The scorching sun of Abo pleasantly warmed his skin. A light breeze tousled his hair.
"A wonderful planet," Wright thought. "One could establish a fine resort here. Of course, if the most secret space station of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul wasn't dangling in orbit of the local star."
The New Forge.
That was what the Emperor had named it.
Wright didn't particularly delve into the details of what had happened to the old one.
Officially, the planet was called Lehon—just like the solar system—but for the rest of the galaxy, it remained just another world deep in the space known as the Unknown Regions.
Nearly four thousand years ago, in this system unremarkable at first glance, located beyond the far reaches of explored space, Darth Revan and Darth Malak discovered the Rakata: an ancient race of Force-sensitives who ruled the galaxy long before the birth of the Republic.
Dougan had said that a colossal battle broke out here, resulting in the destruction of the predecessor of that magnificent orbital station now under Sienar's absolute control. The Star Forge—a magnificent engineering marvel created by the Rakata—turned out to be destroyed, as was most of the fleet of the Republic and their adversaries.
Even now, traces of that colossal battle remained in nearby space. Ships of both fleets were consumed by the destructive explosion that destroyed the Star Forge. Everything caught by the shockwaves was deformed and torn to shreds according to physical laws. Mangled pieces of metal wandered in this system for a long time before being absorbed by the New Forge, transforming into parts of itself.
But even now, a huge belt of debris circled Lehon, being captured by the Forge's mechanisms and transformed into something new. Something Sienar himself had designed.
Ancient wreckage turned into starships.
Though there are few of them now—barely two dozen—it is only the beginning. It took a lot of time and all the intellectual genius of the shipbuilder to reconfigure even one assembly line of the Forge to produce new "Slicers." Yes, this is little within the framework of the galaxy—incomparably little against the armadas of the Republic and the Confederacy—but it is only the beginning.
The Jedi assured him that the station's current capabilities were but a small part. The station would reveal its true potential only when a special fuel was delivered to its depths. And then, Kuat of Kuat would bite his elbows, lamenting that this magnificent factory did not belong to him.
Working with automation was habitual for Wright. Despite his company uniting several hundred thousand sentients under its wing, he trusted machines more. That was exactly why no one would ever know what ships were being built on his company's classified slipways, away from human eyes.
He could already be proud that the "Furies" he created had been accepted into the Empire's treasury without any complaints. And, apparently, they had already managed to annoy Kuat—spies from that world were digging their noses into the ground to find out who had built these machines. According to the rumors reaching him, one of the "Furies" had carried away Kuat's most talented scientists. A sensitive blow.
Where Wright had always relied on his own mind, creating his masterpieces according to his designs, other companies preferred to have entire groups of talented engineers designing their equipment. He did not condemn such an approach—every sentient survived in this crazy world on their own.
That was exactly why he, when he first stepped onto the surface of this world, was happy that the only inhabitants of this system were lifeless droids, to whose company he had grown accustomed long ago.
There was no one here to be reckoned with. The locals had died out long ago, shortly after that momentous battle. The huge contingent of Imperial stormtroopers based in the system and the arriving reinforcements for ship crews interested him little. They had their own command, so Wright did not meddle in their affairs. And thus, the man could wander all over the planet without a backward glance, not hesitating to do what he wanted.
The Rakata were a race on the verge of total extinction when they were discovered by those who would become their executioners in the future. In essence, all evidence of their existence outside this tiny world had already been destroyed: Wright had not found a single mention of the Rakata in historical chronicles. Only legends and conjectures.
In particular, one of them attributed the creation of the first hyperdrive to the Rakata. Perhaps it was so, but now such dilemmas should be left only to historians.
Lehon abounded in sandy beaches and virgin forests. Many small tropical islands were separated by the sparkling surface of the blue ocean, whose waters were clear as a baby's tear.
Wright situated his residence on one of the planet's largest islands. A truly giant piece of land was almost entirely covered by dense, lush jungle. Here and there, stone ruins of buildings peeped through, so ancient they seemed decrepit at first. But after studying them closely, Wright concluded that once again the Rakata had managed to surprise those who would come to their home later.
The stone blocks turned out to be a construction material exceeding permacrete in strength. It was no wonder that there were dozens of various buildings on the planet, preserved in relative integrity over such a vast amount of time.
Unfortunately, the largest building was destroyed—someone had destroyed the foundation, causing the entire structure to collapse like a sandcastle at high tide. Restoration work was currently underway there—the sentient commanding the stormtroopers thought it a bright idea to restore what Dougan called the Great Temple. Well, so be it. Let the stormtroopers amuse themselves with whatever they like, as long as they don't interfere.
Therefore, Wright chose a smaller building as his residence.
It had many underground floors—not to mention a truly enormous number of rooms above ground level. Ancient electronics and droids, which were of purely scientific interest to him, were carefully moved to extensive underground levels where he spent time sorting through archaic mechanisms. The above-ground floors were empty for now—except for Sienar's "official" study, from where he watched over the station's work and from time to time immersed himself in new projects, inspired by his research in the secret, underground laboratory.
A new type of interceptor, developed by him based on a hybrid of Rakatan and his own developments, now awaited him at the test range. Faster than its predecessor and even more maneuverable, it had not yet been put into series production, as it required the fine-tuning of many systems. Of course, he could have used the services of any of the clones, but the shipbuilder preferred to bring his product to fruition before presenting it to the Emperor.
Wright stopped near a machine that from afar looked like the models he had modified for basing on the "Slicers." Checking the suit's airtightness, Sienar easily climbed into the cockpit and closed the canopy behind him. Starting the pre-flight preparation, he leaned back in the seat.
Perhaps Dougan's views on the restructuring of the galaxy are idealistic. Perhaps even radical. It is not for him to judge. When the scuffle begins, he will be sipping his Corellian whiskey, sunbathing under the scorching rays of Abo. Those born for it should fight.
