The commander of the Imperial Victory II-class Star Destroyer Marut looked with a sigh at the choice of uniforms provided by his protocol droid.
Captain Oland ran a hand over his face, massaging his strained eyes for a moment before venturing to look again at what stood before him.
He looked at one set of service attire for a few seconds. He gave exactly as much time to assessing the second set. Then he shifted his gaze to the silver PO-model android holding them in its manipulators.
"How long have you served me, dear friend?" he asked, without the slightest desire to humiliate the mechanical servant.
"Oh, sir, nearly ten years!" it exclaimed.
"Do I take good care of you?" the starship commander asked another question.
"Of course, sir!" the droid was practically breathless with indignation. "How could you think that I am somehow dissatisfied with serving you? You are the best master I've had since the moment I was assembled…"
"More likely the only one," the commander of the Marut sighed sadly. "So, you are in working order?"
"Of course, sir!" the protocol android declared proudly. "It is so kind of you to inquire about my technical condition…"
"I just want to be sure you won't short-circuit when I ask one question," Oland explained.
"Certainly not, sir!" the droid stated proudly. "My systems are among the most reliable and…"
"Fine," the commander of the Marut sighed resignedly. "Then tell me—what is the difference between the two uniforms you are showing me?"
Strangely enough, the talkative PO-series droid could not give an immediate answer. It merely turned the two sets of uniforms it had taken from the built-in wardrobe in the commander's cabin a few minutes ago. It inspected them fastidiously…
"No difference, sir," it creaked, twitching and looking at its master.
And in that state, it froze. Judging by the small cloud of smoke rising from its chassis, its logical analysis block had short-circuited again.
"No one doubted that," Oland smirked bitterly, taking a set of clothes from the left manipulator. Oland shook his head in distraction. "You're absolutely right here, my friend," the officer said. "There is no difference."
Changing unhurriedly, he looked at the droid's polished chest plate. In the slightly distorted reflection, he saw himself. A sturdy man of medium height, whose dark hair and eyes of the same color, combined with the simple features of a slightly tanned face, characterized the owner perfectly. A simple, average-looking man. Without refinements, without fatal beauty or ugliness.
As far back as he could remember, Oland had never enjoyed wild popularity with the opposite sex. Nor was he on the radar of high command, despite his diligence and honest service. He had even become the commander of the destroyer for one simple reason—there was no one else.
His crew—yesterday's fledglings, forcibly torn from their mothers' skirts and fathers' pastures. Trained in an accelerated program and knowing nothing of the true hardships of military service. Most of the crew, along with the previous commander, had transferred to serve on an Imperial-class Star Destroyer six months ago. At that time, Imperial Space was literally draining combat-capable and experienced personnel from all the Remnants.
It wasn't that the Moffs and warlords reciprocated—they couldn't care less about the Imperial Ruling Council's attempts to continue painting a picture of a unified Empire while pumping the metropolises—Orinda and its surroundings—with competent officers at the expense of weakening their own armed forces. But they couldn't act otherwise either; otherwise, all their funding and support from Orinda would have ceased.
Moff Gronn was no exception in this regard. Oland approved of pragmatism. Moreover, he considered himself a fairly practical man who knew how to benefit from the current situation. Но Gronn…
Nearly half of his crews he handed over to Orinda in exchange for fledgling youths. Strangely enough, he didn't even ask questions of the government (or those pretending to be it): "How am I to protect a sector surrounded by sham friends and open enemies when I don't have enough competent commanders for even half of my dozen Star Destroyers?". No, Gronn did not ask such a question. He kept silent. He silently did what was required of him. As if he were deliberately weakening his sector before external threats from neighbors who were anything but friendly.
He could have acted like the neighboring Tion Hegemony or any other sectors in the Tion Cluster—simply ignore it. Though it's already difficult to call those sectors part of the Empire. Yes, there's an Imperial fleet there. Imperial officers, military personnel, even stormtroopers still remain in some places. But essentially, they have all turned into the private armies of wealthy men who stroke their own egos in favor of long-standing ambitions of a unified Tion. Each in their own way, but they think alike—conquer the neighbor, seize their territories, restore the glory of the ancestors. And they don't give a damn that in their petty squabbles Imperial soldiers die and Imperial equipment is blown up… While the rebels don't weaken in the least.
Sigh… Those who say the Empire will never again achieve the greatness it had ten years ago are probably right. And not because the Emperor died and Darth Vader, the Empire's Supreme Commander, turned out to be his murderer. No… Everything is just rotten. The Empire was an invincible colossus. But its feet were made of tainted metal, eaten away by the rust of corruption, lawlessness, greed, and arbitrariness.
