The Count of Serenno sat motionless at his desk in the luxuriously appointed study deep within his ancestral castle. Through the ancient, colorful stained-glass windows, the glimmers of early dawn filtered into the room. The sun was asserting its rights, chasing the gloom from expensive interior pieces. Few of the wealthiest people in the galaxy could boast such furnishings, but the former Jedi sincerely believed he was worthy of such elegance—a small reward for decades of asceticism spent within the depths of the Jedi Temple.
Despite Dooku's closed eyes, the man was not asleep. His mind, one of the sharpest in the Confederacy, was constantly at work. Unfortunately, the longer the war lasted, the less time was allocated for sleep and rest.
The Confederacy of Independent Systems existed as a unified state only because of his political talents. Without a single ruler, without an iron will, the entire venture of separatism was doomed to failure from the start. For this collection of cowards and greedy businessmen who made up the Separatist Council—the legislative body of the CIS—knew only how to divide profits, not how to lead a war of galactic proportions.
It was even more tragic that in the event of the death of Dooku or General Grievous—the second-in-command of the state—power would pass to Nute Gunray. A puny, weak, vindictive Neimoidian whelp who could not bring a single one of his global plans to a logical conclusion. He could neither block Naboo nor kill Amidala...
A worthless fool.
Just like all aliens, for that matter.
Completing his morning meditation, the Count took a deep breath.
How unfortunate that the implementation of Lord Sidious's Plan required such a long time. At times, while attending meetings of the Separatist Council, the Count found himself thinking that he wanted to destroy them all. To release his dormant rage and finish off the bastards with a few swings of a crimson blade.
"Lord Tyranus," a miniature figure of his master appeared above the tabletop.
"Lord Sidious," the former Jedi greeted his mentor respectfully. "How may I be of service?"
"How are our affairs progressing?"
"Exactly in accordance with your plan," the Count stated, without a hint of dishonesty.
He did not want to deceive, nor did he like to. Therefore, his master would never hear facts distorted by Dooku's will.
Moreover, there was much to boast about.
"The coup on Dac has begun," he reported. "Riff Tamson organized a successful assassination of King Kolina. The Quarren, as planned, do not recognize the authority of his son. Our forces have already invaded the sector. No significant resistance has been encountered anywhere. Tamson's fleet is reliably holding back Republic forces, so as soon as we achieve the abdication of Heir Lee-Char from the throne, Senate dominance in this part of the galaxy can be forgotten."
"Master Unduli has not manifested herself in any way?" In Sidious's voice, there was a hint of disbelief.
"Exactly so. Her forces are tied down in battles with General Grievous's units across the entire oversector. Had someone more proactive been in her place, we would have had to work harder..."
"Do not relax your vigilance, Lord Tyranus," the Sith advised. "The lack of initiative from the Mirialan may be a trap. I do not believe that Dougan could simply ignore such unambiguous indications to de-block Dac. Perhaps it is a trap..."
"I do not forget him for a second," Dooku said dryly. "Especially since our trap on Hypori will snap shut shortly."
"Wonderful," Darth Sidious smiled. "I take it General Grievous is on his way to Hypori?"
"He will arrive there in three hours."
"Will Mar Tuuk's name never appear in reports again?"
"His death is confirmed," Dooku agreed. "To survive a volley of proton torpedoes..."
The fate of the ambitious but completely untalented Neimoidian had been decided long before representatives of the Trade Federation began approaching the Count with offers of various valuables. The multi-million-credit bribes offered to the leader of the CIS to influence General Grievous and return the failed commander "to the fold" meant nothing to Dooku. He was wealthy and had no need to replenish his accounts. However, Mar Tuuk was perfectly suited for what the Dark Lord intended. For the first time in his long life, the Count made a deal with his conscience. He "heeded the persuasions" of a dozen Neimoidians, accepting their "modest" gifts, and appointed Tuuk to the post of commander of the unit responsible for the defense of Hypori.
On this planet, the Sith planned to achieve several goals at once.
First and foremost—to cause trouble for the Techno Union, avenging their leadership for the ignominious loss of Ryloth. Hypori, where a lion's share of Wat Tambor's assets was concentrated, would undoubtedly be captured by the Republic. This was inevitable when dealing with Dougan.
The galaxy and the Jedi could praise his commanding and organizational skills all they wanted. For the Sith, his way of thinking was no mystery. Whoever stood behind him, the boy himself was characterized by extreme straightforwardness. He would never move to active operations while leaving a powerful CIS stronghold in his rear. Especially the only source of production for guided space mines. Thus, guessing that he would strike at Hypori was not difficult.
And setting a trap was even easier. At the cost of his own life, Tuuk lured Dougan into a snare, forcing him to tie himself to the planet. He certainly won't be able to finish the ground operation before Grievous appears. And with his arrival, the Jedi, like all other gifted opponents of the General, will merge with the Force.
"What are your instructions regarding Senator Amidala, My Lord?" Dooku asked.
"The Naboo woman is beginning to lose her value in my plans," Sidious replied after a short deliberation. "However, her ambitious attempt to meet with a Senator of the Confederacy... Another political absurdity that could cost us dearly if she achieves her goal. Do you know whom she might be meeting on Raxus?"
"Unfortunately, no, My Lord," Dooku compressed his lips. "But it will be revealed soon."
"Then it will be more logical to allow her to reach her goal, Count," Palpatine smiled. "Learn those with whom she is collaborating and get rid of all the problems at once. Liquidate the traitors, and Amidala... well, she can be used as a hostage to achieve certain... goals. Inform me as soon as it becomes known whom she intends to meet."
"As you command, Master," the former Jedi assured him of his diligence.
"Has Umbara sent its representative yet?" Darth Sidious inquired.
"Yes, My Lord," Dooku nodded. "The death of Senator Mee Deechi has brought many Umbarans to our side. Their new representative, Al Comlin, has already paid his respects and delivered a sharp criticism of the Republic in the Separatist Congress. His planet is completely in our power..."
Mee Deechi had represented the planet Umbara in the Galactic Senate for many years. With the start of the war, he joined the side of the militarists—the vast majority of senators who wanted the conflict with the CIS resolved exclusively by force. And in every way, without knowing it himself, he contributed to the swift fulfillment of Lord Sidious's Plan.
Supporting any bills aimed at strengthening the Republic's military power, increasing the size of the army and navy—Deechi supported any initiative he could profit from without much effort. Naturally, every such bill had its roots in the office of the Republic's Chancellor.
The death of Deechi, though unexpected for the Sith, brought no less intriguing dividends. He died at the hand of the assistant to the Rodian senator Onaconda Farr, who was also now deceased. The Umbaran, by his habit of sticking his nose into his colleagues' business, could not remain aloof from the blatant death of the Rodian. Farr's assistant, having killed her "patron," also got rid of Deechi, believing he knew of her crime. A coincidence, nothing more.
