Atroxa somersaulted, letting a medical cutter, with which a droid had attempted to end her life, pass over her. With a kick to the head, she disoriented the mechanical servant, leaving it spinning aimlessly on its axis. Then, without much finesse, she cleaved the opponent into pieces with her lightsaber.
As soon as the second and last inhabitant of the secret Sith lair turned into a heap of scrap metal, the Lethan allowed herself to catch her breath.
Unexpectedly nimble droids. Clearly custom-built.
The girl, keeping her weapon ready—one never knew what other surprises might be here—walked the perimeter of the complex in search of hidden enemies. However, none were found. It seemed the Sith didn't care all that much for his den.
Using a standard slicer tool, the Twi'lek broke through the defenses of Sidious's central computer and began downloading information. She didn't read the content—her job was different. She needed to find and deliver all the data available here to her master.
While the copying was in progress, the Hand studied the surroundings with interest. It was a typical abandoned industrial structure, of which there were a great many on Mustafar. The derelict appearance and total absence of energy signatures made for a decent cover for a lair where young Jedi were meant to be brainwashed.
Evidently, her lord had sent her for this very purpose—to seize Sidious's information on brainwashing the gifted. Undoubtedly to use it for his own ends.
Though the master's policy—take from others and put it to your own service—was somewhat monotonous and even simple, the Twi'lek could not deny its effectiveness. Slowly but surely, the Emperor was depriving Darth Sidious of his resources. It was amusing—few Sith of the past had managed to lead another by the nose for so long. Usually, Lords kept a close watch over their territories, servants, ships, and armies. But Sidious, it seemed, either didn't value this laboratory or arrogantly believed that an outwardly abandoned building would interest few.
Indeed, two repurposed medical droids were hardly a guard force. Unserious.
Glancing at the download indicator, Atroxa smiled at her thoughts and checked her chronometer. It would take more than an hour for the device to absorb all the data from this laboratory. After that, she could destroy the complex and move on to the next assignment.
She couldn't miss the main event. Only ten minutes remained until the primary action began. She had to see it.
Approaching the polarized window, which offered a magnificent view of the lifeless planet spewing molten lava from its depths, she watched with a light smile as a squadron of XS freighters descended near a luxurious structure atop one of the cliffs. More than two dozen ships, bearing a color scheme strange for this part of the galaxy, were preparing to land troops.
Excellent. The first half of the work on Mustafar was complete.
Only a little left.
***
"High General Dougan," Admiral Nial Declann approached, reporting the results of the transition. "The fleet has exited at the calculated point. No losses or stragglers."
The Telos—the new flagship of the Blade Squadron, which I had requisitioned for personal use—exited hyperspace near Ryloth's orbit.
Since the front was a mess, I had to stay in constant motion, showing how to fight through action and personal example. Besides, my blood had grown stagnant. Diplomatic work lay ahead.
"Excellent, Admiral," I glanced at the Black man. "How long until the ships with the 327th Star Corps troops under General Secura arrive?"
"They are an hour and a half behind us," the Admiral recalled the schedule.
"We are being hailed by the Resolute," an officer from the bridge crew announced.
"Put it through," I nodded toward the main holoterminal in the center of the bridge. The walk from the observation viewports to the middle of the bridge took only a couple of seconds.
"Rear Admiral Makati," I greeted the commander of the Spear Squadron. "I am glad to see you in good health."
Aayla had sent Makati at the head of a squadron for permanent basing in Ryloth's orbit—the locals categorically objected to the construction of a base, even an orbital one, in their system. But I had no intention of leaving the planet with my tail between my legs. As the saying goes, "If they tell you to go to hell, you don't just pack up and go, do you?" This was a similar situation. Thousands of clones hadn't died here just so the head-tails could do whatever they pleased.
"High General, Admiral Declann," the future failed member of Palpatine's baker's dozen of Grand Admirals greeted us.
I winced. Nominally, my position on the High Council granted me that rank within the Grand Army. The only catch was the requirement of being a Master. So, despite having the most extensive area of responsibility, I remained, as before, a Senior Jedi General.
"General Keto is on the surface. She is overseeing the loading of the last units and the folding of the temporary base."
"Is it that bad?" Makati, despite not having fought any serious battles in the last month, looked sleep-deprived. A thick stubble was the first sign of lack of rest.
"Hard to say," he thought for a moment. "We've had a few skirmishes with CIS raiders; otherwise, only the locals are causing trouble. From the latest reports, I gather the General has failed to persuade the local militia commander—they are still demanding the planet be demilitarized."
"Ah, well, good luck to them with that," I snorted. Makati smirked. No military man wants to wallow in the cesspool of politics. If there's a chance to rid oneself of even a portion of that work, it's a blessing. Meanwhile, I was about to talk to some not-so-agreeable sentients.
"Stay in orbit until further instructions, Admiral Makati," I ordered. "Let the loading of clones and equipment continue—we won't aggravate the locals ahead of time."
"As you wish, sir," the officer saluted and ended the transmission.
"What are your instructions, General?" After a few minutes of silence, the commander of the Blade Squadron reminded me of his presence.
"Prepare my shuttle," I sighed. I was so tired of proving to the galaxy that I was leading them into a bright future. Every exotic ass needed to be told: don't saw off the branch you're sitting on, you alien motherf—ker.
Touching the call key on my comlink, I said:
"Alpha."
"Listening, General."
"In two hours, gather your boys in the main hangar. And tell Balda to bring his own. Once General Secura's corps arrives, we're taking a walk to the surface."
"It will be done."
"Commandos, sir?" Nial asked in confusion. "Is trouble expected?"
"Who knows," I admitted. "Better to have a dozen reliable men at hand than two corps in orbit."
The officer clicked his heels.
"By the way, Admiral," I looked at Declann. "How is your health?"
I didn't miss the officer's quick glance around.
"Don't worry, Admiral, everyone on the bridge is one of us," I smirked.
The man gave a guilty smile and nodded. Well, he of all people should know that the entire crew was composed of Christophsians who had replaced the poor souls who had kept this veteran ship alive for the last few years.
"I am immensely grateful to you for insisting that I be placed in the Christophsis Medical Center for treatment," I could feel his sincerity in the Force. "I don't even know what would have happened if I hadn't been delivered there on the first flight. Most likely, I would have turned into a drooling vegetable if the doctors there hadn't..."
"It's nothing, Rear Admiral," did the man not deserve a promotion for saving the strategic world of the Emp... Republic? That's what I thought—he deserved it. "Especially since you were operating at the limit of your strength."
"I was simply doing my duty, General," Nial said, slightly embarrassed.
"Modesty is a virtue," I smirked. "Allow me a question."
"Yes, of course," the officer spread his hands. "Especially since we haven't yet received permission from the Ryloth authorities to enter orbit."
"What is the use of Battle Meditation like?" I looked the man in the eyes.
First, I felt his confusion in the Force. Then the emotion reflected on his face.
"Forgive me, I don't understand..."
"Nial," I unceremoniously switched to the informal "you." "You can be honest with me. Believe me—when I said the best of the best are gathered in my fleet, I wasn't lying. Naturally, I am aware of your little secret."
The confusion reigning in the officer's mind slowly dissipated, giving way to determination and cold calculation. Indeed—the suddenness of the question had vanished. And he had nothing to fear—so there's a Force-sensitive sentient. You don't get killed for that. At least, not in this time.
