"Sir," the lieutenant who appeared in Rivas's field of vision distracted him from reading the daily reports.
Looking at the young officer's face, the Duros tried to recall his name but couldn't. "Most likely one of the new ones," Nuodo thought.
Working under a contract for the Christophsis government, the PMC was straining itself, training a massive number of recruits. After the first month of training, he had to use old connections to find reinforcements for his organization. The Duros's combat unit, which once numbered several hundred of the most desperate cutthroats of the Mid Rim, had now grown into a full-strength legion—by the standards of the Grand Army of the Republic. Naturally, remembering everyone's face was simply impossible.
"What do you want?" Nuodo asked.
The massive training complex, built ten kilometers from the planet's capital, was essentially a small town. Thousands of barracks designed for the permanent residence of more than three million cadets, warehouses, arsenals, garage bays for equipment, huge classroom buildings, firing ranges, and dozens of parade grounds—all of this was built in the shortest possible time by the locals themselves. More than ten thousand square kilometers of infrastructure intended to prepare Christophsians for participation in the war on the Republic's side.
And in the center of all this splendor—a spacious open-air cantina (as it turned out, precipitation here wasn't the most frequent occurrence). It was located on top of a massive command bunker from which observers continuously monitored every square meter of the complex. Nuodo's own office was also located there, overlooking the parade ground where recruits practiced hand-to-hand combat skills. However, he preferred to spend most of his time above the bunker—the weather was conducive to a healthy appetite. And reading tedious documents in the fresh air was a pleasure.
Commanders of units gathered here deep at night, at the end of their shifts, to report their successes. Or to ask their patron for advice.
Right now, he was here alone—except for this newcomer.
"We have problems with one of the tanks, sir," the man stated.
"And what kind of problems?"
"It needs to be processed as Category 3," the lieutenant began to explain.
However, the Duros tuned out his ramblings.
An extremely interesting character had entered the cantina.
A young man in gray-green heavy armor, over which was thrown a black cloak with silver elements. A pretentious look, one had to admit. But his face was unfamiliar to the Duros—even though the newcomer was moving in his direction. As were a pair of brave clones in unfamiliar armor with black-and-silver patterns.
However, the head of the PMC quickly remembered where he had seen such armor.
The 204th Legion. "Dougan's Fist," as they were called among themselves here on Christophsis. A unit that had gone through the hell the Separatists had unleashed on this planet. The very guys who had scattered an enemy army ten times their size across the surroundings. And later, if rumors were to be believed, the legion had distinguished itself in battles. The victory at Ukio, thanks to which most of the systems armies in the Outer Rim received excellent provisions, was the work of these clones.
True, these guys had been stationed on the planet for a long time while their commander—the Jedi Dougan (who had recently become first a Moff of a supersector and then swallowed up three sectoral armies)—was away somewhere. Nuodo had heard the Jedi had recently returned, but had never met him personally.
"Rivas Nuodo, I presume?" the Jedi sat down beside him without much ceremony, unceremoniously interrupting the lieutenant's report. Though, perhaps it was for the best—the head of the company wasn't listening anyway.
"Grand Moff Dougan," the mercenary greeted the Jedi. "I am glad to finally meet you."
"Likewise. I wanted to express my gratitude for your work in training the militia. Excellent fighters."
"That's what the locals pay me for—to make them the best," the Duros noted.
The Jedi gave a crooked smile. I wonder what I said that was so funny?
"I see I've interrupted your conversation?" obeying the Jedi's gesture, the pair of escorts sat down at the nearest table, at a respectful distance. Far enough to intervene if necessary, and yet not too close to interfere with what was happening at Nuodo's table.
"That's true," Rivas didn't mince words. "The lieutenant was asking for my advice regarding sending a tank for repair."
"Oh," the Grand Moff drawled. "And what happened?"
The Duros gave his subordinate a meaningful look. The man, clearly embarrassed, looked down, repeatedly tugging at the jacket of his jumpsuit.
"Grand Moff, sir," the lieutenant said. "My name is Salov, I am the commander of the instructor group training the militia in the operation of heavy equipment. Specifically, the TX-130 tanks."
"Get to the point, Lieutenant," the Duros requested. Who hired this guy? The head of the company himself couldn't stand spherical answers in a vacuum. Everything should be clear and to the point.
"As you wish. So, we have one f—ked up tank in the company. It's already exhausted its resource—classes are held around the clock. First there were engine problems—it stalled at low RPM..."
"And how did you park the tank in the bay?" the Grand Moff asked, surprised.
"We have open-air parking spots, sir," the lieutenant explained. "A lot fenced on three sides of the perimeter. But generally, we had to park at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour. Otherwise, the reactor stalls and it takes half a day to manually start it with a 'crank'."
Seeing the question on the General's face, the lieutenant explained.
"We call the manual reactor pre-heating device a 'crank.' It's this curved pipe..."
"Remarkable," the Jedi said. "And do the recruits manage such stunts—parking at speed?"
"Not all of them, sir. We have to put the fence back up about ten times a week."
Rivas, while outwardly expressing calm, was already mentally terminating the contract with this fool. Why the hell report that training was being conducted on old equipment restored after the siege of Christophsis?
No, the client was not stingy with payments for services and equipment purchases. However, the worse the situation on the front became, the more difficult it was to acquire training machines. Manufacturers tried to send their products to the Jedi in the army, not to a school on some planet. That's why Rivas had ordered the classes on equipment design and repair to be combined with the commissioning of knocked-out Republic and CIS machines. The recruits got practical experience, and eventually, the park of training walkers and tanks was replenished. Slowly, of course—some machines had to be used for parts for others. Но it was still faster than waiting for a supply convoy from Kuat or Rothana.
However, the Jedi only smiled.
"You have a lively way of teaching science. So, what about this tank?"
"Needs a capital overhaul," the lieutenant said. "The reactor melted, the repulsor unit was twisted out. No possibility for restoration."
Equipment in the GAR had only four levels of gradation. Category 1 was equipment that didn't need repair—mostly machines just received from the manufacturer. Categories 2 and 3 were those requiring medium or capital repair of components and assemblies. Category 4 was scrap metal to be sent for smelting—or used for spare parts for other tanks.
