"Hutt junk," Raith sighed, sitting down at his desk.
"Watch your language, Raith," Malgus hissed venomously from behind. "Unless you want to fly into space through the nearest airlock. Without a spacesuit, of course."
"Forgive me for touching the strings of your soul, Darth Malgus," Sienar's voice, however, held no hint of regret. "But the Dromund Kalakar shipyards are not at all what I expected to receive as a gift from the Emperor."
"Be glad for what you already have," the giant stated warningly. "In their time, these slips created the best weapons in the galaxy. And so it shall be again."
"Yes, of course," the man said distractedly. "After a considerable amount of funds is invested in the restoration and modernization of this relic..."
"Do you consider yourself entitled to count the money from the Empire's treasury?" Malgus meaningfully placed his hand on his lightsaber.
"I didn't even think of it," the shipbuilder waved it off. "It's just... This... Anyway, it doesn't matter. I will fulfill the Emperor's will."
"Glad to hear it, Sienar," Malgus grunted. "Now, let's talk business. In what timeframe can you bring the remaining two rings into operation?"
"Are you serious?" Raith was taken aback. "Do you think that by patching the holes and restoring the power supply to the first ring, you've fixed it?"
"The droids have eliminated all existing mechanical damage to the main ring, where they previously created the Harrowers," the Sith recalled. "Most of the automation is in working order—the repair of the two dreadnoughts that that fool Vette almost lost will be finished in the coming days."
"I'm not arguing about the structural integrity of that ring," Raith corrected his interlocutor. "The safety margin is enormous—in your time, they knew how to build for millennia. But the equipment is obsolete by several millennia. I don't think the Emperor will be satisfied with receiving one Harrower a week for the fleet. A full-scale wave of updates is necessary—from automation and electrics to software. And that means billions of credits and weeks of work..."
"We cannot suspend the work of the shipyards. The Empire needs to increase the size of its fleet..."
"For Hutt's sake!" Raith exploded. "Maybe then it wasn't worth putting the New Forge at the disposal of the Rakata mind and letting it monopolize the construction of the Sovereign? The shipyard has been stalled for two months—until that project is finished! In that time, I could have handed over an entire fleet to the Empire, and a fully equipped one at that..."
"Your objections are noted, Sienar," Malgus remarked coldly. "But the creation of the Sovereign is not up for discussion."
"Naturally," the shipbuilder grumbled.
His irritation had been building for many weeks.
It all started when, without much explanation, he was required to develop a new type of solar ionization generator, achieving maximum power output. He had to set aside work on the new interceptor and, rolling up his sleeves, create something new.
After spending several weeks without sleep, he produced a new version of the reactor—more massive and, at the same time, many times more efficient than the units installed on the Harrowers. The Imperial Guards, acting as personal messengers for their master, simply took the developments without explaining anything.
Now he already understood that he was creating the power plant for the Emperor's new flagship—a super star destroyer named the Sovereign. Which would be built at the New Forge, paralyzing the latter's work for two months. And consequently, throughout this entire time, the Imperial fleet would not be replenished by a single combat machine that this unique shipyard had previously created.
Even the Marauders, which were being built for the Empire at Sienar's shipyards in the Republic, were now extremely dangerous to embody in metal. Because the Santhe family—Raith's relatives—had begun to diligently poke their noses into his personal affairs. They had surely identified facts of forgery—after all, officially, the Marauders were built only for the Ghent (army). But in reality, far more of them were produced—since it was necessary to supply the same ships for the Empire as well. Now, with the Santhe bloodhounds digging into the ground in pursuit of finding dirt on Raith, who had long since disappeared from the radars of the civilized galaxy, and removing him from the post of executive director he had held since his father's death, playing a double game had become very unprofitable. And dangerous—primarily for himself. Because if the facts of forgery surfaced, the Republic would not hesitate to seize the company's assets. The Santhe feared exactly that.
Raith, however... feared nothing.
Primarily because the Santhe/Sienar Technologies conglomerate, which included all his companies, interested him less and less every day.
Acting from the shadows, Raith had successfully managed to close all his subsidiaries in the Republic—that was the reason for the Santhe family's investigations. All employees, all assets of these companies simply vanished from the sight of their colleagues and the public overnight. Where? No one knew.
Except for Raith himself. The co-owner of the largest shipbuilding enterprise of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul—Sienar Imperial Technologies.
The new company became the sole supplier of military equipment for the Imperial fleet. In many ways—thanks to the Emperor's gift. The three massive production rings-shipyards of Dromund Kalakar. Having been to Kuat many times, Raith, upon arriving in this star system, looked with awe at the metallic behemoths hidden in the depths of the gas giant. All three full rings were now the property of SIT. And one could say that Kuat with its production capacities, including even Rothana, whose location was a secret, was losing its leading positions...
In reality, the gift turned out to have a taste of shit.
First of all, Raith, like most of his employees, was bothered by the fact that the Dromund system, like all the worlds of the region called Sith Space, belonged to the category of "Closed Territories." This meant that all possible routes beyond the Impenetrable Caldera were under the control of the Imperial fleet and army, and leaving them without a special pass was impossible. Any violation of such a regime carried the threat of immediate death. The same was prepared for all those who decided to visit this beautiful corner of the galaxy without permission.
From the Emperor's point of view, such a status for a number of star systems across the galaxy—and one doesn't need to be a Jedi to understand that there are far more "Closed Territories" than just Sith Space—is beneficial. The worlds inside the Impenetrable Caldera are self-sufficient—there are huge reserves of resources here, their own shipyards for creating all types of warships, agricultural worlds capable of providing food for any number of citizens and armed contingents. A sort of self-sufficient empire within the Empire. Considering that these worlds are effectively located in the rear of the warring superpowers—the Republic and the Confederacy—such an attitude toward these territories is not surprising.
The only irritating fact was that the Space was barely settled by the Empire. Dromund Kaas, bearing the proud name of the pearl of the Space, now presented itself as a gloomy and ruined world, which was being hastily transformed into something coherent by huge armies of construction droids. Around the Emperor's Citadel, numerous skyscrapers were now being erected from the ruins, infrastructure and communications were being laid. Thousands of stormtroopers were exterminating numerous predators, driving them from their established habitats. Everything spoke in favor of the promise that life on Dromund Kaas would become almost paradisiacal. Of course, if the constant cloud cover and soul-chilling thunderstorms didn't disturb your mental balance. However, the Sienar Imperial Technologies corporation was state-owned, and the salaries of employees exceeded their equivalent earnings in Republic space. Quite sufficient motivation to live for some time without special comforts.
