"Do you know, Colonel, what the most tragic part of being a Grand Moff is?"
"No, Your Excellency."
Despite the informal setting, I could sense the anxiety radiating from the recently promoted officer sitting in the chair across from my desk. It was understandable—the personnel and logistics service he headed was a cesspool even in the best of times. And during active military operations... But, in fairness, Ronette Dialo kept his subordinates in an iron grip. The data chips lying before me, containing reports on the material status of the Jent Systems Army, were the titanic result of a well-coordinated team. Not because the reports were voluminous, but because they were clear. And reading the lines in Aurebesh, I was acutely aware of just how bad things were. That, in fact, was the source of my anger.
The more Jedi came under my command, the worse the situation became. Geonosis was a prime example. Entana had lost up to two-thirds of her corps in fatalities alone. Fortunately, Aayla had sent reinforcements in my absence; otherwise, we would be facing a third operation to force Geonosis to peace. But, for Force's sake, three corps to clear one planet?! Isn't that a bit much?
Yes, I had asked to preserve the planet's production facilities if possible. But not at the expense of our own forces!
"I sincerely regret that I cannot execute the incompetent commanders who needlessly force clones to 'meet their maker' for nothing," I was forced to admit. The officer didn't even flinch at my expression. The "Jedi style" of command, which had become synonymous with "unjustified losses," had long since become a subject of dark humor within the Grand Army of the Republic. The clones whispered among themselves, but the organic officers...
You couldn't exactly shut their mouths—the GAR regulations, or rather, a set of rules dreamt up by someone in a schizophrenic fever, interpreted matters of subordination and disciplinary action quite broadly. Thus, the organics could spin as many yarns about the generals as they liked, as long as it wasn't to their faces. The rest concerned few.
In that regard, the strictly categorical and exceptionally harsh Regulations of the Sith Imperial Armed Forces appealed to me much more. Fortunately, the vast memory banks of the Emperor's station contained even such things. Dropping by Odessen before returning to Christophsis, I had visited the station, picking up a few useful items—including manuals on the command of ground and space forces. So far, I had managed to win through meta-knowledge and logical thinking. But as the saying goes, the deeper into the forest you go, the more resilient the partisans become. Even Otto von Bismarck once said: "Give me a company of the best soldiers on the planet, and we will prepare a light airy risotto with salmon, small pieces of ginger, and light notes of pineapple under a tartar sauce with a hint of garlic according to my grandmother-witch's recipes."
The war was gaining momentum. I didn't think things would go well for the army in the future—especially if I continued to command without at least some theoretical knowledge. It was one thing to fight arrogant merchants. It was quite another to fight those same merchants once they had gained combat experience. You can't win a war just with "concentrate fire on one target" and "evasive maneuvers."
Even though my position was a staff role and didn't involve appearing on the front lines at the head of the troops, one shouldn't forget that the clone army was created according to Mandalorian templates. And in that culture, personal bravery and valor meant almost everything. This meant the day was not far off when the 204th Legion would have to return to active combat. Because I certainly couldn't rely much on the generals under my command.
Despite fourteen months of war, the "meat grinder" tactic was still prevalent. Only a few days after returning to Christophsis, several jokes on the subject had already reached my ears. It would have been funny if it weren't so sad.
From the perspective of a resident of a planet where wars—from global to local—occurred regularly and with gusto, one could talk endlessly about the stagnation of the modern military in the Galaxy Far, Far Away. This galaxy was following the same evolutionary path of military science as Earth—you didn't need to be a genius or have a specialized degree to understand that. The picture was clear, even to a layperson.
With one difference—there (it was strange to think of my home planet as some distant, unreachable place), war never ended, and thus military science was refined from generation to generation.
Here, however... a thousand years without any significant major conflicts had led to a significant... I don't even know how to put it politely.
Fine, the CIS used "zerg rushes"—they replenished their losses extremely quickly. Why bother being stingy when your soldiers don't need to be fed, watered, or paid? Just keep cranking out droids. Even if they're made of scrap and sticks, their lifespan isn't long anyway. And, if the sectoral command's analytical notes were to be believed, the CIS fighters weren't Terminators—they were much cheaper analogs not designed for long-term "life." It was the ultimate case of extreme unification and total economy—cheap chassis, weaponry, and software. Quality sacrificed for quantity.
But the logic of the Republican generals, most of whom continued to send soldiers to the slaughter... They could use a history lesson from my homeland—even a condensed version. It would be something. Though, it would look rather strange if I, like a seasoned political officer, started holding classes for my subordinates on "How to properly command clones so you don't get killed in your first battle." I'm one of them, after all; I shouldn't know more than necessary. Still, the idea was good—I should think it through.
And, notably, I worried less about the regular organics—the ship commanders and admirals. Yes, I had tried to pull under my command those who I remembered most from the Expanded Universe. And, I must admit, I hadn't miscalculated. Pellaeon, even without Thrawn's mentorship, was a perfectly fine specimen of Homo Bellicosus. As were the other future Grand Admirals and warlords currently serving in the Tenth Systems Army.
On Earth, the "zerg rush" as a military tactic took its most expressive form somewhere around World War I. Before that, even after the advent of firearms, my fellow planetary inhabitants used close formations and threw the bodies of their soldiers at the enemy army. As one prominent military figure said, "No matter. The women will give birth to more." Но it was the First World War that proved the total futility of sending military units against enemy fortifications bristling with fire from rifles, machine guns, and even cannons.
It was also noteworthy that despite the development of science and technology, certain countries even in the twentieth century fought according to the manual on "How to reduce the number of your own taxpayers using enemy machine guns and artillery." For instance, the landing on one of the beaches in Normandy, depicted in the film Saving Private Ryan, was a typical example of a zerg rush of that era. Of course, one could argue passionately that there was no other way to open the second front, that karma didn't allow it, and so on. But the fact remained. The Allies actively fertilized the Normandy coast with the blood and flesh of their loyal sons, rather than an assortment of shells and bombs. And yet, how hard would it have been to turn the picturesque surroundings into a lunar landscape across the entire landing zone, not just in two out of three places?