"And what are the grounds for writing off this tank?" the Grand Moff inquired.
"Um..." the lieutenant hesitated. "As I said—the power and repulsor units aren't working, the main gun also works only half the time, the ventilation, navigation, steering—everything is held together by a prayer... Sir, to be honest, the only thing left alive are the hatch locking mechanisms."
"And what is the problem, Lieutenant?" the Moff repeated.
"It's my first time doing this," he admitted. "Especially since the logistics service needs a detailed report on the reasons..."
"Don't bother your head or anyone else's. Write it as it is, I have to sign off on the equipment report anyway," the Grand Moff unceremoniously pulled the datapad out of the lieutenant's hands and, running his fingers over the equipment, pressed his command cylinder to the reader slot, thereby authorizing the report for write-off. Then, he returned the equipment to the hands of the surprised mercenary.
"There you go. Short and to the point," the Jedi explained. The lieutenant, casting a glance at the monitor, read the resolution aloud.
"The tank is f—ked, stop raping the corpse," having announced the inscription, the lieutenant looked at his boss. Rivas wasn't well-versed in Jedi slang either, so he nodded silently, implying that if the Grand Moff thought it was "f—ked," then it was definitely beyond repair.
"Is that all, Lieutenant?" the Jedi inquired. "Because your commander and I need to talk privately."
"Yes, yes," the young mercenary nodded. "Forgive me for taking your time."
It took the tank instructor a couple of seconds to disappear from his superiors' sight. "Hm," Nuodo thought. "If he handles a tank like that, maybe he shouldn't be fired."
As soon as the lieutenant was out of sight, the Grand Moff, leaning back in his chair, said with a smile.
"Rivas, how would you like to make some money?"
"Always with great pleasure, sir," the Duros said cautiously. "And what is the task?"
"It's simple," the Jedi said, still smiling. "We need someone killed."
Looking into the cold eyes of his interlocutor, the Duros felt himself becoming uncomfortable.
***
"Not the most hospitable planet," Ahsoka said with a sigh, looking through the cockpit canopy at the desolate landscape.
The cliffs, devoid of any vegetation, had such a predatory, menacing look that they seemed like the fangs of a giant animal whose mouth was the giant plain in the center of which lay almost the only settlement on the surface of this lifeless world.
But only here was there a spaceport, however dilapidated.
"In fact," Nadia said quietly, "there are never any guests here at all. At least according to Master Baas's records contained in his holocron."
The Togruta shivered. She had never asked about the fate that had befallen the Jedi. And, to be honest, she didn't want to know. Perhaps because she was afraid of the answer... or because she had stopped caring.
"Do you think we can convince them?" the girl asked.
The white-skinned Hand of the Emperor, looking up from the instrument readings, gave her a long look. Then, smiling slightly, she said:
"I very much hope so."
Ahsoka, though not particularly skilled in mental techniques, still caught the truthfulness of her companion's words through the Force. Then again, who knew what adepts of the Unifying Force were capable of? Perhaps the pale-faced woman was lying to her, and she couldn't tell.
"You are troubled," Grell stated, positioning her ship over a clearing in the shape of an irregular circle located at the edge of the settlement.
No dispatchers, no customs. It seemed everyone in this world cared so little about what was happening that even their own safety didn't particularly concern them.
There weren't even any onlookers watching the landing of a clearly military ship.
"A little," the girl didn't hide it.
"Will you tell me why?" the Sarkhai asked in the same peaceable voice.
The girl barely felt a jolt as the landing struts touched down. Only the cessation of the light hull vibration indicated the ship was finishing its landing cycle.
"Master Dougan... He acted dishonorably toward me. And the Republic as a whole... Why all this? Surely a more peaceful way out could be found?"
"Are you sure that's possible?" the Sarkhai asked, surprised.
"Isn't it?"
"In circumstances where both sides of the conflict are controlled by the same sentient?" Nadia smirked. "The entire Republic is under the control of a Sith. The Confederacy of Independent Systems, even if indirectly, is too. In these circumstances, a third party in the galaxy is the best choice for the population."
"A population that will die in the war you plan to start?" Tano frowned.
"A short victorious war for a better future," Nadia corrected her. "A push for the population to finally crawl out of their shells and open their eyes to what is happening. As it was in my time..."
"But the Order, the Jedi..."
"Ahsoka," Nadia said patiently. "Neither the Emperor nor any of us has anything personal against the Order. Kira, Ashara, and I—we were once members of the Jedi. And believe me, we have no desire to cross blades with our colleagues."
"But you killed the master guarding the kyber crystal for the holocron!" Ahsoka reminded her stubbornly. "Lady Atroxa captured Master Baas..."
"Unfortunately," Grell added sadly. "For the welfare of the Empire and all the people of the galaxy, sacrifices must be made. Sometimes ones that are far too great."
"Oh, right," the girl snorted. "And for some reason, the sacrifices have to be Jedi!"
"Only those who will oppose the Emperor and the course he has chosen for the Empire," the Sarkhai corrected the girl. "Compared to the total extermination Darth Sidious has chosen for them, this is the lesser evil. You should speak with Lady Zavros—she oversees the Academy on Tython. There are quite a lot of former Jedi there—including those who left the Order due to the start of the war. As far as I know, anyone who wants to join us will not be left wanting."
"Tython," the girl repeated. "I think I've heard of it..."
"That is depressing," Nadia said, gesturing for the girl to follow her to another part of the ship as she rose from her seat. "In my time, Padawans were more... educated."
"Very funny," the girl said with hurt in her voice. "So I skipped a few lessons..."
"Do you mind if I fill the gaps in your education?" Nadia said with a smile, walking toward the compartment where equipment and ammunition were stored.
Ahsoka remained silent. What did it matter what happened thousands of years ago?
"It was on Tython that the movement known as the Je'daii originated. I recall you were told about this. Well, after the attack by Vitiate's Sith Empire and the sacking of the Temple on Coruscant, we had to find a new home—and it became the long-abandoned and forgotten Tython. There, the Order restored its strength, and it was from there that the struggle against the invaders was waged."
"Just wonderful," the girl declared. "First this Vitiate tries to destroy the galaxy, and now he's helping Master Dougan take it over?"
