"So," Maul pushed the headless corpse of the lead Falleen off the chair. Noticing that the upper part of the backrest had been sliced away by his weapon, the Zabrak chose to ignore the fact. What did it matter if a beautiful chair was damaged and had lost its value? It was just a chair. "What is your answer to my question?"
Ziton, glancing at the corpses being carried out of the room by the Zabrak's fighters, looked away. Why did he have to decide? He was just an ordinary captain of the guard... He had been.
Now, after the deaths of five aristocrats, he was the only one in the entire organization whose authority was higher than the remaining commanders. Even that upstart Xizor, though a hereditary aristocrat predicted to have a great future, was no more than a lieutenant in the current reality. Yes, he had many allies, but if Ziton declared himself the head of the syndicate now, the majority would follow him. Such was the order of things.
"I think," the Falleen licked his parched lips, "Black Sun stands to gain much if it acquires an ally such as you."
"Not an ally," the Zabrak raised a glass of expensive wine standing on the table. "A master. And a patron."
"As you wish," the captain bowed low in a sign of respect. Hutt! This bastard intended to make him a mere figurehead. To force him to sing his own tune. "What are your orders... Master?"
Maul brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. After savoring the drink, he put it back with a look of regret.
"Mobilize the forces and resources of Black Sun. I want to know what strength I now have at my disposal. All dissenters must be silenced."
"That can be easily arranged," the newly minted aristocrat smiled. "We should immediately proceed with the liquidation of the organization's commanders in the Mid Rim and the capital. I can only vouch for the loyalty of the part of the organization located in the Outer Rim."
"Why can we not count on the Core Worlds?" the Zabrak inquired lazily.
"The organization is divided into sectors managed by aristocrats and their proxies," the former guard captain explained. "In the Core World regions, Lieutenant Xizor has far more power and influence, so I am not certain the local branches would obey us without question. I am more than sure the commanders in the Mid Rim will side with whoever Xizor supports—after all, he is the last of the organization's aristocrats, even if he is of low rank."
"Then let us find out right now," there was no request in the Zabrak's voice.
Moj, not taking his eyes off the Duros who had taken a seat to the Zabrak's right, approached the table from the opposite side. Activating the holoterminal built into the tabletop, he sent a call signal to Coruscant. Straight to Xizor's palace, built near the Republic Chancellor's presidential palace.
The hologram of another Falleen appeared after several minutes of agonizing waiting.
"What is it, Moj?" Xizor asked loftily. "And why are you using the aristocrats' communication system?"
"Black Sun now answers to me, Xizor," the captain snapped. "The aristocrats are dead."
"Is that so?" the interlocutor snorted. "And what happened?"
"That does not concern you," Ziton cut him off. "Send your people and ships to the system..."
"Why should I do that?" Xizor inquired lazily. "I am an Aristocrat by birthright, and if the others have perished, it is I who should stand at the head of the organization."
"Do you dare challenge me?" the former guard bared his teeth. "The men and ships under my command outnumber yours ten to one."
"And so?" the Falleen smirked. "Will you drop everything and fly to Coruscant to settle scores? That isn't even funny, Moj. You are wasting my time."
"And you," Maul leaned forward so that his face entered Xizor's field of vision, "are testing my patience."
"And who are you?" the Falleen asked, surprised.
"The one who destroyed your most influential leaders. Twelve years ago, Alexi Garyn fell by my hand. Now—your entire Ruling Council."
"Is that so," Xizor narrowed his eyes. "I knew that weakling Moj couldn't have gotten rid of Xomit and his sycophants."
Ziton felt a desire to strangle the brat with his own hands.
"Submit to me," Maul commanded.
"What do I receive in return for agreeing to join you?" Xizor asked after a pause.
"Your life," the Zabrak breathed a threat. "And the opportunity to become substantially enriched."
"A more than worthy offer," Xizor smirked. "But playing second fiddle does not suit me. I don't know what Ziton told you, but in recent years I have consolidated my power within Black Sun. All he can offer you is a few sectors. I, however, offer the rest of the galaxy."
"That suits me," Maul bared his teeth. "Your ships and men must arrive in the Oba Diah system in one week."
"Are we going to war with the Pyke Syndicate?" Xizor inquired.
"We will subjugate the entire criminal structure of the galaxy," Maul promised. "And the Pykes are the first who will know my power."
Xizor gave a theatrical smile.
"In that case, there is no need to waste tibanna on them. The Pykes are cautious and calculating; they will never enter an open confrontation with Black Sun. I will speak with Lom Pyke—and you will see that they will join us."
Ziton, swallowing the lump in his throat, felt the power over the organization he had held just five minutes ago slipping away before his eyes. Xizor was famous for his connections. And if his approach suited the new leader... Then, despite the fact that a significant portion of the syndicate's combat strength and resource organizations were concentrated in the Outer Territories, he would never see total control over Black Sun.
"Do not promise what you cannot deliver, Xizor," Maul said threateningly.
"Never," the lieutenant smirked. "Lom Pyke will personally kneel before you."
With those words, the connection to Coruscant was cut. A heavy silence hung in the air.
"An interesting situation," the Zabrak remarked. "You—you control the majority of the syndicate's militants and ships..."
"The commanders loyal to me can field more than three thousand starships and up to a million perfectly trained fighters," the Falleen hurried to report. "And all the resources of the Outer Rim are also under my authority. If necessary, they can be used to hire another ten million soldiers and twice as many ships. Just give the command..."
"The other one is more influential," the Duros spoke up. "I've heard of him. He built his palace in the most elite district of Coruscant—and for that, you need to have good acquaintances at the very top. Moreover, the bulk of the syndicate's profitable enterprises are in the Core Worlds and Mid Rim planets. Here, there are only military resources—far from the eyes of the Jedi."
"Can you kill Xizor and surpass him?" the Zabrak asked, placing a hand on his lightsaber.
The former guard swallowed convulsively. It was a question with an obvious answer.
"No," he admitted frankly. "I am a soldier. But not a politician."
"You admit that you lack the cunning to bribe those we need?"
"I am afraid so."
Maul stood up, now looking at the Falleen with a completely different expression. An interested one.
"You have just earned your life," Maul said authoritatively. "Prepare your men."
"Are we departing for Oba Diah?"
