General Grievous stroked with measured steps, inevitable as death itself. His eyes—one of the few organic details remaining after the catastrophe—laughed, seeing how the pathetic remnants of a clone squad fired back at the advancing wave of droids.
Pressed into the wall protrusions, they barely peeked out, drenching his squad with fire from their carbines. Dozens of blue blaster bolts streaked past his head, but Grievous seemed not to notice them.
"Continue the bombardment!" he growled. "No mercy!"
Brainless B-1s, like a flock of bats, moved down the corridor, drenching the still-living opponents with their E-5s. The clones, though outnumbered, did not run; instead, they retreated in an organized fashion, covering each other from the pressing enemy. As much as the General despised "meat droids," as fighters they were far preferable to those he had at hand. But, leading an army of merchants, the General was perfectly aware—building a droid is much faster and cheaper than growing, training, and equipping a clone. An incomparable difference. And therefore, the CIS would win—simply crushing the Republic armies with numbers. Statistics—they are as merciless as the Kaleesh himself.
Having once headed the security department of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, Grievous had seen firsthand that merchants and bankers are merciless when it comes to their own capital. Not to mention when their very business might be destroyed if they lose this war. None of the Separatist leaders deluded themselves—mercy from the Republic was not to be expected. The slaughter wrought by the Jedi on Muunilinst only proved it. The Muun homeworld lay in ruins after the Temple-dwellers had been there.
Grievous hated the Jedi. So much so that if he could, he would personally tear each of them apart, turning them inside out.
Therefore, he personally volunteered to lead the attack on Kamino. The clones' homeland—a place that must be put to the torch. Count Dooku asked only to capture a sample of clone DNA. He would do it—he had such help for a reason. A pity, of course, that the idiot Durge allowed himself to be killed—together they would have leveled this place to the ocean floor.
"Knock-knock, open up," a metallic sound from somewhere to the right reached his auditory sensors. Turning his furious gaze toward the source of the noise, the General roared in rage—a B-1, like a droid secretary, was knocking on a locked barracks door.
"Blow the doors to the Hutts!" The General, in a fit of rage, squeezed his metallic fingers so hard the durasteel creaked.
However, before the droids could use explosives, new targets appeared in the General's field of vision.
Delectable targets.
Long-awaited.
"Jedi!" With the anticipation of a bloody feast, the General straightened his razor-sharp fingers.
There were only two—a Mirialan and a Twi'lek. With green and blue lightsabers—exactly the kind the General already had as trophies. It was time to add to the collection.
Both Jedi, virtuously swinging their weapons, crushed the droids that had rushed ahead, easing the pressure on the clones whose remaining squad was pinned at the end of the corridor.
"General Grievous!" After the last droid of the forward detachment fell, struck down by a blue blade, the Twi'lek Jedi pointed her weapon toward the cyborg. "You cannot hide from us!"
"I am not even trying!" The General's sinister laughter filled the corridor. "Continue the sweep!"
The order affected the droids—though they could not feel fear, something unknown to cybernetics forced them to execute his orders faster the moment he barked. Stupid, brainless blockheads. But right now—they must inflict maximum damage on Kamino. Until the DNA is secured—and then the consequences of this attack will be catastrophic for the Republic.
The General heard his underlings burning through locks. The Jedi approached—deliberately slowly, to be able to react if he suddenly started the fight first. Oh, the son of Kalee certainly would start it. Но не раньше, чем сочтет нужным.
He caught the sound of a firefight starting—the droids had found the cadets locked in the barracks. Excellent. The sounds of their agony, the death cries of these artificial children would be the music to which he would kill a couple more Jedi.
Grievous stepped back, spreading his metallic arms. In each, he gripped a lightsaber.
"You will not be the first Jedi I have eviscerated with my own hands," he confessed. "And believe me," the General's eyes narrowed. "Certainly not the last."
The Jedi exchanged glances. Grievous hoped they would amuse him with their boring chatter, but no. Both, with idiotic determination on their faces, only raised their blades. Excellent.
Now it was time to kill.
The General's hands responded to his brain impulses. The blades gripped in durasteel fingers came to life, and Grievous spun them before him so fast that it seemed he was standing in a pulsing sphere of green-blue energy. The very one that would now cut the Jedi into pieces so small they could fit into the air ducts.
Growling, Grievous lunged forward. The sphere of lethal energy around him moved toward the Jedi like a hungry maw, ready to bite its prey in half. The Jedi did not flinch. Blue and green blades met.
***
The General's mechanical arms moved with lightning speed. Controlled by combat algorithms in the electronic network, each of the strikes was delivered at a different angle, with different speed and intensity. The force invested in each strike was such that the Mirialan, who tried to block a thrust, winced. Kinetic energy hit her muscles and bones with resonance, bringing incredible pain. Oh, Grievous knew a thing or two about pain. With such strikes, he cracked the durasteel armor plates of Vultures. And more than once, the Jedi's pathos had played a bad joke on them—a pair of such strikes, and those bones of their skeletons that didn't break in battle, the General would then break personally. Taking pleasure from every crunch in the body of a still-living Jedi.
Meanwhile, his unpredictable, jagged rhythm of cutting, stabbing, and slashing strikes, each of which could take the life of either Jedi attacking him in turn, only prolonged the impending agony.
Individually, perhaps, they were worthy fighters. But, as always happens in such cases—they were completely unable to work as a team. All their efforts in a vain attempt to defeat the General amounted to a useless waste of energy, the reserve of which in organic bodies was already quite low.
Grievous easily parried each of their thrusts, answering every strike with three of his own. Yes, they quite soon realized that their previous combat experience was nothing compared to the cyborg's threat. And this was only the beginning.
He advanced like a dreadnought, suppressing them with his power, forcing them back toward where they had come from. All their fervor vanished as soon as the General gave vent to his rage. Now, after a couple of minutes of battle, they finally realized that before them was their death.
The Kaleesh saw that the opponent was still holding on—the vaunted Jedi training. But at such a pace—reflecting four strikes a minute—they wouldn't last long. Nothing would save them. Even the clones they had come to rescue realized this—the General laughed, seeing the backs of the fleeing soldiers of the "Grand Army of the Republic." Ah, so it was a change of deployment. Wonderful. Now they were all in one place—meaning all five clones could be finished off simultaneously. He just needed to finish with the Jedi.
The Twi'lek tried to land a strike at his legs—the General raised her with elusive speed, avoiding the fate of becoming a cripple. And simultaneously, he kicked the girl in the chest with all his might. Like a doll, she soared into the air, slamming into a ceiling tile. The Mirialan was distracted for only a moment—but that was enough for the General to land a strike with the speed of light.
Only the vaunted Force saved her from the fate of falling with a severed head—instead, the General's green blade sheared off the upper part of her headdress.
"Nyx, help General Secura!" The Mirialan hissed in pain as her own blade stopped two of the General's identical energy weapons. The twin strike, like a hammer, crashed down on her, nearly knocking the hilt from her weakened hands.