His meaning of life was to provide his allies with weapons. Better than what the competitors had. And when the dust from the redivision of the galaxy settles, he will become the largest supplier of military equipment. Most likely, he will not get the New Forge—it's unlikely Dougan is so foolish as to entrust him with this perfect conveyor forever. However, the Jedi promised that Sienar's company would eclipse Kuat and all its production sites.
When the Eternal Empire of Zakuul crushes the Republic and the Confederacy, who will care about companies that couldn't provide their sides with suitable starships? Sienar Systems, from a secondary manufacturer carelessly pushed into the background by Senate bureaucrats, will turn into a hegemon, compared to which the history of Kuat of Kuat's rise to the peaks of power will turn out to be just a fairy tale.
Hearing the readiness signal, the shipbuilder lifted the interceptor off the landing pad.
The test cycle had begun.
***
"Let us proceed to the vote!" the voice rang out from the Chancellor's central platform.
Standing in an empty doorway, Anakin could barely contain his anger.
Hypocrite!
Traitor!
Separatist!
How can he, smiling like that at those he acted against quite recently, promise to bring order to the work of the banks? And the senators? They're just as bad!
This man financed the creation of one of the most productive droid factories on Geonosis. He acted to the detriment of the Republic! And now, they are seriously ready to discuss handing him the reins of the galaxy's most powerful economic structure? Just because Clovis swore to remain neutral?
How blind must one be not to notice this obvious lie?!
How could the Supreme Chancellor, Anakin's friend, express support for this... this...
"Looking at your strained face, Skywalker," a voice said nearby. "You either want to kill Rush Clovis with a look, or you're trying your hardest to keep from galloping to the nearest restroom."
"Master Dougan," Anakin greeted the approaching Jedi through his teeth. What had this one forgotten here?
"Oh, leave those titles when we're alone," the other waved a hand encased in an armored gauntlet. "You can just call me Rick. Or 'Dougan,' if that's comfortable for you."
"There's no particular difference," the Jedi snorted. "You know my attitude toward you even without that."
"As you do mine," the opponent noted. "Shall we clash with lightsabers right here?"
"What?" the 'Hero with No Fear' was taken aback.
"The Dark Side over my shoulder," Dougan chuckled softly. "Come on, relax. I just thought that our mutual dislike had already reached the point where it's time to have a duel."
"Nonsense," Anakin snapped, continuing to devour with his eyes the platform where Clovis stood, awaiting the decision of the Senate members. And next to him, literally a meter away, stood his wife!
Anakin had already cursed his lack of restraint a hundred times.
Seeing the persistent banker trying to kiss his wife in his house, the young Jedi had for a moment succumbed to rage, adorning Clovis's face with a few good blows. And... he almost beat him to death. Praise the Great Force that Padmé intervened!
Why, why did she agree to work together with Clovis to expose the Banking Clan? Why didn't she listen to him, her husband? And how did she even allow this vile slug to remain alone with her! After all that had been between them?!
"Breathe deeper," Dougan advised. "Or steam will come out of your ears."
"What the Hutt do you even want from me?" Skywalker ground his teeth. "What did you forget in the Senate? Shouldn't you return to your Systemic Army? I'm sure they've been waiting for you there."
"Everything in its time," Rick chuckled. "Actually, I had business with Chairman Papanoida. If you haven't heard, both of his daughters were kidnapped to force Pantora to join the Separatists."
"Pointless fuss," Anakin said without taking his eyes off the platform. "Papanoida, like any of their chairmen, decides little. The Assembly can cancel his decision in an instant."
"I thought so too," Dougan admitted. "Until a little bird brought news that all the Assembly members, without exception, were killed. They were flying to a government meeting, and—what a stroke of bad luck—their ships were blown up."
"An attack?" the young Jedi asked warily.
"No, heaven forbid. The engines of five air-speeders just exploded at once. Coincidence, pure and simple," it was impossible to tell from the Jedi Master's voice whether he was joking or serious.
"The Separatists eliminated the people who were in their way," Anakin voiced his thoughts.
"I am of the same opinion," Dougan nodded. "Now Papanoida is the only government member who can dictate his will to his people. It's a good thing his daughters were rescued; otherwise, Senator Chuchi," he nodded toward the girl mentioned, "would be representing her planet in a different Senate."
"It's good that it ended so simply," Skywalker waved it off. Meanwhile, the approving murmur of the senators reached his ears.
"Well, well," Rick said. "It seems the Senate has once again shown its lack of wits and appointed Clovis to the post of head of the Banking Clan."
"It seems so," Skywalker said through his teeth. Clenching his fists until it hurt, he looked with hatred at the platform with Padmé and the banker returning to its place. And only when it flew close enough did Anakin realize that, out of habit, he was watching the Senate session from the lodge accredited for the Naboo mission. And that planet's representative, judging by her frowning, beautiful face, was very unhappy to see him.
"Grand Moff Dougan," Rush Clovis beamed an sincere smile. "Glad to see you."
And then, with ill-concealed coldness, casting a contemptuous glance at the second Jedi, he added:
"General Skywalker," a barely noticeable nod toward him indicated that the banker was not at all glad to see him. And to the Hutt with him; it wasn't for him he had come.
"Likewise," the black figure nodded. "I heard you're to be congratulated on your appointment?"
"Thank you," it did not escape Anakin that the banker bowed to the Jedi Master slightly lower than the rules of propriety required. But he threw it out of his head as soon as he met his wife's eyes.
"Senator Amidala, I need to speak with you," he said.
"Forgive me, General Skywalker," his spouse shook her head. "I don't have time right now. Perhaps next week?"
A flash of anger almost broke the walls of the furnace where the dragon of fear devouring Anakin languished. The dread of losing her swept over him again.
How can she be so heartless? Doesn't she see how much he's hurting? How much he repents for what he's done?
"I will contact you later, Senator," he said quietly, subduing his emotions. Though he could not see Dougan's face under the mask, the sharp turn of the Jedi's head toward him indicated that he had undoubtedly caught his dark emotions.
Anakin was afraid to imagine how further events would have developed if he hadn't heard a tactful cough behind his back. Turning around, he returned his rage to its proper place with a sigh.
