Ten years, three months, and five days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, third month, and five days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and twenty-five days since arrival).
Moff Harsh slumped exhaustedly into a chair.
The metal table before him practically beckoned the man with its smooth and cold surface, which could temporarily cool his overheated body.
The man was breathing heavily, periodically breaking into a cough so severe that his lungs began to ache.
It happened again this time.
By the time the spasms stopped tormenting him, he saw a Sister standing before him.
The woman's expressionless face only irritated him, despite the fact that a few days ago, he had considered her quite attractive.
"You have grown worse," she said.
"Really?" Harsh sneered, breaking into another cough.
It took him about a minute to speak again.
"I hadn't noticed," he wheezed. "What about the others?"
"The Brother is dead," she reported. "His lungs decomposed."
"I don't give a damn about him," Harsh wanted to say, but he couldn't—the coughing overtook him again.
This time, it lasted a very long time.
By the time he finished, he began to shiver as if he had just stepped out of a freezer.
Glancing at the heating system indicator, he grimaced.
The mark was at the prescribed twenty-three degrees.
The man stood up, nearly falling, reached the regulator, and turned it to the right, satisfied only when he saw the number seven degrees higher than the original.
In ordinary circumstances, this would have meant an unbearable sauna in the room, but he was cold.
And he wanted to get warm.
He wanted to get warm very badly.
The temperature could be lowered later.
"The crew?" he asked.
"The ground forces are no longer even able to rise from their bunks," the woman said. "Symptoms of the second phase are also observed among the members of the 'Cauldron' team. Navigators, transport shuttle pilots, flight deck technicians—on the verge of coma. The medical section has established that the entire staff has symptoms of the disease. Only the miners are healthy—because they are contacted by droids."
"What is this filth?" the Moff asked after another bout of coughing, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth.
Moving it away and looking at the fabric, he grimaced at the sight of blood.
"The data is not yet precise; there may be an error…"
"Just say it!" the Moff barked.
He shouldn't have done that.
The new coughing fit, caused by Harsh's angry shout, was so strong that he nearly flew off his chair.
It all ended only when his bloody saliva ended up on the table in front of the Moff.
"Shit," he wheezed, wiping his bloodied mouth.
"Yes," Framis agreed. "Your first stage is ending. A little longer—and you will fall into a coma."
"And what you see isn't enough for you to specify the filth that has struck my entire base?!" Harsh wheezed.
"Presumably, it is Direllian Plague," she said softly, looking away from Harsh, who had begun spitting mucus from his mouth.
"What else is that?" he asked.
"An airborne disease," the woman reported in an indifferent tone.
"How could we have caught it?" Harsh grated. "Especially in such massive numbers?"
"I have a hunch…"
"Surely those Huttish 'Vultures' sprayed the contagion," Harsh assumed, not waiting for the specialist's theory.
"Unlikely," the girl stated.
"Then how did your brother become the first to be infected?" the Moff asked. "He took on the destruction of all the 'Vultures'!"
"He has a weakened immune system," the girl explained. "Such diseases are fatal for him. He fought for a while using the Force, but it doesn't help much."
"Then what? Where could we have been infected?!"
"Tiragga's second moon," the girl said. "The technicians who landed on the surface were the first to fall ill. Remember the ground forces commander's behavior on the bridge? Those are the first symptoms."
"Nonsense!" Harsh seethed. "The stormtroopers were in armor! It filters out all contagion!"
"But it does not possess the ability to disinfect," the Sister said. "They brought the contagion on themselves. And the technicians who landed without protective gear—inside themselves. While we flew to the base—the crew was infected. And by the time we appeared at the base—the virus began to act. It spreads in an oxygen-containing atmosphere with the speed of a fire."
"Curse it!" Harsh coughed. "What are the forecasts?"
"A virus that has a nearly universal mortality rate."
"There must be a cure," Harsh wheezed, struck by such a simple and disappointing prospect. "Huttish Pellaeon… He lured us to an infected moon, pretending it was important to him."
