The dirty dive bar owned by a Toydarian named Tarr suited his state of mind perfectly. He used to come here in his distant youth—together with his friends from the Academy. Every time they craved adventure and new sensations, they would trudge here. To get blind drunk, pick a fight with some street punks, and feel free from all those stifling obligations that previous generations had imposed upon them.
A scion of a wealthy family from the Core Worlds and a prominent figure in his organization, he now found himself at the very bottom. Without a job, friends, connections, or a pension. Even his acquaintance with Chancellor Palpatine turned out to be nothing more than a soap bubble, bursting the moment he fell into disgrace.
Those who called him their friend and comrade had turned away, preferring to forget him. A common practice—to turn away from the disgraced so as not to cast a shadow on oneself. But all his life he had believed that sentients valued him not for his status and weight in society, but for his human qualities. It was unpleasant to realize in his fifties that he had been mistaken his entire life.
His family, like his colleagues, preferred to forget him—his father had announced this almost immediately after the court delivered its fateful decision. And now he, the shame and disgrace of his lineage, was to be struck from the family chronicles and forgotten like a beggar seen by a wealthy lord in a back alley.
The two things he cherished most in the world had turned away from him: career and family. Now, it was all in the past.
And were he guilty, he would not be pouring third-rate booze down his throat surrounded by scum. However, considering the situation, it was quite possible that he himself would soon become one of them. He'd fall in with some gang and…
Shaking his head, the man in dark clothes—somewhat resembling a military uniform without insignia—knocked back another glass.
"…And to the army news," a pretty Zeltron appeared on the cantina's holovision screen. "With you, as always, is Elin Tyrell. The Senate Judicial Commission has finally found former Moff Baulyur guilty of a whole range of crimes. The public expected at least a lengthy sentence in the spice mines of Kessel, which would have been just considering the former official's atrocities. But our galaxy's most humane court ruled that a sufficient punishment for the Moff would be the full confiscation of all property to the state treasury and a lifetime ban from holding government positions of any rank. You must agree, the court was extremely lenient with one who assisted slave traders. I remind our viewers that the extensive machinations and corruption flourishing in the sectoral army under his control were uncovered and stopped by Jedi Master Rick Dougan, the Hero of Christophsis."
A photograph appeared on the screen. The man, catching a glimpse of it and smirking at his own thoughts, knocked back another glass.
"Furthermore, as our special reporters have learned, another Moff may be involved in Baulyur's machinations—Ravik, the remnants of whose sectoral army were recently destroyed by General Grievous's fleet in orbit of Exsarga. Curiously, it was under his command that the star of Admiral Jerjerrod rose; Jerjerrod was dismissed from service this evening by a court decision where Captain Tarkin, acting on behalf of the Navy Subcommittee of the Senate Supply Group, accused the now-former Admiral of leaking classified information regarding the state of fleet supplies."
"Bastards," the man said quietly, pouring the contents of another glass into himself.
What was he feeling right now?
Disappointment.
Forty years of life, half of which had been given to the Republic. His career had seen everything—rises and falls. And every time, he had emerged the victor. Even now, if that damn Ravik were alive, he would have had a chance to vindicate himself. To prove that the supply routes he developed were actually intended for the needs of the army, not the transport of slaves and contraband. Но Равик мертв — а вместе с ним, канули в лету и многочисленные документы 14-ой армии. Including the protocols of operational meetings where he had justified the usefulness of his plans specifically for the Grand Army of the Republic. The fact that after his transfer to sectoral command, Ravik and Baulyur used them for their own ends was not his fault. But Tarkin—may a strike cruiser land in his dock—had proven more eloquent. What does a court need to pass a sentence? The man responsible for creating the routes and the testimony of numerous witnesses confirming that slaves were transported along those supply lines. And that was it—the sunset of a career, an inglorious…
"You look unwell, Admiral," a figure wrapped from head to toe in a black mantle sat down at his furthest table without permission. Positioning himself opposite the former officer, the stranger signaled the owner and ordered a drink.
"Get lost," the man wished without malice. He didn't want to see anyone right now. Especially when he had to think about how to live on. Without any support, as the credits accumulated in his account would last only a very short time.
"With your permission, I shall ignore that," the stranger stated, leaning forward. Staring straight ahead at the tabletop, the former Admiral noticed that the stranger's hands were clad in armored bracers studded with geometric spikes curved toward the fingers, designed to tear flesh and crush small obstacles. Convenient when dealing with an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Raising his head to look the stranger in the face, the former Admiral stared in surprise at an impenetrable metal mask framed by a deep hood.
"Who the hell are you?" he inquired.
"A man capable of arranging your future."
"Is that so? Well, and what do you want from a slandered and convicted sentient?"
"First and foremost, I would like to talk."
"We are talking. If that is all—get lost and don't stop me from getting drunk."
"Well, if you are not interested in my offer to return to your work…"
"Don't mess with my head, boy. The court's decision is final—even the Chancellor can't change anything, even though he rules the Republic."
"Hmm, and did I say anything about the Republic?" the stranger wondered.
The Admiral raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Work for the CIS does not interest me."
"I am not offering that either. Let us say—there is a third power in the galaxy. No less powerful."
Now, it actually became interesting. The Admiral felt the alcohol consumed over the last two hours begin to release its grip on his mind. A third power?
Jerjerrod considered himself an educated and talented officer. Over the years of serving the Republic, he had proven it many times, which was why he had received such a high post. But he had never heard of anything that could compete with the Republic and the Confederacy in the galaxy. And this forced his inquisitive mind to work in an analytical key once again.
"Well, and who is it? The Hutts? The Hapans? The Mandalorians?"
"None of the listed options is correct," the man refuted his musings. "But I can assure you—unlike all others, this state strives to establish order in the galaxy. Not a formal one, as happens in the Republic, nor a terrorist one, as the Separatists want. The rule of corruption, conquest, pirate traditions, and criminal syndicates is also unsuitable."
"So on what is this state of yours built?" the Admiral smirked.
"On absolute power," the interlocutor said. "Power in the hands of one who values the people who have laid down their lives for the benefit of his state. And who does not allow upstart captains to accuse HIS people of things they would never commit."
"You are talking about Tarkin," the Admiral realized.
"Not only him. Do you think there are few people in Palpatine's inner circle who are ready to walk over heads to climb as high as possible? Regardless of the fact that in doing so, they drown those who are truly valuable to the galaxy?"
"Oh, so you think I am one of the latter?" Jerjerrod smirked.
"Undoubtedly," there was such confidence in the interlocutor's voice that the Admiral felt himself internally tense up. Were there still people in power for whom he was not a non-entity? But even if so, what was it all for?
