beyond the horizon. Droid foundries pulsed like mechanical hearts beneath the surface.
He turned fully toward 4377.
"I'll be with you when we deploy."
The commander met his gaze, searching for a fraction of a second to confirm what he'd heard.
"We'll lead it ourselves," Kael continued. Foundries first. If we fracture their production lines, the rest of this field gets quieter."
It wasn't said with aggression.
It was said with calculation.
4377 nodded once. "Understood."
There was a pause between them — not awkward. Assessing.
"You're sure about being forward, General?" 4377 asked carefully. Not questioning authority. Measuring risk.
Kael's visor reflected the rows of troopers behind the commander.
"I won't ask them to take ground I won't stand on."
Another distant impact rolled through the hull, heavier than the last. Dust sifted faintly from a seam in the overhead plating before settling.
"Then we'll stand there together," 4377 said.
Kael inclined his head once in acknowledgment.
"Be prepared," he said quietly. "When those doors open next, we're not skimming the surface."
He looked toward the sealed hangar doors, as if he could see through them to the desert beyond.
"We're breaking it."
Beyond the steel, the battle raged louder by the minute — artillery thudding, anti-air cannons roaring, distant detonations echoing across canyon walls.
Inside, thousands of clone troopers waited in disciplined silence.
And somewhere beneath them, the sand of Geonosis was about to receive the Republic's full weight.