"No," the Zabrak said, stroking his chin. "It is necessary to send ships and combat squads to protect interests on Jabiim and in the Humbarine sector. Black Sun's identifying marks should be removed."
"But... those territories are under CIS control," the Falleen recalled. "Is it wise to interfere in an open confrontation?"
"Do you dare dispute my decision?" Maul arched an eyebrow.
"No, Master," the captain turned pale. "But, I dare to note that we will require many ships and manpower to withstand the CIS combat squads."
"So what is the problem?" the Duros smirked. "You said you had the funds to hire mercenaries."
"That is true, but..."
"See to it, Ziton," the Zabrak said coldly. "Before I regret the decision to spare your life."
The Falleen, swallowing the direct and overt threat, bowed silently and left the hall.
***
"I don't trust him," the Duros said, looking after the captain.
"That is why you will go with him to Humbarine," Maul said, narrowing his eyes. "That entire sector must come under the Master's control."
"My people report that there are droids there—more than you can chew with your montrals," Nuodo complained. "They won't be smoked out of there easily."
"That is why you were hired," Maul noted. "You have served the Master well by training his army."
"Earn a mountain of credits without risking my own hide? I can do that, I'm good at it, I practice it," the PMC commander snorted. "But sticking my head into a krayt dragon's maw... That will cost the Jedi a lot of money."
"Funds are not important," Maul cooled his companion's fervor. "The Master has plenty of them. Do your job properly—and by the time we are finished with our enemies, you will be bathing in aurodium on your own planet."
"I'd like to believe that," the Duros smiled. After a pause, he asked: "Maul, aren't you afraid?"
"Why should I feel fear?" the Zabrak inquired.
"Well, the Jedi... they're supposed to be keepers of the peace. All airy, good-natured like nunas, totally soft in the head. And then there's this—first they create an army in secret, now Dougan is subjugating crime, and through them, gaining control over entire sectors in different corners of the galaxy. If all Jedi have become this... ingenious... shrewd... treacherous... I don't know about you, but the prospect scares the poodoo out of me."
Hearing this revelation, Maul only smirked.
"You know exactly what you are supposed to know, Nuodo," he said. "You are paid—and you do what you are told. Or are you afraid of consequences from the Republic?"
"Dougan promised to settle all problems," the Duros recalled. "And in light of the fact that he directly offered me to go against the Republic... I am inclined to believe he has aces up his sleeve—even if he's caught red-handed, he'll be able to wiggle out of trouble."
"Take my word for it. If anyone suspects the Master of anything—that 'anyone' will not live long."
"Oh, my grandmother told me—don't work with Jedi," the Duros grumbled, rising from the table. "I didn't listen. And now..."
"Do you regret it?"
"I've participated in a dozen local conflicts across the galaxy," the Duros admitted. "My boys have seen no less s—t. And if this Jedi promises he'll bring order to this pile of poodoo called the Republic—I guess I'll have a hand in it. I don't want my children growing up in a society run by several thousand brainless sentients. You know, the ones the media call senators. Better they serve the Empire—at least it pays decently. Even the CIS didn't offer us this much."
"Money is dust compared to peace in the galaxy," Maul remarked philosophically.
"And what, in your opinion, deserves attention?"
"Power," the Zabrak answered without thinking. "I have already served a man who promised to make the galaxy better."
"And what happened? Why did you leave him?"
"I was cut in half and left to die," Maul answered without a shred of emotion.
"So for you, this is—a chance to get even?" the Duros clarified. "To take revenge on your former... uh... employer?"
"No," the Zabrak shook his head. "My former master is nothing compared to Dougan. Previously, I idolized Sidious. I believed him. And I did not notice that he turned me into a mere weapon—a blade in his own hands. A tool that can easily be replaced, which he did."
"Well, and Dougan? How did he help you? If you lost when you were entirely made of flesh, didn't being halved make you weaker?"
"It did," Maul agreed. "But the Master made me stronger than I have ever been."
"Jedi tricks?" the Duros clarified.
"Something like that," Maul said quietly, closing his eyes and plunging into his own memories.
A grim room in the depths of the Emperor's Citadel on Zakuul. Hundreds of devices that even in appearance exuded ancient age.
The Dark Side wafted from them. It was so strong that it seemed as if they themselves were its spawn, rather than the invention of sentient hands.
The room where he had regained consciousness after the battle in the Throne Room resembled a medical laboratory. Equipment was lined up along the walls. Several circular platforms, in the center of which were vertically mounted medical tables. On one of them, secured in durasteel restraints, was the former Jedi. Quinlan Vos. Dozens of wires and plastic tubes extended from his body. The wires connected to generators and other mechanisms surrounding each platform. Several metal racks with reservoirs for multicolored liquids inside each. And through transparent flexible tubes, these preparations were injected into the former Jedi's body.
"Use the Light Side," the man said. Vos, closing his eyes, began to concentrate. With a hint of disgust, the Zabrak felt the Jedi fill with a substance unnatural for a Sith Lord. Peace, calm, absence of emotion—Vos did it so simply and naturally that one could only envy his strong connection to the Force. The former apprentice of Sidious, however, required significantly more time to touch the Force—exactly as much as was necessary to ignite the constantly smoldering embers of emotion within him.
"Open yourself to the Dark Side," the Emperor said, and Maul felt the air around him saturate with energy. He felt the anger emanating from Vos, which almost immediately grew into white-hot rage. The former Jedi seemed to revel in his immersion into the Darkness.
And that too was surprising. The Zabrak already knew that the Kiffar had only recently stepped onto the path of Darkness. And it was unlikely anyone had taught him the way Sidious had taught Maul. The latter felt envy toward the more fortunate gifted one.
"Control yourself, Vos," the Emperor continued just as quietly. "Balance the bloodlust with the strength of your mind. You are not a wild beast. You are not a pathetic shell for the Light's will. You are the embodiment of the Force itself."
Almost immediately after these words, the Jedi's body began to be pierced by dozens of lightning bolts emitted by the mechanisms. A grimace of pain froze on his face, but Vos did not utter a word. He clenched his teeth so hard that through the crackle of electricity, the grinding of his teeth and the cracking of breaking enamel could be heard.
Spellbound, Maul watched the ritual, the mystery of which was an enigma to him. But the Force...
