Chapter Text
The journey from the grit and chaos of Raxus Secundus to the heart of his family's dominion was a study in contrasts. Aboard his personal Sheathipede-class Type B shuttle, Zíro Varis watched as the star-streaked tunnel of hyperspace dissolved into the brilliant blue-white star of the Centa system. Before him, the planet of his birth swam into view, a jewel of deep greens and rich, earthy hues.
Centa Primera was a world without oceans. From orbit, it was a breathtaking mosaic of land and water, where continents were not defined by coastlines but by vast mountain ranges and sprawling forests. A thousand sapphire lakes, some as large as inland seas, were connected by a web of silver rivers that crisscrossed the landmasses like veins of liquid metal.
As the shuttle began its descent, the planet's unique palette became even more pronounced. The air was crisp, the light golden, casting long, dramatic shadows across the landscape. Vast plains were not simply green but a tapestry of amber, gold, and deep ochre, ready for harvest. Forests climbed the slopes of rust-colored mountains, their canopies a breathtaking riot of crimson, orange, and burnished copper. It was a world perpetually poised in a state of graceful transition, exuding a sense of profound, settled peace.
Gleaming cities rose from the plains and valleys, their spires of polished metal and white stone reflecting the golden sunlight. The capital city, Caelus, shimmered in the distance, a sprawling testament to advanced engineering and natural beauty.
The shuttle soared over Caelus, a magnificent metropolis of soaring towers and elegant sky-bridges, before banking towards the private Varis estate. The ancestral home was a fortress of elegance, a sprawling palace complex of dark, polished stone and armored transparisteel built into the side of a mountain, overlooking a vast, shimmering lake.
As the shuttle settled onto the private landing platform with a whisper-quiet hiss, the ramp lowered to reveal Lord Kaelen and Lady Elara waiting for their son.
Zíro stepped out first, and for the first time since the battle, he was seen not just as a commander, but as a man returning home. He was tall, with a lean, athletic build honed by years of military training. His posture was ramrod straight. He wore the standard uniform of a Confederacy naval officer: a dark grey tunic with lighter grey highlights and white piping. A functional black belt cinched his waist, carrying a holstered blaster and, conspicuously, a sleek vibro-sword at his left hip. His dark trousers and polished black boots completed the ensemble. His dark hair was cut short and neat, and his features were sharp and aristocratic. But it was his eyes that held one's attention; they were a cool, assessing shade of steel grey, betraying a tactical mind that was always processing, always calculating. A faint, healing scar was just visible at his temple, the only physical mark of his recent trial by fire.
Behind him, his new entourage disembarked with unnerving efficiency. First came the two BX-series commando droids, their sleek, dark frames moving with a fluid lethality, their photoreceptors glowing a menacing white. Following them, a dozen B1 battle droids marched out in two perfect columns, their spindly forms and chattering speech patterns a familiar sight, but their synchronized precision showed they were a cut above the standard infantry model. Bringing up the rear were four B2 super battle droids, their hulking, heavily armored bodies thudding on the ramp, their wrist cannons a clear statement of power. And finally, T-622 emerged, its gunmetal grey chassis unmarked, its analytical gaze sweeping across the estate, cataloging everything.
Lord Kaelen stepped forward. He was an older, harder version of his son, his hair streaked with silver at the temples, his face a mask of stern patrician pride. He was dressed in opulent but severe robes of black and gold. He did not embrace his son, but clasped his shoulder firmly.
“Admiral,” he said, his voice a low baritone that resonated with authority. He gave a slight, approving nod at the new rank. “A satisfactory victory.”
"Thank you, Father. I am glad to have returned."
Beside his father, Lady Elara was a vision of grace and maternal anxiety. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair elegantly styled, and her fine silk gown could not hide the tension in her posture. She ignored the formalities, rushing forward to gently cup Zíro’s face in her hands, her eyes scanning him for any injury.
“Zíro, you’re safe,” she breathed, her relief a palpable wave. But then her expression shifted, and her gaze hardened. “I saw the tactical readouts. Placing your command ship at the head of the charge was an audacious and incredibly dangerous move. You won, but the risk you took was immense.”
“The risk was calculated, Mother,” Zíro said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly as he allowed himself a moment of warmth. “And it was necessary."
They walked into the grand hall of the palace, its ceilings impossibly high, its walls adorned with ancient tapestries depicting the history of their lineage. Servitor droids hummed silently past.
“Your mother is right about the risk,” Lord Kaelen remarked as they walked, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. “But it paid a significant dividend beyond the battlefield. HoloNet news feeds are calling you the ‘Hero of the Perlemian.’ You've become a celebrity, son. It's a powerful tool for public morale.”
“If my actions inspire confidence in our cause and ensure our people remain safe, then I am glad,” Zíro responded. “You and Mother have always led by example, showing that strength is meant to protect. However, my focus must remain on the objectives I am given, not on headlines.”
They reached a plush seating area overlooking the serene lake and sat. Once settled, Zíro continued, “Speaking of objectives, my initial training on Ryloth was informative. During the blockade, I served under Captain Tuuk. My primary duty was to coordinate orbital fire support for the Techno Union's ground operation. I learned a great deal about fleet positioning from him, and the importance of gathering extensive enemy intelligence before committing to a counter-attack. It was a shame to hear his fleet was eventually defeated after I was reassigned. He was a capable officer.”
