Above Kinman Doriana's holoprojector, the cowl‑shadowed face of Darth Sidious appeared. The man bowed obsequiously, greeting his master.
His true master, not Chancellor Palpatine.
"Report, Doriana."
"The Spaarti Creations facility has been completely destroyed," he said with a pleased smile, expecting praise. "The assault transport crashed into the structures exactly as planned. The wreckage has been examined, and the investigators, as intended, discovered several lightsabers. Now the public blames the Jedi for what happened."
"Excellent." The corners of Sidious's mouth crept upward. The master was pleased with his work—as always.
"I see disapproval on your face, Kinman. You still consider the operation wrong?"
"Not quite, my lord." The man licked his lips. "I bow before your wisdom, but… why destroy the facility? It could have been of enormous service to the Separatist cause!"
Spaarti Creations was a unique plant capable of changing its product line overnight. It was the only truly profitable enterprise of Cartao in particular and the entire system as a whole. On the Chancellor's orders, Kinman had arrived here at the head of a clone detachment to begin production of cloning cylinders. Palpatine had certain plans for them, but Darth Sidious had intervened in time. He did not wish to strengthen the Republic—and cloning cylinders capable of producing clones dozens of times faster than the Kaminoans' would have allowed the CIS's enemy to not only replace their losses in the shortest terms, but also rapidly build up their own army.
The plan was laughably simple. As soon as the Republic took control of the facility and began producing cloning cylinders, the CIS would invade the system and land troops. The existing clone forces would not have been enough to repel a full‑scale attack, so reinforcements were called in. And a Republic Consular‑class assault corvette, losing control, crashed into the unique plant, completely destroying it.
Such was the official version of events. In reality, the supposed reinforcements were a farce—the ship had long since been captured by the Separatists, was remotely piloted, and there had never been any Jedi on board. But the lightsabers left at the crash site, scraps of Jedi robes, and charred, unrecognizable corpses—all this created excellent ground for an enraged public. And the cries of discontent would fall upon the Order's head. By the time the Jedi could figure out the situation, all evidence would have been destroyed in the recyclers. The Order would be unable either to confirm or deny the dispatch of Jedi, as doing so would mean declassifying wartime operational data, which was strictly forbidden by the Chancellor's wartime rescript.
A perfect combination. Yet doubts gnawed at Kinman—after all, the facility could have been used to the Confederacy's benefit.
"Neither side in this war can keep that complex under their control," Sidious explained patiently. "If the CIS were to take it, a strike group of Jedi—real Jedi—would immediately arrive and take it back, continuing cylinder production. I do not intend to waste time on a facility that constantly changes hands, no matter how valuable it is. In such a game it is simpler to reshuffle all the cards and deal anew. Especially when you can gain a long‑term advantage from it."
"In that respect, the plan has been very successful," Doriana nodded. "Jedi will not be welcome here for a very long time—Lord Binalie, the ruler of Cartao, will see to that. Even the local hero, Jedi Torles, who lived here for more than a year, is now, in the eyes of Cartao's citizens, nothing more than dirt under their feet."
"Precisely the intention," Sidious smiled again. "When the time comes to destroy the Jedi, not a single inhabitant in this sector, remembering the ruthless annihilation of Spaarti Creations, will utter a word in their defense."
"Quite true," Doriana nodded again. "Will there be new orders, my lord?"
"No," Sidious replied calmly. "Remain on Cartao as long as necessary, and then return to your position on Coruscant." Doriana dipped his head in assent. "Now, to another matter. According to my information, not all cloning cylinders were destroyed. Why?"
"Ten thousand units were stored at one of the product depots," Doriana explained. "Unfortunately, I learned of this too late. But I dare assure you, none of the locals know they survived. Palpatine has instructed me to load them covertly onto a Republic ship that will arrive shortly and deliver them to the rebuilt fortress on Wayland. The ship's commander has already contacted me—they are on approach."
"Is that so?" Judging by his surprise, Sidious had not possessed that information, which was very strange. "By my data they were not supposed to arrive for at least another day."
"Should I disobey the order?" Doriana perked up. He could stage a covert sabotage and all the cloning cylinders would be destroyed in an instant.
"No, act in accordance with Palpatine's instructions," Sidious decided. "Several thousand cylinders will not make much difference. Let the Chancellor indulge his vanity."
"As you command, my lord." Kinman bowed in a gesture of deep gratitude.
Sidious cut the connection. The man leaned back in his chair, awaiting the Chancellor's representative, who was to arrive in his quarters and report the completion of loading such a valuable cargo, preserved at a distant depot.
In his post as Palpatine's adviser, Doriana had contrived to pull off a sufficient number of operations for the benefit of the CIS, behind which stood his true benefactor—Darth Sidious.
Kinman Doriana had been born on Naboo and had engaged in politics from a young age in accordance with his homeworld's traditions. On that basis, he had bonded with an outstanding politician—Sheev Palpatine, a native of the same world. After the latter's election to the Galactic Senate, Doriana had joined him as an aide.
He himself no longer remembered exactly when his secret service to Darth Sidious had begun, but his memory insisted that that momentous event had occurred after the move to the Republic's capital. Kinman feared that one day his service to his hidden master would be revealed, yet he never ceased working for two masters for even a minute.
After Palpatine entered the circle of advisers to former Supreme Chancellor Valorum, at Sidious's command Doriana began a relationship with the senior aide of the Republic's highest official—Sei Taria. A woman, in general, pleasant, but plainly foolish. They parted ways after the Senate chose Palpatine as the new head of state. For some time Kinman had still maintained contact with her, but a month ago she had vanished without a trace—like most of Valorum's staff. Considering that the Loyalist Committee had set a course toward rapprochement with the former Chancellor, Sidious had demanded he renew his relations with Taria, but the man had been unable to fulfill this assignment.
Before the war, Doriana, under the name Commander Stratis, had gone into the Unknown Regions on Sidious's orders with the mission to destroy the Outbound Flight experiment—an attempt to go beyond the galaxy's limits. Kinman had nearly failed that task when an alien with a difficult‑to‑pronounce name had destroyed his fifteen‑ship special detachment. However, thanks to his innate eloquence, Kinman had managed to persuade Thrawn of the necessity of destroying the Jedi expedition. Even then, everything had failed to go according to plan. The Chiss had only destroyed Outbound Flight's weapons, intending to force it to retreat. Fortunately, the Jedi leading the expedition had tried to kill him, and Doriana had made his move, directing the Trade Federation's remaining droid fighters to annihilate the expedition. Later, he had reported the extremely competent alien to Sidious, and the Sith had planned to recruit him into his service in due course.