Through its prism, the Zabrak watched as a whirlpool of ancient energy spiraled inside Quinlan, permeating every cell. There was no Darkness or Light as such here. There was only wild, primordial, untamed Force, which little by little filled every microscopic particle of the Kiffar's body.
And what was more surprising—through the Force, Darth Maul watched as the outwardly motionless Emperor extended thousands of thin filaments of the Force toward Vos's aura, which bit into his mind, moving like an infernal monster in the Abyss.
"Feel your inadequacy for the last time," the Emperor said. The Jedi's body arched, and sparkling flows of energy appeared under the skin of his naked body. It seemed that for a moment Quinlan became merely an empty shell, inside which was concentrated only the brightest flash of energy, in which both aspects of the Force were concentrated in equal proportions.
Maul watched as the unbearable energy literally tore the Kiffar apart, burning him from the inside. But he held on, though it was clear it was with the last of his strength.
Finally, after a long time, when the Emperor finished with the Kiffar, he freed Quinlan from the durasteel bonds with a wave of his hand. In that same moment, the generators went silent, and the tubes exited the man's body as if on command, hanging in the air, held by the Force of the establishment's owner.
The exhausted body collapsed onto the floor with a thud. Maul watched spellbound as the lifeless body poured streams of sweat.
It seemed at least an hour passed before Vos moved. With a barely audible groan, he curled up on the floor at his master's feet.
"The ritual is complete," Dougan declared. "It cannot be reversed."
The Kiffar's body was wracked with tremors. Maul heard his teeth chattering as they struck each other.
"You asked for a reward, Vos," the Emperor said quietly. "You have received your own. Like the guards," two white figures of guards appeared from the gloom, picking up the unconscious body by the arms and dragging it aside, "you are bound to me. From now on and forever—my will is your law. My voice is in your head. You are an extension of my will."
"How... long... will... these... torments... continue?" the Kiffar asked, clenching his jaws. Each word slipped from his mouth after a long silence. From the grimaces of pain, it became clear that even this little caused him indescribable pain.
"In time, you will regain control over your body," the Emperor promised. "You will learn to suppress pain and control emotions using your own mind and Light Side techniques. Weeks will pass before you can become accustomed to your state, and then your potential will be revealed. Months will pass, and you will grow used to it, and will be able to fully perform your duties. Ultimately, you will stop separating the Force into Dark and Light sides altogether. And only then will you achieve power sufficient to crush the enemies of the Eternal Empire."
"It is... impossible..." the Kiffar breathed out, hanging his head on his chest. Listening to the Force, Maul noted that he had lost consciousness.
"On the contrary," the Emperor lifted the former Jedi's face with a smile, peering into his serene visage. Apparently, he was in deep oblivion—where his body and mind were not tormented by the consequences of the terrible ritual. "Each of my Hands has gone through this. Every guard. You are no exception."
"Take him away," the Emperor ordered his guards.
As soon as they dissolved into the darkness along with the Kiffar's body, Dougan looked at the Zabrak.
"Now—it is your turn."
The Zabrak felt a shiver of foreboding. But, opening himself to the Dark Side, he suppressed his fear, threw off his tunic, and stepped onto the vacant platform.
By the will of the Force, he was bound by grips that were icy to the touch, and dozens of needles bit into his body. The Zabrak, feeling the pain in his body, only smiled—this was nothing compared to Darth Sidious's training methods.
"I am ready to become one of your Hands, Emperor," he said with pride.
The man standing before him only laughed softly.
"Do not exaggerate your significance, Maul. For you, something entirely different is prepared."
And after those words, before the Zabrak could say anything, his body exploded with pain he had never experienced. Even in those moments when Darth Sidious had been extremely displeased with him.
A few seconds later, he lost consciousness.
A stinging slap to the face brought him back to reality.
"Wake up, you rag," Dougan threw contemptuously in his face.
The Zabrak opened his mouth to say something to the man, but in that same moment, pain flooded his consciousness, taking his breath away. He couldn't even breathe as he collapsed to the floor. The icy floor was met by him as a welcome redemption. His nerves burned with fire, and his body was being torn apart in an unceasing convulsion. Dizziness, rushing in simultaneously with nausea, finally disoriented the Sith.
"You are pathetic, Maul," the Emperor's voice reached him. "Even the Jedi endured the procedure to the end. A disgusting sight. Wasted resources. To the incinerator with him."
The soles of the man's boots disappeared from the former Sith Lord's field of vision—he had clearly stepped aside. Maul tried to reach out to the Force, if not through his senses, then at least in this way to assess the situation. And he realized with horror that he couldn't even catch a spark of the fire raging within him.
Tormented by unearthly agony, the Zabrak realized with horror the essence of his master's words. The ritual was complete, but the heat continued to consume him from within, tearing his insides.
They were going to get rid of him. Again.
Just as Sidious had abandoned him to fate, so Dougan, having finished playing, would throw him onto the scrap heap. Where pain, suffering, and humiliation awaited him once more...
A pair of strong hands, slid under his armpits, jerked him to his feet. His lowered head struck his chin against his chest. His eyes caught the lower part of his torso.
Instead of the simple prosthetics that had been installed for him on Zakuul to replace the makeshift ones assembled from junk in a scrap yard, below the waist he now had matte-black prosthetics covered in white lacquered armor. Remotely resembling human ones, they were clearly custom-designed.
Clenching his will into a fist, he was able to calm the convulsions shaking his body. Lunging forward, he slipped from the guards' hands with unexpected ease, falling face-down on the floor.
With an effort, he rose to his knees, though every movement echoed with all-consuming pain. Trembling all over, he stood up and with a wandering gaze found the figure in the white-black-and-gold outfit.
"How interesting," a sly smirk appeared on the man's lips. "The stump is trying to prove it is worth something."
"I am not a pawn in someone else's hands," finally, he managed to call the Dark Side to his aid. With extraordinary ease, rage filled him, spread through his body, grinding the body's pain and suffering into life-giving energy. "I am... a Sith Lord!"
In that same moment, a Force incomparably greater than what he possessed pinned him to the floor. And it continued to press, destroying the barriers he had hastily erected. A moment—and his skeleton creaked, ready to crumble to dust at any second.