"What do you want me to do?" the Admiral asked quietly.
"Everything you did before," was the answer. "Be who you were born to be—an officer destined to command a fleet capable of bringing peace to this galaxy."
"But I am stripped of all ranks and opportunities…" From the repetition of this fact, the Admiral felt sad. He felt sorry for the years of his life spent, shattered against the stone of injustice and deaf bureaucracy. He was a soldier who had become obsolete and had been written off.
"Tell me, Admiral, are you at the beginning of your path or at its end?" the stranger inquired unexpectedly.
"I don't know… at the end, probably. My career is destroyed."
"It was destroyed by politicians and intriguers who, for the most part, now rule the Republic for their own benefit. Perhaps it is worth accepting the hand of help extended to you, to rise and crush your enemies? Do you not feel, through your own example, the lawlessness occurring in the galaxy when two forces decide which of them will fall and which will continue to live, squeezing the throat of everyone who does not agree with the opinion of this violent authority?"
"But," the General tried to protest. "Authority must be strong. So that sentients can never doubt those who rule them."
"So that the cold-hearted machine of bureaucracy never again grinds anyone in its millstones, throwing them to the outskirts with an outstretched hand waiting for mercy," the interlocutor spoke so insinuatingly that each of his words fell like reviving moisture onto the Admiral's tormented soul, healing the scars and curing him.
The stranger continued to speak, and with every word, the Admiral realized he was increasingly sympathizing with this man. He was frank—a quality quite rare in these times. He didn't offer large sums of money; he didn't promise a life without want. He only offered a chance to get even. To join a team of like-minded people ready to take the galaxy as it spiraled into the abyss and establish order in it. With the strong, determined hand of absolute authority that the Republic never even dreamed of. Like any other state formation in the galaxy. Happiness for all. A utopia that could become a reality. But before all this, there lay much work. Too much for one person to handle. The very person sitting before him now.
"Are you ready to join us, Admiral?"
Jerjerrod felt his forehead wrinkle. He had heard a similar question many times—in childhood games, at school, at the Academy, in service. Each time it meant a decision had to be made—to make a choice, one of many. But he had lived long enough to understand—when a hand of help is extended to you after you have lost everything, the choice will not be easy. And the consequences could be most unpredictable.
"I wouldn't be wrong to say our path will inevitably cross courses with the Republic and the CIS?" he clarified.
"You are absolutely right. Just like other threats to the galaxy—they hinder the achievement of the ultimate goal. So, I can more than guarantee that one day they will become our enemies."
"I hope it happens in my lifetime," Jerjerrod remarked grimly, draining the glass filled to the brim with alcohol in one gulp. Strangely, he hadn't even noticed himself drinking the liquor ordered by his interlocutor. Moreover, most of the bottle was already empty. "When do we start?"
"Consider yourself already in service, Admiral," he could not see the interlocutor's face, but he felt that he was pleased.
***
There was something about it—enjoying ordinary food. Not the slop from the mess hall aboard a destroyer, nor even the food from the officers' galley.
But normal food, which ordinary sentients not occupied with the hardships of war could afford. However, Block corrected himself, looking at the price tag next to each dish—a regular resident of the capital planet could not financially afford to eat here even once a day.
Here on Coruscant, it was as if nothing reminded one of the mass bloodshed in the galaxy. Despite the fact that the Separatists had managed to mark their presence with a terrorist attack here too, peaceful life was not interrupted for a single minute. It was as measured and slow as before the Clone Wars. People woke up in the morning, groomed themselves, and went to civilian jobs, after which they spent time with friends and went to sleep.
In his understanding, this was wrong.
The Republic was waging a war for its further existence; consequently, every sentient capable of holding a blaster should have arrived at a recruitment station and gone to training. The clone army was undoubtedly good. He loved working with them—easily trainable, dutiful, boys loyal to their duty. And though they all had the same face, came from a test tube, and would certainly be written off by the end of the war due to accelerated aging, they fought and died in the name of a state that did not care for them at all. Provision of uniforms, weapons, a bunk in the barracks, and rations did not count.
At times he wondered why this was happening. Why, despite all assurances, neither the politicians nor the Jedi wanted to change anything. They used the clones as expendable material, not even thinking about preserving their lives. And why bother—since new ones could always be made.
It would be a different matter if every fighter in the Grand Army were a citizen of the Republic. Then the fun would begin.
In such a case, would incompetent commanders be able to explain to the public the reasons for the deaths of entire units thrown into a frontal assault? Hardly.
But now they could.
And it was already starting to make him sick.
His father always said one must endure. Whether you consider your opponent right or wrong—you should never stick your neck out as long as you are under their command. Be an honest military man, follow orders—and then there will be minimal questions for you.
He tried. He served honestly and exemplarily—it was not for nothing that in a year of war he became one of the youngest admirals. He always did what he was told.
But he was tired of enduring all this Jedi whim and the officials sitting through their pants in headquarters.
At first, General Kenobi seemed like a sane person to him. Calm, reasonable. From his first appearance aboard the Negotiator, it seemed to Block that he would be working side-by-side with a suitable commander.
He had already heard from other commodores and admirals that the members of the Order were extremely mediocre officers. They shone with neither talent nor calculation. Kenobi seemed different. And Block was glad of that.
Until recently.
The first bantha lowed during the last invasion of Geonosis. He and Yularen performed operations simultaneously—each with their own Jedi. Wolf was less fortunate—he worked under the command of the erratic Skywalker. But he put up with it and, as best he could, smoothed over the rough edges. What could be done—the man was phlegmatic to the bone. And even after only one destroyer remained from the entire vanguard invasion force, Yularen remained true to himself. With a concussion and a number of broken bones resulting from the Jedi's gamble, he did not criticize his commander. At least, not openly.
Block, however, did not tolerate it.
The fact that the enemy knew the details of the operation was clear as soon as the marks of Vulture squadrons appeared on the scanners. There was still a chance to fight back—if the air wing were launched in time. There was time—nearly ten minutes until the enemy's arrival.
But Kenobi ordered otherwise.
To go into a deep defense. Without an air wing.
A decision bordering on madness. Anyone understands that you cannot fight off a faster enemy with artillery alone. But the General said to wait.
As a result—they lost most of the Venators placed under their command. The others survived only by a miracle. Had he not disobeyed the General, had he not given the command to launch starfighters—it's unknown how many more ships and crews would have been left drifting on the approach to the bug planet.