The General noticed that one of the clones rushed nimbly to the unconscious Twi'lek and, grabbing her by the arms, dragged her aside toward the place where the surviving clones were hunkered down—the entrance to the last barracks on the right side. No matter—let them reload their weapons—fighting the Mirialan and parrying their volleys would be much more fun.
Meanwhile, the Mirialan, crouching under the General's slashing thrust, thrust an open palm toward him. The cyborg felt something like a strike from a huge ram throw him to the very beginning of the corridor.
The durasteel body crashed onto the lifeless bodies of the droids destroyed at the very beginning of the battle.
"Not bad at all, Jedi," had he a mouth full of lips, the General would certainly have smiled. But all he could allow himself in this body was a lowering of his intonation.
"I'm only just warming up," in the Mirialan's hands was her wounded friend's sword. Igniting the blue blade, she took a waiting stance, as if inviting the General to continue the duel.
Excellent, he was always glad for that.
Grievous rushed into the attack with a furious roar. The spinning blades left scorched furrows on the walls and ceiling of the corridor—marks that he, General Grievous, was on the offensive here.
This time, he landed one strike from above, another—a cutting one from the side.
The Mirialan, not without effort, parried both thrusts with her blades. The General saw how her face was contorted with a grimace of pain, and so he increased the pressure of his mechanical arms, as if trying to crush the opponent.
The Jedi's teeth ground. True music for his auditory receptors. The General pressed more, increasing the onslaught to the limit. The Jedi looked at him with a slight hint of panic.
Superb. He would achieve her despair, and then kill her. It would bring him more pleasure.
And at that moment he felt a powerful kick from the Jedi's boot into the lower part of his faceplate. Cybernetics wailed, reporting malfunctions—the calibration of several systems had slipped.
The General staggered back but managed to notice the opponent performed a backflip and landed on her feet, holding the green blade before her and the blue one back.
She was ready for battle again.
Wonderful. Games were over.
The General narrowed his eyes, not rushing to go on the offensive—the cybernetic part of his body needed time to restore its previous operational status.
This was what the Mirialan took advantage of.
For an ordinary sentient, or even a droid, her actions would have looked incredibly fast. But not for the General, whose reaction speed allowed him to react to what was happening no worse than the majority of the Jedi he had killed.
The Mirialan rushed at him like a cannonball. But a couple of meters before the General, she unexpectedly jumped, pushing off the wall with her foot, and crashed down on the cyborg from above, intending to divide him into three parts with a double diagonal strike of her blades, which she had raised over her head.
Stupid.
The General easily shifted to the side just enough to step out of the line of attack, struck with a metallic knee into the Jedi's gut, and spinning around his axis, counterattacked.
One blade, like a razor, sheared off the upper part of the lightsaber with the blue blade, leaving a deep burn on the Mirialan's shoulder. The second strike, the General aimed at the back area, preparing to pin the fallen Jedi to the floor with a vertical strike.
Grievous roared triumphantly, anticipating another trophy. Yes, the blade with the blue blade was ruined and unfit for further use. But that green one, belonging to the Mirialan, he would gladly add to his collection.
The sound of a blaster shot and the feeling that he lacked air occurred in the same instant.
Cybernetics stated a hit to the neck—a blaster bolt damaged the larynx, punching a hole in it. The General lost concentration for a moment—and that was enough to miss, driving the blade into the wall instead of the enemy's right kidney.
The latter, not waiting around, spiraled up like a tornado, landing on her feet and delivering a deep cut on the General's chest plates. The attack hit at the end of its reach—otherwise he wouldn't have avoided damage to the organic parts enclosed in the armored frame.
Grievous, acting with lightning speed, landed a blow with a durasteel fist to the woman's head, which sent her flying aside and falling unconscious to the floor. Oversensitive receptors heard a slight crunch. The General hoped with grim anticipation that he had heard the sound of a breaking skull.
Now, parrying the volleys of the clones who rushed to their Jedi general's rescue, Grievous was finally able to see the source of his breathing problem.
"Cadet!" he growled, turning into a hollow cough.
Before him, standing in the doorway of the barracks where battle droids had broken in only recently, was a human teenager in the red-and-blue uniform of a clone cadet, holding an E-5. The little scum hadn't been able to follow up on his success and was now frantically slapping a tiny palm against the jammed carbine.
Filth. The General took a step forward, grabbing the pup by the scruff of the neck.
"Put the child down!" reached him the shout of that clone who was dragging the Twi'lek away. A clone officer, presumably, the General decided, seeing how the opponent took aim at him with a pair of blaster pistols.
"With pleasure," Grievous wheezed.
In a lightning movement, his arms split, turning into four manipulators. One of which he continued to wield a lightsaber, reflecting blue blaster shots.
With the second, he shifted his grip on the struggling clone, catching him by the collarbone, which he broke in the next second like a glass rod. A child's piercing shriek rang out in the air.
"Why, you!" He registered the footsteps of approaching clones from the direction where he had thrown the Jedi. Let them—they wouldn't make it in time anyway.
Grievous paid no attention to the threats, continuing his revenge.
Like a turbolaser shot, elusive to the eye and lethal, the third manipulator caught the child in the neck area. The boy, eyes wide with terror, began to resist convulsively, trying to the best of his human strength to inflict damage with his legs or his intact arm. Continuing to squeeze his fingers around the neck, Grievous enjoyed how his body's cybernetic equipment recorded the toddler's labored breathing and the pressure on the larynx and trachea.
He listened to the child's hysterical screams but didn't even think of backing down.
A general cannot leave the battlefield without a triumph. And the terror of which the clones were becoming witnesses was exactly what was needed to complete this raid.
Grievous turned to the opponent, holding the child before him as a shield. The shooting stopped instantly. Wonderful.
The cyborg returned the lightsaber to his belt and returned his arms to their original position. Now he held the child by the throat with one hand, facing the clones. And he began to slowly retreat toward the free exit from the barracks.
"Hey, put the boy down," a clone commander—Nyx, it seemed—approached him, raising his blaster barrels toward the ceiling in a conciliatory gesture. It was useless information, however. "And you can leave. We won't touch you."
Grievous enjoyed the sight. More clones began to appear in the corridor—there were now fifty. Fewer than he'd have liked, but still. The General ensured he had reached the turn into a corridor where there were no obstacles to retreat.
"The same fate awaits you all," he wheezed, allowing the clones to realize the irreparability of what was to come.
"Noooooo!" the cry from dozens of throats could not drown out Grievous's gurgling, wicked laughter as he, crushing the boy's cervical vertebrae, larynx, trachea, muscles, tendons, and spinal cord to dust with one mechanical hand, drove a precise, crushing strike of his free manipulator through the boy's back, shattering the unhardened spine and internal organs. Durasteel fingers, emerging from the mangled, bloody sternum, unclenched. With a disgusting squelching sound, the still-warm heart fell onto the shiny floor.
Tearing the child's body in two, the cyborg threw the bloody pieces of the cadet at the frozen clones and bolted.
General Grievous knew perfectly well when to retreat.
***
Yes, Savage was strong.