"Master Skywalker," the girl addressed him with a bow. "Chancellor Palpatine asked you to stop by."
"Yes, of course," he responded. How timely. He is always timely.
"Master?" Padmé raised an eyebrow. "I thought your Padawan had left the Jedi Order."
"She was expelled," Anakin clarified. "Not everyone is meant to be a Jedi and learn from the best. Aubrie," he pointed at the girl, "is my new apprentice. Much more capable than the previous one."
"Well, blast my eyes," Dougan said in a tone full of surprise. "Aubrie Wyn."
"Master Dougan," the girl reacted as if she had just noticed him. "Is something wrong?"
"No, everything's fine," the Jedi said in a tone full of disappointment.
"In that case, we must hurry," Skywalker said peremptorily. "Good day, Master Dougan, Senator Amidala. Clovis," Anakin looked the banker in the eye, trying to make it clear that his contempt for the new head of the Banking Clan had gone nowhere.
Walking a few steps away from this company, Anakin heard a quiet phrase from the armored Jedi.
"Better hurry before the whole Padawan Pack is snatched away."
***
"Your proposal, Supreme Chancellor, is indeed interesting," the Arkanian's face clearly showed a contemptuous attitude toward his interlocutor. "But why were the clones from Kamino not to your liking?"
"Is that so important?" Palpatine inquired in a neutral tone.
In his thoughts, he was already going through variants for putting the freak to death. Unfortunately, he could not carry out the execution immediately. Therefore, he had to continue playing his role.
"Without a doubt," the pointed-eared one continued in the same politely disinterested tone. "Since you decided to turn to us for help, it means the Kaminoans failed you in some way?"
"Not exactly. Kamino has been attacked repeatedly, which means a threat to our clone factory. There's a war in the galaxy, and we cannot afford to lose our resource of soldiers."
"So, your proposal is in no way related to the fact that the Kaminoans can grow a combat-ready soldier for you only in ten years, while we can in just three months?" the alien noted.
"That fast?" truly, this was new information for the Chancellor. In choosing a new clone supplier, Palpatine had banked on the Arkanians only because Isard had provided data according to which the pointed-eared ones were ready to provide a combat-ready unit to the customer in six months. But not twice as fast.
Khommites—other specialists in cloning—managed in a year. Furthermore, their products were not subject to rapid aging, which was one of the order's conditions. On the contrary, Khommite clones aged much more slowly. Of course, this was a plus for Palpatine's Plan—as soon as the Republic falls, he will need an army and fleet of obedient soldiers to keep the galaxy under control. And unlike the Arkanians, the Khommites categorically refused to implant inhibitor chips, which were to ensure unquestioning fulfillment of the Emergency Orders.
The Arkanians did not possess such a reverent attitude toward their products. Their services were twice as cheap as the Kaminoans', but at the same time, the pointed-eared ones required an order for nearly a billion clones—not just line infantry, but also support personnel and auxiliary branches of service. A huge sum, but thanks to the compliance of the Muuns, who returned the funds stolen by the previous Banking Clan administration, the credits were available. Even more than needed.
And at the same time, the information about such rapid clone production required reflection.
"I was informed of a longer production period," Palpatine decided not to hide such information. "What is the reason?"
"We managed to improve the process of teaching the products, having acquired some technologies from Cartao," the Arkanian admitted frankly. "There is no longer a need for a period of training the products. They come out of the test tubes already with the recipient's memory."
"How curious," Palpatine smiled.
The Doriana Hutts. He was supposed to deliver the preserved Spaarti cylinders to the treasury on Wayland. Instead, he had vanished along with the cargo. The commander of the ship sent for him found that twenty-four hours before their arrival, another Republic Acclamator had been in the system, onto which the preserved specimens had been loaded. What cruiser it was, who sent it, and where it went remained a mystery. Palpatine had thought at first that the Jedi were involved, but he was forced to conclude that the Temple-dwellers had nothing to do with it.
More and more often, it began to seem to him that a third force had appeared on the dejarik board. Too often, planned measures were falling through. Moreover, on both the Republic's side and the Separatists'. The disappearance of the Spaarti cloning cylinders, the traceless disappearance of Dooku's dark acolytes. And then that flash of the Dark Side shortly after the battle of Geonosis. What a pity it hadn't been possible to establish its cause. Sidious had expected that a new, capable adept of the Dark Side would appear in his hands, able to replace the untimely deceased Asajj Ventress. No matter how Dooku boasted, the acolyte was far more capable in the matter of killing Jedi than the other Dark acolytes.
It was also good that Rush Clovis had submissively accepted the offering from Count Dooku, receiving the list of accounts to which the Republic's money had gone. Of course, it could no longer be returned, but it helped him cast himself in a favorable light before the Senate. Now it only remained to make him act in accordance with the Plan. And the clones of the Grand Army would pay a visit to Scipio, establishing Republic control over the banks.
"But since the cloning factories are under attack by the CIS," the Arkanian noted, "then if you agree to our terms, you should place our laboratories in a completely protected location."
"Oh, don't worry," Palpatine smiled. "On one of Coruscant's moons, everything is already prepared so that you can work in complete safety."
"The very heart of the Republic?" the alien smirked. "Excellent, that suits us. Are you ready now to discuss the matter of donors for the work?"
"Professionals should handle the details," the Chancellor smiled. "Only, I'm interested in how quickly you can start production?"
"Two weeks after we sign the contract. The equipment is compact and can be delivered in the shortest possible time."
"You told my assistant that your products would surpass the clones we use now," Sidious pretended to recall some information.
"After we receive a gene sample, it will take us a few days to modify them. Our clones will be faster, stronger, smarter. If now the clones of the Mandalorian mercenary are two to three times superior to the Separatist B1 droids in combat indicators, our product will be five times deadlier. Without undue modesty, I can say that Arkanian technologies are the most advanced in the galaxy. I wonder why the Jedi turned to the Kaminoans to create an army."