And one doesn't have to look far for examples. It was a secret to no one that Moff Gronn, in the past and until recent events, associated with local crime and existed through their financing. It wouldn't have hurt him if he'd refused to provide his military to Imperial Space. There was no point in these castlings anyway—the Empire is choking in its war against the New Republic and the Alliance. For now, it's not as noticeable—there are still resources. But to those who followed operational reports from open sources before the HoloNet went down, it becomes clear that the offensive potential of the Empire and the Hegemony has run dry.
They were unable to break through to Carida and get the army trained for them. They did not crush the New Republic at Balmorra or seize its industry and war machines, from the encounter with which, according to rumors, Grand Admiral Thrawn himself fled. Well, it wouldn't have hurt Gronn at all if he'd refused. But no…
Not only did he send three-quarters of the entire fleet who knows where, while Lianna needed help, but upon returning, he explained nothing to anyone. He acted as if it were exactly how things should be. Among the commanders of the starships remaining in Allied Tion, rumors circulated that Gronn had simply traded his destroyers for the fifty-one legions of stormtroopers he stationed on the planets of his sector. And as an add-on, he received old Interceptor IV frigates, which are valued only by pirates and various rabble.
Honestly… A mediocre decision. No, the decision was, on one hand, a winning one. Some kind of transports appeared, however poor. And the stormtroopers, who at once took control of numerous planets where independence is whispered about, are also a valuable acquisition—a very necessary one. Но why the Hutt buy an army when you have only a few ships? It's not clear. So what if you asked the Caridans for forty instead of fifty-one legions… Yes, you'd have given a little less money…
But instead, with those funds, you could have looked on the black market for starships to strengthen the remaining Victories. Well, three destroyers and a few patrol ships simply cannot control an entire sector! No wonder Mi-Ha the Hutt and his Black Sun began crawling out of every crack! And dispersing them was a problem before, but now—it's practically an impossible operation. Because that fleet is gone. Even what was there.
Moff Gronn's lack of foresight put an end to the future of Allied Tion. The Moff obviously decided that fifty-one legions of stormtroopers and three Victory-class Star Destroyers, plus a few smaller tubs, would allow him to pin down crime. Naturally, to squeeze more money out of them. But it turned out much worse.
The transport ships (with all his desire, Oland could not bring himself to call Interceptors combat starships) that delivered the stormtroopers to the planets were destroyed by the pirates and mercenaries of Mi-Ha the Hutt. As was the residence of the Moff himself. And the Moff himself. The only plus Oland saw in everything happening was that together with the residence and the Moff, those very same bungling, embezzling officials who profited from any financial flows entering Allied Tion died in the fire and blast.
But… honestly, he didn't like where they had ended up himself. Crime was now openly unafraid of the military. And ship commanders, no longer hiding it, discussed among themselves the possibility of a military coup against the adjutant of the late Moff Gronn. Who formally became Gronn's successor—until Orinda sent someone else. If they have time, of course.
Oland's colleagues had effectively already felt power in their hands—each of them had a starship with enormous combat power under their command. They had already designated planets and star systems they intended to take under their protectorate. And Oland did not doubt they would get them. Nor did he doubt that Mi-Ha the Hutt had certainly found a suitable credit chip for their hearts.
What was happening in the sector was a perfect moment for a strike against Lieutenant Mac and those who remained loyal to him. On Jaminere, the forces remaining were not so formidable. And besides the Marut, no other ship was even covering the capital. The stormtrooper garrisons were cut off from one another and central supply of everything necessary. Well, they'd last a month, two, three… But in the end, they would either surrender or simply perish in battle with Black Sun forces.
Oland watched this in silence—even among commanders of the same rank with the same Victories as his, he enjoyed not just a lack of respect, but a lack of authority. They simply weren't going to even reckon with him when proposing such things. Because they knew perfectly well that he would act against such a division in any case. And, honestly, Oland would have done just that.
All this under-the-table squabbling between Imperials was loathsome to him. Loathsome and bitter to realize that the teaching in school and the Military Academy about how the Old Republic had rotted, how it had collapsed under the weight of its politicians' ambitions, differed little from what was happening to the Empire. Yes, Orinda can claim as much as it likes that the Empire is still unified and combat-capable—and even prove it with yet another military campaign against the rebels. But the fact remains. These are already the convulsions of a once-great state.
And very soon either the Tion Hegemony, or the Alliance, or someone else (like that same Mi-Ha the Hutt) will get full information on what is happening in Allied Tion. And as soon as they realize that the sector won't be able to field even its three Victory IIs against attackers, they will simply be torn to pieces. And whether you are loyal to your Oath or not—you cannot change it. Because no one gives a damn.