"Did you transfer me to your command solely for this reason?" he inquired. There it was—irritation, it seemed. Or was it anger?
"No," I shook my head. "Your Force sensitivity is merely a pleasant bonus to your extraordinary qualities. Take my word for it—you have a great future ahead of you. And an innate ability for a technique like Battle Meditation is a wonderful asset."
"Last time, it nearly killed me," the man countered. "I'm not sure further use of this gift will have a positive effect on my health."
"You simply didn't have the right teacher," I remarked. "Natural talents are better developed than buried. After all, you noticed yourself how much the effectiveness of the troops under your command increased once you used what nature endowed you with."
Nial gave me a long, thoughtful look.
Finally, as if making a decision, he cautiously asked:
"And can... someone teach this?"
"Only not the Jedi..."
God, it's all so simple.
Fumbling in a belt pocket, I handed him a pre-prepared data chip.
The Admiral, hesitating for a second, reached out and took the data storage. Meeting my gaze, he froze for a second. Then, shaking his head to drive away the spell, he stepped aside in embarrassment.
Too late, Admiral.
You're mine now. Lock, stock, and barrel.
***
Gazing at the arrogant face of the officer, he allowed himself a restrained smile.
"We request a meeting with your leaders," he said.
The Falleen began to laugh as if he had heard a hilarious joke.
"That's where we'll bury you," snickers were heard among the fighters behind him.
The officer nodded for the uninvited guests to follow him.
"Be ready," Maul said to the leader of the militants standing to his right.
"Already am," the Duros replied just as quietly. Obeying the silent wish of the fortress owners' guards, Nuodo handed his rifle to one of his men and followed the leader of this mission.
"What the Hutt is all this for?" he had thought when he first heard the proposal. But the more the client spoke, the more the head of the private military company liked the idea. And he asked for no more than the usual sum for the job.
However, he very much disliked the client's representative. Too silent, too aggressive. And half-machine to boot...
Meanwhile, walking through the deserted corridors of the fortress, the Duros felt it was starting to get a bit hot under his jumpsuit. Hutt-spawned Mustafar.
Fortunately, the journey was short.
The same officer who had met them at the landing pad escorted them to a massive door. As soon as the heavy armored partition rose, letting them inside and lowering behind them, a long, massive table appeared before the Duros's eyes, clearly made from a single piece of extremely expensive material.
And at the far end of the table sat those for whose audience their entire motley and heavily armed guard had arrived.
"Why are you here?" the Falleen sitting at the head of the table asked with a threat in his voice. Four others, situated on either side of the leader, scanned the newcomers with a look of total lack of interest.
"We need your army," the client's representative said in an even tone.
"What is he saying?" the thought burned the Duros. "The agreement was about something else entirely! They're going to kill us right here..."
"Fools!" the leader shouted. "We are not mercenaries! Get rid of them!"
He accompanied the last sentence with a sharp, unambiguous hand gesture.
"Take their weapons and ships," he added, seeing Nuodo and the client's representative tense up, taking defensive stances.
"Let me have that," one of the Falleen sitting to the leader's right stood up, pointing a finger at the figure next to Rivas. "Give me your lightsaber..."
"A lightsaber? A Jedi weapon? Where did this guy get one? I didn't see anything like that during the whole trip!" a series of thoughts raced through the head of the PMC leader.
A pair of faceless guards approached them from both sides, leveling their massive blasters at the uninvited guests.
"Who even told you, Modge, that you should bring every stray in here?" the head of Black Sun was meanwhile growling in the officer's face.
Rivas waited until the guard was close enough to land a quick upward punch to the chin—right in the neat gap between the edge of the mask and the top of the breastplate. As always, the move worked flawlessly. The Falleen collapsed to the floor as if poleaxed.
The client's representative didn't lag behind. With his bare hands, he snapped the second guard's neck, after which, without any visible devices and with his eyes slightly closed, he lifted the corpse over his head without touching it with his hands and hurled it with all his might toward the syndicate aristocrats.
"I am giving you one last chance," he said in that same even voice. "Join me..."
"Silence!" The leader of the criminals rose from the table. "We are Black Sun!"
Following his example, the four other Falleen stood up, threatening expressions on their faces.
"Very well," the client's representative shrugged indifferently. Rivas shot him a suspicious look. A long, oblong object, resembling an elongated lightsaber hilt, appeared in the Zabrak's hands. "As you wish."
The air filled with the hiss of activated energy blades—one from each end of the weapon. And then the Zabrak hurled his weapon toward the galaxy's most influential criminals, turning it into a blurry red haze.
***
"So where the hell is he?" Alpha said with indignation, kicking a small pebble in frustration. The latter, caught by the toe of an armored boot, soared into the air, flying into the far part of the cave.
The fighters of "Squad Hurricane," like their commander, were bored waiting for further developments. Hevy, Fives, Echo, Hardcase. Most of Domino Squad. They had performed excellently in the battle at the Rishi outpost and during the repelling of the second attack on Kamino. It was no wonder Alpha, who had taken command of them during recent events, took them under his wing without hesitation. Even though the boys hadn't trained in the commando program, they had the right instincts.
The standard size of commando squads was designated by special protocols back on Kamino—four clones and not a single unit more. However, that's why we're the "Jent" army—we have our own rules. Why separate the boys when they worked so well together? Besides, my "Alpharies" had earned the right to have the best of the best under them.
"Maybe he stopped for a snack?" Balda said, poorly hiding his irritation. Meeting the gaze of the Twi'lek sentry, the commando demonstratively pulled a vibroblade from his breastplate and began examining it with feigned interest.
The commando squad "Laskovyi Mai" (thank the heavens, I didn't have to explain why the newly formed squad was given such a name) had at that moment barely finished its formation.
In addition to Gregor, who had proven himself excellently on Kamino, Alpha-30, known as Sull, had joined the squad. The boy was about to be sent to the planet Gaftikar—to sow democracy and teach local partisans how to hide in the endless forests. However, I managed to pull him over to my side in time, among other commandos.
Oh, how grateful I am to the Force. Very little is needed to remember everything I read about the Star Wars universe. Glory to Wookieepedia.
So, back to Sull. The boy had deserted the GAR because he was increasingly asking himself—what would happen to the clones after the war. Fine for regular soldiers—obedient and pliable. Commandos were independent personalities, almost regular sentients (except for all having the same face). If it was already difficult enough to place a regular soldier who only knew how to kill into civilian life, what was one to do with a specially trained saboteur? Guided by such reflections, Sull, in the events I knew, had vanished into the sunset, waving goodbye to everyone. And, as I recall, he lived quite well in civilian life.
The next boy in the group of Yura Shat... Balda bore the proud name Morda. A perfectly competent comrade who had been in scrapes more than once. As I recall, this boy became a mercenary after the war and put together his own squad of quite capable "fixers."
Alpha-58, Trantos. I didn't remember much about this guy—only that this clone, along with one of the Jedi, had run amok in Count Dooku's research center.
So, like Alpha's squad, Balda received four under his command, and all of them were natural-born commandos. Perhaps it was unfair to the other squads—after all, ARCs were more individual fighters who combined into groups as needed. However, I was not intended to back down from my word. I allowed Balda to complete the squad himself—and how he negotiated with the others didn't much concern me.