"Sentients change," Nadia smiled. "Vitiate lived for thousands of years. He knew the Force as no other sentient could. Yes, he is primarily a master of the Dark Side, but at the same time—a truly unique individual. And his desire to bring peace to the galaxy, to rid it of the constant wars fought mostly at the whim of the gifted—is perfectly logical. One shouldn't reject someone's wisdom just because they once made a mistake. We are all not without sin."
Ahsoka thought, her eyes fixed on the doors of the clothing locker. There was a grain of rationality in Lady Grell's words, of course. But how strange it was to hear from a Jedi that a Sith might be right.
"I served Vitiate for three long thousand years," Nadia continued, shedding her light outer clothing. "And believe me, after he tried to change the galaxy through total destruction or forced conquest, this greatest of Sith drew conclusions. Of course, I don't exclude that the Plan voiced to us is not the only one. However, the Emperor is wise enough not to rely solely on the opinion of his ghostly teacher. After all, we, the Hands of the Emperor, are always near, ready to help—not only with deeds but with advice."
"Uh-huh, wise," Ahsoka opened the locker with a touch of irritation, looking at the sets of clothes and armor hanging before her. Most of this wardrobe had been purchased by Dougan before leaving Coruscant. Specifically for her. A small gesture that proved the Emperor was not indifferent to the fate of his supporter. Even in such small things. "Then why did he allow all this at all? The rise of the Sith, for example."
"A difficult question," Nadia admitted. "But as I understand it, Vitiate revealed himself to Dougan only after the war began. Likely, he tried other possibilities but did not succeed. Before the Emperor woke us, only one servant of Vitiate had been active in the galaxy all this time."
"And who is he?"
"Set Harth. A former Jedi who possesses the skills to transfer his consciousness into a new body."
"So he can live forever?" the girl was amazed, pulling off her tiresome red jumpsuit.
"In theory—yes."
Ahsoka fell silent, changing into simple but sturdy clothes. Wide pants with many pockets, a thin blouse, over which sat a comfortable vest.
"You approach dressing with some expertise," Nadia praised her. Looking around, Ahsoka saw she was sporting a similar outfit. Except that a blaster now hung at her belt instead of a lightsaber pike. A typical freighter captain on the Outer Rim, not an Imperial subordinate.
"Something like that," the girl admitted. Following her companion's example, she buckled on a wide belt, securing a thigh holster with a blaster on her leg. "I've had experience working undercover before."
"Really?" Nadia said without much enthusiasm. "Care to share?"
Ahsoka thought for a second about where to put the lightsabers. Finally, concluding that the hidden pockets of the vest were the perfect place for the weapons, she shoved the hilts Dougan had given her inside.
"Nothing special," the girl shrugged. "The Separatists attacked my people; the Togruta colony on Kiros was captured by Zygerrians. They planned to resume the slave trade in their sector. To expose them and free my kin, Master Skywalker came up with a cunning plan for infiltration."
"Is that so?" Nadia smiled, heading for the exit of the compartment. "And what stopped him from conducting a troop operation or a sabotage mission?"
"Well," Ahsoka hesitated, remembering her awkward feelings in the revealing blue outfit. "Master Skywalker's tastes are quite specific... We penetrated the enemy's camp, caused a total ruckus there, and freed my kin."
"And how did you manage that, if it's not a secret?" Nadia asked curiously.
"We gained their trust," Ahsoka stated boastfully.
"A human and a Togruta... and the slavers didn't tie you up?"
"Not immediately," the girl admitted. "But the disguise was excellent. The Master dressed as a slave owner, and he dressed me in a slave outfit and presented me to everyone as his property. Naturally, we dressed accordingly," she added a bit more quietly.
"And that was the plan of your former master?" Nadia asked with a huge amount of skepticism. Ahsoka looked at her with a touch of defiance. However, literally the next second, remembering how everyone had stared at her, offering anything but pleasant comments, she hastily looked away.
"Yes," she whispered softly.
"The Jedi who trained you is a sick bastard," Nadia said with a hint of irritation.
The Togruta wanted to defend Skywalker's reputation, but... stopped herself. Defend the one who couldn't defend her? The one who would cause the deaths of a huge number of Jedi and sentients? Only a couple of months ago, she would have readily crossed blades with this woman. But after what Dougan had told her... If he was to be believed, of course...
"I will refrain from comment," she replied dryly. Despite episodic impulses, the Togruta hadn't yet finally decided whether she believed the prophecies of the Immortal Emperor or not. Time, as they say, would tell.
"Do you think," the Togruta asked, descending the ramp of the interceptor, "the Zeison Sha will be glad to see us?"
"Actually, if the holocron records are to be believed, they aren't the friendliest bunch," Nadia said, typing a combination on her wrist bracer. Before the entry hatch closed, Ahsoka managed to see several droid paratroopers rise from the lower deck of the corvette. "But I will make every effort to recruit them."
"Because otherwise we'll have to destroy them," the Togruta said understandingly. "It's not for nothing we arrived here aboard a Star Destroyer."
"It would be a great failure—to turn the guns of a 'Ripper' against potential allies," Nadia admitted. "So we will have to be extremely eloquent."
"Oh, so I'll be participating in the negotiations too?" the girl's eyes widened.
"Of course," Nadia smiled. "You don't think I took you with me just because I didn't have enough ballast in the hold?"
"Well, actually, I weigh very little," the former Padawan turned up her nose.
"That's only because you're still small," Lady Grell remarked.
"That's not true!" Ahsoka exclaimed. "I'm already..."
In the next minute, the Force burned her with a premonition of danger. Obeying her instincts, the Togruta pulled the hilts of her lightsabers into her hands, activating the white blades. However, the rapidly spinning disc she managed to notice didn't even think of falling into two halves just because she touched its edge with the tip of one of her blades.
Instead, the weapon itself turned off, ceasing to function.
"What the...?"
"Cortosis," Nadia said. She looked with curiosity at the disc, sharpened along its entire circumference, which had bitten into one of the Fury's landing struts. "It seems we aren't welcome here."