"Or perhaps he simply shielded the planet from whoever might fly there so the disease would not spread," Framis said. "Something like a sanitary cordon."
"I don't give a damn now," Harsh snapped. "The cure. That's all that interests me now!"
"It exists," the woman agreed. "Shiarkha root. Effective if taken before the completion of the third phase."
"Get it," Harsh ordered. "Since bacta and other medicines don't help. Since you have immunity…"
"I do not have it," the woman interrupted the Moff. "I heal myself with the help of the Force."
"Then heal me!" Harsh ordered, irritated by what he had just learned. "Since you didn't think to do it for your precious brother! And my people! What are you waiting for?!"
"I cannot heal anyone else," Framis said in a calm tone. "My gift extends only to myself. Otherwise, I would not have allowed my brother to fall into a coma at the end of the second phase. I don't give a damn about those who will die. Но I would not have left him to die."
"I suppose you're not lying here."
"Get the root," Harsh repeated. "Do everything necessary to cure my people."
"That is what I came about," the Inquisitor woman said. "Shiarkha root grows only on the planet Kirtania."
"So what's the problem? Send someone there!"
"Problematic," Framis stated. "As I already said—the pilots are ill. Not one of them will reach Kirtania. And if they do, they certainly won't return to the base alive."
"Is it far from us?" Harsh marveled. "The name sounds familiar."
"It is," the young woman said. "Kirtania is located in the Nembas sector."
"Zann Consortium satellites," Harsh spat blood again. "Curse it!"
"Precisely," the woman said. "To get there—it will require breaking through Dominion territory. This can be done in only two ways. Through the Mieru'kar sector or through Bosph. Both are now part of the Dominion, since our forces there were destroyed by them."
"I see where you're going, Framis," a lump rattled in Harsh's lungs that he desperately wanted to cough up.
But Harsh no longer had the strength—his sternum ached as if he'd been hit by a jackhammer.
And a rather large one at that.
"I don't think they've already seeded Bosph's borders with mines in these few days," Harsh said. "I think it's still possible to break through… Take a transport and fly for the medicine…"
"And why would I do that?" the woman asked unexpectedly.
"To cure me!" Harsh boiled. "Was it not about my greatness that you and your brother have been telling me since the moment we met?"
"Idiot," the woman said.
"What are you talking about?" Harsh was taken aback.
"About the fact that you have fewer brain cells than pips on a command cylinder," Framis said, looking the man straight in the eyes with the same icy gaze. "Are you truly so pathetic as to think anything but death awaited you for your treachery?"
"Treachery…" Harsh muttered distractedly. "So you deceived me? Both you and your brother?"
"Treachery is the path of the Dark Side," Framis said succinctly. "Everything that was needed, you have already done. Thrown Zann Consortium forces into an attack on the Dominion. Weakened Zann, and at the same time deprived him of access to the rich mineral deposits he hoped to use for building and strengthening his fleet… If not for my Brother's death, I would even be glad your crew is infected with Direllian Plague…"
Harsh reached with all his strength for the blaster in the holster on the Moff's uniform belt.
But the woman waved a hand and his arm just below the elbow was severed by the crimson blade of a lightsaber.
Ignoring the man's screams, the Inquisitor continued her calm speech:
"It even helps my plan," she said. "Now there is no need even to think about getting rid of forces loyal to you. You will die off yourselves. All that is necessary—is simply to open the airlocks and eject the corpses and infected air into space. Without oxygen, the plague will die on its own."
"You… You'll die too!"
"The Force will save me," the young woman replied. "Furthermore. This will allow me to act further."
"What have you planned?!"
"To continue destroying the Empire's enemies from within," Framis answered calmly. "Not one of your bastards will get off the base. Soon there will be a mass grave here. Which I will shortly subject to decompression and clear for future use. After which I will enter a healing trance and wait for the Dominion's emissaries to arrive."
"What?!" Harsh was taken aback. "You're working for the Dominion?"