The commanders of the Arkanian Dragon and the Breaker—the two other Victories—if they fight at all, will only fight for the planets they have chosen as their protectorates. No one gives a damn about the sector. Just as they don't give a damn about the legions of stormtroopers who will not break their Oath (at least until they are broken by hunger and disease) and will defend the planets where they are stationed to the last. And all, to a man, will perish or defect to the enemy. Because the only way to defend a sector is one way—and it implies a unified command and a few more Star Destroyers.
Even if the Marut continues to remain loyal to its Oath, nothing good will come of it. They will either be destroyed or boarded. Oland even guessed who it would be. The Arkanian Dragon or the Breaker. Either of the two other Victories left in the sector. Physically, not under the banners of the Empire. Not one of their commanders will miss the opportunity to double their strength. Or miss the chance to remove a ship from the path of a criminal gang aiming to seize control of the sector. For now they have gone quiet, because the fall of the HoloNet has made everyone without exception think about what is happening. But as soon as they sort out the situation—that's it.
Oland believed in the Empire. Like any person who grew up on Imperial propaganda. And even more, he believed in numbers. Which spoke discouragingly. Even if Lieutenant Mac holds control over the stormtrooper garrisons, he won't last long. He has no ships to deal with the pirates and keep the sector in his hands. Even one Marut will not be enough—the criminals have far greater forces. And throwing the only defense of Jaminere into a battle somewhere in the sector—means condemning the capital to a strike by the criminals. And sitting in orbit of the capital world—means allowing the enemy to methodically grind down the garrisons stationed across the sector, subjugating one world after another.
It is unlikely Orinda will send them help. They have their own war. And regional governments are supposed to deal with crime, as in the final years of the Empire… And… honestly, Oland saw no way out of this situation. Remaining loyal to the sector government—means getting involved in a battle they cannot emerge from as victors. One ship is too little to hold an entire sector. Especially if the Arkanian Dragon and the Breaker side with whatever forces fight against the government. And it's not "if"… but when!
Both destroyers have already failed to go out on patrol and do not respond to their own callsigns. This means they have either left the sector or, as local informants whisper, have entered the service of Mi-Ha the Hutt. And he is making a move to obtain the third destroyer without a fight or losses. Then nothing will be scary for him at all. This is a dead end. And no way out of the situation was in sight.
To be precise, there was one, of course. One could spit on everything happening in the sector and clear out to wherever one's eyes lead, get lost in the galaxy while the HoloNet is inactive. And let them all sort out the mess they've made themselves. But Oland's conscience would not let him do that. A dilemma… Conscience… Oland smiled crookedly. A conscience in one who goes to a meeting with a gangster behind the murder of Moff Gronn? Not even funny. But Oland simply saw no other way out…
He was not going to serve criminals. Fighting for a doomed cause… Necessary, but somehow one doesn't want to die… Not many alternatives. Oland put on a new set of service uniform. He looked at his distorted reflection on the protocol droid's chest plate.
"Forgive me for never fixing you," he said, patting the droid on its metal head. "Someday later," he promised, with a cheerless smirk. "Probably."
Fastening his sidearm to his belt, he looked at the equipment laid out before him. "Not much," he sighed, tucking what might work in negotiations into his pocket. Но unlikely. No, Oland was not afraid. He was just tired of banging his head against the walls of indifference and neglect that reign in the Empire. When everyone around you doesn't give a damn, they just want to line their pockets and clear out to some tropical worlds to live happily ever after, and conscience and the Oath won't let you let everything slide and demand you do at least something… You just burn out.
Meeting his first officer at the shuttle ramp, Oland tried to keep a formal, unperturbed expression on his face.
"Track my comlink," he ordered. "If it stops functioning—the Marut must get out of Allied Tion. All of you. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" the young lieutenant-first officer looked more frightened than surprised by such a strange order. "But… where to fly?!"
His voice trembled. Because until now, he hadn't even stood a watch without the commander. And here… this.
"If only I knew," Oland sighed. After all, it's basically the same everywhere… "Try to break through to Makem Te," Oland said. "It seems that's a Dominion trading world. No matter how they've secured their borders there, merchant ships fly in and out intact… Just in case, as you enter the communication system's range, report that you are ready to surrender the ship in exchange for safety and monetary compensation. I don't think they'll refuse."
It was good there were no ISB or stormtroopers on board. Otherwise, his journey would have ended here and now.
"Surrender the Marut?" the lieutenant's eyes were bulging faster than a Jawa stripping a droid in the desert. "To the Dominion? They're traitors, aren't they?! Outcasts! Deserters! Enemies of the Empire, even if not declared! Contacting them is forbidden!"
"So what?" Oland shrugged. "These ones, at least, won't shoot you as deserters. And they won't send you to fight for other people's mansions, hiding behind patriotic slogans about the Empire's greatness. You have your whole life ahead of you, lieutenant. Don't give it for those who don't give a damn about it."