Ahsoka, casting a glance at the weapon that had almost killed her, listened to the Force. A huge number of echoes in the Force suddenly reached her perception. While her companion examined the curious weapon, the Togruta scanned the structures surrounding the landing pad with a fierce gaze, between which—and especially on the roofs—a good hundred of various sentients had appeared. The only thing they had in common was that each held a disc identical to the one currently stuck in their interceptor's mechanism.
"Uh... Lady Grell," the Togruta called out. "I think we're more than unwelcome here."
***
Pulling the monovisor away from his eyes, the Duros rubbed his blue-skinned face.
"Looks like this job is going to be tough," Cad Bane said hoarsely, crouching behind the balcony railing from which he was observing.
The tools laid out at his feet were instantly in his hands—the mercenary began assembling his weapon.
The four-meter bastard who was the target of his mission was unperturbedly carving up a still-living clone on his workbench in the building across the street. Clad in some intricate armor, the giant didn't even seem to notice what was happening around him. All the better.
Though, perhaps the giant felt safe, given his guard of a squad of commando droids stationed near the windows and doors of the laboratory.
Bane picked up the optical sight assembly, intending to attach it to the rifle, but a sudden tremor in his wrists disrupted his plans. The expensive equipment fell from his now-unruly hands and dropped back into the case.
"Hutt," the Duros hissed a curse, suppressing the tremor by clenching his hands into fists. "When will this end?"
"Mocking remark," a synthesized voice reached him from the opposite end of the balcony. "Are you already asking for mercy, meatbag?"
"Shut your vocabulator, you fossilized scrap heap. If you were made of flesh and bone..."
"Critical disagreement. In that case, I would not be so effective."
The Duros, curling his lip, looked with hatred at the mechanical killer.
"If it were up to me, droid, you'd already be lying in an alley with a hole in your chassis."
"In that case," a new mechanical participant joined the dialogue. "The scraps of your pathetic body would be collected from all over the street. Fine-dispersed organic dust with plasma searing—the best an Iokath battle drone can make of your species. 'Duros in his own liver'—yes, I think I'll call the dish that."
From the doorway leading to the living quarters, another of Cad's partners on this mission appeared.
"Drone," the mercenary spat contemptuously.
"Future decaying mass," K1-Z3N greeted him, sending a mock military salute his way. "Have you still not assembled the rifle?"
"A little out of sorts after your method of recruitment," Bane raised the sight again. This time it took him only a few seconds to install the equipment.
"My mother is made entirely of program code!" the drone exclaimed in mock horror. "Biowaste, you should be grateful they didn't cut you into leather straps and instead gave you a chance to continue polluting the sky and sending organics to the next world."
Cad, busy screwing the thick-walled barrel to the body, only ground his teeth.
The torture these two mechanical butchers had put him through in the Zakuul dungeons for several weeks, he had endured stoically.
As if he hadn't had his skin flayed, his bones crushed before? As if it were the first time he'd been injected with various serums, beaten, and had his limbs twisted in their joints?
No, he had thought then. His tormentors would have to come up with something special.
And Hutt take those who lead them—they did.
He would never forget what that fragile-looking Lethan Twi'lek with the intricate black tattoos had done to him.
She entered the torture chamber, "decorated" with clots of his blood, like a shadow. Without saying a word, the Twi'lek female sat across from him. The Duros tried to make a joke, saying he was such a tough nut to crack that even the droids had run out of patience.
And, without a word, the girl showed him how wrong he was about her.
His first thought when all his nerve endings simultaneously exploded with indescribable sensations was that it couldn't possibly hurt that much. It felt as if every speck of his body was being torn apart from the inside. And burning, as if he had been dipped in molten lava.
After a few seconds, his mind took the most logical action.
Consciousness failed.
He didn't know how long he spent in oblivion.
But as soon as consciousness returned to him, it became clear that what had happened was only the beginning.
"Jedi... don't act like this..." he said, spitting blood from his mouth.
"You're unlucky," the girl broke the silence. "I'm not a Jedi."
And the pain flooded in again.
He didn't remember how many times this procedure continued—after the first dozen, he lost count.
And in the end, he gave up.
For the first time in his life, Cad Bane talked about his activities. In detail, thoroughly, with indications of places, times, known clients, and accomplices...
And only after that was he sent to a bacta tank.
"Everything is ready," he said, checking the weapon's functionality.
"Then get to work, biomass. The sun is still high," who programmed this strange droid nicknamed "Kenny" for sarcasm?
"Don't talk while I'm working," the Duros snapped, pressing his eye to the sight's eyepiece.
After he had healed, that same Lethan made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
To work for the Eternal Empire of Zakuul. On a permanent basis. Otherwise... Cad was no idiot. The time spent in bacta had been useful. The realization of how much trouble his former clients could cause him if the information he had told came to light dictated his response to the offer that was absolutely unthinkable to refuse.
The first assignment—essentially a baptism of fire in his new capacity. A cleaner for the Empire. And not the simplest one. It was no wonder these two piles of archaic scrap metal were sent with him.
Locking the rifle firmly in his hands, the Duros, noting that both droids had taken their positions, pulled the trigger.
A crimson blaster bolt, leaping from the muzzle, sped toward the external block of laboratory equipment located outside the room where the target was currently situated. A flash, and instead of the device shining on the wall, only pieces of charred metal remained.
Simultaneously, a pair of commandos walking on the roof of the building opposite slumped, hit by HK-47's rapid-fire sniper rifle.
The target reacted exactly as planned. As soon as the "ventilation" ceased to function, the four-meter giant interrupted the vivisection, used his comlink, but receiving no response from the destroyed guards, gave several orders to the commando droids. Four of the guards, shifting their carbines to the ready, left the laboratory room.
"We have three minutes," the Duros said, "before these clumsy fools reach the backup stairs and figure out what happened to the device."
The droids didn't need much prompting—they were already waiting for the Duros in the speeder. Vaulting over the side, Cad took the pilot's seat and slammed the accelerator to the floor, steering the vehicle toward the neighboring building.
Yes, they could have avoided inventing a hyperdrive and started the attack right from the lab roof. But that would have made significantly more noise.