However, the flagrant murder of Deechi within the walls of the Senate—seemingly the most protected place in the galaxy—caused a wave of unrest in the minds of the Umbarans. As a result, the planet, possessing enviable military potential, with noise, scandals, and accusations from the Umbaran government in the person of the tough and uncompromising Senator Al Comlin—who exposed the incompetence and corruption of his Republic colleagues—withdrew from the Republic, joining the ranks of the Separatists. And the slighted Republic senators were already discussing the prospects of military intervention on Umbara. Not knowing that the locals were warriors no worse than those who had washed the GAR in blood on Jabiim.
"How are our affairs on Rendili progressing?"
"I have sent Quinlan Vos to resolve this problem," Dooku reported. "There are many of our supporters among the government of that planet, so there will be no problem convincing them of the need to openly defect to our side. And... if problems do arise, Vos... will be extremely persuasive."
"Excellent, Count," Palpatine smiled. "Let the Kiffar obtain all necessary information for me regarding Dougan's dealings with the Rendili StarDrive company. I want to know everything. The smallest details."
"They will be provided to you, My Lord," the former Jedi assured.
"And yes," Sidious's figure was about to break the connection, but the Sith seemed to remember something especially important. "Spies report several extremely remarkable pieces of news to me."
"I am all ears..."
"Senator Organa has gone to Rendili. A pathetic attempt to gain political dividends by settling the issue with the government. The Alderaanian believes he is capable of convincing them to remain loyal to the Republic. Another attempt to boost his own sense of grandeur and spite me by pulling some of the senators to his side."
"What shall be my orders?"
"Organa must be disposed of," Sidious stated. "If you believe Vos is ready—let him resolve this problem as well."
"As you command, My Lord," Dooku bowed his head submissively. "A former Jedi is an excellent candidate to bring a little chaos to the galaxy in general and the Senate in particular."
"Exactly so, Darth Tyranus," a triumphant smirk appeared on the lips of Sidious's hologram. "And one last thing, Count. Do not delay in resolving the issue on Hypori."
"I am making every effort, Master," Dooku said restrainedly. "It is not easy, given the increasing claims from the Banking Clan. The Chairman has begun withdrawing Muun assets from the CIS cause. Certainly, this only concerns the financial side—the shipyards and factories are under our full control. Clovis's actions have hit our economy hard, but at the same time, more and more Muuns support us and are openly joining the Separatist cause."
"Yes, Rush Clovis is a great failure of yours," Sidious said with a hint of contempt. "Perhaps active measures should be taken to... remove the Chairman and appoint our supporter in his place."
"I have already taken some initiatives in that regard," Dooku shared. "As soon as our people finish on Hypori, I will direct all CIS efforts toward Scipio."
"Not only there," Sidious murmured. "The destruction of Dougan's fleet, as well as himself and his supporters on Rendili, is undoubtedly important. But Darth Maul represents no less of a threat to my plans than Dougan. Especially after bringing Mandalore under his heel."
The elderly aristocrat nodded silently.
The former apprentice of his master had been considered dead for more than ten years. And suddenly, he was at the top of the criminal food chain. Given that he knew both the true identity of Darth Sidious and the general concept of the Plan—yes, he was another obstacle in the path of the Sith. Only, unlike the annoying and talented Jedi, the Zabrak now possessed truly vast resources—should he choose to take part in the war on either side, the other would have a hard time. Why was Palpatine not seeking to gain such an ally? It was obvious. The Zabrak was a spent element. After his defeat on Naboo, he had been successfully forgotten by the master. And now he represented more of a threat than a help to the Plan.
Though, at the same time, Dooku admitted that Maul possessed enviable persistence and talents. He had easily brought almost the entire criminal world under him, not counting Hutt Space. Under other circumstances, bringing him to the side of the CIS would have brought the Republic to its knees. However, the Plan consisted exactly of the opposite.
"Our agent—a clone named Spar—claims that the Zabrak left the planet after his failure with Kenobi," the Count recalled. "He left a large army of desperate thugs to control that territory, but his further plans are unknown to us. Even among the traitors from Death Watch who went over to his side, there are no sufficiently far-sighted people who could be useful to us as informants."
"Which once again indicates that my wishes regarding the capture of Dougan's subordinate are being delayed?" A threat was heard in the master's question.
"By no means," the former Jedi said firmly. "Spar and his people will strike in the near future—at the height of the confrontation between the militia and the occupiers. In the resulting chaos, extracting the woman and delivering her to the agreed location will be much easier."
"I hope for your prudence, Lord Tyranus," Sidious snapped coldly, ending the communication session.
Dooku stared into the void for another moment, then, with a deep sigh, rose from the desk.
A new day had come. Time to get to work.
***
A deafening explosion went off somewhere in the distance.
Helnior, tearing himself away from contemplating the holographic map and shielding his eyes with light filters, directed his gaze toward the growing fire on the southern approaches to the metropolis.
"Hermit's boys are having fun again," Misc's irritated muttering reached him.
"As always, the Hell Heralds are making a mess on the front line," another clone echoed him. Anton, it seemed.
"Well, yeah," Skip grumbled. "They're just passing through."
The General was in no hurry to enter into a polemic with his subordinates. Simply because he saw no point in it.
Yes, the commandos from Captain Hermit's squad—the former commander of the Nimbus squad from Jabiim—did not stand out for "cleanliness" in their work. But they were effective. And that was of paramount importance when you are waging a war of extermination against an entire race.
"The enemy's fighter fuel station is burning," Misc tapped a finger on the schematic, pointing to a section of urban development that had filled with red.
"That means we can breathe out," Skip concluded. "Now their karking starfighters won't bother us. Does the attack time remain the same, General?"
Helnior, ignoring the question from the commander of the Empire's 4th Assault Corps and still not taking his eyes off the picture of local hell unfolding before him, continued to watch as a sea of burning fuel flooded the enemy base, rendering useless dozens of small but extremely nimble Ssi-ruuvi ships that had caused so much trouble during the orbital battle.
The flames consumed absolutely everything—buildings, revetments, equipment, and the service personnel panicking out of the barracks. More than a hundred charred bodies had already met a rather repulsive death. But they had chosen this path themselves.
The invasion of Ssi-ruuvi space, located nearly at the edge of the galaxy, had been going on for two weeks. As Grand Moff Thrawn had predicted, the lizards rejected the offer to voluntarily join the Empire and hand over their technologies to human scientists. Specifically, the skill of entechment, which consisted of transferring the life energy of a living being to power technical devices. The Emperor was interested in gaining access to this technology. At any cost.