An even larger-scale case of mass transition to the next world via zerg rush was the battle between the brave warriors of the Jihad and the (at the time, still loyal) British colonialists. To keep the crowds aggressively waving sharp objects at a safe distance, the Anglo-Saxons (in addition to traditional cannons and rifles) used newly invented machines for thinning out enemy ranks, aka machine guns. As a result, out of 40,000 charging attackers, the proverbial "over-too-many" crescent-bearing comrades "became heroes," not counting an even larger heap of wounded. A particular irony is added to this event by the well-known fact that 72 virgins supposedly await every martyr in paradise. Anyone can calculate the epic scale of the action that hypothetically unfolded in the Islamic abode of virginal spirituality by simply multiplying the aforementioned numbers...
By the way, I always wondered where the faithful got so many virgins in heaven. Surely they weren't sending young female volunteers in the prime of their lives to the other side for the sake of the Jihad? Or could they? Oh, the East is a delicate matter... and a dark one.
However, for the sake of justice, it's worth noting that the zerg rush isn't as bad as amateur artists paint it. The problem lies in distinguishing the fine line between a "dense formation" and an "attack in waves of advancing lines." It is also important that the Galaxy Far, Far Away is going through the same stages of military science development, but on a galactic scale. Even now, sectoral command occasionally sends out brochures on "How to reduce losses by activating gray matter (and not just bone marrow)." Of course, the fact that initiation into the mystery of dispersed formations comes through the mass relocation of sentients to a better world is tragic in its essence. From the standpoint of ordinary human morality.
Undoubtedly, the Jedi, the rabble, and other individuals unburdened by intellect had used the blunt "CHARGE!" since the beginning of the war, throwing clones at CIS battle lines almost at full height and at a walking pace. No, I understand that no one is immune to mistakes—but, for the Force's sake! Even droids learn from their mistakes! However, the Jedi were remarkable possessors of mental armor three layers thick. Despite enormous losses and thousands of failed operations, they continued to use the tactics that had cost the Grand Army of the Republic half of its clone commando and infantry personnel during the first battle of Geonosis, the total loss of the expeditionary force on Jabiim, on Ryloth, Mimban... The list could go on forever—but what would be the point?
It was a great pity that the GAR regulations forbade putting such people against a wall. The district therapist (read: Grand Master) categorically stated there were contraindications to saturating the bodies of short-sighted temple-dwellers with tibanna.
On the other hand, ordinary sentients could be brought to justice left and right—as long as you had the person, a reason for execution could be found.
"In fairness, sir, I should note that losses in equipment have been halved," the "logistics man" remarked.
"Well, yes," I snorted. "After all, a clone is cheaper than an AT-TE. Why spare him?!"
The Colonel remained silent, realizing the question was purely rhetorical.
And incredibly painful.
The 89th Corps, in essence, needed to be pulled back to the rear for reorganization. Its losses were catastrophic. Only the concussed and the lightly wounded remained in the ranks. And twenty thousand dead. Yet, that Jedi b—h has the nerve to submit a report stating that up to seventy percent of the equipment attached to the corps has been preserved.
"I don't give a damn about that scrap metal!" Surprise flickered on the officers' faces. "The warehouses are full of it—and there will be more, though it's long past time to pay a visit to Rothana. Но, people... where are we to get new soldiers if Kamino is about to stop supplying clones?"
"The losses are depressing," General Jin agreed. "But fortunately, command promises to fill our constant shortage of personnel with new batches of Arkanian-produced clones. They are better than the Kaminoan ones—and it's expected there will be hundreds of times more of them than everything we currently have. We just need to hold out..."
"A brain teaser: 'How not to lose three supersectors while we wait for reinforcements,'" I remarked.
The old man, who had taken over my systems army staff about a month ago, gave me a sly look. In the Force, he radiated waves of calm and light amusement—I briefly thought the old guy was high, but remembering how he behaved at our previous gatherings, I realized the General (a real one, not the costumed Jedi rabble) was just naturally lighthearted.
Only a month had passed since the creation of the systems armies. And, as is proper at the end of a reporting period—both for "Jent" and the three sectoral armies subordinate to me—bureaucratic procedures had to be implemented. Moreover, according to command circulars, these were to take place in two stages. First—a meeting in high circles to identify shortcomings and develop ways and methods to eliminate them. Then—a board meeting with the participation of all representatives of the command staff, to whose attention the essence of the polar f—k-up in our zone of responsibility had to be brought.
I was immediately reminded of a joke about the child of an Investigative Committee department head who attended a departmental kindergarten. On the first day, they had a meeting where they all sat on their potties and did their business while listening to horror stories about their future fate from the teacher. This was called a meeting. Well, on the second day, the teacher held a board meeting—outwardly everything was the same as the meeting, only at the end, the children poured the contents of their potties over the head of the biggest troublemaker in the group.
The realization that I had to gather all my subordinates—the senior command staff—in the Citadel's large tactical room gave me goosebumps. The main thing was to restrain myself and not wipe the floor with those who annoyed me most. Otherwise, it wouldn't be very Jedi-like. Can't ruin the legend.
I decided to hold the meeting in a very narrow circle—I only called the Chief of Staff and the personnel/logistics officer. The others were limited to providing reports, which still had to be studied to match the tradition of all board meetings: "rewarding the uninvolved, punishing the innocent." Brrr, I mean the other way around. At least in my army—it was exactly the opposite. And it should start first and foremost with the clones—those on whose shoulders all the Republic's efforts to restore order (three times "ha") in the Galaxy Far, Far Away rested. Fortunately, the Senate had finally birthed a bill according to which systems army commands had the right to award shiny trinkets not only to those born from a natural womb but also to those grown in a "glass mother."
And, in light of recent events, it seemed these would be the first and last awards for Kaminoan clones.
The sectoral command directive to cease purchases of Kaminoan clones came to me not exactly as news—I remembered that at some point in the war, the Republic would resort to another supplier of cannon fodder. But for it to happen so soon...
"Arkanian clones are supposed to be better than what we have now," Dialo noted.