Not even that—he was devilishly strong. And as mad as a nexu.
He crashed down on me like an avalanche, swinging his lightsaber staff like a club. A pathetic sight.
No, I understand that Dooku hadn't had a chance to train him properly. But, to be honest—he'd have been better off leaving him that huge battleaxe—it would have caused less laughter.
And yet, even without special training, Opress spun his weapon with such a frantic speed as I had never seen before. It's like a giant swinging a swing—until the latter starts rotating around its mounts like a pair of socks tossed into a washing machine drum.
Despite the lack of technique, his method of killing… was impressive.
I avoided the strikes, parried them, forcing his crude but powerful strikes to slide along my blade, losing their initial kinetic energy. Ideally, this should have worn him out while I preserved my own strength.
But that was just theory.
Five minutes were enough for me to understand why this bastard had managed to chop up so many Jedi. The Force is truly a wonder. Especially when the power growing within you helps to refresh even the most distant memories.
In the Jedi Order, for all the drawbacks, there were advantages—they didn't allow Force adepts to develop spontaneously. They taught children how to handle their gift.
But, for the love of... a Jedi space academy crashed on Dathomir, and Order representatives met with the locals. Did Yoda, who was present there, really not realize what a treasure trove of recruits for the Order the planet Dathomir was?
Or—a potential threat to everything.
Nightsister magic was now streaming through Savage's body, intensifying his natural rage, making the Zabrak stronger with every strike. Like any wild beast, he wasn't bound by any rules of engagement. Having no idea of lightsaber combat forms, he nonetheless swung the axe earlier and the lightsaber staff now with equal effectiveness.
Fighting a Jedi against Savage is akin to a duel between a home-grown karateka and a street fighter. The first "works" strictly by the book—the second is guided by his own experience and intuition. The Jedi, bound by rules, couldn't harm him—not one.
Instead, he had a field day, unleashing his uncontrolled rage on the opponent. This onslaught, the Dark Side billowing around him—it all disoriented the Jedi, who clung to their inner Zen, that is, calmness. And as a consequence—they died.
Luckily, I have no problem with emotions.
And Juyo is the best answer to the chaos the Zabrak presented as fencing.
Chaos and brute force clashed with unpredictability and subtle calculation.
The opponent snorted in surprise when I reflected his attack and retreated to regroup. He had started the battle furiously, expecting to end our clash quickly. Now he had to reconsider his strategy. And thinking for sentients on Mother Talzin's steroids is not the best course.
"You are no ordinary Jedi," he stated.
"And it took you ten minutes of fighting to realize that?" I wondered. Seriously, dude, do you see Jedi in armor every day?
"Yes," Savage nodded, spinning the lightsaber staff hilt in his hand.
"What can you do," I shrugged. "Slowing down is also movement."
"Huh?" the Zabrak's eyebrows shot up.
"Light in your face, here's a sword," the pun was mediocre, of course. But the experience proved invaluable. With his gift for the Dark Side, Savage turned out to be completely unprepared for the opposition of Dun Möch. What is Dooku even doing? A student is not grass—he won't grow on his own. Though, who said he needed a student specifically?
Darth Maul was an animal to Palpatine—a blind executor of his will. Bane's Sith were famous for controlling their emotions, being calculating and cunning maniacs. Which of that could the Zabrak boast? Only the ability to swing a lightsaber and track prey.
So Savage was just a bargaining chip, worth less than the dirt under his fingernails.
Opress rushed forward again, and the corridor filled with the hiss and crackle of lightsabers that had managed to touch each other several times in the interval between two heartbeats.
The Zabrak threw himself at me, striving to push through with brute force. And, like water at low tide, he retreated, hitting an insurmountable defense. And with every time, a more threatening expression appeared on his face. He was clearly not used to prolonged sparring, and it was starting to irritate him.
Behind my back, the battle was still boiling—through the Force, I felt that Olee and the clones had only a little left to crush the reinforcement squad. Literally—three enemy machines. Wonderful, the girl clearly exceeds my expectations. Well, or I underestimate her.
But something else concerned me. I couldn't spot even a hint of a DNA container among his clothes. In the animated series, it was a healthy white jar, barely fitting in the hand. But the Zabrak had nothing!
"Savage," tossing the beast several meters aside, I noticed with unhidden surprise that at the entrance to the genetic storage stood a tall—no, even HUGE—heavily built man with short black hair, an arrogant expression, and a lightsaber hilt on his belt. Next to which was secured a DNA container! "Why are you still messing around with this puny Jedi?"
Well yes, compared to these two fans of using "Growth-Aid" topically, I'm just a dwarf, inferior to them both in build and height—by two heads each. Now that's for certain.
"He is strong," the Zabrak growled. "I cannot break his defense, Baron! Help me!"
"Stupid animal," the giant threw out with contempt, releasing a scarlet blade from the hilt. "Watch and learn!"
"Teacher?" Olee was at my side, her face clearly showing bewilderment. Gripping her lightsaber, the girl pointed the blade toward the man. "What kind of swamp-Hutt is this?"
"Baron Nex Kirvan," the acolyte saluted us in a typical Makashi gesture. "At your service, Jedi. You will be the ninth."
"What are you talking about?" I felt adrenaline boiling in the girl after the battle, which like a tsunami was sweeping all barriers before her mind.
"I finished off eight Jedi and their Padawans on the plains of Rullag," he declared boastfully. "And you will be my next victims."
With those words, he unclipped the DNA container from his belt and tossed it into the startled Opress's hands.
"Deliver this to General Grievous," he ordered.
"But I must fight the Jedi," the big man countered sullenly.
"You will follow my orders!" Nex ground his teeth. Obviously, there was no agreement between both acolytes. And if we didn't interfere—they might just fight each other. While we just stand and watch.
"Sir," Balda appeared on the left. "They have the DNA container."
"I see," without taking their eyes off us, the acolytes continued to argue over who was carrying out priority orders. Come on, just a little more, I just need you to lose your vigilance for a moment.
"We need to take it," the commando continued his thought.
"I know."
"Then why aren't you doing anything?" Gregor intervened.
"Waiting," the Baron turned his head toward his ally with irritation. Bingo.
"For what?" Olee wondered.
"For this," the Force gathered under my cloak was released in a monstrous Wave that caught both acolytes like a hurricane wind with light trash. Somersaulting in the air, both blockheads crashed to the floor dozens of meters from where they had stood before.
"Idiot!" the Baron dusted off his knees. "Is the container intact?"
"I thought you had it," Savage snapped back.
"Fools," Olee called out to them, demonstrating the Kaminoan property in her hands, which she had snatched from the acolytes' hands with the Force when I sent them flying. Good girl. I had the same thoughts and was about to voice them when she did it all herself. It's pleasant when teacher and student think alike. "Not looking for this, are you?"
Despite the distance separating us, the animal roar of Savage rushing to the attack reached my ears. The man, however, hanging his blade on his belt, hurried to retreat into a side corridor.