Far more noteworthy was the fact that unlike most other commandos, Alpha's and Balda's squads sported armor that had once belonged to members of the Desolation squad—a Republic commando unit from the time of the Galactic Wars, when the Old Republic fought Vitiate's Sith Empire.
Initially, such armor was worn only by the ARCs under my command—simply because I had only three sets of armor. The next owner of "healthy person's armor" after the commandos was Nyx—the commander of the legion subordinate to me. Then, with the discovery of the New Forge and the launch of stormtrooper production for the Empire, things went faster. The fighters of the 204th Legion—racially correct, loyal fighters with whom we had gone through fire and water—almost immediately, as soon as the new armor appeared in the assortment, acquired upgrades. And now the fighters of units I could be sure of as if they were myself differed strikingly from other clones, whose armor protected against blaster fire as much as foil protects a chocolate bar.
For now, most commandos, whom I privately called special forces, wore Republic Katarn armor—despite the clear advantage of the version I proposed in almost all parameters. So be it. At least one can always distinguish those whose heart and soul are devoted to me personally.
"Hey, kid," another clone broke the silence. Clad in the same armor as Alpha and Balda, Corr wore slightly thicker bracers hiding his expensive prosthetics. The clone commando had lost the hands he was born with in an explosion during minesweeping. He was then written off to headquarters on Coruscant, where he was noticed by Skirata's Nulls before coming under my command. "Where is your commander?"
"Indeed," a second clone joined his commander. Like Corr, he was clad in the new armor, but completely black in color with dark green element outlines. "Did Syndulla sit down to take a s—t and swallow the rope?"
"Calm down, Necromancer," Corr put a hand conciliatoryly on his subordinate's shoulder. "He's just a guard."
"Judging by how they fought here," the clone threw out contemptuously, "they're lucky my brothers died here but saved their exotic asses from CIS slavery."
Standing at the entrance to the cave where the commander of the Twi'lek rebels, Cham Syndulla, was supposed to meet us three hours ago, a member of the local militia looked at the clone defiantly.
"If you knew how to fight, you wouldn't have died here," he said proudly. "While we preserved almost all our forces."
"Because you're Hutt-spawned lurkers," Necromancer stepped forward. "Hid in burrows and sat there until the Republic returned here."
Hearing this tirade, I only smirked.
The clone now known as Necromancer was born on Kamino as a regular line infantry clone. Under the command of Captain Keeli and General Ima-Gun Di, he was part of the corps sent here at the very beginning of the war. And he was the only one who survived from the Republic soldiers. Concussed, with an eye knocked out, having lost several fingers and toes, he was found by a local woman who nursed him back to health thanks to his own recommendations. Having recovered, the clone medic began a partisan war. Until the Republic troops returned to the planet, he had credited several dozen enemy tanks and up to a company of droids of all sorts to his account—not all infantrymen can boast such results. At the cost of losing his right foot and arm to the elbow—injured in a close explosion of a Separatist rocket.
After evacuation, he was essentially sent for write-off—that's what clones called "retirement for health reasons." However, fortunately, by that time he was on Christophsis—receiving prosthetics at the local medical center and was requisitioned for headquarters' needs. Then, when Alpha and Balda were convinced of his loyalty to me, the clone received a magnificent gift from the kind citizens of Christophsis—the most advanced prosthetics at the moment, the price of which reached more than fifty thousand credits on the official market.
Thus, the first fighter appeared in the created commando squad "Inferno." Corr, who arrived later, headed this group. "The Invalid Team," as the locals jokingly called them, emphasizing the fact that the fighters of this squad were all cripples who had received a second chance thanks to me. In general, after hearing a couple of stories from Serra about how this team of clones had scattered a crowd of tipsy Twi'leks in a local cantina who were bragging about their merits in liberating their homeland, I simply couldn't not take these guys—all four of them—with me.
As a result, the meeting Syndulla had agreed to would take place not only in the company of me, the apprentice, Aayla, and Rachi under the cover of a dozen commandos. But also under the watchful eye of "Inferno." All that remained was to wait for the commander of the local militia himself.
"... Yeah? Well, if you're so brave and bold," the guard persisted, raising his voice, "then why the Hutt did some droids crush you here like nuna?"
"You're forgetting yourself, alien," Morda intervened in the argument. "If it weren't for our brothers, you'd have been wiped out here entirely."
I wonder if Palpatine looks at the squabbles and mudslinging in the Senate the same way? Like they're small children.
"We would have managed..."
"I wonder how?" Hevy smirked. "Eaten rocks and stopped the clankers' tanks with sticks?"
"What are you talking about..."
And in the middle of this chaos—four gifted ones. Two Twi'leks watching the conflict silently, me, and the apprentice. Who, quietly approaching me as I sat at the spacious table, asked softly:
"Master, where is Commander Syndulla?"
"I don't know," I admitted frankly. "He's probably still polishing his dantian in the cave."
"Polishing his what?" Oli asked in confusion. Looking at the girl, I gave a radiant smile:
"Are you sure you want to know?"
"Not really," Starstone backed away, furrowing her brows.
Just then, as the argument between the clones and the single Twi'lek almost reached knife-point, the cave entrance filled with new characters.
"What is happening here?" an orange-skinned Twi'lek asked sternly.
"Well, well, here's our pain in the ass," I smirked to myself. Making a gesture to the commandos, I stood up to greet Commander Syndulla.
What could be said about him? A perfect copy of the animated version—except in higher "graphics." In the Force, he seethed with confidence and, for some reason, an extreme degree of irritation.
"Commander Syndulla," I extended my right hand to the Twi'lek with a smile. Looking at the gesture, he raised an eyebrow in confusion. "No, are you stupid or what?". "I am glad to greet you."
"I do not share your optimism," he threw out gloomily, sitting down on the other side of the table. Calling over a guard, he quietly ordered all Twi'leks to go outside and wait. Following his example, I sent the clones out there as well. Yes, the natives were significantly more numerous, but if it came to a fight—I'd bet on my boys. Like the late Alto Stratus, they'd calmly slice off long-tailed heads here.
Once the extras left the stage and those gathered sat at the table—the Twi'leks to the left, Oli to the right—Syndulla began the conversation.
"Why have you come? I made it clear to your representative that the Republic should get off Ryloth. You are not welcome here."
"In fairness, I should note that the Republic is not welcome in a good half of the galaxy's worlds," I corrected him. "But that doesn't mean we should abandon the business of protecting sentients from possible threats."
"Nothing threatens us," the Twi'lek declared. "The CIS troops are defeated, the front line is far from us."
"The Separatists have more than one army," Rachi Sitra shook her head.
"And the front line in this supersector is ten uninhabited systems away from Ryloth," Aayla reminded him of the operational situation. "The presence of Republic troops here is a direct necessity. No one wants a repeat of the occupation from a year ago."
"We will not allow that," Cham stated confidently.
"Really?" I acted surprised. "I suppose you have a fleet—at least a hundred battleships. You likely have an army too—at least a couple of battle-hardened corps. Or do you have fifty thousand untrained non-combatants who are holding a weapon for the third time in their lives?"
"If you have come here to humiliate my people..."
"Don't twist my words, Commander Syndulla," I requested. "If I were a xenophobe or wished to offend Twi'lek feelings, I would have said so in plain text. However, such a thing is not even in my thoughts. Instead, I have flown here to negotiate."
