Another sigh forced a small cloud of vapor from Cronal's chest.
It took him a few more seconds before accepting the fact that he was lying in a room where the temperature was far from comfortable.
The Prophet felt his body begin to tremble slightly. Poorly controlling his body, with a groan, he rolled from his back to his side. His arms and legs barely moved—stiff from lying in an uncomfortable position for a long time. Now, as he began to move, blood surged through his vessels, restoring normal circulation.
Rising on arms trembling from the strain, in which weakness was still felt, the Prophet looked around from under his brow to understand where he was.
The semi-darkness hid the dimensions of the room, obscuring most of the space from his eyes. But that was fixable... all that remained was...
Not feeling the familiar response of the Force, Cronal went cold.
Impossible! Unthinkable!
Was he cut off from the Force? But how? Who dared?
What the Hutt is going on?!
Closing his eyes, the man tried to concentrate, remembering the events preceding his awakening.
The sudden attack on the Dark Temple—the main residence of the Prophets of the Dark Side on Dromund Kaas. Explosions, fierce resistance, the merciless killing of most of the servants—sentients not sensitive to the Force who satisfied all the whims of the Dark Side adepts. Figures in white heavy armor, their ruthless attitude toward anyone who tried to put up any resistance... The last thing Cronal remembered was a charge from a paralyzer that hit him at the moment he tried to escape from the Temple. Pain, disorientation, and a blackout in consciousness.
And now he was here... in the middle of nowhere, and unable to use the most perfect weapon in the galaxy. The Force...
Finally, feeling his limbs beginning to obey him, the man rose to his feet. He was still dressed in the Prophet's robes, under which he wore the travel clothes he was in at the moment of the attack. A quick search of his pockets and the folds of his clothes showed that the unknown enemy had searched him. Everything was gone—the lightsaber, the blaster, the credit chip, several vibroknives, the comlink... Even the thin metal needles with which his robe was reinforced—those were cut out, ripping the expensive fabric.
They had worked thoroughly.
The man made another attempt to look around from the height of his considerable stature. However, this action did not bring any answers. He was still in a locked room. In which, meanwhile, there was lighting—high above his head an isolated lamp glowed, whose light was so dim that it couldn't even dispel the gloom around the lighting fixture itself. A pathetic sight. And a failed attempt to break him using isolation tactics...
But that meant absolutely nothing right now. A much more interesting question—who and how was able to deprive him of control over the Force?
And, as if in answer to this question, the light from the ceiling began to grow. Its brightness became stronger—until the darkness retreated. Squinting from the change in color gamut, Cronal stood for several minutes, covering his eyes with his hands and trying to get used to the light.
Finally, after a couple of minutes, he succeeded.
Now he saw that the room he was in had the shape of a spacious pentagon. The walls, floor, ceiling—all were painted a pale blue with shades of green. Cronal felt a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach—his gaze encountered several more figures in the same clothes as himself.
"Brothers!" he rushed to the unconscious bodies, shaking them, and wincing at every touch of his heated body to the frozen limbs of his comrades.
All the Prophets were here. More precisely—all those who were at all significant in their Order. Jedgar, half a dozen others...
All as one—alive, but hypothermic. As if they had all been placed in stasis pods after capture, in which food is transported, cooling it to the limit so it doesn't spoil and doesn't lose its taste qualities. If so, then whoever did this—will pay dearly.
"Where... are we?" one of the recovering brothers whispered in a slurred voice.
"I don't know," the Prophet admitted. "Some kind of room. You can't see anything from here."
"A door," Jedgar, the apprentice of Kadann, the leader of the Prophets of the Dark Side cult, lying nearby, rising, tossed his head toward the wall that was now behind the back of the first to wake up. "There... a door."
Cronal, frowning (and how had he missed it?) looked over his shoulder in the indicated direction, noting the correctness of the words of the junior member of their order.
Indeed, there was a door. Massive, metal, and closed. Without any visible locking devices. Which could only indicate that it was controlled by automation. If he had the Force, he could have smashed the dark glass located above the door, obviously leading to the adjacent room. However, no matter how much he tried to call upon his power, the Force remained inaccessible to his will. As if he had fallen into a bubble in which the laws of existence familiar to a Dark Side adept did not operate. This was frightening and angering at the same time.
But what was remarkable in the now-lit room was something else entirely. A few meters from the door, on a monolithic pedestal was a device never seen before. An elongated transparisteel prism, having nine medium-sized holes on one side. But in the depths of the transparent box itself, opposite each hole, were massive-looking and shiny circular saw blades on a mechanical drive. In the base of the prism was a tray, leading through a chute into the depths of the pedestal. On which, looking closely, Cronal found a measuring scale.
The apparatus, by its whole appearance, spoke eloquently that it was not here for good purposes.
Their captor had clearly planned something. However, for now, the Prophets had time. And they should use it, bringing the brothers to their senses. Perhaps together they would be able to overcome the effect of what was blocking the Force and break out of this trap.
"What happened?" Cronal asked one of the cult brothers.
"An attack," the latter winced. "An army of droids led by a powerful Force-user..."
"The Confederacy?" the former was surprised. So that's why he couldn't feel the enemy—it was droids. And there is only one power in the galaxy using such soldiers. But if so, why didn't Lord Sidious, their perennial master, warn the Prophets about such a thing? And anyway, how did they find out the location of the base?
"I don't think so," one of the brothers said venomously. "Too perfect droids—the CIS would choke for building such machines—expensive and high-quality, little different in agility from humans. And their leader... no one I know is fit to hold a candle to him. I only caught a glimpse of him when he fought Kadann, but I was in awe. Absolute immersion in the power of the Dark Side..."
"Do you have anything on you?" Cronal asked quickly. The Prophets, awkwardly managing with their still-disobedient hands, searched their clothes. Each of them only stated what Cronal had assumed from the beginning—whoever captured the Prophets had seen to it that they were left with nothing.
"We need to get out," Jedgar groaned, rising to his feet with effort. He could only stand by leaning on one of his comrades, as his right shin had been broken during the capture. "We'll smash the door with the Force and..."
"Are you able to feel it?" Cronal asked with a sneer. Looking at the bewildered glances of his eight brothers, he felt a certain amount of satisfaction from being the first to discover what was hidden even from the leader of the Prophets until now.
"How is this possible?" Jedgar whispered, shocked. "The Force was always with us!"
"It seems that whoever captured us took care that we didn't have an advantage," Cronal snorted. "This is a mistake by your master, Jedgar! Someone exposed us!"
"We've been hiding from the galaxy for decades!" the apprentice of the leader of the Prophets of the Dark Side heatedly objected. "Master saw to it that we remained in secret, influencing events! And you want to say that our sudden capture—is his fault? Where was Sariss when..."
Attention was drawn by a sharp sound coming from the speakers built into the walls, high above the heads of the nine Prophets. Noise, the crackle of static...
"A recording," Jedgar realized.
However, literally in the next second, a section of the wall, which Cronal had judged to be a built-in darkened window, came to life.
"A monitor?!" one of the brothers was surprised. "What kind of antiquity is this?"
However, Cronal wasn't listening to him. The attention of the greedy and power-hungry Prophet was riveted by the action taking place on the screen.
And there was something to see.