"Olee, Balda," I ordered. "Deal with the Baron. Gregor," with a slight movement of my hand, I tossed the DNA container into the clone's hands. "Preserve it at all costs and deliver it to headquarters. Come on, run!"
Taking my customary Juyo stance, I thought with relief that now I had certainly gotten rid of witnesses. Which meant I wouldn't have to hold back. I'd already seen through his tactics. But he hadn't seen through mine.
Time to kill.
***
Tasi Gri scanned his interlocutor from head to foot with distrust.
Not that he expected anything inconvenient to his plans, but now, in simple clothes, without a sword, he felt practically defenseless. Given that the organizer of the meeting was decked out in weapons from head to foot.
"I take it you're the one who called me?" He sat down at the agreed-upon table in a joint on Coruscant's lower levels. A sordid place for profit-seekers, criminals of all stripes, and just various rabble. A perfect place to get lost.
"Tasi Gri," the mechanical voice, though distorted by a helmet vocoder, could still only belong to a woman.
"That's right," the Nautolan shook his head tentacles. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"My… employer would like to offer you a job."
"Of what kind?" the former Jedi perked up.
"Everything within the framework of your previous place of employment," the interlocutor in blue-gray Mandalorian armor hinted vaguely.
"I don't understand what you're getting at," Tasi interrupted her. The suspicion that this entire meeting was not what he thought only grew stronger.
His connection to the Force was not the strongest in the Temple. Rather, even the opposite. And to survive surrounded by peers where everyone has a midi-chlorian count at least half as much again as yours, one had to develop other talents. Therefore, Yoda met the over-aged Youngling halfway, assigned him to the Service Corps. Well, they love hard workers there. In ten years, he managed to achieve the rank of Jedi Knight, which was essentially a nonsense for the Corps. The old warehouse manager left this mortal world—he was an elderly Zabrak. Tasi readily took up what even in the Service Corps people shirked—work in the Warehouses. Life in the warehouses was excellent—full and warm. There were no takers for dealing with the clearing of debris left over almost from the time of the Hundred-Year Darkness. Therefore, he was appointed the new manager literally a week later. Sorting through junk and trash, he sent a lot to the recycler—some things were several thousand years old. At first, the Corps checked every container going to the landfill, then every fifth, then every hundredth, until they stopped doing it altogether. A few years later, practically the entire Order's quartermaster service fell on his shoulders.
Having secured the trust of senior Jedi, he could almost openly sell various trifles on the black market that no one in the Temple had needed for a long time. Given the Order's budget—it was an invisible grain.
And then, thunder struck—his small side-jobs were uncovered. The Council didn't bother looking for specific evidence—it was enough that his name appeared as the sellers of one of the "Trants."
Expulsion from the Order is not a pleasant procedure. After the Council's fateful decision, you have to walk through the entire Entrance Hall like someone spat upon, while thousands of sentients, some of whom you called your friends, look at you.
The Council seized absolutely everything from him—lightsaber, clothes, money saved in dummy accounts… If he hadn't managed to safeguard himself in advance by renting a small apartment paid for in advance and a small supply of cash—it's unknown how he would have lived these four months.
"My employer is perfectly aware that you used to handle the Order's quartermaster service perfectly. By the way, how much time passed from the sale of equipment from the Hangars before the Council caught on and sniffed everything out?"
"Eight months," Gri replied coldly. He didn't like the conversation at all.
"A person of such talents cannot languish on the lower levels, don't you think?"
"I doubt anyone is interested in a Nautolan without a professional education who has spent his entire conscious life digging through the Order's old junk, from where he was kicked out," the former Jedi tried to gather all the Force available to him to assess the situation.
"My employer has great interests in the Unknown Regions and Wild Space. We could use a person capable of clearing the debris of Temple Warehouses. Consider that your resume."
"Well, and a sentient with the gift of feeling the Force never hurts, right?" Tasi smiled. It seemed he had tensed up for nothing. Ordinary "gray" traders. "How much?"
"Your advance is on this chip," she handed over a tiny piece of plastic. "And a series of instructions from your new management. Ideally—start immediately."
The woman rose from the table, tossing a few small credits on it.
Coming level with the Nautolan, she leaned over his ear and said quietly.
"My employer is not the type of person to forgive failures. But honest labor is always rewarded. Remember that, if you ever think of poking your nose where you shouldn't."
Tasi felt a chill run down his spine. It seemed he had agreed to this meeting in vain after all.
***
Savage could have parted with his life long ago had he tried to react to every movement of his opponent individually. Instead, he called upon the Force with all his might, allowing it to stream through him and guide his hand. Everything as Count Dooku had taught. He surrendered to the Dark Side entirely, unconditionally. His weapon became an extension of the Force, and he answered the Jedi's persistent attack with impenetrable defense.
More precisely, he tried.
The man moved truly incredibly fast. The cascade of strikes he unleashed on the Zabrak awakened a dormant sense of fear in him. Several times the Jedi managed to reach him—long scorch marks remained on the armor. Savage mentally thanked Mother Talzin for this generous gift—armor imbued with Nightsister sorcery. Had it not been for them—his body would already be sporting a good dozen fresh scars.
Meanwhile, the Jedi's attacks intensified every time, as if he were a spring that had suddenly uncoiled. The Zabrak couldn't fathom how such an adept could appear in the Order. Dooku had said they were all weaklings. And Savage only confirmed this every time, drenching his weapon in Jedi blood.
But now, his opponent seemed to have gone off the rails.
Stinging pain on his leg sobered Opress, pulling him back to reality. The opponent's blade left a deep cut on his thigh, making the Zabrak now unable to lean on it properly.
The Jedi easily parried his desperate thrust, unexpectedly breaking the distance between them.
"You are weak," he noted. "Your rage is impressive. But you do not control it. It overcomes you and turns you into a blind animal."
"What do you know of rage, Jedi," Savage snorted. He was directing the Force into his wounded leg, hoping it would relieve the pain. Unfortunately, the Dark Side does not know how to heal—Count Dooku had spoken of this.
"Rather more than you," a mockery sounded from under the Jedi's mask. "And I could teach you…"
"I already have a teacher!" the Zabrak snapped back, threateningly shaking his horned head.
"The old man who himself understands little of the Dark Side?" The Jedi roared with laughter. "A pathetic sight. You have the gift of the Dark Side, Savage. I don't think, of course, you were born this way—Mother Talzin strengthened your connection to the Force."
At the mention of the only living being he respected, the Zabrak felt molten gold splashing through his veins. Purest rage, the boundaries of which he could only grasp during the ruthless tortures from the Count. Но теперь забрак достиг ее сам. And the Darkness would help him crush the Jedi.
With a furious roar, Dooku's student rushed to the attack; for the first time, he resorted to his full potential.
He pushed the Jedi back with fierce, sharp strikes, forcing the man in armor to retreat. However, for a moment it seemed to Savage that the man had made his maneuver a moment before the attack itself occurred. Performing a backflip, the Jedi was a good dozen meters before his opponent, but Opress was relentless in his advance, jumping forward sharply and nearly managing to land a slashing strike on the Jedi's leg.