"That's if you believe the brochure," I countered. "In practice, we have no idea what we'll get. You, as the one responsible for logistics, must understand what it means to receive two completely different models of clones under your command. I highly doubt they'll wear the same size uniforms as the Kaminoans. And if so, that's already millions in expenses. How much will we spend to maintain the combat readiness of both types of clones?"
"I am entirely on your side on this issue, sir," the officer said, spreading his hands. "But an order is an order. You can't go against it."
Tell me about it. Especially if it's Order 66.
"I don't much like this whole idea with the new clones, Colonel," I admitted. "What will happen to the clones currently under our command?"
"I'm afraid they will be retired, sir. As soon as the upgrades to the new models are completed. Sectoral command is quite transparent on this matter. According to their explanation, the volume of new clone arrivals will be so massive that within a few months, all armies will replace the Jango Fett clones with new models. Total unification of personnel, with the exception of volunteers."
"Several million men who only know how to fight and kill—and they're going on pension?" I whistled. "The idea reeks of unpleasant consequences."
It felt like someone wanted to get their greedy hands into the state budget. Again. Otherwise, why on earth require systems army commanders to unify their units once the new Arkanian-produced clones start arriving? And if there were some caveats, fine, but no. It's perfectly clear.
To unify means to bring to a certain, leadership-established standard. And since Jango Fett clones will soon be unavailable as reinforcements, you don't need to be a genius to realize that command is telling us between the lines to phase out the Fett clones in favor of the new ones.
Vague doubts plagued me. What the hell was going on, especially after I had carried out the measures to free the clones from their inhibitor chips?! This didn't happen in the events I knew, though it was a sin to cry about "canonicity" after everything that had occurred.
And one might ask, why the hell bother? The current fighters were doing well enough—they just needed more competent commanders. It was still unknown how the new soldiers would perform. Was command rushing the replacement? Or was someone simply itching to line their own pockets?
Yes, on one hand, it was understandable—the flow of Kaminoan clones would soon dry up, and new ones would take ten years to mature. Given the losses even in my army, where common soldiers are cared for, the body count was growing every day, and without urgent replenishment, there would simply be no one left to fight.
The Arkanians, apparently, worked much faster—unfortunately, there was no publicly available information on the speed of clone production on Arkania. Trade secrets, damn them... But if command was giving only three months for unification, it meant the pointy-eared ones were working many times faster than the long-necks.
So many questions, so few answers... In the universe I knew, the Fett clones even managed to serve the Empire. Here—not even a year and a half had passed since their discovery by the galaxy, and they were already being written off. I thought so because the imperative orders from command to "take measures to reduce the number of clones falling under the pension program" literally spoke for themselves. Commanders were being given a non-subtle hint: we're giving you new clones, better than the old ones. Make sure as few of the old clones as possible remain. The Republic Pension Fund's concern for rapidly aging soldiers pricked me with memories of home. Hmm, I've become too sentimental.
I had to push all that out of myself. There was no going back to Earth, so the only thing I had to remember was the Eternal Empire.
And now the Republic threatened to derail my plans, introducing new clones at such an inopportune time.
Well, apparently, the next three months, like the fourteen months before them, in the Grand Army of the Republic would be marked by "StarCraft." The number of zerg rushes had tripled. Which meant the more Fett clones died on the battlefields, the fewer clones—deprived of the chips obligating them to carry out Emergency Orders—would remain by the Jedi's side when the proverbial words were spoken: "Well, the time has come, Commander Cody. Execute Order 66."
"Gentlemen," I leaned back in my chair, stroking my chin with my hand. After my appearance had been restored, there was no need to wear a closed suit of armor. So, without overthinking it, I chose Jedi armor without a helmet. The gray-green armored plates harmonized with a black-and-silver cloak. Now I at least didn't look different from my Padawan, who, upon seeing my change in appearance, had instantly changed the color of her own armor. But those were details. "I won't say I like the idea of replacing our existing clones. We've already exchanged equipment and soldiers with other sectoral armies multiple times. I think we should repeat that experience, and on a much larger scale. How many clones are we due under the new norms?"
"Forty million for each of the systems armies," Jin replied immediately. "However, it is extremely doubtful we will be able to receive the full quota of soldiers."
"We will," I smirked. "Start negotiations with the other systems armies—we will trade our new clones for the Kaminoan products they currently have."
"A large expense for our budget," Dialo reminded me cautiously.
"What can you do," I spread my hands. "This is the Way."
***
Even through the respirator, the air inhaled by the Sith seemed thick, like fruit jelly. But its aftertaste was anything but sweet.
"It makes me shiver," the girl sitting beside him stated plaintively. Casting a disdainful glance at her, the Sith smirked, noticing her flinch as she touched the aura of the Dark Side surrounding the planet with the Force. Malgus felt with relish how the girl intuitively tried to shield herself using Jedi techniques. They wouldn't help her here.
"Stop trembling," he demanded. The girl shot him a look filled with anger. "Jedi dogmas will not help you here. Learn to use the Dark Side of the Force when it is truly needed."
"When I agreed to join the Empire, I didn't expect to be dragged into the abode of evil," she spat.
"And what did you expect?" the Sith asked, surprised. "That you would be coddled as you were in the Temple?"
"There should at least be some basic training!" the girl protested quietly. "How am I supposed to master the art of the Sith if I don't know..."
Her complaints were interrupted by the Sith's loud laughter. Naive little Jedi girl.
"This is why your teaching is doomed," he declared, looking the Falleen straight in the eyes. "One cannot achieve true greatness, true power, by waiting for it to be handed over on a silver platter."
Malgus leaned forward, invading his charge's personal space:
"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"
"I didn't expect to be given to an ancient maniac for training," the girl said, pulling away. "The massacre you committed in the Temple... You should have been put on trial."
"Just as I didn't expect to be given a weakling as an apprentice," Malgus said contemptuously. "Learn as you go. And perhaps one day," he smirked, "you will be able to challenge me."
"I would very much like that," Zul said grimly, instinctively clutching the hilt of her lightsaber.
"I hope it happens before I grow old," the Sith laughed.
The girl wanted to say something in response, but the pilot's voice crackled in the shuttle's cabin.
"Approaching the target, Darth Malgus."