"You are my property, Maul," the Emperor said. "I gave you Power so that you would become an extension of my designs. But I will just as easily smear you across this floor if I only feel that you are trying to play your own game. And then these sufferings you are experiencing now will seem like a mere light warm-up to you. I hope you have learned that in this galaxy, your opinion and your desire no longer exist?"
"Y-yes, Master," the Zabrak breathed out with difficulty. The monstrous pressure vanished.
"Good boy," the man praised him as if he were a pet. "Learned the verse on only the tenth try."
The Zabrak swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth. His body burned with unbearable pain, but it no longer seemed so all-consuming. It was as if he was becoming used to it...
"Very soon you will stop paying attention to your own suffering," the Emperor continued to speak insinuatingly. "Your nerve endings will go numb, and you will stop feeling anything at all. An empty shell, suitable only for the execution of tasks set before you."
"But why?" Maul emitted something between a sob and a groan.
"Everything has its price," the Emperor explained. "This is your payment for the opportunity to settle scores with Kenobi."
At the mention of the name of the one who had deprived him of everything, the Zabrak felt a new surge of rage. With one jerk, he rose from the floor again. Но this time he didn't even try to stand. He knelt before the man, bowing his head before his tormentor with true reverence.
He had been pulled from the mud of the galactic scrap heap, his ability to think restored. And he had been given a chance to settle scores with an old enemy. What else could he, half a sentient, desire? A family? Children? Ridiculous. He was a weapon. One that was allowed to fulfill its most cherished dream.
"I am ready to bring you his head immediately," the Zabrak whispered, reveling in his own rage.
"It is not yet time, Maul," Dougan countered. "First—you will serve me. And as soon as you have done everything for which you were taken from that trash heap where you spent recent years, I will grant you the chance for revenge."
"As you wish, my Master," the Zabrak said in anticipation. Serve the Emperor? For the sake of clashing in battle with Kenobi again and making him suffer? He was ready for anything the Master desired.
"It cannot be any other way, Maul," the Emperor smirked. "You will immediately depart for the Mustafar system. My people will be waiting for you there. With their help, you will bring me power over the galaxy's criminal underworld. All who stand in your path are to be destroyed."
"Consider it already done," the Zabrak bared his teeth in anticipation of the coming bloodshed. He would be allowed to kill again. This day could not have ended better.
***
"You look excellent, General," Gree said dryly as soon as the partition separating the Venator and the Christophsis orbital station slid aside, letting Luminara Unduli and Barriss Offee, following her like a silent shadow, inside the ship.
"And you are, as always, the soul of courtesy, Commander," she smiled.
The clone, catching the sarcasm in her words, instinctively smoothed his hair—two strips of a short buzz cut.
"A sense of tact is not prescribed in the regulations, ma'am," he recalled.
"But it is accepted among sentients," Luminara countered. "You are still interested in other races, aren't you?"
The partition closed behind the Jedi. Both headed down the corridor toward the bridge. Gree tried to keep up.
"Of course," he confirmed. "After all, my subordinates' specialization is fighting in the worlds of non-human races. Knowing their culture is the key to successfully establishing contact with the locals."
"On Mirial, you're clearly in for a failure," the Jedi snorted.
Staring at her with a confused look, the clone waited for an explanation but didn't receive one.
"Will you share the news?" the Mirialan asked.
"There isn't much of it, ma'am," Gree said. "At least, not the pleasant kind."
"I'll have to hear all of it," the Jedi shrugged.
"Master Ti has established the systems army headquarters on Lantillies. A busy and extremely friendly planet. Grand Moff Dougan's 'Jent' took some southern territories from us, but the main heat of the battles is taking place in the southeastern part of the former 12th Sectoral. We're fighting for every planet—there are no particularly Republic-loyal worlds there, but the Separatists have dug in so deep they can't be pried out without full-scale sieges. The droids are testing our strength, continuously attacking with small detachments. At the moment, we have more than a dozen 'hot spots.' Master Ti is currently bogged down with the rest of the 41st Assault Corps on Aargonar, from where the Seppies are striking across the entire Parlemian Trade Route in our area of responsibility. Their raiders used to reach Lantillies itself. With the arrival of starship reinforcements, we've taught them a lesson for such audacity."
"I take it that was the unpleasant news?"
"Precisely, General."
"And is there good news?"
"Of course. We're still alive."
A cheerful laugh came from behind the Jedi's back. Gree looked toward the source of the sound with bewilderment and was surprised to notice it was the General's apprentice. The very one who, in his memory—and his legion had been under this particular Jedi's command since the start of the war—was always calm, even prim. Barriss never allowed herself even a smile when the conversation turned to battle or the war as a whole. Now, however...
"I see nothing funny in this, young Padawan," the General noted coolly. "In our time, even this small mercy is not granted to everyone."
"Forgive me, Master," the girl's face returned to its former humble expression.
The clone, inhaling sharply, thought to himself that the Jedi would remain an unfathomable mystery to him.
At least, most of them.
"Ma'am, may I ask a personal question?"
"Of course, Gree."
"You fought alongside Grand Moff Dougan, didn't you?"
The shadow that crossed the commander's face did not escape the keen eyes of the elite legion's leader. It was as if she had relived some not-so-pleasant moments.
"That is so."
"Is it true what they say, that he is one of the most competent commanders among the Jedi?"
"I'm starting to get jealous, Gree," despite the even, emotionless voice, something else was written on the Jedi's face. Но what exactly, the clone couldn't tell. The General's race was still a mystery to him. "Have you decided to move under his wing?"
"Negative, ma'am. It's just that there's a rumor among the fighters that this General doesn't write off wounded clones, but instead returns them to duty. And generally, whatever operation he takes on, he invariably achieves success."
"Perhaps that is so," the Jedi noted. "I haven't heard as much. And it's not like we were close acquaintances—we carried out a few missions in the 13th Sectoral. Nothing any other Jedi wouldn't do."
"You don't say," flashed through the Commander's head. "After Oba IV and Dinlo, one can only dream of being under the command of a sane Jedi. It's getting tiresome digging hundreds of graves after every routine operation."
"And how did you hear about Dougan anyway?" Unduli suddenly asked.
"Soldier's radio, General," the Commander didn't hide his source of information. "The boys talk about this and that. My job as commander is to know what my guys are living through."
