I woke to the hum of a medical droid examining me aboard the ship. In principle, the fighting had ceased hours ago. The Neimoidians and other "aliens" had fled in their Lucrehulks, taking entire detachments of droids with them. The Geonosians had retreated into their catacombs, and no one dared pursue. Clone commandos were planting charges to destroy the remaining droid factories, while a fortified Republic base was being established on the planet. The rest of the forces would soon depart for Coruscant.
A rather talkative surgical droid explained all of this as it stitched my wounds, poured bacta over them, and applied bandages across my chest, arms, and legs. Even my forehead was wrapped. Looking in a mirror later would probably be horrifying—I likely resembled a mummy. Surprisingly, I felt no sharp pain, only a faint itching and burning sensation; whatever it had injected into me was clearly potent. When finished, the droid chirped affirmatively in binary and ordered two clones to escort me to my ward, leaving it to attend the other wounded.
---
Medical transports were insufficient, so I, like many others, was transferred to one of the Acclamator-class assault ships. It turned out to be the flagship, where the surviving Jedi, led by Master Yoda, had gathered. The Council Masters were in session, discussing affairs I had little interest in. Senator Amidala was also present, of course—a necessary witness, given the scale of the casualties.
Very few had survived the rescue operation, and only a handful were severely injured enough for the makeshift hospital. I was placed in one of the hastily converted cubicles. My neighbors? Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker. Skywalker lay with his stump heavily bandaged, swearing in twelve languages, including Huttese, Toydarian, and even binary. Respect—he was furious, undeniably. Obi-Wan remained silent, lost in thought. His expression revealed the burden of the knowledge Dooku had passed to him about Darth Sidious and the Senate. Was it true? Was it false? He did not yet know.
And I had my own thoughts to contend with.
---
The heat of battle had faded, adrenaline drained from my system, leaving me with quiet panic. The eternal questions—*What do I do? Who is to blame?*—pressed in. Fully aware of my predicament, frustration threatened to overwhelm me.
What had I done to deserve this? Fate? Circumstance? Either way, I couldn't go back. I would need to find a way to survive—or win. To get home, if possible.
The Republic was a mess. Clone wars, dogmatic Jedi, corrupt Senate, scheming Sith, lawlessness, drugs, slavery… and in the center of it all: me, Dagon Marek.
Calm. I forced myself to breathe. In, out. In, out.
---
I began evaluating what I could contribute. Practically, I had little to offer. Partially developed Skynet tech worked on basic plasma energy, while blasters here were weaker, gas-powered analogues. Still, my knowledge of history might prove useful. History repeats itself; strategic patterns endure. I remembered ancient battles, from Nepal to Afghanistan, Caribbean skirmishes, fortified Russia, orbital bases, even Skynet's operations. Maps, troop movements, the little blue and red arrows—I knew the fundamentals. Humanity's weapons and tactics evolved, but strategy remained constant. That was my edge.
Yet there were other sources of power—Sith artifacts: holocrons, spellbooks, amulets, talismans, swords, scrolls. Dangerous, yes, but potentially indispensable. Sith amulets and talismans channeled dark side energy; holocrons preserved knowledge, sometimes the insights of those who had embraced both light and dark. One record suggested a holocron belonging to Darth Maar, an ancient Sith who eventually found the Light Side during the Eternal Empire's reign, lost on Malachor. Then there was the Gauntlet of Kressh the Younger, capable of hiding one's Force power. I would need Sith techniques to survive—but discreetly, far from the Council's eyes, perhaps in the Outer Rim world of Rhelg.
---
Options formed slowly:
1. **Laziness**: Do nothing, follow canon, and either die in the war or fall to Order 66. Not acceptable.
2. **Prophet**: Run around shouting, "Chancellor, you're a Sith!" Tempting, but few would believe me. Worse, I might be silenced immediately. Palpatine had vast criminal and financial influence, and tens of thousands of clones and loyalists were at his command. Even the Jedi Masters—seasoned warriors like Kit Fisto and Mace Windu—had failed. Sidious crushed them with ease. This option was suicidal.
3. **Run**: Hide in the Unknown Regions. Also impossible. Jedi, Separatists, or future threats like Vader would hunt me down. And even if I survived decades, the Yuuzhan Vong invasion loomed, forty years hence. Not an option.
The Jedi were compromised, the Chancellor lost, and loyalty would be the key. Clones and freedom fighters alike required guidance. I had to plan carefully.
---
A strategy began to take shape. With our flight to Coruscant—fifteen hours ahead—I decided to rest and let my wounds heal. A rare opportunity, fleeting and necessary. The days ahead promised trials of every kind: physical, mental, and moral. And yet, as I drifted toward a restless sleep, my mind continued to run, plotting survival, adaptation, and, ultimately, victory.