Malgus clenched his fists so hard his fingers ached. Breath escaped his chest with a rasp like a saw cutting through wood.
Finally.
Malgus's personal shuttle roared at low altitude over the scorched earth. Below, through the ruins of Kaas City, droid paratroopers moved, reinforced by battle droids and squads of Imperial stormtroopers. Malgus was indifferent to the fact that all the clones wore the armor of the Desolation squad—an ancient Republic unit that had caused the Sith Empire no small amount of trouble.
In the end, it didn't matter—what mattered was that they served the Empire's purpose.
Imperial interceptors streaked around them, providing escort.
Malgus looked out the window but saw nothing but charred ancient ruins, collapsed buildings, and machines fallen apart under the weight of time. However, a few minutes later, the overgrown ruins of the capital were behind them. And the shuttle, along with the dozen following it, continued toward the intended goal.
An ancient temple, inhabited by yet another sect perverting the very essence of the Dark Side of the Force.
When the shuttle reached a spacious clearing in front of the dilapidated structure and braked, the Sith stood up, hitting the key that slid open the side door. A rush of wind caught his black robes. The Force told him his apprentice had stood up behind him.
Malgus allowed himself to smile. He had chosen her himself from the pool of potential new acolytes, thinking it would be amusing to instruct a former Jedi in the ways of the Dark Side. He hadn't miscalculated. In addition to her prickly and uncooperative nature, the girl possessed a strong connection to the Force. And she channeled her anger intuitively quite well. Yes, an unpolished stone, but with proper diligence, she would become a fine warrior.
"What is the plan of action," Xiss inquired restrainedly, adding with an effort, "Master?"
"Stay close to me," Malgus commanded, intuitively stoking the flame of rage within himself. "Use your own emotions to immerse yourself in the Force."
"Why specifically the Dark Side?" the Falleen asked with a soft groan.
"Only emotions will give you the necessary power," the Sith said didactically. "Draw from the Darkness to defeat your enemies. And bring your inner world into balance after the deed is done. This is what the Emperor does. This is what we all do—the militants of the Unifying Force. I hope I don't need to tell you about Jedi meditations?"
"I can handle it myself," the girl muttered, drawing level with him at the drop hatch.
"In that case," Malgus ruthlessly grabbed the girl by the back of her head and threw her out of the shuttle with a powerful shove, "see you on the ground."
Malgus gripped the hilt of his lightsaber and immersed himself in the Force. The ruins of Kaas City stood before his eyes like rotten teeth—crooked and black.
He reached out through the Force, trying to find that spark of the Dark Side he had felt before.
The Prophets. How wise of them—to hide here, amidst former greatness.
At first, he found nothing and thought he had been mistaken. Or perhaps the adherents of the Prophets of the Dark Side had, in turn, sensed his presence and shielded themselves. But a moment later...
There.
Malgus allowed himself a smile beneath his mask.
Hutt-spawned weaklings. They couldn't even manage a proper cloak.
Malgus felt molten metal coursing through his veins, a sensation that only violence could relieve. He threw off his cloak and stepped onto the edge of the ramp. The wind whipped his face. Rage flared up with new strength, giving him wings. Fury demanded a blood sacrifice.
Malgus jumped down.
The Force cushioned his landing, sending waves of dust kicked up from the surrounding plants flying in all directions.
"Very Sith-like," Zul commented, looking at her mentor.
"You're catching on fast," Malgus parried.
He ignited his blade; in the twilight of Dromund Kaas, a golden blade flared to life.
Ignoring the unspoken question in his apprentice's eyes, he marched toward the Temple's central gates.
Behind him, droid paratrooper units moved with rhythmic strides, weapons held ready. He had decided not to take organics for the assault on the Prophets' citadel—the Dark Side held many surprises unpleasant for the minds of sentients. And machines... they were designed for that—to replace people in the "hottest" directions.
"So, do we just walk inside and demand they surrender?" the apprentice asked incredulously as the pair approached the massive gates.
"That wouldn't be nearly as much fun," the Sith rejected the thought, unleashing torrents of the Dark Side.
A giant telekinetic sphere, wreathed in tiny lightning bolts, slammed into the heavy doors, crushing them inward. A moment later, the behemoths were ripped from their hinges and thrown dozens of meters back.
"Take everyone alive," the Sith transmitted his order into the comlink. The droids, without breaking their silence, broke into a run and rushed inside.
The Sith, allowing them to precede him, entered the structure at a leisurely pace.
"What do we need them alive for?" Xiss persisted. "Wouldn't it be easier to just kill them all?"
"The wise always take the long road," Malgus said meaningfully. Then, restraining his irritation, he explained: "The Emperor has plans for them."
"Pffft," the girl rolled her eyes. "Then what fun are we talking about?"
He who had been named Veradun at birth simply waited in silence. The Force around him swirled in a monstrous hurricane, expanding the horizons of his perception. He felt every living being inside this place. And he didn't intend to let a single one escape.
"I am here, Prophet!" Malgus shouted. His voice echoed hollowly under the vaults of the vestibule. A moment later, a tall figure in a long cloak appeared at the other end. Even in the darkness, it wasn't hard to see his ridiculous beard reaching down to the middle of his chest.
"You will pay for what you are doing," the stranger hissed, releasing branching lightning from both hands. Malgus automatically took several steps forward, not allowing the collapsed entrance to pin him down.
"Beg for mercy," the stranger demanded. "You are trapped here with us."
At a wave of his hand, a couple more Prophets appeared from behind the columns. Like their leader, they greeted the enemy with the traditional Makashi gesture.
How boring.
Without allowing the opponent to use defensive skills, the Sith yanked the nearest Prophet from his spot, simultaneously pulling him close and roasting his gaunt body with Force Lightning.
"You are mistaken," Malgus said grimly. "It is YOU who are trapped here with me."
In the semi-darkness, crimson blades appeared before his eyes.
"You will die here, Jedi," an unknown Prophet told him.
Malgus didn't know his name, but he didn't care. This refuse was merely a focus point for his anger, a convenient target for his rage. In the Force, he sensed a light mockery coming from Zul Xiss. It seemed the girl was amused by their opponent's mistake.