Before the Prophets appeared a room filled with some kind of mechanisms. Cronal's life-experienced eye identified them as construction equipment for laying tunnels in rocky terrain. Not the most modern, rather at a level of price-quality matching.
However, almost immediately, the focus of the recording device shifted.
Now in the frame was a doll, sitting on a strange three-wheeled red construction, similar to ancient analogs of swoops, only working on a mechanical drive. It was dressed in gray-brown armor, with a black cloak and hood thrown over its miniature shoulders. And from under the hood, a mask stared at the Prophets... a solid piece of metal curved to the features of a face with a single horizontal visor.
"What is this?!" Jedgar cried out. "A Revan doll?! What's going on?!"
"Hello, Prophets," a rich low voice with shades of raspiness poured from the speakers. Cronal's ears clearly distinguished signs of computer processing. The author of this whole farce had clearly seen to it that no one could identify his voice. "I would like to play an exciting game with you..."
"To hell with you!" Jedgar said in a voice full of malice. "We are the Prophets of the Dark Side! We will destroy you!"
"Shut up!" Cronal hissed at him, simultaneously driving an elbow between his ribs. "Haven't you realized yet? We are cut off from the Force, we have nothing! We are in his power!"
"I'll kill him!" Jedgar promised with a voice full of venom. "As soon as I get out..."
"...for hundreds of years you lived in secret, manipulating the galaxy and killing the innocent, helping your own prophecies come true," the doll meanwhile broadcasted with its artificial voice. "You waited for your protégé—Darth Sidious—to reach the heights of power. And along with him, you would receive huge wealth and power. And for the sake of this, you committed monstrous crimes, drowning those you found undesirable in their own blood. You killed, you kidnapped into slavery, you raped your own children and acolytes..."
"Ha," Jedgar smirked. "He knows a lot about you, Cronal!"
"And now I offer you a choice," the toy meanwhile continued to broadcast. "Before you is a mechanism. Its saws are sharp and capable of cutting through heavy armor. But its role now is completely different. You are deprived of the Force, and you have no one to rely on but yourselves. Are you ready to cause excruciating pain to yourselves, to shed your own blood in order to get out? Will it be one of you, or will you all make the sacrifice? Are you ready to make a sacrifice in the name of your salvation? We shall see."
The frame changed, demonstrating a similar room, in which, to his surprise, the Prophet saw the leader of the cult—Kadann, surrounded by several more brothers. And they also, their heads thrown back, were now looking at their own monitor.
"In the second room are your friends and accomplices in the cult. Before them stands the same dilemma—sacrifice yourselves, or die. That group which fills the reservoir, with a capacity of sixteen liters, located under the floor, with its blood, will be able to safely leave the room. Those who do not manage to do this within the allotted one hundred and eighty seconds—will perish. Nerve gas will fill the room and kill everyone who is in it after the allotted time in seconds. Keep in mind that you should hurry—after all, your brothers are in the same conditions, and at any moment from worry and internal disagreements, they might lose their minds. Yes, and one last thing. Having heard all these conditions, I would not hurry to open the door—although it is not locked. Play by the rules set for you, and then you will have a chance for real salvation."
With these words, the image of the doll disappeared. And instead of it, a timer appeared on the monitor. Two minutes fifty-nine seconds, two minutes fifty-eight...
Simultaneously, with a monstrous screech, the circular saws also came into motion.
"The bastard is playing with us!" Jedgar yelled in rage. "All of you, help me open the door!"
"He said not to touch it!" Cronal objected. "There are rules..."
"To the Hutt with rules! We are the Prophets of the Dark Side! If we don't like the rules—we change them!" Jedgar said ominously, tossing his head to the brothers, who, like obedient banthas, followed him to the massive door.
Shaking his head, Cronal chose another path. Everything he heard—was some kind of rebus. The last part—was some kind of veiled hints. And Cronal could swear on his life that it was done specifically so that those who decided to cheat—would suffer even more.
No. One must be smarter. Follow the rules. If they wanted to kill them—they would have done it on Dromund Kaas. But they were all brought here. To participate in this game. And in every game, you can win if you follow the rules.
Cronal, ignoring the attempts of the other brothers, went to the pedestal, looking at it. The sight of the circular saws not ceasing their movement was fascinating and frightening at the same time. And, although time was leaking away, he allowed himself to examine the device in detail.
Opposite each hole—three massive circular blades, installed in a staggered order. Everything was created to cut through a limb thrust into the hole in the shortest possible time. But the slots in the transparisteel coffin—and what else to call a box two meters long and wide enough to fit even the tallest of the Prophets?—were nine. And in the room—only eight sentients. That meant someone had to thrust in two limbs.
To tell the truth, Cronal had no desire to cause himself injuries, voluntarily sticking his hands in and letting the saws cut them into pieces. If he had the Force, he would have gotten out of here without the slightest effort—after all, it was clear to anyone that the exit was connected to the flask, which, in turn, serves as a container for filling it with blood. That meant, judging by the mark at the top point of the measuring scale, the mechanism was tied to a pressure sensor. Now if he had the Force, he could have pressed on the sensor... And there would be no need to think about how to fill the flask, in which the blood of as many as three or four people could easily fit.
"Come on! It's giving!" standing next to the doorway, Jedgar was yelling excitedly, while six other Prophets, sticking their hands under the lower edge of the door leaf, located just opposite the stand with the mechanism, were trying with all their might to raise the massive slab to get outside. "A little more! Push!"
By their combined efforts, the Prophets managed to tear the slab from the floor by a good twenty centimeters. Meeting Jedgar's eyes, on whose face madness triumphed, Cronal only shook his head. This was not right. There was some kind of catch here...
With an almost imperceptible movement, a red stripe flashed at the bottom of the door panel. And in the next moment, the slab returned to its place with a crash, while the room filled with the howl of the six Prophets. Rushing to them, Cronal saw with detached horror that all of them had their feet cut off with a neat movement.
The stumps were cauterized, sealing the damaged arteries and vessels—unambiguously, the work of a lightsaber. So, on the other side of the door—a trap, calculated to punish those who intended to bypass the rules. The creator of this "game" had an extremely sophisticated imagination.
"Hutt!" Jedgar cursed, hopping on his healthy leg to the fallen and hysterically screaming brothers in the cult. "This bastard maimed them!"
"Only you are to blame for this!" Cronal growled, leaning over one of the Prophets, rolling on the floor in the ephemeral hope of easing the pain. But everything was in vain. If they had the Force with them... "One cannot try to bypass the rules! We have already done this more than once, and it brought us all here!"
"Shut up, scum!" Jedgar yelled, lunging at his older comrade with his fists. However, Cronal dodged, avoiding a blow to the face, and with all his strength pushed the arrogant apprentice toward the infernal mechanism, which continued its screeching howl in the locked room.
And instead of a torrent of abuse from the young man, only the increased howl of the saws, biting into something dense, and the cries of pain of Jedgar himself reached Cronal's ears. Rising to his feet, Cronal saw with surprise that the latter, trying to stay on his feet, had leaned against the lid of the glass sarcophagus, sliding it aside. His hands, losing their point of support, fell inside the machine, instantly turning into a bloody mess, fountaining sprays of blood.
"Will it be one of you, or will you all make the sacrifice? Are you ready to make a sacrifice in the name of your salvation?"—the phrase he had heard from the speakers just a minute ago flashed in the Prophet's head.