His blade was deflected at the last second, but he quickly followed up with another series of powerful thrusts and stabs. The Jedi continued to retreat, steadily pushed back by the fury of Savage's mad attack.
The Zabrak felt he could no longer breathe. Inside, it was as if a nuclear reactor were melting, providing energy but inevitably destined to lead to sad consequences.
"Ah, so you seem to have reached your peak," the armored mask erupted in a smirk. A very insulting and low one. Savage intensified his onslaught on the opponent, hoping as before to break him with brute force alone. But the Jedi relentlessly avoided meeting the sword, parrying, deflecting, or even slipping away from the strikes of his lightsaber staff.
Every time the Zabrak tried to change tactics or move to the basics of some form Count Dooku had shown him, the Jedi anticipated it, reacted, and seized the advantage. And again he had to plunge deeper into the white-hot reactor to draw new strength.
"A pity, I thought you were stronger than what you're demonstrating now," disappointment seeped from the man's voice. So deep and sincere that the Zabrak wondered for a moment—perhaps this strange Jedi really could teach him something. Especially since he himself fought in clouds of the Dark Side, using it as easily and naturally as if he were born a Sith.
"Teach me," as their blades crossed, the Zabrak looked into the eye slits of the mask. "I want to become stronger! I will become the best Sith!"
"Sorry kid, but there's no room in my team for weaklings like you," a Force Push again threw the Zabrak a dozen meters forward. Baring his teeth, Savage looked up from under his brow at the Jedi approaching him, whose golden-yellow blade traced intricate patterns.
Suddenly, the future revealed itself to him.
The denouement was inevitable. The Force in the Jedi was too great. Only some unexpected maneuver could save Savage, but for that he simply lacked imagination. And the opponent didn't give much time for reflection.
The Nightbrother grew desperate. He jumped, spun, dived: he was wild and reckless in his retreat, striving only to preserve his life. A plan matured in his head—retreat to the landing shuttles, escape. Let Count Dooku be enraged with him, but it was better than being killed. And about the Jedi's intentions, he no longer had any doubt.
Savage felt terror seize him for the first time. For the first time in his entire life, he had encountered a killer. Not a mad and temperamental one like himself. But a cold and calculating maniac who had planned from beginning to end what was now to happen.
And the Zabrak ran. Flight—the only way to preserve his life.
Behind him a triumphant laughter rang out. The Jedi gave chase.
Corridors and passages came in the way, but as soon as the Zabrak tried to enter one of them, several clones jumped out, opening a hurricane of fire on him. Reflecting a few volleys back at the shooters, the Nightbrother hurried to retreat. He got confused in the corridors, becoming a hostage of the Kaminoans' uniform construction and layout. And there was no time to study. Running had taken too much strength, and now he just limped, moving clumsily down a corridor that ended in a single turn. It seems behind it—the hangar doors where the starfighter Kirvan flew in on stands. To the Hutts with the Baron—his own life was more precious.
Meanwhile, on the edge of his perception, he registered the Jedi relentlessly approaching him. He advanced as inevitably as Death itself. But Savage still hoped to outplay the opponent.
Turning the corner, he noted with pleasure that he was right—it was indeed the hangar doors. The chance for salvation proved feasible.
With a touch of the Force, he forced the gates to swing open, letting him into a huge room. Yes, the hangar he so needed. And he had every chance to escape—his eyes lit up as soon as he noticed a group of CIS droids guarding Kirvan's ship.
"Hey you, help!" he roared. A dozen B-1s, like obedient blockheads, scurried toward him. "Delay the Jedi, I must escape!"
"Roger, roger," the squad leader responded. Savage looked with a smirk at the black figure of the Jedi just approaching the hangar doors. The Zabrak himself had only a few steps left. And he would be saved.
The Jedi destroyed the droids without slowing his leisurely pace for a moment. Savage launched pre-flight procedures, swearing for all he was worth at the Baron, who had thought to de-energize the starship. He needed two more seconds for the starfighter that had detached from the hangar to break out of this place.
Like two golden discs, the Jedi's blades (!) sliced through the planes on both sides of the cockpit, dividing the Belbullab-22 into three parts. With a crash, the parts of the starfighter fell to the hangar floor.
At the last moment, Savage kicked out the canopy with the Force and soared up like a candle, avoiding the fate of dying in the explosion of the starfighter's fuel tanks.
Landing on his feet, the Zabrak rolled forward, trying to dissipate the impact energy. Rising to his feet, he looked with hatred at the approaching figure, in whose hands two golden blades glowed.
The Zabrak stood in the center of the empty hangar, breathing heavily and frequently, slightly bent and head bowed. Behind him the remains of the starfighter smoldered. Before him—his death was moving. He raised his eyes as soon as the Jedi stepped inside. But when he looked at the opponent, not even a hint of defeat read in his eyes.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," he said.
There were fewer than five meters between them, but Savage had enough space to quickly grab his own lightsaber staff. There was no longer that aura of omnipotence around the Jedi that had so frightened the Zabrak. Deciding the opponent had lost his concentration, the Zabrak decided to risk it. Even the strongest adepts needed rest and couldn't be in constant contact with the Force. And Savage was created to control the Dark Side, which he now absorbed like moisture on a sunny day in the desert.
The battle resumed, but it was Opress who had to retreat. Without proper training, even a huge ability to manipulate the Force was unable to predict the unknown sequences of the Jedi's combat style. His mind was flooded with millions of variants of what the opponent might undertake, but he lacked the experience to resort to any of them. Overwhelmed, he retreated with an uneven gait, trying to survive with the desperation of a drowning man.
After the first few thrusts, Savage realized he couldn't win. The Jedi had been prepared for this moment all his life. After years of training, he had mastered all forms of lightsaber combat—something the Zabrak lacked. Then he had honed his skill for decades, perfecting every movement and sequence until he became a perfect tool. Perhaps even that's why the Republic sent him here—to avenge the killed Jedi he had torn apart across the galaxy. Try as he might, Savage was no match for him.
The Jedi was relentless in his pressure. It seemed he was holding six swords, not two: he attacked with a specific rhythm whose goal was to knock the opponent off his feet, simultaneously landing strikes with one blade from above and the other from below, additionally from opposite sides and at different angles. Savage had no choice but to retreat... further... and further. He fought now with a single goal: to stay alive as long as possible. Only one hope gave him the strength to manifest persistence in the face of overwhelming inequality; one advantage he had saved for last.
He knew he was retreating toward the outer hangar door. The chance for salvation—to break out, disappear into the ocean, seize any transport, and flee.
Waging the battle, the combatants turned a corner and found themselves near the curved wall of the hangar—a hundred meters wide and no less than twenty meters high. Savage shifted to a solid defense, reacting to each of the opponent's strikes, remembering that any of the thrusts could become fatal for him.