"About what? We have already made it clear to your generals..."
"Commander Syndulla," I said as politely as possible. "There is a war in the galaxy. And Ryloth, having already survived occupation once, risks repeating the history lesson by remaining without reliable protection. Do you really want CIS battle droids walking across your planet, herding your residents into concentration camps and using them as human shields?"
"Naturally not."
"Then I don't understand the reason for your dissatisfaction. The principle of 'I'm against it just because'? That fundamentally contradicts common sense. Ryloth is not capable of protecting itself independently—I do not in the least diminish your merits in ground battles, but think with your head for just a minute. What will happen to your citizens if CIS ships establish a blockade?"
"Republic ships will lift it..."
"As before—at the cost of enormous losses—yes. But I want to ask you—if Ryloth already historically imports food, how long will the supplies on the planet itself last during a blockade to feed a billion citizens? For a day? Two? For a month? And what after that? Famine? Cutting rations to the minimum? Hungry children dying of malnutrition? Outbreaks of epidemics?"
"You're exaggerating! Our militia..."
"If the Twi'leks have already learned to fly in a vacuum and crush battleships with their kung-fu—no questions, go ahead. In the place of the CIS command, I wouldn't even bother landing on the planet. I'd just set up an orbital blockade and wait until the ground forces weaken from hunger and disease. Then—landing and capture of strategic points, imprisonment, concentration camps..."
"Stop it!" Syndulla jumped from his seat. "You are ready to stoop to any low just to place your bases on the planet!"
"I am ready to stoop to any low," leaning on the edge of the table, I slowly rose to face the head-tail, "if it saves the lives of sentients. And here there is no difference for me—Twi'leks, Gotals, Duros, humans, clones, and so on—underline as appropriate. I, as the one responsible for this region, am well aware of how quickly strike squadrons can move to the aid of a besieged Ryloth, how long the breakthrough and lifting of the blockade will take. And at a glance, I can say that by the time the first ships with food arrive on the surface, thousands, if not millions, will have died of hunger and disease."
Even though the speech stopped flowing from my lips, the duel of gazes between me and the orange Twi'lek continued. He defended his point of view; I defended an objective and fundamental truth. And, honestly, I was so tired of digging into sentients' heads, tired of convincing them of good intentions, that if this stubborn mule didn't agree, as the Force is my witness, I'd make him s—t himself and smile at the rising sun for the rest of his life.
I felt my right hand begin to tremble treacherously. What the Hutt? Passing a flow of the Force through the limb, I ensured the hand stopped performing pirouettes.
"What do you propose," the commander finally gave in. Either his head really started working, or all this was just pathetic posturing to squeeze out more preferences.
"We will place full military bases on the planet—near the capital Lessu and other cities—Sal'kassa, Kala'din, and the main spaceport Kala'uun. In total—a corps of line infantry with attached equipment."
"You must guarantee us the maintenance of order and the absence of conflicts with Twi'leks from your soldiers."
An unsurprising request in light of recent events.
"Certainly," I smiled. "I guarantee it. Just as I guarantee that if conflicts with clones break out on the planet through the fault of the local population, field courts-martial will deal with them. According to all laws of wartime."
Cham flared with rage in the Force for a moment. Well, of course—after all, it was his fighters who provoked the last brawl with the "Inferno" boys. They got what was coming to them, certainly. But, apparently, not enough. Well, we'll teach them to respect authority.
"In orbit, we will place an orbital fleet base," I continued. "A fleet sufficient for the defense of both Ryloth and the nearby space will be stationed in the system. Crews and ships will be allowed on the surface—under the same conditions as the infantry."
"That is... acceptable," Syndulla spat out. "What about food supplies?"
What's this now? You want food at our expense too? Your face is going to crack.
"Something tells me that is the concern of Ryloth's political power," I said, narrowing my eyes.
"I had an extremely difficult conversation with Senator Orn Free Taa," Cham said. "The Senator can do nothing to help—after the Techno Union raid, Ryloth is..."
"...bankrupt," I finished for him. The Twi'lek, looking at me from under his brow, nodded silently.
What is wrong with this galaxy?! Everyone is starving, living in poverty, dissatisfied with each other—but to change something... no, never heard of it.
Well, what to do? Clearly, the food issue has been here since the lifting of the occupation—the CIS managed to take most of the property off the planet. Naturally, no one really returned anything—only what they managed to recapture during the attack on the capital remained.
And, it seems to me, if I again turn to the Ukio government with a proposal to feed another planet at less than market price—they won't exactly send me to hell in plain text—Pantora is certainly costing them a pretty penny. Fortunately, it's compensated by the fact that the locals live in safety—a whole ground base with a volunteer corps right next door. But they won't fall for it a second time.
And spending huge money to feed a billion freeloaders—honestly, I'm not a philanthropist.
"Commander," he's waiting for an answer now. But I need to stall—thoughts are swarming in my head. Just need to gather them into a suitable pile. "Forgive my audacity, but if the Senator cannot help his planet in any way—perhaps it's worth replacing him?"
"We've thought about that," the Twi'lek admitted. "But unfortunately, I gave a promise to the Senator that I would not interfere in the political life of the planet, retaining only military command."
"General," Sitra cautiously intervened in the dialogue. "Political squabbles are not our business. The Senate did not authorize us for this..."
"You—no," I countered. "But I am first and foremost a Grand Moff. And the political layouts in my area of responsibility are my concern."
If only I knew what could be done here.
And, in general, what the Hutt difference does it make who replaces that fat fool? Here, the sum doesn't change from rearranging the addends—the laws of mathematics are immutable.
Meanwhile, Aayla, catching my distraction, entered the dialogue, peppering the commander with questions of secondary importance—about the timing of soldier placement, their relationship with local defense forces, competence, and spheres of influence. Cham, answering restrainedly and frankly, didn't stop staring at me.
"Leave me alone with Commander Syndulla," finally, the puzzle pieces came together. However, saying such things in the presence of witnesses is, to put it mildly, undesirable.
I felt the surprise of everyone present, but Oli and Aayla obeyed without question. A confused Rachi, after hesitating for a moment, then hurried to follow them.
"I suspect what I am about to hear will not be the most pleasant," Syndulla smirked.
"Yes, that's right," I didn't pull the nuna by the ears. "The situation is indeed serious. The food issue is not as simple as it seems."
"And yet, your army is provided with it even beyond measure," the Twi'lek flashed his erudition. Well, well. And who's our snitch?
"General Windu already said that," seeing the unspoken question, Syndulla clarified.
Ah, well, at least that. I thought it was time to introduce purges.
"Clones are extremely hungry boys," I reminded him. "Therefore, food is purchased with a reserve. But unfortunately, it goes directly to the army—these are targeted expenses for which officers, and I among them, are responsible. We simply cannot just take and lay out food for a billion sentients—there are hundreds of times fewer of us in the army."
"But you wouldn't have kicked out your subordinates if you couldn't offer me some kind of option."
"There is one," I nodded. "I hope information has reached your ears that thanks to me, one of the channels for selling slaves from Ryloth was cut off?"
"You call it slavery," Syndulla shrugged. "We call it the only possible option."
"In what sense?"