With the start of the war, Palpatine had made little use of his aide's remarkable talents, burying him under routine work.
Darth Sidious, however, had not forgotten his loyal servant. He had arranged the assassination of Jedi Dougan; true, at the last moment, the master had ordered the operation's goal changed, shifting the focus to an attempt on Palpatine's life. Kinman had coped with that as well.
And now—his mission on Cartao. Which, too, had ended brilliantly.
A chime from the entrance door drew the man out of his thoughts. Glancing at the chrono, the adviser was surprised to realize how much time had passed without his noticing. It was surely the commander of the Acclamator that had arrived for the cylinders, intending to invite him aboard.
"Good day, Adviser Doriana," as the door to his suite slid open, he saw a strange pair on the threshold. A blue‑skinned Twi'lek in a revealing outfit—leggings and jacket, bristling with weapons. And beside her stood a protocol droid of a model unfamiliar to him. "I have been sent to inform you that loading has been completed."
"Pleasant news," the man muttered, casting a glance at his prepared luggage. The exotic girl was surely the captain's servant—who else could she be? Kinman shared Sidious's contemptuous attitude toward non‑human species, holding the same view: all other races of the galaxy existed to serve humans as their masters. "Take my luggage…"
"Sardonic remark," the protocol droid's vocabulator rasped. "This worthless meatbag believes we are stevedores."
"How dare you!" Doriana turned toward the strange pair to put the mechanical servant in his place, but feeling the muzzle of a blaster press into his gut, he abruptly wilted.
"Do not make any sudden moves, Adviser," the Twi'lek smiled. "Unless you want an extra hole in your body…"
***
"Under the circumstances, my dear," Count Dooku's hologram flickered in time with the crash of thunder and the splendor of a web of lightning that lit up the sky from the palace grounds to the horizon and perhaps beyond. "The Confederacy cannot afford to continue expending resources on your now unprofitable world. You may keep the surviving droids for yourselves."
"You promised!" The middle‑aged woman struck the holoprojector's casing with her fist as hard as she could. "You assured my brother that you would provide us with all‑round support! Our mines supplied you with rare‑earth metals for an entire year…!"
"And in return you received a contingent of droids, equipment, and military supplies that helped you first defeat the Republic and then the loyalists," the Count reminded her. "It is not my fault that you are incapable, unlike your late brother, of keeping your planet in an iron grip."
"Jabiim is completely under my control!" the woman snapped, teeth grinding.
"Indeed?" The former Jedi raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Then how were your mines blown up? Equipment worth billions of credits, built to special order, is now just a pile of scrap. Yet you claim the loyalists have been completely wiped out. Who then organized these acts of sabotage?"
Moyra Stratus found nothing to say. She only clenched her fists helplessly, in a futile effort to quell the rage tearing at her.
"At this, the Confederacy's cooperation with your world ends," Dooku concluded. "On behalf of the Separatist Senate, I thank you for the inexhaustible reserves you placed at our disposal."
The holographic figure faded from the air, and the last Huttese phrases never reached his interlocutor.
"Do you not find it amusing that everything happened precisely as I predicted?" From a dark corner of the office, an alien woman stepped forward, a sly smile playing across her face. "Dooku took what he wanted and abandoned you the moment the planet became unprofitable."
"You are reveling in your correctness, aren't you, Lady Atroxa?" the late Alto's sister spat through clenched teeth. "I would not recommend making jokes with me—one order to the Nimbuses is enough to keep you from leaving this planet alive."
"How easily Jabiimites dispose of those who extend a helping hand to them," the Rutian Twi'lek shook her head. "It seems to be a family trait with you."
"I have no desire to hear your lectures," Moyra looked into the Twi'lek's eyes without fear. "What are you offering?"
"Help," the exotic alien said with a sense of complete superiority, gliding over to a chair and lowering herself into it with easy grace.
After the Jedi incursion and the death of Alto Stratus, Jabiim's radical factions had been thrown into confusion. Without a strong and resolute leader, they had noticeably lost ground—until Moyra, the fallen leader's half‑sister, had coolly butchered all competitors for planetary leadership and taken the reins into her own hands.
It had taken her three months to finally bring the planet under her control. Driving the Republic‑loyal rebels into the impassable mountains, she had kept her enemies encircled until they began to starve. And when, exhausted and enfeebled, they finally decided to surrender to the victors' mercy, she had, without the slightest hesitation, exterminated every last one of them.
Jabiim had become a truly valuable acquisition for the CIS. Rich in rare but extraordinarily expensive ores, the world had practically been giving them away for a song to Count Dooku, in exchange receiving badly needed medicines, provisions, and construction materials.
The crisis in this "friendship" had come a week ago, when, for inexplicable reasons, every mine on the planet had been blown up. The unique mining equipment, as the former Jedi had correctly noted, could not be restored. It had been built to individual orders several hundred years ago for fabulous sums, so now the impoverished populace simply could not, not only restart the mines, but even clear the rubble to remove the bodies of the dead miners.
It was at this difficult moment that the one calling herself Darth Atroxa had appeared on the planet. Suspiciously similar to a Jedi, she had nevertheless declared herself an enemy of the Republic. And offered help in restoring the planet's only source of income.
Moyra had scornfully rejected the initiative, sending the girl to a cell. Then she had contacted the Confederacy's leader.
"And what, precisely, do you mean by 'help'?" Moyra inquired with a smirk. The fact that the Twi'lek had escaped from the dungeon and how she had managed it could be determined later. Now, on the brink of despair, the last of the Stratus line had decided to hear the third side out. The option of asking the Republic for aid after the bloodbath her brother had unleashed on the Jedi expeditionary corps was one she did not even consider.
"I represent the interests of a state you likely have never heard of," the Twi'lek began obliquely. "But unlike the Republic and the Confederacy, we value every world that joins us. Naturally, we are prepared to finance the rebirth of your economy."
"For what purpose?" Moyra narrowed her eyes. She had not believed in noble motives since she had first learned to walk. "Jedi compassion?"