"Aren't we supposed to take them alive?" she asked, activating her own weapon.
"The Emperor doesn't need to know about all of them," Malgus snorted.
The Sith plunged even deeper into the Force and raced across the vestibule; rage lent strength to his legs.
Not one of the Prophets flinched. When twenty meters separated them, the first one raised his blade up and brought it down in a complex movement, tracing a sequence. The others followed suit.
Worthless wasters of the Force. An insult to the Sith legacy.
One of the Prophets used telekinesis to try and collapse the nearest column onto Malgus's head. But the Sith, accelerating to the limit, slid under the pile of debris. Like a whirlwind, he fell upon the bearded bastard. The man attempted a fairly decent block against a powerful blow that threatened to cleave him in two. Then he slipped away from a series of quick feints, keeping his limbs intact. Malgus thought with satisfaction that the fight promised to be interesting.
He had dreamed of this for months. And he hadn't been wrong.
Nearby, another golden blade flared—the apprentice joined the fray, parrying the attacks of the two other Prophets. Malgus was distracted for a fraction of a second, noting that the girl handled a lightsaber quite well, holding her own against two opponents at once. Then again, these ignoramuses were no match even for a Jedi apprentice. A perfect first experience for learning the Dark Side.
The distraction almost cost him a wound—only the Force helped the Sith avoid a thrusting blow to the chest that his opponent skillfully tried to land. How pathetic.
He was clumsy, had forgotten everything except the thirst for revenge, and failed to correctly assess his opponent's strength. He had surrendered his mind to bloodlust. It wouldn't happen again.
With an effort of will, Malgus bridled his rage, took it under control, and turned it into a whetstone on which he sharpened his power. He shouldn't forget that the Prophets were adepts of the Dark Side. Unlike the Jedi, they hadn't degenerated all this time. But they hadn't exactly developed much either.
Using the Force, he hurled the attacker away, far from himself. A Force-augmented jump carried him above the floor. The Prophet's eyes widened in horror as Malgus landed literally on his head. The Sith bared his teeth and lunged at him.
He quickly broke through the Prophet's defensive sequences, forcing him to retreat again and again. The crimson blade of his saber moved with such speed it became a blur. And yet, Malgus was faster.
The Prophet parried strike after strike, the hiss of clashing blades echoing off the surviving walls. Malgus's attack—a storm of hacking, slashing, and thrusting blows—left the Prophet no chance for a counterattack. He backed away, frantically blocking Malgus's strikes.
Malgus could have killed him in any number of ways from his arsenal, but he craved the satisfaction of a lightsaber kill. His entire being called out to feed on the suffering of one of the enemies. To prevent his destructive core from finishing off all the others.
Malgus's saber traced arcs of fire in the air. He spun, hacked, and stabbed, pressing the Prophet. But the opponent parried all the blows. It seemed the enemy was stalling for time.
Setting a trap, Malgus realized. Pretending to be weak. Or...?
Malgus stopped his attack, stepped back a few paces, and looked around.
Just as he thought. Those two, taking advantage of his distance from the battlefield, had gone on the offensive, pressing Zul into a corner of the vestibule. They had decided to deal with the weak one so they could finish off the strong one as a trio.
Roaring, the Sith reached the backs of the two Prophets in one giant leap, as they were too preoccupied with their prey to notice the new danger. Zul, holding their pressure with silent determination, brightened.
Without much ceremony, Malgus grabbed one of the Prophets with the Force, unleashing all his rage on the thrashing enemy. As soon as the man's mental armor failed, his blood-curdling scream filled the vestibule, momentarily distracting the other Prophet from his task.
Simultaneously, as the tall cloaked figure crumpled to the size of a small ball amidst the sound of snapping bones, Zul, not making him wait, disarmed her opponent with a lightning-fast movement, while also depriving him of both arms below the elbow. A piercing shriek filled the vestibule, drowning out the squelching sound of the first victim's remains hitting the polished floor.
"Finish him," Malgus ordered, returning to his first enemy. Zul, contrary to the Sith's expectation, did not kill the wounded man. Approaching the kneeling cripple, she grabbed his head with her hands and, with all the strength a fragile girl could muster, slammed her knee into his head. The unconscious body, toppling onto its back, hit the floor without movement. This Prophet still echoed in the Force, but he was no longer a threat.
"Would you care to introduce yourself before I finish you?" the Sith asked, pointing toward the last of the trio, who had stopped a few dozen meters from Malgus and his apprentice.
"Supreme Prophet Kadann," the man said, seemingly unfazed by what had happened. "You are not Jedi. The Dark Side is strong in you..."
"Finally figured it out," Zul snorted, circling him in a wide arc.
"We have powerful allies," the Prophet warned.
"What a coincidence," Malgus pulled the lightsaber of one of the dead toward him. Hanging the trophy on his belt, he returned his attention to the leader and his goal. "But that won't save you or your pups. Surrender—and you shall live."
"I have a similar offer," the voice from under Kadann's hood sounded conspiratorial. "My master will be glad for assistants such as you."
"We've already chosen a side," Xiss countered. "You have nothing to interest us with..."
"You are mistaken to think so, girl," the Supreme Prophet said disdainfully. "Our agents are throughout the galaxy, our riches are indescribable, our followers..."
"End it, Kadann," Malgus said tiredly. "Everything you've listed is already ours. The droids have already reached the Temple's dungeons. And your entire agent network, all accounts and jewels now belong to a new master."
"Is that so," the man snorted. "Then you shall die."
Malgus managed to react, shielding himself in the Force against the torrent of Force Lightning that Kadann unleashed on him. The Prophet hadn't started his final dialogue for no reason—il had used it to accumulate the power of the Dark Side and end the battle in his favor. However, just as the overconfident Sith had initially, now Prophet Kadann himself had underestimated his opponent.
Though with difficulty, Darth Malgus, maintaining a Force Bubble around himself, moved forward. Through the flashes of blue-purple lightning, he noted with satisfaction that Zul, like a diligent apprentice, had reacted to the threat in the simplest way—moving out of the line of fire and hiding behind a column. Kadann briefly tried to destroy the obstacle, but noticing Malgus moving toward him, correctly judged the Sith to be a much greater threat than the half-trained Jedi.