The one who arranged this whole bacchanalia, even within all the rules, had left a loophole for them. Sacrifice someone to save the rest... That is why the massive lid of the sarcophagus slides, although this was not visible from the beginning. The dimensions of the device spoke for themselves...
"Help me, Cronal!" Jedgar yelled. "Tie off my arms, or I'll die from loss of blood!"
"Oh, don't even think about it," the Prophet said gloomily. "I still need your blood..."
The tone in which this was said interrupted the moans of Kadann's apprentice for a moment. With eyes full of horror, he looked at his cult comrade... Only to receive a blow to the face, into which Cronal put all his strength.
The wounded man, already standing only on one leg, leaning his back on the side of the sarcophagus, was disoriented. That was enough for Cronal. Lunging at the man's feet, he grabbed them with both hands, after which, rising, he pushed Jedgar with his whole body back onto the screeching saws.
The air filled with the agonizing cries of the latter and the bubbling sounds of the saws biting into the defenseless flesh. Stepping back a few steps, Cronal watched with grim satisfaction as the large saws dipped slightly under the weight of the human body. But, at the same time, from the base of the mechanism, dozens more small saws moved out, which, along with their large "brothers," began to hack Jedgar's body into dozens of pieces, which fountained blood and other liquids, and those, in turn, in an abundant stream flowed down the chute into the measuring container.
Looking at the latter, Cronal noticed with displeasure that inside was only a fifth of the required volume. And meanwhile, the timer left him a little less than two minutes in reserve.
He should hurry.
Turning his gaze to his comrades, groveling at his feet and begging him to give them help, the Prophet smiled contentedly.
"Of course, I will help you," he promised. "Your mortal path ends here, pathetic henchmen of Kadann."
Grabbing the stumps of the legs of the Prophet closest to him, he deprived him of consciousness with strong blows to the face, after which, hoisting him on his back, he brought the body to the sarcophagus, dropping the body inside. The monstrous pain from the dismemberment woke the former comrade, but only then, so that he would fall into eternal sleep when two saws at once cut his neck, biting into the bones of the skull and skeleton. With an irritating sound, smaller pieces of flesh fell under the blades of the lower saws, turning into bloody mincemeat, from which dozens of streams of precious liquid flowed in thin rivulets, flowing into the coveted flask.
Seven liters. A little more.
Cronal stunned the next Prophet with a kick to the back of the head, pinning his face to the floor. Dragging the breathless, and, judging by the crack of the skull bones at the moment of the blow, already dead body to the machine, the Prophet thought with displeasure that too much blood was on the floor.
The third Prophet followed the first two. Cronal, acting already mechanically, tried not to look at how the people with whom he had lived side by side for decades turned into finely sliced slices of bone and meat, and not particularly ceremoniously, broke the jaw of the frail-looking man with a kick, after which he dragged him to the machine with familiar movements. This time, raising the body to a height sufficient to drop it onto the saws proved more difficult. Still, age makes itself felt. If he had the Force...
But, for the umpteenth time, the man reminded himself that his most powerful weapon was not with him. And cursed for all he was worth the one who had taken from him the greatest blessing he had ever received from fate.
As soon as he dragged the fifth body to the machine—a quite pretty girl who had joined the Prophets not long ago—he was stung by regret. She was sweet, slender, with big... Under other circumstances, something could have happened between them, but...
"Please, don't," she pleaded, seeing how he raised her above the sarcophagus. "Please, my lord, there are others—two whole ones! I will serve you! Every night I will spend with you!"
"You will serve," Cronal placed the twitching body on the edge of the sarcophagus, catching his breath. "And I like younger females..."
One push, and the space of the room fills with wild cries, bubbling sounds, and the satisfied screeching of a saw tearing flesh and bone of the Prophetess. Cronal watched as the measuring scale of the container filled with every second.
A little less than fifteen seconds remained on the clock, and the "slider" of the indicator had barely risen above the mark of fifteen and a half liters. Of course, when the smaller parts gave their "juice," the level would rise, but how much more time would pass?
And he no longer had the strength to reach the two other Prophets who had crawled away to the far part of the room. The man, leaning over, scooped up several severed feet, dropping them into the machine, which had already finished butchering the pieces of the previous victim.
Only one division remained to the cherished volume and five seconds on the timer.
Cronal felt horror, which filled him like a sticky substance... Was it all going to end like this? He would perish one step from freedom?!
Exhausted, he collapsed to his knees, covering his face with his hands.
After all, he was so close.
And now, the end...
But, it seemed, Fate decided to give him a chance for redemption.
From the depths of the hidden speakers came a mocking cheerful chime, and the movement of the saws ended. The massive door slab began to crawl up. Literally by half a meter—but, this was enough for the Prophet, located just a meter from it, to dive down like a fish, sliding under the door, and finding himself on the other side.
Literally in the same second, the door descended with a crash, cutting him off from the two remaining brothers from his group. Rising to his feet, he heard through the door leaf how gas rushed into the room with an irritating hiss. And the cries of the doomed brothers, who were much less lucky.
Even if they hadn't played their role in his liberation, giving their bodies to feed the sinister machine, their fate was no less mournful. To lose limbs and perish from gas vapors—that was some pleasure.
However, the fate of the victims necessary for obtaining his own freedom did not interest him.
Cronal, catching his breath, looked at the picture that opened up behind his back. A shabby corridor, cut into the rock, with dim lighting, went into the distance, ending in a small fork. It seemed he still had more than one test ahead of him.
Remembering the circumstances of the six Prophets receiving injuries, Cronal looked under his feet. There was a simple device—a mechanical drive that rotated an activated lightsaber with a red blade, now turned in the opposite direction from the door.
Estimating the length of the blade, Cronal only shook his head. Ingenious. To place a meter-long blade half a meter from the entrance, connecting it to a light-sensitive element on the outside of the door. As soon as the element disappeared from the field of vision of the reading device—a primitive and harmless laser target designator located on the drive and connected to it by several simple devices, the latter was activated, performing a rapid rotation. The very one that deprived the Prophets who decided to play around the rules of their limbs.
"Not at all bad," Cronal shook his head, looking at the locking mechanism that did not allow the blade to turn now. Obviously, it was wirelessly connected to the pressure sensor in the flask, as it had the same measuring scale—but already in an electronic-digital version and a smaller scale. Almost seventeen liters... leaked from the pieces of his comrades.
Well, the one who knows how to get rid of competitors in time survives.
Cronal spent a few more minutes looking at the construction in detail. Then, with considerable effort, he loosened the fastenings of the lightsaber hilt, taking the weapon for himself. Jedgar, and it was precisely his blade, would no longer need it. But it could become a suitable aid in the future.
Feeling the familiar weight of the traditional weapon of Force-users in his hand, the Prophet allowed himself to smile. Whoever was the author of this trap—the "game," as he proudly named this whole amateur performance—he would have a very hard time when they met. Even without the Force, which was still inaccessible to him, Cronal was still an excellent fencer.
***
"Is it not excellent merchandise?" the slave auction administrator, smiling radiantly, leaned over Vette's ear, pointing out to her a huge square in the very center of the capital of Orvax IV. "Wookiees, Twi'leks, Bith, Togrutas, Gand, humans, Zeltrons, Zabrak, Nautolans, Duros... for every taste. For all types of activity—laborers, servants, artisans, engineers, musicians, pilots, and even—soldiers."
