Shae opened her eyes immediately after a soft rustle reached her ears.
Years of continuous "service" as a bounty hunter had instilled in her the sense to keep herself constantly ready. After all, any sound, no matter how small, could ultimately prove fatal.
The rustle was coming from the direction of the main hold's entrance hatch. Someone outside was cautiously picking at the bulkhead's magnetic lock. Obviously, the door drive had already been deactivated — and all that was needed was to overcome the magnet, slide the heavy bulkhead aside, and there it was — the cargo right before you. And that could not be allowed.
"Kenny, we have guests," she said quietly into the comlink. The drone's communication system was connected to her device's frequency, so the eternal sentry on the corvette's bridge was now warned.
"I am already aware," he echoed back. "I applied voltage to the hull, but they are in armored suits like yours. Moreover, they quickly found and cut the wiring. I think there are two or three of them. All are armed."
"The night is becoming interesting," the girl smirked.
The former Mandalore rose silently from the bed in the medical bay, where, despite the presence of other free berths, she preferred to spend the night. In full combat readiness. With a practiced motion, she placed the helmet on her head and connected the armor's computer system, selecting the infrared spectrum for the visor. A short transition to the hold, checking the tibanna charge in both blasters on the way, confirmed that there was enough for a small war.
Then, it was time to prepare for the meeting.
Selecting an acceptable position relative to the enemy's point of entry with a practiced eye, Shae crouched behind one of the large containers with her blasters ready.
The annoying picking at the door lock lasted three minutes. Shae was already crossly thinking about whether she should go out and help them. But finally, they managed. The night darkness, lit by the glow of the moon, flooded the freighter's hold.
And simultaneously with this, the first of the "thieves" entered. Yes, the drone hadn't lied — they were indeed Mandalorians — in full beskar'gam. And with a jetpack behind the back. It would be interesting to see who trained these fools. And break a couple of his bones.
Behind him, without any interval, followed a second one — also with a blaster at the ready. Shae waited a couple of seconds to rule out any other accidental acquaintances. But no one else appeared. Instead, the pair turned out to be so curious that they began to gut one of the containers with precious contents.
Shae smiled. Well, what could be simpler.
***
There might have been a cantina in this part of the Outer Rim older than the one in which Torch was now, watching the few patrons from the darkness of a private booth. But no establishment in the galaxy could boast such a dense concentration of the best mercenaries.
The spacious one-story building, which now held about twenty locals besides her, had in former times literally burst with mando whose armor was decorated with the marks of numerous victories.
It was here, almost four thousand years ago, that a messenger from Darth Malgus had found her and offered an alluring contract that turned into an attack on the Coruscant Jedi Temple, the sacking of the Republic capital, and numerous killed Jetii.
At the memory of the details of that operation, Shae allowed herself a smile.
Much time had passed since her return to Manda'yaim, but only today could the former Mandalore the Avenger afford to carve out time to rest. However, even while spending time in the cantina, she was doing her job.
The trip to Mandalore was not just a return home for her.
A flight to the Mandalorian sector was a kind of return to roots.
She hadn't been to her homeland since the time of the Second Galactic War.
First, the war required her to be constantly on the front lines, then… events took such a rapid turn that nostalgia had to be forgotten.
Even in the service of Valkorion, Torch had not managed to carve out a moment to get here. And after Seth Harth took over most of the work — she spent most of her time in carbonite.
And now, the same work had finally fulfilled her long-held dream.
The planet made a… depressing impression on her.
She remembered Mandalore with its ancient capital, Keldabe, as a world full of life, a blooming world chosen by the ancient ancestors of her race — the Taungs — as their home. Settlements built in the skeletons of terrible predators — mythosaurs — covered the picturesque landscapes. Few mando liked to settle in cities — most families or clans preferred their own small villages somewhere in the wilderness, far from nosy neighbors and the noise of cities.
Now, only ruins remained of the former greatness.
Lifeless deserts where no tree or grass will ever grow again.
Dilapidated hulks of cities — those that had not yet been abandoned and forsaken by their inhabitants.
Back on Christophsis, with the help of the HoloNet, she had learned about the Mandalorian Purge.
A little more than seven hundred years ago, the Jetii, fearing new wars with her people, struck a preemptive blow. Orbital bombardments of the mando'a worlds — Concord Dawn, Ordo, Fenel… Millions killed at a simple whim of those sensitive to the Force.
The Jedi, thousands of years later, took advantage of the moment — they caught the Mandalorians by surprise when they were weak. And settled scores for old grievances…
The Republic can say all it wants that it was a necessity to prevent future wars. Knowing the warlike nature of her people, they did not doubt that as soon as they gained strength, they would remind the Republic who the best warriors in the galaxy were.
After Ruusan, the Republicans no longer had an army or a fleet capable of waging full-scale war. Having defeated the Sith, they, and first and foremost the Jedi, decided that the threat had passed and the last step before eternal peace was to break the back of the militarized Mandalorian society.
The Republic wanted to annex Mandalore to its territories to have the right to legally assign her people the place it saw fit. After the Purge, they imposed a Provisional Government on the sector, entirely composed of pacifists. Proclaiming themselves "New Mandalorians," they set about building a "civilized" society modeled after other Republic worlds.
Building a new structure without clearing the site beneath it of fragments of the old foundation is an unwise thing. And the government of Duchess Kryze was playing with fire, promoting pacifism without having dealt with the militarists.
"Death Watch" — an extremely radical group set on an armed seizure of power in the sector. For now, Mandalore was saved from civil war only by the unwisdom of the "watchers" themselves — in all times, people, no matter what race they belonged to, were not in a hurry to follow terrorists who kill not only enemies but also civilians.
Likely, not very smart people stood at the head of the "Watch" if they couldn't understand this over the years of their organization's existence.
Shae visited the Oyu'baat more out of habit. The most famous Mandalorian cantina had since ancient times been a refuge for the best of the best soldiers of her people. Moreover, the leaders of numerous Mandalorian clans had gathered exactly here from time immemorial to discuss significant events. From here began the crusade of Mandalore the Ultimate.
Symbolic, if she were to find recruits here to break the back of the Republic and the Jetii standing in its defense.