The Twi'lek snorted derisively.
"We are by no means Jedi," she informed her. "The Eternal Empire of Zakuul bases its relations with partners on the principle of mutual benefit."
"You want our resources," Moyra understood.
"Yes," the Twi'lek answered without guile. "But unlike the Confederacy and the Republic, we are prepared to pay a fair price for them. Including providing military assistance."
"For what? Neither power is interested in us any longer."
"I doubt the Count will pass up the opportunity to get his greedy hands back on the mines as soon as they resume operation," Atroxa smiled.
"And you are prepared to challenge the CIS if their ships appear in our system?" Moyra was surprised. One had to be insane to challenge those who had been fighting the Republic for a year.
"We are capable of destroying any invasion force when it appears," Atroxa placed the logical emphasis exactly where it belonged.
Stratus fell into thought. The proposal was extremely tempting. But both the Republic and the Confederacy had previously taken what they needed from them, giving practically nothing in return. How could an Empire no one had ever heard of promise what two superpowers had failed to provide?
"You said you serve an Empire," the woman said cautiously. "As far as I am aware of forms of government, such a state is ruled by an Emperor?"
"Of course," Atroxa nodded. "We are ruled by the Eternal Emperor."
"It sounds like you are offering a deal that will cost us our sovereignty."
"What is better for your people, Moyra? To remain poor but proud and independent, or to become part of a prosperous power that guarantees you not only protection and economic flourishing, but also fair treatment from the authorities?"
"Anyone can promise anything," Stratus flicked her hair. "The Republic promised much while taking our resources. And when the plague came, we faced it alone. How can your Emperor substantiate his intentions…?"
"Now that is the sort of question worth asking," the Twi'lek looked as though she had been waiting for it. Approaching the holoterminal, she inserted a datachip and brought up its contents for the woman.
"Would you be very surprised to learn that your mine explosions were not the work of the loyalists?" she asked.
"Then whose?!" Moyra demanded skeptically. Who besides those Hutt‑spawned Republic fanatics needed such an outcome? After all, most Jabiimites were miners; they would never destroy the fruit of their own labor.
"Death Watch." The Twi'lek pointed to holostills of two armored figures in Mandalorian armor captured near the mines. She knew little of that people, but she could certainly make out the heavy demolition charges in their hands.
"What is this 'Watch' of yours?" Moyra asked, already calculating whether the Nimbuses could deal with this new enemy beyond their homeworld.
"A radical Mandalorian group preaching terror in order to overthrow the current government," the Twi'lek explained. "These two—Isabet Reau and Dred Priest," she scrolled further and stopped on an image of the pair with their helmets off, again near the mines. "Excellent renegades."
"Where are they?" Moyra hissed, feeling the urge to tear both culprits apart boiling inside her.
"I imagine they are now receiving their fee," Atroxa shrugged. "And I see you do not know that Death Watch is working with Count Dooku."
"What?!"
"Oh, stop being so surprised. Did you truly believe the former Jedi was being honest with you? He got what he wanted and no longer has any use for you. The sabotage is excuse enough to sever all ties. On your own you will never restart the mines, and the Republic will not extend you a helping hand. You have been very skillfully taken for a ride."
Moyra looked at the Twi'lek with suspicion. It was all a bit too neat.
"And how is it that you managed to catch them in the act of these bombings?"
"We? No. This information is from your security droids' memory banks. I merely took measures to extract it from the CIS forces' command post. After all, you so thoughtlessly entrusted the protection of such valuable facilities to them."
"Enough!" Moyra growled. "I want them both."
"My master is ready to render you this service and conduct the hunt for the saboteurs. But he will do it only for his ally, not for a neutral world."
"If we join you, we'll be under CIS fire!"
"We will bring an orbital defense station to Jabiim, where we will station a garrison of troops and equipment in quantities sufficient to prevent any invasion. In addition, I am authorized to pay the cost of restoring Jabiim's mines as a gesture of good will, and to negotiate with you the supply of ore we so badly need at market prices."
"Delivering raw ore from the surface is extremely problematic," Moyra reminded her, nodding toward the raging storm outside the window.
"For that, we will use atmospheric charges to clear the clouds out of the sky and secure safe transport corridors for the bulk carriers. And in orbit our warships will protect the ore haulers all the way to their destination."
"You make everything sound very smooth," the woman said, chewing on her lip. "But I would like to discuss this directly with your Emperor."
"That can be arranged," the Twi'lek beamed. "I have been instructed to inform you that the Emperor will contact you at the first opportunity—as soon as a free minute opens in his busy schedule…"
"The conversation must be in person," Moyra objected at once. She had had enough of this holonet chatter. Dooku had never once bothered to appear here in all the time of their alliance—if her brother had tolerated that, she was not about to continue the practice.
"The Emperor will send a transport for you," the Twi'lek unexpectedly agreed without a single objection. "In the meantime, let us place the orders for your new equipment. There is no time to waste, and I have more work than I can handle."
***
Bama Brimu, representing in the Senate one of the wealthiest sectors of the Core Worlds—Himbarin—was breakfasting in complete solitude.
Frankly speaking, her diplomatic status was a mere fiction that no Senate commission had yet untangled, since all the territories on whose behalf she ostensibly spoke were currently in CIS hands. For ten long months of merciless siege, rumors had reached her now and then from her homeworld, but they were far too fragmentary for any certainty.
Still, there were specifics regarding her sector's fate. The Republic had abandoned them, withdrawing from all the systems at the very start of the war. Since then, not a single attempt had been made to take her home back from the enemy. Well—almost none. They had tried once, and it had ended in a grandiose failure.
All she could do was keep attending the endless sessions and silently listen to the ravings of other senators, hoping that one of these self‑absorbed personages would concern themselves with her home's fate. But everything continued as it always had. That is, nothing happened. It was as if an entire sector did not interest anyone in this crowd of the powerful.
This despite the fact that Himbarin was a concentration of highly industrialized worlds rivaled only by Kuat and Corellia. And now all of them were producing droids, which only further complicated the situation for the armies still in the field.
Had the sector's defense fleet remained intact, she would not have worried so much for the people who had entrusted their welfare to her. But the CIS had crushed the obsolete warships as soon as they invaded the sector's borders. Even the sector's Star Dreadnought had not survived.