"I told you that you were an idiot," Framis commented. "Besides, if you were a bit smarter, other Inquisitors would have dealt with you… No, I worked for the Empire. The Dominion is one of our targets. I think they will be so glad to find an intact Star Destroyer here, a metal enrichment factory, mining colonies… They clearly aimed to capture all this—it wasn't for nothing they lured you to an infected moon."
"I don't understand… Why would you help them capture the Chiloon Rift, since you are their enemy?" Harsh wheezed.
"It's simple," she replied. "They were told not to be touched… For now. Но that was said until my Brother died from their actions… Now I don't give a damn what they in the Empire have planned. For me, it is personal. And I will not rest until I have destroyed them all! Fortunately," she took an old comlink from her belt, "since the days of my brother's padawanship in the Jedi Order, I didn't think this thing would be useful for anything but hunting Jedi. But, as it turned out, it will serve my goals quite well. The Dominion is looking for surviving Jedi. I will become one of those who infiltrates their society."
"You… want me to help you," Harsh bared his teeth, grimacing from the pain in his severed arm but unwilling to show that it was indeed agonizingly painful. "Otherwise, why would you be telling me this…"
"Yes, you're not the smartest," Framis smirked. "No, I told you this so you would concentrate your thoughts on it. And your mind would be open to my intrusion. Oh, there's what I was looking for…"
Harsh turned pale.
"What do you want from me, witch?!" he wheezed, coughing.
"Your worthless little secrets, Moff," the woman said. "Especially those concerning bank accounts. I will need a great deal of money to reach Vice Admiral Pellaeon. And all those sentients who are responsible for my Brother's death. I'll start with you, I suppose."
She threw out a hand.
But instead of another attack with the lightblade, Harsh felt his neck squeezed by an invisible vise.
He wanted to say something, but didn't have time.
Framis broke his neck.
After standing for a few seconds and looking at the cooling body, the Inquisitor left the office of the failure Moff, who was also a multiple traitor.
***
By the time a group of investigators arrived at the planet Praesitlyn, the location of the Intergalactic Communications Center, only the emptied building of the complex awaited them.
Emitting no signals except for endlessly repeating Republican propaganda.
On all news channels.
Having blocked, in some clever way, the possibility of broadcasting pre-paid advertisements, news, and other programs.
The investigators had several goals.
To start, they needed to investigate the causes of the unauthorized repeating broadcast of New Republic President Borsk Fey'lya's speech throughout the galaxy.
HoloNet management was extremely dissatisfied that someone was using their equipment for a galactic broadcast.
And it wasn't even about the fact that such a broadcast was being carried out, informing the entire galaxy of the New Republic's glorious victories in the Battle of Balmorra and the clearing of the Humbarine sector of Pentastar Alignment forces.
The point was that they were doing it completely for free, without paying a hefty sum to the information network's management.
Using HoloNet advantages without paying…
That wasn't even just insolence.
It was genuine Gamorreanism, a disregard for market laws, painting the New Republic in the far-from-benevolent light of an aggressor and galactic invader.
Furthermore, it was necessary to clarify the reasons and conditions under which the New Republic was able to make such broadcasts.
The investigators had versions of how such a thing could have happened.
First—the New Republic captured the communications center and is managing it in secret from the Sluis sector government.
Second—again, the New Republic managed to bribe the guards and employees of the Intergalactic Communications Center.
And they obediently did whatever the Republicans needed with the servers to spread their propaganda.
Well, and third…
A slicer attack.
It was also considered, but as the least likely of the possible options.
Because it in no way explained the reason why the Intergalactic Communications Center stopped regular communication sessions.
The Marauder-class corvette guarding the planet also didn't contact management.
And its wreckage was what the investigation group had just left behind, descending into Praesitlyn's atmosphere.
Outwardly, the building of the central HoloNet hub, which continued to destabilize the entire company's work, looked intact.
Though the company representative would have preferred to see it destroyed—then they would have had every ground to bring charges against the New Republic for seizing private property.