To their lethal regret, the lizards did not accept the unique offer. Perhaps because rumors of the fate of the Vaagari, a race destroyed by Lady Tann, had not yet reached them. Or perhaps it was because the tiny heads of the reptiles could not grasp the thought that in the Unknown Regions, there existed a power sufficient to level their pathetic people. And diplomacy for this power was not a demonstration of weakness, but, on the contrary—an act of humanity. Well, the Emperor's position toward such peoples was simple enough. Any potential threat must be eliminated. And in the case of the Ssi-ruuk, it wasn't just about their national tradition of processing Imperial ambassadors into fuel for their fighters.
"They burn well," Helnior finally uttered, tearing himself away from the conflagration. "This airbase won't trouble us anymore."
In confirmation of his words, several more explosions thundered in the air, an order of magnitude quieter and weaker than the previous ones—the arsenal and repair shops had detonated. Hmm, who would have known that reservoirs of living beings' life force could burn so fiercely. However, it was better to burn everything to the Hutts than to continue treading water, losing droids on the lizards' defensive lines. Which could not help but adjust the command's plans toward increasing the timeframe for seizing the planet.
And yet, for the capture of Lwhekk—the capital world of the Ssi-ruuk—Grand Admiral Thrawn's plan had allocated only a week. After the fleet's rapid dash to the planet and a long, bloody battle that ended in the unconditional victory of Imperial dreadnoughts, the Chiss himself, leaving a squadron of ten Dreadnought-class cruisers and an Invincible-class command ship as the flagship of the occupation forces in orbit, continued his victorious offensive, turning the lizards' space fleet into space dust. Но those battles were already raging in other systems.
The ground operation to clear the planet was entrusted to him, Helnior. A former graduate of the Judicial Forces Academy. A former loyal son of the Republic and Arkania. A former rebel.
It was beyond comprehension that someone as powerful as the Emperor would turn his gaze toward a generally mediocre commander of the failed Renegade movement. The Arkanian Revolution that had thundered across the galaxy—an attempt to overthrow the arrogant government of his home planet, Arkania—had ended in a grand failure for the rebels. The Republic and the Jedi Order intervened in the conflict, destroying almost all the Renegades at once.
Only a few were able to survive those events nearly thirty years ago. Helnior was one of those lucky ones, choosing the profession of a mercenary for the subsequent decades. Which more than once brought him into contact with former colleagues from the Judicial Forces. One of those was Admiral Block.
They hadn't been particularly close friends during their studies. And they certainly hadn't been pals during their service. However, having decided to break with the Republic, the Admiral had offered the Arkanian a chance to join the Empire as well.
Helnior had no particular objections, considering that Arkanian bloodhounds were still on his trail. He did not want to end his life, in case of capture by enemies, in gemstone mines. And everything was heading exactly that way. Bounty hunters had gotten too close to him. Therefore, the decision came naturally.
That was how he ended up on Zakuul. A planet that amazed him with its luxury, comfort, and deserted streets. A world where all needs were satisfied. Where laws were clear and understandable, admitting no double interpretation.
Where Order reigns.
Such a state was not a sin to serve.
He had seen the Emperor only fleetingly.
During his short visit to the capital, the latter had personally witnessed a small group of sentients who had sworn loyalty to him. Those upon whose shoulders rested the task of crushing the Empire's enemies on land. The Emperor gave a word of encouragement to each of his generals. And he demanded from them extreme toughness in matters of ensuring the state's security.
"No mercy for those who represent a threat to us."
The words dropped by the ruler during the meeting met all the criteria of Helnior's worldview.
And therefore, he found some peace in the fact that the last Ssi-ruuvi airfield was now burning out. The road to the lizards' capital was now open.
The smell of corpses burning in a huge bonfire irritated his nostrils. The stench spread for tens of kilometers from the lizards' blazing base. Gusts of wind carried it everywhere. The smell of death.
And of coming victory. No matter how it smelled.
In the five days he had spent on this world, the Hell Heralds had flooded the lizards with fire more than once. They blew up everything that could burn long and bright. Strategic Ssi-ruuvi targets burned along with everyone inside. And, first and foremost, the lizards' numerous airbases were consigned to the fire, the flying craft from which had annoyed the invasion army from the very first day of the landing. Fast, maneuverable, and relatively well-armed, they had significantly thinned the ranks of the "skymen." However, as soon as the latest models of equipment—the Shkval, Shilka, and Smerch—were landed on the planet, the situation changed radically. They multiplied any enemy aviation to zero without much trouble, turning it into a heap of wreckage. Just as they ground the enemy infantry into bloody mincemeat.
Similarly, Grad multiple launch rocket systems burned out villages and dense columns of Ssi-ruuvi slaves, causing a significant portion of the population to be turned into well-done pieces of meat by the Empire's army from the very first days.
True, not everyone liked it. He had seen the sight of vomiting organics more than once—clones weren't even saved by the respirators integrated into their helmets.
And he smirked at such things once again. Soldiers, stormtroopers, clean-up crews—whatever you call them, living beings always remain living beings. With all the following consequences. They get tired, they make mistakes, they show pity and compassion.
For this reason, he preferred using droids—a habit developed since the time of the Arkanian Revolution. Machines never let you down, they followed orders silently, and were many times more effective than organic fighters. Especially considering that creating one droid, even one as sophisticated as a second-generation "skyman," takes hundreds of times less time and resources than growing a clone—it became unclear why the Emperor had even acquired an "organic part" of the army. Droids were better. Of course, droids weren't very suitable for the role of commandos—which was why the General put up with the presence of Captain Hermit's commando squad in his army.
No matter how much the Arkanian demurred, the command in the person of Grand Admiral Thrawn had still assigned him two stormtrooper corps—besides the aforementioned 4th, there was also the 3rd, which was led by the clone Misc. All of them were battle-hardened, blooded fighters who had distinguished themselves during the destruction of the Vaagari people. Despite excellent training and equipment, all corps without exception that took part in that operation had suffered significant losses. The biological and organic weapons used by the enemy had caused many problems for the soldiers. Only the large calibers of the fresh MSTAs, delivered straight from the assembly shops to the battlefield, had turned the tide of the battle. And yet, the corps subordinate to Helnior had up to a third "recruits"—recently decanted clones who had barely finished their training courses. Younglings who were only good for clearing corpses from the streets and burning them in huge pits—the consequences of the fleet's orbital strike on the planet. Putting them into action meant dooming oneself to unjustified losses in advance. And the Arkanian did not want to stand idle in the rear afterward, waiting for reinforcements. The Ssi-ruuk had shown desperate resistance even for hordes of "skymen"—the lizards would have crumpled two corps in a couple of days. And according to Block's information, clone reserves weren't that plentiful, and the need for them was great in other places as well.