And now her homeland groaned under the CIS's metallic heel.
A beep from her commlink drew her attention. It had to be extremely important news to intrude on a senator's private space at so early an hour—the Senate began work after noon, and until then sector representatives were left to themselves. Considering that the sun had only just risen over Coruscant, whoever was trying to contact her must have serious grounds.
"I'm listening," she said, using one of the latest commlink models, into which skillful artisans had embedded a miniature holoprojector. Thus, as soon as she opened the channel, she was somewhat surprised to find on her palm the tiny figure of a person in full armor. Bama was no expert in martial affairs, but one had to have been born in utter backwater not to recognize a Mandalorian.
"You are an early bird, Senator Brimu," though the caller's voice was distorted by a helmet vocabulator, it unquestionably belonged to a woman. "Few of your colleagues are capable of tearing their priceless bodies out of bed at such an hour."
"And who are you, Mandalorian?" the senator inquired coolly.
"You may call me Torch," the obviously false name. But still, it was something. "I have a business proposal for you."
"I do not do business with mercenaries and bandits," Bama said with disdain. "Good day to you…"
"Not even when the matter concerns your homeland?" Torch chuckled.
Bama seared her with a gaze full of anger. Alas, she could not judge its effect.
"You choose painful topics for conversation, mercenary."
"The situation in Himbarin is hardly my fault," the Mandalorian assured her. "But perhaps the man I represent can solve your problems—if we can come to terms."
Things were taking a serious turn. Over the years of her career, Bama had more than once dealt with shady figures, but she had tried to avoid any involvement in all sorts of schemes and dubious deals. Thus she enjoyed enormous respect from her colleagues, many of whom, frankly speaking, could not boast a spotless record.
"I am prepared to listen," she said quietly. Hearing the proposal was not yet a crime.
"My… employer, let us say, takes a very dim view of the Republic's habit of abandoning worlds to the enemy and washing its hands of them. Nor is he particularly pleased by the idea of machines exploiting sentients."
"I'm happy for him."
"He is prepared to help you resolve your problem with CIS occupation throughout the sector."
"There are more than two hundred Banking Clan frigates there!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Even the Republic fleet has given up trying…"
"Unlike your Republic, we do not bury our heads in the sand every time trouble looms," the mercenary remarked. "We possess sufficient forces and means to throw the CIS out of the sector."
"This is the part where you quote an astronomical sum for your services," the senator continued for her.
"Believe me, my employer knows very well that after General Grievous's hour‑long orbital bombardment of the sector capital, almost nothing remains, and money interests him little."
"Is that so?" Now it was the senator's turn to be puzzled. "I was under the impression all noble mercenaries prefer gratitude in hard currency."
"This is where we differ from mercenaries," came a laugh from under the helmet. "We are interested in something entirely different."
"And what would that be?"
"Your secession from the Republic."
"Unacceptable," the response slipped from the senator's lips more by instinct than as a result of reasoned thought. "Himbarin is one of the founders of our state."
"Which abandoned the sector after… Remind me, how many attempts did the Republicans make to retake the sector? One, if I recall correctly. They have made more attempts for Ryloth than for your worlds. Does that not strike you as unfair, given your past merits?"
There was a certain logic in the mercenary's words. The ease with which the Republic had washed its hands of Himbarin had outraged her to every last nerve cell. But there was nothing she could do about it. After the sector had fallen to the Separatists, her political influence had begun to ebb noticeably. She had spent months imploring senators and the Chancellor to send troops… and had achieved nothing. She had had to admit defeat.
Or had she?
"Any decision on secession must be made by the sector government, not the senator," Bama shook her head.
"What government are you talking about?" the Mandalorian asked in genuine surprise. "The one Grievous wiped out? Or the hundreds of survivors who fled to Balmorra? Or do you imagine that Lieutenant Barrow Oicunn is going to challenge your word as the only official of such high rank still alive?"
At the familiar name, the senator frowned. Clearly, her interlocutor's employer had done his homework, to have such information.
Barrow was the only officer of the sector defense fleet to survive the CIS invasion. His family, wife and children, had died in Grievous's bombardment. To have at least some chance of settling accounts with the enemy, the man had gone to serve in the Coruscant Home Defense Fleet. He now held the post of gunnery officer aboard one of its ships. And by coincidence—or not—tonight she and he were supposed to have dinner together.
"Suppose I agree," the senator said, wetting her lips. "Suppose you truly can free my home from the Separatists. What guarantees do I have that you are not working for them, and that all this is not some spectacle Count Dooku is staging to bring yet another part of the Republic under his control, with a veneer of legality…?"
"You may, of course, consider me a mercenary, Senator, but believe me—I have a deep‑seated aversion to swindlers and racketeers. The last doctor I saw diagnosed a severe intolerance of hypocrites and other scum in my system. But if I understand correctly, what you want is guarantees that once the sector is liberated, you will not come under pressure from either the Republic or the CIS?"
"Precisely," her mouth had gone dry. Bama felt she was stepping onto thin ice, but… the prospects were worth it. "Even if you drive away the droid army, the sector will remain in ruins for many years. It is unlikely that any valuables will remain after the occupiers that could even be exchanged for humanitarian aid from the Republic. And I still do not understand your motivation—why would your employer help a sector ravaged by war?"
"My employer is the ruler of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul," the name meant nothing at all to her. It was not even vaguely familiar. "This is a state deep in Wild Space and the Unknown Regions. We are offering to help free your people from occupation in exchange for your joining us. Your territories will not be oppressed, and your population will not become slaves. With our help, you will restore your economy and erase the consequences of occupation. And we, I will not deny it, will gain in our realm a powerful industrial giant. If memory serves, you lag behind only Kuat and Corellia, is that correct?"
"You are well informed," Bama narrowed her eyes.
"Occupational hazard. So, what is your opinion?"
The senator did not answer. She needed to think it all through carefully. Perhaps… no, she would definitely not consult anyone. Given the mood of many senators, who saw Separatist droids in every shadow, this conversation would cause nothing but panic. The decision had to be hers—and only hers.
In the end, if she was to stand at the sector's helm, would she be able to rely on anyone? True allies were a rare commodity these days.
Still, she had at least one.
"I will consider your proposal," she said firmly. "But if your ruler wants an answer, I want to deliver it in person. Negotiating such matters by commlink is the height of bad manners."