"Most of us agree to such deals voluntarily or almost voluntarily—just to leave a starving world," Cham admitted. "Those you freed, yes, unquestionably—slaves. They were deceived, promised life on new planets. Instead, they would most likely have been shoved into the filthiest holes of the galaxy. So here I am ready to thank you. However, it disturbs me that no one else has heard of this group."
"Oh, believe me, they are doing well," I smiled. "I turned their dream into reality. Now they live where there is arable land, where the climate is not so harsh and they don't have to huddle in rocks in search of a place to sleep and build houses from scrap materials."
"Sounds... too good to be true."
"And yet, it is so. Actually, I have several proposals for solving the problem on Ryloth."
"And what are they?"
"The first—among your people there are many fighters and those capable of fighting. They may well sign up as volunteers in my army—in that case, they will be put on army rations, pay, and so on."
"And why should we fight for Republic interests?" Cham said incredulously.
"And who is talking about the Republic or the CIS?" I smiled.
No, there was no need to manipulate this guy. He was a patriot to the marrow of his bones. And he cared about his people far more than Orn Free Taa did. He just didn't have the opportunity to displace that fat idiot.
"I am not sure I understand you," he said warily. "Ryloth does not possess the ability to buy colonization ships."
"Such ships will be provided to those wishing to move away from the squabbles of two states that are essentially no different from each other."
"And who will show us such mercy?"
"The Emperor of the Zakuul Eternal Empire."
"Empire? I've never heard of any such thing."
"It is a young state in the Unknown Regions. They possess significant capabilities—after all, there are so many worlds in the unstudied areas of the galaxy. But they have problems with population..."
"And how many citizens are they ready to accept?" Cham asked with poorly hidden hope.
"All who want to live under the protection of the Zakuul Eternal Empire's army and fleet. Those who agree to live in a state of harsh but fair laws. Where everyone receives what they can achieve."
"You want my people to fight for a state they have never seen?"
"The Empire possesses an army and a fleet. And it will never refuse the participation of any of its citizens in the business of protecting its interests."
Cham, meeting my gaze, seemed to be weighing what he had heard. The Force told me he was in confusion. On one hand—a suffering planet. On the other—alluring but unproven prospects. Which could turn out to be a farce. While the Republic—it was a cesspool, certainly, but a stable one.
"And what is your second proposal?"
"Orn Free Taa is not the only representative of your people from Ryloth," I recalled.
"Yes, there is also the representative from Suupi," he said. "But Senator Taa has effectively deprived her of independence."
"But if Ryloth recalls Senator Taa, then the Suupi representative will take his place?"
"Most likely, yes..."
"So what stops you from changing the first person representing the planet in the Senate?"
"A national vote is needed, and I'm not sure..."
"Are you ready to continue living with Taa's total negligence? When was the last time he was even on his home planet?"
Syndulla fell silent.
"The Senator took your word not to interfere in politics because you are the face of Ryloth. You were here when he was pampering himself on Coruscant. And it seems to me that if you call on the people to replace Free Taa, even with you..."
"I am not interested in that."
"...or with the Suupi representative—they will support you. Honestly, it would be an ideal combination. You would be perfectly suited for the position of the planet's ruler. While the Suupi representative would represent the planet."
"Perhaps that is so," Cham narrowed his eyes. Yes, boy, yes. You yourself thought about this more than once during the occupation. And these thoughts haven't left you since. You're just not motivated enough to break your given word.
"But what will this give us? Not many Twi'leks will agree to resettle to other worlds—even if we manage to displace Senator Taa. Except maybe the youth..."
"Of whom there are seven hundred million on the planet?"
"These are unknown territories," Cham shook his head. "Without some guarantees, no one will want to leave this world."
"They will want to, if they know from their kin that the new place of residence—the Zakuul Eternal Empire—is a place where the population is not treated like cattle whose lot is to pay taxes and endure."
"And how do you know about this Empire?" Cham said incredulously. At the same time, I felt his true feelings in the Force. No, Ryloth isn't dying, and its citizens have no need to flee here in an emergency in search of their own corner. But the situation is indeed difficult. And as a true patriot, Cham is open to any proposals. He's just skillfully hiding it. You my little cunning fox. Where you studied, I taught. "How do you know that Twi'leks live there? And why do you care about Ryloth at all? You're only interested in a Republic victory in this war, and to you we're no more than another strategic world for a strike against the CIS."
"Frankly speaking, your kin not only live there but serve in the army and fleet," I admitted. "Specifically from among those I freed from a slave's fate."
"That doesn't particularly clarify your awareness of the state of affairs in this state that is new to me," Cham noted. And at the same time, the Force indicated that he had already been visited by guesses.
"It's simple, Commander Syndulla," the smile came out feigned and perfunctory. Just like Palpatine's. "I am the Immortal Emperor of the Zakuul Eternal Empire. And it so happened that it is in my power to save the Twi'leks, with you at their head."
"And what happens if I refuse?" How charming. He wasn't even disturbed by the obvious contradictions of Jedi status and the revelation. You're in even more despair than I thought.
"Believe me, Commander," the Twi'lek recoiled, seeing my irises ignite. "The alternative will not please you."
***
Standing on the bridge of the Telos, I tried to relax, closing my eyes.
Deep breathing, combined with Jedi meditative techniques—exactly what the doctor ordered to calm the nerves. Especially after the relatively heated negotiations with the Twi'lek leaders.
Syndulla turned out to be confused, broken, bewildered. But he's far from a fool. Yes, it took a lot of time to form a logical chain in his head regarding my participation in the liberation of Ryloth. And even more so in matters of the further future of the aliens. I had to refer to the mythical foresight of the Jedi, but... That's not particularly required when your opponents in the war for minds are the Republic, which is indifferent to everyone and everything, and the CIS, the impressions of the last experience of communicating with which are still fresh in every Twi'lek's memory.
It only remained to prove my good intentions. And therefore, I'll still have to shell out. The guys on Ukio will be very glad that their products will once again be purchased on a huge scale. After the CIS raid, when the planet's shares fell below the floor during the time the world was under Separatist rule, Ukio experienced great difficulties on the galactic exchange—effectively, the planet's papers became worthless. Luck smiled on them twice. The first time, when an anonymous benefactor, despite the fact that the planet was in a deep hole, invested in their economy, seizing more than eighty percent of the shares at fire-sale prices—everything available on the market. The second—when the 204th Legion threw the CIS out of the system and placed a base on the planet. The shares started creeping up again—along with the planet's return to the Republic fold. And with them, the income of the majority shareholder.
Needless to say, that was unconditionally me? The measly fifth of the shares held by the rulers of this world is merely an illusion of power. They don't get that much profit. Let's just say—more money settles in my accounts. On the other hand, this secret account is my personal piggy bank. And I don't really want to dip into it.
But a deal is a deal. The Eternal Empire must demonstrate its benevolent disposition to the people of Ryloth and provide the population with provisions for the next six months. Naturally, at its own expense. Yes, it's coming out a bit expensive, but...
Another world in my collection. And after the Suupi representative becomes a pocket conduit for Cham's will, who retains full control on the planet, I'll be able to rest on my laurels. Several hundred million new citizens—that's significant. Especially considering the desire of a large party of Twi'leks to participate in expanding the Empire's living space—a truly wonderful acquisition. And another world—my fortress in the rear of the civilized galaxy. How nice—to set up my own rear bases at the Republic's expense, so that... However, what will happen next—we'll see.