So, Helnior did not seek to bring his stormtrooper corps to the front line. There was a lack of coordination between units; veterans hadn't yet had time to share their knowledge with the newcomers. "Flash memory," with which every clone was integrated with necessary knowledge even before birth, was a good thing, of course. Theory is never superfluous. However, one should not forget about soldiers gaining practical knowledge. Every fighter must understand that they must be as effective as possible. But, unlike droids, a stormtrooper must hammer into their subconscious that their primary task is to minimize damage from their actions.
Which was exactly what they were doing now, while their commanders participated in the discussion of the upcoming morning assault on the lizards' capital. Even if the attack would be carried out exclusively by "skymen" and combat artillery droids, the stormtroopers would still have to conduct a sweep yard by yard, house by house, destroying those who managed to sit out the first wave of the attack...
"Admiring the view, General?" a female voice came from behind.
Helnior slowly turned his head, following with his eyes the blue-skinned alien approaching him, entering his command tent pitched on the approaches to the capital metropolis. The clones standing nearby snapped to attention. They hadn't dealt with a representative of the Emperor himself this closely yet. Well, there's a first time for everything. Meeting the big brass was no exception.
Automatically noting that two tall, silent figures stepped in after the girl, encased in the white-and-silver armor of the Imperial Guard that had become familiar to the eyes of Zakuul citizens, he stepped toward the tactical holoterminal, watching as the girl's companions took positions on either side of the entrance.
"Lady Tann, a pleasure to see you," he said politely. However, from his voice, one could tell that the officer didn't care at all. Emotions for an Arkanian—which he was by a good half of his genes—were a luxury. One that shouldn't be applied to various kinds of aliens. Even those close to the human race.
"Likewise," the Chiss replied, smiling. Which for a moment made her look quite... sweet. "As I understand it, your droids have nearly finished conquering this world?"
"Only the capital remains," the General shrugged. "At the moment, it is untouched. According to our information, that is where the entechment installations that interest the Emperor are located. We," he nodded toward the two clone commanders, "are currently busy developing the plan for the upcoming assault."
"A rather optimistic forecast," the Chiss praised. But, following the smile, all emotions on her face seemed to be erased. "The operation to capture the capital is passing under my command."
"By whose order?" Helnior frowned, gesturing for both clones to leave. The Marshals, with a barely perceptible nod, left the command tent.
"Such is the Emperor's will," Tann reported dryly. "The assault on the capital... requires an extremely delicate approach."
"Because of the entechment technology?" the Arkanian narrowed his eyes.
"Exactly so," Lady Tann agreed. "Don't get me wrong. You are extremely effective in the matter of destroying enemy manpower and infrastructure... But the capital's industry must fall to the Empire undamaged."
"Are you dissatisfied with my use of droids?" the Arkanian huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Not at all," the Chiss shook her head. "The Empire's military doctrine assumes the presence of both droids and the Stormtrooper Corps in the army for that very reason—for large-scale and 'delicate' attacks..."
"There is no need to teach me my job," the General noted dryly. "My business is death. And believe me, business is going extremely well."
"Oh, I have no doubt about that," Sev'rance smirked, drawing in the rancid air filled with the stench of burnt flesh with a hiss. "And I admit, under other circumstances, I would even help you in the total destruction of these bastards. But for the Empire, it is more important to preserve this technology intact."
"Am I to simply step aside and watch as you claim my merits?" the Arkanian rasped. "That will not happen. I do not claim others' glory, but I will not give up mine."
"In this, we are alike," the girl smiled. "However, discussing orders is not my style."
"I concur," Helnior noted, casting a glance at the subsiding fire inferno on the enemy side. "However, I think a compromise can be reached without violating any orders or principles."
"You are a walking intrigue, General," the Chiss smiled. "I would like to hear it. I hope it won't take much time? The corps assigned to me are already finishing preparations for the start of the operation."
"Fast," the General appraised. In all his career, he hadn't met female commanders who acted so swiftly. "It's simple. The Ssi-ruuvi capital has two main access routes," he pointed to the map. "I suggest you begin the offensive from one of them, the northern one. It is closest to the districts that interest us."
"Are you suggesting we leave the Ssi-ruuk an escape route?" the Chiss asked, surprised. Casting a glance at the plan-schematic, she pointed to the landscape. "The southern access route leads to a rather long valley after fifty kilometers. If they get there..."
"They won't," Helnior stated confidently. Approaching the holoterminal, he clicked the keys, causing new markers to appear on the hologram. "I have placed artillery at these points—a division of Hyacinths with cover. As soon as they break out of the city—and they will, as soon as your stormtroopers rain down on their heads—the lizards will find themselves under artillery fire that will cut them off from the approaches to the city and slaughter every single one of them. Well, those who aren't... my 'skymen' will finish them off."
"Simple, ambitious, and in typical Arkanian tradition of contemptuous attitude toward other sentients," a mischievous smile played on the girl's lips. "I think, General, we will work well together."
"I don't doubt it," Helnior replied indifferently.
***
"Remember, I asked you about zelyonka?" Passing a palm over his face in hope of shaking off the sleepiness, Dougan inquired. "You urgently need it. And a lot of it. With a reserve. Things are very far gone."
Olee, sitting at his right hand, looked with a slight challenge at the women situated on the opposite side of the table. Senator Amidala looked somewhat embarrassed, obviously having realized that the thoughts she had voiced had caused a storm of indignation in the Jedi. But the man was too tired from the past time to give vent to his emotions. However, through the Force, the girl felt the passions boiling inside him.
Though she hadn't suppressed her resentment toward her mentor, the conversation with Ahsoka... helped clarify most points.
As well as experiencing a sense of shame.
First and foremost, at herself. The restless emotions that had seized the girl's mind after the known events, the thirst for destruction, the enjoyment of uncontrolled falling into the Dark Side... Yes, all of it had given her Power, much greater than she could have ever obtained. And it... was fascinating. To feel infinite power, to sense every life around her, to know that she could kill dozens, hundreds, perhaps even thousands of sentients in one moment by her own will. One only had to simply want it.
However, her teacher, once again, had swiftly burst into the world of her moist fantasies, turning it upside down. With two volleys of his guns, he had seemingly struck her in the solar plexus, letting all the fire, the desire for a bloody harvest, out of her. Like air from a child's balloon.
The rage evaporated as if it had never been. Anger was replaced by apathy, the thirst for murder by shame.
She, like many times before, turned out to be exhausted to the limit, which allowed her teacher to crawl into her head once again. To play with her worldview like a doll. To force her to step back, to look at herself from the side. Even if all those words were spoken by Ahsoka, the girl knew exactly who had put the Togruta up to conducting the disciplinary work with her.
And, when the last echoes of the battle were thundering overboard, listening to Tano's words—more like an excuse and a statement of her superiority—Olee suddenly clearly understood that her friend was right.