"So maybe… it's worth fleeing to the New Republic or the Alliance?" the lieutenant asked softly.
"What's the point?" the destroyer commander asked. "Everything is the same as in the Empire, just called something else. And in the Tion Hegemony it's all the same—except there they'll also execute you over the old enmity between native Tionians and 'outsiders.' I would advise choosing a small world far from the galactic center, settling there and living, fleeing from this Huttish galactic politics, may the rancors scratch it. All these Republics, Alliances, Dominions… Everyone doesn't give a damn—everyone acts out of their own interests. Serving them is stupid. Но at least the Dominion definitely won't organize a show trial for you and will pay money for the ship. In any case, lieutenant, the choice is yours. As is the responsibility for the crew's lives. If I could do more—I would. Good luck."
He shook the lieutenant's hand and climbed into the pilot's cabin. Starting all the Lambda's systems, he guided the ship out of the hangar opening, away from the destroyer. What did he want? For it all to end. But on his terms. Why did he have that strange feeling again that he was in the wrong place at the absolutely wrong time? Time to get used to it…
***
Zlyuchka was the first to notice the approach of the Imperial military shuttle, as she was in a position just half a kilometer from the Corlax IV governor's residence. The scanner (completely illegal in most worlds under any regime) showed only one person inside—the pilot himself. And he flew his machine confidently and very fast, making a targeted shot practically impossible. But he did without unexpected maneuvers and did not change altitude. He wasn't afraid of an ambush, good.
The Twi'lek girl tapped her finger lightly twice on the comlink button. In response came an identical double beep; Reynar confirmed the signal was received. And since it was received by him, it was by the other members of the squad even more so. Wherever they might be.
This fundamentally distinguished Zlyuchka's work as Reynar's partner from similar work with Phodeum. The latter always shared at least the initial plan with her—in detail. Reynar preferred to plan and keep the intent to himself, discussing with the operative only their role and participation. Everything else the Shadow Guard left exclusively to his own discretion and resolution. Zlyuchka didn't know if it was somehow connected to him not trusting her or if it was the most familiar way for him to perform tasks set by leadership, but she didn't argue.
She lacked the trait that would make prudence prevail over common sense. To argue and aggressively flirt when it was possible and appropriate—by all means. But not when a mission involving a threat to life—hers and her partner's—lay ahead.
Partner.
Close one…
The girl shook her head, casting aside thoughts currently unnecessary. Her task was observation. The girl began to look out for other transport vehicles moving in the intended direction. No one. Zlyuchka waited a little longer and then began to slowly make her way to the meeting point.
Like all the other mission participants, she was packed in assault armor. Though it was in no way connected to the Stormtrooper Corps. Or the familiar white-and-black paint. Or the appearance well known to the entire galaxy. Ordinary guard armor, like the many on the faceless guys guarding the Grand Admiral, Grand Moff, Moffs, and other influential sentients of the Dominion, as well as strategically important objects. Which ones—Zlyuchka didn't know.
But they were produced by special order—specifically for the Shadow Guard. Though the girl did not possess a lightsaber or the charismatic ability to throw enemies around with a thought, she got such armor anyway. Matte black, with a spacious cloak of armored fabric, easily withstanding a shot from light small arms and even a lightsaber or similar sophisticated weaponry. The secret was the coating of some special material that Reynar called "cortosis." And previously Zlyuchka had only heard of such—from Phodeum. Once he told her that his family was involved in making armor using such material, but he didn't go into details—how, who exactly, for what purposes it was created.
But Zlyuchka didn't care about that now. Except for the helmet, which is incredibly difficult to manufacture for Togrutas and Twi'leks and doesn't enjoy commercial demand, she now looked like a real Shadow Guard. Perhaps it was a symbol of recognition of her merits. Or perhaps this operation simply required as much protection as any other. But one way or another, she liked the new set of armor. And specifically now—also because it blended perfectly with the local thick twilight.
For the operation, Zlyuchka armed herself to the teeth: both a blaster carbine and a blaster pistol, spare power cells and gas cartridges for both, and she even took a couple of thermal detonators with her. Which hung at her belt and terribly hindered the freedom of movement to which the Twi'lek was so accustomed. Carrying them was uncomfortable; they constantly threatened to give away her position, bulging under the armor fabric as two small hemispheres. Honestly, she took them as a reserve. Because she understood a simple truth. If she had to use them, it meant the operation had not gone according to plan, had failed, and the strike force was knee-deep in a Hutt's latrine.
In theory, the operation should have followed the rebels' favorite motto: "Hit and run." It took a great deal of effort to secretly sneak into Allied Tion, make inquiries (yes, the Dominion's agents did that for them, but they had to be double-checked too), and move secretly to the location, tracking the Imperial Star Destroyer commander. The latter had arrived to "pay homage" to Mi-Ha the Hutt. Two others were already actively implementing the Zann Consortium's plans to subject the Allied Tion sector to the direct rule of criminals.