And there would have been no problems with launching the backup hubs.
It just so happened that the technology, which is many thousands of years old, could not work with several hubs active at once.
For a backup one to work—the active one's servers must be physically disconnected, thereby rerouting information traffic.
And while the Intergalactic Communications Center's technicians were resuscitating backup servers in another part of the galaxy, desperately calculating losses from broken contracts and the need to purchase expensive equipment to restore the spare hub's operability (hoping deep inside their mercenary souls that the work of the center on Praesitlyn could be restored with minimal expenditures), the investigation group landed on the landing pad.
Each of them knew that backup HoloNet hubs exist, of course.
But they hadn't been launched or tested in a long time, and the equipment in them is so ancient that multi-billion expenditures would be required to launch the system.
Not to mention months of work to set everything up as it should work.
To return the HoloNet to the state it was in at the moment preceding the New Republic's seizure.
Having found traces of a rather dense battle, the investigators had already begun to guess what had happened here.
The hub was taken by storm.
Of course, they didn't know the Marauder in orbit had been destroyed by a "completely unremarkable" Dominion freighter that had approached the ship under a fake pretext of a malfunction.
Nor did they know the old ship had been destroyed by a volley of proton torpedoes fired by the freighter, which suddenly became agile and resistant to attacks.
The investigators didn't even suspect that this same freighter had destroyed a couple of fighters that had managed to leave the ship's hangar before its destruction.
Yes, in time they would find the ship's "black box."
And they would even suspect foul play, seeing damage on it—both outside and in the report logs of the final minutes of the ship and the mercenary crew's existence on board.
But they would not be able to establish that the final logs are a fabrication born from the hands of Mr. Pent.
No one would have any doubt that the data about the "freighter's" transponder, signaling its belonging to the New Republic, would turn out to be completely forged.
But all that would be later.
Now the investigators were finishing the exterior inspection of the building and moving on to assessing the situation inside.
It took them quite a bit of effort to enter and find traces of a heated battle there as well.
The cuts left by a lightsaber attracted their attention, and they reported them to their management.
There was no doubt remaining—Jedi had acted here.
The very ones whose revival the Republicans had so boasted of in their propaganda.
The discovered bodies of Republican commandos and the absence of mercenaries and technical personnel only confirmed the guess.
The New Republic was behind this act of technical and commercial vandalism.
All that remained was to find traces of interference in the computer code of the entire information network.
And this could only be done in the server room of the HoloNet's central hub.
And for this sake, the investigators began removing the servers…
Doing this without explosive ordnance disposal specialists was clearly not worth it for their own safety.
The Intergalactic Communications Center structure blew up when the first of the servers was disconnected.
The explosives distributed throughout the complex detonated, destroying both those inside and the complex itself.
The Sluissi and the equipment were destroyed.
Data transfer between the galaxy's planets suddenly and without explanation ceased.
The center, the core of the HoloNet, ceased to exist, tearing the interstellar broadcast network apart for a long time.
And on the ruins of the burnt-out structure much later, explosion products were found that are very characteristic of ultra-powerful Republican-pattern explosives.
Despite the fact that among the remains of bodies even more time later, only mercenaries, the center director, and Republican special forces could be identified, no one began investigating the reasons why the bodies of the other operators were not found.
Any inconsistencies in the versions of what happened were written off as the consequences of the explosion.
Overnight, the communications network linking the entire galaxy into one ceased to function, breaking into individual structures.
The galaxy lost communication between sectors.
A monstrous act in its essence disrupted the plans of every inhabitant of the galaxy.
With the exception of one state.
For the Dominion military machine, the loss of communication between the galaxy's sectors served as a signal to begin a counter-offensive.
And the northeast of the galaxy in the area of the northern part of the Hydian Way blazed.
But only the Dominion's regular troops knew of this.
The rest of the galaxy was trying to understand why HoloNet broadcasting had stopped.