"I don't understand it myself," Palpatine spread his hands. "Because for ten years you wouldn't have been able to hide several million clones from the whole world," he thought. "Perhaps they don't trust you?"
"In that case, it's a mutual feeling," the Arkanian noted coldly.
***
Making another dash, Senior Clone Commander Mickey dove into a nearby explosion crater. A strange name for a clone. On Kamino, he was called CC-37/666. Но инструктор-дурос заявил, что его номер — это число дьявола и не стоит светить свой номер в приличном обществе. It was a pity that back then it hadn't been possible to find out the whole deep meaning of the interconnection between religion and numbers. When he tried to pry it out of the instructor, genuinely not understanding how faith could be so blind as to fear simple mathematics, the mentor got angry, calling him intolerant of others' faith. What "tolerance" was, the Duros hadn't bothered to explain either.
After long reflection, the clone came up with a name for himself—Mickey. Many did so—as it turned out, it was difficult for commanders to pronounce their numbers to attract the clones' attention. And on the advice of the Mandalorians who trained many of his brothers, the clones began to acquire names. Timidly at first, keeping it only for their inner circle of communication.
However, Geonosis changed everything. They finally entered the fight. They were fulfilling what they had come out of the test tube for. And there, too, they learned what death on an industrial scale was, when red blood watered the planet's sand.
Despite the time that had passed, he still hadn't gotten used to the new call sign, but what can you do. It's more convenient for the generals that way. Who are they to argue?
Just a moment later, a burst of blaster bolts whistled over his head, authored by a "box" of B1s that were marching like an unfeeling wall toward his unit.
Behind him, with heart-rending cries, fell two clones who were running after him. War continued its bloody harvest.
Peering out of the crater, Mickey began to analyze the meat grinder into which the Jedi General had driven them. Yes, he believed that it was exactly because of the Jedi's orders that their corps had ended up surrounded by Separatists. This was not a clone's whim or disobedience. Merely a statement of fact. Because of the order for a frontal attack, the corps in the first minutes lost two battalions, killed in fire and the deadly howl of CIS rocket fragments.
From the very start of the battle on Geonosis, their 77th Reconnaissance Corps had been sent into battle at the tip of the attack, though none of the Jedi had even bothered to learn about their specialization. Like the commandos, the scouts were thrown into the inferno like ordinary infantry.
Truly, they could be called elite compared to the clones' line infantry thanks to being saturated with various equipment—at least that's what the instructors said during training. Their strength is in stealth and maneuver. But not in a dense formation and firefights with attackers.
According to the plans, they could not be in the front ranks, serving rather as a second line or a vanguard of the invasion that systematically eliminates the most dangerous opponents or saves this or that unit from manifoldly superior droid forces. However, the Jedi ordered otherwise. No one started to contest the order. They are obligated to obey—by right of their "birth."
They are disenfranchised and submissive, obligated to obey—that's why they were created. Their task is to fight, not to discuss. There are generals for that—to reflect on orders and set tasks.
But unlike the rest of his brothers, Mickey was engaged in a task uncharacteristic of him. He was rethinking the commanders' words. Но, делиться своими соображениями с окружающими — даже с братьями, не спешил. Good soldiers carry out orders. They don't discuss. They only execute. Any orders.
Mickey asked himself—why must it be so? Why do the Jedi need an army of obedient soldiers who are forbidden from birth to enter into polemics with commanders. He was dying to ask the instructors, the Kaminoans, or the Jedi themselves about it. But he restrained himself.
Not because he considered his thoughts sacrilege. Rather—due to a self-preservation instinct. Clones who did not carry out orders were recycled by the Kaminoans. How—no one knew. Those who went for recycling did not return. The "Nulls" and "Alphas" rumored that physically healthy clones simply have their memory erased and are sent to other units under a new identity, however, for obvious reasons, this could neither be confirmed nor denied.
Mickey clearly remembered the moment when questions began to appear in his head. A training session in conditions close to combat, about a year before the Battle of Geonosis. One of the clones in his unit failed a training task in clearing an explosive device—the entire squad was killed. Mickey himself escaped with a severe concussion and head injury. The wounds healed, but the headache never went away. Sometimes it overwhelmed him so much that he had to clench his teeth to keep from screaming. Only medications from a portable medpac saved him. But he couldn't go on living on painkillers. His organism was starting to get used to them, and gradually the pain returned. The medic said this was called "habituation" and that changing the medicine could save him. But who would do that even for an army commander in which everyone—from the soldiers to the equipment—is the same.
Ground showered into the crater. Tiny bits of soil tapped on his helmet. Shaking his head, the clone shook the crumbs off his equipment. Poking out from behind the edge of the crater, he slashed at the pressing ranks of droids with his weapon, practically without aiming. Aiming is not necessary in such a situation—each blaster bolt will find its target.
Something blew up nearby—another Separatist rocket tore out a piece of planetary flesh, scattering around pieces of clones who were less lucky than him.
Mickey felt something fall onto his back and something warm flow down his collar. Putting a hand behind his helmet, he pulled out a brother's arm torn off at the elbow. An arm just like his—accurate to the micron. Throwing the piece of corpse to the bottom of the crater, he bitterly concluded that someone else among his brothers-in-arms had died.
Showering sand to the bottom of the crater, the commander of one of the legions belonging to the corps appeared beside him. Mickey identified him immediately by his manner of frequently checking the charge in his DC-15. Ogre. Commander of the 306th Legion. A good fighter, but overly scrupulous.
"Alive?" he inquired, emptying a cartridge into a droid unit that had appeared. The "tin cans" fell to the ground like cut-down corn, smoke rising from their pierced casings.
"As you see," Mickey responded. "You?"
"Shrapnel in the leg," Ogre demonstrated the inner surface of his left thigh, where a piece of metal the size of a palm had pierced the snow-white armor.
"Needs a medic," the Clone Commander determined.
"Really?" Ogre whistled. Yes, he's a humorist too. "And I didn't know. Well, you hold the front line here, then, and I'll head to the infirmary real quick."