As soon as the door on the roof swung open, releasing a squad of commandos, the trio of killers turned them into scrap metal in less than a few seconds. Running past the charred lower limbs of a pair of droids destroyed by a single shot from Kenny's plasma cannon, the Duros grunted with approval.
"Good gun, scrap heap."
"Jealousy in silence, victim of a failed abortion," Kenny parried, rushing down the stairs. Of the three, only he possessed heavy armor and could, at least for a short time, come under enemy fire without a lethal outcome.
Next went the second maniac, swapping the sniper rifle for a heavy repeater. In a confined space, where the interior prevents not only the deployment of a weapon's barrel but also generally constrains movement, a short barrel—that's what the doctor ordered.
Cad habitually drew his pair of favorite BlasTech LL-30s, made to his personal order some time ago.
As soon as the group reached the base of the upper floor, the building shook perceptibly.
"Sincere joy!" HK-47 exclaimed, simultaneously blowing the head off a commando droid that appeared in a doorway. "The enemy found my gift! I hope they like it!"
Bane shook his head, driving away thoughts of what might have happened to those who stumbled upon a tripwire made of a dozen plasma grenades.
Sprinting through a few more flights, simultaneously turning any droids they encountered into scrap metal, the squad reached the main level of the laboratory. Casting a look over the railing, the Duros noted with satisfaction that the exit had turned into an impassable fusion of permacrete, metal, and droid parts.
"You know how to set an ambush," he praised HK-47.
"Taunt. I killed my first thousand sentients back when your grandfather wasn't even a plan in your great-grandfather's scrotum, meatbag. I am the ultimate killing machine!"
Cad snorted, tossing a pair of thermal detonators into the laboratory. As soon as the smoke cleared, the trio of raiders was inside.
"Zeta Magnus," Cad said with a rasp, addressing the four-meter giant who hadn't stopped his procedure of reducing the number of limbs on the still-living clone. Bane felt an urge to vomit, looking at the partially flayed body of the GAR soldier with arms severed at the collarbone, with a section of the chest ribs sawed out... Clearly suffering, but alive only thanks to numerous injector tubes with which his target had riddled his victim.
Up close, the bastard was even more striking.
Ugly, as if composed of pieces of different species, he seemed like one giant target despite his intricate armor. But Cad didn't harbor any illusions. If it were simple, these two piles of archaic scrap metal wouldn't have been sent with him.
Meanwhile, the CIS scientist, breaking away from his task, slowly looked at the trio that had wrecked his laboratory. Measuring each of those who burst in with a heavy gaze from under his helmet, Magnus finally dropped his task, stopping the sawing of a foot on the human soldier's right leg.
"You have come here in vain," the mutant said in a menacingly low tone. "I, Zeta Magnus, the greatest scientist, will destroy you like bats!"
Cad was about to say something sharp, but in that same second, Zeta Magnus moved.
An armored fist slammed into HK's head. The droid fell to his knees, stitching the scientist's side with a burst from his repeater. Zeta didn't even flinch. Continuing to press the droid, who had moved out of the impact zone, the scientist, grabbing some ancient axe, began swinging it, seeking to hit HK's chassis with the blade of his weapon.
Despite his more than impressive size, the mutant moved quite impressively. Firing bursts from both blasters into him, Cad could only marvel at how masterfully HK played with the bastard, moving out from under his strike every time the giant began to think he was about to win.
Kenny, meanwhile, holding the defense at the door, was shredding the awakened guards with plasma bolts.
"Hurry up," came the voice from the entrance. "These crappy knockoffs keep coming."
"Almost done," Cad, having put two crimson bolts into the back of the mutant's head, cast a quick look at the laboratory's central computer. Seeing that the opponent was busy receiving butt-strokes to the face from HK, who was cheerfully howling, "Admiration. What a large meatbag!", Cad proceeded to the main part of today's mission.
Connecting the reader to the computer, he, ensuring the download had started, began searching the desks. Any found records and holodisks were instantly sent to the vast pockets of his backpack.
Meanwhile, the confrontation between the ancient droid and the Arkanian mutant reached its climax. The droid managed, discarding his own weapon, to snatch the axe from Magnus's hands. The killer's chassis shone with many fresh notches—evidently the giant had managed to hit him.
"I will destroy you all!" the monster roared, lunging at the droid.
"Taunt. But does the hat fit the meatbag?"
HK expertly dodged the opponent's lunge. Lightning-fast with the axe, he landed several blows on the mutant's limbs, causing him to howl like a crazed rancor, while the lab room was flooded with streams of black substance. However, the assassin droid, as if in a deadly dance, continued to move around the wounded man, landing hacking and glancing blows on vulnerable spots—where Magnus's huge paws could reach neither HK himself nor his instrument of retribution.
Cad could only watch what was happening with admiration. "If death has a face, it inevitably belongs to HK." The thought came suddenly, as sudden as it was true. And despite his own merits and skill, Bane still recognized the droid's undeniable talent in the business of destruction.
Suddenly he felt something touch his leg. Reflexively drawing his blaster, he spun around.
"Well, that's some Jedi s—t," he said.
Before him was the cot with the test subject. The very clone Zeta Magnus had been quartering. And now, by unknown means, this clone—or what was left of him—had managed to roll his cot to Cad. The Duros looked incredulously at the legs of the lab table. How convenient—on wheels.
The clone couldn't say anything. His mouth was clamped with a gag through which some tube went into his throat, either feeding or pumping out a yellow-green sludge. One of the legs, practically sawed off at the foot, hung on a piece of skin and muscle. The other, conversely—seemingly whole—was on the side away from Cad, opened up and emptied of its contents. Entirely. The Hutt-spawned geneticist had literally emptied the limb, filled it with some gas, and then, sewing a transparent film into the skin, restored the leg's airtightness.
"You've been through a lot, kid," Cad said with a hint of sympathy. He didn't understand such cruelty and never would. Judging by the clone's pleading look, he perfectly understood his prospects.