The Force told him they were very close—the door control panel was just behind him. He just needed to be distracted for a moment to turn on the mechanism…
Only lightning reaction saved him from an unexpected sharp thrust from the Jedi. A golden blade whistled over Savage's head, cutting off several horns. He himself in the same second tried to impale the Jedi with one of his blades, but the Temple-dweller harshly checked this attempt. Deflecting Savage's sword to the side with his blade, the Jedi struck the Zabrak in the face with his armored mask with all his might.
Growling in pain, wiping the blood that gushed over his eyes, Opress performed a backflip, landing near the console. The Force told him where the coveted device was, and he struck the panel with his palm with all his might…
And missed.
Wiping away the blood, he found to his surprise that the console he was aiming for was cleanly sliced off. Moreover, judging by the melted edges—a lightsaber had worked here.
In the moment it took Savage to realize he had miscalculated and that his opponent could still finish what he started, the Jedi made a Force push. Having knocked the Zabrak off his feet for a fraction of a second, he pinned him to the ill-fated hangar door with a new Force Push. It could have cost him his life had he not guessed at the last moment to shroud himself in the Force. And even so, he now felt beaten, battered, and half-stunned.
And across from him, businesslike examining the lightsaber hilt dropped by the Zabrak, stood the Jedi.
"Simple and tasteless," he noted. In the same second, the lightsaber staff hilt crunched, turning into an ocean of debris falling to the floor. And only a pair of tiny scarlet stones remained hovering over the Jedi's open palm.
"But the crystals—are interesting," he concluded. "I'll take those for myself, perhaps."
With those words, he put the stones in a case on his belt.
"Mercy," the Zabrak wheezed. "I will serve you."
"I have enough servants," the Jedi shrugged. "And even so, what's the point in leaving you alive?"
"You are no Jedi," Savage said. "I felt the Dark Side in you. You are a Sith just like me. We should help each other to crush the Jedi."
"You are immensely mistaken, Savage Opress, to consider me a Jedi or a Sith," the man said with disappointment. Then, something seemed to change in his behavior. As if he had urgent business. "But I'm afraid you simply won't have time to understand how you were mistaken. I must go."
Savage growled, feeling the Force Wave the man unleashed, turning away from him.
The Jedi's attack had nothing subtle about it: a massive shockwave blew out the hangar wall as if it were made of paper. The compression strike had enough power to shatter the bones in Savage's body and tear the skin from his body.
His last memory was unbearable pain that slowly receded until his body reached the ocean surface.
And then came darkness.
***
The Baron was supposed to look like a coward fleeing the battlefield to the Padawan. Right up until she realized that moving on his trail, she had blundered into a spacious repair shop with one entrance and one exit.
Which turned out to be blocked as soon as Balda tried to follow her—a red blade pierced the control panel. The commando landed several strong blows on the door, but the metal did not yield.
"Well, now we're alone, Padawan," the Dark Jedi said with anticipation, holding his weapon at the ready.
"I won't say I'm glad of it," Olee smirked, activating her own blade. "But only one of us will walk out of here."
"And I even know who that will be," Nex Kirvan roared with laughter, crashing down on the fragile girl from the height of his enormous stature.
He used his dislike of the Jedi to continue filling himself with the power of the dark Force.
With his cloak billowing, Kirvan opened himself to the all-consuming rage boiling within him and rushed forward, appearing before the tiny girl dressed in ridiculous armor. Emotions fueled his power, and he felt the might of the Dark Side envelop him and grow inside.
Nex, immersed deep in the Force, felt the trajectories of every thrust of the Jedi student. Without breaking his contact with the Dark Side, he directed the sword blade now left, now right, and finally, giving the blade a ten-degree tilt, he was able to parry the girl's blade with a strong strike so that she nearly dropped the lightsaber hilt from her hands.
He had no need to try and calculate her actions—back in his time as a Jedi, he had mastered practically all possible lightsaber combat forms: Makashi and Djem So, remaining a devotee specifically of the latter combat style, where his outstanding physical abilities could shine. Shii-Cho, which he had studied as a Youngling, now seemed laughable compared to the arsenal of lethal techniques he was applying against the Padawan.
The ease with which she had fallen into a trap so simple that even a clone avoided it didn't speak in favor of her cleverness. So Kirvan was counting on a quick victory.
The air filled with the intertwining of energy waves of the Force emanating from the people fighting each other. Everything around merged into a chaotic and roaring knot of bodies, lightsabers, and furious cries. The girl turned out to be not so simple, withstanding the Dark Jedi's onslaught without any damage to herself. Short in height, clearly physically developed, she managed even in her armor to use Ataru acrobatics, which at times left Nex in a daze.
The fight seemed to start taking an even more chaotic character. It seemed the room was simply filled with the hissing noise of meeting blades of two colors. The telekinetic strikes they exchanged tossed numerous tools and unsecured items into the air, turning them into pieces of junk. Nex advanced, chasing the girl all over the by no means small workshop, reveling in her desperate attempts to oppose anything to his onslaught.
At some point, he managed to catch her. The girl's blade dropped lower than it should have, indicating she was worn out. He thrust his left hand forward, and blue lightning erupted from his fingertips. Twisting, the lines of energy flew forward, intending to knock the girl off her feet and turn her body into a charred ember inside her own armor.
She almost managed to reflect the attack—the blade held at the correct angle absorbed practically all the power of the Dark Side. But the forces were unequal—he was incomparably more powerful than her in the Dark Arts.
She screamed in pain as the lightning began to tear her body, made semi-transparent for a time by the dark power passing through her. Kirvan enjoyed her pain until she threw him back with a Force Push with her last strength.
The Padawan stood, swaying on her feet. Steam rose from her in all directions—though the onslaught of lightning was a short but powerful burst of the Force, it obeyed physical laws. Therefore, Nex could guess from his own experience that the Padawan now had a truly hellish dryness in her mouth. Not to mention that she was just irresistibly drawn to sleep.
He doubled his physical power with the Force, taking the sword hilt with two hands and swinging, delivered a strike from above to cut his opponent in half. The Jedi dodged and directed the strike of her sword with a light blue blade across Kirvan's throat. He parried the threat at the last moment and immediately delivered a lashing kick to the Jedi's stomach. From the strike, the girl flew to the workshop wall, folded in half, and, swaying, tried to rise.
Nex with a smile, enjoying every moment, slowly approached the exhausted girl, pondering how to end her life. She had taken almost two hours from him, during which he could have found the DNA sample stolen from him and flown away, leaving Grievous to amuse himself with the clones.
Before the Dark Jedi could do anything, part of the wall where the workshop entrance had been located literally disappeared, slamming into the opposite wall. Through the dust and stone chips, another protagonist appeared in the workshop.
"Step away from her and you shall live," the Jedi suggested. A second later, the same clone who had accompanied the girl in pursuit of the Baron appeared in the workshop behind him.
Kirvan roared with laughter from his heart, raising his blade over the defeated Padawan…
The lunge was so powerful that the Dark Jedi felt breakfast coming to his throat. At the last second, he managed to deflect the Jedi's yellow blade to the side, upon which the giant would have inevitably been skewered like a nerf on a spit.
"Take her to the medical center," the Jedi tossed the order to the clone over his shoulder. "You answer for her with your head!"