"Do not delay your answer," the mercenary snorted. "As soon as the Emperor is on Coruscant, I will contact you and inform you of the time and place of the meeting."
"I shall look forward to your call," Bama said coldly, intending to cut the connection.
"And one last thing, Senator," the tiny Mandalorian figure held her attention. "The Emperor asks that you, if possible, find other senators who would be willing to join the Eternal Empire. Believe my experience—you will not regret it if you succeed."
"I will do all that is in my power," still with ice in her voice, the woman shut off the commlink and returned to her now rather cooled meal. She had to think carefully—such decisions were not to be made over a cup of caf.
***
Despite the dull ache splitting her brain into hundreds of tiny pieces, Olie was still glad her eyes had opened.
Her pupils focused on the ceiling, which was markedly different from the one she remembered before blacking out on Tipoca. And the surroundings were clearly not Kaminoan.
"Welcome back, sleepyhead," a familiar armored figure appeared in her field of view.
"Master," the weakness was certainly there, but not so much that she could not smile. She was without doubt happy about this meeting. "Now you're standing watch over my sleep while I'm stuck in a hospital bed?"
"Who else if not me?" the Jedi snorted.
"Where are we?" the girl turned her head, vaguely recalling she had seen this compartment somewhere before—from another angle, though.
"We're on the Defender," Dougan dispelled her doubts. "We'll be on Coruscant in five hours. We had to take a detour to drop Masters Gallia and Unduli off on Christophsis—as it turns out, treating Jedi on Kamino is problematic. And we gave Aayla and Siri a lift to Ord Pardron."
"Hm?" the girl's brows jumped in surprise.
"Secura is temporarily commanding the 13th Sector Army—until Yoda deems me sufficiently healthy to return to my duties. And Tachi is now serving with us."
"Wow, that's great!" The girl stretched, working the stiffness out of her back. "I was out for a long time—my whole body still hurts."
"Well, what did you expect, charging a Dark Jedi who eats kids like you for breakfast?"
"It was your order, actually!"
"I didn't tell you to walk straight into a trap," the mentor shook his head. "That hero stunt you pulled all on your own. Still, we'll count it as a practical lesson—call it the ancient wisdom of 'do not charge a tank with your rear end bare.'"
"Um, Master, I don't quite get it."
"It's an expression. It means you shouldn't take on something beyond your strength. You're lucky I didn't have far to go to get to you. Otherwise you'd have been number seventeen on his list of former comrades killed."
"He really beat that many?"
"Yoda himself confirmed his words. Sixteen—if you forget the clone legion he also butchered. So you were incredibly lucky to survive."
"How long was I unconscious?"
"A couple of days, give or take a few hours," the mentor shrugged.
"Wow." Her eyes widened. Then she crooked a smile. "Still woke up faster than you."
"Who's arguing?" there was that smirk again. "You're a capable girl."
Olie felt that Rick had put some special meaning into that last phrase. But she sensed no warning signs in the Force that would have made her wary.
"I'm glad you're pleased with my progress," she said.
"How could I not be? Still, you yourself put in a lot of effort to raise your level. Including before you met me."
The tone cut at her ears. The first time she had taken such an aside as an accident; now the Jedi was speaking almost openly.
"Forgive me, but I don't understand, Master…"
The Jedi shook his head reprovingly.
"If there is one thing I hate more than betrayal, it is lies," he said, rising from the edge of her bed.
"I…"
"Be quiet." The black figure stopped at the foot of the bed. Judging by the tilt of his hooded head, he was looking somewhere at the blanket covering her. But the girl knew the man was thinking of something else entirely.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she watched in awed fear to see what would follow. Instinctively, she reached for the Force to locate her lightsaber. But before the response could roll back to her, she spotted the hilt of her weapon lying nearby on a tray of medical instruments. It would take only a moment to have it leap into her hand.
"You know, I was not at all thrilled when the Council foisted a Padawan on me," the Jedi admitted, still not raising his face. "But after you saved my life, feeding me your energy until I could be brought to the ICU, my view of the institution of mentorship changed somewhat. I came to respect you—your restlessness, curiosity, and other qualities appealed to me. And once you began to progress under my guidance, I even started to feel proud of you. And of myself, too. Apparently," he looked at her through the eye‑slits of his mask, "pride truly is a sin. It clouds the mind and dulls the sense of wrongness."
Olie gulped down another lump of air. No doubt remained—her Master knew. If not everything, then most of it.
"You'll laugh, but the coma helped shake the scales from my eyes. I started wondering—why had my perception changed so sharply? Why, instead of my own complexes and egoism, was I suddenly beset by concerns about not how to tear down and build anew, but how to repair. To save as many as possible. Including the children, the Younglings. And I hate children, on principle. Unlike you."
The Padawan lay half‑propped on the bed, afraid to move. Reaching out to her Master through the Force, she realized he had not simply shut himself off. If earlier she had at least faintly sensed him, now it was as if a bronzium statue stood before her. No feelings, no emotions. As if not alive at all. And that terrified her. Her hackles rose, and her skin prickled as if with a thousand tiny needles.
She had never seen her mentor so devoid of feeling.
"When did you figure it all out?" she asked quietly.
"In the Temple, before I met you and Ahsoka," the man answered without hesitation. "The suspicions came to me after I woke up—you know, a hospital bed gives one plenty of time to think. Then I met with Jocasta. And traded a few words about her former Padawan. Educated, literate, well prepared. Fond of ancient Order and galactic history. You know, you underestimate your former master—she did notice how you used the same terminal in the Archives as soon as I left. It seems I did not cover my tracks quite thoroughly enough?"
"The Archives mirror search histories on the main server," the girl admitted, realizing it was pointless to keep silent.
"Yes, that was more or less my guess. Find much of interest?"
The girl did not answer. What good would it do when everything was abundantly clear?
"Jocasta said that it was after that you started obsessing with front‑line assignment. But I suspect you had a very specific teacher in mind. Am I wrong?"
"You're right."
"And how did you get around the Order's rules? Who helped push through your assignment to me in particular? Considering I had only recently returned from the Unknown Regions, and that after Geonosis I had left the Order, I doubt there were many in the Temple eager to help you. Was it someone from the High Council?"