The inactivity of the HoloNet played into their hands. As did "Lieutenant Mac's" lack of strong cover in the form of combat starships. The Hutt could conquer the sector's planets as much as he liked—one after another, unleashing his mercenaries and criminal rabble on the stormtrooper legions stationed on the planets. Who remained loyal to Jaminere and "Moff Gronn's" successor despite everything.
Before landing on the planet, Reynar specifically warned every participant: one extra shot—and everything goes to waste. So far the operation was developing according to plan, and Zlyuchka actively disliked that. She had been in similar affairs dozens of times and had learned that nothing ever works out exactly as intended. The most likely complication should turn out to be the secret arrival of a much larger number of the Hutt's thugs at the meeting site. Which would seriously complicate matters. Retreating under fire wouldn't be fun at all, and it was guaranteed that in case of failure, everything planned as counteraction to the seizure of the sector would go down a bantha's tail and they'd have to look for other ways to approach the criminal leader, who hadn't poked his nose out of his secret base.
Zlyuchka listened to the night. For some reason, she wanted to utter a phrase that had surfaced from somewhere about a bad feeling, but that would be a lie. She had no bad feelings. It was Phodeum and Reynar, those like them, who had feelings, shifts, sensations, fears. But not her. She could rely only on her experience. And worry about the outcome of the mission.
"Is the little girl worried?" she heard from the comlink the snake-like hiss of the most disgusting and repulsive creature in the galaxy.
"Tuck your antenna deeper into your head, viper," the girl replied, watching to ensure there was no ambush around the meeting site. "So that it pokes out from under your chin."
In response came only the satisfied chuckle of Aurra Sing. No, everything was fine—the enemy scouts had passed this spot without leaving any signals or mines. She descended into a crevice, narrow only in appearance. But once you go below the thick vegetation, you fall into a deep and wide pit.
They were already waiting for her there. The girl squatted between Reynar and "Lieutenant Mac," who were examining, shielded by Obscuro's cloak, a tactical hologram of the governor's residence. Who had sold out to the criminals among the first. Opposite them, clutching her "night sting" rifle in a dreamy, pensive pose, sat the pain of her deep jealousy—Aurra Sing. To her left—two more Guards, their helmets lying at their feet.
Pensive and silent Streen, whose unfocused gaze said that everyone would soon stop laughing and the weather would change. His teacher—Darth Maul—stared impassively at a separate group of several dark-furred Noghri death commandos. Sparing of words, they were checking their night-black bodysuits of armored fabric that practically blended with their fur. Squinting, Zlyuchka could see on their suits numerous pockets filled with obsidian knives, detonators, power cells and gas cartridges, smoke grenades, and… to her shame, the girl could not recognize most of the silent killers' gear. Nor could she remember ever seeing such old Noghri in the past.
The color of their fur gives away the commandos' age. The older a Noghri is, the darker their fur. The few Noghri she had already dealt with were clearly young sentients with grayish or dark-grayish fur. And if "black" ones appeared here…
"Captain Oland has arrived," Zlyuchka said in a whisper, addressing Reynar and "Lieutenant Mac."
"We know," the latter replied. "Lady Sing placed a tracking beacon on his Lambda."
The girl looked at the pale-faced mercenary. She smiled charmingly in response, not hiding her mockery.
"So I spent two hours prancing around the residence in the wet grass for nothing?" Zlyuchka hissed at her partner.
"No," Reynar replied. "Everything is according to plan. We could track the ship, but not the number of people in it. Now we are certain that Oland arrived in solitary pride."
"What difference does it make?" Darth Maul spoke up. "We will just kill them all."
"That is not the plan," "Lieutenant Mac" checked him. "We need the leader."
"That is not your plan," the Zabrak said loathingly. "Mine—is to kill them in as great a number as possible."
"Killings are good," Sing purred, moving closer to the red-and-black Zabrak.
"Get out of my sight, woman," Maul replied loathingly. "I do not wish to breathe the same air as you."
Sing merely gave a barely audible snort and returned to her original position.
"We know the patrol routes, we know the composition and armament of the guards," Reynar said. "Now we need to understand how many Noghri, captured by the Zann Consortium and working for them, are here."
"There are no Noghri who are taken captive," one of the "black" ones said unexpectedly. "There are only traitors. Whom we will kill. Noghri are a Noghri problem. You—do not risk. Yours—is another task."
And it was said with such indifference that Zlyuchka nearly shuddered from the goosebumps running down her back.
"Some kind of hitman club out for a stroll," she said in a whisper. "And what are Streen and I doing here?"