"Not funny," Mickey peered out of the crater. Just in time to notice a pair of B2 super battle droids trying to bypass their position from the right. Now both machines are just pieces of high-tech scrap metal. "How's the situation overall?"
"We're being killed, but we're getting tougher," Ogre pulled a thermal detonator from a pouch and, with a swing, sent it a few dozen meters ahead of the crater. There was a boom, and several B1 fragments whistled over their heads. "Three legions to dust in less than two hours. No one left besides yours."
"That exceeds acceptable losses," Mickey said gloomily.
"Agreed. It wasn't like this in the manuals. Well then, what are the orders?"
"Let the Jedi decide that," Mickey cut him off. "Or the Marshal."
"I think so too," Ogre waved somewhere behind him. "Only our commanders were torn apart by a rocket. And no spare Jedi was allocated to us. Nor a Marshal. You're the senior in rank. Command."
"We're the same rank," Mickey objected.
"I have no one to command," trying to shout over the roar of shells bursting nearby, Ogre raised his voice to the limit. Yes, in this hell, even the communicators built into the helmet did not save. "Command."
Mickey looked out of his improvised trench once more.
The droids were bypassing them from the flanks. So far they hadn't closed the ring around the 77th—heavy blaster repeaters at several dug-in points prevented them from breaking through. That's good. What's bad is that among the clouds of dust behind the unending stream of B1s, CIS heavy equipment is moving. That's real trouble.
"Need to retreat and regroup," Mickey decided. "Everything's clear here—we'll be crushed as soon as the tanks approach."
"Then fall back," without asking, grabbing a spare cartridge from his belt, Ogre flopped onto his belly on the crater wall so that only his hot head in the white helmet was visible outside. "I'll cover."
"That's not right!" Mickey objected. "I gave you an order."
"We're the same rank, remember?" Even through the roar of battle, he heard Ogre's laughter as he showered the tin cans with tibanna.
He couldn't abandon a comrade, and didn't even intend to. Ogre had decided to sacrifice himself, fairly assessing the survival chances of two clones, one of whom could barely walk. It shouldn't be that way.
Mickey flopped down next to him, joining in the sniping of the enemy.
"Are you out of your mind?" Ogre shouted. "Get out, or we're both dead!"
"Scouts don't leave their own," Mickey noted gloomily, switching to rapid fire.
Having fired off the magazine of the DC-15A blaster rifle, with habitual movements honed to automaticity, he reloaded the weapon and again began to mow down the B1 droids with accurate shots as they marched in a dense formation straight at his position.
Ogre kept up, covering the right flank.
They had to hide at the bottom of the crater several times so that the droids' concentrated fire wouldn't riddle them prematurely.
And there, lying at the bottom in relative safety, he saw the bellies of once snow-white LAAT gunships, dirty from the local sand, as they roared over them in a low pass, covering the level droid boxes with fire from all barrels. The pilots were burning away the clear space before them. The brothers were providing an opportunity for a breather. A minute would be enough.
"Well, that's a scorcher," Ogre grumbled, lying a couple of meters from Mickey. He took off his helmet, exposing a face familiar to every clone to the scorching sun.
"The inferno is still ahead of us," Mickey moved slightly closer to the edge of the crater, looking for new targets behind the pile of scrap metal that had just been pressing on him.
Before the dust from the numerous explosions could settle, two Hailfire droid tanks popped out of nowhere at high speed. What Bantha dung!
Without slowing down for a second, they released a series of rockets that, leaving a thick trail of black smoke, flew toward the second-echelon units.
Explosions followed, accompanied by plumes of fire and smoke. Though Mickey couldn't hear it, it seemed to him that the death cries of dying brothers were ringing in his ears.
Three AT-TE tanks of the Republic army, which were moving slowly toward the front line, blew apart like they were made of paper when a second volley of Separatist rockets hit the reinforcement hurrying to the scorched earth.
"At this rate, we'll lose all our heavy weaponry!" Ogre groaned. Mickey noticed out of the corner of his eye that it was becoming harder and harder for him to climb to the edge of the crater. Blood loss was making itself felt.
"And what did you expect when we got to this planet?" Mickey answered him, not stopping the fire on the droids. "It was only easy in training."
The enemy artillery tirelessly mixed the surviving clones with the sand. All of the corps' equipment, without exception, had turned into glowing, smoking wrecks of acrid black smoke, near which groups of a few wounded scouts were gathering. In the air stood an unbearable stench of burnt meat and melted wiring, from which even the helmet respirators did not save.
"Last cartridge," Ogre said, attaching the magazine.
"I have a couple of grenades," Mickey responded, preferring not to think about what would happen after the ammunition ran out.
It isn't scary to die. They came out of the cloning cylinders with the thought that if they didn't die on the battlefield, they would soon die of old age—their rapid metabolism suggested their time was short. And yet, they didn't want to die.
The droids pressed on, restoring their own losses in a matter of seconds. It's easier for droids—they don't know what death is. They don't experience pain; they know no emotions.
And they, despite being clones, are nonetheless human, though sent to the slaughter.
The aviation, though it held the advantage in the sky, could not stop the advancing waves of the enemy.
Mixing with dust clouds, the enemy moved toward them, and in such a situation, one needn't be a Jedi to calculate one's chances of surviving this apocalypse.
Their position was at the very forward edge. To the left and right, at a distance of several dozen meters, were similar craters, but already predominantly filled with corpses. Further still, through the clouds of dust, blue blaster beams still broke through—it meant someone was alive there. But for how long?
"We fire back to the last," Mickey intuitively ducked his head when an enemy shell burst nearby. "Then we fall back."
"Should have thought of that sooner," Ogre snapped. "They're two hundred meters in front of us. As if the 'flyboys' hadn't burned them from above."
"Droids, what can you expect of them," Mickey shrugged, taking aim at another opponent.
The DC-15 clicked dry. The ammunition had run out.
"Empty," Mickey informed him, pulling a detonator from a pouch.
