The descent through the swirling clouds reminded Cinilian of Kamino—the homeland where he was born. Although there was little light—in the usual sense of the word—on the cloner planet.
He stood at the sliding door of the LAAT/i troop bay, which had been launched minutes earlier from the Telos—the flagship of the invasion squadron for this star system. Behind the Marshal (given the number of clones remaining under his command, the title sounded like a mockery), a platoon of clone soldiers stood in formation—in helmets, with blasters in hand, with bandoliers filled to the brim with ammunition. The clones talked quietly among themselves, as any battle-hardened veterans do before the start of another battle. Soldierly jokes, the hidden meaning of which was beyond the understanding of the uninitiated. The last link to peaceful times, before the remains of the 212th rushed into a new battle, becoming the vanguard of the invasion of Melida/Daan. The soldiers drowned out grim forebodings. And the jokes weren't optimistic either.
Thanks to the inertial compensators, the fighters weren't thrown from side to side at those moments when an enemy shell dissipated against the ship's deflectors or when the pilots performed an unimaginable maneuver, leading the ship away from enemy missiles. The Separatists, having taken a beating in orbit, were trying with all their might to slow down the landing of the troops.
The commander momentarily imagined what the landing would be like now if the squadron's starfighters hadn't conducted an airstrike in the area of the landing zone beforehand, seeking out and silencing enemy artillery. And for the umpteenth time today, he mentally thanked General Dougan for the invasion plan he had personally developed.
No action without preliminary bombardment. "I value my fighters too much to reduce the CIS ammunition with clone bodies," he had said, justifying his position on the matter. And, it must be admitted—one phrase, one action—and this Jedi had already earned the respect of the entire 212th. Against the background of General Simms's actions, even these simple conclusions allowed losses to be reduced tenfold.
Along with a sharp smell, the roar of the gunship's aft engines penetrated the cabin, one of which was noticeably malfunctioning: the transport was as battered in battle as the crew and paratroopers it was delivering to the conflict zone.
Even at an altitude of four hundred meters above ground level, the cloud density remained high. The clone wasn't much surprised that he could barely see his own outstretched palm. What a planet.
The ship jolted—an enemy gun charge exploded just ten meters from the starboard side. The pilots performed another maneuver that made the stomachs of the entire landing party rise to their throats. Fortunately, everything returned to normal after a minute.
Despite daily battles and the deaths of brothers almost in their arms, clones perceived war much more simply than Jedi—and this was in no way connected to the technology of their armor, received so long ago it felt like another life. Specifically bred for war, clones believed the Jedi were crazy for going into battle only in hooded cloaks and with lightsabers as their only weapon. Of course, this wasn't discussed openly—regulations forbade it. But sometimes such conversations did slip between the fighters. Sometimes on the front line it becomes so sickening that the fighters also had a go at the Jedi. Previously—less and more loyally, perhaps. But after the transfer to the Tenth Systems... it felt like breathing became easier. Freer. It seemed nothing had changed—the same war, the same Jedi in charge. But the sensations were different.
The swirling clouds began to thin, and eventually, only a thin veil remained—a shroud through which the first gunships broke with a roar, leaving holes in the atmospheric screen behind them. Below their feet lay a night city—the local capital, where the clankers had dug in quite heavily.
A sudden bright flash forced the Marshal to look up. One of the assault transports following in the second wave flared like a miniature supernova, and for a moment the world tilted in the clone's eyes—but just as suddenly regained its balance. The sound wave of the explosion arrived a few seconds later and sounded more like a funeral song for those fighters who had died from enemy artillery fire.
"The flyboys did a poor job," a voice crackled in the helmet. "Five sorties with a full bomb load, and the Seppie artillery survived."
Cinilian laughed mirthlessly.
"Going to go punch the pilots' faces again after the mission?"
"Is it allowed yet?" another clone replied.
"No," the Marshal shook his head. "The General was already chewing me out for an hour over that incident during reconnaissance when the boys from the scouts beat up the gunship pilots who couldn't get them out in time."
"So that's how it was... Well, I didn't participate then—I was just getting shrapnel pulled out of my liver."
"Turns out you have a reason to pay the flyboys a visit," someone new among the brothers concluded.
Low laughs rang out on the comms.
Cinilian couldn't distinguish the expressions on the brothers' faces behind the tinted T-visors, but he knew these faces as well as any other fighter who had gone through the war. It's the same face you see in the mirror every day.
One face for the entire army.
"Two minutes to landing," the pilot broke into their channel. "Stop whining—or I'll dump you out of the bay before the drop point."
To confirm his words, the navigator tilted the ship slightly, causing some of the clones, despite their grippy soles, to slide inexorably toward the open bay. Fortunately, the pilot straightened the ship after a few seconds.
The Marshal, sighing, moved to the final readiness check before deployment. The armor in those places where there were no dents or holes was speckled with reddish-brown marks. Blasters sat comfortably in the clone's thigh holsters, and a kama—which had become the latest fashion among clones almost as soon as the ARCs started sporting them in the first year of the war—hung from his belt. Detonators in place, emergency rations—in place. As always—ready.
Other landing ships were similarly breaking through the cloud cover to the planet's surface, where a swarm of enemy missiles met them. Two, four, then five ships were shot down by direct hits: the fuselages flared, and the mangled paratroopers fell out of the bays directly onto the roofs of the capital's houses. Saving oneself without special equipment in such a situation was pure fantasy.
A pair of wedge-shaped starfighters streaked by nearby with a deafening howl.
Jedi.
The same ones who had participated in the briefing. One of them was assigned as their commander. The second—commanded the corps, and reviews of her among the soldiers were most positive.