"Hm," was all the Mirialan said. "Then share with me what those rumors are about our neighbor to the south."
"I can't vouch for the truthfulness, ma'am," the clone dutifully warned. "But they say he has a very tough disposition. When they tried to foist a battered legion on him on Kamino, he nearly wiped the floor with the Kaminoans..."
***
Reaching the first cabin I came across, I didn't bother with ceremony and kicked the door in with the Force. Pain echoed in the back of my head.
"Damn," I hissed, barely making out the surroundings. "What the hell?"
The "comedown," as I called the consequences pursuing me after the battle with Bulq, which had exhausted me considerably, manifested almost immediately once I let go of the Dark Side.
Millions of needles piercing my head. Dancing dots before my eyes. Dizziness. A tremor spreading through my entire body.
And an enormous desire to breathe even faster than my body was capable of.
The sensation that alien objects had settled in my chest and head, trying to replace the contents of my body.
And barely restrained stomach spasms.
I've never done this, but I imagine this is exactly what people feel when they drink vodka bought from a shady seller in some p—s-soaked alleyway.
Because it simply doesn't get this bad. Better not to show my face to anyone until I feel better. I didn't need to puke in front of my soldiers.
"Curious," the disorientation had deprived me of even the familiar sensation of Vitiate's imminent appearance. "A rather familiar side effect."
"And a good day to you too, Master," I said through the pain. "What is happening to me?"
"Greed never leads to anything good," Valkorion noted. "The result is always the same. And now you are merely learning the consequences of ill-considered actions on your own skin."
"Which ones specifically? I've messed up quite a bit in my life—especially in the last year."
"Pride and arrogance—the things that lead to mistakes and the downfall of even the great," moralizing? From a Sith? When did he realize this wisdom? When a Jedi hacked him in his own capital? Or after his own son finished him off and overthrew him?
"I'm not sure I'm ready for a full-scale discussion," my head literally exploded with a new wave of pain, while my stomach tied itself into a knot. "I wouldn't turn down some help."
"Do you really need advice?" there was mockery in Vitiate's voice. "Like an unwise child gifted a new toy, you do not let go of it until you break it. What you are experiencing now are the consequences of greed and reckless actions."
The pain shooting along my spine literally buckled my knees. Falling to my knees, I flailed my arms frantically, trying to grab onto at least something. Fortunately, my hand caught the edge of... a bed? Well, at least I didn't slam face-first into the floor.
"The ghosts," I breathed out. "Too much power..."
"Precisely," the ghost noted. "I helped you with the first, and in your simple-mindedness, you decided you could neglect the procedure itself, consuming them like cheap dishes in a dirty diner. Without discernment, without 'digesting.' Your suffering is merely your own failure. Greed blinded your mind; you forgot caution. And now you are one big Force reactor with all the safety valves blown off."
"How... do I... stop this?"
"Think," the Sith said with a mocking chuckle. "An Eternal Emperor unable to control his own desires is a disgrace. A cancer in the galaxy. A gluttonous monster striving for more 'food.' Until it turns into a mania, growing into a necessity. For only thus, in the final account, can you maintain life within yourself. Does your torment remind you of anyone?"
"Darth... Nihilus..."
"You never cease to disappoint me, apprentice," Valkorion said with distaste. "Nihilus consumed the Force as the only possible way to prolong his existence. But the root cause of his hunger was entirely different from yours. Any other guesses?"
Another urge from the depths of my body nearly turned me inside out. Fortunately, I hadn't had time to eat before the flight—so I wasn't painting the cabin floor with my lunch. However, instead, I felt something sticky and hot appear on my face. Running a hand over my face, I realized two thin streams of blood were flowing from my nose. Expanding the circle of tactile searches, I noted that my ears had suffered the same fate as my nose. It seemed the blood categorically did not want to remain inside me.
Seeing that I was in no state for a guessing game, the Sith continued his triumphant-humiliating performance.
"While I was occupied with solving my own problems with the Hero of Tython, the Empire's Dark Council once again updated its ranks. Darth Nox joined its numbers. Is that name familiar to you?"
I tried to answer, but instead of words, only a blood clot escaped my chest.
"A superb Sith," the Emperor said with a hint of admiration. "Ruthless, cunning, powerful in the Force. Even starting his long journey as a disenfranchised slave did not break him. On the contrary—it spurred him to active deeds. The wounded pride of a scion of the once-great Kallig line spurred him to weave intrigues, seek power, solicit allies—and ruthlessly destroy enemies. It was curious to watch his ascent—from the depths of the rabble, he rose even above those who were higher than him by birthright."
Spitting out another portion of blood, I finally gained the ability to breathe.
"Was he your protégé?"
"In part," Vitiate admitted. "My agents found him on a backwater planet. Freed him from slavery and sent him to Korriban. It is always amusing to watch the rabble strive to exalt themselves. They believe that the power and wealth obtained at the end of such a triumphal ascent will erase from the memory of others who they were at the very beginning. Hilarious."
"Indeed," I said. A familiar concept. Painfully familiar.
"When you leave an Empire in the care of a dozen powerful but greedy beings, it is necessary from time to time to refresh their composition and remind them that indulging in idleness is the lot of those who should step aside and make way for more ambitious gifted ones. So it was with Kallig and the Wrath. The first rid the Empire of many good-for-nothing Sith. The second reminded everyone—from simple instructors in the Academy to members of the Dark Council—who truly dictates the will in the Empire. Those were glorious times. But, let us return to Kallig."
A new spasm of pain was so terrible that it began to feel as if my eyes would pop and my skull would shatter into millions of fragments.
"That family possessed a unique innate ability," the Sith continued, oblivious to my suffering. "They were literally predisposed to a rare gift—Force walking. Literally at a natural level, almost instinctive. Drawing Power from others, Kallig was able to gain weight among other low-ranking Sith quite quickly. And when his turn came to rise higher, he decided to follow the advice of his ancient ancestor. To gain power by taking it from long-dead Sith and Jedi. And in time, he faced the same problem you face now. Too much Power for the body of an ordinary mortal."
"How...?"
"How did he manage?" Vitiate clarified delicately. "He found a way. First, he used an ancient Rakatan machine to alter his genetic structure to expand his own potential for wielding the Force. And after he succeeded in that, he completed his deliverance by trusting the Voss Mystics."
