#separatists

It was good they had each other. Good that they could look out for one another—what had he been thinking, sending you off by your lonesome?

It was a question that kept repeating, over and over. His conscience was riddled with the guilt of a bereaved parent, even though your fate remained a mystery.

Upon approaching your wrecked freighter, he placed a hand atop the youngest’s shoulder, holding him back. He was unsure of what they would find, apprehensive that he should be a witness to what lay inside.

Then, your father spoke to the eldest brother, “You two wait here.”

His eyes said it all, a silent command to watch over him, a boy who could not watch over himself. Should anything be lurking, he wanted to bear the brunt—no other of his offspring would die here in this barren place.

——

“How much farther?”

“Another one point six kilometers.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Say, why are we going after farmers anyway?”

Thin, skeletal feet—three pairs, not four—strode onward, ordered to do so not by Grievous himself, but by his droid-doctor, something that seemed unprecedented. Yet here they were, one only now beginning to question their mission, while the others seemed unperturbed after their initial doubts had long since faded.

“Because A4-D said so, why else?”

"Should we be listening to him?”

“Who else would we be listening to?”

“Uh, the general?” this B1 emphasized, a hint of attitude lacing the awkward, high-pitched tone of its voice.

The trio stopped, as if they could not process such complicated thoughts and walk at the same time, their long faces turning this way and that as they contemplated their squadmate’s query.

“But he’s not here!” another answered, “so A4-D must be his second in command!”

They all nodded in agreement and trudged on. “Roger, roger.”

——

“Hm, now let me see,” A4-D muttered to himself, a single metallic claw-like appendage swiping through the general’s present inventory, his photoreceptors fixed on the best droid for the job.

“Ah, yes, here we are.”

The threat of cutting off your oxygen supply had been an empty one, though the doctor had something else in mind—something worse—summoning an SD-K4 assassin droid from its charging station, the 8-legged probe crawling out from its resting place behind a hatch in the wall below, existing within the same storage facility as the B1 droids he had dispatched earlier.

This droid was silent, lethal, and efficient. Where it failed, its “children” would not, outfitted with thirty-one smaller versions of itself to finish the job its counterpart had begun should it be incapacitated beyond recovery, though that was a rare thing indeed. A4-D appraised it from his place in the control room, thinking that it was indeed quite the specimen.

Created by one Baktoid Combat Automata—a subsidiary of the Techno Union—the Confederacy of Independent Star Systems began using them during the war. Equipped with razor-sharp legs and multiple sensors, any organic being should be terrified of facing them in battle, but this time, that being would be you.

“Greetings, friend,” EV-A4-D chortled to himself, “I have a job for you.”

Red eyes gleamed in the darkness as the droid rose to its full height, towering over the surveillance camera from which A4-D’s voice emanated. The spider-like robot gave its full attention to whoever lay on the other side, listening closely for its orders.

“There is a human girl in the ventilation system. Make sure you do not harm a hair on her head.” The doctor quoted his master, assuming this droid would not take things so literally or that it would be able to go against its inherent programming, much to his future detriment. “Bring her to me in the control room. The general’s arrival is imminent. Do not fail, though this should be child’s play for your particular model.”

A4-D crossed his arms—all four—as he mulled over something else, a small concern. “You were obviously built to fit in tight spaces,” he said thoughtfully. “I would do this myself…” he trailed off.

For a moment, the doctor hesitated on his decision. Could his directions be clearer? He brushed any misgivings away—he had no need to worry, did he?

Orders were orders. You were not to be harmed.

“Now go.”

The SD-K4 unit understood its primary objective in a narrower sense; its only acknowledgment of acceptance was the realigning of its limbs and the swiveling of its head in preparation for departure—there was no doubt it would find you.

——

Grievous’ sour disposition matched his mood as his ship violently decelerated from lightspeed. He arrived mere kilometers outside the third moon of Vassek’s gravity, a visual flash marring his vision as streaks of light snapped back into place, becoming as stationary as The Soulless One for a brief moment.

Once settled, the general fired his sublight ion engines to direct his heavy starfighter toward the moon’s craggy surface, but the jarring physical jolt had irritated him. Grievous had been abruptly returned to realspace, though there was no time to waste. He began circling the area of your ship’s wreckage, waiting for the fog to clear so that he might get a better look.

“A4-D, I have returned,” the general bellowed into the comm. “Are our visitors still here?” he asked with an uptick in his grating tone.

“Yes, master!” came A4-D’s quick reply. “A squad of battle droids is nearing their location.”

——

“There they are!” your father heard a voice call out, robotic in nature, though ultimately sounding as if someone had a bad sinus infection. His head jerked up just as he was about to enter the remains of your ship, both his boys whipping around to catch sight of what happened to be a small group of droids approaching from the rear.

Squinting into the mist, he realized the mountainous topography must have hidden them from view; otherwise, the trio might have been spotted sooner. They were wielding what appeared to be blaster rifles in their three-pronged hands, jogging at a moderate pace in their direction. The hairs on the back of your father’s neck stood up; he did not like the looks of this one bit.

“You there, get away from that ship! We have orders to shoot if you don’t scram!”

The boys meant to draw their weapons; your father motioned with one arm to halt, hoping he might somehow negotiate with these droids, no matter where they had come from or who had given them their orders.

“Please, we are peaceful. I am looking for my daughter. This is her ship. I mean no harm. A rescue beacon led us to this place,” he said, hopeful that they might listen. “We just want to check to see if she is here, or if she may have survived.”

This seemed to confuse them, as they looked from one to the next as if attempting to determine their next course of action. It appeared this squad of droids had no leader, or one who was willing to make important decisions among them.