“A valuable experience, then, despite the eventual loss for the Confederacy there,” noted his father, ever the realist.
“My duties as Commander then took me to the Perlemian Trade Route. A sector largely quiet, as promised, but not without its challenges. Pirates and opportunistic raiders frequently tested our defenses. It provided valuable experience in independent leadership.” Zíro’s gaze grew distant. “It was during a routine patrol that we encountered the Republic fleet, lying in wait. Not just reconnaissance, but prepared for a full-scale planetary assault.”
“Probability analysis confirms the Admiral's assessment,” T-622's synthesized voice cut in, its tone flat and factual. Its head tilted slightly as it addressed the group. “The fleet's composition and trajectory suggest a 92.7% likelihood their primary target was a high-yield mining operation within the sector, or the agri-world of Felucia. The loss of either would have been a significant blow to the Confederacy's regional supply chain.”
Lord Kaelen’s expression darkened. “A Republic invasion fleet… so deep within our claimed territory. That is concerning intelligence.”
“More than concerning, Kaelen,” Lady Elara added, her voice sharp and clear. “Think of the millions who would have starved without the food shipments from Felucia, or the factories that would grind to a halt without the raw materials from those mines. Zíro’s victory wasn't just tactical; it prevented a catastrophe for countless citizens.”
“You are both correct,” Zíro affirmed, his gaze steady. “Their downfall was overconfidence in their fleet's size and firepower. They underestimated my task force and made tactical errors I was able to exploit. That is what ultimately led to our victory and allowed us to counter a potential invasion.”
“You have done your duty, Zíro, and done it well,” Lady Elara said, her tone a mixture of pride and somber understanding. “But the war has many fronts, not all of them among the stars.”
“The political landscape has shifted dramatically since you left for the academies, son,” Lord Kaelen said, his expression severe. “The war’s tendrils reach everywhere. We’ve had to make… adjustments. Our family’s influence may be vast, but even here, on Centa Primera, there are whispers of dissent.”
“Has there been any direct threat to our house, Father?” Zíro asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Lord Kaelen hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing substantial. Petty squabbles, minor industrial sabotage. We are secure. Which is why your presence here, even for a short time, is a welcome respite from the war.”
They continued to discuss the intricacies of galactic politics and the local goings-on. The conversation spanned the changing allegiances of minor systems, the growing demand for raw materials from Centa Primera, and the social impact of the war on the everyday lives of the citizens. It was a rare moment of connection.
As the golden light of the Centa system began to mellow, casting longer, softer shadows across the lake, Lady Elara finally broke the intense discussion. “It is such a beautiful day. Zíro, it’s been too long since we’ve simply walked through Caelus. The main square is particularly lovely at this hour.”
Zíro, despite his internal concerns about being away from his ships, found himself nodding. “I would enjoy that, Mother. It has indeed been too long.” He hadn’t realized how much he missed the simple rhythms of home.
Lord Kaelen, practical as always, merely grunted. “Very well. But you will take a suitable escort. We shall not have our son, a newly minted Admiral, walking unguarded through the capital.”
“Of course, Father. My droids will accompany us,” Zíro replied, glancing at his waiting entourage.
“And a full complement of the family guard,” his father added firmly. “No debate.”
Zíro merely inclined his head. He knew when to pick his battles, and arguing over a few extra bodyguards on a pleasant stroll was not one of them. He genuinely looked forward to seeing the capital again, to feeling the pulse of his home world outside the insulated walls of the estate.
***
The main square of Caelus was a masterpiece of civic design, and today it was at its most idyllic. Vast and open, its floor was a mosaic of polished, amber-colored stone that warmed under the setting, golden sun. In the center, a grand fountain shot plumes of crystal-clear water high into the air, the spray catching the light like scattered diamonds. Manicured trees with crimson and copper leaves lined the perimeter, their branches rustling in a gentle, crisp breeze, and floating vendor droids hummed quietly between stalls selling everything from exotic fruits to handcrafted jewelry.
Citizens of Centa Primera—merchants, politicians, families with young children—strolled leisurely. The air was filled with the low hum of conversation and the melodic chime of a distant clock tower. It was an oasis of tranquility, which made the sight of Zíro's entourage all the more jarring.
He walked between his father and mother, a small island of military grey and black in a sea of civilian color. Flanking them were the two BX commando droids, their sleek forms and white photoreceptors drawing nervous glances. Behind them, the larger contingent of B1s, B2s, and the Varis family guard formed a perimeter that parted the crowds like a ship's bow through water. T-622 walked just behind, its head swiveling slowly, processing data.
"I'd almost forgotten how beautiful it is," Zíro admitted, his gaze sweeping across the familiar architecture. "The war puts a grey filter over everything. You forget that places like this still exist."
"They exist because of the order our family provides," Lord Kaelen stated. "And because of the victories men like you secure on the frontier."
Lady Elara gently touched her son's arm, pointing with her free hand. "Do you remember that café, Zíro? The one with the green awnings? You and your friends used to spend entire afternoons there, planning all your grand adventures."
A rare, genuine smile touched Zíro's lips. "I remember. We were going to be famous explorers. Find new hyperspace lanes, chart unknown worlds."
"And look at you now," she said warmly. "An Admiral. I suppose you're doing exactly that, in a way."