"I noticed," the girl said coldly. "For what purposes do you have the latter?"
She sat, leaning back against the back of a luxurious sofa in a personal box. She, like thousands of others, surrounded the place in an amphitheater where thousands of slaves were located—small groups of 10-20 sentients. So to speak, a presentation of the goods, by which future buyers were to get an idea of all the slaves from this batch.
Vette had flown here in the company of a small guard—two squads, one from each corps, transferred to her for such operations. But, she could only take two into the box—the corps commanders. A larger number was allowed only to prominent and regular "wholesale buyers"—for the most part Hatts, of whom there were about fifty here.
The cover story was simple, and at the same time effective—buying a large batch of slaves. Of course, for such a thing, she had to pay a "loyalty fee"—one hundred thousand credits, which was to serve as a guarantee of the solvency of a potential buyer. No one wanted to admit paupers to such auctions. After all, "goods" worth millions of credits were at stake. And the number of "batches" sometimes reached the mark of hundreds of thousands of sentients.
Her own past as a slave, although it remained far away in millennia, still unpleasantly disturbed her mental balance. Even if she was now only playing the role of a "wholesale buyer," she still didn't like it. Indignation came from within—bitterness for the fate of billions of sentients who quite unfairly found themselves in the power of bastards, clouded her eyes, forcing her from time to time to stroke the vibroblade hidden under her long dress, fastened to her thigh. How many times in the last hour had she wanted to stick her weapon into the eye of this arrogant Arkanian. But the show must go on.
"Lady Vette," the Twi'lek was chilled to the bone by such an address. "There is a war in the galaxy. Many planetary governments and companies are not averse to acquiring contracted workers for themselves, so as to have their own armed force that will be obedient and will never rebel."
"And how do you achieve such results?"
"Our proprietary methodology," the pale-haired man smiled. "Forgive me, but I cannot tell you—a commercial secret. Especially in light of the fact that not long ago unknown persons carried out strikes on Zygerria, Karazak, Thalassia..."
"Well, unknown to some, but to others—the strike squadron of the Eternal Empire," Vette mentally corrected the speaker.
"I haven't heard of that," she lied. Memories surfaced of how she had spent an excellent time together with the corps of Christophsian volunteers, carrying out local genocide on three planets—the pillars of the slave trade in the Outer Rim. Of course, the losses were not small—the defense of these outwardly peaceful planets was actually a tough nut to crack. Even if at the beginning of the year the Republic had severely battered Zygerria, destroying their "labor camp" on one of the planets and liberating a whole colony of Togrutas, the metropole had in no way lost its defensive capability. And this cost Vette two seriously damaged Harrowers, which had to be sent for repairs to Dromund Kalakar. But from Zygerria alone, the Eternal Empire of Zakuul had received more than a hundred million potential citizens. After the raids on Karazak and Thalassia, their number increased to six billion.
Vette's soul was especially warmed by the fact that the history of the life and flourishing slave trade and piracy in the Thalassian system had finally ended. The bastards who ruthlessly attacked any passenger ships, killing everyone except the young and fit sentients, had finally got what they deserved. Although, as for her, a journey through the wide-open airlocks into the hospitable vacuum was too easy a death for such scoundrels. If she didn't have to hurry—she would...
Alas, history has no subjunctive mood.
But here, on Orvax IV, which is famous throughout the galaxy as a place worst for slaves, who spent all their time in dirty pits in the depths of the planet, until on the surface they considered it necessary to hold the next "wholesale" auction, she could vent her soul.
The fleet, consisting of ten Harrower II-class dreadnoughts, was waiting for a signal—the activation of the transponder built into the girl's elegant arm bracelet. And as soon as Vette was convinced, thanks to the administrator's talkativeness, that all the slaves these bastards had were here—on this planet... The fun would begin.
"Oh, our agents report that there was a total bacchanalia there," the man whispered trustingly. A strange Arkanian. A fawning sycophant. While his people—were outright racists, not a bit tolerant of other inhabitants of the galaxy, at least somehow different from them. "An armed raid."
"With what purpose?" looking at how a small group appeared on the square, consisting of representatives of various races, but all as one—shackled in shock collars and handcuffs, the girl narrowed her eyes. The applied security measures were too specific.
"As we suspect, the capture of slaves," the Arkanian shrugged. "Our people report that unknown ships completely destroyed the indigenous population of these planets, engaged in the slave trade or the upbringing of goods. They took the last ones out, and then wiped the infrastructure to powder. Zygerria is now—a scorched world on which not a soul lives. Yes... their queen broke off relations with Count Dooku in vain back in the day."
"Judging by the fact that there are three Confederate frigates in orbit of your world—you didn't act so rashly," the girl noted.
"Oh, no, what are you saying," the man began to smile. "We try not to interfere in galactic politics. It was convenient for Zygerria to conduct business—they were near the territory of the Confederacy. We have a Republic military base on Ryloth right next to us. It's not worth the risk, concluding short-sighted agreements."
"Then who flew in on those ships?" Vette tensed.
"A confidante of Count Dooku," leaning even closer to her head, the Arkanian said. "Sha'ala Doneeta."
"I've never heard of her," the girl admitted.
"She... is not a particularly media personality. And her interests are specific in our slave market."
"And you, of course, know which ones?" Vette smiled archly, meeting the eyes of the marshals standing nearby—Matthew Mantrell and Dizzy Azmo. It was their corps that were now waiting for the go-ahead to destroy another slave empire to its foundations. Both, despite the fact that their faces expressed nothing, nodded almost imperceptibly.
It seemed that on this planet they would have to work even more thoroughly. Because, if even a drop of information leaked into the HoloNet that Christophsian volunteers, whose armor is widely known in this sector of the galaxy, had been here... The Emperor could have big problems.
And such a thing was unacceptable.
That meant the CIS ships, like their people on the surface—were not destined to leave this hospitable world.
"I certainly know," the Arkanian smiled charmingly, hinting at another bribe. Vette unceremoniously pushed a credit chip for a thousand dataries—the Republic currency—into his hand. In worlds like this, any money was in use—the owners of this slave market anyway managed to "launder" it.
"They are interested in this group of slaves," he nodded in the direction of those sentients who had attracted the girl's attention.
"Why?"
"They are Force-sensitives."
"Jedi?"
"By no means," the administrator smiled. "Simple sentients who have manifested certain abilities inherent in Jedi. Such goods have a high price. And, unfortunately, there are quite few of them."
"And what is the price?"
"Oh, are you also interested?" a gleam of profit flashed in the Arkanian's eyes.
"If only you knew how," Vette thought. Trying to portray a bored expression on her face, she answered in the affirmative.
"Two million credits."
"For the whole batch?"
"Of course not," he laughed. "Per unit."
"Convenient," the girl responded in a neutral tone.
Why does the CIS need Force-sensitives? The answer is simple. Dooku needs new henchmen. The Emperor had tried hard, depriving him of several. Sev'rance and Asajj now served the Empire as Hands. Savage Opress was living out his days as a "battery" on the New Forge. Sora Bulq had turned into a piece of meat that had outlived its time... Yes, the ruler of the Confederacy needed new adepts of his sacrilegious teaching.