Moreover, some of the first administrative buildings on the planet were the massive complexes handed over to the possession of SIT. Even the Senate District on Coruscant paled in comparison to the area and buildings that went to the state corporation. Employees of the subsidiaries of Sienar Imperial Technologies: Sienar Design Systems, whose task was to develop the main Imperial orders; Sienar Advanced Projects Laboratory, whose workers were given full creative freedom in creating the latest developments; Sienar Armament Systems, engaged in the development and integration of new types of weapons for combat starships; Sienar Reactors, providing the corporation's creations with power plants; and many other enterprises could not be happier with the comfortable working conditions.
Malgus had familiarized Raith with the Emperor's plans for the development of this region. Definitely, the intentions were far-reaching. In the near future, numerous research and other centers, educational institutions, leisure and entertainment complexes would appear here. Raith was afraid to even imagine what funds the Empire was investing in the development of this region. However, he did not dare to ask Darth Malgus, who, as the Emperor's viceroy in this region, knew this for certain.
The future place of work—the Dromund Kalakar shipyards—also disappointed Raith. Even if the hull of the rings had undergone little wear in the thousands of years since their construction—even Kuat had sections in much worse condition—the equipment... Everything was hopelessly obsolete. Much was broken, and even armies of repair droids could not restore it. Significant funds had to be invested to bring them to a modern state. Moreover, as followed from the agreement imposed by the Empire, the latter took on half of all costs—since the Emperor was one of the two largest shareholders of the enterprise.
But, even setting aside the question of financing this global project, the aspect of time costs for the restoration of the shipyards rose by itself. With outdated technologies, it took Sienar's employees a full two weeks to restore those two damaged Harrowers. While the New Forge solved such problems in a day at the worst.
The modernization plan proposed by Sienar's engineers provided for up to forty weeks of meticulous, painstaking labor that would not be interrupted for a second. And only after ten months of work could it be said that the production capabilities of Dromund Kalakar were truly in optimal condition. Only ten months separated Raith from having the enterprise under his control surpass its main competitor—Kuat Drive Yards. However, he did not have that time.
The Empire required ships—more every day. The expansion of living space in the Unknown Regions and in Wild Space was proceeding at an active pace. The "Skymen" were dying by the millions, but, one should thank providence, ground equipment was not his domain. On the other hand, numerous losses among fighters, landing craft, and damaged starships—all of this fell as a heavy burden on the shoulders of SIT.
Therefore, Darth Malgus, in whose zone of responsibility the only shipyard of the Empire currently capable of repairing damaged ships was located, did not shine with satisfaction. And he personally flew from the capital of Sith Space—Korriban—to properly dress down Raith.
"I have to give up my ships in exchange for those damaged dreadnoughts that come from Thrawn, Tann, Vette," Malgus said. "Already more than half of my ships need repair, while you and your people are unable to ensure proper repair and return of these ships to those to whose fleet they were originally assigned!"
"Darth Malgus," Sienar felt he was beginning to get even more irritated. "I need ten months for all three rings to reach full capacity—two for the first, where only system updates remain, and four for each of the two remaining. After that, you can demand any production and repair volumes from me. But until then..."
"Until then," Malgus said threateningly, looking at his apprentice sitting in the room, who was trying her best to pretend she was interested in examining the three-dimensional image of the Sovereign rather than listening to the conversations of the two men, "you are obliged to ensure simultaneous modernization and repair of damaged ships. Such is the Emperor's will. If an enemy descends upon us, I, like any other commander, do not intend to meet them with scrap metal under my command..."
"Perhaps then we should ask the Emperor for a postponement of the Sovereign project?" Raith suggested. "Yes, it alone replaces an entire fleet, but right now quantity is more important..."
"Don't you want to suggest that to him yourself?" Malgus almost growled, jerkily turning the shipbuilder's chair to face him.
"With pleasure," Sienar said in a steady voice. "But I do not have the opportunity to personally communicate with His Majesty..."
The big man's body assumed an unnaturally straight position. The irises glowing with amber went out, and now the man's face remained in the darkness created by the fabric of the hood thrown over his head.
"Glad to see you, Raith," Malgus's voice said in a low, almost sepulchral tone. However, judging by how the face of the half-breed Fallanassi turned pale, the shipbuilder realized that the person standing before him was not the one who a minute ago had almost torn him apart. "I see you have some minor disagreements with Viceroy Malgus."
"Your Majesty," the red-skinned girl was instantly on her knees before Malgus's figure, bowing her head before him.
"Apprentice Xiss," the big man said in the same voice. He placed his hand on the girl's head, stroking her hair. Then, taking her chin with his fingers, he lifted her head, looking at her face. "Glad you're still alive. Which is surprising, given the sad statistics of those close to Malgus."
"I'm not so easy to get rid of, Emperor," the girl said.
"I see," he said dryly. "Lord Malgus is pleased with your progress in mastering the Dark Side. I already foresee the day when you will be able to join the ranks of the Imperial Knights."
"As You will," the girl said humbly. The Emperor, releasing her face, turned his gaze to the stunned Sienar.
"So, Darth Malgus informed me of the hitches with the implementation of your project, Raith," throwing back his hood, the Sith put his hands behind his back and began to walk slowly around the room. "Agree, ten months is a rather long period."
"I understand that... Emperor," peering into the Sith's absolutely black eyes, the shipbuilder felt streams of sweat roll down his back. How, for Hutt's sake, could he talk to the ruler of the Empire if he... Hutt's Force, no less! "But we simply cannot finish the modernization faster."
"And at the same time, Darth Malgus suggested a suitable compromise," the man noted. "Both build and repair... A very simple solution, in my view."
"It will slow down the entry into service of the shipyards by another six months," the head of the corporation objected. "We will have to split our efforts between repairing ships and repairing the rings. I'm sorry, but the corporation's staff is not the largest."
"Four million sentients is not the largest staff?" a chuckle came from under the Sith's respirator. "Six million work at Kuat, only three at Rothana..."
"But even they delay deliveries," Raith reminded. "And they don't have to bring equipment to their assembly sites by smuggling it at triple the price."
"Problems didn't bother you before, Raith," the Sith sighed. "Only the result. I've grown accustomed to believing that you can handle any task set before you."
"But at the same time, you handed the Sovereign project to Lira Wessex," Raith murmured so quietly that the Emperor wouldn't hear. But he was unlucky.