As they passed the café, an elderly, well-dressed Twi'lek merchant approached them. “Lord Kaelen, Lady Elara,” he said, bowing deeply before turning his gaze to Zíro. “And Admiral Varis. On behalf of the Merchant’s Guild, allow me to offer my congratulations on your victory. You do your family and all of Centa Primera a great honor.”
Lord Kaelen gave a curt, approving nod. "The Admiral is pleased to accept your well-wishes, Chairman Pli."
"Thank you, Chairman. It is good to see the heart of the capital thriving," Zíro replied politely. Just as the Twi'lek moved on, a family approached—a well-dressed couple and their teenage son, who looked to be about sixteen. The boy clutched a small, intricately carved wooden object, his eyes fixed on Zíro with nervous admiration.
"Admiral Varis," the father said with a respectful bow. "Forgive the intrusion. My son, Kael, is a great admirer. He insisted."
The boy stepped forward, holding out the carving. It was the Varis family crest. "I... I made this, sir," he said, his voice a little shaky. "What's it... what's it like? To be up there, in command of a fleet?"
Zíro’s formal demeanor softened. He accepted the carving, the familiar lines of his family’s sigil feeling solid in his gloved hand. He looked from the crest to the boy. "It is a great weight," he answered honestly. "But a necessary one. To protect all of this." He gestured to the peaceful square around them.
"Thank you, Admiral," the boy's mother said, gently placing a hand on her son's shoulder. "Kael, that's enough. Let the Admiral enjoy his homecoming."
The family offered another bow and stepped back into the crowd. Zíro looked down at the crest in his hand, the small, heartfelt gesture leaving him a few paces ahead of his parents. He let out a slow breath, the tension of the last few weeks finally beginning to melt away in the warm, familiar air.
But as he turned, a sudden, chilling premonition washed over him—a cold spike of pure dread that had nothing to do with logic or observation. The peaceful hum of the square suddenly felt discordant, the air thick with unseen malice. It was a sixth sense, an awareness sharpened by years of relentless training until it bordered on something more, a predatory stillness he had learned to trust implicitly. He was, for a moment, truly at peace. And then the warning screamed in his mind.
That was when everything shattered.
"Down!" Zíro bellowed, throwing himself into a dive without a conscious thought, his body already reacting to the silent alarm in his mind.
CRACK
The sound was singular, sharp, and utterly alien in the tranquil square. A searing blue bolt tore through the air where Zíro's head had been a nanosecond before, striking the fountain behind him. Stone and superheated water exploded outwards.
The scene did not descend into chaos. It detonated.
Civilians screamed, a tidal wave of panic washing over the square. Zíro hit the amber stone, rolling behind the base of a large statue as his blaster leapt into his hand.
As Zíro found cover, his droids sprang into action. Their programming instantly identified the highest priority targets now that Zíro had saved himself. One of the commando droids became a living shield, moving with impossible speed to cover his mother, its rifle already raised. The other slammed into his father, shoving him down behind the lip of the fountain with a heavy thud. The Varis guards swarmed around them, forming a wall of dark green armor.
“Where did that come from?!” Zíro yelled from behind cover, his voice a human shout of shock before it dropped back into the cold, sharp bark of a commander. “T-622, origin point!”
"Rooftop!" T-622's synthesized voice was perfectly calm. "Merchant's booth. North-east. Single shooter. Cycler rifle."
Zíro’s eyes locked on the spot. A shadow was already moving. "They're running! BX-1, BX-2, with me! Guards, secure my parents! T-622, lock down this square!"
He broke from cover, sprinting across the exposed plaza. His two commando droids fell into perfect flanking positions, their movements a lethal, coordinated assault. A second blue bolt ricocheted from the stone near his feet, kicking up sparks. Zíro didn't flinch. He raised his own blaster, firing a volley of answering red bolts that chewed into the permacrete of the booth, forcing the assassin to duck back.
The shooter, clad in dark, non-descript clothing, vaulted from the booth to an adjacent rooftop with practiced ease.
“We need to get up there, now!” Zíro yelled, spotting a maintenance ladder on the side of a nearby gallery.
He hit the ladder at full speed, scaling it with the two droids right behind him. They crested the roof into a maze of ventilation units and power conduits. Fifty meters away, the assassin was already sprinting, jumping a gap between buildings. The chase was on—a blur of pounding boots on tile and the sharp exchange of blaster fire.
"Split up! Flank them!" Zíro commanded. He went left, vaulting a wide ventilation shaft, while the two droids split to the right, their magnetic feet allowing them to run along the angled surfaces of the roofing. Blue energy bolts from the assassin’s rifle scored the rooftop around them, superheating the metal. Answering volleys of precise, deadly red fire from his droids kept the shooter from getting a clean shot, forcing them to stay on the move.
The assassin was skilled, kicking over a stack of maintenance canisters to create an obstacle and then sliding under a low-hanging pipe network. Zíro skidded through the rolling canisters, his long coat flaring behind him, never breaking stride. The assassin was fast, but the coordinated pursuit was relentless. They were closing the distance.
Reaching the edge of a three-story building overlooking a busy sky-lane, the assassin made their move. Without hesitating, they took a running leap into open air.