One can only thank fate that Commodore Pellaeon's squadron was nearby. Of course, the transit from Rodia, where the 13th Sectoral units were still licking their wounds after the slaughter with the Separatists, was not a fast matter—a little over an hour passed after Block's appeal before help arrived. Но страшно подумать, что бы произошло, если б Пеллеон оказался дальше.
It was doubly unpleasant that the enemy commander managed to survive once again. To break through, leaving the escort ships to perish. But the breakthrough cost the surviving trio one destroyer. Of course, the reactors were saved from explosion, and a third of the crew survived the total decompression—the CIS flagship had literally riddled them with its guns. But the ship would not see further service for the next few months. If it were repaired at all, that is.
But the worst was yet to come.
The ground operation on Ryloth nearly foundered—the Jedi sent almost all the Acclamators to land without proper reconnaissance. Everyone landed—but more than half as wreckage. That's almost a hundred souls—clones though they were. The Jedi lost several of their own and nearly all their equipment—rumor had it Commander Windu had to gather invasion forces for the capital from the locals. A damn horror.
The siege of Geonosis foundered completely. Pellaeon's squadron, already battered in the battle with the CIS orbital group, together with Block's remaining ships, was able to land a landing force—before General Grievous's ships returned to the system. And once again a slaughter occurred. Both in space and on the ground. Perhaps the Force really isn't a fiction, and it was the Force that sent Master Unduli to the Republicans, under whose command the space battle took place.
Though the Seps were more numerous, they were successfully repelled. Having lost almost all ships—Block was left with only one Venator and a pair of Acclamators from the second wave. Pellaeon lost every ship except his flagship. But Grievous was forced to flee. Only after it all was it possible to find out why the numerically superior enemy was unable to realize the full functionality of its flotilla. The now-deceased Moff Ravik should be remembered with a kind word. He lost every single ship but was able to hold the planet and inflict tangible damage on the enemy ships. Which, under Master Unduli's wise leadership and the competent execution of her orders by Block and Pellaeon, turned into the rout of the CIS fleet. A victory, though close to defeat. It seemed it was worth celebrating, but…
The Jedi who had managed to land before the start of the space battle nearly suffered defeat. Truly monstrous losses. Even the participation of the heroic Skywalker in the battle did not save the situation.
Four Jedi died, Ki-Adi-Mundi and Kenobi were seriously wounded, and two legions were wiped out in their entirety—the price that had to be paid to break the bugs' defense on the ground. However, had Block's escort squadrons not arrived in time for the Jedi, they would have had to be evacuated.
The battle on Geonosis continued. A new giant droid production factory was destroyed—largely thanks to the participation of Master Unduli and her Padawan. Tracking the situation on the planet through the command net, Block noted that Skywalker's adventurous plan to destroy the enemy's new equipment prototypes had worked, of course. But the losses the clones suffered… It was no wonder that the clearing of the planet was still being conducted.
When Commodore Kreeve's squadron arrived to replace them, Block felt relief. Turning over command and the remnants of his invasion fleet to the new officer, he set off here, to Coruscant. To talk with sectoral command.
It is impossible to fight when the Jedi are constantly controlling you like walkers for infants. It is a disgrace of the system when admirals have to independently command not only the entire fleet but their own flagship as well. Yes, there was a shortage of senior officers—a huge loss. However, why not give the green light to promising junior officers?
In that same 13th Sectoral, the command pursued the correct policy—every large ship must have its own captain. An admiral should monitor the battlefield as a whole, rather than be distracted by orders concerning the flagship. Absolute idiocy.
Unfortunately, his noble impulse found no support in the minds of the staff officers. On the contrary, a detailed report on serving under the Jedi's leadership became the reason he was removed from active combat duty. He was written off to the reserve. Where one could rot for months while thick-headed banthas ruin fleets.
He tried to rectify the situation, but nothing came of it. It only worsened.
He was forced to undergo a medical commission, which found him to have severe nervous exhaustion. The result—indefinite leave. And he would certainly never be able to command anything larger than a patrol Carrack again.
Hearing the command's decision, he clearly realized that perhaps the CIS, fighting the injustice of the Republic, its bureaucracy, and numerous violations of the law, might be right. The thought was seditious, and he drove it away, but he returned to it again and again.
He was choked by a silent malice. Remaining externally calm, he seethed with rage inside.
He wasn't even fifty yet, and already—written off to the reserve. From where there was no way out—only to retirement. And not based on years of service, which could have ensured his comfortable existence, but based on medical indications. And that meant minimal allowances, enough only not to die of hunger.
And nothing could be replayed.
However, one chance still remained.
This morning he had received a message from an encrypted user about a meeting in this restaurant. Someone wanted to discuss his further service with him. Likely, there were still thinking people left in the Republic who understood that in a war, there is no time to throw away experienced officers.
"Good day," a muffled but clearly young voice sounded behind him. Vocoders, which are often used to hide real speech, sound like that. However, raising his gaze to the man who had stopped at his table, the Admiral noted that the man had tried to do so completely in vain. Especially for a combat officer.
"Pleased to see you, General Dougan," Block rose from his chair as a sign of respect, straightening his tunic. Even if the meeting was unofficial, an officer must look appropriate in any case.
"For heaven's sake, don't speak so loudly," the Jedi extended his hand with a chuckle. The officer responded to the greeting, and both sat at the table. "I am, shall we say, here incognito."
"In that case, you should have changed your image," Block remarked. "The entire galaxy knows the Jedi who walks in armor. The only one of the entire Order, by the way."
"Hmm, that's true as well. Но, думаю, каждый сам должен думать о том, как обезопасить себя на поле боя. To me, wearing armor even on Coruscant does not seem like an extravagance. In light of recent events…"
The entire world of the capital was buzzing about the attack on the Chancellor near the Opera. As well as the fact that his life was saved directly by the commander of the 13th Sectoral.
"I understand you," the officer smirked. Aboard a starship, he had never even thought of wearing armor. But when landing on a planet—he would certainly put on a cuirass and an infantry helmet. "So I take it you are the one who scheduled the meeting for me."
"Exactly. I take it sectoral command has written you off?"
"To my great regret. I'll have to stick around in the reserve for another five years, after which—retirement. By medical prescription."
"Not the most pleasant end to a career for a combat officer," the Jedi noted.
"I expected nothing else from the idiots in command," the Admiral snorted. "As I understand it, even you cannot change the command's decisions."
"I am afraid so," the Jedi said with unexpected frankness.
Block was surprised. He expected that, like his other brethren, he would start dodging, trying to get something in exchange for vague promises.