"Are you ready to build a star super destroyer for me?" astonishment appeared on the face of the Sith, who turned to the shipbuilder. "I always thought your forte was capital ships and small craft."
"The latter are my passion, and battleships are my job," the man explained. "But I would have handled this task as well..."
"Do you think so?" the Emperor chuckled. Raith nodded silently in affirmative agreement. The man was silent for a while, after which he inquired: "How are your other projects progressing, Raith?"
"Completed exactly on time," he shrugged. "I planned to start production when your guards appeared on Lehon, taking the New Forge away from me."
"It is necessary for the Empire," Malgus explained in a voice not his own. "Moreover, you have shipyards at your disposal many times larger than those at Kuat."
This was the pure truth. Two of the three rings of Dromund Kalakar were equal in size to those at the Republic's main shipyards, and the first—the one where the Harrowers were produced—surpassed the Kuat one by twofold. But there were far fewer slips on it. Four thousand years ago, the assembly of one star destroyer required ten times more production territory than now. The "extra" space could be cleared of archaic equipment during modernization, but building new slips into the rings... that was a task for future years. No economy could sustain such a massive modernization all at once. Because a single slip for creating a starship over five hundred meters long costs one and a half billion. Currently, there were one hundred slips on the first ring. After the planned optimization and modernization, nine-tenths of the space of this ring would be freed up, and another nine hundred could be placed. But Zakuul could not currently produce such a number of shipyards—essentially automatic factories that assembled ships with minimal participation of living workers—on its own; there was no suitable production base. And buying them in the Galactic Republic was expensive. Not to mention that the creation of one such slip takes at least six months. Even Sienar's grandchildren would not be able to complete what had been started if an order were placed right now.
Kuat had created its shipyards over millennia, and the financial burden on its budget fell evenly. Therefore, it had never encountered such difficulties. And still, it handed over a little more than a hundred ships of all classes per week for the needs of the Republic. The lion's share of starship supplies for the GAR came from smaller but numerous shipyards located outside the Kuat system. But it was Kuat Drive Yards that were the owners of such production sites.
"I am grateful to you for such a generous gift," Raith said. "But as I said—it takes almost a year for all existing slips on all three rings to start working at full capacity."
"By that, you're suggesting I wait ten months?" the Emperor asked. "In that time, Kuat alone will be able to hand over thousands of ships to the Republic. Not to mention the CIS. The Empire already occupies a huge territory, and we need combat starships to cover the territory."
"I understand all this, but..."
"No 'buts', Raith," the man cut him off sharply. "Bring in more construction and worker droids—Malgus will allocate additional funds to you. But I cannot allow my fleet to wait ten months while our main shipyard can work at full strength."
"So, I will have to follow Darth Malgus's plan?" Raith clarified. "And modernize the shipyards and build ships?"
"Without forgetting to repair the damaged ones," the Emperor noted. Seeing that the shipbuilder opened his mouth, intending to object, he raised a hand warningly. "This is not up for discussion, Raith."
"As you command, Emperor," Sienar said, suppressing irritation and frustration. Well, was it really so hard to understand that after modernization, the shipyards would produce a hundred capital-class starships a week, whereas if this process was slowed down (instead of simultaneous repair of all slips, efforts would have to be thrown first into modernizing one, then the second—and so on until the end), the result would be much lower?
"I understand your irritation, Sienar," the Emperor noted peaceably, taking a step for his interlocutor to approach the huge transpari-steel window near which he himself stood. "But the situation in the galaxy is deteriorating rapidly. It is quite possible that we no longer have those two years I originally counted on."
"I've heard something about that from my employees," the shipbuilder admitted. Casting a glance at Malgus's apprentice, he noted with surprise that she had long since risen from her knees and was now standing silently near the exit of the room, diligently pretending she was a statue. "It's none of my business, but perhaps then it's worth striking Rothana to reduce ship production for the Republic?"
"Open confrontation is currently unprofitable for the Empire," the Emperor countered. "We have too few ships. Even our superiority in droids will not ensure a full-scale victory on the battlefield. Our starships are better than our enemies', but before we complete the securing of our rears in the Unknown Regions and Wild Space, we will not start a war against the known galaxy. If, of course, it depends on us."
"Forgive my persistence," Raith said in a tone that implied nothing of the sort. "But in that case, the construction of the Sovereign is irrational. We need more ships..."
"My consciousness is in Malgus's mind," the Emperor explained. "I know the gist of your conversation. However, have you not thought about what we can oppose to the dreadnoughts that guard Kuat? For their Dominator alone, we would need an entire fleet. While the Sovereign will be able to take any of them apart for spares without significant harm to itself."
"I understand your logic, but..."
"Tell me about your Raid project," the Emperor requested, demonstrating that any further discussion of the previous topic was not welcome.
Sienar took a deep breath. Yes, his objections interested absolutely no one.
"The Raid-type universal landing ship," he approached the table and brought up the corresponding file on the holoprojector. "At first, I thought about turning the Acclamator into a large landing ship, but I had to abandon that idea."
"Design flaws?"
"Exactly. Sixteen thousand troops is the maximum that can be crammed inside a Republican 'assault cruiser'," Raith explained. "No matter how you rebuild it—the design is doomed to failure."
"Your ship looks little different from an Acclamator externally," the Emperor noted.
"Only visually and at first glance," Sienar parried. "Acclamators are a mix of a bantha and a nuna, the first attempt to create a universal warship—to carry troops, aviation, and participate in capital ship combat. The fleet concept of the Eternal Empire assumes narrow specialization of starships..."
"I know the requirements of my Empire's military perfectly well," the Emperor rebuffed him, approaching the table. "What exactly are you proposing?"
"The Proclamator-class large landing ship," he pointed to the diagram currently being displayed. "Externally, as you noted, it is very similar to the Acclamator, but it is a completely new ship. It retains the arrowhead configuration, but the bridge is shifted to the center and doubled in size compared to the Republican counterpart. It has the ability to land on a planet, like the Acclamator, but instead of one long and narrow landing ramp, which makes the deployment of all personnel extremely slow, I placed four independent ramps on the sides—essentially, the landing speed is increased fourfold. Due to a less protruding lower part, the ship has a much less noticeable silhouette at the moment of landing, and the angle of the ramps is shallower—no need to fear that equipment will fly off it head over heels."
"Do I understand correctly—the equipment is in the main hangar during transit?"
"Not exactly. The Proclamator is equipped with four hangars, separated from each other by armored frames and bulkheads. Each such hangar stores all the heavy equipment assigned by the table of organization to one legion."