However, the longer she spent here, the more she realized that her task had become even harder. At least half of it, considering the latest changes in the mission.
These people… they are just biotrash, incapable of being called Mandalorians. Traditions of millennia were thrown into the garbage — and here, in the Oyu'baat, this was seen very clearly.
To a devout follower of the Resol'nare — the law sacred to every wearer of beskar'gam — it cost Shae great effort to restrain herself from redecorating the faces of those assembled with her crush-gauntlets.
Wear the armor. Speak the language. Raise and educate children as new Mandalorians. Protect oneself and one's family. Support one's clan. Respond to the first call of the leader of all clans — the Mandalore.
Six actions, sacred to every Mandalorian. But not for those she saw before her.
Men and women who were swilling Corellian whiskey in the cantina were talking among themselves in Basic. Dressed in simple fabric uniforms, without the slightest sign of weapons, they were boasting to each other that they had recently completed some computer project for the Duchess's government, which lived in the planet's new capital — a huge, dome-enclosed city.
These people will not pick up a weapon to stand under the banner of a true leader and protect even their own home — not to mention conquering the galaxy.
At this moment, she slightly envied Vette — that one had secured the support of an entire clan. She was a leader for them — and the clan would unquestioningly obey her will. They, without a doubt, were also not mando.
"You would do better to hide your beskar'gam," a tall young man — about twenty-five, no more — appeared in her field of vision. Thin, with a ridiculous beard, in a simple cloak, he seemed to have seen much in his life — impossible fatigue had branded his face like a seal. Sigal. They had already met in the MandalMotors tower.
Dougan had required her to obtain the Mandalorian shipbuilders' developments in the field of mass-drivers. But the company owner only laughed in her face. Sigal, his assistant, had been present at the meeting, giving his patron full support.
"MandalMotors is not interested in trading its secrets. Those we still have left," the distant descendant of General Zenlav — the company's founder — had explained to her upon parting. A pompous, narcissistic bastard. Dirt under the nails, unworthy of attention. Trading with him made no sense, and Vizla had left the company office — a hundred-meter tower in the very center of Keldabe.
And she was very surprised when, two weeks later, Sigal contacted her and scheduled a meeting. Here. Now.
"I do not need protection and I am not going to hide my belief in the Six Actions," Shae explained briefly.
Wearing beskar'gam on Mandalore was prohibited at a legislative level — another ridiculous initiative of the pacifists. Но в реальности, власть герцогини ограничивалась лишь столицей — остальные территории поддерживали ее лишь тогда, когда их интересы совпадали. Unfortunately, on the issue of unconditional disarmament, all world governors of the Mandalorian sector without exception were in solidarity with her. For wearing armor, one could receive a serious sentence and be sent to distant mines.
In Keldabe, they turned a blind eye to this — despite the government being close. So, Shae didn't mask herself much — a spacious black cloak reliably hid her suit and jetpack. And the hood thrown over her head prevented the curious from seeing her helmet. But the boy, apparently, had seen the gleam of beskar — either during the meeting or now. An observant fellow, in that case.
"Commendable zeal," without even asking her opinion, Sigal sat down at the table, positioning himself to her right at a respectful distance. The darkness hid his face from the rest of the cantina, but not from Torch. An interesting way of communicating. "But it's not accepted here. The legacy of the past is rejected and under prohibition. The last who preach it are 'Death Watch.' And they are killed without talk — as soon as they are seen."
"I'll keep that in mind," the girl smirked. "Is that why you scheduled the meeting?"
"No. You interested me."
"Sorry, kid, but my heart is already taken. Look for a younger girl."
"It turns out you can joke," Sigal smiled. "But my interest is of another kind."
"Then you can find yourself a man for the night in that company," she nodded toward a flock of biotrash celebrating their vague success. "It seems the larger one is exactly a lover of boys."
"Um… I'll keep that in mind," the boy hesitated. It was clear from his face that Shae's assertive manner of communication had thrown him off. That happens when a person rehearses a conversation with someone in their head, and from the first minutes of real communication, everything goes not according to plan. "But you misunderstood me again."
"I will continue to humiliate you until you pull your tongue out of that pile of shit where it is and start talking business," the Mandalorian explained.
"Oh, well, fine," the boy licked his parched lips. "I am ready to help you."
"Thanks, but I clean my armor myself, and you can continue to kiss your boss's ass. Otherwise, you cannot be useful to me."
"You are mistaken in that," a smile appeared on his face. "I've made some inquiries about you."
"Go on," fortunately her hands were hidden by the folds of the cloak — without a single rustle, she aimed a blaster under the table at the interlocutor's stomach. No one was allowed to blackmail her. "Found out something new for yourself?"
"Our company's security service is the best in the sector. But even they failed to find any information about your identity."
"Should I pity them for incompetence?"
"Not worth it, they don't care anyway. I'm just explaining why I took up studying your personality myself. And in this, I have no equal."
"Well then, please the old lady with the story."
"It's all quite prosaic. You appeared from nowhere — in the midst of the battle for Christophsis. The locals managed to take several pictures of you and uploaded them to the HoloNet. As well as your name. Very strange for someone who adheres to the Resol'nare to serve a Jedi."
"You are confusing the concepts of 'serving' and 'cooperating.' Careful, boy, you are stepping on thin ice."
"I know. A single meeting with you is already a risk for me. What would it cost you to pull the trigger and spread my guts on the walls. Yes, don't be surprised — I know about the blaster under the table. As well as the fact that you commanded the self-defense forces of Christophsis for some time."
"Continue."
"Actually, I've already finished. I haven't been able to find out anything more — and I tried. You don't run from war like many of the Duchess's supporters. And you needed mass-driver installations for some reason. I'll venture to guess that you are acting on the assignment of your 'ally'."
"Entertaining reasoning. But so far, I haven't heard anything useful for myself."
"I'm just getting to that. You won't get any MandalMotors military technologies — not for that huge sum you offered my partner. Nor with the help of industrial espionage. I don't recommend attacking our headquarters either — our security is top-notch. It would be sacrilege to ruin such a rare specimen of beskar'gam. You know, I love history. And if the chronicles don't lie, the armor you wear was made by its owner in only one copy. An insanely expensive alloy of beskar and neutronium — it must be hard to wear such weight."