Olie said nothing. Up to this point, she had simply been afraid. Now… one name could ruin any chance of this conversation ending well.
"Your silence means you fear my reaction," Dougan concluded. He stepped away from the bed and began pacing back and forth before her, silently chewing something over in his mind. Starstone had no doubt he would find the answer even without her. And would hardly be pleased by it.
The girl furtively glanced at her lightsaber.
"Don't even think about it," Dougan advised. "I'm many times faster than you. You know almost everything I've taught you, but not what I know myself. Take my word for it—I would need far less time to kill you than you would need to get your weapon. You're a smart girl, and you know you can't pull such stunts with me…"
He froze, cutting his speech off mid‑word. The Padawan felt the Force condense around her Master. And it was certainly not the Light Side.
"It was Windu, wasn't it?" he demanded, barely masking his rage.
"Yes," the girl shuddered.
She felt completely defenseless now. For the first time, the one she called her Teacher showed the full power he had hidden from everyone. A colossal knot of energy that could have replaced the largest star she had ever seen. Yet the Force emanating from Rick Dougan was not the Light.
Tuning herself to her sensations, the girl noted that the Master was equally saturated with the Dark Side. Like ice and flame, they rioted within his frail human vessel, both enthralling and horrifying. No wonder he had hidden this from others. Any Jedi who noticed such a thing would consider it his duty to fight and destroy the monster.
"He needed a spy at my side," Dougan stated. "The blasted spook just will not calm down. Fine, I'll deal with him later. Who put the idea of a Force Bond in your head?"
"Master, I…" she tried to justify herself, but Dougan was at her side in a lightning flash. Olie felt the unbreakable grip of his armored hand on her slender neck. Her throat burned, and her air supply dropped sharply.
"Who?!" he roared in her face. "You spied on me all this time! You read my emotions, thoughts, knowledge! That's the source of your success—you were drawing my knowledge directly into your mind! And sharing your own with me!"
"I… did it… myself…" she croaked out, forcing the words through her constricted windpipe. The monster did not release her throat, but the pressure lessened. Not by much, but enough to keep her from suffocating.
"Explain," the creature in human form demanded.
"It's… hard… to breathe…" she tried to pry his fingers from her neck. She might as well have tried to tear through cruiser armor.
"I'll snap your neck if you don't talk," Dougan promised. "Well?"
"You've… misunderstood… some things," she whispered. "Yes, I saw everything you did in the Archives… Aayla Secura told me what happened on Geonosis. No one could explain what technique you had used to destroy the droids. I reported what I found in the Archives to Master Windu."
"Tell me something I don't know." The man squeezed her larynx lightly.
"He took me to the Temple," she admitted. "We are good friends, like Ahsoka Tano and Plo Koon. And when I told him everything, he asked me to watch you. To report anything strange. He asked me to gain your trust."
"Why?"
"He believed you were a Sith Lord."
"What nonsense. Then again, given his congenital mental limitations… Wait—why 'believed' in the past tense and not 'believes'?"
"He has started doubting his convictions lately. I don't know why."
A faint chuckle reached her from under the mask.
"I think I can guess. What did you manage to tell him?"
"Nothing!" Feeling his anger flare, she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I swear by the Force. Back on the Salvation, I began to doubt you were a Sith at all. And when you were attacked and nearly killed, it became obvious. I was ashamed of what I had done."
"So you saved my life because you were ashamed?!" he bellowed.
"Yes."
"How did you manage to form a Force Bond?"
"I didn't know it would turn out that way!" she sobbed. "Archivist Atris wrote in her diaries that a Jedi girl saved a comrade's life during a war almost four thousand years ago in the same way, feeding his dying body the Force."
"What a foolish child," Dougan's fury vanished as if it had never been, the air around him no longer sizzling. "Bastila Shan did indeed save Darth Revan's life that way—so the Council could later erase his personality and create a new one. Loyal to the Republic, so that the founder of the Sith Empire would destroy his own creation."
"I… I didn't know," tears welled in the girl's eyes. "I came to understand you were no Sith, that your views on the Force are simply different."
"You bound our minds," Rick said, dropping his head into his open hands. "You really are… I don't even have words."
"Forgive me, Master," the girl sobbed. "I wanted to do the right thing… Honestly, I never told Master Windu anything, not even after I looked inside your mind."
"See much?" there was a bitter smirk in the man's voice.
She nodded silently, with a sniff.
"You know I do not belong to this world?"
A nod of affirmation. The galaxy was full of wonders, and mind‑transference was one of them. The paths of the Force were inscrutable, and anything was possible.
"My Master, Emperor Vitiate?"
"Yes," Starstone felt a lump rise in her throat, too large to swallow. Her chin began to tremble.
"The Order's destruction?"
Another nod.
"The Younglings' deaths?"
Olie could no longer hold herself together.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sobbing and shaking all over, she felt like a little girl in a big world where no one cared about her. Abandoned by everyone, deprived of parental love. Doomed to wander lost in a place utterly alien to her.
But she had always loved children. Knowing her own parents had abandoned her in distant childhood, she could not reconcile herself to the idea that a Jedi, the best of the best, would become a butcher who would mercilessly kill innocent children. With the same coldness with which a meatman carves a bantha carcass.
It was unbearably bitter. She wanted, as in childhood, when Troll had cut off her hair, to cower in a corner and weep—until Master Windu came and ordered her to be strong. To conquer her weakness and face danger. To accept her fate.
But how could she accept the fact that the "Hero With No Fear" would kill hundreds of children?
"Come here," her Master said, moving closer and wrapping his arms around her. Olie, feeling her head press against his chestplate, stopped trying to hold back and burst into tears. "There, there…"
The pain that had built up in her over all these months finally found an outlet. She could not tell anyone else about it—no Jedi would ever believe such a thing. Not ever. Not even Master Windu would listen to her. And she herself… what could she do?
Reliving the memories of her nearly dead Master, she had experienced all the pain he had gone through in his former life. She had seen another world through his eyes. She had seen the present and the future. She had seen terror and slaughter of the innocent, orbital bombardments, the destruction of planets. A rebellion crowned with success and long years of attrition. Endless crises and battles. The impotence of the New Republic's government, no different from the failure that had allowed this war to begin.