Syndulla's words and reflections on the planet's fate gave me a number of interesting thoughts. Associative thinking is a funny thing.
I just need to wait for the right moment—or take advantage of the situation myself. Time will tell.
Now another issue had to be resolved.
Goddamn fuel factories, goddamn Melida/Daan.
So many questions that need to be solved. And so little time to deal with it myself.
To be honest, I'm tired of constantly moving somewhere myself. Solving issues myself. I already just want to sit on the Eternal Throne and listen to reports, not scurry around the galaxy like I've been stung by a bee.
After all, I could have assigned the squabbles with these factory-refineries to one of my subordinates. But where's the guarantee that everything will go successfully? For it must be exactly so—not only for the Republic fleet, but for the Empire as well, fuel stations in this region will be useful.
Meaning, I must be sure that I did everything I could. And that's only possible in the case of personal participation.
"Approaching the Melida/Daan system," the watch officer reported, bringing me out of my thoughts.
"Excellent. Prepare the ship for battle."
The Telos, and following it the entire Blade Squadron, the escort ships, and the Acclamators with the landing force, materialized in real space. The observation screen filled with landscapes of a dingy-brown planet covered in gray clouds. Given the crimson reflection of the nearby space—a vivid representation of a planetary-scale necropolis.
To think—people live here too. And judging by the HoloNet brief—more than half a billion. Some time ago, the ancient feud here was finally suppressed—not without the help of Obi-Wan Kenobi and his now-deceased master.
Behind my back, the holoprojector came to life, with new dots appearing every second.
"Fleet in full strength," the watchman continued to announce.
"Battle stations across the ships," Nial appeared on the bridge. With the facial expression of a clearly sleep-deprived man. Approaching, he gave a short nod.
"Grand Moff?" the question clearly had a subtext.
"Command, Admiral," my part here is small. The chosen ones must gain experience. It wasn't for nothing that he spent the entire way from Ryloth to this backwater studying voluminous data on the tactics of the Empire's and Republic's fleets. It seems that during the two-day flight "through the back gardens"—bypassing the main hyperspace routes so as not to reveal the fleet's movement ahead of time—he absorbed the chip in full. I wonder if it will come to Battle Meditation this time? Instructions for it were also on the chip.
Meanwhile, other members of the Order participating in the operation appeared on the bridge—both Twi'leks and my apprentice. Following them—Alpha, Balda, Nyx, and Cinilian.
Meanwhile, the tactical hologram filled with markers.
"The star system consists of five planets, only one of which is habitable," the watch officer began the briefing. "The first and fifth are uninhabitable. The second is the inhabited world of Melida/Daan, with the main enemy forces in orbit—a Lucrehulk-class ship and three Munificents. The third and fourth planets are gas giants," the Christophsian pointed to the schematic images of orbital structures. "Here and here are fuel-mining stations. Each of them is under the protection of at least a dozen Munificents. Transport ships of the Trade Federation are also noted—evidently preparing to take fuel into their holds."
"And what about the ground units?" Aayla inquired.
"We are recording a large number of landing barges deploying heavy equipment in the capital," the watchman continued. "It is assumed the enemy has already landed the bulk of their forces. According to intelligence data—this is more than two million droids supported by heavy equipment."
"It's going to be a bit hot," Alpha, who stood near the holoterminal without a helmet, ran a hand over his face as if trying to remove the approaching tension.
And although no one else spoke up, in the Force I felt their determination. For some—neutral, like the clones. For others—grim, like Declann and Oli. Both Twi'leks, however, experienced something like impatient anticipation. Anticipation to start quickly so this nightmare would end sooner.
"Well then," I said, looking around at everyone present. "Every soldier knows his maneuver. To work, ladies and gentlemen."
***
Accompanied by a quartet of Acclamators, the Telos moved unhurriedly toward its main opponent—the Lucrehulk bristling with hundreds of fighters. The four CIS ships arranged in a single line were clearly waiting for us, granting the right to start this dance of death.
The Valor-class cruiser quickly approached the Separatist ship.
The Republic ship's hangars released fighters from their depths every second. Torrents, unfolding their wings into combat mode, prepared to clash with the enemy's starfighters. And although we were small in number—the clones would still kick the CIS aviation's ass. But first...
The Separatist fighters rushing toward us were unpleasantly surprised by the fact that, despite the absence of Marauders in our detachment (the rascals are learning), their forward formations were mixed with space dust by dozens of concussion missiles, which my flagship generously bestowed upon them. The few survivors of the bacchanalia were met by Republic fighters, who dealt with the enemy without the slightest mercy.
Meanwhile, the Acclamators, positioned in pairs on either side of the flagship, mercilessly hammered the enemy frigates with concentrated turbolaser and missile fire. Could yesterday's merchant starships withstand the power of a truly military ship? They could, but not for very long.
Meanwhile, streaks of turbolaser and laser fire stretched toward the Republic ships, dissipating across the deflector shields without much consequence.
Looking from the X-wing cockpit at the unfolding massacre, I couldn't help but note that the intensity of our fire was incredible—even though the Telos could only fire at the enemy from one side (a design feature), it did little to help the CIS. For they had the same problem, only on a larger scale—the firing arcs on the Separatist ships were even narrower than on the Valor. Which meant they were having a very, very bad time right now.
Punching through the Lucrehulk's deflector shields is no simple task. The damn thing is, as they say, thick-walled. However, this ship was not our fleet's target.
The Munificents were the ones being "tanked" first, with pieces of hull plating flying off them after only ten minutes of skirmishing. Miniature solar flares appeared in the hulls of these starships every now and then, indicating damage to external compartments.
"Enter carefully," I transmitted the order. "He has the entire central part covered in Vulture droids."
"As you say, Master," the apprentice replied, following my fighter in her own machine without falling back. And at a short distance from them—the second pair, though on Deltas—Aayla and Rachi. And our entire small company was escorting two squadrons of ARC-170s, which were to act as bombers in the next act of the play.
Meanwhile, the enemy dispatched a squadron of Vultures toward us. The nimble machines sought to intercept our course. It was understandable—the enemy ships had only just realized that by slipping along the unfolding massacre between our and their own starfighters, we had no desire to intervene.
Flashing with a silent blinding flare after a targeted volley from one of the Acclamators, the Separatist frigate nearest the Lucrehulk broke into pieces. The sea of debris formed in its place swallowed some of the enemy fighters, but even those that remained were more than enough for us.
Throwing the fighter to the side, I dodged the lead droid's burst, slamming a volley from all four guns right into its cockpit. A moment—and in place of the military starship, there was only debris.
The ships following me passed through the enemy squadron in a firestorm, depriving the Lucrehulk of another batch of defenders. They were immediately replaced by others.
Throwing the ship from side to side, mercilessly firing from all guns, our strike team broke through to its goal—a hypertrophied donut with a ball in the center. Ten out of ten—the enemy commander, judging by the uniform tactics without finesse or excesses, was definitely a droid located aboard this very ship. And one could gnaw on this cactus for a very, very long time—especially considering that all our full-fledged linear forces had moved off to fight for the factories. Locally we outnumbered the enemy, but engaging in lengthy battles—no thanks, excuse me. It's all so simple on the screen—hit a Lucrehulk with a dozen proton torpedoes, and the enemy is defeated.