And where is it easiest to get them? On the slave market. Redeemed from inhuman conditions, they will be grateful to their savior for it. And it doesn't take much skill to set them against the Republic and the Jedi, who made no effort to rescue the slaves.
Is it appropriate to wedge into such an auction? Vette had access to several accounts, and the amount of money in them unambiguously exceeded everything that any of the parties could offer for the Force-sensitives. But the problem was that in this place auctions were created by financial perverts. And, whatever bid you made for your "lot," regardless of whether a higher bid would be made, you were kind enough to transfer your money to the organizers of the auction.
Simply put, if you consistently make bids of a million, two, and then three million credits for the goods you like, then after each such statement of yours, be kind enough to transfer the amount to the accounts of the organizers. That is, in the end, you can spend six million, but never acquire the batch of a thousand Wookiees you need so much. And considering that you are clearly not alone in the bidding—then for one lot, the starting price of which is only one million, the organizers of the slave market can get hundreds of millions. The very case when criminals quite legally (by their standards) profit from the bastard-buyers. It's not for nothing that they say about this planet that having gone to buy slaves, you can take their place yourself.
"As I understand it, this group," she pointed to the sentients in shock collars, "is all you have?"
"Unfortunately—yes, lady," disappointment appeared on the Arkanian's face.
"Sad," Vette stated. "I wouldn't refuse a large batch."
"I regret it," the administrator noted. "But we cannot offer more. Perhaps, in a few months..."
"And the ordinary slaves," she pointed to the rest of the slaves, "are all you have here?"
"Here are only the exhibition batches," the Arkanian frowned. Obviously, customers had not yet had such conversations with him. "The rest are in the pits until they are bought."
"It's rash to keep all the slaves on the planet," the girl noted. "As far as I know, the Zygerrians had a labor camp far from the metropole for training the goods."
"Everyone conducts business in their own way," the administrator noted. "We don't waste time transporting slaves, training them here as well. We have no other training and educational camps."
"I see," Vette said indifferently, as if by chance touching a large precious stone on her bracelet. The signal was sent. It only takes a few minutes for a short hyperspace jump. "You are very kind, administrator."
She rose from her place, with the tips of her fingers, as if flirting, stroking the left half of the man's face.
"I am glad I was able to please you," the Arkanian smiled.
"That's for sure," the smile on the Twi'lek's face disappeared. Simultaneously feeling a slight vibration from the bracelet—a signal confirming the entry of the fleet into normal space in orbit of Orvax IV, she grabbed the man firmly by the neck from the back with this same hand, bent him toward her and with her left hand, in which a knife was clenched, which had left a secret sheath next to the slit on her dress, she drove the vibroblade into the Arkanian's chest. With one blow, she broke the solar plexus, slightly continued the movement of the blade, cutting through the flesh, like a red-hot metal through frozen butter, cutting his larynx and vocal cords, after which she cut the spinal cord.
The man collapsed in a heap on the floor.
"You got dirty," Dizzy Azmo said, pointing to several drops of blood that had fallen on the front part of the girl's dress.
"Hutt," the girl cursed. "This was my favorite."
"You're better off without it," Dizzy smiled. The girl gave him a cold look, but remained silent. This guy himself was not very talkative—in all the time they had been carrying out attacks on the slave-trading planets, he had uttered only a few—ten, if she kept count correctly—phrases in her presence. Including these two.
Without saying a word, Vette went to the open part of the box, looking at what was happening. The bidding had barely begun, which meant a few minutes would pass before the buyers began to receive messages about what was happening.
"Hold your tongue," she heard Matthew's voice behind her. "She is a confidante of the Emperor. People like us—are not birds of her flight."
"A pity," Dizzy sighed.
"Indeed, a pity," Vette thought, but her thoughts were now about something else entirely.
***
"Heard the latest news?" opposite Siun Tarr, the manager of an inconspicuous joint on the lower levels of Coruscant, on the opposite side of the bar, having pushed a tipsy but peacefully dozing customer to the floor, the Nautolan Shido sat down.
"You got promoted in Black Sun?" not looking away from polishing glasses, the Toydarian asked.
Shido was a "lackey" for the syndicate. And he had never distinguished himself with anything except a couple of independent robberies that ended in terms on Kessel. But, like millions of other idiots, he regularly helped Black Sun create its bad reputation.
"No, but it won't be long," the Nautolan waved it off. Siun sighed stealthily—he had heard this mantra for the last three months after Shido had once again returned to the world. Now the "lackey" literally glowed with happiness, laying out a datapad before the Toydarian. On its screen flashed the logo of a well-known news site.
"What is this?"
Despite the fact that it was long past midnight, and there were no visitors in the establishment except for that snoring Bith on the floor, the alien was not eager to clutter his head with details. It was enough that a message had already arrived from the new owners of the establishment—the Mandalorians—about the need to close the establishment in a week for all customers. Something like—a sanitary day. But actually, as Tarr understood, another meeting from among those would take place here, during which he had to sit for a couple of hours in the vegetable storage. Preferably, without even letting on that he was sentient and knew how to listen.
"A preview of another story by Eileen Tyrell," Shido smiled. "She's on Hypori."
"Where?" the manager was taken aback. "That's the ass-end of the world. And anyway, I think the Seps are in charge there. I remember the Jedi got a good thrashing there last year."
"Now the Seps will have a hard time," Shido smirked. "Dougan is there. And, judging by the description for the preview—he's not in a good mood."
The Toydarian shook his head.
The young Jedi, who in his years had become one of the highest officials in the complex and extremely tangled system of military command and political structure of the Republic, was liked by most of Tarr's customers. The latter, who had lived a long and not the most peaceful life, preferred not to follow fashion trends and not to create idols for himself.
Especially—among the Jedi.
"And so what?" Siun shrugged. "To be honest, I don't get any extra credits from him having a bad mood, or this Jedi scratching his ass with his left hand in the morning. I am a small sentient, and I don't get into politics..."
"And again you stick your head into permacrete," the Nautolan shook his head in disappointment. "You just look," he quickly performed several manipulations on the datapad. "Dougan is one of the most discussed Jedi on the HoloNet. Along with Skywalker, Kenobi, and well, several others. To be honest, I don't remember who else was in the trends. But this one," he tapped his finger on the screen, "is good."
"Shido," Siun said irritably. "If you start hawking merch with the image of this Jedi to me now, like you did with the T-shirts with the image of Master Windu after Geonosis—I swear by my fat-assed mother, I'll blast you."
"No-no-no!" the Nautolan waved his hands. "I'm not talking about that. I just thought, why don't we arrange a broadcast of Tyrell's reports about Dougan in your cantina? He's popular, and sentients want to stare at what's happening in the galaxy..."
"Do you take me for a fool, Shido?" Tarr boiled over. "Who the Hutt needs this Jedi anyway? And why the Hutt would people go to look at how he gives some interviews there?"
"What are you saying?!" the iris-less eyes of the "lackey" expanded to unambiguously non-human sizes. "I'm telling you, it's a HoloNet broadcast. An exclusive! How many sentients do you know ready to pay fifty credits for a subscription to Tyrell's channel a month, for the sake of watching her reports about the actions of Dougan and the Tenth System Army?"