"Unexpected."
"Did it help?"
"More than so. He halted the degradation of his body's tissues and over several years was able to rid himself of the unfavorable consequences of his ill-considered decision—to uncontrollably consume and exploit others' Power."
"So... I need to..."
"One should listen to the one who is millennia ahead of the rest of the galaxy in matters of Force knowledge," Vitiate said with irritation. "Now, look at yourself..."
"I'd love to," having coughed up another blood clot, I struggled to assume a vertical position. Not a chance—as soon as I straightened up, my head went on an independent journey, mockingly laughing at my vestibular system. "Vision is failing."
"Self-conceit has blinded you," the Sith said instructively. "Your organism, despite millennia of your ancestors' artificial selection, is merely weak flesh, incapable of holding such power."
"How then...?"
"Perhaps you are interested in how I was able to consume the Power of an entire planet?" the Sith inquired graciously. I would have liked to answer him, but once again a spasm gripped my throat. "I had a powerful ally. Zildrog—an ancient computer whose instructions helped me 'digest' the souls of Nathema's population. It suggested how to absorb that entire ocean of energy without damaging my mind and preserving my body."
I could argue about the mind part, of course.
"Help me..."
"You ask me for help?" the Sith laughed. "Really? After all, you are the Immortal Emperor. Are you not the one who soothes your ego with cheap tricks, demonstrating your superiority to the locals? A pathetic sight," he added with unconcealed contempt. "It is unpleasant to realize I made a mistake choosing such a worthless, life-embittered creature as my assistant. Feeling power, did you imagine yourself great? Everything you have—you owe to me. Your allies, your resources, your ascent. Where would you be if I had not shown mercy, giving you a second chance?"
What a b—h. Gloating, too.
"Let me explain something to you, 'Emperor'," the icy presence accompanying Valkorion was very close now. There was no need even to strain my completely defocused vision to realize the ghost was standing next to me. "You were chosen for this mission only because you were nothing. Less than zero. A cowed, pathetic, embittered boy, craving approval, attention, fame. Ready to do anything just to get recognition. And you received it," a powerful blast of the Force literally slammed me into the wall, throwing me over the bed.
Contacting the wall, I felt that now I was not only being torn apart from the inside but also crushed from the outside.
"What did your posturing before those even lower than you give you?" Valkorion's voice roared in my ears like a hurricane. "Wasting time fussing with these... weaklings. Using my developments, my rituals, to make stronger those who are not even worthy of attention! Incompetence!"
A new gust threw me into the other wall like a doll.
Valkorion was venting his revenge, taking advantage of the fact that he couldn't receive a "counter-strike." And truth be told—I was no match for him. Even if I "drank" hundreds of ghosts—if I could manage it, of course.
"You dare teach others lessons you haven't learned yourself!" I didn't even know which was more painful—knowing I was being torn apart from within, or getting beat up by a four-thousand-year-old ghost. "You must not act recklessly and theatrically. You must be efficient! Foolish boy!"
This time I smashed something fragile with my body. Though I realized sharp pieces had bitten into my face, I couldn't even feel the pain from the cuts. My consciousness was flooded with the sensations of a collapsing body.
"Four thousand years of preparation! Selection! Grafting the necessary fragments of the genetic code into my descendants! Do you think you consume the Force because you are worth something?! I gave you this! I took the best from my enemies to give to you—my apprentice! My descendant!"
Weight didn't matter here. The old man didn't even strain himself, tossing my nearly hundred-kilogram (including heavy armor) body around the cabin. I would have liked to answer him, but I lacked the strength—even to move. The pain had so exhausted me that I simply surrendered to the will of the strong. As with my stepfather, Valkorion was not to be crossed when he was in a rage—it could all end in a simple fatal outcome. For me, naturally.
"I gave you the ability to influence sentients, establishing bonds with them, taking it from the Exile's body! I strengthened your connection to the Force, using what I learned in Revan's head! Do you think sentients agree to follow you only because you crawled into their heads or laid them out on your bed? No, ignoramus! These are all gifts of the past that I gathered bit by bit, implementing them in my own descendants! Darth Nox would be turning in his grave, if he had earned a funeral, seeing how incompetently you use his family's legacy! In you are gathered the genetic differences of all the greatest Jedi and Sith whose bodies my servants were able to obtain! And instead of moving forward, bringing closer the moment of peace in the galaxy, you fuss with this scum! You decided to rival me!? Do you think what I rewarded you with, what you obtained in holocrons and from the station's archives, gives you the right to consider yourself equal to me in anything? Incompetent!"
After another collision, this time with the ceiling, I felt several bones crack. But I didn't care. I had to endure and wait.
"Excessive greed has led to this body collapsing," Valkorion said slightly more calmly. "You weren't satisfied with an incompetent death in your own universe, and you decided it would be amusing to die even more stupidly here? To send my plans down a bantha's throat? Truly, my greatest mistake was using such a lowly creature as you, expecting unquestioning obedience for all I have done for you. I presented every possible means of conquering the galaxy, and how did you dispose of them?"
The ghost dropped me onto the floor.
Absolutely without strength or desire to resist, or even move. Lovely. I didn't feel the pain again. It was nothing compared to what I had already lived through. I hoped the end was near. It had to be near. I prayed it would end soon.
"Hoping to die," my master stated with cold contempt. "Not a chance. I would gladly be rid of you, continuing my strategy with another candidate. Но you... you managed to flip the card table while you should have been following a pre-played game."
Vitiate went silent for a moment. Without a doubt—he was considering what to do next.
"As much as I find it loathsome to admit," he finally said, "you have done much for the realization of my plan. Too much for you to be so easily removed from the board and replaced by someone new. Fused with this body... Abomination."
God, just stop talking nonsense... Wait a minute. Why are you so emotional, kid? Did I strike a nerve? "Didn't go according to plan?" I smirked mentally. Depends on whose.
"I will give you a chance to preserve your worthless life," Valkorion continued. "Go to the planet Belsavis. There you will find the remains of an ancient Rakatan prison complex. Inside is the very machine with which Darth Nox was able to curb his ghosts. Repeating this ritual should help stop the destruction of your body—after all, you already have the Kallig genes altered by this installation, so you will last some time. Do you understand me?"