He had to dig his fingers into one of the viewing holes of the sliding door when the pilots performed a particularly sharp maneuver, leading the ship away from oncoming missile fire. The Jedi starfighters opened fire on the swarm of Vultures that had streaked over the urban buildings. At least a dozen Separatist fighters flared and burned as the blaster shots fired by the Deltas caught them. Hm. It turns out Jedi can be effective.
Clone missiles, launched from the launch bays in the upper part of the gunships, caught the last pair of fighters. And judging by the fact that enemy starfighters didn't appear, these were the last the Separatists had. It seemed they had saved them for the end. Well, thanks to the Jedi for leading the threat away.
However, the interceptors didn't stop there. Banking, both ships began to hammer the positions of the surviving enemy artillery with blaster fire, bringing two heavy guns to silence almost immediately.
"Command should have authorized orbital bombardment," one of the infantrymen grumbled.
"Our task is to capture the city, soldier, not to wipe it off the face of the planet," Cinilian reminded him loudly. "Besides, the locals haven't been evacuated—one volley from orbit and millions would die. They'd be shooting at our backs from every corner afterward."
The gunship, having plowed through a small section of the planet's capital central square with its belly, came to a halt, releasing fighters from its depths.
"Move it, we're not on vacation!" Cinilian barked at the soldiers, knowing full well that they would perform their job "excellently" even without his prodding.
The idea was as simple as the world.
The enemy army was distributed evenly across the city's districts. Yes, even if their number of fighters exceeded the Republic troops, crushing the groupings that had landed in different districts of the capital was simply beyond them.
The most numerous 327th Corps was now fighting on the outskirts of the city, advancing from four directions. The CIS army, having thrown all available means into destroying the enemy, had exposed the other districts of the city. Which was exactly what the invasion forces took advantage of.
The remains of the 212th Corps landed in the center—the demilitarized zone separating the two once-warring factions of the planet that had divided the city, like the entire planet, into two opposing camps. Even if the conflict had been suppressed by the efforts of the Jedi in the past, tension among the locals remained.
The 204th Legion landed in the zone controlled by the Daana. The fighters, supported by heavy equipment, fell on the Separatists literally like snow on their heads, taking control of strategically important objects—ammunition warehouses, Separatist repair workshops, thereby cutting off the occupiers' army from their own logistics services. At the same time, they moved toward Cinilian's fighters, simultaneously destroying those units left by the enemy to control the local population. Once united, this grouping would strike at the rearguard of the fighting Separatists, having previously destroyed their command center.
As expected, resistance in the central part of the city was not that strong, but not as fierce as it could have been had the Jedi not divided the enemy's troops.
Cinilian, having fired the last charge from his blaster pistol, without stopping, snatched a carbine from the hands of a fallen brother. Ducking under the cover of a decorative permacrete fence surrounding the government building where the CIS command was holed up, he saw the incoming comlink signal.
"General Sitra, we are one leap from the town hall," he reported.
"Excellent work, Cinilian," a Jedi interceptor streaked through the air. Banking sharply, it suppressed a Separatist rapid-fire installation with precise shots that had pinned his fighters down with its fire. "I will join you as soon as I destroy all the CIS repeaters."
"As you say, General," the Marshal shrugged.
"Leave a few... clankers for me too," it was clear from the voice that soldierly slang was new to the Twi'lek. The clone smirked under his helmet.
This general was catching on much faster than those Jedi he had dealt with before.
"Don't worry, there's enough of them for everyone here."
***
Oli was even glad to feel the approach of the fight. Now she could distract herself from the heavy depression that had rolled over her since the moment she had been on Zakuul.
A beautiful world.
A pretty world.
Untouched by war.
During the time the Master spent in the capital of his Empire, the girl had managed to steal some time to wander through the Spire. And what she saw caused ambivalent feelings.
On one hand, the capital struck with its magnificence, building design, and cleanliness. To see streets devoid of trash and dirt—yes, this wasn't Coruscant, where even on the upper levels there was always a place for the dregs of sentient life. Here, thousands of droids cleaned, tidied, and corrected the smallest flaws in an endless stream. That was good.
But the emptiness... It hit the impression hard. Yes, Zakuul wasn't an ecumenopolis like Coruscant. However, in the city stretched across thousands of kilometers on the planet's surface, there were no hints of numerous residents. Most of the commercial premises were empty, the windows of shops and restaurants were tightly locked. And only an endless stream of clones' black-and-gold armor, and the shiny plates of volunteers, occasionally encountered insectoids—Xi Char—and a pair of Twi'leks—that was the entire population of this world. True, toward the end of the stay in the Spire, she noticed that married couples and children began to appear on the streets. The uniform mass of black and shiny began to gradually be diluted with simple outfits, the dresses of human women. The steady hum of the cleaners began to be interrupted by children's shrieks and cries.
As the Master explained before departure—the first wave of settlers from Christophsis had arrived. More than a hundred million people had left their own world to settle here. Then again, why not live here when you are offered luxurious apartments for absolutely free—housing even for the lower class here on Zakuul was many times better than those doss-houses most of the galaxy's population could afford.
At the same time, a feeling of gnawing emptiness did not leave Oli when she remembered Zakuul. And she was overtaken by melancholy. For here, tens of thousands of light-years from the Republic capital, the citizens of the Empire could receive everything they could dream of. But for some reason, the Master was in no hurry to invite all those who wished.
And yet, how many lives could have been saved if the Emperor had decided to throw a call among the galaxy's residents. Save yourself from the war here—where under the protection of the powerful ships of the Eternal Empire you can live and not wait for a CIS fleet to appear over your head one day and wipe cities and civilians into powder.
"Oli!"
The voice that sounded in her head made the girl shudder.
"What the nuclear..."
"You're thinking about the wrong thing, apprentice! We have a battle on our hands."
"MASTER?! How did you...?"
"Force help me, Oli! If you haven't noticed—they're trying to surround us. Eleven against two. Does the layout not disturb you?"