The most diverse rumors circulated about Dougan. About his friendship with the Chancellor and Moff Trachta. About his loyal attitude toward officers, most of whom he had pulled from other armies. About his organizational skills and business streak. Especially often fleet officers discussed the inexplicable love for this Jedi on the part of the inhabitants of Christophsis.
Seeing him, Block was internally pleased. Perhaps Dougan had some connections that could overturn the doctors' decision and return the Admiral to duty. He allowed that he might even have to return at a lower rank than he had now. But he thought he could return, rub the noses of the thick-headed Republic officials in it.
The hopes, judging by everything, were not fulfilled. Dougan could not fix what was done. But then, why this meeting?
He was already about to ask this question, but the Jedi forestalled him.
"I take it you haven't managed to enjoy the local cuisine, Admiral?"
"You know, the food won't go down," Block admitted. "And all this is not within my budget right now."
"Nonsense," Dougan waved his hand. "This is a business lunch, so all the expenses are on me. But I think we should move to a private booth."
Block turned around.
The restaurant was located on the top floor of one of Coruscant's highest skyscrapers. An atmospheric shield prevented gusts of wind from blowing everything over the railings, and the falling rays of the sun pleasantly caressed the skin. Numerous tables were set up all over the main plaza of the restaurant, and in one corner there was a podium where musicians played at night.
But there were also several closed booths, separated from the main part of the restaurant by thin but strong partitions. Block recalled that above this part of the restaurant some kind of jammers were placed, which prevented the operation of various recording equipment—therefore, celebrities liked to sit in the booths. Renting one reached a hundred thousand credits, which was ten times higher than the cost of a single table.
"I thought the Jedi did not possess such funds," Dougan, waving to the waiter, spoke briefly with him, after which he and the officer went into the room allocated to them.
"Let's put it this way, Admiral," the booth had one table, spacious enough for a large company to gather around it. Luxurious sofas, standing in a semi-circle around it, allowed one part of the visitors to admire the views of the city, and the second—the paintings on the wall. The Jedi sat on the first sofa so that the light fell around him, leaving his figure in the shadow. Block, accustomed to looking his interlocutor in the face, sat opposite him, every now and then glancing at the paintings produced by the brushes of Alderaanian artists. "I am not quite an ordinary… Jedi."
"I have already noticed that. But so far, this in no way explains the reason for our meeting."
"We will certainly touch upon that," the door to the booth swung open, and a living waiter seeped inside, beginning to quickly set the table. It took him about ten minutes to do this, after which, having received a credit with a tip from the Jedi's hands, he withdrew, locking the door behind him. "But let us eat first."
"No objection."
The meal took a little over an hour, during which time they managed to converse on several meaningless topics. At the same time, the Admiral noted that the temple-dweller behaved naturally, as if communicating with an old friend, although they were meeting for the first time. This was appealing—not many officers can say they have been in such company.
Moving on to desserts, Dougan, stirring a straw in a glass of fruit juice, unexpectedly asked:
"How do you see the future of the galaxy, Admiral?"
"We will win," he replied without thinking.
The Jedi laughed softly. His mask lay on the table, so the officer could hear the young, not fully matured voice of the interlocutor. And for some reason, this voice infected him with energy. As if it were returning his youth.
The Admiral wanted to inquire of the Jedi Master what he found so funny in his words, but caught himself thinking that the answer to the question would force him to stop. And most likely, the feeling of lightness would leave the Admiral. And it was unclear how he was to know: whatever had amused Dougan was indeed funny. The Admiral smiled politely.
"And what if I tell you that both warring sides are led by one and the same person?" The laughter ceased, and as the Admiral had feared, the feeling of youth passed. And the weight of the years lived pressed down with new force.
"Such a thing cannot be," the Admiral said, but in the same second, hearing a chuckle from the Jedi's side, he felt that he was mistaken. Logic said the interlocutor's judgment was incorrect, but... could a Jedi, specifically this Jedi, be mistaken?!
"And yet it is so," Dougan continued. "Once the Jedi fought against the Sith—the same adepts of the Force. Almost a thousand years ago, the Jedi decided they had defeated them. But it is not so. The Sith survived, and now they act from the shadows."
"And the Jedi know about this?" Suddenly his mouth went dry. Block immediately drank a glass of water.
"The Order is as blind as those who wrote you off," the Jedi said grimly. "Only during the blockade of Naboo did this become known. But since then, the Order has never learned the identity of the one who from the shadows directs what is happening."
"It seems the idiots are not only sitting in sectoral command," the Admiral said with anger. "Hutt take it! For almost eleven years the Jedi have known about their ancient enemy, and they have done nothing?!"
"I completely agree with you," the Jedi supported him unexpectedly. "The Order is as blind as a gizka. And, unfortunately, this will lead to its fall. The enemy has planned to destroy the Jedi. Every single one."
"And you are so calm, knowing this?" the Admiral wondered. "Ready to accept death? Resigned to fate?"
And again that cheerful laughter. This time it lowered the level of the officer's indignation, forcing him to listen to the Jedi's words.
"Not in the least, Admiral. It does not suit me that someone decided to set the galaxy at each other's throats in a bloody war for the sake of settling scores with an ancient enemy. And it is doubly unclear why billions of sentients, who are not to blame for any of this, must die in the process."
"It's good to hear that at least someone from your brethren knows how to use their brains."
"But, as you understand, the one who has taken power into his hands and, like a conductor with an orchestra, directs this war, will not give up. He has surrounded himself with thousands of supporters who will ensure his continued stay in power. And, unfortunately, he cannot be removed from the highest post without bloodshed…"
Block felt his throat go dry. The highest post. It couldn't be.
"Believe me, Admiral, I am not deceiving you," the Jedi said. And the officer believed him. He didn't know why, but he felt sympathy for this man. And he was ready at least to hear him out to the end.
"The galaxy is rolling toward new wars. First this one, then a civil war that will end after many years—for the remnants of the old regime will cling to power until the last. And then—hundreds more conflicts of various kinds. The galaxy will remain in a state of continuous conflict until its very end, and the number of victims will only grow."
"This is madness. This must be stopped!"
"That is exactly what I am doing, Admiral," the Jedi explained. "Already the means for resolving this conflict are concentrated in my hands. But I fear that further chaos can only be avoided by concentrating all power in one's own hands."
"Tyranny," Block exhaled. Something that contradicted all the tenets of the Republic.
"Rather a monarchy," the interlocutor corrected. "Do you agree that if a strong and determined leader were at the head of the Republic, capable of foreseeing danger and reacting to it in full force, without settling for half-measures, every sentient would live long and happily?"