"Yes... Master," I whispered barely audibly, hardly feeling my body.
"Among the other things you took from the station's archives, there is a description of the Voss ritual used by Nox," Vitiate continued. "File 45619-zesh. I advise you to use it immediately—it will help you maintain control over your body until you use the machine. You have seven days, apprentice," Vitiate emphasized the last word with open contempt. "Do it your way this time as well, and I will do everything to ensure your spirit falls into the Abyss. And there you will answer to me for every speck of the so precious energy I have had to waste just to once again tear the veil between worlds and behold your worthlessness."
With those words, the sensation of icy cold accompanying Vitiate's presence vanished.
As did part of the pain tormenting me.
"Simply marvelous," I muttered, lying on the cold floor, barely moving my lips. "A Jewish castling, damn it."
***
In the maze of the Trade Federation battleship's corridors, Oli moved more by intuition than by a real idea of where she was going.
Orders had been given—the landing party had already gained control of the Lucrehulk, and now engineers and technicians were diligently restoring the functionality of the systems damaged during the battle—both in space and aboard the ship. She was assured that in a few hours the ship would be commissioned. It was necessary not only to repair the damage but also to sweep the huge ship for any surprises left by the Separatists. The Republic still did not possess detailed information on CIS ships. No one could guarantee there was no self-destruct device or commando droids lurking until the time was right.
Hacking the central computer should have yielded a lot of interesting things. Since the troops at Christophsis had managed to capture such a ship, the CIS war machine had stepped far forward. And by capturing a fully functional data array, the army could, as they say, learn more about its enemy.
According to Admiral Declann, the battle on the surface was going with varying success. The clones were suffering losses—surprisingly—within acceptable figures. Но the CIS army was also shrinking too slowly.
Surrounded, squeezed into the northern part of the city, the droids were making desperate attempts to break out, to breach the Republic defense, which, in turn, was harshly suppressing them with all types of weapons.
A lull had now set in. The Separatist commander, realizing that only the presence of locals in the territory under his control saved him from orbital bombardment or an airstrike, was using this technique to the fullest. In his possession, by a means unknown to the Republic, were two of the three rulers of the planet—and more than a hundred thousand local residents as hostages. The promise to execute them in the event of a new offensive had cooled the fervor of the ground operation commander, Aayla Secura. The clones were erecting fortifications, seeking to keep the enemy within the territory they had occupied. And this situation would last until a new strategy was developed. Which as of yet, no one had bothered to develop.
The battle for the fuel factories was in full swing. Both commando groups had managed to penetrate these space structures. The paratroopers following them developed the offensive, cutting off the garrisons of both platforms from the fuel and raw material tanks—to avoid sabotage.
The fleet groups had been able to achieve some success—pushing the CIS ships away from the strategic objects. Unfortunately, the enemy transports with huge fuel supplies had managed to leave the system. They didn't risk attacking them—the consequences of a possible detonation would have pleased absolutely no one. It was enough that the explosion of one of the transports had destroyed three Hammerheads. Thousands of lives vanished in a blinding flash in the blink of an eye.
Now the battle, which was soon to be joined by the Acclamators freed from their load of paratroopers, was taking place at the system's borders. Both sides had extensive damage, so the acute confrontation, which ended with the loss of two more Republic ships and twice as many losses for the Separatists, had moved into a phase of sluggish exchange of blows, more reminiscent of positional battles on the ground.
Now the outcome of the battle could only be decided by fresh forces—whoever received reinforcements would keep the entire system with its resources.
Fortunately for the Republic, Captain Sagoro Autem's detachment was already on its way. Though there weren't many of them, and the battle in the Vergesso system had not been the most successful for them—almost all the ships had damage, and the supply of concussion missiles, for example, was at zero. It only remained to hope that the numerical superiority would force the enemy to retreat.
However, Oli had little faith in such a scenario. The droids would have left the system long ago if they obeyed logic—fighting against numerically inferior but qualitatively superior forces was hardly a pleasure. It was at least not logical. Admiral Declann was firmly convinced that the CIS was waiting for reinforcements. It was unlikely they had any large formations in this sector—at most half a dozen ships. But he also didn't want to drag out the solution to this problem, preferring to crush the enemy in parts—far more chance of victory than fighting against all the CIS forces they could pull here. The man was only waiting for the approach of the Acclamators—which had no damage or any significant loss in starfighters.
Though he hadn't said it, Oli clearly understood this—the detachment that had participated in the skirmishes with the CIS forces in orbit was to become the core of the final strike. Well, this was a matter within the fleet's competence—with her knowledge in the field of space battles of such scales, or rather its absence, she preferred to leave it to the Admiral.
Now she was going where, in her opinion, the Master had gone. Although it was a bit scary—the man had completely cut off all mental connection with her, and his condition after the duel had been... not the most pleasant, even in appearance. However, having survived the first moments of shock, she still decided he should not be left alone.
And, in the end. She was supposedly his apprentice. And she had knelt, expressing her full submission to him. In her view, followers should not abandon a leader.
Although, she knew little historical precedent on the subject. And so she decided that Jedi wisdom was as appropriate as ever. A Padawan should always be by the Master's side. True, it went on to talk about the transfer of experience and the attainment of wisdom. Her mentor had thoroughly neglected that part of the Order's postulate. If at first he had tried to train her at least a little, pulling her up here and there in theory and practice. Now, however...
He had settled in quite comfortably, though. At this rate, any other Padawans would overtake her and become Knights.
"He-e-ey," a weak but familiar voice came from slightly behind her. Startled, the girl looked around. The sound came from a cabin whose entrance panel had been torn from its grooves. "Don't walk past!"
Peering cautiously inside, the girl felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
Apparently, this had once been one of the senior crew members' cabins. Evidence for this assertion was provided by the once-refined interior features, now turned to ruins. It looked as if a storm had broken out in the cabin, destroying absolutely everything—except for leaving the partitions in place. And even on those—traces of indentations, strikingly coinciding with the parameters of the human body lying on the floor.
"What... what happened here?" Without thinking, the girl rushed to the man. His face was covered in cuts and bruises. Drops and streams of blood, dried on the skin, indicated that the wounds had been inflicted quite a long time ago.