"Forgive me, Master..."
Carefully clearing her head of extraneous thoughts, the girl pressed her back to the Master's back, not taking her eyes off the squad of huge droids that had spread out along the perimeter of the Lucrehulk's bridge. They, having gripped electrostaffs with both hands, did not take their scarlet optical sensors off the pair.
"It seems they are waiting for a command..."
"Oli, naturally they're waiting! Sora is assessing us to decide when the right moment for an attack will be."
"So we meet again, Dougan," Sora Bulq said quietly. "This is a real celebration for me."
"What kind of celebration is that?" the Master was sincerely surprised. "An old man teasing an old woman."
The Weequay bared his teeth.
"I will kill you, Jedi," a threat appeared in the former fencing instructor's voice. A chill ran down the girl's spine.
"Are you sure you can?" Oli felt the Force begin to gather around her mentor.
"Can you handle the droids? I'll take the bastard myself."
"Yes, Master."
"Be careful with them. They're exceptionally cunning creatures."
"Looking at them gives me goosebumps."
"Don't restrain yourself with the Light Side. Use your emotions."
"What if... if I lose control and they get the better of me?"
Never before had she used the power of the Dark Side. But during the time spent in the Archives, she had sufficiently learned that uncontrolled emotions were a direct path for a Jedi into the abyss. From which there is no road back.
"Don't be afraid. We'll handle this together. If you stumble—I'll catch you."
The girl felt the approval emanating from the Master. The waves of energy linking them literally permeated her, forcing her mind to open.
The fear of indescribable horror receded, filling her with anger.
And with it, the girl felt a wave of heat rising within her from majestic depths, breaking the Order's dogmas. And Oli felt a power in herself that had never been there before.
Sora, suddenly throwing his right hand forward, sent a powerful Force Push.
The Master, not without difficulty, but dissipated it, putting up a Barrier.
"Your powers have increased," Sora noted.
"Oh, you have no idea how much," the Emperor laughed.
In that same second, the fallen Jedi rushed at them. Simultaneously, the Master and apprentice moved.
She didn't see the whole picture of the battle, but she felt it in her gut.
She felt how Dougan blocked Bulq's lunge, holding his saber with only one hand. And she felt how the left hand, encased in a heavy armored gauntlet, slammed into the Weequay's jaw, throwing him back several steps.
Without delay, the droids joined the battle.
The first MagnaGuard that rushed at her, with a series of massive blows delivered with a force unattainable for an ordinary person, forced her to jump to the side. The girl, in the hope of damaging the opponent's weapon, slashed at the electrostaff, but achieved no result—the lightsaber bounced off the staff without harming it.
"What the Hutt?"
"Oli, their weapons are made of phrik!"
"Couldn't you have said that earlier?"
"You didn't ask."
Grinding her teeth, the girl dodged the thrust of a second droid. Arching her body so the weapon wouldn't pierce her side, the girl landed a diagonal strike on her enemy's head, but the machine dodged in a fraction of a second, attempting to land a punch with one hand. Oli performed a backflip just as a third opponent was about to attack her from behind.
Landing on her feet, she saw the MagnaGuard's unprotected back and took the opportunity. The blade entered the opponent's chassis in the area of the right shoulder, made a diagonal cut, and exited where most humanoids have a groin. The destroyed droid collapsed to the floor.
"One destroyed!" she sent the thought to the Master with triumph.
"Well, that means four left," the answer came in the same second.
Oli, cursing, counted the remaining opponents. Indeed—only those two advancing on her, spinning their weapons into a surreal whirlpool, remained intact. And the Master was fighting two more. While the Weequay...
"Master! He's going behind your back!"
"I know!"
Avoiding the droid's sweeping blow, Oli rolled to the side, simultaneously feeling that the Master, having cut off both arms and the head of one of the droids, threw the second away from him with the Force, after which he again blocked the Weequay's lunge.
Oli, letting a droid's lunge pass over her head, cut off its legs at the knee, and before it fell to the side, rose sharply to her feet, slicing the droid from bottom to top. Throwing the fragments aside, she looked with triumph at the last surviving opponent.
The droid, as if not noticing it was left alone, spun its weapon in its hands. Oli, looking at the violet electrical discharges, only smiled.
The opponent rained a hail of furious blows on her, seeking to suppress her with its strength and speed. Oli distantly realized that the machine surpassed her in skill—the style her mechanical opponent used was unknown to the girl. But at the same time, the link with the Master gave her the necessary calm, not allowing the triumph of the first victories to cloud her mind and allow mistakes.
The droid lunged, intending to pierce her thigh. The girl parried the staff to the side with her blade with maximum force, simultaneously crouching. Returning the lightsaber to its starting position, she cut off the MagnaGuard's legs. How simple it all was. The fight was over.
Surprise appeared on her face when the machine, instead of obediently falling on its back and waiting for the moment the Padawan ended its existence, deftly stuck the tip of the staff into the bridge deck and, using the weapon as a fulcrum, landed a blow with the stumps of its legs with such force that Oli flew to the side for several meters, hitting her head against the control panel.
Consciousness was instantly filled with pain. Sparks began to dance in her eyes, and the contact point with the panel became warm. Rising to her feet, the girl felt a quick stream running through her hair, splashing and staining her clothes. Touching the point of impact with her hand, she saw her own blood on the tips of her glove fingers.
"What a piece of s—t!" she growled, looking at the last surviving MagnaGuard, which, taking advantage of the respite, had seized the weapon of one of its fallen comrades and was now, using the staffs as stilts, approaching her.
"Well, hold on," the rage inside her surged as a response to the burning pain on her head. "I'm going to take you apart for spare parts now."
***
Throwing Sora away from me, I moved out of the MagnaGuard's line of attack, finally sliding my weapon into the space between its arm and body. The droid, unable to slow down in time, plowed through the golden blade with its body, causing its right arm to fall to the floor with a dull ring.