"If you weren't such a weakling, you could get your own."
"What can you do," the fellow spread his hands. "In every clan, there is a black sheep. In Clan Beroia — it's me."
Thanks to her wearing a helmet, the boy couldn't see how she rolled her eyes.
After the invasion of the Eternal Empire, the leader of her people — Mandalore the Vindicated — had died. The clans, as hundreds of times before, scattered, ceased to represent any significant force. Shae picked up the fallen banner of leadership, calling herself Mandalore the Avenger.
Clan Beroia were the first to join her war against Zakuul. They didn't discuss orders, always went to the end. Their loyalty was unquestionable. And even after the fall of the Eternal Alliance, the Beroia continued to be loyal to her. And only Shae's direct order, having accepted Valkorion's proposal, forced them to return to Mandalore.
A curious coincidence. Like thousands of years ago, her Path crossed with Beroia again.
"Your words don't clarify the reason why your patron turned down a hundred million credits for what I need."
"Oh, it seems you haven't been on Mandalore for a long time."
"A long enough time. I see you're eager to enlighten me. Proceed — don't play with my patience."
"Three years ago, the company fulfilled a large private order — more than a hundred Kom'rk-class fighter-transports. On the surface — a standard deal. But the Duchess's people found out that the client was 'Death Watch.' A major scandal broke out — the head of the corporation was almost put on trial. But everything was settled with less blood — the entire development team had to be fired, and they practically immediately disappeared from the view of any structures — including our security service. However, it's known even without that they joined 'Death Watch'."
"Really? Never happened before, and here it is again?"
"Your sarcasm is understandable. I had similar feelings."
"And then what?"
"The company paid a large fine. The government imposed sanctions — and now we cannot produce or develop military technologies. The slightest deviation from this requirement — and the mines await us all. Excuse me, but what are you doing?"
"Checking if I'm wearing a vest. Turns out, no. Then it's unclear why you are crying into it."
"Just clarifying the situation for you."
"Since when do enterprises not trade under the counter?"
"Since the very moment the head of the corporation became a member of 'Death Watch.' I don't know the details, but not one of our 'dark' sales goes without their permission."
"Interesting. A picture is emerging that on all fronts the mission cannot be fulfilled. Although… since when were guards born who can stop me?"
"Did you drag yourself here to complain about fate?"
"Not at all. I think I can help you."
"Interesting, and how?"
"You see, I'm not just Zenlav's assistant, but also a co-owner of the company. A junior partner, to be exact."
"So you have access to technologies and can sell them to me?"
"And again I'm forced to disappoint you. I only handle administrative and household activities. Access to research is held only by heads of divisions and the company owner."
"You're starting to annoy me."
"I'm just getting to the point. The fact is that Zenlav has no relatives — his wife died several years ago, there are no heirs. His parents also died long ago."
"And so what?"
"If, say, Mr. Zenlav disappears, with a lethal outcome, of course, that would make me the head of the corporation. And consequently — as a return favor, I will provide you with full access to our research bank. Believe me, besides mass-drivers, there is much of interest there. For example, we have an excellent development of a repulsor tank, compared to which Kuat's TX-130 is just the handiwork of a boy from an alley."
"Shut up."
"You're interfering with thinking."
There was no dilemma before her — whether to end the line of the company founder. If it was required to solve the problem with purchasing technology — she would do it.
Another point — what will the consequences be?
She had no intention of trusting this petty little upstart — he's a typical corporate intriguer. The concept of honor and word is an empty sound to him. And everything could turn out such that after the liquidation is performed, he hands her over to the law enforcement forces — just so as not to fulfill his part of the deal.
Unlike a standard contract where payment went in advance, here she was playing with fire by agreeing. And she could get burned damn hard.
Failure is unacceptable — enough already that you can't find mercenaries in the sector with fire at noon. And it was them she planned to attract to solve the problem with the Christophsian rebels.
And for this she used the standard method applied for thousands of years — she posted an application in the local section of the HoloNet. Random people couldn't get here — only those who had something to do with this business. Random clients were also not allowed.
But a heap of time had passed, and no one had yet responded to the offer.
"What are the guarantees?" she inquired.
"I thought you understood that in such matters it goes without a written document," Sigal allowed himself a light smile. "But you're right, you're not at all obliged to trust me. But you won't find a better option anyway — just like mercenaries for storming our office. You're hiring them for that, aren't you?"
"Your awareness is suspicious."
"Oh, it's simple. I've been looking for a suitable candidate for a long time to solve the question of my promotion. But with the Duchess coming to power, all mercenaries worth anything left the sector. Heard that many went to the Hutts — they always have work for their profile."
"Hmm… Does it not bother you that you are actually the first who will be suspected of involvement in your patron's death?"
"Well, you should take care that I'm not exposed — otherwise you won't get anything anyway. Are we agreed?"
"Boy, do I not need to remind you that you're dealing with a very dangerous mando?"
"That's exactly why I turned to you."
"You sing a sweet song. Pray that I don't have to wrap your vocal cords around my fist later."
"I assure you — I have no such desire."
***
"Not a suitable time or place for a meeting," Vizsla threw out as soon as he stepped over the threshold of the office. The strong face of the governor of Concordia — Mandalore's moon — expressed a mixture of irritation and fatigue.
Another meaningless meeting with the Duchess had just ended. At which the governor's arguments were again ignored.
"Stupid woman," Pre thought. "Does she really think she can hold onto power with her stories about a new time for the people? War in the galaxy is the best time to build up our strength and take back what belongs to us by right. But no, she decided to continue the policy of isolationism. As if that will keep someone from intervening in the sector!?"
"Glad to see you," Vos Zenlav rose slightly from behind his massive desk to show respect to the only person in the government who was truly worthy of it. "Have a seat. We need to talk."
They had been acquainted for more than ten years — at the beginning of their political careers, the future governor and the young corporation owner had met in Keldabe at a meeting of clan heads. Despite their young age, both stood at the head of their collectives. Pre — of a clan that simply could not come to terms with the Duchess's pacifism; Vos — dissatisfied with the reduction in orders at his factories.