"As always, sir!" Nex watched with a smirk as the clone approached the girl, carefully hoisting her onto his shoulder. He couldn't follow her further fate—the Jedi appeared in his field of vision.
He stood in a typical Niman stance, which caused an eruption of laughter in the Baron.
"I believe we are not acquainted," he bowed gallantly. "Nex Kirvan. With whom do I have the honor of fighting?"
"I'll be sure to tell you that when I start cutting you to pieces," the Jedi promised.
Nex frowned. Order teaching didn't allow threatening sentients or harming them in any way. It seemed before him was another apostate from the rules. And likely not one of the last… Count Dooku would reward him if the Baron brought him a new underling—especially one as promising as this one.
"I think I have an offer for you," the Baron broke into a smile.
"That's your problem," the Jedi broke from his spot.
***
Fatigue was knocking him off his feet, but Niall, leaning on the consoles, didn't allow himself to relax for a second. Not now. He had to hold on, with his last strength.
The prolonged five-hour battle had cost them the loss of all the Venators, two-thirds of the Acclamators, and half of the Marauders. Only the Hammerheads felt just superb—not a single ship had received serious damage or left the battle for a minute. Hundreds of debris—their own and the Separatists' ships—filled Kamino's orbit, forming an artificial obstacle for the enemy's fast but clumsy bombers.
Niall felt dizzy. Blood was flowing from his nose, no longer in drops but in real streams. However, he didn't relax his control for a second.
The reduction in the number of wingmen in the squadron, though a extremely sad fact, simultaneously allowed the Commodore to strengthen his control over the remaining ones.
He felt his uniform was soaked through, but he could do nothing about it. To be distracted meant to miss the chance to destroy the Separatist fleet once and for all. Therefore, he had to hold on.
Having lost almost half the squadron, Declann nonetheless achieved great success. The CIS fleet essentially did not exist. The enemy's overwhelming numerical superiority the Commodore was able to reduce in the shortest time after taking command with the help of concentrating volleys on selected targets. Only the light destroyers and Grievous's dreadnought remained—tough nuts, the price of victory over which had cost almost all the Venators. Only the Salvation managed to survive, having been moved to the reserve in time. In the heat of the battle, Declann had forbidden removing the deflector shields on the ships' hangars for air wing rotation—given the ubiquitous, seemingly undiminished Vultures, such a maneuver could have ended very poorly. Therefore, the Salvation's hangars, under the protection of two damaged Marauders, were used for this purpose.
The remaining ships were to decide the fate of the last ships of Grievous's fleet. Seeing the destruction of the rest of the fleet, they were in no hurry to engage in battle at medium and close ranges, limiting themselves to exchanges of fire from long distances.
However, it didn't play a special role. Now Niall was gathering the remnants of his strength—in literal and figurative senses—to deliver the final, decisive blow. Strange as it might sound in the realities of its time, this required keeping the ships in a tight formation. By overlapping deflector fields, the result of improving collective protection was achieved. And stretching the lines was risky—the remaining enemy starships had been avoiding line battle since the start of the battle. The damage they had was not of great harm, as it was the result of starfighter raids whose guns couldn't pierce the heavy armor of the capital ships.
Just a little more effort was required…
"The enemy is turning," the first officer's voice sounded at his ear. "They are preparing to bolt."
Niall saw and felt the same, but before the instruments could record it. Just as he felt a small Kaminoan-built ship break through from Tipoca City to Grievous's dreadnought. And only after that did the remnants of the General's fleet make an attempt to retreat.
"They're jumping to hyperspace," the first officer reported, pointing through the transparisteel to the dots of enemy ships disappearing in short light flashes. "We've won, sir!"
"Well, that's good then," and only now did Niall allow himself to let go of control of the situation.
And lose consciousness.
***
The Baron jumped high, dodging a cross strike from the opponent, and landed behind a heap of mangled metal that had once been a B-2 droid. Casting a quick glance at the Jedi, Nex landed the most powerful telekinetic strike he was capable of on the debris, trying to bring down a rain of scrap metal on the opponent.
Kirvan was roaring; he was filled with bloodlust. It was so strong he was ready to kill everyone in a row, including the droids assigned to him, if any had come to hand. He wanted to kill; he needed to kill, to do it with his own hands. The Dark Side demanded sacrifices—and this Jedi must become the next. And most likely the last in this battle.
The invasion had failed. The droid squads, despite initial success, were torn apart from ambushes set for them throughout the complex by the clever clones. The fleet in orbit had suffered truly huge losses—as soon as the Republicans realized why so many fragments were raining on their heads, dozens of starfighters rose from Tipoca City's hangars to exterminate Separatist reinforcements while they were still in the air.
There was not the slightest desire to linger here.
Therefore, he was rapidly retreating from the central buildings.
Count Dooku had supplied them with a detailed plan of the entire complex. Including the location of individual Kaminoan transport vehicles. Nex's own starfighter had been destroyed under unknown circumstances—the commlink had chirped about this with a pre-arranged signal.
There was no time to sort out the reasons for the ship's explosion—he should find a new way to get out of here.
Luckily, he remembered the map of the Kaminoan city perfectly. One transition separated him from a small "saucer" where Kamino's leadership kept transport possessing hyperdrives.
But first he should get rid of the Jedi pressing on him.
His yellow blade flickered with frantic speed, deflecting shots from a droid squad that had somehow managed to survive and was nearby. Truly—this was the support of the Dark Side, nothing else.
Nex ran toward the hangar with a smile. How simple it all turned out…
He braked, barely managing to realize that right before him, the hangar doors swung open, revealing two female Jedi in gray-gold armor similar to what he had already seen on the Padawan.
He knew only one of them—Adi Gallia. The face of the second—blonde and pretty—was vaguely familiar. Но он предпочел не предаваться воспоминаниям.
The Jedi cut him off from the path to salvation.
"Surrender, Nex, and you won't be harmed," the Tholothian said loudly, activating her blade. So she remembered him too.
"I'm not interested in captivity," the Dark Jedi took a combat stance, ready for battle. The Force told him these two would be weaker than the one who was approaching him from the back.
"He's mine!" the roar of the male Jedi moving behind him touched his ears. Nex turned, watching with a start as the opponent collapsed the part of the platform where the droids hindering his advance stood with a powerful Force Wave. The Baron himself was not a weak adept—on the contrary, the Jedi considered him one of the strongest. But even he was not capable of such a thing. At least not after two hours of battle.
The Jedi rushed toward him across the battlefield. Several dozen meters separated them, so Nex, seeing that both women had decided to refrain from intervening, prepared to meet the opponent.
He shouldn't risk it in this battle. He was too valuable for the Separatist movement.
Therefore, the Dark Jedi, waiting for the opponent, pumped streams of the Dark Side through himself. Anger filled him again, increasing the power of the Force in him. A cry of malice and hatred broke from his throat. Powerful Dark Side energy erupted outward, destroying part of the transition before his eyes, which sent debris from the structure flying in all directions.