"You're good," Bulq spat, pushing the crippled one away from him with contempt. "It will give me great pleasure to finish you."
"The higher you turn up your nose, the harder you fall," I recalled a catchphrase.
Taking a couple of steps back, I gestured for the fool with the light-stick to follow me into the corridor. The bridge was becoming cramped with the abundance of scrap metal. The Weequay, smiling predatorily, followed obediently, not taking his eyes off me.
"Forgive me for hurting your feelings," he threw out coldly. "You're good—very even. But who are you compared to me?"
"A man, master of a harem, future ruler of the galaxy," I shrugged.
The Weequay burst out laughing. I felt that he was conducting this whole conversation only to restore his strength. After all, the first act of our duel had been stormy—not a single whole terminal remained in the part of the bridge where we fought. Even the corpses got it—there's the severed head of a Neimoidian lying there. Sora had cut it off and tried to use it as a projectile while I was taking apart his droids. Bloodthirsty bastard—no respect for the bodies of the dead.
"Why did you slaughter the whole crew?" honestly, I wasn't interested, but fighting him when he's already exhausted? There's no honor in that.
And, to be honest, I'm not exactly okay either. The deeper I immerse myself in the Force, the more often I use it—and when you fight one against seven, you have to strain yourself. Especially in the case of MagnaGuards. Yes, even if they're not much of an opponent—I don't know what Dooku and Grievous taught them, but against Niman—they're just children stirring up dung with a stick in a sandbox.
"You're going to die anyway," you're serious? Gramps, you're barely standing on your feet. Some legendary fencing instructor you are. "So I'll tell you."
"I look forward to this fascinating story," trading phrases, we circled at the intersection of three corridors converging on the bridge, not taking our eyes off each other.
"Count Dooku commissioned me to kill you," the Weequay hissed. "And I decided—why not not only finish this thorn in the side, but also destroy your authority in the eyes of the public by telling the whole galaxy how you ruthlessly destroyed an unarmed crew?"
Seriously?!
"The stupidest plan I've ever heard," I didn't mince words with the fool. It really was the height of stupidity.
Bulq rushed at me. Blindly and furiously, emanating the Dark Side like smog that made it hard to breathe. Good thing I'm not a squeamish softy.
Sora Bulq managed to surprise me.
Either the old man had managed to brush up on the program since our last meeting, or he had deliberately not shown me all his trump cards during the last performance.
The fury with which he, like a whirlwind, fell upon me, pushing me away from the bridge, stunned me for a second. All-consuming, selfless, inexorable as an element, it possessed a certain natural magnetism.
The same one with which people watch huge tsunami waves appear before them, ready to crash down on their heads, pick them up, carry them thousands of meters from where you were just standing, simultaneously breaking every bone in your body, tearing you like pages of an old yellowed newspaper.
Quite enough to break the will of any gifted one. Or at least to make them hesitate.
But that's why I'm Vitiate's apprentice. Even if with a creak, the lessons of previous meetings with Dark servants had been useful.
Surrounding myself with the Force, I called my own Darkness from the depths of my consciousness. No need to restrain myself anymore. Fighting the guards within the framework I had seen before, I was playing it safe in case this monkey with a hemorrhoid face could escape, as he had last time. It wouldn't do to reveal my belonging to the Unifying Force when that information could leak out and guaranteed become known to Sidious.
But now...
Sora had chosen a road with one end. The very one Oli was so afraid of.
Under Dooku's lead, the Weequay had broken all the barriers of his unity with the Dark Side, drinking the power that emotions can give to the very bottom. But, apparently, someone had knocked from below.
At the very last moment, when the crimson blade was already ready to touch my body, golden energy stood in its way. The former Jedi's face was a few centimeters from mine. I looked into his eyes and no longer saw a sentient being there.
Bulq had turned into a deadly animal. Whose instinct is to kill for the sake of its whim.
And this must be ended.
***
In the distance, the silhouette of Zogoro—the second largest city on Exsarg—was already distinguishable, huddled at the foot of steep hills. Now, essentially—the last pocket of resistance on the planet.
But, Hutt's belch—what a tough nut to crack.
Zogoro was located on the ocean coast. The hills, and essentially—just sheer cliffs hewn by time and wind, on which the Separatists had erected long-term fortifications, protected the city from attack from three sides. And the only possible direction of attack was only the coastal part.
The main cargo spaceport for Exsarg's entire mining industry was located there. And, unsurprisingly, the CIS had turned this city into a fortified citadel—Zogoro's vast underground storage facilities were filled to the brim with previously mined minerals.
Out of the corner of his eye, Miphispi caught the reflection of the control tower—a structure rising even above the hills. It was there that the Seppies had installed a shield generator that covered the city, saving it from an air attack.
Even though there weren't many droids here—only a few hundred thousand—they had fortified themselves well. But instead of subjecting the city and spaceport to a systematic siege, General Fort ordered an immediate assault.
There was no strategic reason to do this. Admiral Tigellinus, even if at the cost of heavy losses, had managed to break through to orbit, causing significant damage to the Separatist reinforcements and forcing them to retreat from the planet deeper into the system.
Good thing the army command had sent reinforcements—more than two dozen starships—Hammerheads and Marauders. Even if they were only just launched from the slips and with unseasoned crews, they still helped keep the enemy at a significant distance from the Republicans' positions by their mere presence. Well, the Admiral nipped all attempts to break through to the surface or deliver a massive bombardment by bombers in the bud.
"Missile!" the pilot's shout rang out, and in the next second their assault transport was jolted hard.
"How, the Hutt take it, did you miss the missile?" Miphispi asked.
"They're blinding our scanners. You can't make anything out five kilometers from the shield."