"Uh, A4—” One of the B1-series had enough discernment to comm the doctor. “These guys are looking for someone—the man says he’s missing a daughter?”

“Kill them,” came the doctor’s firm reply, knowing full well that the general would likely be displeased by this outcome, though the blame could always be shifted to those bolt buckets in the field… A4-D was, in some ways, just as twisted as his master, if not more, taking pleasure in the idea that if he could not be rid of you, he could at least take out his frustrations on your dear family—whether you remembered them or not.

“If you say so.”

“Run!” shouted your father, placing himself in harm’s way so your brothers might escape, raising his own blaster in defense, prepared to fight or die to protect his own.

—

Grievous’ reptilian eyes narrowed to fine slits as he surveyed the area below, continuing to circle at the exact proximity of the crash site. It was the pew-pew of blaster fire that alerted him to your family’s determinate location, anger flaring as he had given the doctor specific directions—they were meant for capture, not termination! He angled The Soulless One sharply downward, cutting through the surrounding fog, yelling into the comm as he was prone to do on many occasions.

“A4! Why are they attacking? I ordered the humans to be captured!”

“It appears these B1s are acting outside my command,” A4 lied. “I was clear you wanted them detained.”

The only response given was a guttural growl of aggravation, Grievous forcing the yolk of his Belbullab-22 completely forward so that it would take a nose-dive toward the ground.

The general activated the transparisteel dome securing him, springing from his cockpit with agility and ease. He somersaulted in midair, leaving his ship behind to hover, the hydraulics in his legs propelling him farther than should be possible as the hilt of a lightsaber was grasped from inside his billowing cloak.

“Hey, look! It’s the genera—”

This B1 was cut off mid-sentence, as was his head, found to be rolling into the distance, coming to a stop thanks to a massive boulder.

“General! We thought—”

Grievous’ wrist rotated, spinning the saber in his hand, a flash of emerald slashing downward in an arc as another head was lopped off, leaving one droid remaining.

“But sir! A4 said—”

“RAArrgh!” came the Kaleesh’s gruff response, in no mood for excuses. His right leg lifted for a duranium talon to kick the droid square in his chest, his fragile body flying backward to smash to bits against a wall of jagged rock.

Silence overcame the valley, the human man gazing at Grievous with wide, terrified eyes as his offspring hid behind their shoddy ship. The steady hum of superheated plasma descended and dropped off, retreating into the hilt of the lightsaber as the general rounded on them with a dramatic swirl of his cloak. He sheathed the weapon, once owned by a mighty Jedi Consular, then stood tall, looking directly at them with the fierce eyes of a once-great warlord.

“H-hello there,” your father began anxiously, “thank you for your help.”

The being before him was eerily silent, unlike anything he had ever seen. He was at least seven feet tall, with golden eyes and claws for feet, his entire body made of some kind of metal alloy. Yet he wielded a lightsaber, a weapon of those warriors heard about in legends—knights of the Republic said to hinder the Confederacy at every turn—was he on a mission? Where had he come from? Did he mean them harm?

Then, with a trembling voice, your father gained enough courage to ask the sentient one question: “Are—are you a Jedi?”

Boisterous, nearly malicious laughter bounced around the canyon as this creature cackled, though it was short-lived and interrupted by a fit of violent coughing. Your father knew not what to do, so he simply stood there, gazing back to see if his sons were indeed all right.

“A Jedi… Yes, yes, I am a Jedi,” the general said, thinking it best to keep up the charade. “And just what are you doing here? This mountain is sacred, home to one of our Jedi temples,” Grievous fibbed, hating the very idea of pretending to be one of those hypocritical, deceitful murderers.

Your father motioned toward where your ship lay in a heap. "I followed a signal here. I am looking for my daughter."

“Ah ha!” Grievous snapped, causing your father to tense. The eldest of his sons was brave enough to creep out from his hiding spot, making the youngest stay put as he stepped cautiously forward.

“The woman who was in this ship died on impact. We… Jedi cremated her remains, as is our way.”

“I-I see.”

Grievous saw the hope drain from your father’s eyes, his own constricting as he studied him, noting the genetic similarities. If he did not buy into his tale, the general would do things the hard way, determined to keep you and his lair under wraps.

Your father felt devastated by the news, as a piece of him had died; your older brother felt a tug at his heartstrings, though the youngest had been too far away to hear of your demise. Still, he was unsure. Some part of him could not believe it, didn’t want to believe it, and this questionable cyborg, or whatever he was, did not seem to him to be a Jedi, but what did he know? This was the first time he had ever laid his eyes on one.

“Did you keep the ashes?” he thought to ask, though it was a long shot to recover any of your cremains.

“She was scattered to the four winds of the moon,” he replied, quick-witted in his story. “Her soul was returned to the Force from whence it came.”

Grievous felt disgusted at himself, wanting to wash his vocabulator with soap, though this was preferable to killing your father and brothers outright, and it would limit any excuses they might have to come back. While his motives were selfish, you also owed him your life.

“May we retrieve her belongings?” he asked, Grievous forced to keep his true feelings in check. He was in a hurry; he wished he would leave; he had business to attend to. For all he knew, you were on your way here, having escaped through a ventilation shaft!

“Hurry, I am late for… meditation,” Grievous scowled. “You must leave this place and tell no one of what you have learned.”

"I understand,” your father said, turning to walk back towards the wreckage, though he had lingering questions.

That droid had called him Sir—

Wasn't this Separatist space?'

Instead of asking them, he would gather your brothers to inspect your light freighter, to collect what they could of the remaining crop, and to usher themselves back off-world, though one other thing seemed utterly suspicious and gave him pause.

“Dad, the beacon—it looks like it was ripped from the console,” the eldest whispered, noting that sickly pair of reptilian eyes still watched them from afar.