"The ship is capable of transporting an entire corps?"
"Exactly. It is half again as large as the Acclamator, and the internal spaces are used much more efficiently. With all heavy weaponry, ground equipment, assault droids, speeders, and so on. Provision is also made for the placement of a contingent of 'skymen'—within ten thousand, as the first wave of an assault, if it has to land in a combat zone."
"Not bad... Armament?"
"The ship's anti-aircraft artillery has been tripled—there are simply no 'blind sectors'. Absolutely all space around the ship is covered—from bow to stern, from bridge to keel. Six twin turbolaser batteries located on the sides of the superstructure are used as the main artillery. In the stern part, there are ten rapid-fire laser cannons in the upper hemisphere, an equal number in the lower. However, first of all, I must note that the Proclamator was not intended as an independent combat unit—its armor is thinner than that used on the Acclamator. It is capable of withstanding brief fire, but against super-heavy turbolasers, it won't last long. It was assumed that this ship would operate as part of a fleet, supporting the landing of troops with its guns' fire, but by no means carving its own path through the enemy's starship formation..."
"Understood. A very sensible concept. Reducing offensive weapons in favor of defensive ones..."
"Exactly. Therefore, I placed only one squadron of Predator-class starfighters in each hangar—forty-eight ships are enough to cover the ship from enemy bombers. Together with the Proclamator's own artillery, naturally."
"What is the stern hangar in the superstructure for?"
"The main hangars house the landing force's transport vehicles—shuttles, landing craft of my design; in the stern one, a squadron of ARCs or X-Wings and transports for the ship's crew needs can be placed—so as not to use the main hangars, which have a much larger area for possible enemy fire damage, unnecessarily."
"Well... I like this ship. It alone is capable of delivering a whole heap of trouble to the battlefield, whereas now this is only possible using three or four Acclamators," the Emperor said thoughtfully.
"And yet, I don't think that with the presence of heavy field artillery in both the Republic and the CIS, using the Proclamator as a transport for reinforcements directly to the front line is advisable," Sienar said thoughtfully. "The armor is a bit thin..."
"And is that its only drawback?" the Emperor chuckled.
"Not the highest speed, both in normal space and in hyperspace," Sienar stated without blinking. "In my recommendations for the project, I recommended using it specifically as a second-wave ship and applying it only after a sufficient part of the orbit has been captured by our fleet..."
"So, big but fragile?"
"In a sense, yes..."
"Hmm, so we have our own analogue of the Acclamator," the Emperor said irritably. "I confess, I thought better of your genius, Raith..."
"The Proclamator is not my only development," Sienar said coldly, bringing up another file on the panel. "The Vindicator-class large landing ship."
The Emperor turned his head. Now he was observing a three-dimensional diagram of the ship, the main hull of which...
The ship was an isosceles triangle. A flat bridge offset toward the stern, numerous gun turrets along the hull... outwardly, the starship looked more like a full-fledged combat vessel than what it actually was.
"The design... is impressive. I await the details," the Emperor said, staring back at the screen, watching the gas clouds beyond the ring.
"The Vindicator was developed as a full-scale military transport, whose armament and armor allow it to engage in battle with enemy warships. High speed and excellent maneuverability, coupled with heavy composite armor, allow it to break into the thick of the fight without sacrificing its valuable cargo—sentients, equipment, ammunition, gear—everything that needs to be delivered to the front lines. With its guns, it is capable of providing not only anti-aircraft cover for a landing but also supporting an offensive, or, if necessary, conducting a bombardment or orbital strike on enemy positions using cannons or cluster bombs. As in the previous case, the ship's full anti-aircraft screen provides it with sufficient protection against enemy aviation. For these same purposes, the ship carries an air wing—six squadrons of interceptors and two of bombers."
"And do we have a full-fledged bomber class?" the Emperor clarified.
"I am in the process of solving that problem, Your Majesty," Raith parried.
"Tell me about the disadvantages of this type of starship," Dougan requested through the mouth of Malgus.
"The ship is not adapted for landing on a surface. For landing troops, numerous Lambda-class shuttles are used, capable of delivering a platoon of stormtroopers to the surface," a hologram of a transport ship appeared over the table, vaguely resembling the Nu-class shuttles adopted by the GAR. "For transporting equipment, the Sentinel-class shuttle is intended," and again, a hologram of a ship appeared, vaguely similar to its predecessor but with a longer passenger section, reinforced weaponry, and heavy hull armor, "capable of taking a company of stormtroopers on board, and carrying any ground equipment in its lower hemisphere..."
"What is the size of the landing force carried on this ship?"
"One full-strength legion with all standard weaponry and attached heavy equipment. Or it can take up to ten thousand tons of payload on board."
"The Sentinel does not give the impression of a transport capable of delivering even one HAVw A6 Juggernaut to the battlefield," Dougan noted. "And they have proven themselves quite well..."
"For those purposes, the Kappa-class heavy transport is suitable," Raith demonstrated an image of a transport ship that looked like an overfed Lambda. And about ten times larger. "Two Juggernauts are delivered quite comfortably in the cargo bay without any special problems. Or a larger number of less bulky heavy equipment."
"Prudent," the Emperor praised. "More than worthy starship options, necessary for the Empire now. How soon can you begin their assembly?"
"Well, if you return New Forge to my control..."
"Raith," the Emperor said warningly.
"No harm in trying," the man sighed. Falling silent for a few minutes, he calculated in his mind how much time and effort it would take to put at least one or two slipways in order on the second ring, where auxiliary class ships were previously produced. "In a month, we will be able to provide the Empire with the first batch of ships of both types—a pair of each."
"Does this include the associated small craft—shuttles and transports?" the Emperor clarified.
"Then—in two. After that, the volume of deliveries will increase with every slipway put into operation. In geometric progression, of course."
"Excellent," the Emperor declared. "Consider that you have received an order for a hundred ships of each type—Vindicator and Proclamator in full configuration."
"It will be done."
"That is not all, Raith," Dougan warned. "I need bombers."
"There are certain developments in that regard..."
"They must be embodied in metal as soon as possible," the Emperor cut him off. "As well as a full-fledged strike carrier."
"Forgive me, but why? Capital ships carry a sufficient number of fighters..."
"To deal with Republic ships—yes. But to defeat CIS starships, we must have a manifold advantage in interceptors and fighters."
"I... will handle the development of such a ship personally," Sienar frowned. "Perhaps Lira Wessex could speed up this work..."