Arguing with a brother was useless. He should have argued with General Fort, who had sanctioned this mission. But arguing with him was useless. He didn't hear an opinion other than his own.
The General pursued only one goal—to free Master Salmara, captured by the Separatists during her rescue mission. All the clones assigned to her had died fighting off the opponent and trying to rescue comrades from the downed ship. Generals Marek and Shrain, returning from the raid, had also suffered significant losses. If not for the Christophsian corps that arrived in time with new ships—the Seppies would have killed them like exterminators killing parasites.
And now the remaining half of the 305th Corps had to participate in a brutal battle to free one Jedi. General Fort had wanted to involve volunteers for this mission too, but their commander, a man not of the faint-hearted, in a very indecent manner advised the Jedi to reread the systems army regulations, according to which volunteers report directly to Grand Moff Dougan. And the only order they received from him was to take control of the capital, mines, and factories. Nothing was said about the cargo terminal, warehouses, and especially—the liberation of a Jedi.
In the end, Master Fort gathered all the remaining clones—even vehicle drivers—and rushed into an offensive. Which objectively promised to turn into a bloody massacre. Since the General hadn't even deigned to send commandos forward to disable the opponent's defensive systems.
Climber and his "Ion Team" acted independently, under the threat of a court-martial. Miphispi, after the commandos returned from searching for the surrounded Jedi (they owed the information about General Salmara's location to Climber), sent them to Zogoro to at least disable the protection field generator. It still wouldn't be possible to suppress the anti-aircraft artillery and fortifications in the shortest time. But by depriving the clankers of their main protection—losses could be reduced. Hutt take it, once the energy dome fell, the gunships could strike at the firing points in the area and the city itself—fortunately, there were practically no locals here—the population had abandoned the city, hiding in the forests as soon as the CIS troops appeared on the horizon.
When entering from the coastal strip, the transports came under merciless fire, inexorable as pouring rain. Several LAAT/i had already buried themselves in the waves, shot down by targeted shots—penetrating through the shield, the ships hung in the air for a moment in one place, becoming perfect targets for enemy gunners.
Another jolt—this time stronger than before. And the gunship, having survived the hit, began to shake perceptibly.
"What happened?" he asked the pilot over the comlink.
"Damaged the stabilizer," the pilot responded. It was clear from his voice that he hadn't voiced all the damage. Miphispi, looking through the slits in the protective doors at the gunship's hull, noticed that one of the aft surfaces had become perceptibly shorter. Hutt. If this had happened a few kilometers from the shore—it would have been bad. Fortunately, they were quite close to the coast.
"Hold on!" another hit, and the machine, diving sharply with its nose, went down. Gradually the dive turned into a shallow trajectory, and it became clear that a head-on impact with the sand did not threaten them. Five seconds later, their LAAT/i made a hard landing on the crests of the foaming waves. The ship turned and aimed its blunted nose at the silhouette of the city.
"Everyone out!" Miphispi commanded. "You and you," he poked a finger at two brothers nearest the pilot's cabin. "Get them out."
Clarification or repeating a second time wasn't required.
As soon as the troop bay was open, the clones rushed out.
They were already met by hundreds of battle droids, standing right on the beach without the slightest fear and drenching the landing force from their carbines. The Marshal, without thinking twice, flopped onto the sand, simultaneously disabling the nearest B-1s with targeted shots.
A familiar noise rang out overhead. There was no need to even turn his head—it was clear it was a Republic gunship. Flying forward another few hundred meters, clearing the beach of Separatist droids with the fire of its guns. Having organized a bridgehead, the ship suddenly began to gain altitude and hovered on repulsors. In the next second, Master Fort plummeted onto the shore, having activated his lightsaber while still in flight. Parrying the droids' blaster charges, he, like an ancient god, seemed unshakable.
A few meters from him, his Togruta apprentice and two young Jedi—Marek and Shrain—appeared on the surface in a similar way.
Clones began the landing along ropes following them: holding rifles in their free hand, they drenched the opponent with fire. When the last of the fighters reached the surface, the transport tilted its nose and began to steer away from the shoreline. Similar events were unfolding all along the shore. Several assault ships failed to dodge the artillery fire and crashed into the water right on departure.
Some came under fire before they could even unload the landing force.
Crouching to the ground so as not to run into a stray shell or blaster shot, Miphispi rushed forward, seeking to close with the commanders. As soon as he was a step away from them, the blackness of the night was broken by a bright flash over the city. When the sound of the explosion reached his ears, through the darkened polarized visor of his helmet he could already see that the control tower had been shortened by a good ten meters.
The crimson glow of the force screen began to slowly but inexorably disappear.
"What happened?" the clone teams already rushed forward, sweeping away the disorganized opponent.
"The commandos destroyed the protection field generator," Miphispi explained to the bewildered Jedi.
"Who gave the order?" Master Fort asked sternly.
"I did, sir," the Marshal didn't lie.
"Under arrest with him," the Jedi ordered, grabbing the nearest clone by the shoulder. The latter, looking at his commander for a second, finally reached out his hand, into which the Marshal placed his carbine.
Hutt's belch.
"Master, but..."
The apprentice's objection was interrupted by the Jedi Master's stern look.
"Disobedience must be punished, Deran," he threw out dryly. The two other men remained silent, watching as the corps commander handed his soldiers the last thermal detonator. He didn't feel anger—only that he had done his job. Evidently, along with this sabotage, the clankers had also lost their command—the artillery fire died down, the CIS soldiers slackened their pressure, looking around aimlessly—searching for someone who could give them an order.
"Fire Hail droids!" a shout went through the battlefield. And in the next second, explosions of shells rose before the advancing chain of clones, destroying up to half of the landed paratroopers in the blink of an eye.
"Well, that's s—t," the soldier holding his weapon said. "Ambush!"