The invasion of unknown beings from beyond the galaxy. Billions killed, tortured, sacrificed. Desperate attempts to find a path to peace. The fall of Anakin Skywalker's descendant to the Dark Side, bringing even more suffering to the galaxy. Yet another Sith resurgence, another Jedi purge, turmoil… and the triumph of an Empire, successor to the one Darth Sidious planned to create.
Pain and suffering. The deaths of thousands of sentients—Jedi, ordinary people, aliens. Some she knew by name, but most remained strangers.
A path, knowledge of which would have compelled any Jedi to see it as his duty to prevent that future.
And her Master's Plan.
To create a new state on the ruins of the old. To return Jedi and Sith to their roots and compel them to serve not the Force, not selfish impulses, but the sentients who inhabited the galaxy.
A risky enterprise that would likely have no partners.
But perhaps it was meant to be?
She did not know how long she sat there, her cheek pressed to the cold metal of his chestplate, breathing in the tasteless air of the corvette.
"Why did you not tell anyone what you learned?" the Master asked when she stopped crying.
The fit had passed on its own. She even felt somewhat lighter. The girl felt much better, as if she had cast off a crushing weight. Now she felt like the same fidget who had once pestered Master Jocasta. She no longer had to pretend when looking into her teacher's eyes or anyone else's. No need to force herself to smile and act merry. She could simply be herself.
At the same time, as she pulled away from her Master, she unexpectedly felt the warmth and encouragement emanating from him. He was not angry with her.
Her teacher supported her, which meant everything was as it had been between them. Thank the Force—she had been so afraid he would stop training her once he knew the truth. Or something worse.
"They wouldn't understand," she sniffled, returning to her thoughts about her fellow Jedi. "None of them…"
"You are wrong there," the Jedi said pensively. "Some do sympathize with our cause and are ready to join us."
"Really?!" she brightened, wiping away her tears with her hand.
"When have I lied to you?" Dougan asked rhetorically. Seeing the reproach in her eyes, he waved his hand. "Masters Gallia and Unduli, Knights Secura, Omas, and Tachi, the Dark Woman—they are our allies in the restoration of the Eternal Empire with me at its head."
Hearing the familiar names, the girl was stunned. How? Almost everyone who had been on Kamino?! But Master Gallia and Knight Tachi were fierce adherents of the Light, as was the healer Omas…
Olie exhaled, furrowing her brow. She could guess how the recruitment had been accomplished. In the captain's cabin. It seemed the Master had not wasted the time she had spent in oblivion.
But if they had two Masters on their side…
"So maybe…?"
"We will not tell the Council anything," the Jedi shook his head. Seeing her confusion, he explained. "Do not forget—we are bound by the Bond. I strengthened it while you were recovering. So now not only are you in my head, but I am in yours."
"You've shut your thoughts off from me," she said with sadness after reaching out to the Force and brushing against her teacher. It was only fair—she would have to earn his trust again.
"Yes," the man replied. "I must have a few secrets left. In time, I'll loosen the shields—if I am confident we can be completely honest with each other."
"But why didn't you sever the Bond when you learned everything?" she blinked. Her hurt gnawed at her, but the Padawan knew this was her fault. "I betrayed you…"
"No Emperor can do without loyal henchmen," Dougan smirked. "The Force knows, you're a pain in the backside the likes of which are hard to find," the girl caught herself pouting in familiar fashion, ready to be offended. "But I've grown used to you. And since you aren't planning to hand me over to the Jedi…"
"I'm not sure they'd be able to do anything to you," she muttered. "Even if I had told them."
"That's true," the man chuckled. "Does it hurt?"
He touched the skin of her neck exactly where his hand had recently gripped it.
"A little," the girl admitted.
"I trust you'll not hold a grudge about that?" Dougan snorted.
"No, Master," she said honestly. "I should have confessed earlier. But I needed time to accept it all…"
"Next time, think faster, apprentice," the Emperor scolded her good‑naturedly. "Now—you have ten minutes to tidy yourself up and get to the bridge."
The man headed for the exit.
The girl breathed out in relief. The confession had turned out far better than what her imagination had conjured. By the Force, she had even pictured her teacher dragging her off to his cabin…
The girl, as if she had not just been on the brink of death a few minutes ago, fell into a dream, imagining herself in the place of some of her teacher's paramours.
Almost at the door, Dougan stopped abruptly and turned back toward Starstone.
"Olie, for kriff's sake! You were barely out of diapers yesterday, and you're already thinking about that? Shame on you! And doubly shameful to imagine Master Unduli!"
"F‑forgive me, Master!" What an idiot she was. Force Bonds! How embarrassing… "I didn't mean…"
"Right," the Eternal Emperor gave a far more good‑natured chuckle. "As if what's in your head were a secret to me. We'll talk about what you're thinking after you become a Knight."
Though he left, the girl felt her face go hot. Still, she could not resist the temptation to imagine it all over again.
"Blasted little brat!" her teacher's shout reached her.
Contented, the girl slid out from under the blanket and reached for her neatly folded armor by the bed.
At last she had been able to open up, to pour out her heart.
She would seize the opportunity granted to her and save as many Jedi as she could from the fate the Sith had prepared for them.
***
"Were your searches successful?" Yoda asked without opening his eyes.
"They have led to a dead end," Windu said after a pause.
Evening was descending on Coruscant.
Sunrays slanted through the blinds of the meditation room where the Grand Master awaited the Korun. Settling on a soft cushion, the diminutive Jedi had been reflecting. About what? It was useless to guess.
Mace had long been accustomed to his elder companion's nature. His wisdom, directly proportional to his long life, often forced the Korun to consider his own motives.
As more than once before, the Order's second‑in‑command had come for counsel.
"Fruitless your searches are, hm?"
"Yes, Master," Windu exhaled heavily. "I… I was convinced he was Darth Sidious. All those coincidences border on a pattern. It is impossible to treat such things without suspicion."
"Understandable your worries are," Yoda nodded. "About the same I pondered, until Dougan opened himself to me. All doubts vanished at once."
"And yet, I still have certain suspicions," Windu began, then broke off under the elder's gaze. "You are right. The investigation into Dougan should be closed."
"Did General Loatham dispel your doubts?" the Grand Master raised a brow.
"No," Mace sighed. "When I arrived at the Prism, Master Albert informed me that the General had been abducted…"
"Most unpleasant tidings," Yoda mused. "How has this happened? The prison is secret."