"Then we'll let them get closer," Ogre slid to the bottom of the crater. Mickey followed his example. Running his eyes over the corpses of the brothers, he noted that not one of them had a full cartridge left. They had fired everything. Detonators—none left either. Sad.
"Give me the second one," Ogre held out a hand. Mickey placed the spherical grenade in his palm, noting that his brother's armor was stained with blood mixed with stuck particles of sand.
They waited exactly five minutes—enough for the "tin cans" to approach within throwing distance. They carefully crawled to the edge of the crater. Just as he thought—twenty meters between them and the enemy.
Synchronously, though without having agreed, both clones threw their detonators into the thick of the enemy. Explosions followed, scattering the "tin cans" into small pieces.
"Seems that's it," Ogre noted. "Knives?"
A vibroknife is part of the equipment of clone commandos. Line infantry were not provided with such a luxury. However, the scouts are a completely different caste.
How many will it be possible to finish off before the droids can shoot them? A couple, maybe three. A bit few, of course, but it isn't for them to choose in their case.
"On three," Mickey warned, peering at the pulsating blade.
"One," Ogre counted.
"Two," the Clone Commander echoed.
Scarcely had "three" sounded when the gunships flashed in the sky again, spewing fire from their weapons. Mickey lurched up from the crater, instantly breaking the thin neck of the nearest B1. He slashed another "head" with a backhand stroke. He plunged the weapon into a third's body.
In the sky, a flying rocket shrieked.
Mickey managed to wrench the cold weapon from the short-circuiting opponent before the shockwave threw him upward, unceremoniously slamming him into the bottom of the crater.
His vision swam. He managed to notice Ogre continuing to slash at enemy soldiers despite his wound. Но, следующим же разрывом снаряда его тоже сбросило на дно импровизированного окопа.
The last thing Mickey remembered was his comrade's approaching back...
Mickey sat up in bed with a start, opening his eyes.
Silence reigned around him, broken only by the snoring of the brothers in the neighboring bunks. Cold sweat rolled down his back, making him shiver from the unpleasant sensations.
"Hutt's Geonosis," the Marshal Clone Commander cursed, swinging his legs onto the floor of the compartment.
The events of the first battle of his life always came in dreams. And they returned Mickey to that state of despair and unrestrained rage.
Yes, they survived then.
By a miracle.
The "flyboys" literally burned a perimeter around them into which the second-echelon units poured. Only thanks to them did he remain alive—the droids would hardly have spent much time to finish off the concussed clones.
Then—long treatment on Kamino. The few survivors, including Ogre, were sent here for recovery. Which could do little to help those who had lived through this nightmare. Of the thirty-thousand-plus of them, just over five hundred remained. And all as one—wounded, concussed, maimed. Those who lost limbs were immediately sent for recycling by the Kaminoans.
It was there—in the medical boxes—that the understanding came that there is no erasing of memory. Defective clones are simply destroyed.
Ogre had managed to avoid such a fate only by a great coincidence. Despite the shattered bone and the huge amount of blood lost, he still represented value. Therefore, he went to the medics, not to the recycling block.
After Geonosis, there were other battles, little different from the very first slaughter. They suffered losses just as monstrous as the first time. They returned to the homeland again, were treated, were replenished, and returned to duty. The Jedi changed one after another, staying on the battlefield.
He had to leave the legion to the care of another clone commander, taking charge of the corps. Not because he is so talented.
No.
Simply because he is a survivor.
War had dulled his feelings. Weakened the desire to think. More and more often, he wanted to just carry out orders and care for the survival of himself and his brothers. It turned out relatively well—after the slaughter on Mimban, as many as three battalions remained alive from the entire corps. True, another Jedi died. What was his name?
Mickey could no longer remember. They changed so quickly that there is no point in remembering them all.
Now, after long treatment and replenishment—the fourth in number—on Kamino a new battle awaited them on Dom-Bradden, where he would again show the tin cans why he was called "Furious."
***
Cronal opened his eyelids with difficulty.
His head was spinning; his mouth was parched.
It had been this way before when meditations dragged on.
With difficulty stretching his stiff legs, the Prophet rose from the floor, shaking off his robe.
The Dark Side gave everything necessary. However, today the dark art turned out to be extraordinarily rich in revelations.
The man, moving with difficulty, reached the vat of water. Scooping up a ladle of cool liquid, he drank it all without residue. And only then did he allow himself to return in thought to his vision.
Their cult had existed for long hundreds of years, founded by Darth Millennial. The latter, considered a renegade in the Order of the Sith Lords, had left the followers of the Rule of Two of Darth Bane—doomed in his eyes—hiding in the depths of the galaxy to perceive the secrets of the future, neither supporting nor rivaling either the Sith or the Jedi. Useful wisdom that allowed one to live longer.
Cronal smoothed his long black beard—all cult members wore such. An indispensable attribute, the same as the black clothes that literally absorbed light.
Some time ago, the cult had found itself a patron—Darth Sidious, the heir of the ancient "Rule of Two" tradition. And already under his leadership, the Prophets, cautiously at first and then more and more boldly, interfered in the affairs of the galaxy.
The idea of destroying in the Temple Archives information about nearly four dozen worlds, one of which was Dromund Kaas, seemed to Sidious himself to belong to him. In reality, skillfully weaving a web of intrigue, it was the Prophets who had been able to nudge him toward this thought. An ancient world saturated with the energy of the Dark Side henceforth belonged only to them and was a secret from the rest of the galaxy.
A planet whose surface had never seen the sun. Saturated with the power of the Dark Side of the Force, it had been home to the cult for many years. Living in the Dark Temple—a monumental building from the time of Emperor Vitiate's Sith Empire—the Prophets were always in contact with the Force, which ensured the accuracy of their predictions.
Collaboration with Sidious had its pluses.
Primarily for the young Kadann. A young prophet with an unusually strong gift for seeing the future had risen to the head of the cult at Darth Sidious's insistence. And he had held power in his hands for several decades. Yes, the Prophets flourished under his leadership, and credit must be given to him for that.