Without thinking twice, and not caring about the consequences, Miphispi took back his blasters and attached pouches with grenades to his kama. The fighter, realizing that something was not going according to plan, only looked at him, but did not object.
"Climber, we have problems on the beach," not taking his eyes off the Togruta who had fallen to her knees, shaking in sobs, the Marshal gave the command to drag the Jedi away from the fire—droidekas had appeared on the opposite edge of the beach. Deploying shields, they began, as if in a shooting gallery, to shoot the gaping ones. In the blink of an eye, more than two squads of clones, caught off guard, hit the sand. Never to rise.
"I see, we're already working. You have ten minutes of respite—they've deployed everything that was in the cassettes. The cans are installing new ammunition," it was clear from the commando commander's voice that he was running somewhere.
"Understood," Miphispi turned off the comlink. Noticing that a reinforcement—B-2s—had approached the droidekas, he, raising his carbine, sent several bolts toward the opponent, covering the brothers dragging the Togruta girl Jedi behind the hull of a downed gunship.
As soon as they were in cover, he looked at the commander's face. Her cheeks shone with tears, her lips trembled. It seems, indeed—this war does not spare Jedi for completely different reasons than those a clone could think of as justification.
"Inform the second wave," noticing that one of the soldiers had the rank insignia of an artillery spotter, Miphispi had already formed a plan for further action in his head. "Let them be ready. The droidekas are really in the way."
"Understood, sir."
"You," a clone lieutenant appeared nearby, whose unit had reached them on all fours from another downed gunship. "Contact Admiral Tigellinus. Let him report to command that we have three dead Jedi. We are left without command."
"Sir, what about her?" the lieutenant nodded toward the Padawan.
The Marshal looked carefully at the Togruta. She sat, hugging her legs with her arms and resting her head on them. Even through the sounds of the growing battle, it was clear that she was sobbing again.
"Not this time, Lieutenant," he sighed. "The girl is in no condition to command..."
"We'll see about that," the Togruta raised her head, looking at the Marshal's face hidden under the helmet with defiance. Rising to her feet, she activated her own comlink. "Attention to all fighters of the 305th Corps. This is Jedi Commander Deran Naluan. I am taking command of the corps."
Her voice sounded firm, distinct. Like a real commander who knows no mercy for the opponent. And is ready to do whatever it takes to complete the task.
"Marshal," she addressed the clone. "Order your men not to risk themselves needlessly. We will take this city in any case—but with minimal casualties."
"Um..." The clone hesitated, not expecting such speeches from such a young girl. "As you command, Commander."
"Climber," the Padawan contacted the commando commander. "Destroy the CIS tanks."
"Already on it, Commander."
Literally in the next second, a chain of explosions rang out behind the embankment, lighting up the sky with the brightest reflections. The roar hit the ears. The shockwave tore chunks of permacrete from the monolithic fortifications, crushing several droids standing nearby with them.
"Completed," Climber reported. "Five Fire Hail droids unfit for further functioning. Anything else?"
"Yes," the Togruta said coldly. "Find General Salmara and evacuate her. We will distract the opponent."
"If she's alive, Commander, we'll find her," the commando assured her.
"I will wait for your report, Captain."
Miphispi chuckled barely audibly. He definitely liked the girl's command style. Of course, this is only the beginning—let's see how she handles it in the future. She definitely has the potential. I'll have to keep an eye on her—not let her die before this war ends.
"Admiral Tigellinus," a figure of a fleet officer appeared on the holoprojector in the girl's hands. "I have taken command of the corps. The other Jedi are either dead or captured."
"Sad to hear that, Commander," the man said. "Can I help you with anything?"
"Of course. We're pinned down on the beach by droidekas and anti-aircraft artillery is preventing the delivery of reinforcements."
"Understood," the Admiral nodded. "Sending starfighters and bombers."
"My fighters will guide them to the targets," Miphispi cut into the conversation, estimating in his mind what would happen on the beach if the bombers laid their destructive load even a hundred meters closer to the clones' position.
"Excellent, Marshal, Commander," Tigellinus saluted. Looking somewhere beyond the holoprojector, he returned his gaze to the interlocutors. "I'll assign you two squadrons of bombers and one of starfighters. Forgive me, but I need the others here—the cans have started a new attack."
"We'll try to free your people as quickly as possible, Admiral," the Togruta assured him, ending the session.
Casting a glance at Miphispi, she exhaled loudly and said:
"Be with me, Marshal. I very much don't want to mess things up."
"Never, Commander," the clone said seriously, inserting a new energy cell into his carbine. "I am always near."
***
A loud cry, like a roar, full of hatred and rage, made Oli shudder with her whole body. At that very moment, the tip of her lightsaber entered the right "eye" of the last MagnaGuard, ending its heavy existence in the service of the CIS.
Looking around, the girl noticed that she was left on the bridge completely alone. Before she could ask herself—where had everyone gone?—the sounds of clashing lightsabers reached her ears. Moreover, the hiss of the blades sounded so often that it turned into a single sound, from which a headache began.
"Master?"
The mental question remained unanswered.
At the same time, she felt that her mentor was alive. And more than that—enveloped in controlled anger, so strong that she felt uneasy at the mere representation of the picture that was going on before the Master's eyes.
The girl, without thinking twice, having looked around the battlefield again and made sure that no functioning opponents remained, hurriedly ran outside.
And literally immediately, at a distance of some fifty meters, she saw IT.
The Master was fighting... no, it was no longer Master Bulq.
It was something that had put on his face, like actors in puppet theaters put heroes on their hand. Whatever had happened to the former Jedi—now he was just a vessel for the all-consuming power of the Dark Side, which hit the nerves and consciousness even at such a distance from what was happening.
And against him fought such a monster.