On the grounds of dissatisfaction with authority, they found much in common. And over time the dissatisfaction only intensified — just as their friendship grew stronger.
"Is there a drink?" the politician threw out, settling into a chair.
"Coming," in a friendly key, the head of the corporation saw nothing shameful in pouring elite alcohol for a visitor with his own hands.
Handing over a glass filled to the middle, Zenlav returned to his place.
For a minute they were silent, enjoying the drink. Each thought of something personal. Но общее направление мыслей было одинаковым. Each of them had serious problems.
"Is everything that bad?" Zenlav inquired in passing.
"Worse than it might seem," Pre snorted. "She is simply unable to see the whole picture. Pirates have appeared in the sector, raiding our settlements; several ships have been captured. A food caravan has disappeared — and that's almost a billion in losses."
"And what about her?"
"Same as always. Called on everyone to be restrained and not give in to provocations."
"Idiot."
"Completely agreed. She is certain that it's the work of the CIS and is ready to bury her head in the sand instead of repelling the attacks. Just think! Mandalore is suffering from pirates! My ancestors would have burned with shame hearing such a thing."
"And how is it really?"
"I had a talk with Dooku yesterday. He assured me that whoever these pirates are, he has no connection to them."
"And you believe him?"
"Nothing else remains. Our alliance is based on trust."
In order to successfully oppose Satine's government, Vizsla, being the head of "Death Watch," had concluded a secret alliance with Count Dooku, the leader of the Separatists, who promised to help with the seizure of power in the sector.
Together they developed a plan to spread disinformation in the Republic systems about Mandalore joining the Confederacy, the purpose of which was to force the Republic into a military occupation of the planet and subsequently cast it in the role of an aggressor. Can one doubt that the Jedi, as soon as they get any worthwhile evidence, will immediately send troops to seize the sector. Can Kryze's militia withstand the pressure of a professional clone army? In no way.
The intervention will cause mass hysteria and rioting. The Jedi will be reminded of their past sins, and the people, as one, will rise to fight the invaders. In such a situation, the professional fighters of "Death Watch," who together with the CIS army will rush to liberate their home, will become hero-liberators and the transition of power into Vizsla's hands will pass without hindrance. And then… Who will care that the governor of Concordia is the leader of "Death Watch"? History is written by the winners.
The first stage of the plan succeeded — rumors about the Mandalorians' warlike nature multiplied and every day reached more and more new worlds. And the samples of Mandalorian weaponry that had entered the market in the hands of CIS mercenaries only strengthened the legend. Very soon the Republic will finally wake from its slumber and send troops. And then, the flywheel of retribution will start at full power.
Mandalore will return to its roots, throw all the trash beyond its borders, and then, with fire and sword, walk through the worlds of the old enemy.
The pirates operating in the sector are, of course, bad. But not terrible. One can endure — for the sake of further undermining the authority of the Kryze government. Dealing with them will be easy — Vos has what it takes in his arsenal. Yes, the times of "Basilisks" are in the past, but the future — it belongs to the "Watch" and MandalMotors developments.
Pre was already familiar with his friend's developments. Fighter-transports are good, of course, but for a line battle — they are not suitable. Only for raiding strikes and sabotage in the rear when a well-armed group should be dropped.
Mandalorians of the past didn't much favor ground vehicles. However, war has proven that there is nothing to do on the battlefield without tanks and heavy artillery.
Exactly as in space — without well-armed ships.
The criminals whom the government exiled to Concordia had long been working for Pre, mining beskar in abandoned shafts. For now it was stored in secret warehouses, but at the first necessity — he will hand all the stocks over to Zenlav and his people. And then, the Jedi will again remember what it's like — to fight an enemy on whose side is beskar.
"You said there are problems in the company," the governor recalled.
The entrepreneur nodded, draining his glass.
"Two months ago I had a talk with a private person. She was interested in our developments in the field of mass-drivers."
Vizsla tensed. Such technology gave the Mandalorians an undeniable advantage on the battlefield. And it was almost the main weapon on the designed ships and ground vehicles.
"She? It was a woman?"
"Judging by the voice — yes. And she wears beskar'gam."
"Far too suspicious," the governor didn't even have a thought that it could be one of his people — the only ones who dare to violate the law on the demilitarization of society. And if so, a new player has appeared on the field.
"Did she name exactly which installations she needs?"
"Ship-borne. Specifically those that 'Hypernetics' is planning for installation on the new battleships."
"That cannot be a coincidence."
"She didn't point specifically to that model of installations but was interested specifically in the blueprints, not the weapon itself."
"Hmm… And who is she?"
"And that's the most interesting part. She introduced herself as 'Torch,' but security couldn't find anything on her. Except that her armor is very ancient."
"Any blacksmith can make a replica of old armor having even a blueprint or a picture."
"I thought so too. You know, she promised me a hundred million for ordinary schemes," the friend smirked. "A bit expensive for a simple mercenary, which she undoubtedly is."
"Think she's working for someone?"
"More than certain of it. For someone rich enough, since a hundred million is not a high price for him for advanced developments. And not in credits — in aurodium. I almost started drooling when she showed several ingots — and each one is worth in the area of a million. Consider how much money is needed to build a ship with such an installation — it's not easy if the ships are not produced at our shipyards. And it turns out that the potential client is just indecently rich."
"Then it's unlikely to be a Kryze spy — there's such a hole in the budget that I can lead an entire squadron through it. She won't have the funds to acquire even one such ingot. Meaning it's someone new."
"Or old, just working cautiously."
"You mean this 'Mandalore the Restorer'?" Pre smirked.
Rumors that a small group commanded by this unknown person had appeared in the sector only amused Vizsla when he learned about it. An unknown Mandalore who had appeared out of nowhere? And he really thinks people will follow him? Very funny.
"Exactly. He is ambitious enough for such a thing."
"But too poor," the governor added. "His 'supercommandos' are armed with whatever, they fly on junk, and a base — there is none, essentially. Some tent camp."
"Well, whoever is behind her, her arrival made the kid move behind my back."