A chasm about thirty meters wide formed between him and the Jedi—a distance that could be crossed, but not without risk to life.
Smirking at how the Jedi hesitated, stopping at the edge of the chasm, the Dark Jedi mockingly waved a hand at him, directing another Force Push into the base of the platform. The structure couldn't compete with the power of the Dark Side, so the remains of the platform and transition crashed down with a roar. A pity he couldn't see how it all ended.
He turned toward the Jedi again and rushed at them. His rage and power rushed before him like a palpable wave. Adi Gallia turned out to be before him, with her blue blade held high. Kirvan barely looked at her. He simply extended a hand forward, bypassed the Jedi's insufficient defense, grabbed her by the throat, and with the Force slammed the Master into the durable surface of the transition. Kicking the body aside with a heavy boot, he moved toward the white-haired female Jedi.
She, in turn, moved to meet her former brother in the Order. Nex tried to attack the Jedi girl from the side, but she jumped, letting the Dark Acolyte's blade pass under her feet and spinning mid-flight, slammed her heavy heel into his jaw.
Nex felt the taste of blood. Excellent. This would only spur him on.
The opponents closed in. For a moment they stood a meter apart, studying each other.
Then the duel resumed. The former Jedi dodged the lilac-colored blade and kicked the girl in the stomach. Looming over her, he lowered his sword in a lethal strike.
The blonde twisted desperately, avoiding a life-threatening wound. Performing a leg sweep, she was able to catch Nyx by surprise, sending the giant falling onto the permacrete with a deafening crash. It seemed the force of the fall was such that the tiny Jedi even jumped in place.
Resourceful bitch! Nex cursed mentally, returning to his feet.
With a gaze full of hatred, he stared at the place where a blonde Jedi had stood only recently. Now, having tumbled from a huge local beast, the same Jedi stood beside the girl. And judging by the fact that water was just flowing off him in streams—he had indeed had to get soaked. It was pleasing—at least some delight for his strained eyes.
"Siri, I'll take it from here," the masked Jedi tossed out. "Take care of Adi. I won't take long to get rid of him."
"So the story goes," Nex smirked, thrusting a scarlet blade toward him. He was ready to continue the battle. And craved it like no other.
The Jedi with the yellow blade rushed forward and intercepted the strike. Both products of the Temple looked into each other's faces again, and the battle going on around them ceased to exist for them.
For them there was no one around—only the two of them. Nex himself with his malice and rage, and Rick Dougan with his calmness and composure. It took him no great effort to finally identify who he was dealing with. Not many Jedi walk around in closed armor and with face masks. Well, it's flattering that it's he who will break this suspicious chain of victories for a single Jedi.
Their blades met with a hissing sound. To the tension of their muscles, each added the Force, but neither had an obvious advantage. Nex growled furiously in Dougan's face. Only the furrowed brow and the firmly set line of the lips gave away the tension the externally absolutely calm Dark Jedi was experiencing. His opponent, however, expressed absolutely nothing.
Like a void in the Force, he was not felt in it, which couldn't help but infuriate the Baron. He had once tried to master such a Force technique himself but failed. And now, some Jedi…
Irritation fueled his anger. Dougan forced the Baron to retreat; he delivered several powerful sword strikes from different sides. Kilran retreated, fighting back, unable to answer with his own strikes. The Jedi tried to cut off the acolyte's head, but the latter desperately managed to block his strikes again and again.
With a spin, Dougan delivered a kick to the opponent's chest, complementing the strike with the Force. Nex was thrown back ten meters. He flipped over himself in flight and landed on his feet, crouching at the edge of the destroyed transition.
The Baron, burning with hatred, threw his sword at the Jedi. He controlled its flight with the Force. The flight path was to close on the opponent's neck. But as soon as his feet touched the floor, the latter jumped again, spreading out horizontally in the air, and the sword flew past without touching him.
While Dougan was still in the air, Kirvan sent a powerful stream of destructive energy into him, which crashed into the Jedi, catching him by surprise. It threw him toward the Jedi girl, who had rushed to his aid. Having knocked the blonde over, the Jedi fell flat on the floor. The girl, as if she weighed nothing, rolled away several meters like a limp doll and froze, without the slightest movement.
Nex did not hesitate. At the peak of his anger, screaming with hatred, he jumped twenty meters up—toward both Jedi. Being at the top point of the jump, he returned his lightsaber with the Force, taking it with two hands by the hilt, pointing the blade down, intending to pin the lying Jedi to the floor of the Kaminoan building.
But Dougan, at the last moment, managed to react. Catching the Baron in the air with the Force, he threw him deep into the hangar with a sharp Jerk.
The fallen Jedi flew back-first into one of the parked ships with a thud, feeling several ribs crack. But the Dark Side responded instantly, forcing him to leap to his feet in an effort to repel the attack. Rage, bolstered by pain, fed him like a supernova.
However, the glance cast at the battlefield caused internal triumph in him. Dougan, instead of rushing to the attack, was near the Jedi girl and was now crouching beside her. Clearly he was trying to check if she was alive.
The perfect chance.
Kirvan released all his rage. Branched blue lightning poured from the fingertips of both hands, ready to burn everything before him. A technique he had practiced for many years. Requiring a great strain of his own strength and deep communion with the Dark Side.
But now, he seemed to himself a deity capable of anything. Therefore, deciding that the probability of striking two Jedi was much higher than one, he fueled his rage until both Jedi were hidden from him by an impenetrable stream of lightning. No one could survive in such a hell.
Therefore, Nex, pleased with himself, jumped to the ground with a wave of the Force and ran aboard a Republic Nu-type attack shuttle, and flopped into the pilot's seat, leaning back as the seat rose along the rail guides. Excellent, standard controls, and the machine itself was ready for flight—he just needed to take the controls in his hands.
The ship rose above the hangar floor, obedient to his will. The Baron with a self-satisfied smile cast a sliding glance toward the Jedi corpses, intending to receive satisfaction from his own labors.
The muscles of his right eye twitched involuntarily.
Both Jedi were alive. A huge area of the hangar around them had been scorched by the Dark Side, turned into a charred desert. And the pair of Jedi were in the center of a completely undamaged patch of the hangar. A perfectly circular patch…
It was as if an impenetrable dome had protected both. Sufficient to resist the Dark Side of the Force, which in itself was an unprecedented fact.
Nex turned the attack ship's nose, opening fire with the laser cannons. However, the Jedi lightning-fast snatched his own weapon, parrying the energy projectiles toward the shooter. The onboard computer reported hull damage near the nose sensors. Not critical, but the prospects of such a battle were ambiguous.
The Baron, steeply banking and simultaneously squeezing everything out of the engine the creators had designed it for, left Tipoca City. Taking advantage of the fact that no one had yet reported the shuttle's capture, he successfully cleared the atmosphere, entering the coordinates of Serenno into the navigation computer.
And only after he failed to respond twice to callsign requests from a "Headhunter" patrol did the meat droids guess to give chase.
But too late. The lights of hyperspace unfolded before the Baron.