For the first time in a thousand years, the Prophets had reached such a level of development that they could not only contemplate the future but also nudge the stubborn wheel of history in the direction they considered right. Hundreds of spies all over the galaxy were ready to carry out the will of their masters—it was enough only to give the appropriate instruction.
His own daughter, Sariss, was one of them.
Cronal thought with irritation that it was a magnificent idea—to continue keeping the girl in ignorance regarding her own origin. She was born of a love affair—forbidden by the Prophets' standards—between Cronal and an ordinary woman whose name was not important. As was her subsequent fate after the birth.
The Prophets honored the path of destruction, inextricably linked with the Dark Side. And therefore, Sariss's conception was a sacrilege. Cronal had renounced her without any regret, allowing other members of the cult to make his own daughter an object of sexual desire. In a closed cult group where Force-sensitive women turned into shriveled old women by the prime of their power—the Dark Side did not spare physical beauty—having a young and attractive, obedient female on hand for the satisfaction of one's natural desires was truly a gift of Providence.
Her strong connection to the Force ensured a tolerable fate for the girl—at the time when she was not busy satisfying the lust of one of the cult brothers, Sariss served as an excellent conduit for the will of the Prophets of the Dark Side. And even Kadann, the upstart and favorite of Darth Sidious, could not deny that Cronal's daughter was the best of the Prophets' instruments of influence on the galaxy.
Cronal did not envy that Kadann, twice as young as himself, headed the most influential Sith organization in the galaxy in his years. He understood perfectly that his hour would come. And the full weight of power in the cult would one day belong to him.
Partly—precisely thanks to Sariss carrying out all conceivable and inconceivable wishes of the brothers at his instruction, sometimes even at the cost of severe physical injuries, he was quietly gaining influence among them. Like any Sith, he knew perfectly how to manipulate those around him, forcing them with the help of barely perceptible levers of pressure to treat his figure more loyally with each new year. And even the numerous facts of incest with his daughter helped him in this. Knowing of this perverted connection, the remaining Prophets considered it merely a tribute to the cult's philosophy. And nothing more.
However, Kadann, due to his youth, was inferior to Cronal's experience.
In particular, it was the young leader of the cult who informed their patron that the Prophets were powerless to discover the primary cause of the flash of the Dark Side of the Force a year ago. This did not please Sidious, who over the years of cooperation had grown used to the Prophets having an answer for everything. A tiny episode in the cult's biography—but an important one from the perspective of the cooling of relations between the young leader and the powerful patron.
Cronal, on the other hand, had achieved success where his brethren had failed.
He had been able to break through the veil hiding the truth. Just as the Prophets hid the future from the seers of the Jedi Order, the source of that flash had perhaps the most perfect mental defense of all he had seen.
And yet, Cronal achieved success.
Through long meditations at the limit of his capabilities, he had been able to catch a certain kinship of the mental defense of the source of the flash and the aura that reigned in the Dark Temple. The realization of this fact almost drove him out of his mind, for it was believed that the Sith who had once ruled absolutely in this region of the galaxy, for whom Dromund Kaas became home after years of wandering in search of salvation from Jedi extermination, had died in the depths of the ages.
However, the Force cannot lie to the one who commands it.
There could be only two explanations for this kinship.
Either an ancient Sith Lord had been able to survive these thousands of years since the moment of the Jedi's defeat of the Sith Empire.
Or there was a Sith in the galaxy who had perceived the ways of the Dark Side with the help of the most ancient knowledge of the emigrants from this world.
Regardless of which of these theories is correct, a force has appeared in the galaxy with which it is certainly necessary to be reckoned. At least until the moment when he, Cronal, perceives the limits of the power of this unknown Sith. For by the most modest calculations, an individual capable of hiding himself from the Prophets' sight must possess an inordinate Power, surpassing everything that the inhabitants of Dromund Kaas could oppose to him.
The realization of this fact came to him during a morning meditation.
Cronal was in no hurry to share his discovery with his brethren. And not at all because they are hardly capable of such a deep immersion in the Force as to understand the truth of his observations. Having placed their fates at the mercy of Darth Sidious's will, they had already made their choice.
Cronal had made his.
"Sariss, come to me," he said into the comlink.
"In a second, Lord Cronal," the girl responded submissively.
***
Under the supervision of the brothers of the cult, Sariss perceived the ways of the Dark Side. No, she would not become a Prophet—one must be born with such a gift. The girl, unfortunately, was not lucky. But at the same time, she handled a lightsaber excellently and turned her emotions into an indestructible weapon. When she finishes her training, there will be no equal to her. Certainly among the Jedi.
By encouraging her meetings with members of the cult, Cronal also, besides other things, pursued the goal of taking possession of the brethren's secrets to one day turn them to his advantage. And therefore, while sharing a bed with them, Sariss as before listened, watched, remembered. To later pass it on only to him.
"You called for me, Lord Cronal," the door to his chambers opened, and a pretty fourteen-year-old girl with short blonde hair appeared before him. She was dressed in a light sleeveless blouse and a neat cloak with a hood. As expected, her pose showed complete submissiveness and a desire to serve in any way.
"I have a task for you," the Prophet quenched his thirst again. Hutt's side effects from such exhausting practices of the Dark Side.
"Whatever you command, Master," the girl knelt before him, showing her readiness to receive information.
"You are not needed by the other brothers right now," the Prophet lied. Those wishing to profit from the young body were found in the cult every day. "Set off for the Savareen sector in the Outer Rim. There you must gather information and enter into contact with a certain sentient. Tell him that I want to meet with him."
"I shall carry it out exactly as you have said."
"No one should know about this assignment," he warned. "You will take my personal transport."
"As you wish, Master," Sariss said submissively. "But how will I know the one with whom to meet?"
A good question, of course. In his visions, Cronal had not been able to make out the face of the being standing behind the shimmer of the Dark Side. Но, так ли это важно? A sentient so sophisticated in the practices of the Dark Side is guaranteed to take notice of Sariss, no matter how skillfully she hides herself using the Force. Consequently, he will enter into contact himself. At least because he will not miss the chance to find out the reason for her presence on that planet.