How long had she run after her teacher, lustfully desiring him? How many hints, half-hints, phrases thrown in plain text had there been? A wagon and a small cart.
And actions?
Not a single one. All her desires were limited only to verbal initiative. Internally, Starstone understood that she only desired for the man she adored to make the first move. To cross the line—the last Jedi dogmas that bound them. She herself... was afraid of it? Afraid to act. Yes, exactly that—afraid. And of what? Rejection? Ridicule?
Looking inside herself, the Emperor's apprentice found the answer to her question. She did nothing to achieve her goal. Because she sincerely considered herself incapable of enduring a direct rejection. How would she have felt if she had shown up and tried to seduce Dougan, and he, instead of surrendering to the power of male nature, had kicked her out the door? She probably would have died of shame. And therefore, fearing such a thing, she did absolutely nothing. She hoped that words would be enough for the teacher to make the first move.
She was satisfied with half-joking promises that fueled interest. Comical objections and exclamations that accompanied her passionate impromptus.
But to take a step toward her destiny, to undertake real actions to get what she wanted... No, she didn't have the heart for that.
At the same time, Tano, without overthinking, simply went and did what she wanted. And she didn't regret that in the middle of the night she had barged into the Emperor's cabin and stayed there until morning, satisfying her lust. Getting what she wanted.
Ahsoka was right—sitting on your butt won't get you what you're looking for.
And Olee had proven more than once that in reality, behind all this verbal bravado, an ordinary coward lived inside her. She hadn't been able to become stronger by not taking Rick's offer to get Power from the crystal on Zakuul. She hadn't been able to turn her fantasies into reality. She hadn't been able, until now, to completely surrender to emotions, gaining great Power.
And only now, having tamed her inner demons, she looked at those around her with different eyes. As an adept of the Unifying Force. A full-fledged apprentice of the Emperor. As a woman who would get what she desired. Well, and if she still didn't get it, then... To the Hutts with it. It was better to take this step and accept its consequences than not to take it and torment herself all her life with thoughts of how it would have been otherwise.
And therefore...
The girl cast a stealthy glance at the man's face.
"You're a rare bastard, Dougan. That can't be taken away. But how this feeling of the forbidden still lures—to get a man endowed with such power, such magnetic force..."
The main thing, as Ahsoka had warned, was to figure herself out. Not to turn infatuation and natural desires into self-deception about great love. To curb her feelings and emotions and look at the whole situation with a cold head.
Yes, he was the Emperor. And his real potential was hardly comparable to the Power possessed by most members of the Council. But... he wasn't the only man in the world. Desirable—yes. But was there a future after her desires were fulfilled? Wouldn't the attraction to Rick disappear as soon as they got out of bed? Wasn't all that she was experiencing, looking at this man, just a teenage crush that had no prospects as soon as the enthusiasm of a girl's brain collided with the grim reality of everyday life?
Too complex a question to give an answer to just like that.
And, unfortunately, she couldn't share her thoughts with anyone... Simply because she couldn't trust anyone that much. Before, she thought such a sentient was Ahsoka... But what kind of fool would continue to trust the one who easily slept with the object of your adoration?
Meanwhile, not finding an answer to her question, Olee returned to the reality of what was happening. The atmosphere in the hall was still tense. Ahsoka was frankly bored, the Zeltron was looking at the interior with a sly look, the Senator, looking even more embarrassed than a few minutes ago, stared at one point.
And only Rick, with an absent gaze, churning with a hurricane of emotions, sat motionless like a statue of an ancient thinker. Olee reached out to him with the Force...
Right now, he didn't feel he had the right to tell the Naboo woman everything he thought of her. But he should have. Just how much brain does one need to have to think of such a thing. To cross half the galaxy on a civilian ship, to fly to the site of a barely finished fierce battle... And for what?! For the sake of an extravagant request... Holocomms, it seemed, were invented for idiots.
Though, for the sake of justice, her teacher liked to repeat, "If you want to achieve a result, conduct the conversation in person. If you want to be told to kark off, call." Probably the Senator, as a seasoned political intriguer, also knew this basic truth.
"Is she completely out of her mind?" Starstone asked the Togruta quietly. Ahsoka, leaning in, also answered in a whisper:
"I don't know her closely, but sometimes it seems that instead of her, a random action generator makes the decisions."
"A fool by nature, then?" the brunette clarified.
"If not worse," her partner added fuel to the fire.
"Forgive me for interfering in your sweet, almost family squabble," the Zeltron said, smiling charmingly. Olee, clenching her teeth, looked in her direction with hatred. But the reporter ignored her looks. A pity. A pity that unlike Sariss, the young Padawan did not possess the skills of the Deadly Sight and couldn't make that one, painted up like the last Coruscant harlot, choke on her own blood. "But perhaps you will first give an answer to my question?"
"Do you want zelyonka too?" Dougan asked tiredly. "I can arrange it."
"Although I am an extremely erudite sentient," the Zeltron declared modestly, while leaning forward, revealing to the only man in the room her not-so-modest-sized charms literally falling out of her cleavage, "but it's the first time I've heard of 'zelyonka.' What is it? And why is it necessary to drink it?"
"On my home planet, zelyonka is a medicine for all diseases," Rick recounted. "Universal. It helps against everything. Only plantain is better. And you need to drink it because it helps treat the 'boo-boo' in the head. Which you and the highly respected," the last word was pronounced in such a tone that no one had any doubts that in reality the Jedi meant something completely different, "Madam Amidala have that don't scar over in principle. That's why you bleed regularly..."
"Tell me he's not talking about that," Olee leaned toward her friend again. "That's... indecent."
"About what exactly?" the Togruta didn't catch on.
"Well... I mean... well, you know..."
"Olee, you're talking in riddles."
"Eh," Starstone sighed quietly. "Well, you know, once a month every girl dies..."
"Now that's just 'ew'," the Togruta hissed at her, noticing that the man's gaze had focused on their pair. Both apprentices, putting on innocent facial expressions, turned into a model of Jedi obedience, politely falling silent and becoming all ears.
"Intricate," the Zeltron continued meanwhile. "And yet?"
"You're both suicidal," the Jedi sighed. "One—a Senator Ordinary—wants to leap across the front line in my zone of responsibility, go deep into the enemy's rear... Remind me, for what?"
"I need to speak with a Senator of the Confederacy," the Naboo woman said softly. "I am sure that Bonteri will hear me, she has influence over..."