"You've completely confused me," the Toydarian frowned. For a few seconds, looking at the Nautolan's bewildered face, he thought, comparing and putting together into a single whole everything that the latter had managed to say. "So, you're suggesting I turn the cantina into a place for watching broadcasts of interviews of this red-faced female?"
"Exactly..."
"Who is going to make reports from the scene of military actions?"
"Well," Shido hesitated, "at least, that's what it says in her preview..."
"Where the central character will be a Jedi?"
"Well... probably... Although, maybe not just him..."
"Shido, are you a fool?" the Toydarian asked, although he knew the answer himself.
"Hey, what's with that?" the old acquaintance took offense. "The subscription doesn't cost so much..."
"Which was to be proven," Siun sighed. "This Tyrell's channel—is one of the most commercial on the HoloNet. And if for an ordinary sentient a subscription there costs only fifty dataries, then for organizations broadcasting information from it—ten times more!"
"Why's that?" the Black Sun member didn't understand.
"Because I am an entrepreneur! And my activity is related to making a profit! And everything I buy for implementation—including video—is taxed! That's not to mention that according to the law on information activity, the price of a subscription is ten times more than for ordinary people. In short, you're talking nonsense. To spend so much money just so that a few drunks can discuss how they're fighting there—no, I won't sign up for that!"
"Well, not a few," the Nautolan said innocently. "I know at least a thousand guys from the lower levels who will come here in an hour to watch the first interview. You can take a couple of credits from them for watching the broadcast and split the profit in half..."
"Did you tell your friends that I have such a subscription?" the Toydarian asked menacingly.
"I didn't... I just wrote a post on Galactagram. And a bunch of people have already responded that they would like to come and watch..."
"Hutt! You're an idiot!"
"But why? You can get a subscription through the HoloNet..."
"Yes, and who's going to pay me for it? I don't have such a service in the price list!"
Shido visibly soured. Tarr, thinking feverishly, came to the conclusion that his comrade's proposal was actually worth it. But... if only he had come earlier, at least by a week. So that all the papers could be put in order, the appropriate permission obtained...
Now, with the rampant illegal connection to the CIS Shadowcasting, and total censorship over news and other channels, it was also not enough to get into a situation with the illegal broadcasting of Republic HoloNet channels. Since recently, only those channels approved by the Commission for the Protection of the Republic were allowed for broadcast.
And it was very strictly punished to provide consumers with those paid services that were not indicated in the founding documents for the right to carry out entrepreneurial activity. This annoyed many entrepreneurs, as it required additional spending—and out of nowhere. And, accordingly—reduced the total revenue... And since it was not allowed to receive profit from a client under a new item of income and expenses—then it was not worth the spending.
"Listen, I looked here," Shido said. "She has a mark on her channel about passing the COMPOR check. That means you can get a subscription..."
"Well, what a blockhead you are," Siur sighed. Having briefly explained the essence of the problem with providing visitors with services for which money could not be received, the Toydarian only threw up his hands.
"You framed me, Shido! Your friends, then, will show up here to watch a broadcast that I don't have..."
"But you can buy it..."
"...and spend another five hundred credits just so they can sit, drink, eat, and admire an exclusive that they will never have enough money to subscribe to on their own! I had a relative on Tatooine go bankrupt like that—he dabbled in betting on pod races, and so passionately that he bet his best mechanic. And failed! And where is my cousin Watto now? No one has heard of him for years! And meanwhile, he had an excellent workshop and a shop for starship parts! Do you want to send me out into the world with such adventures?!"
"I wanted it for the best!"
"Yes? And why didn't you bring five hundred dataries with you so I wouldn't go bankrupt?"
" I just don't have them... Our branch has recently reduced its work in the Core Worlds..."
"Yes, I heard," Siur waved his hand. "They went to some Hutt on Mandalore."
"And conquered it!"
"And you'll get kicked in the ass," the Toydarian said significantly. "Believe me, kid, whatever shit is in the heads of your leaders—the Mandalorians will beat it out like a dust bag."
"Ah, Siur, you're a Hutt-spawned over-cautious person! We have everything under control," Shido waved his hand.
"Well, yeah. Who's going to tell you, small fry, what's what," the Toydarian thought.
However, he wouldn't be a son of his people if he didn't want to profit from everything where money could be obtained. The new owners had shelled out a round sum for his cantina, using it for their dark deeds. According to all the documents, this establishment belonged to completely different sentients, and Siur, out of old habit, only managed its work and looked after everything—simply so as not to cause suspicion. He kept what he was told to. He gave to those he was told to. He didn't ask questions. And he received decent commissions for it.
And yet he could easily have ratted out his new owners to the patrol—especially after the hullabaloo about the robbery of the Jedi Temple. And received a huge reward, showing the clones the holographic recording from the establishment's surveillance camera, on which all those who were sought for the attack on the Temple were captured. And he could even help arrange an ambush—periodically one of these Mandalorians appeared in the cantina—but only to leave or pick up another package.
Siur decided not to risk it. He continued to keep the recording—in his small hiding place. So, insurance for a rainy day. If the owners suddenly decide to change the conditions of his work.
For now, everything suited him. All the profit from the trade in the cantina went into his pocket and for maintaining the range of goods. And not a bad addition from all this conspiracy also didn't burn his hand.
However, for the first time in a long time, Siur realized that he didn't have enough money. After all, essentially, being the owner of a cantina, he spent most of his income on paying for the rent of the premises, various taxes and fees, bribes to officials of all stripes... Now all this was covered from the Mandalorians' pocket. And Tarr's own income grew.
Of course, he could easily start a broadcast in his bar—he had already thought about it. But, in view of his total lack of awareness about HoloNet trends, he didn't know what to stop his choice on.
Now Shido was offering a truly profitable idea.
The manager had heard about this Dougan—several times in his cantina, even on the news of military actions that were traditionally bland for current events, this name had flashed. But he didn't think that against the background of general disappointment in the Jedi as bad and incapable commanders, one of them could be popular.
It turned out he had miscalculated.
To agree to Shido's proposal—meant splitting the profit with him. And for what? For the fact that the Nautolan suggested to him what kind of content should be on the screens of his cantina? Truly, the price for such ideas—is a couple of credits. No more.
Shido, on the other hand, aimed for half of all the profit. And if even taking two credits for one visit and watching the broadcasts (of which, according to the initiator himself, there should be many), then up to five hundred people could easily gather inside at the tables alone—the main thing was to crowd together. Well, with a large influx of customers, you could always open the second hall, which had been boarded up for a good five years... And even under all this sauce—slightly raise the prices for liquor and food...
Siur already felt the smell of money. And he wasn't going to share it. It was only necessary to get rid of Shido. Who himself clearly did not intend to leave.
And he left less and less time for the Toydarian to prepare for the influx of customers. And that there would be some, the manager did not doubt.
After all, anyway someone from those this kid hooked with his message would come here. Even ten or a hundred sentients—these are extra credits that will pleasantly warm the pocket.
But also kicking Shido out was also fraught. He's a kid with stupid ambitions. And he can easily bring friends here who will beat Tarr's sides. Which he didn't want at all. Of course, it's worth reporting such a "protection" and a dozen fighters clad in beskar will deal with any trouble. But this will attract unnecessary attention from the local patrols, the number of which has tripled recently. And it will repel visitors. Who wants to go to a cantina where a shootout can happen at any moment?