In reality, by the time you "disassemble" this behemoth, you'll receive an incredible amount of damage yourself. And I had no intention of risking the landing force.
We entered the zone of the enemy battleship's anti-aircraft artillery after the second CIS frigate died a hero's death. Only a little remained, however, we had also been battered—two ARCs were shot down, another had a wing torn off on the starboard side, and the pilot, having powered down the ship, could now hope for his crew's rescue only upon completion of this operation.
The barrage was impenetrable. But louder than the drumroll of the deflector field sensors' alarming beep and the roar of the engines, the cockpit was shaken by turbolaser volleys exchanged by the capital ships. We had to dodge our own and the enemy's shots, relying on the Force. And pray the daring plan worked.
The flight through the battle, twisted into a clever spiral, sometimes passed so close to explosions that the astromech periodically squealed like Peppa Pig seeing a pig-sticker on a pre-dawn morning.
Finally, reaching the point in space we needed, I allowed myself to relax slightly.
"Get to it, boys," I commanded the clones.
"Yes, sir," increasing thrust to the limit, both squadrons burst forward, entering the dead zone for the enemy battleship's guns.
"Aayla, Rachi—cover them while Oli and I complete our mission."
"We won't be able to hold out here for long," the Jedi archaeologist noted. At the same time, literally a moment later, her fighter turned a couple of enemy starfighters into space junk.
"We won't be long," I promised. Casting a final glance at the clones' machines, which were destroying communication systems and defenseless turbolaser turrets in a total firestorm, I led the machine "down." The Force told me Oli was right behind.
"You still haven't explained how we're going to get aboard," the girl reminded me. Hm, there wasn't a hint of the previous cheerfulness in her voice. Am I influencing her that way, or did she grow up too early?
"I have an idea," a Vulture, having just jumped out of the hangar, evaporated after being hit by a volley from my guns. "I saw it in a movie."
"What?" the Padawan came to life. "You know all movies are fiction, right?"
Oh, if only you knew how wrong you are.
"Don't worry, Maria, I am Dubrovsky," I recalled a classic by memory, and fired two concussion missiles at the atmospheric shield generator. The huge structure—about five times larger than a T-65—couldn't withstand such barbaric treatment and exploded. Simultaneously, the bluish glow that held the breathable atmosphere inside the "donut's" hangar (also a question—why have oxygen on a ship controlled by droids? Machines don't breathe) disintegrated, instantly throwing streams of air into the vacuum.
And almost immediately, from the opposite door, armored plates slid out to close the leak, blocking the open maw of the flight deck with every passing second. Oh, look at that—they figured it out. Didn't take ten years.
"Quickly, Oli!" I commanded, directing the X-wing into the rapidly shrinking gap, clearing a bridgehead for myself, wiping the deck of battle droids. The girl followed me at a distance of several dozen meters, supporting me with her fire.
We made it.
We flew into the huge hangar, and the guns of both fighters didn't stop for a second. Every now and then, battle droids came across our path, suddenly imagining they could stop an X-wing with their pea-shooters. Oh, boys, if you only knew that even a battle station the size of a moon couldn't stop these machines, you'd likely... Well, you'd do the same thing. Droids, after all.
I recalled from Episode I that there should have been CIS landing ships in the ship's depths on our path. Now, however...
"Master!" Oli's voice sounded in the headset. Judging by the indicator—the Padawan was on a secure frequency. Only for the two of us.
"Oh, come on," the launched missiles supported by blaster cannons did their job. "So what if they're sealing the partitions, big deal."
"Well, they don't have partitions now," the girl smirked. "Good little machine, the X-wing."
"Yeah," where did a tank come from in the hangar? Have they completely lost their minds? And again, missile-cannon fire.
"Maybe we should have bought them for the 'Jent' army's needs?"
"And wouldn't the Republic have a fit over such a turn of events? Two fighters is one thing, but even a squadron—it already gives them a chance to prepare for a hypothetical encounter with our heavy aviation."
"Oops," a burst from Oli's guns streaked past my fighter, turning a couple of droidekas into metallic mincemeat. "How much longer?"
"Actually, that's it," the last sector of the hangar bordered the Lucrehulk's reactor-engine section. The very one that the little s—t Anakin Skywalker accidentally blew up eleven years ago.
Both fighters, slipping into the spacious hangar section, destroyed a dozen B-1 droids with concentrated fire as they tried to object to the uninvited guests. Then, having parked the ships so they held the entire open space of this section under crossfire, Oli and I jumped out of the cockpits.
"Brother," the astromech burst into a trill in binary. Fortunately, Exar Kun knew it—not too well, but passably enough to understand what the bucket on wheels was saying. "You're in charge. Destroy all enemy targets, don't let anyone near the fighters. If things get really depressing—break through to the Telos."
Another understanding trill. Well, at least someone doesn't argue about orders.
Straightening my cloak and brushing an invisible speck of dust from it, I ruffled the hair on my apprentice's head.
"Master!" there were sincere notes of surprise and offense in her voice. Indeed—she had spent almost an hour straightening her curls.
"Chin up, Oli," I smirked, feeling the gloom of the last few days beginning to lift. "Now the fun begins."
"Uh-huh," the girl grumbled, taking her weapon from her belt. "The two of us against hundreds of droids on a CIS ship being bombarded by our own starships. Funny, I'm about to wet myself."
***
"The command bridge is ahead!" Oli shouted, parrying another blaster shot fired at her face. The crimson energy bolt, returning to its owner, punched a hole in the face mask of a B-1 droid, which fell to the floor with a clatter. And literally in the next second, it was buried under the hundreds of feet of its brethren, marching inexorably forward.
"I see it," grabbing the chassis of one of the B-2 super battle droids with the Force, I hurled it into the very center of the enemy formation like a game of dodgeball. Like a cannonball, it tore through the entire B-1 company box, punching a gap in their perfect formation that an X-wing could have fit through.
Ten minutes after landing in the hangar, we broke into the central part of the ship—the core ship. There weren't many droids from the crew, of course. But enough.
And now the entire path of our journey from the hangar to the bridge was littered with the metallic remains of all types of CIS droids—from the simple B-1 to the commandos. What bad luck brought these jointed bolt-heads out against us when we decided to ruin the hyperdrive. We had to fiddle around—mostly trying to make sure Force Lightning didn't singe the edges of my own cloak. It wouldn't look good.
Now, however, before us was the last line of defense—infantry droids gathered from here and there. Clearly—the last thing the enemy commander could oppose us with.
And his last bastion of calm was melting inexorably.
Parrying one shot into the ceiling, I slashed the nearest droid across the chest with my golden blade, simultaneously slamming it into the wall. Then, realizing a couple of droids were on my sides, I ducked, avoiding a couple of shots aimed at my chest and slicing the nearest opponents in half with a circular motion.
"General," Nial's voice sounded in the comlink. "We have finished destroying the Lucrehulk's escort. The bombers have disabled its engines. What are your orders?"
"What about the factories?" the blade passed through the blaster carbine forearm of an advancing droid, simultaneously severing both its arms at the mid-forearm.
"The battle is still going," the Admiral admitted. "The CIS ships have led both Hammerhead detachments far away from the transports and factories. They realize that if those blow—no one will survive."