"Padmé, admit it, are you really an idiot?!" Dougan slammed his palm on the table, causing a metallic hum to echo in the room. Amidala, flinching, looked straight into the Jedi's eyes with a stunned gaze. Olee, frowning, clearly felt the confusion emanating from her... "Not only is it physically barely feasible—it takes more than two days to fly to Raxus from here in normal times, and now, considering the situation at the front, you'd have to sneak through the 'backyards.' Not only is it the direct zone of responsibility of Master Unduli, and you should have approached her directly for help—at the very least, she would have sent you back to Coruscant in a less expressive manner. But you also ask for an escort... Should I give you a squadron? Or maybe a fleet right away?"
"No, heaven forbid," a blush played on the Senator's cheeks. "I thought you yourself wouldn't refuse to escort me..."
"And here we go again," the Jedi rolled his eyes. "Two high-ranking officials of the Republic—a Senator and a Grand Moff—go straight into the clutches of the Separatists... Didn't you have enough of your adventures on the 'Malevolence'? Or is there not enough adrenaline? Well, then I'll probably let you in on a secret—one of the most numerous fleet groupings of the enemy in the Outer Rim is stationed in the Raxus system. It is a strategically important world for the Confederacy, and it is flooded with droids, police forces, and other comrades who will only be happy that such hostages fall into their hands. I don't know about you, Senator, but I don't relish the idea of spending an indefinite amount of time in Separatist dungeons at all."
"I understand all the risks, but for the sake of the Republic and the swiftest cessation of the war..."
"Well, then fly there alone, what's the problem?" the Jedi spread his hands. "Why must someone always get caught in the crossfire when you make some global decisions, our strong and independent lady?"
"Bah," the Zeltron exclaimed, joyfully clapping her hands. "What a wonderful situation. This will have simply huge ratings..."
"And you're ready to put your head in a noose for the sake of ratings." Dougan's gaze hardened. "No, how many brain cells must one have to convince a Senator to bring you literally to a still-warm battlefield. And to us, of all people—given that the situation here is dire. We are practically surrounded and it's unknown where the next batch of Separatists might come from, from which we'll be digging ourselves out long, hard, and with tears in our eyes."
"And yet," Elayne said in a playful tone, making the blood in Olee's veins begin to boil. "To spend time in the active army, getting the opportunity to conduct live broadcasts from battle sites... It's any journalist's dream. Such a theme vividly interests any sentient in the galaxy, and consequently, such programs will have the highest ratings. I won't explain to you what preferences can be obtained from such a peak of popularity—after all, Jedi do not seek material or other gain." Olee saw her teacher's eyes gleam unpleasantly. Yeah, "do not seek." You know Jedi and Rick Dougan in particular poorly. "But prime time is guaranteed for me. And for that, it's worth the risk..."
"Yes, it's all clear with you," the Jedi waved her off. "You have permission from my command to be in the combat zone. Here, unfortunately, I can't take you by the scruff of the neck and show you out. Но, believe me, I'll do everything so you don't stick your nose where you shouldn't."
"Pardon me?" the Zeltron was taken aback. "But I am a journalist, I must be in the thick of events..."
"Aha," the Jedi nodded. "That's exactly why you'll get a unique chance—to watch the fall of Hypori... from the bridge of my flagship."
"This is outrageous!" the journalist jumped up from her seat. "The high command and the Chancellor personally approved my assignment to 'Jent' so that I could cover the events from the front line. Show the citizens of the Republic what the war is being fought for. All its horrors and all those heroic moments that the defenders of the state perform daily to restore peace and tranquility in the galaxy. How am I supposed to do that standing on the bridge of your cruiser?"
"On the bridge?" the Jedi's eyebrows shot up. "You overestimate yourself. I think somewhere in the mess hall there will definitely be a spot for you..."
"This is too much!" the reporter snapped. "I will immediately contact Coruscant and demand..."
A sharp sound drowned out her words. The speakers of the alert system wailed, calling for attention.
The Master, as if shaking off his confusion, immediately activated his comlink, listening to the voice of the duty officer whispering to him from the earpiece.
The thumping of feet and sharp shouts of crew members were heard behind the doors. Olee caught a general grim determination, a readiness for the inevitable... No panic, confusion, or fear. People were hurrying to their battle stations with the firm intention of doing their duty. Which meant only one thing...
Judging by Ahsoka's widened eyes, she had also guessed the reason for the alert.
"As much as I'd like to get rid of you both," with a sigh full of sadness, the man said, looking at the Senator and the reporter, "you both will have to stay on board the 'Telos'."
"What? For what reason?" the women asked in unison.
"A Separatist fleet has dropped out of hyperspace," Dougan noted grimly. "I'm afraid, Miss Tyrell, you'll still have the opportunity to watch a grand battle. And most likely—even participate in it."
"Is everything... that bad?" Senator Amidala asked quietly.
"Ah, it's nonsense," Dougan waved it off. However, in the Force, Olee understood that he wasn't that carefree. "So what, General Grievous has arrived. And brought a couple of hundred ships with him."
***
A triangular ship with a gray-silver hull and a split bow cut through the icy voids of the vacuum, materializing in orbit at enormous speed, then slowed down sharply as if it had run into an insurmountable obstacle. But a technically savvy observer, if they could have been here, would have easily dismissed various kinds of assumptions, stating that this phenomenon was merely the final result of a flight in hyperspace. And quite logical. Such was the physics of faster-than-light travel of spaceships in the Sky River galaxy.
"Hyperjump complete," a clone reported, looking up from the control terminal. "Scanning space... No ships detected."
His answer was silence. There was no point in saying anything when everything was already clear.
"Correction," the same operator said. "Twenty-three new signatures. Identifying. Our fleet's transponders."
"The fleet is on position, Lady Ventress," the commander of her flagship appeared in sight, keeping a respectful distance from the gifted one. However, despite showing enviable restraint, she didn't feel any fawning or desire to curry favor with his direct commander in him. This commanded respect. Especially considering what base beings, ready for any vileness just to curry favor, she had to deal with.
"I see, Captain Allouse," she noted softly, addressing by name for the first time the "god" on board the "Intrepid"—a Procursator-class dreadnought leading a fleet of a dozen similar ships, reinforced by an equal number of Kaloth-class battlecruisers.
And now this entire armada followed her to bring the power of the Empire to this Force-forgotten corner of the galaxy. And she, a conduit of the Emperor's will, was to do it. One of his many Hands.
"So, the Endor system," she voiced her location.
Nothing remarkable. One star, around which four planets rotated. The "Intrepid," like the entire fleet, had materialized in the orbit of the first celestial body—the gas giant, actually called Endor.
The giant had nine moons, but the Emperor was primarily interested in the one that had the name "Forest Moon" in the Republic's very fragmentary records.
Covered with forests and lakes, the moon was inhabited by sentient life—Asajj felt it through the Force. Though these creatures were primitive, and another time the witch would have simply ordered the stormtroopers to destroy them all. But the Emperor demanded peaceful coexistence.
Establish contact. Conclude a peace agreement.