Perhaps for the first time in all the time of their acquaintance, she saw through the prism of the Force Bonds the true appearance of her Master.
His cloak fluttered behind him, trembling in the unnaturally lit corridor, and he himself held the saber with both hands. The energy emanating from him trembled in the air. It seemed that the air was trembling around these two and the metal was about to start melting.
The eye could not distinguish the light blades of both. Instead, even applying the Force, Oli saw only blurred spots of gold and red colors. The spots moved so fast that they sometimes penetrated each other, turning into a completely vile shade.
Oli, with her mouth open, watched the duel.
The Master parried a blow delivered by Bulq with both hands from above. He counterattacked, surrounded by a Force cocoon, which caused the metal to explode into hundreds of fragments as soon as he touched the wall, splashing in all directions like shrapnel. But it seemed the instructor didn't even notice such troubles. The Weequay advanced, parrying the Master's blows, counterattacking and again going on the attack.
For a second, it seemed to Oli that the battle at unimaginable speeds was over.
Splashing with sparks, the blades of their lightsabers clashed, their gazes crossed.
Despite the distance between the three of them, Oli saw that the eyes of the former Jedi were burning with piercing fury. The anger radiated by him was physically tangible, making the air slippery and dirty. The girl felt a subconscious desire to wash. With the harshest sponge she could find.
The Master was in no way inferior to his opponent. Now, seeking to defeat each other with the help of brute force, both seemed like wild animals, neither of whom could yield the carcass of a killed herbivore to the other. But she felt something else in the Master, something unexpected, a strange split of feelings.
"I knew you were not a Jedi," Master Bulq hissed. And his words seemed to the girl the very sound that accompanies the sliding of metal on transpari-steel. Vile, irritating, piercing to the depths of the soul.
"And no one claimed otherwise," Dougan growled.
He leaned on the saber, forcing the opponent to take a step back, and, having strengthened the blow with the Force, kicked him in the stomach.
But Bulq proved faster, a jump carried him over Dougan's head several meters further from the place where the opponents had stood before. He landed on his haunches in the middle of a field of debris, once representing the Trade Federation's battle droids.
Dougan waved his left hand, and dozens of various-sized pieces of durasteel rose into the air, only to turn into projectiles flying at an insane speed a moment later, whose vocation was to be the crushing of the former instructor's torso.
But the latter, with an agility inconceivable for the Padawan, having soared into the air, managed to dodge each of the deadly pieces of metal. But not from the Force Push of huge destructive power, with which her Master sent the Weequay into flight, throwing him another few dozen meters deep into the corridor.
As if not feeling pain, Sora was already on his feet a moment later, rushing at Dougan.
The Emperor roared, once again forcing the girl to fall into prostration, and jumped straight at his opponent. He slipped to the side, dodging a downward strike, the red beam of the saber left a deep furrow in the floor panels shining in the light, instead of depriving the commander of the Tenth Systems Army of his legs.
He responded with a strike of his lightsaber from the side, which should have knocked the Weequay's head off if he hadn't ducked under the strike. Following this, Bulq jumped, flipping in the air, and landed fifteen meters behind Dougan's back.
Oli, gripping the hilt of her own lightsaber tighter, prepared to fight back, but even though she and the Dark servant were separated by only a few dozen meters—mere trifles, as she could see during this fight—he, sliding over her with an indifferent gaze, as if looking through the Padawan, returned to his confrontation with Dougan.
Grabbing a huge fragment with the Force next to him, once part of a super battle droid, he hurled it at Dougan. Without moving from his spot, the latter simply cut the projectile into pieces with his lightsaber with several quick movements. Very tiny pieces of dark gray durasteel fell to the floor.
Sora rushed again, shortening the distance between him and Dougan.
The fallen Jedi struck from below, Oli's mentor parried the strike to the side, and, continuing the movement, struck his opponent in the stomach with all his might. Dodging the blow, he jumped, pulling up his legs, and in landing delivered, holding the hilt of his lightsaber with both hands, a strike from above. Dougan parried with a transverse block and delivered a Force-augmented side kick aimed at his ribs. Bulq caught his leg, freed one hand from the grip, spun around his axis and threw Dougan a few meters to the side. The latter flipped in the air and landed on the corridor floor. The metal plate under his boots was instantly covered with a network of cracks.
Suddenly, another lightsaber appeared in the former instructor's hands. The red blade at first glance was half as short as the one the Dark servant was clutching in his right hand. Describing intricate pirouettes with both, Bulq rushed to Dougan. The latter watched the enemy's approach, and as soon as he was close enough, pointed his left hand at him, roared, and jagged discharges of Force Lightning sped toward the rushing opponent.
Oli instinctively closed her eyes—the brightness of this выпал exceeded that of a turbolaser shot. The light-filled corridor turned for a moment into a blue-violet wall of light, in the depths of which the Emperor's opponent was not destined to survive.
And yet, he broke through the screen. In smoking and in places burning clothes, with a face as if it had been applied to a red-hot frying pan, Bulq, drowning everything around in the Dark Side, continued his attack.
As if having foreseen this, the Master met the opponent's lunge with the activation of his own second light blade.
His power met the servant's fury. The blade of his saber hacked, stabbed, spinning in a strong hand. Oli saw that the former instructor was trying to realize his advantage in the knowledge of fencing styles, time after time changing his own tactics, moving from one style to another. And sometimes organically combining sequences from several styles at once, he sought to force the Master to back away without looking back. Starstone realized that the Weequay had made his goal precisely the coordination of the Master's movements, forcing him to retreat thoughtlessly to lose his balance, to stumble. To take advantage of the situation in such circumstances—is nothing. A short bloody massacre after such an impressive battle.
But to his strength the Master responded with speed, dodging, jumping over, parrying blows, and delivering a storm of his own in response. The hum of their sabers, the hiss of colliding blades merged into a single song of speed and power.