Zíro skidded to a halt at the edge, his blaster raised. The assassin landed perfectly in the open passenger seat of an unmarked landspeeder that had been hovering just out of sight. The speeder's engine roared, and it peeled away, its repulsorlift wash blasting hot air back at them. It weaved recklessly into the dense stream of city traffic before banking sharply and disappearing behind a skyscraper.
He stood on the rooftop, the wind whipping at his uniform. In the distance, the first wail of militia sirens echoed between the skyscrapers, a sound rising from the chaos they had left behind in the square. The tranquil homecoming was over. The war had found him. And as he stared into the canyons of the city where the shooter had vanished, he knew this attempt was only the beginning.
***
In the deep, sound-proofed confines of Lord Kaelen’s private study, the cold reality of the situation settled. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and the low hum of the room’s security field.
“The official investigation is a farce,” Zíro stated, pacing before his father’s immense desk. “The militia is being led in circles. This was a professional operation, and we are giving them time to disappear.”
“And it will remain a farce,” Lord Kaelen said, his voice a low, grim tone. He sat in his high-backed chair, his fingers steepled, looking not at his son but at the sprawling city visible through the armored transparisteel window. “Because it is not designed to succeed.”
Zíro stopped pacing. “You expected this.”
“Not like this,” his father admitted, his voice losing its usual iron control for just a moment. He looked at Zíro, and for the first time, Zíro saw not just a strategist, but a genuinely concerned father. “I knew a move was coming. A political maneuver, a scandal, something to tarnish our name in the Council. I never imagined anyone would be so brazen as to bring open bloodshed to the capital. To risk this kind of chaos on Centa Primera… that changes everything.”
His composure returned, hardening into cold fury. “The political currents on this world have been shifting for months, son. There are whispers in the Council, new alliances being formed in the shadows. This attempt on your life… it is merely the first overt move. Someone within our own power structure wants to weaken our family’s position, and I suspect they are using this war as the perfect cover to advance a pro-Republic agenda from the inside.”
“A traitor in the Council?” Zíro asked, the implications settling heavily.
“The Council is a web,” Lord Kaelen admitted, the frustration clear in his voice. “Twelve Chairmen, and beneath them, dozens of subordinates, ministers, and aides, each with their own network of interests. The rot could be coming from anywhere, hidden behind layers of bureaucracy and political maneuvering. I have no proof, Zíro. I don't know who to trust. I only have the instincts of a lifetime in politics.”
“So we are paralyzed,” Zíro countered, his hand resting on the hilt of his vibro-sword.
“We are,” Lord Kaelen said, a hard glint in his eye, correcting his son. “Officially. We cannot publicly accuse our own government of treachery without a shred of evidence. It would cause panic and shatter public trust. But you… you are now uniquely positioned. This was an attack on our entire house. I need answers, Zíro, and you are the only one who can get them for me.”
“You approve, then. I will hunt them down myself.”
“I do,” Lord Kaelen concluded, his voice a low command. “But it must remain in the shadows. It cannot be official. You will do it discreetly.”
An hour later, Zíro was a different man. The uniform was gone, replaced by a simple, dark-grey flight jacket over a black tunic and trousers—practical, civilian clothing that wouldn't draw a second glance. His Blaster was still at his hip, covered under his jacket, a necessary precaution. Flanked only by his two BX droids and T-622, all now disguised in civilian attire, their metallic frames hidden beneath long coats and their heads shrouded by deep hoods, giving them a vaguely human silhouette, he boarded his shuttle.
His first stop was the Militia Headquarters, a discreet service access port in a quiet, nearby alley. The lock hissed open under T-622’s silent ministration, and they slipped inside, bypassing the front desk and any official record of their visit. They found Captain Roric Slade in the militia’s sparring chambers, alone, viciously slamming a combat remote against the wall with a training staff.
The door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss. Roric spun around, staff raised in a defensive posture, his eyes wide with surprise and alarm at the sight of the three hulking, cloaked figures and the man who led them.
"Zíro?" Roric lowered his weapon, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "What in the blazes are you doing skulking in the back corridors? You could have been shot."
The surprise in his voice was genuine, but the lack of formal titles was a testament to a long and deep friendship. They had come up together, rivals and allies in the Caelus Preparatory Academy, pushing each other to excel. But where Zíro’s path had led him off-world to the Confederacy’s elite Anaxes Command Academy, Roric had chosen to dedicate himself to protecting his home, rising through the ranks of the militia. The different uniforms had never broken the bond of trust forged in those early years.
"That was the point," Zíro replied, his voice low. His droids fanned out, securing the entrances. "We can't be seen. I need to talk to you, and it can't be on any official channel."
Roric’s expression shifted from surprise to serious concern. "What's going on? Is this about the attack?"
"The attack was only the beginning," Zíro stated, getting straight to the point. "The official investigation is being sabotaged from the inside. My father believes a powerful entity or group is protecting the assassin. We don't know who. It could be a rival House, a traitor on the Council, or the Republic making its move to cause chaos. The trail is being deliberately erased."
The fury that had been simmering in Roric's training session now found a clear target. He slammed the butt of his staff onto the padded floor. "I knew it. I knew something was wrong. Every real lead we get is buried under a mountain of bogus procedural orders from Inspector Kade himself. My team is furious. We haven't done a single piece of real police work in weeks, and now this happens on our watch, and we're only getting to act when the lead is ice cold."