***
An Imperial-I–class Star Destroyer invaded the Yirtan system of the Nembas sector in the north of the galaxy, accompanied by three Acclamator-class assault ships, a Venator-class Star Destroyer, two minesweeper cruisers, and ten Vindicator-class heavy cruisers.
The fleet's goal was the fourth planet orbiting the star Yirta.
Capturing this system cut the Nembas sector in two, as the Yirtan system sat right in the middle of the sector on a regional hyperspace route that had become extremely popular during the Galactic Civil War.
Captain Abyss looked through the central viewport at a blue-green world with a decent amount of cloud cover.
The Star Destroyer's scanners suggested the planet could boast a diverse relief and climate, including arctic tundra, deserts, mountains, and plains.
This world is known for its tropical jungles and forests, which were full of trees from which luxurious hardwoods grew, enjoying huge popularity among the wealthy strata of the galaxy's sentient population.
Also, the astronavigation directory suggested the world possessed a breathable atmosphere with standard gravity and a temperate climate.
Its days lasted twenty-three standard hours, and a year was three hundred sixty-nine local days.
The world's history stated the home of the Araquia species had been settled by humans and various other races.
Currently, the population numbered about two million humans and ten thousand aliens, dwarfing the fifteen hundred indigenous inhabitants of this world.
In Imperial times—and this is data already from the Ubiqtorate archives—the planet was divided into three competing economic states known as Dulay, Kinkosa, and Surana.
The main source of wealth for the local population became the export of medicine, raw materials, and metals.
In exchange, the ruling elite imported high technology.
Most of the time on the planet, significant rainfall reigned supreme.
During the rainy season, rain poured all day and night.
It is unknown how this world didn't repeat the fate of the mudball known as Jabiim.
But Abyss was certain that he would have to repeat the Grand Army of the Republic's feat of capturing a rainy planet covered in impassable jungle and mud.
With the only difference being that the accumulated experience of the Imperial military past—both naval and ground units—predetermined the necessity of learning from the mistakes of the Jabiim campaign.
Aboard the Acclamators were numerous wheeled Juggernauts and tracked vehicles instead of repulsor platforms, speeders, and walkers as it had been on Jabiim.
Numerous stormtrooper detachments, whose armor was painted in protective camouflage, were currently the only ones in the Dominion trained for work in jungle and marshy conditions.
Despite Grand Admiral Thrawn's decision to resurrect the Stormtrooper Corps in the abundance of specialties that had existed under the Empire, the work was progressing rather slowly.
"The local inhabitants, the Araquia, were almost completely exterminated by the colonizers," Abyss heard the voice of the man who would lead the ground operation.
"General…" Abyss greeted his assistant in the conquest of this world on the destroyer's bridge.
"No names, Captain," the man said softly, running a hand over his short hair. "Call me the same as everyone else. General."
The General had arrived recently.
And it is he who will lead the Dominion's ground forces into battle to conquer this planet.
And that is nearly three legions.
No, stormtroopers are barely a third of them—the main force.
The rest—are "Cavil's Pirates," or rather one of their combat units—who will replace the lack of the Dominion's own forces in this battle.
"As you ordered—the landing zones are designated outside the forests," Abyss reported.
"Good," the General said.
"I suppose," Abyss shrugged. "But since you say it is important, then so it is."
"I would even say it is a key part of the strategy," the General said. "And it directly depends on whether we want to keep this world under our control and get all the benefit from it, or not."
"How is it connected with the decision to land outside the forests?" Abyss clarified.
"That way we won't disturb the aborigines until we finish the work with the three city-states," the General explained. "You see, few know why the planet's indigenous population is only about fifteen hundred individuals."
"An endangered species?"
"The colonists made them so," the General replied. "When humans and aliens arrived on this planet, a misunderstanding occurred between them and the Araquia. As a result of which the aborigines were considered a threat. The Araquia were hunted and exterminated, as a result of which their population dwindled to the last known mark. And only after that did it become known that they are sentient and not predators. The colonists made an agreement with the locals, according to which the Araquia were proclaimed lords and guardians of the forests; they were left the green spaces as a habitat where no one could enter without their permission."