"I had a... very substantial conversation with my Master."
The girl helped the man sit up.
"And... how did it go?" At the mere thought that the Master had spoken with the ghost of a Sith Emperor who was more than four thousand years old, she felt a chill inside.
"We talked," a rasp came from the man's chest as he exhaled. "In raised tones..."
"So this," she swept her hand across the cabin, indicating the wreckage, "is his doing?"
"Yes... the old man was a bit displeased," the man coughed, spitting blood clots onto the floor.
"If this is 'a bit,' I'm afraid to imagine what happens when he is very angry," the girl was horrified.
"Well... usually in such cases, all life disappears on planets," the Master said, wincing.
"That has already happened?" Oli's eyes widened.
"Yes, a couple of times. At least—I only know of two."
"Master, you must stop him," Starstone whispered. "He is... a monster."
"And am I not?"
A shadow of a smile appeared on the man's face. Forced through the pain.
"A little... but compared to him... entire planets..."
"Thanks for the kind word," he groaned, attempting to stand. "But... for now he is useful."
"In what way?! Do you also want to learn to destroy planets? You should have seen yourself, what you looked like after Master Bulq's death! And all this—because you follow the words of this ghost! Your eyes were black as night!" she said with a gasp. "Good thing everything has returned to normal now."
"Good grief... do you absorb this with your mother's milk?" the man inquired, leaning on the girl.
"Absorb what?"
"The 'nagging a man' achievement."
"Uh... I don't understand what you mean."
"That's what you all say," Oli threw the Master's arm over her shoulder, helping him walk toward the exit. "And, returning to my relationship with Vitiate... The bastard is extremely useful, at least for now."
"Useful?" the girl repeated. "In what way?!"
"He has invested too much in his Plan, of which I am the executor," the man began to explain, limping on one leg. "And as much as it irritates him, he cannot write me off..."
"What does that last phrase mean?"
"Oh, the times, the customs. 'Expendable.' Is that clearer?"
"Now you're talking like a sentient. But when you start with your complicated words..."
"Oli, even though I look like a near-corpse, I can still kick your ass."
"I don't doubt that," the girl agreed. "I'll even say more—I'm not against it. It's you who keeps saying—age, age..."
"By the Force!" the man pleaded. "Is that all you think about?"
"You know, actually, it's written about on every second, not counting the first, site in the HoloNet. That men have only one thing on their mind..."
"And women have only one thing on their mind—that men have only one thing on their mind."
"Are you starting again?!" the girl flared up. "We haven't known each other long, but I'm sure the Emperor beat you up exactly for saying all these strange things. And no—I don't only have thoughts about that! When I was coming here, I was thinking that you've completely stopped teaching me. You should at least have thought for decency's sake that you should behave like a normal teacher and student. Because once they start asking questions in the Temple, like, what is Master Dougan teaching you, what will I have to answer? What if Master Windu asks?"
"Oli... what nickname did I give you?"
"I don't remember," the girl said quickly. In the same second, she scolded herself mentally. Too fast. "And anyway, did you even give one? What I don't remember—never happened."
"Well, then now you are 'Saw Level 80'," the man sighed. Reaching the doorway, he pointed her to the part of the corridor she had almost walked past. "I'll tell everyone in the army that's your callsign now."
"Master!" Oli was indignant. "You are a brute! It would be one thing if you were thinking about how to take advantage of a young and beautiful apprentice... But instead, you hurt my best feelings. I don't know how 'saw' relates to a 'woman,' but I'm offended in advance. There."
" 'Women complain that men only have one thing on their mind, but when men stop thinking about it, women feel insulted,' " the man declaimed.
The girl, sternly knitting her brows, pursed her lips.
"I'm going to complain about you to Knight Secura."
"To the Heavenly Office for all I care," the Master permitted, confusing her even more.
Oli opened her mouth to say another sharp word but decided not to exacerbate the situation. It seemed the Emperor had accidentally crushed the sense of humor container dormant in her mentor.
"Will you tell me where we are going?"
"Yes. To the hangars."
"And why?"
"I... slightly overdid it with strengthening my power," the man admitted. "And all that energy currently in me should have been absorbed gradually, with long breaks. Now it's literally bursting out of me."
"Do you have Force indigestion?"
The man looked at the girl with bewilderment. Grunting, he continued to limp forward, leaning on her.
"You're growing up beside me."
"Well, of course."
"In general, you're right, Oli. I need help so the Force doesn't destroy me."
"And why didn't you think of this earlier?"
"I was afraid to miss the moment. Having consumed Muur's ghost, I felt excellent—fortunately, I had insured myself with the crystal beforehand. But Darth Marr's ghost... I simply took advantage of the situation. Who knows if he would have appeared again. In short, I miscalculated my strength. The first ghost I acquired took a long time to 'digest.' And here... in short, I overdid it."
"And how did you realize it?"
"Usually my hands don't shake for no reason," the man admitted. "So as soon as this thing appeared, I had to dig into the Emperor's files. He is very efficient at keeping his secrets. Though I found information on the Voss method used by a Dark Council member who got into the same situation, I didn't find the name of the planet where he underwent the genetic restructuring that saved him from it. So although I held back my ailment with meditation, it was a temporary solution. And during the battle with Bulq, I simply let go of control over it."
"And for what? It almost killed you."
"But the Emperor bit," the man smirked. "He rushed to save his asset so fast his hair was flying back."
"And... he helped?"
"Naturally," the man smirked. "The old man was in such a rage that he said a lot of things I'd wanted to hear since the beginning of this whole comedy. But what is more important now is that I now know the name of the planet and the place where I should seek help."
"So that's why we're going to the hangar?" the girl realized.
"Exactly," the man snorted. "Well, and as a bonus, I understood why the Emperor only appears when I am in danger."
"And why is that?"
"The bastard is hoarding energy," the Master said, turning grim. "I'd also like to know—where and why."
"Suppose you find out," the girl allowed. "And then what?"
"One shouldn't jump so far ahead," from the tone of his voice, Oli understood the man wished to change the subject. Well, his right. Fine, we'll change it.
"Master, tell me please," he was limping, right? So he definitely couldn't run away from her. "Have you ever thought about organizing a harem?"
A non-human roar of despair filled the empty corridor.