"I… I… think so," the Admiral agreed unexpectedly. In the end, exactly so! While the Senate drags out its snot over every question, a monarch could simply send the fleet to a rebellious sector and suppress all the injustice. Had the Republic an army, no one would have even tried to raise their head, let alone create an entire opposition state.
"But every leader must have suitable officers on whom he can rely," the Jedi continued. "And since I have decided to return peace and tranquility to this galaxy, such officers are exactly what I need."
"I understand," and he truly realized why he was here now. Dougan, whatever he was plotting, had discerned his talent, his abilities among thousands of other commanders. And had personally decided to recruit Block into his entourage. Just think—if this man ever rules the galaxy, then he, Admiral Block, will be one of those who will become the executor of his will. The one who, perhaps, will reach Coruscant and personally put a blaster to the head of each of those who once rejected the Admiral. "But how can I help you? I am a nobody now."
"And that is where you are wrong, Admiral," the Jedi put his hand on his mask, intending to return it to its place. "You are my punishing sword. And if you agree—then we have much work ahead."
"I am entirely at your disposal, Sire," as befits an officer in the presence of a superior rank, Block rose, straightening his tunic, and nodded formally. He was ready to return peace and order to this galaxy.
"Wonderful, Admiral," and again the quiet youthful laughter brought peace to the elderly Admiral.
***
"Jan!"
Adar Tallon, bursting into his office, was full of enthusiasm. Out of breath, he could barely utter a word, which made his facial expression incredibly comical.
Looking away from the contemplation of his reflection in the mirror, Captain Dodonna gave his friend a derisive look.
"And what made you run as if Mandalorians were chasing you? By the way, you were late for the evening briefing. Trachta was not very pleased."
"Oh, to hell with him!" his old friend waved his hand. "I have such news!"
"And was it worth getting a disciplinary penalty? You didn't submit your conclusion on the tactics of countering Separatist starfighters."
"It's worth a career!"
"You're right about that," Jan smirked, smoothing a cowlick on his crown. "An unexcused absence is grounds for dismissal. You weren't in your place all day."
"I had a meeting…" the comrade hesitated. "The kind that happens once in a lifetime!"
"Right, right," the Commenorian smirked again. "Alright, I covered for you for the first and last time. Tell me, what happened there with you."
"A moment," the colleague darted to the table, pouring himself some water from a carafe. Having quenched his thirst, he, smiling from ear to ear, plopped onto the sofa, throwing his legs onto the coffee table. "You have no idea who offered me a transfer to the active army."
"Am I to guess, or will you say it after all?"
"Moff Dougan," Adar blurted out.
Dodonna whistled in surprise.
The only Jedi who had received an army in the Outer Rim under his sole command. One of the largest among the rest. And, surprisingly, he had known no defeats, having practically completely pushed the Seps to the borders of the supersector in a short time. Of course, his losses were huge—in light of the latest attacks on Geonosis and Ryloth—but where are they not?
Jan recalled that not so long ago sectoral command had been reeling from a huge number of transfers of starship captains to the Iron Spear. They were lured into this cesspool by promotions in rank, which naturally increased salary payments and brought them closer to receiving the coveted staff officer bars.
Of course, at first glance, Dougan had called to himself not the most outstanding commanders—two or three, of course, deserved attention, while the rest were typical average Joes, or even worse. Macati alone, whom many influential officers had turned against, or Syne, who dabbled in drugs.
"It seems the commanders he recruited earlier ran out sooner than planned," Jan smirked. He was not acquainted with anyone who served under Dougan's command. And he wasn't particularly eager—they all gave him a sensation similar to an itch in his teeth.
"No, it's much more interesting than that," Tallon smiled. "We are invited to the army headquarters."
"Us?!" Dodonna raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," the smile on his face became even wider. "Dougan sent requests for transfer to command for me, you, Sagoro Autem—that's what they told me in the personnel service."
"You and I, that's still understandable," Jan nodded, turning to his own thoughts. Both officers had become famous in their time for revolutionary ideas in the field of modern space combat. And if Dodonna himself could boast of having the gift of a strategist regarding the organization of supply and siege operations—including suggesting several types of siege weapons, unfortunately not in demand by the Grand Army of the Republic to this day—then his comrade became famous for revolutionary ideas in the field of operations of individual starfighters.
But regarding his other friend, the former Senate Guard Sagoro Autem, clarity eluded the strategist's gaze.
Sagoro had left his job at the Senate after one tragic and extremely unpleasant incident involving his family. For some time he had worked as a mercenary, and one of the best at that, but then he ended up in prison. And only a coincidence of circumstances, such as the Jedi operation on Brentaal IV, allowed him to achieve a pardon. On Dodonna's advice, he submitted documents to the fleet, and not so long ago became the commander of a light cruiser. And he had achieved no particular success in this field, languishing in the operational reserve of sectoral command. The very one that the superiors threw to plug any possible gap on the front.
"Oh, what's the difference?" Adar grimaced. "The main thing is that we can go to the active army. What prospects are there—you understand yourself."
Of course, Jan understood this. To rot in sectoral command was certainly less dangerous to life, but on the front, ranks flowed faster, and the salary was several times larger than the current ones. The latter were already not small, however, the army did not skimp on salary for those on the front line. A couple of years of such service—and one could buy a quite respectable apartment on Coruscant.
"You know," Dodonna said with a smile, "I think something might come of this."
***
"You can't just leave like this!" Wallace blurted out, standing in the doorway of her room. "I… I won't allow it!"
Lyra, measuring her father with a cold look, continued to pack her suitcases. What did she care about what the old man wanted? She would leave Coruscant anyway—whether he liked it or not.
To be honest, she hadn't taken her father's opinion into account since her teenage years. When she became old enough to understand—the state in which she had to live was hopeless. The ideals of the Republic to which her father was devoted were only a myth trampled by all those who were wealthy or influential enough.
Of course, she had some measure of gratitude toward her parent—if only because it was thanks to her contempt for him and his rigidity that she chose the development of weaponry as her path. Of course, a year or two ago this direction in engineering thought concerned few people, but with the start of the War, the rotten bureaucracy remembered its young talents.
Her father condemned her fascination with military technology, and therefore, she remained fanatically devoted to her work. And the Venator she developed was like a spit in the face of everything the old man believed in. And he, a known lover of diplomacy and negotiations. Which could not but cause disgust.
And besides, he was jealous of her.
For Kuat Drive Yards had chosen her project as the main ship for the Jedi fleet. After the Acclamator, created with her father's participation, proved its total inadequacy in modern space battles. And even his desperate attempts to modify these "strike cruisers" did not end in anything that could worthily compete even with the enemy's frigates.