"Informative, but I still don't understand…" Abyss pointed to the hologram of the planet. "These forests are only a couple of hundred thousand square kilometers here. All this is for them?"
"Strange as it may be, yes," the General replied. "Not only are the trees themselves very valuable species that cost huge money on the galactic market, but the medicinal plants growing in them—have no analogs in their nature. Plants grow here that are capable of curing very dangerous diseases. Which now and then rage across the galaxy. Pharmacological companies buy raw materials for the production of medicines for these diseases, viruses, bacteria, fungi, and so on for billions of credits every year. Actually, it is at the expense of this that the local ruling elites can afford to live in luxury."
"Which is why they're trying to kill each other?" the commander of the Void Wanderer clarified.
"Of course," the General agreed. "Unhealthy competition. Dictated by the fact that the first settlers didn't even try to understand the wonders of this world. And they cut down the forests in pursuit of economic benefits. To restore the volume of forests, and thereby increase the amount of raw materials sold to markets, is beyond any city-state's power. Therefore, some try to absorb others and capture their territories, thereby enriching themselves."
"Doesn't look like they're lining up for local raw materials here," Abyss pointed to the planet's orbit devoid of ships, where Dominion starships were now establishing themselves.
"We arrived shortly before the season for collecting medicinal herbs and plants," the General explained. "Furthermore, do not forget that the exporters of goods from this planet—large pharmacological companies. From the Core Worlds."
"Oh," Abyss gave a nasty smirk. "Sad, but I'm afraid they'll have to incur losses due to their ships blowing up on minefields on the sector borders."
The disappearance of broadcast signals outside one sector—the fall of the HoloNet—was the trigger for the activation of minefields generously scattered by Dominion ships along the administrative boundaries of sectors in the northern part of the Hydian Way.
The Dominion's closest neighbors—satellites of the Corporate Sector (as well as it itself)—found themselves unable not only to contact each other and coordinate the reflection of large-scale attacks by the Dominion's regular fleet, but even just to transfer their armed forces from one sector to another to create fortified regions.
Such was Grand Admiral Thrawn's plan to isolate the Zann Consortium and its satellites from each other.
"We are not interested in others' losses," the General stated. "The Nembas sector is a springboard for strikes on the Dominion. That means it will be captured and pass under our jurisdiction."
"Thalassian slavers," Abyss said softly. "As I remember, they settled somewhere here."
"Not specifically in this system," the General said. "But in the sector, they definitely have a base."
The Nembas sector.
"As soon as we deploy our own base on the planet, I'll begin the hunt," Abyss promised.
"Of course," the General nodded in agreement. "But not before I negotiate with the aborigines about using their forests for moving our sabotage groups."
"Sure you'll be able to negotiate?" Abyss asked with undisguised skepticism.
He glanced at the small holoprojector, which showed an image of the planet's indigenous inhabitant.
An Araquia.
"In the past, I managed it," the General replied modestly. "Though the talk was only about obtaining medicine for those infected at the outpost on Tiragga's second moon. Though that was some time before I joined the Dominion."
"What were they infected with?" Abyss inquired.
"Direllian Plague," the General replied simply.
The commander of the Void Wanderer shuddered.
A virus that began its attack on the body of an oxygen-breathing creature with cold symptoms, quickly moving to the decomposition of mucous membranes, respiratory organs, affecting the meninges, excretory and digestive organs…
By the end of one of the stages, a person afflicted with this disease fell into a coma from which they did not emerge.
Death occurred when the lungs decomposed and the body was incapable of saturating the organism with oxygen.
But the virus, thanks to the remnants of oxygen in the blood, continued its activity, in a short time turning the sentient into a leather bag with a jelly-like mass inside.
Worst of all, the virus did not die when its host died.
It fell into a kind of hibernation, after which open holes in the "bag" served as a source for spreading virus molecules into the environment.
A horrific and deadly disease.