He rained oceans of the Dark Side upon Malgus, seeking to fry him. Until the very end, he failed to realize that the Sith was absorbing his energy, strengthening his own defenses.
Finally, as no more than a couple of meters remained between them, Kadann realized his tactics were ineffective. Returning the crimson blade to his hands, he prepared to continue the sparring match.
Malgus rained a series of furious overhead strikes on his opponent, forcing the weakened enemy to retreat quickly. Sidestepping Kadann's thrust, he landed a Force-augmented spinning kick to the ribs. The man rolled like a wheel to the nearest column. Simultaneously, Zul, slipping out of her cover, joined the fight, continuing to wear down the Supreme Prophet with series of quick strikes from the Ataru arsenal.
Malgus, seeing how the girl easily converted her rage into fuel for combat, smiled with scarred lips beneath his respirator mask. Excellent. She could turn out to be a superb militant.
Feeling a flare of the Prophet's anger, he warningly grabbed him with the Force and yanked him toward himself. Another column he intended to collapse broke uselessly into debris, causing no harm to the Sith's protégé. Zul jumped over the rubble and rushed toward him.
Malgus waited for Kadann to stand up, recovering after a rather rough collision with another column that the Sith had arranged for him. Zul, standing next to her master, gave a crooked smile. It seemed the girl was starting to get a taste for it.
The Supreme Prophet, spitting a clot of blood onto the floor, pulled his fallen lightsaber back into his shaking hand. Casting a hateful glance at the Sith, he jumped toward the enemies with a furious roar.
When ten meters separated them, Malgus extended his free hand and released a blue branching Force Lightning. It hit the flying opponent, passed through his defenses, enveloped him in a cocoon, and began to burn his flesh.
Howling in pain, the man dropped his weapon, frozen at the peak of his jump. His body shook in convulsions, his clothes smoldered, fusing to his skin in several places, which added the smell of burnt hair and skin to the scent of ozone in the air.
Kadann writhed and screamed, as if complaining to the heavens about the unbearable agony. And only after several minutes of torture did he finally lose consciousness.
Malgus ceased the attack. The Prophet, seriously wounded, fell to the floor and, like a limp rag doll, rolled across the shiny permacrete.
He wheezed even more laboriously than Malgus.
The Sith, gesturing for his Padawan to follow, approached the defeated enemy.
"We shouldn't leave him alive," the girl said, her eyes swimming with molten aurodium. "After all, the paratroopers report they've captured everyone else, including the children."
"And what did these dregs need youngsters for?" Malgus became alert, kicking Kadann's scorched body with all his might. The man did not wake.
The fate of the small fry didn't interest him. But he wanted to uncover another mystery, clearly of value.
"I don't think we'll like the answer," the girl said, igniting her lightsaber. "I can only think of two reasons why aging hermits would want two dozen teenagers. Neither of them can be pleasant."
"Step back," Malgus squeezed the girl's hand holding the weapon tightly. "Believe me, a fate far worse than death awaits him and all the other Prophets."
"Really?" the girl deactivated her weapon. Satisfaction radiated from her in the Force. And peace. Malgus watched with relish as the Falleen calmed down, enveloping herself in the Light Side. The amber glint in her irises dissolved as if it had never been there.
He found he liked the former Padawan's character.
The Sith picked up the unconscious body with the Force, moving it toward the exit, where advance squads of droid paratroopers, having finished clearing the Temple, were already appearing. Without much ceremony, the white droids smashed a passage in the Temple wall, not bothering to clear the blocked entrance. The girl followed him, not lagging a step, silently matching her master's long strides.
"Place him in stasis," he ordered the commander of the "skystrikers." "This bastard must serve the good of the Empire."
"Master?" Xiss looked at him with confusion.
The question in her eyes was the same one he had asked himself many times and which his father had tried to help him find an answer to many thousands of years ago.
The answer hadn't fully satisfied him—not in childhood, nor in adulthood—but Malgus suspected that was the point.
"Sometimes an empty cage is just an empty cage," he declared, walking outside. Zul looked at him with a confused gaze but remained silent, wrapping herself in the folds of her cloak.
Another storm broke out outside.
The Sith felt the first drops of rain fall on his face. Closing his eyes, he allowed the anger to leave his body, restoring the Balance of the Force within himself.
And as soon as his emotions returned to normal, he pulled his hood over his head, walking toward the landed shuttle through the thick curtain of the downpour.
Dromund Kaas had become part of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul.
He needed to report this to the Emperor.
***
When the commander of the First Volunteer Corps of Christophsis, Matthew Mantrell, arrived, the other participants of the meeting were already seated in the conference room of the headquarters of the Zakuul Eternal Empire expeditionary forces.
"My apologies, Admiral," he said, rounding the table and heading for the empty chair to the right of Grand Admiral Thrawn, who sat at the head of the table. "A message came from the scouts. I considered it important for our meeting."
"Will you share?" the Chiss asked, without looking up from his datapad. The alien seemed not even to notice what was happening around him, yet, as it turned out, it was quite the opposite.
"Yes," the man replied, taking his seat. "A patrol corvette stumbled upon a group of smugglers. Two ships were destroyed, one was boarded. They are currently being interrogated on the Chimaera. So far, we've learned they have no connection to the Republic or the galaxy as we know it. Technicians are extracting data from the navigation computer to expand our understanding of this region."
"And you think this waste of effort will bear fruit?" snorted R'Lair, sitting across from him. The green-skinned Twi'lek, who headed a regiment of his kin who were among the first citizens of Zakuul, did not part with his weapon even in a meeting held deep within a massive fortress made of black stone that absorbed any type of energy. The heavy blaster pistol holstered on his chest was a rare model Matthew didn't even recognize. The weapon lacked no power—a single shot could burn right through the armor used by Imperial stormtroopers.
"Captain R'Lair meant to ask," said Marshal Taka, the commander of the 1st Assault Corps of the Empire sitting next to him, in a more polite tone, "will the tactic of raids in nearby space help, especially when there are many other ways to obtain information?"