Pre raised an eyebrow in surprise.
So that's it. So Sigal Beroia is something after all.
More than two hundred years ago, this clan was able to get almost a third of the company's shares — business failures of one of the ancestors of the current head opened the way for new investors. Quite quickly they were able to rise and take a place beside the head of the corporation. Pre didn't doubt that the boy intended to change the leadership in the company — since Vos is sterile and cannot afford to leave an heir after him. And the damn new laws didn't allow the head of the sector's largest company to follow old traditions and get an adopted son who would bear his surname and continue the clan's business. However, the man was in the prime of life, and consequently, one only had to wait for a change of power and everything would be excellent. A candidate for adoption exists, and the descendant of General Gustav Zenlav will be able to raise a worthy successor out of him like no one else.
Just need to get rid of the annoying Beroia boy.
"What did he do?" In principle, one could have tried to arrange problems for him in a legislative manner as well — the imperfection of Mandalorian laws facilitated such a thing.
"Met with her in the Oyu'baat. My people couldn't get close enough, but the talk was about removing me from my post. In the most lethal way," Vos smiled. He wasn't afraid for his life — the company's security consisted entirely of "Death Watch" fighters, and they are the best soldiers in the sector.
"Established if she's local or a freelancer from outside?"
"Arrived on her own ship — some ancient wreck but well-armed. Spends her time hanging around the city — in the old quarters."
"Maybe it's worth a visit to the ship then?"
"Tried. Didn't turn out well. Anyway, I sent a couple of people at night to find out what's what. None of them returned, and they should have made it back by morning. And those were some of your best people."
"And you weren't afraid that questions would start being asked about the disappearance of your employees? Or, if they were caught, they might pull you into this as well."
"Why me?" Vos was genuinely surprised. "The mission was disguised as the actions of 'Death Watch.' Two people in armor and with your weapons…"
"You're really setting me up with this, Zenlav!" Vizsla barked. "My people shouldn't be performing such operations!"
"But in case of failure, no one will be able to link both of them to me. And as it is, it's some indefinite 'Death Watch' mission. Maybe they wanted to steal a ship or commit sabotage at the spaceport?"
"Or conduct reconnaissance on the ship of an enemy spy," Vizsla smirked, calculating under what sauce this story should be served after the seizure of power. Mandalorians love heroes, so their failure (and there was no talk of success for the disappeared group) will serve as a good legend for the others.
"This mercenary is extremely dangerous," Vos sighed. "Probably the most dangerous of all who remain in the sector. No wonder Sigal went exactly to her — there are no other takers. You'll laugh — there's a recruitment ad for Mandalorians on the net. The pay is more than I earn in a month. Undoubtedly the work of my junior partner — and that's how he found this Mandalorian. Judging by the time the ad was created, he's been looking for an assassin for me for a long time."
"So the puppy's grown teeth," Pre smirked. "His last stunt — with the release of the fighter data — caused a lot of trouble."
"Yes, and a lot of expense."
"Calm down, almost all the money went into our cause — to beg Kryze for credits for Concordia's needs is easier than shooting a CIS droid. Losses for you — six new mines for 'Death Watch.' But after all, our cause is common, is it not?"
"Exactly so," Vos smirked, sipping his drink. "And soon it will…"
Pre felt hot drops hit his face. He opened his mouth in surprise, seeing Zenlav wheezing.
When the time comes, the "Watch" will sweep him away as a radical criminal.
"And why not take care of this now?"
"For what? To give Kryze another reason to show her incompetence?" Vizsla smirked. "No, let her drink this cup to the end."
The companion filled the empty glasses with liquor.
Pre accepted his with gratitude and raised it in a salute. The head of MandalMotors followed his friend's example.
"This is the Way," Vizsla solemnly pronounced the ancient Mandalorian saying. But now it was forgotten — only adherents of old traditions would occasionally insert it into their speech. As a kind of symbol of honoring the culture of the Six Actions.
Vos smiled. He couldn't openly demonstrate his affiliations, but Pre forgave him some deviation from traditions — in favor of the cause he was moving toward victory daily.
"This is…"
The descendant of the ancient general did not have time to finish.
Pre felt a hot liquid hit his face, drenching him like splashes from a fountain. Instinctively he closed his eyes at that moment, and when he opened them a moment later, he made several discoveries at once that made him fall flat on the floor.
First — bloody shreds in place of his old friend's head. Fragments of the skull and brain had scattered throughout the office, which spoke in favor of the enormous kinetic energy of the weapon used.
Second — a neat hole in the transparisteel from which the window behind Vos's back was made. With a practiced eye Pre traced the direction of the possible shot — a massive figure in full Mandalorian armor. It took several seconds to realize that the shooter wore the "Death Watch" symbol on his chest. And the armor looked like those his people used. Even the jetpack that roared, carrying the shooter away from possible witnesses.
Third — a large-caliber rifle with a massive barrel. Clearly a firearm, which was still in use in the territories of the Outer Rim. Despite the high stopping power, such models of death machines were not widely used — with the introduction of personal shields and armor, such specimens lost their relevance. Except that they were still occasionally used to kill unshielded targets.
Fourth — the shooter was definitely captured by the external surveillance cameras. In a state where in the past every first citizen had rocket equipment, the security of high-rise buildings forced such a step. Pre cursed with rage. Vos personally controlled this sphere of the building's security, and even if he contacted his people this very second — they wouldn't have time to erase the disks on which the recordings are "written." And to take them out of the building when law enforcement forces are about to arrive — the height of idiocy.
Pre struck the table leg in frustration. The greenhorn Sigal was able to do his work after all. No doubt that this is his doing. And the cunning scoundrel decided to set up the "Watch" to divert suspicion from himself.
"Little bastard," Pre hissed mentally. "Your life has very little time left."
In the meantime, he had to take care of saving his own skin. Cursing in the language of his ancestors, Pre Vizsla contacted the law enforcement forces from his comlink.
***
A week later Shae was drinking in the same cantina. Of course, she could have changed the place of her pastime, but there were no weighty reasons for that.
And the food and drink in the Oyu'baat were always the best on all Mandalore.