"I don't recall any outbreaks of this disease in the galaxy in recent decades," Abyss shivered.
"Which doesn't change the fact that the Dominion needs to have access to the healing raw material," the General stated. "After all, Kirtalia is rich in more than just Shiarkha root… I won't even mention that a crime lord who has great influence on the galaxy's black market operates on the planet."
"You intend to negotiate with him too, as with the Araquia?" the commander of the Void Wanderer clarified.
"No," the General ran a hand over the barely noticeable scar running along the entire surface of the upper part of his skull. "Him, I'll simply kill."
***
Everything that could be said about the planet Horrn had already been said.
A sandy world, dotted with ruined production buildings of foundries, assembly plants, and smelters built over thirty years ago by the forces and at the expense of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
All this was lost and abandoned due to the "immaturity" of the planet Horrn, whose crust, due to processes occurring in the depths of the solid ground, was periodically broken and flooded huge spaces with molten lava.
Which, on cooling, turned into huge black spots on the light-sandy shade of the planet's surface.
The planet Horrn.
These phenomena cost the destruction of numerous CIS factories, which along with the multi-billion initial costs for development and extraction of natural resources, forced the CIS to leave the world, abandoning everything they had managed to erect.
Much had changed in thirty years.
Но not the graveyard of old equipment into which Horrn's surface had turned.
The "Graveyard"—the surface of the planet Horrn.
Specifically "Graveyard" was what the local garrison called Horrn's surface in the place where the ground base was set up.
Once, the CIS administrative-command center managing the numerous factories was located here.
A small section of a tectonic plate, least subject to disturbances, oscillations, and changes.
Despite the excessive drought reigning in these parts, the dry air and fine dust that caused unpleasant sensations, it cannot be said the place is completely devoid of its enchanting landscape magic.
Look no further than the three LH-1740 core ships that were in service with the Trade Federation during the Clone Wars.
And abandoned by the separatists due to damage to the engine elements, clogged with that very ubiquitous sand.
Actually, for this reason, the pilots of my shuttle were now covering with cowls all the elements of the engine system of the shuttle on which I had descended to the sandy planet.
LH-1740 core ship.
The commandant had gathered them from all over the planet.
The report said five such "giants" had been found in relatively workable condition.
But two had to be cannibalized for parts for the other three.
Even more—several dozen—were scattered across the planet, but there was no possibility either to reach them or to lift them into orbit for restoration.
However, the commandant was already resolving this issue at present.
Thanks to a pair of Lucrehulk-class battleships delivered to him after their capture by Rear Admiral Shohashi in the battle with the Zann Consortium fleet in the Bosph sector.
Guardsmen in gold-and-black armor unquestionably allowed our procession under the vaults of the administrative center.
In the past, it had been a Geonosian hive city, significantly damaged by orbital bombardments from the Grand Army of the Republic, which in such a simple way had discouraged the CIS from this planet.
Everything inside this specimen of architecture indicated it had been erected not by a human or even a humanoid mind.
Holes in the floor, which were transitions between levels, for moving between which the Geonosians had no need to use stairs or antigravity lifts.
As is done now.
Geonosians possess wings, which they use to move between levels in their cities.
The interior of the hive resembled the honeycombs built by bees on Earth.
But there were also long corridors connecting one part of the hive to another.
Unlike many others, this hive managed to be partially preserved precisely because it was built in the depths of a rock.
And it was the rock that was used as construction material, split and reprocessed for the Geonosians' needs.
This is…
Quite interesting.
It turns out the native inhabitants of the planet Geonosis know how to split hard rock and transform it into construction material.
Interesting…
Possessing such technologies would allow us to accelerate the construction of bunkers and bases inside mountains tenfold.
There is no need to hollow them out from the inside as if building a canoe from a tree trunk.
Melt what is required, turn stone into jelly, and mold whatever your heart desires.
That something other than acid was used for this, which would simply eat away at the rock, I realized upon approaching one of the walls.