"Rain will start soon," the latter woke up, looking at those gathered. "I made it so there would be many lightning strikes. When it is needed—I will strike the observation towers with them and kill the sentries."
"Fine, the gas-scout guy has also absorbed the spirit of your friendly community," Zlyuchka commented.
"Such is the work," Reynar shrugged, guiltily looking away. "That is what the Shadow Guard was created for…"
"And I thought it was formed to counteract Jedi and Palpatine's Dark Side Elite," Zlyuchka thought. "But not for the cold-blooded killing of ordinary sentients. Shouldn't scouts or death commandos from the Noghri Overclan do that?"
"Two minutes to move into position," "Lieutenant Mac" said. "We'll give the captain another ten after he goes inside. And after that, we begin the operation—each in their zone of responsibility. I remind you—we assault no earlier than when the rain pours, lightning strikes, and the rocket launchers take out the security control point and the residence gates. Spare no rank-and-file. You know our targets. The Noghri will cover the rocket man and lure out the traitors."
Silent consent to begin the operation to kill hundreds of sentients.
"Wait," Zlyuchka spoke up. "Rocket launchers? Seriously? Who's the idiot who's going to stand in the middle of a sea of grass and aim at the armored front gates in full view of all the enemy guards?"
Reynar looked at her. She looked at the other Shadow Guards. They looked at her. She looked at the Noghri. They were busy rechecking how easily the blades came out of their sheaths…
"Wait a minute!" Zlyuchka's eyes rounded with realization. "No-no-no! I didn't sign up for that! I probably weigh only forty kilograms?! No, I am not firing a rocket launcher!"
"But you are the only one who knows the patrol schedule of the scouts and how best to approach the residence," "Lieutenant Mac" reasonably countered, looking at her with a flat gaze.
"A-a-a-ah," the girl drawled. "So that's why I was freezing there… Well, since the Noghri are covering, I won't worry… about close combat. But what about snipers and repeater operators?"
"Don't be afraid, girl," she heard Aurra Sing's voice. "Today I am covering you."
"And now I'm actually scared for myself," Zlyuchka shivered.
But who cared about her prejudices?
***
After Alexander Mor finished his full but brief report on the essence of what was happening in the Kessel system, I couldn't help but think. It's not so often that one has to ponder riddles on the verge of the supernatural. And the matter did not concern Kessel or Garrison Moon. On them, everything was happening as previously planned.
Atmosphere generators are placed, airtightness of living zones is carried out or is in the final stage. Repair and construction of defensive structures and locations for personnel, garrison, pilots, technicians, spare equipment, provisions, and the rest—in progress. This is not a quick business, much as one might wish it to be. But we have still encountered a riddle that required the swiftest resolution.
"Your search measures did not lead to the discovery of Corran Horn's ship," I said slowly. Repeating in a thoughtful tone what Alexander Mor had voiced on the essence of this issue.
"Exactly so, sir," he confirmed. "Scanning, reconnaissance, mathematical modeling of possible trajectories, patrolling—nothing gives us an understanding of where his ship went. The opinion among subordinates is that he either perished in a black hole or was destroyed along with his family during the Battle of Kessel."
"In the first case, you should have detected the ion trail of the engine that would lead toward any of the black holes in the Cluster," I said, watching Mor's reaction.
"We checked that version first thing, Grand Admiral," the officer admitted. "Many hotheads tried to flee Kessel using black holes as a gravity source for acceleration."
Yes, it's a desperate move. Rogue Squadron once used it in the battle at Ossus. With sad consequences for themselves. We figured out the maneuver and intercepted them, significantly reducing the number of illustrious Republican pilots.
"But there are no ion trails whatsoever that would indicate the ship's movement in the direction of black holes," Mor explained. "Hypotheses that he could have engaged acceleration and moved in any direction by inertia were also worked out. We searched every trajectory suitable for leaving the system to a distance of up to a light-year from Kessel. Nothing. Only a few places remain where he could be hiding. Of course, if he is alive, sir. Because he is not in space. Unless he knows how to teleport."
And consequently, if one adheres to this logic, then he cannot be at Daala's disposal either. An interesting theory. But we will check it in a completely different way.
"Truly?" I clarified. "And what are your hypotheses?"
"Perhaps he reached the surface of Kessel or Garrison Moon. And is hiding in the tunnels."
"You have already voiced that theory," I reminded him. "And it found no confirmation. It seems to me that Horn is not on Kessel or Garrison Moon."
If they had reached them, then before fleeing below the surface, they should have left the ship somewhere. Which would have certainly been found. Or the site of its destruction. But there is nothing of the kind. Neither Horn and his family. Nor traces of his destruction. Nor traces of his flight into a black hole. He is still in the system. Hiding in the hope of waiting it out until we cease our draconian security measures. And then he will slip away. The usual tactic of an operative used to setting ambushes. But by chance having turned out to be the quarry himself. He is waiting for us to get tired. What naivety. I will not get tired.