Cronal had been to this world once and had almost immediately identified the characteristic construction. He could not be mistaken—the sentient of interest to him would undoubtedly appear on Christophsis. If Sariss needs to wait there for twenty years, then she will live her life there.
"He will recognize you himself," the Prophet shared his thoughts. "Use Force Masking to hide your belonging to our order. And wait there as long as necessary. Appear in the city every day so that he can notice you."
"But how..."
"He is extremely powerful in the Force and will see through your tricks almost instantly."
"Master, but I cannot maintain Masking constantly," his daughter reminded him. "I lack the strength for it..."
"Then you will have an extra chance to practice," the Prophet cut her off, irritated by her pathetic excuses. "Or have you forgotten your place?"
"No, Master..."
"But I see that you have forgotten," Cronal felt a rush of energy, sensing the girl's fear of him. Absorbing her emotions, he passed them through himself, restoring his own strength. Good... exactly what he needs right now.
"Lock the door," he ordered. His daughter submissively slid the bolt on the massive doors without raising her head.
"Go to the bed and undress," he continued to command the girl.
He was no longer young, so each time he had to invigorate himself well so that there would be no misfire. He simply could not allow such a thing—she was his daughter, after all. For her, he must always be the best of the best.
Watching the last clothes fall from the girl, in the half-light of his chambers, Cronal looked with hidden lust at the unformed body with awkward feminine features and a childish face. Yes, exactly what is needed.
"You are beautiful," he said, stroking her back.
His hand repeatedly encountered scar tissue as he ran it from her shoulders to her waist. Traces of previous encounters with him. Memories of paternal instructions. And proof for others that he does not feel some sort of platonic feelings for her. She is only a tool in his hands. No more, and no less.
"Hand me the whip," he said with a gasp.
The girl's whole body shuddered, but she obeyed. She always gets frightened at first, and then screams with pleasure when his whip, woven from the skin of a young Rancor, rips open her childish pink skin.
Few among the Prophets of the Dark Side knew more about him than he himself wished to tell. Cronal himself had given rise to most of the rumors about his origin, making them so plausible that sometimes he himself got confused in them.
For some, he was a former Republic senator who had retired from affairs and dedicated the rest of his life to studying the ways of the Dark Side. Some desperate heads even claimed that he was allegedly friends with the Supreme Chancellor when the latter was a simple senator from Naboo. What nonsense.
For some, just a mad old man wallowing in his insanity.
The Prophets knew a completely different theory of his origin. Born of a Dathomirian witch, he had been kidnapped in early childhood by the Sorcerers of Rhand, with whom he lived for many years, absorbing their wisdom. After which, at the call of the Dark Side, he had found the Prophets himself and joined them.
But in reality, everything was far more simple and prosaic.
At the dawn of his life, when he still bore the name Perez, he was discovered by the Jedi and brought to the Temple, where he underwent training. Not without difficulty, of course, since from childhood the boy was beset by envy toward more successful peers. But one way or another, his last refuge was the Temple Archive, where for many years he was engaged in editing the largest library in the galaxy, placing in it information from hundreds of historical wisdom sources preserved by the Jedi. And the longer he did this, immersing himself in the chronicles, the more he became convinced that the path of the Light Side was not for him.
That was how he found the records of Dromund Kaas. A place where the once greatest being of the Dark Side had revived his civilization, becoming even stronger. In the end, Vitiate built his Empire, which eclipsed all the achievements of the Sith since the moment of their discovery.
But he could not preserve his legacy.
And at the same time, the chronicles claimed that the veil of the Dark Side on the planet was so great that to destroy the Sith legacy, an entire squadron was required, which continuously bombarded the planet—covered by an impenetrable cloud veil—for twenty-four hours.
He broke with the Order, full of hope to find this world and appropriate all the artifacts discovered there—it was impossible for absolutely everything to have been destroyed. Something must remain.
He met an Arkanian genius geneticist who helped the future Prophet change his appearance so as to continue to remain unrecognizable. What he had worked with in the Archives was too important to allow the Jedi to follow his trail. Unfortunately, the geneticist had to disappear after the operation. Cronal preserved his outstanding work and, during his wanderings through the galaxy in search of a new home, studied everything the geneticist had been able to obtain during his short life. Periodically, in remote corners of the planet, Cronal conducted experiments on local animals. Not always successfully, it's true. Но, это уже проблемы местной фауны.
He discovered Dromund Kaas after several years of his search. And from the first sight, he fell in love with this world full of destructive, unbridled Power. Which he would be able to subject to himself, to command it.
Unfortunately, his first experiments cost a lot. No, physical deformities were successfully avoided. Except that the hair all over his body disappeared, and his skin took on a deathly pale hue. This almost cost him his life, but he escaped. Largely thanks to the Prophets who found and nursed him. And then, offered him to join them and together reveal all the potentials of the Dark Side.
No one can resist such a temptation. And Cronal is no exception.
And nonetheless, after decades, he had still not advanced up the career ladder, continuing to occupy one of the lowest rungs among the other Prophets. He had managed to achieve some recognition from the others when the opportunity arose to influence them by placing his own daughter under their shriveled, feeble bodies.
Was such treatment of his own child disgusting and criminal? Yes, perhaps so in some wild, undeveloped sectors. But those who understand the path of the Dark Side, who know that any means are good before achieving a goal, will not waste time attaching significance to such a negligible episode in the life of the sentients of the Celestial River.
Cronal broke from his thoughts, casting a glance at his daughter whimpering quietly at his feet. How splendid; he hadn't even noticed that he had turned her back into a bloody mess where only shreds of fabric remained instead of skin.
"Splendid," Cronal admired his work. "Do you like this lesson?"
"Yes, Master," the girl whispered. She was not sincere—the Prophet felt it. In that case, she should be taught another lesson.
Snarling with the anticipation of pleasure, the Prophet whipped his daughter's bloody back as hard as he could.