"A so‑called Jedi Sarkai arrived with documents signed by Council members ordering the General's transfer," Windu briefly retold the secret prison commandant's account.
"Tricks of the Dark Side these are," Yoda stroked his miniature chin. "From that race, no one has entered the Order for many years."
"Just so, Master," the Korun agreed. "Though I do not fully trust his story, it would be foolish to claim Dougan could have abducted a prisoner from a prison known only to the Council."
"You do not even allow for the version that the Sarkai might be his accomplice?" the Grand Master asked with a sly glance.
Windu allowed himself a smile.
He knew well that his persistence and obstinacy had earned him a poor reputation in the Order. But the Korun always placed the goal above the means of achieving it. Were Yoda anyone else, such friendly teasing would not have gone unpunished. Yet the wise Master possessed a remarkable sense of humor, though he displayed it only in a very narrow circle.
"I admit my mistake, Grand Master," he placed a hand to his chest and bowed respectfully. "I no longer harbor suspicions about him."
"Long ago you should have recognized this as the will of the Force," Yoda said instructively. "Not our enemy is Dougan. But, like the late Qui‑Gon, willful. And his view of life is peculiar. A pity we could not speak with his Master."
"I knew Abhira," Mace admitted. "Not closely, but well enough to say the boy went through a harsh school. The Dark Woman is nowhere near as uncompromising as he was."
"We have discovered the cause of his changing character," Yoda observed. "I am glad you have at last returned."
"Has something happened in the Temple?" the Korun grew wary.
"A disaster I sense," Yoda confessed. "The Chancellor's position troubles me. He shows much attention and favor toward certain Jedi."
"You mean Skywalker," Mace understood.
"And Dougan," the Grand Master added. "The Chancellor is excessively grateful to him for the rescue. We had a conversation. An unpleasant one. The Chancellor's office is planning changes to the army—combining the Sector Armies under Council members' command."
"That might well be the right move," Windu said thoughtfully. "The Chancellor made moffs of men who are neither the most efficient nor the most loyal to the Republic. The scandal around Bailurr and Ravik still has not died down in the Holonet. Among the Council there are none who would neglect their duties."
"One of the new System Armies he intends to give Dougan," Yoda sighed.
"But he is not a Council member," Windu reminded him. A second later his eyes widened as the unspoken implication hit him.
"This is inexcusable," the little Jedi heard his companion's teeth grind. "Even possessing emergency powers, the Chancellor has no jurisdiction over the Jedi Order, much less the Council. He simply cannot…"
"Alas, he can," the Grand Master sighed. "When we became commanders of the Grand Army, we came under the Chancellor's direct authority. He can dictate his will to us."
"Unheard‑of insolence," Windu boiled. "This violates millennia‑old tradition…"
"Yet so it is," Yoda spread his hands. "We spoke with the Chancellor this morning in private. He demands Dougan be accepted as a Council member—as his responsible representative. And he is giving him the territory of System Armies Thirteen and Fourteen. As well as those parts of Hutt Space lying beyond them."
"Outrageous. We must appeal to the Senate and…"
"The senators voted this morning for these changes," Yoda suddenly seemed to have aged another hundred years. "And cemented our subordination to Palpatine."
"By the Force," Windu was stunned. "Dark times have come for the Republic. We must redouble our efforts to find Darth Sidious and his accomplices among the senators. The faster we find him, the sooner these political games will end."
"I had expected something else from you," Yoda chuckled. Meeting the Korun's gaze, he elaborated. "I half‑expected to hear that you were once more taking an interest in Dougan's fate."
The korunal master understood from the faint smile that Yoda was joking.
"We swore loyalty to the Republic and democracy," he reminded him. "Though I find Palpatine's actions distasteful, we will have to accept them."
"With much humility," Yoda echoed. "The Chancellor has promised to smooth over in the Senate the scandal around the near‑defeat at Kamino."
"Yes, I am aware of what happened," Windu frowned. "And yet it was Palpatine and Dougan's idea to send the ships guarding Kamino."
"Old doubts still gnaw at you?" Yoda smiled. The Korun mirrored his expression.
"It turned out all right, luckily," the Grand Master sighed again. "We saved the clone homeworld. Dougan will give us a detailed account of the battle once he arrives."
"He is returning to Coruscant?" Windu was surprised. "I thought he would have no free time after the expansion of his area of responsibility."
"Aayla Secura is substituting for him as moff for now," Yoda explained. "Something else is odd. We promised to send him Jedi. He selected the candidates himself."
"Yes, I personally gave the order," Mace recalled. "And whom has he decided to bring in…?"
Yoda sent him a heavy glance and began listing names.
Windu possessed an absolute memory. He remembered something about every Jedi that usually went into the Archives. And the longer the Grand Master spoke, the more bewildered Mace's usually impassive face became.
"I see no particular logic in this list," Windu confessed. "Of course, all of them are well‑known. But… the Wanderers? What do they have to do with the Hutts?"
"Not once nor twice did they go against the Council's will. Fay and Antilles—Younglings tell legends about them," Yoda reminded him. "Headstrong and rebellious, side by side with dutiful and dependent. There is no system here. It is as if he remembered those names by chance, having once heard them. Something else is strange."
"You mean the Padawans?" Windu recalled several names on the list.
"Precisely. He has offered to take all those who have been left without Masters. To gather a new Padawan Squad. And lead it."
"For more than five thousand years we have followed the rule of 'one Master, one apprentice,'" Windu said. "It is unshakable."
"But there is a rational grain," Yoda said unexpectedly. "Too many students are orphaned in the Temple. They have nothing to do, and drown in their grief. Would it not be better to send them to him? There is much he can teach them—how to stand against Darkness, for example."
"That would be a useful skill," Windu admitted. "Especially given the amount of Sith vermin that has spawned around. If you value my opinion in this matter, Master, I have no objection."
"I was sure what your answer would be," Yoda smiled. Then, glancing at the wall chrono, he rose to his feet. "Come, the time for the Council gathering is near. Dougan and his Padawan will be there. If you have any remaining questions, you will be able to ask him in person."
"Yes, Master Yoda." Windu, letting his "chief" pass ahead, fell into step beside him at an easy pace. Despite the quieting of his conscience, he still had questions.