Geonosians saw perfectly in the dark, while the human eye needed lighting so as not to break legs and get lost in the web of corridors stretching through the mountain range.
Therefore, the commandant, not paying much attention to decorating the walls, ordered wires and lighting fixtures to be laid right over them, driving mounting anchors into the Geonosian decorations.
I ran my hand over the wall's surface, feeling the curves of the pattern.
Wavy lines, geometric patterns, intricate curls…
The apparent chaos of images, at first glance meaningless and seemingly created without any informational component.
But among them, something common occurred.
Something that crossed what was discovered like a red thread.
"These are paintings," I said.
The Geonosians decorated the tunnels in their hives not with surreal patterns or images.
These were paintings.
Furthermore, created on the walls when the material was still soft, pliable, and subject to processing.
This isn't even sculpture, but a kind of modeling.
And these images told of only one thing.
Cruelty.
Violence.
Killings for entertainment.
For liberation.
For raising social prestige.
Kill or die.
Obey because you were born for it.
The paintings show several types of Geonosians.
In this case, each of the castes has its own attributes.
Sometimes they also appear on representatives of other castes, but in a smaller size.
Which suggests that as a result of violence, a member of a lower caste could become someone from a higher caste.
But he will never be equal to one born into the higher caste.
Which leads to a thought.
Violence is the path of elevation from slaves to aristocrats.
But no one will be able to fully enjoy the new status.
A slave will not become a master—only a slave who has aristocratic attributes.
The change in social status for a slave is a reward for the ruthless labor for which he was created.
A fleeting opportunity to get out of the quagmire in which he found himself.
I suppose there were more than one who wanted to stop being a slave among the Geonosians.
Consequently, they were pitted against each other so there would be only one winner.
Hmm…
I am reminded of the Petranaki Arena from the episode "Attack of the Clones."
A Geonosian coliseum where the stands are filled with local species watching the execution of Republicans.
Hmm… What else does a slave need so he doesn't rebel against his status?
Exhausting labor so he cannot fight on equal terms with the warriors.
Bread so he doesn't die of exhaustion.
And circuses to switch attention from his routine workdays to a rare performance.
A carefully thought-out mechanism for manipulating slaves…
One could even call it an ideal form of management.
For those who are unable to realize their individuality.
Steps were heard from the direction we were moving until I stopped to study what I saw.
It is striking how much can be learned about an alien culture just by looking at its paintings in stone…
"Grand Admiral, sir!" I was torn from my contemplation of Geonosian art.
I turned my head, looking at an officer in an infantry uniform.
On his chest was a command cylinder, indicating his military rank.
Colonel.
The commandant of our base on Horrn.
A stern gaze, a slightly pointed face, a muscular body.
We had already met in person in the not-too-distant past.
He has a far from pleasant personality in conversation.
From a civilian point of view.
From a military one—you couldn't ask for better.
Simple, direct, speaks shortly and to the point.
Diligent, proactive.
Competent.
And most importantly—he likes what he does.
Despite the fact that he spent a long time as an indentured naval officer.
Since then, it has been a joy for him to deal with "ground" matters.
And as the Dominion Security Service reports, he is quite satisfied with the responsible post.
Commandant of a secret base where a lion's share of all the Dominion's combat droids are developed.
Not to mention the huge volumes of minerals extracted from Horrn's depths and supplied to the home territory.
Along with finished products in which little has changed since the creation of these droids by the future separatists' specialists.
And furthermore—a scientific base for studying a range of specimens of military engineering thought.
"Colonel," I replied to the formal greeting.
"You did not arrive at headquarters at the appointed time," he said. "I decided to meet you personally, sir."
"I was engrossed in studying Geonosian paintings," I explained, pointing to the wall before me. "Quite… informative."
"Yes, sir."
"Is everything ready for the meeting?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir. We are only waiting for your arrival."
"In that case—let us go," I said. "I hope you have something to please me with, Colonel Niovi."
"Just so, sir," a short smile broke the grim face of the former commander of the Guardian's ground forces. "I do."