"She has her tasks, you have yours," Dougan snapped. "You complained that you didn't get a sweet piece of the pie—now you have it."
"As you command," Raith bowed, hiding a smile.
To be honest, a developed version of a carrier had long been in his archives—it was born almost as soon as he gained access to the blueprints of the Harrower. It only needed to be slightly modified for the latest power plant and have its anti-aircraft systems modernized using the schemes of the landing ships he had developed...
"And one more thing, Raith," the Emperor's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Forward the technical documentation for your model of the Harrower to my office on Christophsis."
"Why...?" the shipbuilder asked mechanically, but, meeting the glassy gaze of the black eyes, he shuddered with his whole body. "I will certainly do so. Please forgive my audacity..."
"We are partners, Sienar," the Emperor said. "But do not forget your place in the Empire."
"Such a thing will never happen again, Master," the shipbuilder said without raising his head, cursing his tongue for the unnecessary liberty.
"Of course. Just as you will never again dare to argue with one who speaks in my name," Raith felt the heavy hand of Malgus's body rest on his head, after which hellish pain pierced his body.
Collapsing to the floor, he shook in convulsions from the involuntary contractions of every single muscle in his body.
Unable to utter a word, he stared with watering eyes into the blackness of the Sith body's eye sockets until it dissipated, taking on its usual outlines.
Immediately after that, Sienar felt control over his body returning. Leaning on disobedient hands, spitting streams of saliva mixed with blood onto the floor (he had managed to bite his tongue during the convulsions), he looked at Malgus.
The hulking Sith stood, leaning on his apprentice, who had somehow appeared nearby. His face looked exhausted, and the skin of his head glistened with beads of sweat...
"Next time, bastard," Malgus hissed, "think ten times before wishing to speak with the Emperor personally."
"To hell with all these arguments, Malgus," Raith slumped into a chair, leaning on the table with difficulty. "Let him pass everything that needs to be done through you. As if I'd ever dare to talk back again... Health is more precious."
"I've been in your place," Malgus snapped angrily. Raith looked at his face, distorted with rage, and realized that no details would follow.
Though, there was no reason to doubt that the Emperor's regent had had to go through something similar in his time.
***
"Sir," the commando glanced at his commander. "I think we're going to see some trouble in this corps."
"You're a real optimist," Dec said gloomily, looking at the scene unfolding before him.
The military town—if one could call such a vast territory crowded with numerous barracks and other administrative and military buildings located outside Crystal City but having a constant connection with it in the form of a wide-band hover-avenue—occupied an area of hundreds of square kilometers.
Almost all units of the line infantry of the Ghent (army) system army, which were not currently participating in combat operations, had recently been quartered here. Or, as in the case of the 611th Landing Corps, were licking their wounds after another bloody battle. Dec didn't know the details, but according to rumors, the guys had gone through a local hell on the planet Vreya. At the start of the war, a local Republican outpost had been organized there, which was steamrolled by General Grievous's forces before his march on Hypori. Simultaneously with the operation on the latter, command deployed the 611th Corps to Vreya to take the planet back. But, as in the case of Hypori, the Separatist forces turned out to be much more significant than expected.
The corps fought bloody battles for a week, fiercely contesting every settlement. In the end, the planet remained with the Republic, and almost a hundred thousand droids remained there to wait for scavengers to take them for smelting. The victory on Vreya paled in comparison to the slaughter on Hypori, but not for the 611th, which lost more than two-thirds of its personnel.
The clone captain, the last survivor of the Vevat Squad commando team, now leading it, looked at the datapad screen once more. No, it was correct. Command had assigned their unit to this corps. There could be no mistake.
However, watching what was happening made Dec's stomach churn. He didn't know how the rest of his squad members—former infantrymen hastily trained under the commando program on Ord Pardron to fill the losses in his unit—were doing. But he guessed their thoughts were just as grim.
The commandos, as prescribed in the accompanying documents, arrived at the corps' location for reveille. However, to their surprise, they found that the entire corps was already on the parade ground. In full combat gear.
The corps was divided into two parts. The first wore black-and-silver markings on their armor and were positioned behind the commander. The second—the majority—shone in snow-white armor. Clones called such ones "shiny," meaning they hadn't lost the gloss of their factory-painted uniforms. Young reinforcements who hadn't been in battle yet.
And right in front of the formation of recruits, of which there were at least three full-strength legions, a clone dressed in traditional Ghent armor paced solemnly, his booming voice carrying over the formation thanks to technology.
"I am Clone Marshal Commander Nomad, commander of your corps," the man proclaimed, marching before the formation. His straight back, head tilted back, confident gaze, and hands clasped behind his back made Dec shudder. That was how the one clones hated most loved to behave. Walon Vau. The Mandalorian mercenary, one of many who trained clones on Kamino. The cruelest son of a bitch Dec ever knew. "For the 'shinies,' I'll say a few words right now. So you don't think you've landed at a celebration of life. From this moment on, your asses are in my hands. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," a chorus of recruit throats rang out.
"That's garbage, I can't hear you!" Nomad barked. Dec felt his fingers instinctively clench into fists. He had heard those words many times. With almost the same intonation. And usually, after them, the clones faced the most brutal trials, bordering on sadism.
"YES, SIR!"
"If you tibanna-less whelps survive your first battle, stay alive, and even manage to kill at least a hundred droids," the marshal continued his stream of hatred, "I will consider you equal to those standing behind me. Real soldiers, weapons forged to fight enemies. For now, you are all yellow-bellied morons who, if given the chance, would blow yourselves and your comrades up on your own detonators. You are the lowest form of sentient life in the galaxy! You aren't even people at all! And until you prove otherwise to me, I, like all the veterans of the corps, will wipe my feet on you. Is that clear to you?"
"YES, SIR!"
"Objections?" Nomad asked, slightly lowering his tone. Dec, rolling his eyes, thanked his habit of approaching a target by roundabout ways. Otherwise, if he and his men weren't standing in the shadow of the administrative building, located on an elevation compared to the parade ground where the soldiers stood at attention, all this stream of humiliation... The captain felt his palms sweating. No, he definitely wouldn't have held back.
After all, they were all brothers. And no brother should belittle others like that. It was impermissible.
"You are all now just an unorganized pack of animals," the clone continued. "You are an incapable mass of fecal matter entrusted with weapons and shown which way to point a blaster. It's all garbage! I will beat the crap of humanity out of you and teach you how to fight! I will teach you the way I was taught and the way those standing behind me were taught," he pointed to the corps veterans. "Don't complain that this is your lot. I won't tolerate sissies and snitches in my unit. If I find out that one of you pukes is running to our Jedi—I'll tear your asses to shreds and hang them over the barracks instead of the corps flag."