"We need answers, but we can't move through official channels without tipping our hand to the very people we might be investigating," Zíro said, his voice a quiet whisper. "I'm putting together a team to operate outside the system. To hunt them in the shadows. I need you to lead it."
The weight of the request hung in the air. This was more than just bending the rules. "A ghost operation," Roric breathed, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "No official sanction, no backup, no record. Zíro, if we're caught—or if we target the wrong person—we'll be branded as conspirators ourselves. My team would be finished."
"The risks are real," Zíro acknowledged calmly. "But so is my family's authority. This is a necessary operation, and House Varis will take full responsibility. Your men will be protected. It's the only way to uncover the culprits before they dig themselves deeper in."
Roric’s tension seemed to bleed away, replaced by a grim resolve. Zíro was offering him a chance to fight back, to do the job he was trained for, with the one thing he didn't have: political cover from the very top. "Let's see your plan," Roric said, his voice a low growl of determination. "Just tell me what you need."
“We need one more person,” Zíro said, activating his communicator.
The hologram of Lyra Vex appeared, a look of intense boredom on her face. “Zíro. The Harvest Festival preparations are going splendidly, in case you were wondering. That’s the biggest story on this planet right now, apparently.”
“I have a better one for you, Lyra,” Zíro said. “Something more your speed, that is not public yet. The war is starting to cast a shadow here. I think you’ve noticed it, too.”
Lyra’s bored expression vanished, replaced by sharp focus. “The growing black market? The off-world syndicates trying to muscle in on our shipping lanes? Yeah, I’ve noticed. And every time I try to write about it, my editor tells me to focus on more ‘uplifting’ news. What have you got?”
“Can you meet us?”
The new meeting point was a private booth in a high-end cantina. Zíro, now with Roric in tow, met Lyra. His droids stood just outside the booth's privacy curtain, indistinguishable from hulking bodyguards.
“An assassination attempt on you, and the official investigation is being deliberately choked from within,” Lyra summarized after they explained the situation, her voice a hushed, intense whisper. She leaned forward, her journalistic mind already mapping out the web of intrigue. “So the real question isn't just how, it’s who. Who has the power and the motive?”
She started ticking points off on her fingers. “First, there’s Chairman Vectus. He’s the newest member of the Council, ambitious, and an unknown quantity. What better way to consolidate power than to make your father’s administration look incompetent and unable to maintain order? Then there’s Chairman Pli of the Merchant’s Guild. He was all smiles in the square, but perhaps he would profit from a Republic takeover of the planet. Or it could be a direct rival. For example Chairwoman Cyrill’s family has been at odds with House Varis for generations. Maybe she’s decided to escalate politics into open conflict.”
“Your hypotheses focus on a single, high-level conspirator,” T-622’s synthesized voice stated calmly from just behind Zíro, making Lyra jump slightly. “Alternative scenario probability: 32%. A mid-level official—a ministerial aide or a senior records clerk—with access to procedural systems is being blackmailed by a Republic operative. This single compromised individual could then generate the necessary bureaucratic obstacles to shield the assassin, manipulating superiors who are unaware of the true motive, believing they are simply following protocol.”
“Vectus, Pli, Cyrill… anyone from the Council or a ghost in the machine being blackmailed by the Republic,” Zíro said, his gaze steady as he looked at his two allies. “These are all good theories. But right now, that's all they are: hunches. We have no concrete starting point, no hard evidence to link any of them to the shooter. We need a real lead.”
“Which is why we’re going to get one,” he continued. “Lyra, I need your sources in the underworld. It's our best chance to find the triggerman. Roric, I need your tactical knowledge of the city and a small, loyal team you can trust. My droids will provide the muscle if needed.”
“What’s your part in this, Zíro?” Roric asked. “You can’t lead a raid.”
“No,” Zíro said, his expression cold and determined. “I won’t be leading. I’ll be doing the opposite. I’m going to play the part of the victim, the best kind the assassin can dream of.”
Lyra’s eyes widened. “You’re making yourself a target. Publicly.”
“Exactly,” Zíro confirmed. “The assassin failed once. Professionals study their targets, looking for routines, for weaknesses, for another opening. I will resume my public life as if nothing happened. And while their eyes are on me, learning my patterns, we will be watching them. While their attention is focused on me, your team, Roric, will be the trap. And your information, Lyra, will tell us where to set it.”
Roric and Lyra looked at each other. This was dangerous and unsanctioned. It was also a direct, effective plan.
Roric leaned back, a slow, grim smile spreading across his face. “You offer me to finally do my job, this is something I have been waiting for a long time. We can catch an assassin and a traitor as well. Count me in.”
Lyra’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous thrill, her journalistic instincts ignited. “This is the story I’ve been fighting to write—a conspiracy that connects the war to the criminal underworld growing right here in our capital. There is no way I’m letting this go.”
Zíro nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his steel-grey eyes. The team was assembled. The hunt can truly begin.
***
The following days settled into a tense, calculated rhythm. To the public, it was a display of defiance—Admiral Zíro Varis, heir to the planet's most powerful house, refusing to be intimidated. He was visible, enjoying his limited time at home before returning to the war. To his team, it was the first phase of the plan: creating a pattern for the assassin to study. He frequented the same high-end café, strolled through the Imperial Gardens, and dined at prominent restaurants, always flanked by his two silent, commando droids. He looked relaxed, confident, almost careless—the perfect target.