"Are you sure, kid?" the Duros cast a glance at Kenny, who at that moment smashed through the chassis of a B-2 model droid that had tried to break into the lab with a single blow of his shoulder-mounted gun. HK, meanwhile, had progressed significantly in the business of dismantling the mutant. In some distance from the torso lay both legs and arms, severed with striking surgical accuracy. And HK, continuing his dark deed, wielding the axe like a factory pneumatic chisel, hacked off pieces of the opponent's body, not forgetting to drench the convulsing Zeta Magnus from his repeater, which was back in his manipulator. Now the remains of the giant looked more like a charred piece of meat—and not of the best quality. But for some reason, the head was nowhere to be seen.
The clone blinked affirmatively, trying to nod his head. Bane, looking at his hands holding the blasters, only sighed.
"May your final journey be light!" Cad squeezed out an ancient funerary saying of his people. Noticing a characteristic eye movement, Bane raised his weapon, aiming it at the test subject's head. Meeting the cripple's gaze one last time, the Duros pulled the triggers.
A pair of crimson bolts bit into the clone's head, ending his existence.
Ensuring the human's brain was no longer functioning, the Duros turned to the computer, continuing the interrupted work. The information from the equipment's hard drive moved inexorably to the removable media. Judging by the volume of data—there was a lot of interesting stuff there. And not just from one year of work.
"We're done here," Cad said, removing the data storage. Hiding it in a secret pocket in the folds of his cloak, the Duros fired a series of shots into the laboratory equipment, smashing everything in sight.
"I've been waiting," came the voice of K1-Z3N from the entrance. The drone, sporting several black scorch marks, was non-subtly pointing at the doorway piled with enemy droids. And Cad could have sworn by all that's holy—a good half of the nearby space was definitely littered with the chassis of destroyed CIS fighters.
"Blast the wall," Bane, remotely controlling the speeder via his bracer, directed the vehicle toward the intended evacuation zone. The drone, without hesitation, blew out a section of the wall with his shoulder cannon, large enough for a herd of banthas to pass through. As soon as the dust and permacrete grit settled, Cad took a large container out of the cargo compartment of the speeder that had approached the breach in the wall.
"Loading up," he commanded both droids. While the accomplices took their seats in the cabin, the Duros lifted the top lid of the package and dialed a combination on the display. Slamming it shut, he locked the latch and took the pilot's seat in three steps.
"Time to go," Bane slammed the accelerator to the floor, tearing the machine away.
While the speeder raced through the busy streets of the planet, merging into traffic flows, maneuvering between other vehicles, the Duros noted with relief that a pursuit hadn't appeared. Excellent. It meant Magnus hadn't left reserves, completely concentrating the detachment assigned to him by Count Dooku in his secret laboratory. Well, the CIS were now poorer by a couple of hundred droids.
"Returning to the ship," the organic informed his mechanical colleagues.
Looking at the countdown on his bracer, the Duros smiled.
With a deafening roar, throwing thousands of various fragments into the sky, an explosion went off behind those retreating from the operation site, covering the tracks of the covert intrusion.
"Well, that's that," noticing a slight tremor in his hands, trying to cheer himself up, Cad said.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a target approaching him from the right. Turning sharply, the Duros drew a blaster from its holster, jamming it into the armored plate of a helmet with a narrow viewing slit. The rays of daylight fell on the deathly paleness of extinguished eyes...
"In Zeta Magnus's voice. 'I, the greatest scientist, will destroy you like bats!'" HK-47 mimicked, spinning the gutted head of the dead mutant on his manipulator like a hand puppet. "Skeptical. Well, where are you now, meatbag?"
***
The ancient industrial district of Coruscant, once the planet's industrial core, was now a slum where various scum tried to earn a credit or two through cottage production in abandoned factories. Those same deserted workshops had also become a sanctuary for hundreds of thousands of the dispossessed.
But amidst all this man-made chaos, there was an unremarkable building that was absolutely impossible to penetrate. Its secret owner had seen to that.
And now, standing by an armored window that offered a view of the ruins of the capital's industrial might, Darth Sidious listened to his apprentice's report.
"Are you certain of the truthfulness of this information, Lord Tyranus?" he asked coldly.
"The droid has done a vast amount of work collecting and analyzing information," Count Dooku said, without looking up from the polished floor. "Some information has been confirmed from other sources."
"Intriguing," the former apprentice of Darth Plagueis said slowly. "And what conclusion can be drawn from everything we know, Lord Tyranus?"
"For now, only what we know, Master," the Count replied without the slightest hesitation. "Jedi Dougan is playing his own double game. And he is using assistants, at least one of whom is three thousand years old."
"That could explain some oddities," Palpatine remarked. "In particular, the mystery of the fleet production at Rendili has finally been solved."
The corners of the Chancellor's lips curled upward.
How... interesting it all was.
A Jedi, not particularly distinguished among his comrades, suddenly—or rather, after a very long absence and stay in the Unknown Regions—returns, and events begin to revolve around him.
What is the conclusion from all this?
Dooku was absolutely right—Dougan, under the cover of official events, was running his own "game." And he had many helpers in this.
The mere construction of a fleet and the support of an entire star system—and not the poorest one—is a warning bell in itself. Which, however, was quite easily accepted by society. For them, this Jedi is a hero.
If the Order were to learn that the raid on the Temple, which Cad Bane failed to handle, was the work of their favorite, Jedi punitive squads would not hesitate to appear on Christophsis, where the headquarters of the 10th Systems Army is currently located. And you don't have to guess long—Dougan wouldn't stand a chance against the combined might of the Order. For his entire army is essentially Sith puppets.
However, is it worth rushing events so much?
"Lord Tyranus," Palpatine turned to his apprentice. "Of all your servants, only Sora Bulq and Baron Kirvan managed to survive an encounter with him in open combat."
"Precisely, Master. Tann, Ventress, Opress—all are dead. Both Bulq and Kirvan state that the Jedi is incredibly powerful in the Force. Not like the Chosen One, but he is unlikely to be inferior in power to any of the members of the High Council. I believe he is dangerous to our Plan..."
"Our?" the Naboo native clarified in an icy tone.
"Your, Lord. Please forgive my error..."
"Strangely enough, Dougan is also useful to us," Palpatine noted. "He commands the army quite skillfully and has repeatedly defeated CIS generals."
"I am concerned about the fleet being built with money from one of his associates," Tyranus admitted.
"Yes, that fact deserves special attention," Sidious noted. "We cannot allow some Jedi to possess forces sufficient to oppose our army."