The opponents crossed blades again.
"I am more than you can handle, Dougan," Bulq growled through the crackle of sparking lightsabers.
"Your Master thinks so too," Rick replied with the same fury in his voice. "And his Master too. But you all miscalculated! I will come for each of you!"
He struck the Weequay with the Force with such power that he flew back and crashed into the corridor wall, crumpling a huge decorative section with his body like foil. The Master, continuing his maneuver, rushed forward, delivering two diagonal slashing blows, which, unfortunately, only ripped through the metal—Sora Bulq proved faster.
He rolled to the side, rising to his feet, rushed at his enemy, struck a backhand blow from the left, aiming for the throat. Dougan managed to put the blade of one of his sabers vertically to parry his blow, but he tried to counterattack with his shoto.
The Master must have felt danger at the last moment, for he managed to lean slightly to the side. And yet the red beam of the fencing master's saber slashed his cloak, cutting a piece from it, and also—passed tangentially across his armor. The Weequay, roaring at the top of his lungs, closed in, raising his saber for the final blow.
And he was close enough to Dougan. The latter had enough of a moment to drop one of the sabers to the floor and grab his opponent's face with his fingers.
He clearly didn't expect this. He was confused, which allowed Dougan to perform a leg sweep, knocking him off his feet. With a distinct crunch, the Weequay's head was on the floor—as was he himself. Lying on the metal plate, he tried to stealthily deliver a blow with his weapon into Dougan's chest, but he couldn't—the latter simply lowered his knees onto his chest, freed his second hand and, and now with its help, under an ear-splitting crunch, was breaking the Weequay's wrist, turning the limbs into mincemeat with pieces of bone.
The latter, howling from parts of his body turning into mush, tried to reach Dougan with the shoto, with his free hand delivering a blow somewhere to his Master's back. The girl, seeing this, shrieked, foreseeing deadly dangerous consequences. But she could no longer prevent it.
The short red blade, having described a small arc, descended onto the man's back. As if in slow motion, Starstone saw how upon contact of the energy weapon with the thin fabric, the latter instantly evaporated, turning into a stream of smoke. A moment—and the red streak would disappear between the Master's shoulder blades.
But instead, the blade blinked, flickered, and broke. The Dark servant's spare weapon shut down.
Simultaneously, the hand that had been pressing the Weequay's head into the floor ceased its work. Intercepting the enemy's forearm, Dougan unceremoniously twisted it, after which, overcoming the former Jedi's resistance, like a match, broke the limb over his knee, using the captured arm as a lever.
The corridor filled with a terrible howl. The Weequay, unable to say anything articulate, howled, roared, finally having lost the appearance of a sentient being.
"Glory to the Force, he is now no longer dangerous!" Oli exhaled. No humanoid creature can continue a lightsaber battle when the functionality of both limbs is destroyed.
Slowly, as if savoring his own victory, the Master rose, towering over the defeated opponent. Oli, having taken several quick steps toward him, smiled, intending to congratulate him on the victory. There were literally five meters left...
However, having felt the Force tighten around the Master, she stopped, wondering what would happen next.
Meanwhile, in the Master's hands, clamped between two palms, a sphere of pure Force energy was forming. It was so concentrated that for the first time in all her years Oli could see the Force. And the sphere was beautiful.
And then, the Master, pointing it at the body of the still-howling Weequay, as if from a turbolaser, shot the gathered energy at the opponent.
Sora Bulq's body, having met the Force, exploded like an overripe fruit. Oli felt a wave of warm liquid with a salty aftertaste wash over her. The air smelled of metal.
Blinking her instinctively closed eyes, the girl felt streams of someone else's blood flowing down her face. Casting a glance down, she felt a surge of nausea.
The place where the Weequay had lain a moment ago was now pressed a good meter deep into the floor. In the resulting crater now lay torn pieces of meat mixed with small whitish fragments of the skeleton and parts of internal organs.
Feeling a salty aftertaste in her mouth, Oli spat someone else's blood onto the floor with disgust, wiping her face with the inner surface of her cloak—the outer one was already littered with pieces of meat and brains mixed with spots and splashes of blood, noticeable even on the black background.
"Hutt," the girl whispered, looking at the Master's unperturbed figure. Unlike her, he, protected by the Force, stood in the middle of the bloody massacre as if nothing had happened, looking with curiosity at Bulq's remains. "What have you done, Master?"
"Solved a problem, apprentice," he said coldly, smoothing his hair with his hand. When he took it away from his head, Starstone noticed how his fingers were trembling. Looking closer, she noted that the Master's face had grown haggard as if he hadn't slept for several weeks.
Noticing that not only his hand but he himself was shaking slightly, Oli opened her mouth to ask the corresponding question.
But before she could do so, the Master looked her straight in the eyes. The girl could barely keep herself from screaming, clenching her hands into fists until it hurt.
"This—does not concern you," he said in an icy tone. Pulling his own weapon and the fallen one's blades to him, throwing the hood of his cloak over his head, the mentor, walking with a slow pace, noticeably staggering on the way, went further down the corridor, leaving bloody footprints of the soles of his boots on the floor.
Oli stood in indecision, processing what had happened.
Looking into her Master's eyes, she saw nothing human there. Black as the vast space, they could not belong to a person—even a powerful gifted one. Whatever the reason—it had irrevocably changed her mentor.
"Commander Starstone," the comlink came to life with a clone's voice. "We have landed in the hangar. General Dougan conveyed that we should place ourselves at your disposal. What are the orders?"
"Send cleaners to the bridge," swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat, Oli said. Feeling her lower jaw begin to tremble, the girl turned sharply, walking in the opposite direction.
Dougan had killed Sora Bulq, who had ceased to be sentient and turned into a wild beast.
To defeat monsters—one must become one of them.