"As far as we could check—he is not on the planet or the moon," Mor cautiously reminded me. "To search the depths of both astronomical objects, I did not have enough men under my command."
"Well then," I said. "At the moment, you have at your disposal three legions of stormtroopers stationed on the Guardian. Together with their support droids, including reconnaissance ones. We will send them to Garrison Moon to check every inch of the celestial body. Kessel, like its moon—are very valuable and ancient astronomical objects. All the more—located in such a unique place as the Maw Cluster. Since we, the Dominion, are in this sector forever, we should pass the time while we await our uninvited guests and look for Horn and his family by keeping the soldiers busy with something useful. At the same time—allow our stormtroopers to gain experience in exploring underground tunnels."
"All that remains is to find volunteers who want to risk their lives and figure out what's in the depths of Kessel," Mor grumbled.
His indignation is easy to understand. He is a combat officer who against his will found himself in the position of commandant of an entire star system. While the rest of the officers are fighting, he is forced to deal with building defenses. Which, in general, falls under the competence of engineering units. But those are details.
"Do not worry about volunteers, Commodore," I advised. "Two hundred thousand are already ready. And another million are on the way."
Alexander Mor looked at me blankly.
"Before our stormtroopers engage in searching Garrison Moon, they will escort Republican prisoners of war to Kessel," I explained. "To whom an offer will very soon be made that they will not be able to refuse."
"I understand, sir," but his voice said otherwise. "Only… how do you intend to find Horn's ship?"
"And why would I search for it?" I asked with genuine surprise. "We will find Corran Horn himself. And perfectly politely, correctly, and with partiality, we will inquire who gave him a cloaked ship."
Mor's face lengthened as if he were a religious man who had heard blasphemy from a priest's lips. You'd think he hadn't come to the same conclusion himself.
***
Oland entered the residence accompanied by several guards, nearly ruining his plan immediately. As he had expected—the blaster had to be handed over immediately. But when the fighters spoke of a personal search, the officer broke into a cold sweat. Because he had never been interested in procedures of that kind—in the Empire, everyone relied on scanners. Especially concerning officers. But a personal inspection—that was something…
"Let him through," the senior of his escort commanded the mercenary who had decided to search the Star Destroyer commander. "The Boss is waiting. Don't delay. Our Imperial isn't a fool to pull something inside our lair. There's almost a battalion of guards and Noghri here," he said confidentially. "I think you understand what will happen to you if you think to joke, yes, Imperial."
"Nothing good," Oland replied to the questioner. "But you're right. I'm not intending to joke here."
"Well then, splendid," the other smirked, nodding toward the central corridor. "Let's go, Imperial."
He was led through convoluted corridors where he could see for himself that what was once an Imperial government institution had turned into a den of inveterate bandits. And anarchists. At least, the colorful graffiti on the walls said as much. A complete collapse of morals and culture. A faceless and mindless crowd that had snatched power. Such intend to destroy, but certainly not to create. Others will create for them. Less free and less aggressive.
He was led to a small throne room where governors and Moffs usually threw parties, receptions, and other official and not-so-official meetings. He was allowed inside, where he found himself in a smoky hall. As far as the eye could see—everywhere there were half-drunk mercenaries and thugs surrounded by available girls. The apotheosis of control over the planet. Drinks of dubious quality, insincere revelry, and girls with long-tarnished reputations brightening an ordinary drinking bout. And this filth intended to control a sector? Disgusting. They'll plunder, sell, loot, and plunge it into the abyss of ruin.
The door clicked quietly behind him, muffling the sounds outside, but they were compensated by the clamor inside. However, Oland himself felt it become unnaturally calm and quiet within him. Except for the thumping of his heart. What he saw finally convinced him that the man had chosen the right path. There was no one here to pity. All of them part of one and the same pack.
He was nudged toward the podium where the chair occupied by the governor was located. Now it was torn from its fastenings and cast somewhere into the right corner. Judging by the characteristic sounds coming from there—it was being used for other than its intended purpose. Bacchanalia. Loathsome. The man walked forward calmly—proud and unbroken—trying to pick out the fat bulk of a Hutt in the crowd. But he couldn't do it. Because there was no Hutt here. He was being led to some Weequay bandit who apparently ran this gang.
"Little Imperial!" someone nearby guffawed.
A pale-skinned weakling in rags, breathing the obvious fumes of something like a mixture of nuclear fuel, machine oil, vomit, and Gamorrean offal, hung on him.
"You're with us too, yeah?" this man's eyes glittered unnaturally, revealing him as a seasoned drug addict.