Sipping a low-alcohol cocktail through a straw, the woman was enjoying the cool drink when a familiar figure appeared before her as if from under the ground, still in the same black cloak.
"Glad to see you in good health, Torch," the boy behaved noticeably more livelily after their last meeting. On his face — a smile from ear to ear; he was practically glowing with happiness. Insolently he sat opposite her, blocking her observation and fire sector with his body. Idiot.
"And health to you," the girl said, looking up from her drink. With a nod of her head she made a sign to the fellow to move aside. Which he did. "What did you come with?"
The man hid his hands under his cloak for a second, after which a small rectangular black box floated out. Cautiously pushing it toward Shae, he began to smile.
"Everything you were interested in is here. In the smallest detail."
"Thank you," Shae moved the infochip into a pocket on her belt.
"Oh, it is I who should say 'thank you' to you," the fellow leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms over them. "Everything turned out as well as possible. Of course, the investigation is still going on, but I am above suspicion. Cameras captured a 'Death Watch' militant with a firearm. He tried to hide in the abandoned areas of the residential sector, but law enforcement forces were able to damage his jetpack. He managed to hide somewhere in the poor district — you know those huge semi-underground complexes with small rooms? No? Well, now you know. It took the police almost an hour to search the building — and they found him senseless in one of the rooms. Apparently he broke through a wall during the fall and broke his spine. What a pity he won't be able to be held accountable," a sadness appeared on the fellow's face. Looking like a real one.
"So, now the law enforcement forces are busy with 'Death Watch'?"
"What? No. The police have neither the funds nor the people for that. They found the killer — they closed the case. They offered condolences to the company's staff."
"With such an approach, a full-scale war can be started on the planet — and they still won't find the ends," Vizla snorted. Flagrant incompetence that played into her hand.
"I hope it won't come to that," Sigal grew grim. "At least in the near future."
"Will something change?"
"Certainly. You know, I creatively reinterpreted your idea with mercenaries," the boy admitted. "And I decided to completely replace the security of my company and its subsidiaries."
"And why?"
"The person who shot at Vos Zenlav is our employee. Turned out to be a member of 'Death Watch.' Obviously, the organization crossed the path of the powerful of this world somewhere," Beroia smiled. Hints so vague that only a complete idiot could fail to understand them.
"I don't care," the girl shrugged. "I got what I wanted."
"And even more," the new largest entrepreneur in the sector assured her. Noticing that Torch's helmet under the hood turned toward him, he added. "I allowed myself to supplement the information on the chip with a detailed description of what my company can provide to you… and those who stand behind you. As was already said in our last meeting — our products can compete with many galactic leaders in the field of heavy machinery. My predecessor worked actively in this field — for a not-the-most-suitable potential client."
"Don't fool me, kid," Shae snorted, setting aside her empty glass. "Even with a change of leadership, under the current government you won't be able to start production of military equipment."
A slight bewilderment and confusion froze on Sigal's face. As if he realized he had over-calculated with his conclusions.
"So that's under the current government," he added quietly. "It seems to me your employer, since he can afford to ensure the loyalty of such a fine subordinate as you, can solve the problem. It differs only slightly from the previous one."
Shae smirked.
The boy, for all his flaws, could well have become a useful mando in his time — when Shae herself was in power. Yes, he is not strong in open combat, and it's unlikely that merciless training will make a true warrior out of him.
But he is cunning and calculating enough to carve his way to power with his innocent little face. Under other circumstances, he could have commanded soldiers with the same directness with which he had now suggested she change the power in the sector. For the sake of strategic victory, he did not shy away from any means. Even personal merits that were valued among adherents of the Six Actions.
"I will pass your words to the one to whom they might be of interest," she promised. "If the necessity arises, we will contact you."
"But you don't have my comlink frequency," the fellow countered, seeing the girl rising from the table. The meeting was over; the parties had fulfilled their obligations to each other. Meaning there was no reason to stay here anymore.
"On the other hand, I know where to find you, Sigal Beroia," nodding to him in farewell, Torch threw a few small coins on the bar counter and left the cantina.
***
The streets of Keldabe were dark. The government had set such high energy tariffs that everyone who valued extra credits in their pocket preferred to save, plunging their dwellings into the light of ancient flame lamps. A means proven by time and not one hundred civilizations — since ancient times slowly burning candles made of nerf fat were far cheaper than the services of state energy companies.
For the same reason, not a single lamppost was lit on the entire way from the cantina to the spaceport. And the reason was not even that many of them stood with broken light panels as monuments to numerous fights or vandalism. Just no one saw the sense in powering a half-empty city when all life was concentrated in the new capital — Sundari. And those who could not afford the luxury of living there — well, the resources of a dying world are not enough for everyone.
The choice is as simple as a blaster shot. You either depend on the pacifist government or are left to your own devices. And don't be surprised if in the dark alleys of Keldabe after sunset a couple or three thugs find themselves who want to feast on the contents of your pockets.
But there was also a reverse side to this situation. Few will risk messing with you seeing a blaster on your belt.
This played into Shae's hand when she was disposing of the bodies of the unlucky "Watch" fighters.
The first she finished by shooting through his thin fabric armor between the helmeted head and the chest plate. One doesn't live long with a pierced neck.
But the second turned out to be more agile. However, he was still not distinguished by intelligence. In the cramped room he tried to use a jetpack to have the advantage by rising under the ceiling. A tactic that Mandalorians have used for a very, very long time. Unfortunately, they forgot to tell him that in an enclosed space a particular advantage is not gained this way. But one can easily break something for oneself when launching the pack.
He damaged his reaction device. Unlike armor, it didn't have any beskar, so it deformed upon impact and ceased its work. And falling from a height of three to four meters onto armored containers filled to the top with aurodium — also doesn't add to health.
Disarming a prisoner is a matter of a couple of minutes. Wearing beskar armor has one unpleasant consequence — with a strong blow to the head you will undoubtedly be concussed. Shae's calculation for capturing a "tongue" was built on this. While he tried to get up, she had already taken possession of both his blaster pistols.
A strong blow with an armored foot to the head of the "watcher" standing on all fours knocked the latter onto his back. Another concussion. Movements slowed down, so she, without much hurry, and since the drone appeared in the hold coming from the medical station's side, approached the opponent.