"Main thing is you don't blow them," I requested, not overthinking it as I pushed the last remaining droid onto the Padawan's blade with the Force. The girl, jumping high, with a theatrical swing of her blade from behind her back, cleaved the last droid from its light filters to its ass. "Two more stars in this system—too beautiful to be true."
The explosion of a large amount of fuel for capital starships is almost always a thermonuclear reaction. And if it occurs near giants where most of the latter consist of that same unrefined fuel, then boom—two supernovae are born at once. And about two dozen scorched starships with crews of well-roasted sentients will be bobbing around the system.
"We are being careful, Grand Moff," Declann's miniature figure allowed itself a smile. "I have already sent commando squads to the factories—there are deflector fields there. Once we activate them, we can protect the factories from explosions and act more... boldly."
"Well, wonderful. Organize cover for the ships using starfighters and prepare to deploy the landing force. Once I'm done here, I'll join you. Aayla, Rachi," I switched to the "Jedi channel"—the frequency used by Jedi in my army during joint missions.
"All ears," Secura replied.
"Listening to you," Rachi joined in.
"Take the gunships and bombers from the Telos and sweep the surface. Any enemy equipment spotted—to dust. Any droid squads you can reach from the air without endangering the locals—to the scrap heap as well."
"It will be done," the blue-skinned Twi'lek reported briskly. And if she said so, then that's how it would be.
"Too bad they ended so quickly," the girl sighed, kicking the head of a defeated B-1 with the toe of her boot.
"Hey," noticing the girl had skillfully severed one of the fingers from the corpse of a commando droid. "What are you doing?"
"Collecting trophies," the girl said nonchalantly, with a shrug. "Why, is it not allowed?"
"It's allowed, but... why?"
"Well, you know, Master, everyone has their hobbies," the girl shrugged. "Some collect trophies, some Twi'leks..."
"Why, you little brat," I narrowed my eyes. "I should have whipped you, not coupled you to a matter of galactic importance."
Noticing the girl's widened eyes, I caught myself.
"Attached you. A slip of the tongue..."
"...hopefully not a Freudian one."
Clearing the space before the massive metallic partition, I approached it closely. Naturally, the commander of this entire bucket had barricaded himself thoroughly. How many of those partitions were there in Episode I? Three, I think.
"Dead end, Master. We need to blow it... We shouldn't have come in here at all—should have just blown it to the Hutts and been done with it..."
"Quiet, you little horseman of the apocalypse," I waved toward the girl. "Do you even know this ship can carry nearly five million metric tons at a time? More than any other transport ship."
"And what's that to us?"
"Three corps with all attached weaponry can be placed here, and at triple the norm. And there will even be room left for supplies. For large military operations—an indispensable thing. And as a temporary orbital station—also a good asset."
"Ah, you mean that ship that was bobbing in Christophsis's orbit? I thought it would be rusting there until the end of time."
"No," I shook my head. "The locals repaired it—as much as possible. And I already have plans for it. As well as for this one."
"Well, we're obviously unlucky with this one," the girl noted. "We've disabled the secondary control systems. However, the primary ones," she waved toward the bridge, "are there. So, they'll figure out what's what in a moment and jump into hyper..."
"Don't talk nonsense," I winced. "The 'beavers' have already worked on its engines, we've disabled the hyperdrive—it's all ours."
With those words, I activated my second blade and plunged both into the central part of the lock. Just as Qui-Gon had done in his time.
"Master," Oli sighed. "I've read about these ships. The partitions are made of durasteel as thick as hangar partitions. We need explosives..."
"Science is a great thing," I said, pointing with my eyes at the piece of molten metal. "And strength of materials is hard to cheat."
A massive piece of molten metal, formerly the lock from the outer partition, flowed to the floor in a glowing stream along one of the doors. Oli, understanding what was happening without words, pushed the mangled halves of the doors aside with the Force.
"Two more doors—and we're on the bridge," I said, carefully rotating the blades in the thickness of the partition.
"Master!" the girl exclaimed, taking a defensive stance. "Droidekas!"
"Are you kidding me right now?"
Withdrawing the weapons from the bridge doors, I looked into the corridor opposite the bridge.
"And you distracted me from picking locks for this?" I pointed one of the blades toward two metallic balls rolling toward us.
"Um... well, yes," Oli was embarrassed. "Actually, those are droidekas, they're dangerous..."
Without taking my eyes off the apprentice, I hurled both my blades toward the approaching danger.
"Remember," I poked a finger at the top of her breastplate. "Problems need to be solved. Not shifted onto the shoulders of those who can guaranteed do it for you."
"But it's easier for you," the girl sulked. "Well, you could have used some Dark Side technique there..."
"And what, am I going to solve problems for you for the rest of my life?"
"And what's wrong with that? I'm small. And you're supposed to be teaching me, actually."
"I didn't borrow enough to be THAT 'supposed to,'" the screech of cut metal sliding across the shiny corridor floor rang out. Both droidekas, sliced in half while moving, now added their pieces to the overall composition.
"To hurl a blade, you don't need to be a genius," I said instructively, calling the blades back to my hand. Checking their functionality, I continued my dark deed as a safecracker of the Galaxy Far, Far Away. "But, I think you're right. I've neglected your training a bit."
"At least you admit it," the girl said in an offended tone. "I'm all alone, unneeded by anyone... And I even swore loyalty..."
Honestly—an actress died in her. Distracted by the sight of the flowing metal on the second layer of partitions, I heard her sobbing, thinking she really was crying. But no—the little brat was standing there, smiling.
Fine, we'll talk later.
Finally, the defense fell. With light gestures of both hands, I pushed both pairs of doors aside with the Force, entering the Lucrehulk's bridge.
Like a distant reminder of a Star Destroyer's bridge, there were dozens of workstations for personnel here as well—scattered throughout the entire bridge space. And ideally, sentients... living ones... should be sitting at them.
"Master," Oli felt the body of one of the dead Neimoidians. "All wounds are from a blaster or a vibroblade. The corpses are cold..."
"Ah, so they died not exactly recently," I concluded. Approaching the command chair, I shoved the corpse of another Trade Federation representative onto the floor. Oli approached, standing nearby, examining the front part of the bridge. I opened a communication channel with the flagship, reporting that the ship was under our full control.
"Glad to hear it, General," Nial smiled. "Sending a prize crew to you."
"Good. We'll be waiting for you here. There are a few droids left," I glanced at the mechanical crew's activity indicators, "something for the boys to stretch their legs with."
"The first batch will be aboard in ten minutes," the Admiral reported.
And in the very next minute, a long staff, sparking with blue-violet lightning, slammed into the central part of the communication screen. A familiar gadget.
Oli instantly took a defensive stance.
Turning the command chair toward the direction of the attack, I looked at the uninvited guests who had arrived on the bridge through the partitions I had kindly slid open.
"In ten minutes, you will already be dead," meeting the burning eyes of Sora Bulq, I realized that simply leaving wouldn't be an option. Especially considering the dozen MagnaGuards cutting us off from the exit. Interestingly—the Dark Side emanating from the Weequay, which had intensified manifold since our last meeting, I only managed to catch after this impromptu of his. The old man had become quite skilled in the Sith arts.
"Stay behind me," I ordered Oli, activating my own weapon. "They've planned to kill us here."