"A negative result is still a result," Thrawn said calmly, fixing his glowing red eyes on the clone. "Furthermore, after every operation, we leave observer drones in the systems to help us track traffic in each system. By the time we decide on a further strategy, we will have information on hundreds of ships operating in this sector."
R'Lair snorted hoarsely.
"We know the map of this sector." The Twi'lek tapped his clawed finger decisively on the tabletop. "Won't your kin share the information they have about the Unknown Regions with us?"
"Captain," Thrawn said in an insinuating tone, looking up from his screen. "You speculate too much on matters beyond your competence. If my memory serves me, your regiment belongs to the department of military intelligence. Not counter-intelligence. Kindly carry out the orders given to you, rather than discussing them."
"I just don't want to rot in this Force-forsaken world all my life," the Twi'lek growled. "Especially once the trouble starts in the Republic. You know, I don't want to miss the show."
"It is not for you to decide where the forces under your command will operate," said Alex, commander of the 2nd Assault Corps, from the other end of the table. "We all serve the Empire and the Emperor. And in this case, the Grand Admiral is the conduit of his will."
"I agree, Commander," Thrawn said. "Unfortunately, I will not dwell on this incident," he cast a cold look from his glowing eyes at the Twi'lek. "There are other matters requiring my attention. There are other forces threatening both this region and all who have joined the Empire of Zakuul."
"The Admiral is right," Matthew added. "I could name at least ten such threats right now, and there will be even more in the future."
"Then finish them," R'Lair proposed firmly. "My scouts are ready to crawl into any hole in the vicinity and bring back the head of anyone you say."
Thrawn shook his head disapprovingly.
Despite having known him for an unpardonably short time, Matthew had already figured out that the Chiss was not a fan of hasty decisions. Where a scout would charge into battle with an unknown outcome, the Grand Admiral would prefer to understand the enemy and destroy them guaranteed. The small pirate clan that had settled in a mineral-rich asteroid belt in a neighboring star system was proof of that. Although they possessed almost an entire fleet masterfully hidden among the space boulders, Thrawn needed only his flagship and two corvettes to exterminate them all. The few survivors were now being interrogated in the dungeons of Nirauan, having all information beaten out of them. Its usefulness would be judged later. For now, the main thing was to obtain it.
It was the pirates' navigational database that became the starting point for fleet intelligence raids in the surrounding area—the Empire's expeditionary forces were deploying their network of eyes and ears in search of enemies and allies. It was a shame the Twi'lek didn't understand the necessity of this step.
"What do you know of the Quesots, Captain?" Thrawn asked quietly. The scout, furrowing his brow, spent a whole minute merely confirming his ignorance.
"And of the Stromms?"
Silence again.
"Jeruns? Vagaari? Ssi-ruuvi? Tof? Nagai? Shikitari? Shi'ido?"
Receiving a negative answer to each question, Thrawn set his datapad aside and steepled his fingers.
"We have encountered dangerous and numerous enemies before," the Twi'lek cut in. "These will fall too, just like all the previous ones."
"But at what cost?" the Grand Admiral asked. "Is the loss of all your kin acceptable to you?"
"Of course not!" the Twi'lek protested.
"I do not accept any senseless losses, Captain," Thrawn said with a dispassionate expression on his blue face. "It is our duty as civilized beings to strive to minimize suffering," the Chiss drawled. If he was concerned by his interlocutor's obvious lack of compassion, it was impossible to tell from his voice. "This applies both to our allies and our enemies."
"Under your command are the strongest ships in this region," the Twi'lek's voice no longer sounded quite so bellicose. "Can we not simply force the nations to join us?"
"And how soon would I have to send troops, whose numbers are already limited, to suppress rebellions?" Thrawn raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Joining through violence is not our way."
"Then," the scout persisted, "perhaps you will explain why you sent half of our fleet of 'Rippers' to the Vagaari worlds with orders to exterminate them all?"
"My people have been familiar with the Vagaari for many years," the Grand Admiral said. "They are warlike, stubborn, and bloodthirsty. They protect their ships with special capsules containing prisoners—no reasonable military officer would fire upon such a ship."
"Savages," the Twi'lek growled. "Barbarians..."
"And yet," Thrawn continued, ignoring the restless alien, "the Vagaari have ambitions to conquer all peoples they encounter. The Jerun race, used by the Vagaari as a source of slaves for several decades, would confirm my words. If even one of its representatives had survived."
"Bastards," R'Lair whispered.
"Do you still think one can negotiate with the Vagaari?" the Grand Admiral asked with a subtle hint of mockery.
"No, sir," the Twi'lek straightened up. "But perhaps we should have sent more than just one corps to conquer their territories?"
"Doubting me again, Captain?" Thrawn remarked coldly. Seeing the man shake his head, the Chiss continued. "I do not gamble needlessly with MY fleet and MY people. I suggest you remember that."
Those gathered noticed a blinking light on the Chiss's comlink. Casting a brief look at it, he said:
"Circumstances force me to interrupt the meeting. We will meet here again in two hours."
In total silence, the clones, the Twi'lek, and the human rose from their seats and proceeded to the single exit of the conference room.
Matthew, leaving the room last, noticed that Thrawn's face expressed a total lack of emotion. And his glowing eyes were looking, as if into a mirror, at an identical face looming over the comlink projector.
"I am pleased by your response, Aristocra..."
The Christophsian couldn't hear the rest of the conversation—the closing doors behind him cut off the Grand Admiral's voice.
***
Walking steadily amidst a sea of grass that reached her waist in places, Celeste felt a faint echo of the Force emanating from the structure stretched out before her. Once inhabited by many Jedi, this building, surrounded by dense forests, now remained only a reminder of the former greatness of the True Covenant.
"A strange feeling," the girl accompanying her shivered. "As if we're walking through a graveyard."
"In part, that's exactly what it is, Sariss," Celeste admitted. "In my youth, dozens of powerful Jedi lived here. The Covenant Temple is saturated with their Force. But over the years, everything here has decayed, faded..."
"On Dromund Kaas, everything is different," the blonde said quietly. "Darkness is everywhere there..."