"Shall I intensify the offensive on the territories of the Tenth Systems Army?" Dooku inquired.
"That too," Palpatine agreed. "We must deal with the ships the Christophsians acquired for him as quickly as possible."
"I will send powerful forces to that part of the galaxy," the Count promised.
"Exterminate all units and ships created for him," the Chancellor ordered. "Intelligence has provided me with information that Dougan is transferring a large number of young and established officers to his army. This is clearly not for nothing. Possibly, they are his supporters and like-minded people. They should also be disposed of—as quickly as possible. Let it look like a regular Confederacy offensive."
"It shall be done, Master."
"That is not all, Lord Tyranus. The Rendilians should be taught a lesson. Taken out of the game once and for all. Begin work with their government—offer them every possible benefit. In exchange, they must defect to the CIS. Their decision must be sincere and unwavering."
"Master, but that system is practically under the Republic's nose..."
"Exactly, Count," Sidious smirked. "Ensure that the Jedi learn of your actions. Use your double agent—the Jedi Quinlan Vos. He has returned, has he not?"
"Yes, Lord. A few days ago, he arrived on a stolen ship."
"What is the reason for his long silence?"
"After he disposed of a rival, he undertook travels through the worlds of Sith Space to more deeply master the Dark Side."
"And you believe him?"
"He is one solid ball of rage, Lord. Even I did not expect him to fall so deeply into Darkness. But I am certain he is more devoted to us than ever before."
"And not a shred of sympathy for the Jedi and the Republic?"
"None, Lord. He hates them with all his heart."
"Excellent," Palpatine smiled. The Jedi's game of spies would once again play against them. "Let him pass the information about your plans for Rendili to join the CIS. The Jedi will do everything for us—they will destroy the Rendili fleet, damage their slips—Dougan will have nowhere else to build his starships."
"Perhaps another strike on Kamino is warranted?"
"To what end?" Palpatine asked, surprised. "In some time, they will hand over the last of the clones to the Republic. Although these knockoffs aren't even particularly needed anymore—the Arkanians have long been ramping up production of clones extremely loyal to me. No chips, no secrets—they are superb soldiers for whom the Supreme Chancellor's will is iron law. The clones from Kamino proved too weak. Arkanian products will help us increase the effectiveness of the operation against the Jedi."
"As you wish, Master."
Sidious sighed.
"A crude but quite viable strategy—using ancient resources to quickly create a fleet on the side. We will eliminate this advantage from Dougan's side."
Dooku prudently remained silent. Interrupting one's mentor is a sign of low intelligence on the part of an aristocrat. And Dooku was never dim-witted.
The Chancellor continued to reflect.
His instructions were only part of the plan to destabilize Dougan's position. This Jedi should be tested—to understand what he is truly inclined toward. Perhaps he is reasonable enough to take his side and act further in favor of the Sith's will. But for this, a series of preparatory operations should be carried out.
"What is known about his henchmen?"
"Except for what the droid found out—nothing more. They have disappeared, as if gone into hiding. Our friends from Mandalore report that one of his servants—a Mandalorian—recently arrived in Keldabe."
"Let our friends from 'Death Watch' pay her a visit," Sidious ordered. "I need her alive. I need to ask her a couple of questions regarding her patron."
"Perhaps measures should be taken against Dougan himself?"
"Of course," a light chuckle escaped Palpatine's lips. "Right now he is conducting an inspection of the territory, according to his report for the first month of work. Let your best sentients arrange a warm welcome for him. If he survives, we'll see where he might be useful in the future. If he dies, then he is of no particular value."
"I will involve the best servants to hunt this Jedi."
"Hm," Palpatine thoughtfully stroked his chin. "How are things with our most effective hunter?"
Dooku, knitting his brows, said with a touch of confusion:
"He suffered greatly in the last mission. We preserved his remains, as you ordered. For future experiments..."
Sidious smiled. Meeting his gaze, the Count felt a chill run down his spine.
"I think it is worth giving him another chance. Even if he does not kill Dougan, he will certainly reveal his potential. And accordingly, report it to us. Then, I will make a decision about this Jedi's fate. If he survives, of course."
"As you wish, Lord."
***
Beholding the faces of the generals standing before me (Force help me for using that word regarding these particular Jedi), I exerted great effort not to punch their arrogant mugs right now.
"Master Simms," I said quietly. "Repeat, please, what your assigned task was."
Oh, glory to the Light Side of the Force and its techniques for relaxation and dissipating anger. Otherwise, by the Force, I would have drawn my sabers and hacked these bastards into kebabs.
Quietly. Exhale. Calmer. You can't kill Jedi aboard your flagship. Especially in the presence of three unit commanders.
"Conduct reconnaissance in the Ruusan, Nan'tri, Nyxor, Attahox, and Mimban systems and discover a Separatist listening station," a fairly pretty brunette said monotonously, without a hint of emotion. She looked about thirty or forty, which is nothing for the Galaxy Far, Far Away. Here, living a hundred years in one's right mind and memory is a piece of cake for a human. Truly, "forty-five—a woman is a berry again." God, she's so stupid.
Why is it like that? If a woman is beautiful, she wasn't given brains. If she has a figure and brains, she's plain. Obviously, it's a matter of taste, but... Just Force's sake. I have no polite words.
"And what did you do?" I asked in that same oily voice.
"Divided the squadron ships assigned to my command between the Jedi under me—Malorum," a young man, but with a face that practically begged for a brick, looked at me with a condescending gaze. I felt my eyelid start to twitch. "My Padawan Noira Na," a black-haired girl of about fourteen stood next to the arrogant b—h, eyes downcast at the deck. "Master Qu Rahn and Knight Sitra," of the designated Jedi archaeologists, only the purple Twi'lek (quite cute, by the way) was present at the "debriefing."
"In each detachment, by my order, sufficient forces were included for possible counteraction..."
"Enough!" I slammed my fist on the table. Almost everyone in the reception area flinched. Only the clones—Cinilian, Nyx, and the Brother astromech modestly tucked away in the corner—showed no sign that my gesture had affected them. "I'm tired of listening to this nonsense! Master Simms, what kind of spice are you smoking?! You were ordered to sweep systems in the border space where there is high enemy activity! The order, Force damn it, clearly said—sweep the systems with all available forces in turn."