When taking prisoners for interrogation, the main thing is not to forget that not everyone is willing to survive torture. And if there is an opportunity, the prisoner will undoubtedly escape. She had no intention of allowing such a thing.
Two swings of a vibroknife and the breastplate and backplate fall with a clang onto the compartment floor. With an accurately calculated punch to the back, Vizla deprived the latter of the ability to move limbs. Howling with pain, he discovered with horror that he couldn't feel anything below the neck.
Crush-gauntlets were banned after the Mandalorian War because in the hands of a skilled owner they maim no worse than a thermal detonator. But Mandalore the Avenger was little interested in any conventions cutting down her lethality on the battlefield.
He wasn't a particularly talkative prisoner, so it took several days to make him talk. Waterboarding as always helped to find out the most secret things. And about the company head's order. And about the conflict between MandalMotors leaders. And about membership in "Death Watch." The droid, who was present at the tortures and often took part in them, steadily registered everything he said.
Much of this had no value in the current situation but will undoubtedly come in handy later. And when the company guard started saying that besides the boss, a junior partner also asked them for the service of finding out who she was, the plan was born by itself. Disunity at the top is a successful way to achieve what's intended. If one doesn't agree, then the second will help. It's unlikely that the "watcher," choking in his own urine (well, not spend drinking water on him), lied about the young partner's ambitions. And after the woman promised to save the prisoner's life and deliver him to where he would be provided help, he completely "sang" about everything he knew. Listening to his stories about relationships within "Death Watch," Shae could only wonder what kind of rabble goes there if a staunch representative of theirs easily took the word of the one who broke his spine.
In the end she kept her word — at night, before the action, she moved him to an abandoned dwelling for the poor. Sensing during the trip, tied across the speeder, that they were not being taken to the medical sector at all, the prisoner became worried. Но с кляпом во рту сложно что-то говорить. And in the night even local thugs have enough brains not to mess with a swoop driver dressed in "Death Watch" armor.
Leaving the prisoner in blissful oblivion — after two strikes with crush-gauntlets in the area of the temple he no longer had a chance of coming out of the coma — Shae, having cleaned an assault rifle from her stocks on the corvette, fulfilled her part of the deal.
And about a kilometer remained before she reached the Protector, which the drone was busy repairing, and headed back with the loot.
Shae kept to the middle of the street so as not to break her legs on the scrap metal lurking in the shadows along its edges.
An ordinary person could hardly have noticed them. And even one wearing ordinary beskar'gam — too. But after all her armor was made with her own hands, such that no one for four thousand years has been able to find out all its secrets.
And now, observing in infrared light the people who came out from around the corner of another wreck, she launched a scan of the surrounding space with a smirk. Yes, they are alone, without support. It seems the "Death Watch" leadership underestimates her. Especially if these are at least no worse than the previous two.
Shae grimaced. The body of the second "watcher" still lies in the corvette's freezer. Naturally, she will have to get rid of it as soon as the ship enters the stratosphere. But first she should remove the armor from him — though it wasn't worthy of being under her own, it was still a battle trophy.
A fraction of a second before it happened, a sense of impending danger came… and from where it was approaching. Three silhouettes were moving toward her: two were heading head-on, while the other attacked from above, using a jetpack. Shae had time to think with disappointment that these idiots were trained by the same person as the first two. For the delusion that a jetpack is a panacea in any situation seems extremely common in this organization.
Shae went off the line of attack with a roll to the side just as the third of the company decided to launch a rocket at her. The explosion was strong, but the armor's lining allowed her to avoid a concussion.
A short burst at the ground pair forced them to leave the line of fire in search of shelter.
"Mandalorian," the drone's voice sounded in her ear. "We have an urgent call."
"You're poorly timed," the girl replied, activating her wrist console. "I'm having a little dispute here with some morons from 'Death Watch'."
"No wonder. Is my help required?"
"Yes. Shut the vocoder and warm up the engines."
A slight hum behind her back was evidence that the repulsor pack had started working. Excellent.
Torch tore off the now unnecessary cloak and applied additional power. Soaring up, the girl immediately oriented herself. The pair were still on the ground, and the third was turning his head pointlessly in search of the target. Well, no need to keep him waiting.
Shae fired several blaster bolts toward the opponent, forcing him to move in the air. In the next second, having calculated the location of the two others, she extended her hand in that direction, releasing a series of grenades.
The pair, as soon as they saw the opponent attacking their comrade, did not fail to take advantage of the situation, launching their own jetpacks. In another situation, this would have given them the opportunity to overwhelm Shae with numbers. But for that, their opponent would have to be stupider than the one who was here now.
An assortment of grenades — fragmentation, high-explosive, ion — went off as soon as two new targets appeared in their kill zone. Motion sensors linked to detonators were one of the few tricks Shae kept in mind. This — and much more — were the reasons why no one ever serviced her weapons.
One of the opponents was peppered with small but razor-sharp fragments — for a person encased in beskar armor, no more than an unpleasantness. But for a jetpack — a real disaster.
Losing fuel, in clouds of smoke and fire, one of the opponents went into an uncontrolled fall. The second turned out to be smarter. Having experienced the heat of a high-explosive grenade, he accelerated simultaneously with the shockwave that reached him, so the explosion of the ion munition not only didn't de-energize his systems but didn't cause any harm at all.
The third opponent, having received a well-aimed shot from Shae into his weapon, tried to rush into hand-to-hand combat but received a blow to the head with a foot from the girl who was spinning madly around an imaginary axis, and, disoriented, flew aside. A pity not down.
Now she had only one opponent left. Armed with two vibroknives — obviously he had lost his blasters somewhere during the ascent — he hesitated, obviously expecting support from other comrades.
Shae leaned aside, avoiding a burst from the ground — without looking she launched a series of high-explosive and shaped-charge projectiles in that direction. Their total area of effect was significantly larger than what a person, even without the additional weight of armor, could overcome in the time left to him. As soon as the explosions sounded, a heart-rending wail преходящий in an agonizing scream was heard from the flames. One down.