No wonder Papa had become like a furious Nexu—such a treasure as his own daughter was escaping his control. One would have to be an idiot not to understand—as soon as she ceased working at Kuat Drive Yards, his own career would roll downhill. Lyra, like many in the Kuat engineering-design group, understood that her old man's glory days were over. And in the modern world he was not competitive. Even his new project, which he had only begun to work through in company with Lemelisk, was so raw that at least a couple of years would pass before he could build even the first series. And this was given that Lyra had developed her ship from scratch in less than three months. And besides, after the departure of Bevel himself, the head of the design group was left with nothing but to bite his elbows.
"If you intend to stop me, then you'll have to try hard," she remarked coldly. "Because I won't stay here for a minute."
"You can't go like this! What about your contract?" Now these were the pleas of despair. What kind of dimwit had raised her? Did he really think that she, the smartest girl-engineer, could simply run away?!
Lyra shook her head. No, the old man would decisively never accept her genius. Just as he would never renounce the fading Republic. Bevel was right—there would be no prospects here. The Republic was declining toward its sunset, and one should not allow its fragments to bury their talent. Especially when there was a worthy alternative. However, if everything she had familiarized herself with was true, then the new path onto which she had stepped would become a worthy challenge for her genius. And in the end, her creations would prove how greatly her father was mistaken.
"How can you do this to me?" Seeing that she was not listening to his words, Wallace in full despair slumped onto a chair, clasping his head in his hands. His whole appearance expressed infirmity and confusion. However, the girl gave this no importance. What did she care about the feelings of a man she held in no regard?
Having packed the last suitcase, Lyra for the last time surveyed her housing, allocated by the board of Kuat Drive Yards. The five-year contract she had concluded with the best shipbuilders in the galaxy at the start of the war with the CIS was not even half fulfilled. The penalty that her and Bevel's new patron had to pay was truly enormous—with the funds gained, the company could have built a couple of Venators and still had some left. However, judging by everything, the new employer, who had generously topped up her personal bank account with a five-million-credit deposit, did not feel constrained for funds. Bevel Lemelisk, to whom luck had also smiled, with his characteristic absent-mindedness, told her without concealment that a sum half as large had fallen to his share. Well, Lemelisk never stood out for a pull toward wealth. His only wish was to create. To create weapons—the more powerful and terrible, the better.
Looking at her saddened father, the girl silently left the apartment, sitting in the hover-taxi waiting for her. Lemelisk, who had been waiting for her all this time, didn't even pay attention to the new passenger, enthusiastically examining something in his datapad. Obviously—the employer's requirements for the new project for the sake of which one of the best scientists had been lured from Kuat. And judging by the colleague's deepest immersion in the reading, the matter was to be exceptionally exciting. And destructive.
The young engineer had "figured out" her colleague from the first days. Bevel could lead anyone by the nose who had the sense to hire him, telling of his devotion to the Republic and the ideals of humanism. In reality, in his soul, the colleague craved creating weapons of destruction. And the larger and more terrible they were, the more satisfaction their creator would receive. No wonder her Papa, who had long known this man, had called him into his project, intending through his colleague's genius to regain his fame as the best shipbuilder of Kuat. Only a fool could think thus. Any even slightly experienced technical team, having studied even the current blueprints and compared them with her father's other works, would find a huge number of discrepancies. And all because the Victory project was being developed by Lemelisk's brains. Her father only cleaned up his numerous errors and miscalculations so that the end result would not have critically important defects.
Lyra allowed herself to smile, looking at her upset father. Thinking globally, alone Wallace would never be able to create even anything surpassing her Venator. And Victory without Lemelisk would never be as deadly as it was intended from the very beginning. And if so, the time when the Republic could replace her development would not come soon. And though all rights to the Venator belonged to Kuat, it was of no great importance. The company leadership could no longer restrict her in funds dictated by the idiotic doctrine of the Republic. The employer promised her full freedom and the absence of any persecution by the authorities and the Jedi Order. Well, this suited her.
In her thoughts, she didn't notice they had reached the hangar. The droid taxi driver helped them unload their luggage, after which the two engineers headed for the ship waiting for them.
By Lyra's estimations, she had never encountered such a model before. Something between a heavy starfighter and a light corvette. The presence of guns in the nose section made it clear that the transport sent for them was by no means of a civilian purpose. It was flattering—it meant the employer had taken care of their safety. Which, in turn, meant an understanding of the value of the engineers by the one who had shelled out a round sum to capture their attention and talent.
Approaching the ship's ramp, the girl smiled seeing that near the entry hatch, leaning her shoulder on the bulkhead, stood a Letan Twi'lek woman. The very one who had conducted the employment negotiations with them. Confident, authoritative. But submissive. And loyal to her master, whose identity was still to be learned.
Lyra was generally indifferent to other non-human races, however, she always believed that people should play the leading position in the galaxy. Of course, there was no need to exterminate the dissenters—it was enough to create such conditions for them under which the non-humans themselves would understand who the master was and who was his loyal servant. And according to the assurances of the employer's representative who had arranged their contracts, the employer had clear plans on this issue.
"Mistress Blissex, Master Lemelisk," the Letan greeted them with a well-placed commanding voice. "Pleased to see you. You are early."
"Nothing keeps us here," Bevel shrugged. The engineer looked tired, as if he had spent a night without sleep. However, the engineer's phlegmatic state was a normal matter, and the people working side-by-side with him had already become accustomed to not noticing it.
Lyra gave a restrained smirk. There was no sense in conducting soulful conversations with someone whose mind could not compare with her own. The Twi'lek woman had fulfilled her role—hiring two brilliant scientists. Now, let her deliver them to the workplace, and they would say goodbye. After all, she was not being paid to scrape and bow in pleasantries with every single servant.
"My opinion—we should quickly set off to our employer," she voiced her thoughts.
"Indubitably, Mistress Blissex," the Twi'lek woman smiled, baring a row of sharp teeth. For the first time in her life, the girl felt a chill of fear run down her spine. "Please, step on board."
Only now did she feel the aura of authority and determination emanating from the exotic woman. As if she were a weapon. Precisely calibrated, devoid of the slightest errors. And ready with equal effectiveness both to protect them from trouble and to finish them off if they suddenly wanted to be willful.
The girl, maintaining her former haughty-cold appearance, ascended into the ship's depths. Hmm, from the inside it seemed more spacious than from the outside. Well, no one forbade her from inspecting the ship. Turning her luggage over to Bevel (the colleague never refused help), she unhurriedly set about studying the transport vehicle.