Even if the furry Ewoks living here hadn't gone into space yet, they could cause many problems for the occupiers. It was much easier to make them friends than to live in constant tension, waiting for an inevitable attack. And the success of the latter was directly proportional to the fact that the aborigines knew their world much better than the newcomers.
"Dreygan," she addressed the commander of her flagship. "Order the ships to launch reconnaissance probes and establish patrols of the system. When the transport ships with materials for creating a base arrive, I want to know the details about every piece of rock here."
"It will be done, Lady Ventress," the man responded, immediately passing the orders to his subordinates.
The witch herself, casting a last glance at the gas giant, slowly turned around, walking toward the tactical holoterminal, near which two identical figures in massive black-and-silver armor already stood.
"Anton, Smoke," she addressed the Marshals of the 11th and 12th Stormtrooper Corps of the Empire assigned to her. "Mobilize your men. In two hours, a shuttle must be ready for the flight to the surface."
"Will a company of stormtroopers be enough for an escort?" the taciturn Smoke inquired.
"Quite. Anton," the clone with the unusual name and a cybernetic prosthesis instead of his left arm gave her a grim look. The witch, not even deigning to give him attention, pointed to a vast plain on the surface of the moon. "Have your men land immediately. Organize a forward camp, observation points, outposts. Do not engage in combat first—only retaliatory actions. The locals must not feel a threat from you."
"It will be done," malice sounded in the clone's voice. Asajj turned her gaze to him. The clone withstood the staring contest. But his whole appearance said that the witch's company was unpleasant to him. Considering that it was her blade that had severed his arm a little less than a year ago when he served in the Grand Army of the Republic, it wasn't surprising. Now they served the same master. And the clone would have to learn to live with the fact that the past must remain in the past. Otherwise, they wouldn't be able to work together.
"Dismissed," she commanded. Both, saluting, left with a quick step. A trail of poorly hidden irritation followed them, the source of which was Anton.
Well, let it be so. In time, he would understand that at that time she had no choice—they were enemies. Let him be agile and able to avoid death at her hands. But, unfortunately, what was done couldn't be undone.
And he should have taken the second chance given by the Emperor to him and several thousand other disabled clones who didn't want to return to the ranks of the Republic army. Disappointed in how they were treated—thrown into the trash heap of life as soon as they were injured during the war and lost their working capacity—these clones had reacted with unexpected enthusiasm to the offer to join the Empire's stormtrooper corps even now. They were integrated into all currently existing infantry units in small groups. A small security measure—a large group of like-minded people can cause problems. But small groups in an environment of absolutely loyal Empire clones would never represent a threat to the state. Most of them would be imbued with the spirit of serving the Emperor. And those who thought of breaking their Oath faced a court-martial and a death sentence. Zakuul was strict with that. There were no chances to rehabilitate oneself with hard work in the mines here—mining was done by droids. In all the worlds of the Empire. Simple, cheap, reliable.
The Stormtrooper Corps was the elite of the armed forces. Absolutely loyal to the Empire and the Emperor. They were raised and drilled so that they were ready to crush the enemy's defense or turn the surface of a peaceful planet into glass with equal zeal if there was such an order.
And no matter how much Anton was irritated by her presence, he would never go against her order. However, the animosity that had arisen between them should be smoothed over. Not now, but when there was time.
Asajj ran a hand over her shaved head. The habit of removing hair had been etched in at a subconscious level, and she herself didn't notice that she did it automatically. And yet sometimes she wanted to pass for normal.
Unfortunately, that was not the lot of a Hand of the Emperor.
Normality was not the forte of this group of Force adepts.
Sighing, the girl adjusted the lightsaber hilts, which were already perfectly secured on her belt, and slowly headed toward the turbolift. She should refresh the Emperor's instructions in her memory before starting her diplomatic mission on the Forest Moon. There should be no slips.
Zakuul was not the Confederacy—errors were not forgiven here.
***
The droids ceased fire for several minutes.
"They're preparing some nasty trick again," a fighter hiding behind a barricade grumbled.
And judging by the grim silence, the other fighters in the thin chain of the forward line of defense thought so too.
"This has happened before," Flash reminded, reloading his own weapon. "They're getting new orders..."
"Or bypassing our positions, sir," another soldier suggested, ignoring subordination and interrupting his commander. The commander of the 204th Legion, turning his helmeted head toward the talkative subordinate, met a mute silence. A dozen identical fighters, without uttering a word, were busily checking their weapons, pretending nothing had happened.
"Fine, let it slide," Flash thought. "At least you stand up for each other."
It was... not easy with the fighters of "Dougan's Fist." Having returned from retirement to the front, the Flash, crippled in previous battles, had encountered a cohesive collective of veterans whose combat experience, even among the rank-and-file fighters, exceeded his own. The legion appeared as a single organism within which its own rules operated, firmly mixed with Mandalorian traditions. "Die, but do it"—this was the motto on the lower part of the 204th's battle standard. According to rumors, the Grand Moff himself had come up with it. Considering that a huge number of innovations belonged to him—the introduction of new, improved armor, the introduction of the practice of issuing battle standards to distinguished units, the organization of funerals for killed soldiers (instead of the widespread practice of shipping corpses to Kamino, where the organs and body parts of the dead went as "spare parts" for the severely wounded), it was no wonder that the motto could have been devised by him.
Mottoes existed in other corps as well. For example, the 305th Assault Corps chanted its "After us—silence." The 21st Corps, the "Galactic Marines," trained to fight in difficult and extreme environments, liked to repeat "Snow, water—it's all the same," which was supposed to demonstrate their complete indifference to the hardships of service conditions.
The 204th, however... was a thing in itself. The fighters hadn't internally accepted the new commander yet, now and then stammering that Nyx—the previous commander—would have done everything differently. Perhaps so. But Nyx was now leading a corps. And he had more important things to do. Especially now.
The landing on Hypori had gone without much trouble. The battle in orbit hadn't had time to die down before fighters, bombers, and assault craft began to pound the Separatists' firing points and fortifications. While the Acclamators that had entered the atmosphere quite unceremoniously leveled everything related to droid production with their onboard artillery.
The 204th's task was to attack, capture, clear, and hold one of the Techno Union's largest assembly lines. Having dropped the landing force directly on the droids' heads from gunships, the legion took control of the entire production facility in less than two hours. And despite the fact that they could have provided support to their neighbors—the 7th Sky Corps—the command had clearly ordered: hold the facility. At any cost.
However, for five hours now, a hot battle had been boiling over the clones' heads between the "Blade" fleet and the Separatists. Which, in turn, deprived the ground forces of air cover—the clumsy LAAT/i in this case didn't have the opportunity to resist the Separatist Nantexes that now and then slipped through the sky, hunting for choice prey.