Memories of Vau's "educational measures" flashed in Dec's mind, after which many clones spent weeks in the medical bay. Why out of all the units in the army did he have to end up in the one whose commander was trained by Walon Vau, hated by most clones of the Grand Army of the Republic?
Meanwhile, he involuntarily turned his attention to the unit's banner.
A black five-pointed banner, elongated vertically, traditional for the Ghent system army, with silver patterns in the form of lines and circles, in one of which—the middle of the three available—the number "611" was inscribed. In the upper one, the number "10" shone, indicating belonging to this system army. Well, in the lower one, the legions were to indicate their serial numbers. On the corps banner, the lower circle always remained empty.
"As you've already realized, I am merciless, and therefore you won't like me," Nomad continued. "I don't give a damn about your opinion of me. I demand obedience, and I get it. The more you hate me, the more of you will return from battle alive. I am strict but fair. None of you will ever receive punishment for something you aren't guilty of. And you will never stand trial for carrying out my orders. But if one of you test-tube bastards tries to do something to harm me or your comrades—I will personally shoot you as a lesson to the rest."
Dec heard his knuckles crack—he clenched his fists so hard. Yes, those were Vau's words, with a little improvisation. And the captain could bet that, like the Mandalorian, the marshal kept his word. And as for how many clones died at Walon's hands—it was beyond counting. Some claimed the dead could have filled an entire regiment.
And now his team would be subordinate to Vau's protégé?!
"Remember, runts," Nomad meanwhile proclaimed. "What you called 'combat training' on Kamino is complete garbage compared to what you're about to learn here. A reminder to those who knew but, hutt take you, forgot. You are not just clones who must live and fight for those clean-shaven morons called 'citizens of the Republic.' Forget all that propaganda crap! You, your incubator mother, are weapons entrusted to Grand Moff Dougan. And if he tells you not to shit for three days, then you'll endure, fart, but you won't show in the presence of the army commander that you have a weak sphincter. Am I making myself clear, half-wits?"
"YES, SIR!" the roar of throats once again carried over the parade ground.
"Excellent, animals!" Nomad praised. "I hear your bleating, beasts, which means there's already progress. The army will make people out of you runts, whether you want it or spend your whole life dreaming only of tailing a bantha. Remember—you are disenfranchised heifers in the hands of the Republic. And I never want to hear that one of you dares to crawl under the skirt of some painted bitch. Anyone who does that, I will personally cut out his cock and balls up to his tonsils and hang them in the barracks instead of a lamp! You are soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic, which means people like you are not allowed to reproduce. I would even say—categorically contraindicated by local therapists to avoid increasing the number of the same weak-willed ankle-biters standing before me now. You will only get that right upon discharge, and even then—only those who live to see it. You can ask your more experienced comrades—those in the Republic who want us to live as long as possible are fewer every day. Because the citizens of the Republic look at the kind of scum you are now and wonder—why on earth should disenfranchised bastards spoil the local girls when thugs and morons who don't even know how to aim a carbine can do it for you."
Dec shook his head. Yes, there had been incidents in the Grand Army when, after capturing a planet, local ladies gave birth to offspring from amorous clones a few months later. Given that the clones' genes were set for rapid growth and development, it was no wonder the public was unhappy with such a rapid correction of demographic policy in the galaxy.
"That is all, slugs," Nomad barked, freezing before the formation at attention. "If you bastards survive what the corps veterans have prepared for you, then so be it, shoving my pride up my ass and wiping tears with my undershirt, I will allow you to serve in my beloved 611th Corps..."
Dec shook his head... In their time, many of the clones assigned to Vau were protected by other Mandalorians. In particular, Skirata. But now the youngsters were in the hands of an ideological follower of Vau, and there was no one to stand up for them.
However...
"Marshal, sir," pushing through the formation of veterans, Dec and his squad appeared on the parade ground, in the immediate vicinity of Nomad.
Up close, he looked even more... negative. His head was adorned with numerous scars left after wounds that could only have been inflicted by cold steel. His face was no less scarred. It gave the impression that a thermal detonator had exploded in front of Nomad's face.
"Who told you, test-tube runt, that you have the right to interrupt my briefing?" Nomad was beside him in the blink of an eye. Dec felt the aura of negativity emanating from him. But the strange thing was that, unlike Vau, the marshal kept his emotions under control. And neither by movement nor facial expression did he demonstrate that he actually felt any negativity that poured from his mouth.
"You are humiliating your brothers, Marshal," Dec began, but his opponent, without ceremony, ripped off his helmet and, grabbing him by the neck, pulled him close.
"Are you stupid, commando, or deaf?" he screamed so loudly that Dec's ears rang. "I asked you a question, soldier."
"With all due respect," the captain twisted, escaping the grip. "I am the commander of a commando squad, and I will not allow..."
"I know who you are, bantha puke!" Nomad barked. Pointing at the captain, he addressed the recruits. "Meet them, scum. This is Captain Dec, commander of the Vevat Squad commando team. Two months ago, he and three other morons, whom someone in a fit of fever called 'commandos,' were sent to Dactil. To the kriffing farmers. Tell us, Captain, what's it like to blow the whole squad except for your precious self?"
Dec lunged forward to smash the insolent man's face, but the squad members standing behind him held their impulsive commander back from an inevitable court-martial.
"There were more of them!"
"They were kriffing farmers, Captain!" Nomad screamed in his face. "You were hoisted on pitchforks by those who are so stupid they don't even have blasters at home. Where did you grow balls, scrap, to criticize my actions?!"
"You lost two-thirds of your men..."
"Four-fifths, you hutt-brained mathematician," the marshal corrected him. "My boys died grinding ninety-seven thousand six hundred and three Separatist droids into dust! Correct me, piece of shit, if my memory fails me, how many enemies did you kill on Dactil? Zero? Less than zero?"
"It was a reconnaissance mission," Dec tried to justify himself.
"Garbage! Your comrades were skewered with sharpened iron sticks used to mix dry grass with shit, and you didn't even burn down a miserable barn in revenge."
"But..."
"Shut your mouth, Captain, before I shove my foot so far up your ass it comes out of your mouth and teaches you not to talk crap. All of you," he gestured to the novices standing before him, "remember these losers and don't let them within a cannon shot of the front line. Otherwise, like on Geonosis, half will die, and we won't even have time to ask what imbecile decided to give their commander a name."