Simple ergonomics, increased functionality. The ship was decisively combat-oriented but created for important personages accustomed to luxury. A holographic terminal in a spacious room obviously intended for crew gatherings. Not a cheap thing—even on Venators there was only one copy. She had never heard before of such being placed on ships smaller than a cruiser. This would explain why she, who had long been interested in military developments, was not familiar with such a type of ship. Built obviously to individual order. Interesting, who was able to implement such a project? Kuat? Unlikely—she had access to all their developments, even individual orders. Rendili? Also a miss—their design was too rounded, as if they didn't know what corners were. Someone from the CIS? Even more doubtful—those fight for every penny and would rather have choked than created something like this. Sienar? Hmm… looked like it. Judging by the engine sounds—definitely ionic technology, which Raith literally lived and dreamed of. It turns out his business is not going as badly as they say in the Kuat board—this ship alone cost as much as a Venator. And he unlikely had only one of them.
As soon as the deck under her feet trembled, the girl realized that the ship had lifted off from the hangar surface. Hmm, it would be funny to look now at her father's face if he knew that his daughter was now flying away on a ship built by his competitor. Talentfully built—one should not deny the obvious.
However, while she had time, she should set about studying the technical task that the client had handed over with the contract. Unlike Bevel, she hadn't even touched her project—her father had constantly been hanging around. It wouldn't do for this whiner to see even a part of what she was to create.
The room with the holoterminal was perfectly suited. Fortunately, she had long ago had a device implanted allowing her to work directly with the computer environment.
Waiting until the ship transitioned to lightspeed, she loaded the data from the file sent by the client onto the terminal. So, what did her mysterious employer want.
A three-dimensional holoprojection of a ship appeared before her, resembling a sharpened dagger with a short hilt. Something vaguely similar to the concept of her father's project, only without the bridge structure moved to the stern. Yes, the scheme was certainly pathetic—it was clear that it was created by a person completely distant from holographic descriptive geometry. It looked as if it was drawn in a 3D editor of the first available datapad. Indeed—not everyone could be a genius. She would have to be lenient with her new…
Looking at the figures of technical characteristics, the girl felt her mouth go dry. Her eyes went dark as if she had been hit on the back of the head. But she knew exactly that nothing of the sort had happened. Just, again, from the excess of emotions, the implant was "lagging." This had happened before…
"I see you are not accustomed to putting off work for long," the former Twi'lek woman appeared in the doorway. By all appearances, she was the only crew member on this ship. Though, if it were sufficiently automated—Sienar's favorite "feature" for small ships—then this was quite enough.
"Your master hired me not to idle about," she noted.
"I remember," and again that frightening smile. "You were promised work on a project that would eclipse everything you created before. By all appearances," she poked at the hologram, "this is it?"
"Yes," the girl nodded. Moving her gaze to the scheme, she felt that the customer had not deceived her. On the contrary, he had thrown a challenge to her entire life. Much of what he required to be implemented in metal was unattainable even at the most advanced shipyards in the galaxy. Part of the technologies had not even been studied by her before. But… Was this perfection not worth spending the best years of her life on its creation? A project that would indeed eclipse everything previously created in the galaxy. Both literally and figuratively. "It… will be magnificent."
"As will everything my sire plans," this time the Letan's smile made Lyra's whole body shudder. Who was he, the sentient who was able to tame this ruthless killer? Truly, he had enough strength, means, and ambition to achieve his goals. And she, Lyra Blissex, would become the one who would create the perfect weapon for him. Not a star destroyer. Not a cruiser. Not even a dreadnought. She would give it her all, put all her skills, knowledge, talent, and soul into the project. But her super destroyer would become the ship from whose board the rotten Republic would be dictated the victor's will. And together with the greatness of her new master, she herself would triumph over all those who would dare to challenge her creation.
Her Executor.
Perhaps Bevel was right—there is its own euphoria in creating weapons of mass destruction.
***
The company they had gathered was as strange as could be.
Doctor Nikolai Kainsvorty stole glances at the faces of his fellow travelers, catching himself thinking that each of them was familiar to him. And in a professional sense, at that.
It wasn't to say that the acquaintance with many had been pleasant. Each of them was quite successful in his sphere of activity. With the start of the war, the direction of his companions' work turned out to be in demand—unlike his own.
The cybernetics scientist's project for countering the CIS army not in real but in virtual combat was met with approval by the army command. Of course, it was cheaper to finance a cyberwar than to build thousands of combat ships. He was confident of success. And almost ready for the solution to the software code that would have allowed deactivating the enemy soldiers directly on the battlefield.
But by a decision of a Senate committee, a little more than half a year after the start, the work turned out to be wound down. His people, not wishing to find themselves without a salary, instantly defected to other projects. He himself remained faithful to cybernetics until the end. To the last credit. Но так и не смог добиться решения.
His name was finally anathematized at the last meeting of the Ministry of Science. The Republic's leadership called together all outstanding scientists to solve the riddle of the CIS superweapon that had appeared then. Something that could destroy entire Jedi battle groups without leaving a trace.
The discussions were heated, as if the scientists themselves were conducting a deadly battle.
It was then that he became acquainted with each of the men present in the salon of the transport that was carrying them into the distance of hyperspace.
Umak Leth—an engineer who for a long time had been the trusted person of the Republic government in the Ministry of Science. It was he who led the work on solving the mystery of the Separatist superweapon. And the only one who, in the end, turned out to be right. Or rather, close to the truth. The Malevolence dreadnought nonetheless found its death at the hands of the Jedi. It was immeasurably a pity that nothing could be saved for subsequent study. Though this did not fall within his area of competence, it would nonetheless have been interesting for a cyberneticist to study the remains of a huge ship equipped with a truly enormous ion cannon. It was rumored that Umak was conducting negotiations with the Ministry of Science on creating his own version of a superweapon, a response to the CIS. But his idea was not supported, and therefore the brilliant (Nikolai recognized others' talent without a pang of conscience) scientist and engineer languished in the depths of the useless Ministry of Science, occupied with routine.
Frap Radicon—and again an engineer. But unlike the previous one, his field of knowledge was gravitation. Or rather, its artificial implementation. Not a single modern ship or space station could do without such a necessary device as an artificial gravity generator. Frap, however, promoted a somewhat futuristic idea—the creation of artificial regions of gravity sufficient for transporting enormous space objects. A theory undoubtedly deserving of attention—for had it been implemented, there would be no need to assemble huge constructions far from the manufacturer. The entire assembly process could be performed right in orbit of the manufacturing planet, after which it could be towed to the destination. Yes, Radicon had certain "obsessions," considering himself one step from achieving his goal, but the rest of the scientific community considered him almost a contemplator of the unattainable. There was no substance in the galaxy capable of creating such gravitational masses of an artificial nature. Therefore, no one wanted to finance a project doomed in advance. And like his colleague from the Ministry of Science, Frap languished in routine.