There were no details about the course of the battle between the fleets, but no one had canceled the order. Holding the facility meant it was necessary. Such was their lot.
As soon as enemy ships appeared in orbit, the ground forces, all four corps, were cut off from the fleet grouping. But they continued to perform the task set before them—to seize all industrial centers on the planet. And so far, they were succeeding.
But the Separatists weren't sitting idle either. As soon as their ships appeared in the system, thousands of B2 super battle droids poured onto the surface from the depths of the planet. The battle took on new colors. First and foremost—the work of equipment jamming communications between units.
And periodic ceasefires by the enemy.
The reason for the latter was unclear, despite the fact that this had already happened for the third time in the last hour alone. Perhaps during this time, the "clankers" were receiving new orders, new software, or simply rebooting. It was possible that the equipment disrupting the clones' communications also affected the droids. There were many options for what was happening. There were fewer answers than ever.
But be that as it may, the legion had a wonderful opportunity to replenish ammunition, drag the wounded from the front line deep into the droid manufacturing plant, where they would be provided with qualified medical assistance.
Or, as most of the guys from the squad controlling the main entrance to the building did—snack on high-calorie nutrient bars. Flash, with a nod of his head identifying a pair of sentries, sat on his haunches, taking off and carefully laying his helmet on the floor beside him, and took an untouched ration from his backpack. While the mechanical fingers of his hand automatically went through the contents of the backpack, the clone noted once again that the new armor he had received upon taking his current position was much more comfortable than the "Phase 1" in which he, like all other clones, had begun to fight. The fact that it was thought out to the smallest detail in terms of the fighter carrying a useful load in a case-backpack rigidly fixed to the back already made it much more advantageous compared to what they had to fight in before.
"Alpha's not around. Maybe he and his guys decided to stop to get some presents for us?" one of the soldiers said.
"Yeah, right. They're commandos—they're probably prowling through the Seps' rear, causing them trouble."
"Don't expect them until they find the 'jammer'," Flash responded with his mouth full.
The "Kind May" squad was supposed to operate in the western part of the industrial quarter where the 204th's fighters had dug in. Essentially, it was a small city consisting of hundreds of "districts," in each of which certain components for droids were produced. The clones occupied the largest room—the assembly shop, where behind hundreds of conveyor lines, rear units, a field infirmary, a kitchen, and an ammunition depot were now located, the latter becoming smaller with every skirmish. Alpha and four of his guys were a commando squad attached to the corps that included his legion. And since the situation had worsened, they had been continuously prowling the rear, simultaneously gathering information about the enemy, delivering rare but nonetheless valuable data and command orders. Or—blowing up some part of the complex—either out of sporting interest or because they found something important for the success of the operation there.
In his last appearance at the legion's location, Alpha had just told him that the Separatist armada, despite its numerical advantage, still couldn't finally finish off the Grand Moff's fleet. Either it was because the Admiral commanding the Republic starships was truly talented, or because he had ships from the landing reinforcement in his rear that were supposed to deliver the second wave of the landing. One way or another, but instead of the rapid onslaught that the Separatists apparently intended to carry out, they themselves were caught between two fires. And they couldn't fall fully upon either of the groups without leaving the other in their rear. A stalemate situation. But it wouldn't continue like this for long—which meant the already battered Republic starships were in for a good fight. Perhaps the last in the lives of their crews.
Behind the barricade—massive technogenic structures that blocked the main entrance—some noise was heard. Casting a glance at the sentries, Flash noted that they hadn't given the alarm signal yet. Either they couldn't make out anything in the haze that surrounded the entire complex—the consequences of Alpha's numerous sabotages. Or the noise had nothing to do with a possible threat.
But it was worth checking with his own eyes. It was the sacred duty of a commander—to be sure of the safety of his people.
Flash nimbly rose to his feet, climbing in a couple of seconds to a height of several meters onto an improvised "bridge"—the groove of a huge metal beam that served as an excellent cover for clones firing from upper firing points at the attackers.
In front of the main entrance to the complex was a courtyard where droid parts manufactured in other "districts" were stored. Automation grabbed them and delivered them to the assembly shop, from where the machines already moved under their own power to an even more enormous area—the "parking lot." When the clones first occupied this position, thousands of new spare parts for enemy soldiers lay before them. Now all this had been turned into deposits of metallic scrap, melted in places into huge heaps due to skirmishes and the use of explosives. Especially prominent in the middle of this mess were several dozen large craters in which puddles of fuel glistened. A small surprise for when things got really bad.
At first glance, the craters were located in a chaotic order and were of no significance. In fact, they were created by clone sappers who had spoiled the landscape with low-power explosions. Should the enemy rush into an offensive with significant forces, with accurate shots, the clones would set the fuel on fire. And then the droid ranks would fall into an ambush—the heat from the burning fuel was such that it melted metal in seconds. So, there was a backup plan. A pity it was a one-time thing—fuel supplies were already limited, and after making the mentioned trap, none was left at all.
The roar of engines reached Flash, but from here, through the dense veil of vapors and smoke, nothing was visible; to find out what it was, he would have to look over the barricade, and the clone didn't want to do that at all. It sounded like Vulture droids—the most common model of CIS fighters. And practice had proven that the non-living but excessively aggressive, as well as decently armed and protected enemy knew how not only to fly and spoil the day for brother pilots but also to move on solid ground.
However, besides the sounds, absolutely nothing showed from behind the veil. Neither a Vulture nor the habitually approaching B2s.
"Don't relax your vigilance," he ordered.
Flash stealthily looked at his wrist chronometer. Okay. It seemed the lull was dragging on—never before had the droids measured out a full hour for a break between lunges at Republic positions. And more than forty minutes had already passed since the previous attack.
Unequivocally, the mechanical bastards were up to something. But what?
"Alarm!" one of the sentries yelled. "Droids and..."
A crimson bolt of a blaster bit into his chest plate, literally tearing the observer from the floor and throwing the body from a five-meter height straight onto the heads of the scurrying clones.
"It's begun," Flash sighed resignedly, catching out of the corner of his eye the massive hull of a Separatist AAT tank that was slowly steering onto a distance for direct fire at the clones entrenched on the barricade, already taking their places and bringing their weapons into combat position.
The tank, meanwhile, froze, not having reached the first pit by only a few meters. Its turret came into motion, turning the gun slightly to the right of the place where it had fired before.
"Things are looking bad," one of the clones said quietly, settling next to the commander. Pointing his hand toward the growing shadow behind the AAT's stern, he unerringly identified:
"Hailfire droid, sir."
"This day couldn't wait with the surprises," Flash grumbled, shaking his head, simultaneously grimacing from the realization that the chances of surviving after this battle had begun to rapidly approach zero.
And then the Separatist tank opened fire, and a real hell unfolded around them.