Correct—no one.
"You should go, Shido," the Toydarian advised. "You're only scaring away customers."
"Maybe you'll think again?" the Nautolan asked hopefully. But he again encountered the skeptical glance of the manager, after which, dejectedly dropping his shoulders, without saying goodbye, he left the establishment.
Tarr lightning-fast rushed to the computer terminal, formalizing the appropriate electronic documents.
Finally, after about ten minutes, he finished all the procedures, mechanically noting that there was very little time left before the guests arrived. Therefore, turning on the screen, he chose the appropriate channel...
"Good time of day to all those watching my program," a young Zeltron appeared in the frame, smiling blindingly at the camera. She stood against the background of a huge amount of debris that continued to blaze and smoke. "I am starting a cycle of reports, which received the name 'Vanguard News.' As my sources in the Republic military command reported, the Tenth System Army 'Gent,' which is led by Jedi Master, member of the High Council of the Jedi Order, Ric Dougan, who also holds the post of Grand Moff," behind the bar, the awakened customer began to stir, but the Toydarian preferred not to pay attention to him, "is preparing for a full-scale offensive. I want to note that this is the only case in the Republic when a Jedi has received such a post. Does this prove that specifically this Jedi differs from his brothers in arms, who over the past year of the war have already signed their complete command impotence. In the military sphere, naturally."
The Zeltron smiled enigmatically at the camera, building up the intrigue.
"But is Master Dougan really as good as the Republic news channels presented him to us? You judge. I only report the bare facts... By the way. The debris behind my back—is the flagship cruiser of one of the fleets of the Tenth System Army. The very one that literally a few hours ago was easily destroyed by CIS General Grievous..."
Catching the change in the correspondent's intonation, Siur stroked his bald head with his clawed paw. It seemed it would be truly interesting—after all, the doors of the cantina opened, letting in a huge crowd of visitors...
***
"...General CIS Grievous," Eileen chattered without stopping. Right in front of her hovered a small ball-shaped droid—an operator and at the same time—a small signal repeater. It was thanks to this little guy that the very possibility of a live broadcast was in principle feasible.
From the first minutes of her verbal diarrhea, it was clear that objectivity from this information consumer-whore could not be expected. Those who want to convey the truth to the broad masses do not climb so brazenly on the rampage. And this one even uses support from the chancellor's office. How sweet.
"Sir, maybe we should... you know...?" Alpha as if innocently ran his hand over his neck.
"Too early yet," I said tiredly. "Two can play at this game."
"I'm not sure I understand..."
"And you don't need to. Go rest with the guys—you've earned it after the explosion of the jammer."
"As you say, sir," the clone, putting the helmet back on his head, disappeared without extra fuss from sight, leaving me alone with the chattering Zeltron on a spacious balcony, towering over the buildings of the industrial district, held by the forces of the corps under Nyx.
The descent to the planet took place in a relatively regular mode. The Vultures, of course, decided to hunt for our pods, but a couple of X-Wings accompanied us until the very contact with the ground. At least here the girls were able to be useful. It will be credited to them in the future.
As I had assumed, things were by no means better on the surface of Hypori.
The initial landing plan assumed that the four corps under my command would land in key industrial zones to immediately stop the process of creating new droids and occupy strategically important points on the planet. Even if I have no love for the CIS, as on Geonosis, these complexes are not needed by the Republic after the resistance of the locals is suppressed. Just think, they can produce new droids capable of destroying Jedi and clones. No problem—cloning cylinders will produce new ones. Why destroy the enemy's economy to the root? Let it live. Tyber Zann approves.
The Republic's dismissive attitude toward the consequences manifested itself most clearly after the First Battle of Geonosis, when, having given the CIS a strategic supply of a thrashing, the Jedi and command completely disregarded the fact that the Geonosian factories were only de-energized, not destroyed. Which, in turn, entailed their reactivation and the Second Battle of Geonosis. Now there, considering the total cleanup, the creation of concentration camps for the few Geonosians who survived the fierce offensive of the troops under my control, the repurposing of droid production lines was taking place. Because one can never have too many "Skystrikes." And a strategic reserve in one's own rear, considering the speed of developments in the galaxy, never hurts.
For the most part, for this reason, Hypori became the first victim in the "Gent" offensive. An industrial planet, geared toward creating droids... what could be better for acquiring another world in one's asset, capable of taking the load of producing "Skystrikes" and military equipment for the Empire off the New Forge. In the plans, the latter was supposed to be used purely for creating a fleet.
Regarding the assessment of the enemy's forces, it was encouraging that at least here the commandos were not particularly mistaken. Just think, only a million or two more droids. Not scary, considering that now an additional two hundred thousand clones were landing on the planet to those four corps that stoically held off the machines during the time the "Fellblade" was getting "beat up" by Grievous.
In total, the first wave of clones lost up to a tenth of its personnel in the battles. Of these—more than a third were "200s," non-returnable losses. The rest were now receiving long-awaited medical aid.
The Telos crashed, destroying several industrial quarters in the relative rear of the CIS upon falling. Our pods fell not so far from each other, so it was not particularly difficult to gather into one detachment, load the heavily wounded Declann onto repulsor stretchers during the carnage on the bridge, and make our way to the location of our units.
Now, the four corps, surrounded by enemy units, having received reinforcements and thanks to air support, were rapidly restoring communications with each other, building one single front line around their positions, having occupied a considerable area of the industrial districts. Even if the capture of Hypori will not go like clockwork, it is, nevertheless, a foregone conclusion. When Grievous lost his fleet and traditionally fled, leading the ground defense of Hypori, the conquest of the planet became a matter of time. Even if a prolonged one.
But, thanks to the capture of the centers controlling the management of the minefields around the planet, reshuffling them to close the gaps, one could not fear another appearance of Christ to the people. And fully engage in the siege, systematically burning with the help of aviation any more or less serious nodes of the enemy's defense. Fortunately, the enemy has nothing to oppose our bombers and ARCs—the ground aviation was eliminated in the first minutes of the capture of the orbit. And everything that Grievous could gather at the factories was shot down almost daily by our duty squadrons, performing daily raids, the purpose of which—is to bring the assembly lines to total silence. It was also not enough for the cyborg to have the opportunity to replenish his own losses on a mass scale.
All that remained was a rapid but systematic advance. The destruction of the "Fellblade" had already proved that one should not rashly trust what is happening. Slow and steady wins the race.
There remained only two headaches. One of them was currently in the headquarters' location, entrenched in one of the spacious administrative buildings of the district. The Naboo woman was taking everything that had happened to her recently hard. But most of all—the destruction of her own ship along with the Telos. What could have been so important there—I don't know. But it's worth not forgetting that I, for the sake of preserving personal information and those holocrons that I took with me on the Telos, sent my strike force of Zabrak and Dashade to guard the Defender. They handled it "excellently," and the ship under the control of the Gella sisters, with mechanics, wounded, and other sentients, was now heading for Christophsis. Officially—to deliver the heavily wounded clones to the medical center as quickly as possible. Actually... for somewhat different reasons, which I will talk about in due time.
No matter how Amidala asked me to grant her a ship and send her to Raxus Secundus, I refused. First of all, because such a knight's move is out of place now. It was also not enough for the Sith, who already have a grudge against me, to think that I am in league with this psycho in the matter of peace negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy. No-no-no to such happiness. I have my own shit to deal with.