The opponent who had been thrown aside regained control and rushed at her, simultaneously spraying her with yellow bolts from his weapon. The second also didn't lose his head and rushed at her with vibroknives.
It's hard to be wooden from the waist up. Especially on the upper part.
Shae timed the moment and released a long and flexible cable at the opponent. Its metal core was practically indestructible — as was the tip made of an alloy of a dozen metals. Piercing through the shoulder of the opponent with the blaster, the hook locked securely on the exit side. Shae squeezed her hand twice — the electronics started working and the wounded opponent began to approach her against his will. His attempt to resist, using the jet stream of the pack, pulled Shae from her place, so the second opponent flew past, managing to slash her vambrace with a blade. Not terrible.
The girl managed with a well-aimed shot to pierce the pack of the opponent who had flown past. With a cry he tumbled down.
One was left. Bleeding, he was furiously trying to cut the cable with a vibroknife while she was busy with his friend. Predictably — unsuccessfully.
Shae wrapped the cable around her arm, causing pain to the opponent. He, having rushed at her with a knife, was intercepted. A short struggle — and his own vibroknife entered his throat.
The last one.
With a practiced motion, Shae unhooked the tip from the cable, allowing the body to slide down. Connecting both parts of the weapon, she again used the winch and returned the weapon to its place. A short check showed the infochip was still in place.
Looking around, she noticed several onlookers watching the fight from house windows. Staying in the shadow of the buildings they thought she didn't notice them. Fine, you're not dangerous.
Unlike two medium-sized light ships heading in her direction. Undoubtedly friends of those she just finished. Well, let it be so. Smirking, the girl turned her face toward the spaceport and, increasing the energy output, rushed toward the ship.
Vaulting over the buildings, she landed on the permacrete base of the pit that served as the landing pad for the ship.
Switching off the repulsors, from a height of a little more than a meter, the girl landed on both feet. A short run — literally five or six steps to quench the inertia. And there she was already under the massive hull of the ship.
"You're keeping me waiting," the drone noted. "The ship is ready for flight."
"Then what are you waiting for? We're being chased."
"Well, if you don't wish to be inside the ship when I lift it into the air — then I only lost time waiting," Kenny remarked sarcastically.
Vizla waved her hand tiredly at the drone, quickly flying up the ramp into the depths of the corvette. The drone followed her.
The partners needed a minute before the onboard computer executed the pre-launch algorithm. The hydraulics returned the ramp to its place; the automation locked all entrance compartments.
With its starting engines roaring, the Protector soared into the air.
"Two pursuers behind us," the drone responded just as the ship shuddered from several hits to the aft deflector. "'Death Watch' ships."
"Excellent," Shae smirked, taking the place of the weapons operator.
Compared to the firepower this ship had in the past, now it didn't just surpass both opponents. It could easily turn another pair of the same into scrap metal.
Unlike modern ships where each of the guns was serviced by its own operator, here all the cannons were controlled by one person. And as it happened, neither on the ground nor in space were there any equals to Shae.
A short burst from the main battery quelled the insolent ones' fervor. Realizing that these were not at all the medium turbolasers they had at their disposal, the pursuers began to scatter. A typical strategy — to catch the opponent in "pincers," putting him in two fires — effective and simple. From at least one of the sides, success will be achieved.
The problem was only that on board this ship there was an unpleasant surprise for anyone who suddenly thought of attacking the modestly sized ship.
Executing a steep bank, the Protector went head-on to the pursuers, spraying both from all weapons.
One of the "Death Watch" fighters spun like a top as soon as a salvo tore its deflectors. In the sea of fire, the concussive rocket launched by Shae went unnoticed. And yet, the enemy pilot managed to react at the last moment — it's anyone's guess if it was the warning systems that worked or someone in the cockpit noticed a long ion trail. But they managed to dodge certain death. Instead of blowing the ship's nose to pieces, the projectile sliced through the engine nozzles, so the starship, without coming out of the last maneuver, began to descend haphazardly into the atmosphere.
The sight of the short disposal of his partner slightly sobered the second "watcher" and he executed a wide bank, intending to get on the corvette's tail.
However, meeting one's end in the sky of Mandalore was not in the corvette crew's plans. Taking advantage of the respite, the ship soared steeply upward. The long energy trail stretching from the stern indicated that the pilot was squeezing maximum acceleration out of the ship, which must inevitably press each of those on board into the seat backs. The inertial dampeners could not completely absorb such overloads, and consequently, this should have made the corvette's handling difficult and reduced the intensity of defensive fire.
The pilot of the last "Watch" ship obviously reasoned exactly this way, since, using the greater aerodynamics of his elegant and deadly ship, he set about catching up with the fugitive. The cannons in the forward hemisphere continuously vomited streams of turbolaser fire, however, as soon as they licked the aft deflector, the corvette's artillery reminded of itself.
Not wishing to follow his comrade's example, the "Death Watch" ship turned aside, leaving the fugitive's kill zone.
"Seems we've broken away," distant stars loomed before the bridge's observation viewport. Shae made sure that the opponent's last ship remained far behind and switched the ship's artillery to "cruising position."
"And, surprisingly, without critical damage," the drone noted. Its manipulators began to flutter over the instrument panel.
Vizla turned toward the navigation computer. Familiar coordinates. But they are to another part of the galaxy.
Kenny's initiative in plotting a course — something new. Dougan had directly ordered that the Iokath offspring was under her command. And if so, something extraordinary had happened.
"Why are we going to Coruscant?" she inquired. She disliked the Republic capital on principle. A stuffy world of politicians, windbags, dregs, and various sorts of bastards.
"A message came over the emergency channel from Darth Atroxa. Everyone needs to arrive at the headquarters there," without looking up from the ship's control, the drone skillfully activated the hyperdrive. A moment — and before them the stars stretched into a bizarre attraction.
"Oh?" The Mandalorian leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands behind her helmet and crossing her legs on the panel. "And what does that hussy want from us?"
"An assassination attempt has been made on Rick Dougan," K1-Z3N reported in an agonizingly calm voice. "He is in the Jedi Temple in a coma."
"Well, now," the Mandalorian whistled. "Valkorion's apprentices don't live long."