"My men have names too," Dec scowled.
"Rest assured, I don't give a damn about them any more than I do about you," Nomad assured him. Then, checking his wrist chronometer, he added. "You are ten minutes late for the formation. I want your four amateur asses shaking around the perimeter of the parade ground in one minute—two hundred laps in full gear."
"Sir, I don't think..."
"RUN!"
Shaking his head, Dec leaned down, picked up his helmet, and put it back in place. Nodding to his squad members to follow him, the captain broke into a run.
This was going to be an extremely difficult collaboration between the line infantry and the commandos.
***
"It seems our meeting can be considered open," Red Roberts commented on the appearance of the last of the temple masters in the Council chambers.
Matukai Shegren, measuring him with an indifferent gaze, silently sat in his assigned place—to the right of the head of the Academy, Ashara Zavros. The Togruta, looking at everyone present, signaled the Imperial Guards. The faceless warriors, encased in snow-white, shining plate armor, silently locked the room.
Recently, the presence of the Emperor's faceless servants on Tython had become an integral part. They guarded the approaches to the Temples and periodically arranged local massacres with flesh-raider gangs that did not submit to the will of the gifted who had settled on Tython. It had also become completely commonplace for the silent butchers to observe all the students' training sessions. Sometimes, after such "open lessons," some acolytes would disappear. Where—no one knew except Zavros. However, she was in no hurry to share information, stating that everything happening was the Emperor's will.
There were many guesses about this—from the most primitive to the outrageous. In reality, everything was explained quite simply. The guards were replenishing their ranks, selecting the most capable students.
Ferus Olin had mentioned this while completing his training on Tython. Red had advocated for the gifted former Jedi to stay at the Academy, joining the Qigong Kesh temple led by Roberts. But the young man politely declined, explaining that his destiny was to serve the Emperor personally. And in time, a number of students would follow him. Just a few days later, students Urai Fen and Isaru Omin disappeared. The first was a representative of an unknown race who could penetrate anywhere and get anything. The second was a former Senate Guard whose motives none of the mentors quite understood.
What exactly the guards' function was, no one knew for sure. They themselves, for obvious reasons, did not elaborate on their goals and tasks. It was useless to ask Ashara about it—exhausted by classes with the little ones in the Great Jedi Library, she usually sent people far away in response to any questions that did not concern the direct activities of the Tython Academy. And she would angrily add that if the curious had free time, it should be devoted to teaching young minds.
"Today, the question of the early graduation of three students is being put up for discussion," the head of the Academy said. "Their identities are known to you—BoShek, Tasi Gree, and Evgum. Their achievements are also known. For my part, I can say that, despite their past, they have worthily proven themselves as adepts of the Unifying Force and are ready to begin serving the Empire. What is the opinion of the other members of the Order Council?"
Red chuckled inwardly.
The Order Council of Imperial Knights, as tens of thousands of years ago, consisted of a group of high-ranking Force adepts who each headed one of the nine Great Temples on Tython. With only one exception.
The head of the Order—for life—was not one of the masters of the nine temples built by the Je'daii. It was the head of the Empire—the Immortal Emperor. Even though he did not head any of the Great Temples.
Yes, by the current time, all nine ancient abodes of knowledge had been discovered and restored to one degree or another. Only Padawan Kesh had lost its relevance as a training center for young adepts. Instead, the complex located a hundred kilometers from the Great Temple—once built by the Jedi during the Cold War and restored for the needs of the current owners—had turned into a mass dormitory for newly arrived adepts and younglings—as the junior students were called, who were trained in the Great Temple under the supervision of Ashara herself and several other mentors—former Jensaarai. Some of the first adepts of the Unifying Force.
To be honest, from the experience of his years, Red considered the training system on Tython to be excessively... free, perhaps. In Zeison Sha society, it was hard to imagine young warriors studying under different mentors. It was only necessary to pass a trial—and there was always a Zeison who would help you bring your skills to perfection.
On Tython, everything was different.
The students were trained in each of the nine Great Temples. True, no one called them that officially and pompously—except perhaps the nerds from Kaleth. For the rest, there was only one Great Temple—the one where the Council headquarters was located. Young gifted ones were also received here—recently, the guards had begun to bring very young children and teenagers to the planet. Where they got them from remained a mystery. However, among the former Jedi—and there were some here—rumors circulated that some of the children were the very ones whose names were listed in the holocron stolen along with other relics from the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. And the most gifted infants in the galaxy were listed there. But again—these were just rumors.
So, arriving on Tython, the children ended up in the Great Temple. General scientific classes were held with them here, and lessons in history and the philosophy of the Force were taught. Ashara and her subordinates laid a general foundation in their students, striving to identify the individual abilities of each child. Some could move objects at a young age; one boy of the human race read minds, and so skillfully that they had to work with him to explain why it shouldn't be done to everyone. The kid seemed to understand and draw conclusions. At least, there were no more scandals about him telling some of his classmates the secret thoughts of others.
After the children learned the basic truths, they went to Akar Kesh, also called the Temple of Balance. Here, talkative masters instilled the key idea of the new Order into their pliable minds—the infallible maintenance of balance between all aspects of the Force. This temple was headed by one of the former Jensaarai, which was generally logical—they were among the first to adopt the new ideology.
The mentors of the designated temple silently agreed that the indicated students (if one could call the trio, whose ages ranged from twenty to... hutt knows how old the eldest of them was) had indeed mastered the program in these institutions. That is, at least two agreed that this trio should join the Empire as full-fledged military leaders.
The Temple of Healing, officially called Mahara Kesh, was headed by a young Mirialan, rumored to be a former Jedi. However, with their race, it was never clear how old they were from the moment of birth. But the guy was a rather excellent healer. And a mentor. No wonder the skills of self-healing and healing others were taught to students before those practices in which they could (and successfully put into practice) learn to maim each other.
"I am in favor of promoting all three to the rank of Imperial Knights," he said briefly and to the point.
Next on the path of a future Imperial Knight was Bodhi. Once it was a temple of the arts, but now piloting skills and the handling of equipment were taught here. For the most part, the mentors selected those at this stage who would later, after completing the entire course of study, go to Fortress Ro on the planet Shikaakwa in this star system. Once there was a base for extremely unpleasant individuals, but that was more than thirty thousand years ago. Now the headquarters of the fleet guarding Tython was located there. And according to rumors, they greatly welcomed those who possessed Force sensitivity and loved to fly. They even had a special unit for them. True, only a couple of pilots were listed there.