"Come on, I'll show you such a girl," the junkie pulled him by the arm. "One of yours. An officer! A commander! Pretty! Tas-s-sty!"
Oland stopped dead. He turned his gaze in the direction the ragamuffin was dragging him. It took some time to understand who was being spoken of. But even when her eyes met his, not a drop of understanding or recognition flickered in them. But he recognized the tormented woman. The first officer from the Breaker. A woman who, like him, had risen from the bottom. And had been an honest, Imperial-devoted officer. Obviously, the traitor-commanders had disposed of her, as they had of others as principled, giving her over for the bandits' sport.
And the talk is not about what is terrible for any woman, unacceptable, immoral, breaks the psyche, turning into a lifelong trauma. It was probably even good that she didn't understand what was happening. Her sanity had left her before she was hung on the improvised bonfire the thugs had decided to build. They intended to roast a human. And devour them.
Oland shuddered. Only now did he, realizing the horror of what was happening, think to look closely at what kind of sentients surrounded him. Humans and other mercenaries, yes, they were here. But the overwhelming mass were the most disgusting humanoids in the galaxy, among those the Marut commander knew of. Lip-less mouths with large teeth. Elongated skulls. Lean build. Zanibar. Cannibals.
Oland's gaze darted around the hall. He saw dozens of racks on which people were hung. Judging by their build—Imperial commandos or stormtroopers. Zanibar twirled around them, singing some chants. Some were already being pierced with knives, letting their blood out, while the cannibals tied them to poles to carry them to the bonfires.
"Like it?" the senior of his escort-convoy whispered in his ear. "Our best warriors. Zanibar. Before they devour an enemy, they perform rituals to appease their gods and something about energy-related. If you don't join us—you'll go on a rack. Walk, Imperial."
It felt as if a cold stake had been driven between his ribs with a wide swing, but the captain managed his own voice.
"Bastards," he said with a rasp. "Brutes! Barbarians! I hate you!"
"What'd you say?" the ragamuffin's eyes flashed unfriendlily.
The sentients nearest him also stopped their revelry, turning their attention to the defiant Imperial. Silence fell over the hall.
"Looks like we won't reach an agreement," the Weequay declared.
"And I didn't come to talk to you," Oland's voice rang with rage. "I need Mi-Ha the Hutt!"
"And who are you that the boss himself would talk to you?" the Weequay smirked. "Small fry. We only wanted to talk to you because we don't want to waste time on your little ship and its crew of weaklings. But since you're so bold, our little soldiers will snack on you now, and then slaughter your crew…"
"Hutt take that," Oland spat.
From the moment he had departed from the Marut, more than half an hour had already passed. The crew should already be on edge. The captain dealt a slap to the first one who rushed him and kicked him away with a boot. His hands habitually reached inside the lapel of his tunic.
"Back, you beasts!" he barked, pulling out first one, then another thermal detonator. Not as bulky as the stormtroopers'—cylindrical. But the explosive inside them was also more powerful. Expensive, but priceless.
"None of you are getting out of here, you beasts," the commander of the Marut said, pressing the detonator activation buttons with his thumbs. And throwing them in opposite directions, into the crowds of Zanibar. The only drawback of these munitions—a fifteen-second fuse delay.
The drugged crowd could in no way grasp what was happening, giggling drunkenly at the Imperial who had thrown "non-working smoke bombs" at them. The commander of the Marut tore his comlink from his belt, threw it on the floor, and crushed it with his heel, giving his crew to understand that it was time for them to clear out. After which he took a combat stance. Though he hadn't fought since his Academy days, he'd definitely finish a couple of the abominations, taking them with him to the other side. If it exists, of course.
"Come on, bastards," he invited the nearest bandit, who was looking at him with a face contorted in horror. "Didn't blow up your boss, so I'll slaughter as many of you as I can."
And then what he had least expected happened. Somewhere a crash rang out and the sounds of blasters were heard. From the darkness of the throne room roof, several shadows literally woven from blackness fell into the crowd of criminals. The half-drunk criminals retreated from them, looking at the uninvited guests with interest. Each of whom, as if chosen, was clad in black armor, faceless helmets with crimson visors and spacious cloaks.
With a hiss and a hum, crimson and violet light-blades sliced through the gloom of the criminal orgy. Then a voice sounded, distorted by a helmet vocoder, but no less thunderous for it.
"In the name of the Dominion—the hour of justice has come."
The light-blades instantly turned into fiery lace, mills of death slicing into the half-drunk, drugged crowd. The combine of death began its work, shredding the crowd of criminals, and the formal hall turned into an orchestral one. Where the Shadow Guard demonstrated its favorite repertoire. A drama with elements of tragedy titled: "Suffering and Death."