"I did exactly that, Master Dougan," the Jedi said, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at me defiantly. "Reconnaissance ships entered each of the systems after the previous group reached its goal."
"By the Force, you're dense!" I stood up, hands on my hips, feeling an uncontrollable trembling in my hand. "How monochrome and dim-witted do you have to be to twist an order so much?! You should have taken all your ships, stuck your nose into one system first, then, in the same close and loving company, into the next, and so on, damn it! Until every system ran out of planets, moons, asteroids, comets, and other astronomical rubbish!"
"Master Dougan," Simms said with a hint of distaste. "I think you are overstepping. I shall report your behavior to the Council..."
"Report it to the Heavenly Office for all I care!" I snapped. "It's only thanks to Knight Sitra that the mission can be considered a success. What did the rest of you achieve? Nothing! For those whose ears are occupied by flies mating," I unceremoniously pointed at Malorum, who was boredly examining the ceiling, "I'll repeat it letter by letter. N. O. T. H. I. N. G. But you managed to lose four Hammerheads for good and one is stuck in a repair dock over Christophsis for a long time—you managed that, damn it. Congratulations. Marshal Cinilian," the clone took a step forward. "What are your corps' losses?"
"Five thousand one hundred and forty-seven fighters, sir," the clone said as if it were a matter of course. Well, yes, with commanders like these, what else to expect. Thank the Force he's still alive himself after this idiot Simms, at the head of two Hammerheads, charged a CIS convoy—ten transports with the same number of escort frigates. "And a third of the equipment assigned to the corps. That's what's left of the corps."
To hell with it all!
"A just magnificent reconnaissance result, Master Simms," I praised. "And that's not even mentioning that General Qu Rahn deserted and vanished into the horizon, hair flying back—he's long gone. With generals like these, we don't even need Grievous on the CIS side—we'll manage ourselves."
"Master," the Twi'lek spoke up softly. "Aren't you being a bit..."
Are you mocking me, head-tails?! In the twenty-four hours it took these imbeciles to carry out the order, a sixth of the corps perished, and half the squadron with all personnel. Just magnificent.
I felt rage starting to flare up inside me. Why are they so stupid?! I honestly wouldn't be sorry if Vader chopped them up with a lightsaber. In fact, I'd help him.
"No, I'm not," well, why the hell is the Dark Side always at hand, while this b—h, the Light, has to be begged to come. Meditate, clear the mind of all indecencies, like imagining how a couple of these Jedi would feel in an open airlock. Eh, as they say—nothing relaxes you like the sight of your enemy's guts winding around the propellers of the motorboat you're driving. "Remember, Knight Sitra, as the most sane of everyone except Padawan Na. 'There is no worse enemy than a dumbass ally!' Knight Malorum, Master Simms, I am giving you your first and last warning. Either you carry out my orders as they should be carried out—or..."
"Or?"
"Oh, to the Hutts with 'or'," finally, the Light Side prevailed. "I am stripping you of command. Return to the Temple—as soon as we reach Ryloth, transport will be arranged for you."
Sinking, no, literally collapsing into the chair, I watched as the pair of Jedi left my cabin. Eh, a pity about the Padawan girl. As sure as day, she'll die, if not under that half-witted woman's lead, then at the hands of clones. Save her? I'd like to—why should children suffer for the sins of their predecessors?
But how, while the Master is still alive?
Send HK after Master Simms? It's not a great honor to distract such a valuable asset for her.
Fine, I'll deal with that later.
Hutt!
Right.
I have a whole squad of Padawan-gardeners sitting around doing nothing on Christophsis. Hutt. If it weren't for Sera Keto's stalled negotiations with Commander Syndulla on Ryloth, I'd definitely find time to deal with the kids. The malicious prick took a stand—saying Master Windu promised Republic troops would be withdrawn from the Ryloth system after the Seppies were defeated—be so kind as to pack up and get out. And he wasn't given brains in either lekku. To think that once we withdraw the troops and take the ships out of the system, the Twi'leks will be occupied by the CIS army again—no, never heard of it. I have to go that way as the authorized representative of the Republic's political power to conduct high-level negotiations. Hutt, it was so simple when I commanded only my own legion. Well, why did I climb up? I should have sat there, quietly building my army in the galaxy's backyards and plotting. As it is, it's some kind of nonsense. I need a break—clear my head of thoughts, shake it off, and get back to planning.
And first of all—solve the Padawan issue. For now, all I can do is send them to Aayla, who is preparing to depart for Melida/Daan. The Seppies decided to show the locals who's boss there—the planet controlled a system with two gas giants that, suddenly, proved suitable for producing starship fuel. As it turned out, sectoral command had placed a SECRET refueling station there at the start of the war—half the Outer Rim used its fuel. Only they forgot to include it in the strategic objects registry when handing over the files. They withdrew the ships, tankers, and personnel—and FORGOT. No wonder the Seppies stumbled upon such a find during the counter-offensive and stuffed everything that can shoot in there. Result—we're flying to take back what's ours. With the 327th Corps, the 204th Legion, and the remains of the 212th Corps—we'll be clearing the system with everything we have. Planet by planet. Fortunately, there are reserves among ships and people to deal with the predecessors' mistakes.
Yes, I could have sent someone else. But I have a feeling if my subordinates f—k up (remembering the command level of MASTER Simms—it's time to say "when," not "if"), the situation will be quite tragic. For now, the fuel reserves were enough—for a couple of months. Thanks to the logistics guys, at least they reported it.
"Master Dougan," the purple one spoke up cautiously. "What are the orders regarding me?"
"Well... I forgot."
"Take command of the remains of the 212th Corps," I said in a calm tone. Oh, Light Side, you're like heroin—you have a sedative effect. Now I don't even want to rant and rave. And the trembling in my hand (by the way, why did that nuisance—the tremor—suddenly appear?) has stopped. I called up the system map on my desk's holographic display. "Marshal Cinilian, Marshal Nyx, General Sitra, come closer, I don't bite. We need to discuss how we're going to get our gas stations back."