"Evgum showed extremely high results in piloting," the mentor of this temple said. "I would recommend assigning him to the Ace Corps."
"Your wish will be taken into account," Ashara noted, turning her gaze to Shegren.
The former Matukai leader headed Stav Kesh—the temple of martial arts. Here, he and several other mentors firmly hammered (sometimes literally) hand-to-hand combat skills into the heads of the students. Teras Kasi was very popular with those who instructed future knights in the matter of using their own bodies as a center of Force power. And, it must be admitted, they did it with intelligence and flair. Red had the chance to see several of their training sessions—quiet and calm young men and women, boys and girls came to the temple, but they left it as walking killing machines.
"Don't look at me so soulfully, I might just agree," Shegren said cheerfully. "Evgum and BoShek—definitely yes, especially the first. Tasi, though... he's sluggish. He knows, he understands, but he's lazy to use it. Every now and then he falls back into his Jedi habits, loses concentration. I'm in favor of him staying behind."
"Accepted," Ashara said. Which meant the Nautolan's candidacy was "cut off"—this wasn't the Jedi, where you only had to pass a couple of trials to prove your "worthiness." In the Order of Imperial Knights, to obtain the coveted rank, it was necessary to gain the approval of all temple masters without exception. However, glancing at the master of Kaleth sitting nearby, Roberts thought that he would surely take advantage of a loophole in the rules. But what was there to guess, if now he had to answer for his part?
"As the master of Qigong Kesh, I support the candidacies of BoShek and Evgum," and there wasn't a shred of a lie in that. The first—a former smuggler, enthusiastically plunged into studying the subtleties of Force skills and techniques, grasping the new with burning eyes and consolidating what he had previously learned. Evgum... a former Berserker—a warrior to the bone
to the bone. He wasn't interested in complex Force combinations or intricate maneuvers. For him, everything was simple—Push, Pull, Wave. Barrier, Lightning, Ionization, and a handful of concentration techniques. Could anything more be useful in the heat of battle? Unlikely. But the boy knew his potential. And what he possessed, he had honed to perfection. It was a pity he couldn't wear a warning sign for future opponents. Perhaps then, one of them might actually survive.
The Forge Master—of the temple of Vur Tepe, where the seekers studied Force forging in practice and learned to create their own armor and weapons—was not particularly talkative. He waved a hand, as if to say he agreed. Well, that was his business.
But what came next was actually somewhat interesting.
It was the turn of Ikeru.
The former apprentice of the leader of the Black Guard—a Sith cult that preached understanding the world through the Force. Traditionally—via the Dark Side. Like most who survived the process of "aggressive recruitment" of various Force cult leaders, Ikeru had traveled an infinitely long and painstaking path of initiation into the Unifying Force, soaking up the knowledge of the Light Side like a sponge. Even former Jedi, upon arriving at his temple, were amazed by how finely he felt the Force. And with what mastery he applied it in the field of alchemy.
Sith alchemy was terrible and beautiful at the same time. This knowledge had been forgotten for millennia but was gathered piece by piece by the Black Guard. Ikeru didn't make much of an impression as a guru of the Force's subtleties. But in practice, he made his students itch in all sorts of immodest places from sheer awe at what was happening. Because he performed real magic, altering the properties of physical objects, metals, and liquids. It was rumored that he was the only one of all the temple masters, not counting Ashara herself, naturally, who had found a way to deal with the guardsmen. And they would, every now and then, drag still-living specimens for experiments to his underground laboratories at Anil Kesh—the temple of natural science and alchemy. What happened to them afterward, no one knew. But it was unlikely to be anything good.
Red himself knew perfectly well what the young temple master was doing. He was turning bloodthirsty Flesh Raiders into bloodthirsty monsters. Which the guardsmen would then hunt. And the most promising students were also being initiated into the business of confronting an enemy significantly different from oneself.
True, the price of this knowledge turned out to be too high. One of the promising students, whom Red had planned to keep as a mentor in his Temple, had wormed his way into Ikeru's confidence at his request. And he managed to find out what the captives were for. He honestly told the former Zeison Sha about it, after which he said his goodbyes and began teaching at Anil Kesh.
Finally, it was the turn of the master of Kaleth. The only temple where absolutely all the knowledge at the Order's disposal was gathered. And it was said that Kaleth, unlike the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, could truly say, "If something is not in my archives, then it does not exist in the world." For, unlike the Jedi, the servants of Kaleth guarded their information by every available means. Even the archival terminals were protected from overwriting or erasure. Therefore, one had to think several times before entering any information into the Kaleth data banks.
"The last word is yours, master," Red said. Of course, everyone present had a name. It was just that Red didn't memorize them due to a lack of necessity. It wasn't that he had grown colder toward sentients after his son's death during the trial. No, everything had been fair—Lady Tano had won according to the Zeison Sha rules. Such things had happened more than once and in more than one family. It was foolish to mourn one who could not be brought back. All that remained was to carry his memory until the end of one's days.
"Yes, I understand," the master of the Kaleth temple said fussily. "I do not object to the initiation of BoShek and Evgum into the Imperial Knights. They have proven their careful attitude toward the heritage and knowledge of the Order more than once. But, exercising my right as a Temple master, I would like to ask the Council to transfer Tasi Gree to Kaleth for the position of archive warden. He is not a warrior; he is quiet and calm. His business is not to fight, but to preserve and multiply."
"Are there any objections?" Ashara inquired. There were none. Because the former Jedi truly had no future as a warrior or a commander—he knew it himself. His talents lay in a completely different plane. And that was to be respected.
"Then it is settled," Ashara rose, signaling that the meeting was over. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both Imperial Guardsmen flare up in the Force with rage and pain. Without a word, they gripped the hilts of their lightsabers. One of them immediately began to work on the door panel, unlocking the door. Red noticed that, despite the markings and skin tone, the Togruta's face had darkened. And her breathing seemed to have become erratic. "Tomorrow at dawn, BoShek and Evgum will undergo their final trial, and a final decision will be made. Master of the Kaleth temple—student Tasi Gree is at your disposal."
After which, without saying goodbye, Zavros walked quickly toward the exit of the Council Chamber, demanding that the guardsmen establish a connection with the Emperor.
"It seems something has happened," Roberts thought. "And it seems it happened specifically to the permanent leader of the Order of Imperial Knights."
Something very unpleasant.