While Zíro played his part, Roric and Lyra hunted from the shadows.
In a dusty, forgotten records room in the militia's archives, Roric had assembled a small team of officers he trusted implicitly—veterans who cared more about justice than politics. Using Zíro's authority as a shield, he bypassed official channels. "I don't care what Inspector Kade's official directive is," he said in a low voice, pointing at a holographic city map. "I want round-the-clock surveillance on these three known Republic sympathizers. I want every credit they spend and every person they talk to logged. And I want it done quietly." His team poured over transit logs, cross-referenced security footage, and analyzed the assassin's likely escape routes from the first attack. It was frustrating, meticulous work, hunting for a single data-point in a sea of millions.
Lyra’s hunt took her to the lower levels of Caelus, a world of perpetual twilight beneath the gleaming spires. In a booth that smelled of stale ale and alien spices, she sat across from a nervous Rodian information broker, a small stack of credit chips between them. "I'm not asking for a name," Lyra said, her voice a smooth, persuasive whisper. "I just need to know about any recent, unusual sales. High-end weapon components, military-grade energy cells... anything an off-worlder with expensive taste might be looking for." The Rodian's antennae twitched. "Such talk is dangerous..." Lyra slid another chip onto the stack. "Not as dangerous as being an accessory to the attempted assassination of Lord Varis's son. The official investigation may be slow, but the Varis family's memory is very, very long." The veiled threat worked. "There was a man," the Rodian hissed. "Human. A few days before the attack. He bought a precision targeting scope and military-grade Tibanna gas cartridges. Paid for them with clean, untraceable Republic credits."
That evening, Zíro’s public performance took him to ‘The Golden Aerie,’ a restaurant perched atop one of Caelus's tallest towers, known as a favored meeting place for the planet's elite. It was no surprise when a group of Council Chairmen, already dining there, invited him to their table. The table was a microcosm of Centa Primera's power structure, a table of powerful allies with a potential snake hidden among them. He was greeted by the imposing figure of Chairman Lorian Vectus, the head of Planetary Security, a man with a politician’s smile and a predator's eyes.
"Admiral," Vectus began, his voice smooth as polished stone. "A pleasure to see you out and about. We were all so terribly concerned."
"Thank you, Chairman," Zíro replied, taking the offered seat. Also at the table were Chairman Pli of the Merchant’s Guild; the impeccably dressed and calculating Chairwoman Sola Javik, who oversaw In-sector Politics; the notoriously blunt Chairman Varlo Rhydan of House Rhydan, whose industrial power has made him a rising and ambitious rival on the Council; and the elderly, respected Chairman Valerius of Education.
"A shocking breach of security," Chairwoman Javik stated, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Utterly unprecedented. It reflects poorly on all of us, and on our ability to govern."
"More than that, it projects weakness," Chairman Pli chimed in, leaning forward with a concerned expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "How are we to negotiate new trade agreements from a position of strength when we cannot even secure our own capital square? Our neighbors are watching, gentlemen."
"Weakness is bad for business," Chairman Rhydan grunted, his voice a low rumble. Unlike the older aristocratic houses, his family's power was new, built on asteroid mining, and he had little time for political subtleties. "An attack like this spooks off-world investors."
"These are trying times, Chairmen, Chairwoman," Vectus countered smoothly, not rising to the bait. "The war brings many undesirable elements to our doorstep. We are, of course, re-doubling our efforts. In fact, my office has already directed the port authority to tighten security and increase random inspections, especially around the eastern cargo depots."
Zíro kept his expression neutral, but inside, a cold alarm bell began to ring. Roric had told him just hours before that his request for the eastern depot's shipping manifests had been one of the first things Inspector Kade had personally denied.
"A wise precaution," Valerius said, his old eyes kind but weary. "We must all stand together. Your family has our full support, Admiral."
"I appreciate that, Chairman," Zíro said. The conversation moved on, but the tension remained. It was Javik who turned it back to him directly.
"Speaking of the war, Admiral," she said, her tone analytical. "The HoloNet reports are so often contradictory. What is your assessment of the situation in the Outer Rim?"
"It is a war of attrition, Chairwoman," Zíro answered, his voice calm and measured. "The Republic has the advantage in member systems, but our resolve is stronger, and our supply lines are more secure. Victories like the one on the Perlemian are happening more frequently. We are bleeding them, slowly but surely. It will be a long fight, but it is one we are positioned to win."
"A reassuring analysis," Vectus said with a thin smile. "It is good to know our faith—and our investments—in the Confederacy Navy are well-placed."
Zíro simply nodded, meeting the Chairman's gaze. Vectus's words echoed in his mind. The Chairman had just casually revealed he was not only aware of the specific direction of Roric's secret investigation, but that he was already creating a public justification for the very obstruction he was orchestrating. It wasn’t hard proof, but it was the first tangible crack in the conspiracy's wall.
That night, the three of them convened in the war room at the estate. The air crackled with a new energy.
"It was a Republic-funded operation," Lyra began, finishing her report. "Human male, professional. My source says he bought a top-of-the-line targeting scope and military-grade Tibanna cartridges. Paid in untraceable Republic credits."
"My team got a match," Roric added, bringing up a grainy holographic image captured from a street cam. It showed a nondescript human male in a long coat, his face obscured by shadow. "He's been casing the Ambassadorial Plaza for the past two days. He's meticulous. He’s planning something."