My second headache was currently broadcasting on the HoloNet, telling how "ingloriously" the Fellblade fleet died in its entirety. And Grievous—is still at large, despite the fact that he was opposed by "one of the undeservedly glorified Jedi generals, for some reason appointed to one of the highest command posts in the Grand Army of the Republic." Quote.
"What can you say in your defense, Master Dougan?" Tyrell was next to me, and her drone literally poked its lens in my face.
What a bitch. There had been no talk of an interview—at least until the capture of Hypori. Well, what did I expect from a pro-government journalist-whore. Considering my suspicions of Sidious's involvement in all the star-shit happening around me.
"Defense? What are you talking about now?"
"Well, naturally. Tell my subscribers how it happened that your glorified Tenth System Army fell into a trap that ended in the destruction of the entire Fellblade fleet along with your by no means cheap flagship Telos? This is despite the fact that General Grievous escaped from you. And yet he is a simple cyborg, and by no means stands with those Dark henchmen of Count Dooku who have already fallen by your blade. Sev'rance Tann, Asajj Ventress, Savage Opress... Even Baron Kirvan, whom everyone calls the strongest Dark Jedi in the service of the CIS—and even he did not escape from you with such ease as Grievous. What is this—a pre-planned defeat, or have you lost your skills and are no longer capable of fruitfully commanding units of the Grand Army?"
"More questions than the logic contained in them," I lamented. "And, although they were born of a brain inflamed by natural narrow-mindedness of their author, I will still answer. Although I do not consider myself obligated to do so. Regarding the destruction of the Fellblade fleet. Yes, we lost ships—only a couple of Marauders will be able to enter service again, the rest—are damaged to the degree when it is easier and cheaper to send them for scrap. However, a significant part of the fleet's personnel escaped. And, I venture to remind you," I sighed, "the army, like the fleet, is primarily strong in its fighters. And, no matter how you try to pervert what is happening, twisting facts at the angle you need—the Fellblade is still alive. We will build new ships. But if all their crews were lost—that would be a great failure."
"But you cannot deny the fact that the Hammerheads, with which you so diligently equip your fleets—are no match for the CIS ships in battles?"
"Where did you get that from?"
"The destruction of the fleet speaks for itself."
"Be you even seven times the galaxy champion in bodybuilding. If ten or more hooligans attack you at once—most likely, you will be beaten well. So it happened with us. The enemy caught us when we had shot all our ammunition and suffered losses in the battle with the fleet blocking Hypori, the siege of which we are currently conducting." Noticing that the Zeltron wanted to say something, I made a warning gesture. It's not good to interrupt the interviewee. Good reporters don't do that. "Without going into details, I will say that we had to fight an enemy having a three-fold superiority over us in the number of capital ships, and in aviation—by tens, if not hundreds of times. Having lost fifty ships, we destroyed all the starships of the defense of Hypori and the fleet—which is more than one hundred and sixty ships. Perhaps, in your, purely reporter-like view, this is a defeat; in a strategic sense—it is a victory. Because there are several thousand ships in the reserve of the system army. A small price for ridding the galaxy of the butcher named General Grievous."
"But in the battle on the bridge of the Telos, you lost to him," the reporter noted sarcastically. "And the general has killed many Jedi. One could say, you got off easy..."
Well, well... and why should I think that the media of the galaxy far, far away differs in any way from the domestic hyped "yellow" press? Same eggs, only in profile.
"Yes, the general has killed many sentients throughout the galaxy," I agreed. "As well as the civilian population—just look at the total destruction of the inhabitants of Humbarine, the genocide of the population of an entire sector, and the rest. And you are absolutely right—I could not kill the general on the bridge of my flagship..."
"You see, dear viewers," the journalist chattered, smiling blindingly. "Another Jedi signs his military worthlessness. It's worth asking—why are these sentients placed at the head of our army, which brings us only defeats and the bitterness of numerous victims... on this I say goodbye to you..."
"Wait a minute," having figured that the drone's lens was filming me only above the waist, I used the Force to hold the reporter's hand from turning off the broadcast from the control panel on the drone itself. "You've described everything so effectively. You've brought me here, saying I couldn't deal with some kind of cyborg. So why don't you tell your viewers about the true reasons that prompted me to let Grievous go?"
"Attempts to whitewash oneself, certainly, deserve attention," Tyrell chattered, throwing angry glances at me. "I will give you the floor in one of the next reports. We are running out of broadcast time..."
"Evaluating your 'professianalism'," I smirked at the last word, "it's no wonder that you have the most scandalous program on the HoloNet. So masterfully leading your own viewer... one must be able to do that. But, as you noted at the beginning of your video, I am not quite an ordinary Jedi."
"Master Dougan," the Zeltron hissed. "I cannot move. Are the Jedi now applying their vaunted Force to those who try to reveal your hypocrisy to others?"
"What does it have to do with me that you aren't moving?" I portrayed surprise on my face. Thank the Force, I had taken off the mask at the beginning of the conversation. "The hands are right here," demonstrating my limbs, which for most of the galaxy's inhabitants were precisely associated with Jedi "magic." I myself continued to hold Tyrell in telekinetic grips. "Another attempt to set the Jedi in my person as vile incompetent sentients? With me—it won't work. But I digress. Dear viewer, I hope you are still with us and you are interested in why a man who rid the galaxy of as many as three strong adepts of Count Dooku could not defeat some kind of cyborg? The answer is simple," going to the drone, I inserted a small memory card into it with data extracted from the Telos's black box. And, naturally, having passed the necessary editing, which removed fragments of the recording with the use of Force Lightning and the Wave. "This small holo-recording that you see—is proof of how I had to save Senator Padmé Amidala and your favorite—a journalist, and may her colleagues forgive me for mentioning this word in her context, Eileen Tyrell from the fate of falling hostage to that very General Grievous. As you can see, the general skillfully covered himself from my attacks with his victims, which, in general, did not allow me to deal with him. A special piquancy to what is happening is added by the fact that both—the senator and the journalist..."
"You are crossing all boundaries, Master Dougan!" the Zeltron shrieked, boiling with anger.
"...arrived on board my flagship before the very battle, not having any permissive documents. And I, as a Jedi and a commander who gave an oath to the Republic, had primarily to care for the preservation of the lives of Republic citizens—including an official of the Galactic Senate. And this somewhat interferes with the cause of liberating the galaxy from bloodthirsty killers like General Grievous. I think this is precisely where we should end this broadcast...," I reached out a hand to the drone, touching its front part, which had a control panel. Including—a large red button "Active broadcast"...
"Bastard!" as soon as she felt she was free of my shackles, the journalist rushed in my direction, drumming her fists on my breastplate. "You spoiled the whole story! Do you know how many subscribers I lost because of this 'unmasking' of yours? I wanted to give you the floor in the next episode; you would have told it all there! This is mass media; everything here is built on scandals..."
"It is thought," I carefully took the girl by the shoulders and turned her face, distorted with anger, into the lens of the still-working drone. "You have no subscribers left."
"Hutt's sake!" the girl cursed, rolling her eyes, realizing how easily she had been played.
"Indeed, Tyrell," I smirked. "Karma's a bitch."