"The Dark Side has a striking ability to leave its foul aftertaste on everything it touches," Celeste quoted the words of one of the Covenant members. "That planet was a sanctuary for the Sith—the most disgusting and terrible of them—for millennia. It's no wonder a corresponding aura remained there. And it will likely continue to exist even after our deaths."
"I see," the girl said shortly.
Celeste didn't need to look at her charge. Through the Force, she knew perfectly well what the girl was thinking. Despite being raised among the Sith, the girl didn't hide her emotions well enough. At least, not from her.
"Do you think we can find anything here?" Sariss asked another question.
"At the very least, we will try to find out," Celeste admitted frankly. "The Emperor has designs on this moon. And our task is to ensure that the artifacts of the past fall into his treasury, and not into the hands of even common soldiers. To say nothing of the locals."
"Do you think they care about anything?" the apprentice asked, surprised. "There are so few of them—only a couple of settlements. It seems to me that if they cared at all about this ancient building, they would have long ago..."
"And yet, we must investigate this Temple," the former Jedi Shadow said with a touch of impatience. No. Inquisitor. That was what she and those who joined this branch of the Zakuul Empire were now called.
Inquisitors.
Punishers. Hunters. Killers.
And as if that weren't enough—archaeologists and relic hunters as well.
"You are one of the few who will understand the importance of this," the Emperor had instructed her. "We must not allow ancient Sith, or Jedi, or any other dangerous items and knowledge to fall into the hands of... not just enemies. In fact, into anyone's hands but ours."
And... she couldn't disagree. After what she had seen in the Throne Room, any doubts had vanished. The Unifying Force was a power it was futile to argue with. Neither Sith nor Jedi were a match for the power the Emperor radiated and carefully hid from everyone.
Perhaps, over four thousand years, the spirit of Karness Muur had managed to erode her dogmatic foundations. Because now, for the first time in her life, Celeste craved more power. Significantly more than she already possessed.
It was no surprise that among those who joined the Empire before her eyes, she had chosen Sariss. A girl raised by the Sith in all their twisted perceptions of reality. A girl whom she, with her experience, could turn into something significantly greater than a simple plaything for perverts...
And who, in turn, could help her in mastering the Dark Side of the Force. As a Covenant agent, Morne could feel Darkness even in its most insignificant or carefully hidden manifestation. She knew all the paths of the Dark Side known to the Jedi—in theory. She had no doubt she could open herself to it when required. And she could restore her spiritual Balance using the Light Side.
But for a full mastery of the Darkness, a living source of knowledge was necessary. One weak enough not to push her into the abyss of madness. For the beginning of a journey, a confident step is enough. The rest can always be obtained later—it was unlikely the Emperor would refuse her request to study one or several Sith holocrons. After all, an Inquisitor must possess deep knowledge in the area they are destined to fight.
And judging by what the only Jedi among all those she observed in the Throne Room had demonstrated, she could outmatch most of the modern members of the Jedi Order in Light Side practices.
Lost in thought, she didn't notice they had reached the dilapidated stone porch of the Temple. Looking at the numerous pitted chunks of stone and cracks, Celeste thought with some amusement that Jedi structures did not stand the test of time. Unlike those Sith temples she had studied in her youth on Korriban.
"There are bound to be deadly traps here," Sariss shivered. Proximity to the Light Side, even one so negligible, caused her discomfort. "Perhaps we should have let the stormtroopers take this Temple apart stone by stone?"
"A Sith who fears the unknown?" Celeste asked reproachfully, looking the girl in the eyes. The girl, lowering her gaze, impatiently unclipped the hilt of her lightsaber from her belt.
"I'm not afraid of anything!" she said decisively.
"How charming," Celeste smirked. "And foolish."
Overhead, howling with ion engines, a pair of interceptors streaked by.
A patrol controlling the planet's airspace. A Star Destroyer, from whose deck cargo and transport shuttles continued to rise, delivering construction materials for a base and the contingent of the Empire's 10th Assault Corps under the command of Clone Marshal Dyato, hung in low orbit. Given the remoteness of Drey 2 from the main hyperspace routes and conflict zones, this force was more than sufficient to establish full control over the Empire's property. Yes, the Emperor could call this world his with a clear conscience—the billion credits paid to the descendants of the Drey family for the right to own this remote world spoke for itself.
As she pushed open the Temple gates, Celeste thought bitterly that the noble beginnings of the True Covenant had been trampled by the Drey family's own descendants. Not Force-sensitive, they had used the planet as a tourist spot—fortunately, the temperate climate was conducive to that. However, the number of people willing to cross the galaxy to be here grew smaller every year. And for the last three thousand years, this moon, despite active attempts to sell it, had not found a new owner. And for over a thousand years, there hadn't been a single tourist. Once-profitable real estate had turned into a burden that no sentient wanted to deal with.
Because they didn't realize that the true value of Drey 2 was not in its welcoming flora and fauna. But in the inaccessible ancient structure, the path to which only Inquisitor Morne knew. Therefore, it wasn't much trouble for Celeste to use the HoloNet to identify the last heir of the Drey line to this planet and buy out the rights to the True Covenant's fortress world. Two days of traveling aboard her Fury-class interceptor, provided by the Emperor.
Now, settling into the once-luxurious tourist complex, Dyato's stormtroopers were very clearly explaining to the descendants of those who had arrived here illegally, or were descendants of long-ago settlers, that times had changed. And from now on—they were citizens of a completely different state. One that would give them work and care for their prosperity.
After all, once the Temple was cleared and a full-scale military base was established on the planet, why shouldn't the Emperor's plan come to life? What was once a tourist complex would turn into a luxurious resort for the army and navy.
For the soldiers of the Empire also needed a place to rest.
Considering how much still remained to be done.
"The entrance is sealed using the Force," Celeste explained, breaking away from her thoughts. "Even ship's guns aren't enough to break inside."
"So what do we do?" Sariss asked, eyeing the towering gates made of Mandalorian iron, equipped with dozens of ingenious mechanisms. "Go back?"
"Not a chance!" Celeste remarked acidly. "Fortunately for us, I know how to open this door. But, I beg you by the Force—don't touch anything inside. The last thing we need is to wake the guardians..."