Zíro looked at the city-wide events calendar T-622 projected next to it. "Tomorrow," he said softly. "The dedication ceremony for the new Outer Rim trade embassy. My parents and I are the guests of honor."
"And so is the entire Council of Chairmen," Lyra added, her eyes narrowing. "It's the first major public event your family will attend since the attack."
Roric nodded grimly. "High-profile event. Huge crowds, dozens of sniper's nests. It's the perfect location for a second attempt. He'll expect you to be in the main viewing box with the other dignitaries."
A cold, predatory smile touched Zíro's lips. The trap was set.
"Your team will close in," he said, turning to Roric. "I want your best troopers on every rooftop, your men in the crowd, and every exit covered. Lyra, your information will guide them. Pinpoint the most likely sniper positions based on sightlines and escape routes."
"Understood," Roric said. "And you? You stay in that armored viewing box and don't move a muscle until we give the all-clear."
Zíro walked to the holographic map of the plaza, his expression unreadable. "The viewing box will be the focus of the security sweep, yes. My parents and the Council will be there." He tapped the glowing structure on the map. "But a professional won't take the shot then. Too many variables. Too much potential for escape."
His finger then traced a path to the main dedication podium, making it flash red. "They will take the shot here."
Lyra stared at the exposed location. "That's the main podium. It's completely open."
A look of dawning horror crossed Roric’s face. "Why would the assassin focus there unless... Zíro, what have you done?"
"I have arranged to give the opening dedication," Zíro stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "An unscheduled address from the guest of honor. It's a perfect, irresistible opportunity. While the shooter's attention is fixed entirely on me, your teams will close the net."
"By the stars," Roric breathed, staring at the map and then at his friend. "You're not just being bait. You're handing him the loaded rifle yourself."
Zíro met his friend's horrified gaze without flinching. "Yes," he said, his voice a low, steady calm in the tense room. "But the rifle is aimed at the heart of our government. This is our one chance to see who pulls the trigger. I am trusting your teams, Roric, to have him in their sights before he can take the shot."
He turned his gaze to Lyra. "And I'm trusting your information to put them in the right place."
He looked back at the holographic map, a flicker of cold, hard resolve in his eyes. "The assassin will find that I am not a helpless target, but it will be too late. I will make my own preparations. But the trap, the net that catches him... that will be yours to close."
***
Night had fallen on Caelus, but the Ambassadorial Plaza was a beacon of brilliant light. Powerful spotlights illuminated the grand stage, casting sharp, dramatic shadows. Floating globes of soft golden light drifted among the crowd, and the ambient glow from the city's towering spires and sky-lanes painted the dark sky in hues of blue and purple. The dedication ceremony was a formal affair, the thousands of attendees dressed in their finest, their faces upturned towards the stage where the planet's elite were gathered. Lord and Lady Varis sat with the Council of Chairmen, a picture of unity. Chairman Lorian Vectus was seated directly behind Zíro’s empty chair, his face a mask of civic solemnity.
On a cold, windswept rooftop three hundred meters away, Roric lay prone, the city lights reflecting in the lens of his electrobinoculars. "Eyes on all primary and secondary nests," he whispered into his comm, the wind whipping at his words. "Lyra, what's the word from the ground?"
In Zíro’s shuttle landed in a private dock a block away, Lyra’s face was illuminated only by the glow of a dozen security feeds. "My people in the crowd have spotted him. Our suspected shooter. South-west corner, near the fountain, disguised as a maintenance worker. He's not in a sniper's nest. He's planning to take the shot from the crowd."
"He's changed his pattern," Roric swore under his breath. "All ground teams, converge on the fountain. Subtly. We take him the moment he makes a move."
On the stage, the master of ceremonies stepped forward. "And now, it is my great honor to present our guest of honor, a son of Centa Primera and a hero of the Confederacy, Admiral Zíro Varis!"
Applause thundered through the plaza as Zíro walked to the podium. He began to speak, his voice calm and measured. "Citizens of Caelus, members of the Council. Tonight we dedicate a symbol of connection," he began. "In a time of galactic conflict, it is easy to believe that the only connections that matter are battle lines. But an embassy like this is a reminder that we are fighting not for destruction, but for a future built on order, stability, and mutual prosperity."
Roric’s men, disguised as civilians, began to slowly close the net around the maintenance worker, who stood unnervingly still by the fountain.
Zíro's tone began to shift, a hard, passionate edge creeping into his voice. "But that prosperity is under threat. The Republic speaks of peace while sowing chaos. They send their agents into the shadows, not to fight soldiers, but to terrorize civilians, to strike at the heart of our homes!" His voice rose, captivating the crowd. "But I am here tonight to tell you that Centa Primera will not be terrorized! As of this morning, my fleet is fully repaired, re-armed, and ready to defend this sector!"
On cue, a squadron of Vulture droids screamed through the night sky, their engines a fiery cyan against the darkness. Massive holoprojectors flared to life, casting a shimmering, colossal image of Zíro's fleet against the clouds. The crowd erupted into a deafening ovation.
Zíro held up a hand, silencing the crowd. "But before we can defeat the Republic in the stars," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level, "we must first defeat their treachery here at home." He turned slowly. "Droids, arrest Chairman Vectus for high treason."