And the last in their small company was an officer of the Grand Army of the Republic. Major Rebus. An engineer in the field of small arms. Truly the officer had not won a loud name for himself—among all those present, he was the representative of a sphere that was not only filled but overfilled with thousands of competitors.
The cyberneticist recalled that at the aforementioned meeting, Rebus put forward the theory that the CIS used super-powerful blaster weapons sufficient to evaporate a combat ship. Yes, the theory was engaging, but like Frap's life's work—it was recognized by the grey men of the Republic's science as being too fantastic. Standing up for his point of view, by the way, cost the Major his career—he was written off for some medical reasons—Nikolai knew this because he worked with him in neighboring laboratories. When he still had a job.
And so now the four of them—outstanding scientists and engineers who had stepped away from business but not of their own will, unrecognized geniuses—sat in the wardroom of an old transport that was delivering them to the other end of the galaxy. And it was strange.
"We have a curious company," Leth was the first to break the silence. By all appearances, he was reflecting on the same thing as the cyberneticist himself. And judging by the silent nods of the others, they were clearly thinking the same.
"I think we have one and the same story," Rebus voiced his thoughts. "A stranger who offered work via holotransmission?"
Silent shakes of fair heads. Nikolai felt some excitement. Cybernetics knew no accidents—any action was the result of a software code. And consequently—four identical algorithms leading to one and the same result: a transport of average quality in one of the spaceports of Coruscant. A pilot droid, a steward droid. And not a single crew member. Only an instruction from the mysterious employer—not to worry and wait for a meeting. Openly spy games that one didn't want to play… Had it not been for the enormous funds promised for the work. Not a one-time but a permanent job. Someone desperately needs scientists—smart enough, but at the same time not favored by the attention of those in power. A fine calculation—few in modern realities would refuse a fabulous salary. If even Umak decided to leave his place at the Ministry of Science, it meant each of those present here, like Nikolai, had received a generous advance. The unknown employer was clearly interested in them and therefore did not skimp. What also did him credit was the point in the agreement according to which Nikolai could freely conduct his own research and developments not related to the main work. But not to the detriment of the latter. A sensible remark for those who understand how important their own projects can be for scientists. True, it caused some concern to agree to strict conspiracy and work "on the territory of a complex reliably isolated from the entire galaxy." However, big money always draws serious restrictions after it.
"By all appearances, we have a long flight ahead," Leth reclined the back of his chair with the clear intention of falling asleep. Others were thinking about the same when, from the jolt under their feet, Nikolai realized the ship had exited hyperspace.
"What the Hutt," the former officer cursed. "I saw that the pilot took a course for Alderaan. We couldn't have arrived so fast."
"Agreed," Frap remarked grimly. "We haven't been in transit more than five hours. We need to look around."
Without agreeing, they headed for the pilot's cabin; fortunately, the droid had not locked it. And whom did he have to fear.
"Hmm, and the hunk of junk led me on," Radicon smirked. "This definitely isn't Alderaan."
Through the transpari-steel they could observe only the black frost of space. No close stars, no planets… A secluded corner of the galaxy.
"I don't want to disappoint anyone," Umak tapped his knuckles on the pilot droid's head. "But this guy is fried. And he's unlikely to be able to deliver us where we need to go."
"Did the navigation system short out?" the weapons specialist suggested.
"I don't think so," while his comrades in misfortune were occupied only with the mechanical part of the problem, Nikolai, led by his intuition, directed his gaze to the navigation system. Too modern for such junk as they were flying on. "Whoever did this acted cunningly. The external software shell of the destination point corresponds to the pan-galactic designation of Alderaan. But the galactic coordinates in the system itself are completely different."
"So where are we?" Umak inquired, frowning.
"I think we jumped in a completely opposite direction," Nikolai shared, recalling all his knowledge from the field of galactic astronavigation. "We are somewhere in Wild Space. And by all appearances—the engines on this tub are also modified."
"It seems our employer tried very hard so that we wouldn't have questions about our destination until now," Leth smirked.
"If this is a prank, it's unjustifiably expensive," Frap kicked the instrument panel without malice. "And how do we get back if this pile of iron is dead?"
But before any of them could answer, they had to look back at a binary whistle. Nikolai stared in surprise at the tiny astromech droid that until now had performed the role of steward, serving cold drinks. Now, having gotten rid of its cart, it was spinning its head, quietly whistling a trill that it had a message.
"He says he wants to play a holorecording," Nikolai translated, realizing his comrades didn't know binary.
"Let him turn it on," Umak commanded, increasingly stepping into the role of leader of their little detachment.
A small blue figure—a man in a long mantle with a hood, encased from head to toe in armor—appeared before those gathered. Nikolai felt that this subject was vaguely familiar to him. But who it was and under what circumstances they had met, he could not remember.
"Hello, gentlemen. Please forgive the need to use conspiracy for your delivery to the facility, as well as the fact that I cannot meet you personally. But I dare say that this will happen in the near future. Each of you I selected for unquestionable talent in your field. And I believe you can bring benefit to my undertaking like no one else."
"Well, naturally," Frap smirked. "We are the best of the unrecognized geniuses."
"Exactly," Umak agreed. Nikolai and Rebus preferred to refrain from comments.
"I hope for fruitful cooperation," the stranger said with confidence in his voice. "And yes, it's not worth acting on the nerves of this ship's commander too much. Not safe for health."
After that the hologram dissolved, leaving a floating bewilderment in the transport's cabin.
"And what the Hutt is going on here?" Rebus inquired of his colleagues with the usual ease for army men.
Nikolai shrugged. It was pointless to say anything in this situation.
Between the engineers a dispute began about what to do next. Nikolai decided not to participate in this but to busy himself with the navigation system. Anything was more useful than empty air-shaking…
"Colleagues," looking through the cabin's transpari-steel, he called out to his companions in misfortune. "It seems we have company."
The trio of engineers turned their heads fast enough to witness huge triangular ships with a low superstructure and a split nose section exiting hyperspace.
Unexpectedly the instrument panel came to life, over which another bluish figure appeared. About twice as massive as the previous one, with an absolutely bald skull and an impressive respirator mask on its face.
"My name is Darth Malgus, Hand of the Emperor. Umak Leth. Major Rebus. Doctor Nikolai Kainsvorty. Frap Radicon. You have been chosen to serve the great goal of the Empire. Prepare to board the Striking Hand."