The maintenance worker’s hand moved towards his toolkit. "He's making his move!" Roric yelled. "All teams, now!"
Time seemed to freeze. The BX droids grabbed Vectus, hauling him from his chair. Just as Roric’s men were about to tackle the assassin, the man ripped open the toolkit, revealing a powerful hand blaster. He raised it, firing one, desperate shot before he was buried under a pile of militia officers.
The blue bolt slammed into Zíro’s chest, the impact throwing him backwards. He collapsed to the floor of the stage, utterly still. A collective scream of horror rose from the plaza. Vectus, struggling in the grip of the droids, found his political voice, his words laced with venom as he addressed the shocked crowd.
"You see!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the Varis family. "This is the chaos they have brought to our peaceful world! By siding with the Separatists, House Varis has painted a target on all of us! The Republic only seeks to restore order! This violence is their legacy, not mine!"
A wave of shock and despair washed over the plaza. On the stage, Zíro lay unmoving, a fallen figure under the harsh glare of the spotlights. To Roric on the rooftop, to Lyra in the shuttle, to his parents on the dais, for a long, terrible moment, the only sound was Vectus's triumphant ranting and the rising panic from the crowd. He was gone. The pride of Centa Primera, struck down in the heart of his own city.
Then, a new sound cut through the chaos, amplified by the podium’s still-active microphone. A sharp, metallic scrape. Followed by a low, pained groan that seemed to silence the entire plaza in an instant.
Zíro, helped by T-622, slowly, unsteadily, pushed himself to his feet. "This is the 'order' you offer, Vectus?" he said, his voice strained but clear. "Hired assassins and treachery in the dark? The Confederacy is here to fight this very brand of chaos, not invite it." He reached up and pulled down the collar of his uniform, revealing the scorched, smoking, and deeply dented plating of a military-grade blast vest. "Take this traitor away!"
As Vectus was dragged away, sputtering impotent threats, the plaza exploded into an ovation ten times louder than before.
Across the stage, Zíro met his father's gaze. Lord Kaelen gave a single, slow nod—a look of grim approval and profound relief. Beside him, Lady Elara sat ramrod straight, her expression a mask of tightly controlled shock, but her eyes were shining with a fierce, almost painful pride.
As some time passed, the initial adrenaline faded. The plaza was now quiet, cordoned off by guards. Zíro, Roric, and Lyra stood on the empty stage.
Zíro winced, pressing a hand to his bruised chest. "I needed him to break," he admitted, his voice low. "To think he had won, even for a moment. I was counting on him revealing himself in his moment of perceived victory."
Lyra stared at him, her expression a mixture of emotions. "You planned to get shot?"
"My father and I discussed it," Zíro confirmed. "A conventional investigation was impossible. We needed something drastic to force the traitor's hand. Now, my father has the public mandate he needs. He's already assembling a quiet, internal team to follow Vectus's trail and root out any other sympathizers in the government."
He looked at his two oldest friends, his expression turning serious. "This hunt showed me the limits of my own training. I trust my tactical instincts, and T-622's assessments are flawless for a fleet engagement, but this conspiracy wasn't a problem I could solve with firepower. It was a war fought on the ground, in the shadows. It required a deep understanding of urban operations, investigative tradecraft, and the criminal underworld—skills my droids aren't programmed for, and I am not trained in. A commander cannot be an expert in everything. So, I petitioned my superiors. I used this incident as a direct example of why we need more than just droids to win this war. They've authorized me to create a new command model—a fleet that integrates specialists for specialized roles. They want my command to be the test case."
He looked directly at Roric. "I know your duty is here, protecting this city. It's valuable work. But out there, we're fighting to protect thousands of cities just like this one. My fleet needs a Ground Operations Officer. A chance to be a soldier on a galactic scale, without bureaucrats tying your hands."
Roric was silent for a long moment, the weight of the offer settling on him. "My whole life has been about these streets," he said finally. "Leaving them... it's a hard thought. But you're right. The threat isn't just to Caelus anymore. It's to everything we believe in." A slow, determined smile spread across his face. "I signed up to be a soldier, not a politician. It's time I started acting like one again. I accept."
Zíro then turned to Lyra. "And you. You hunt for the truth in a world where men like Vectus are desperate to keep it buried. You see the bigger picture—the growing underworld, the war's effect on peaceful planets. You have a voice that is being deliberately silenced." He offered a small, sincere smile. "The fleet needs a Head Communications Officer. It needs your insight, not just to report the news, but to understand it, and to make sure the galaxy hears the truth."
Lyra looked out at the slowly departing crowds, then back at Zíro's intense gaze. "Leaving Centa Primera... I never thought I would," she said thoughtfully. "But what's the point of uncovering the truth if a corrupt editor can bury it to protect his advertisers? With you, I wouldn't just be reporting the news. I'd have a hand in shaping it." She met his eyes, a thrill of purpose in her own. "You need a voice. I need a platform. It's a perfect match. Let's get to work, Admiral."
A sense of profound relief washed over Zíro. He nodded, the pain in his chest momentarily forgotten. He looked at his two oldest friends, standing with him under the artificial lights of the capital. He was an Admiral of a droid army, a symbol of a new, logical order. But he saw now that to forge a new future, he couldn't discard his past. He had to bring the best of it with him. He wasn't just taking on new officers; he was bringing his home, his conscience, to the very front lines of the war.