"Admiral Tigellinus!" A shout from the communications station reached the officer's ears through the steady hum of machinery. "Urgent dispatch from Army Headquarters on Geonosis!"
Rufaan, carefully ignoring the message that rang out across the entire bridge, continued to stare intently at the flight control monitor readings. Leaning over the shoulder of the watch officer, he watched as a red dot symbolizing an enemy raider vanished from the display. A Munificent-class frigate that had wandered into the Pantora system—either out of stupidity or as the vanguard of an invasion force—was fleeing from the squadron flagship Stiletto at full thrust. It had no idea that its seemingly perfect escape route through the moon's upper atmosphere was no surprise to the Republic commander.
The squadrons of fighters and ARC-170s waiting in ambush didn't need to be asked twice. A massive volley of proton torpedoes, and the Separatist frigate broke apart. A pity it couldn't be observed with one's own eyes, and instead, one had to settle for telemetry from the fighters' boards... Well, one can't be in the thick of things everywhere.
"Inform Consul and Corvo they did an excellent job," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," the operator replied, glancing at the commander. "The dispatch..."
"I don't have a hearing problem, Lieutenant," Rufaan said dryly. "Did you hear the order?"
"Yes, sir..."
"Then see to it," the Admiral walked calmly toward the small stairs leading from the "pit" to the main level of the bridge. The toes of his polished boots pointed toward the viewscreen, which displayed the already tiresome snowy vistas of the moon of Pantora.
"Admiral?" The same voice sounded almost right at his ear. He even felt hot breath on his neck. How interesting. So this character knows how to run silently (otherwise he wouldn't have reached this part of the bridge from the comms section so quickly), but doesn't know how to observe subordination and the Regulations? Fine soldiers Declann had under his command. Why are such people even kept in service?
He could clearly hear the man in the brand-new Captain's uniform huffing as he walked beside him. He was bursting with impatience; however, nothing could justify such behavior. Unbecoming of a naval officer.
And even if this fresh-baked Captain was one of the Christophsian volunteers trained by "private contractors," it gave him no discount. The Regulations are the same for everyone. After all, he wasn't one of the clones coming into the army from Kamino. The training level of the latest generation of clones provided to the Republic was, to put it mildly, limping on both legs. There were already jokes about it circulating through the army.
It seemed the Kaminoans had decided not to spend money on proper mentors for the last batch, hiring mercenary rabble through advertisements. As a result, there wasn't a single commander in the Tenth Systems Army who, upon receiving clones from this batch into their unit or aboard their ship, didn't curse the long-necks for all they were worth.
They knew everything a soldier needed to know. In peacetime. How else to explain the fact that the new clones were trained according to pre-war programs? Without taking into account the generalized experience of combat operations against specific CIS equipment models, which were regularly sent from the fronts to Kamino so they could supplement their clone training programs, narrowing the experience gap between veterans and rookies.
But the reinforcements acted as if they had never heard of the basic truths for which their older comrades had paid in blood. It was no wonder that one of the first units to arrive on Christophsis lost nearly half its personnel in the very first battle. Simply because the "reinforcements" didn't even suspect the small-group tactics, dispersed formations, and use of any cover to prolong their mortal existence that had been implemented in Ghent (and throughout the GAR)... and that's just talking about the infantry.
In the fleet, it was a total... What, one might ask, can be gained from a new crew member who has been trained to operate Acclamator systems? And yet he is to serve on a completely different type of starship.
The only saving grace was that most systems on ships produced by Kuat Drive Yards didn't differ from each other. Fundamentally. But the minor refinements appearing with each new series of Republic starships were enough for the rookies to get lost at their battle stations. Which drastically reduced the effectiveness of such a crew member.
The strange, silent pair of officers reached the massive transpari-steel "window." Only there, away from the ears of the crew, did Tigellinus, with his inherent grace and charismatic restraint, turn on his heels to face his subordinate.
A moment ago, the young commander of his new Avatar (the previous flagship had vanished during the battle at Exsarga) had looked determined and proactive, but now he suddenly lowered his gaze.
"Sir..." his words hung in the air as he noticed the Admiral examining his command bars. "The dispatch..."
"You are not at a bazaar, Captain Lag," Rufaan said coldly. "This is the bridge of a combat starship. The flagship of a strike fleet. If you have information that you are duty-bound to relay to me, you do not need to shout across the entire compartment, sowing panic among the crew and demonstrating your ignorance of military etiquette. The Regulations prescribe that you deliver this information to me personally. You might as well have used sound amplifiers—so that not a single sentient was left who hadn't heard it. I am saying this for the first and last time. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, sir," the Christophsian said sheepishly.
Tigellinus held the officer under an unblinking gaze for a few more long seconds, wondering if the man had truly grasped the importance of the lesson taught to him, or if a similar situation would follow in a couple of hours.
Then, with a sigh, he nodded:
"I am listening to your report."
"An encrypted order from Army Headquarters on Christophsis..."
"Dimus," the Vice Admiral said restrainedly. "The Stiletto fleet is a structural unit of the Ghent systems army. I am aware of where our headquarters is located. As well as the fact that we cannot receive an order from any other headquarters or astronomical body. I suggest you remember that. I am a patient man, but if you intend to continue serving under my command, and as the commander of the flagship no less—I advise you not to allow such mishaps in the future."
"Yes, sir," Dimus swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple twitching nervously. "Permission to continue?"
"Granted," Rufaan dropped. Unlike many of his colleagues at his former post, he always had a fine sense of when not to cross the invisible line between "dressing down" subordinates and open humiliation. Actually, for that same reason, this dialogue was taking place face-to-face, rather than becoming the property of the ears of the entire bridge crew. Rumors spread quickly. And undermining the authority of a young and not-so-experienced Captain before the crew is too easy. But restoring it...
"Grand Moff Dougan failed to check in at the scheduled time. All fleets to Condition Two. Commence reconnaissance and search operations," Lag said, as if reading from a data pad. Yes, an eidetic memory in an officer was a great rarity. And a good asset. "Signed by the Grand Moff's deputy, General Secura."
"Signal the ships of the fleet to dispatch ARCs to all nearby sectors," the Admiral ordered. "Report every hour. Upon detecting the Grand Moff's signal or enemy forces—immediate report."
"It will be done, sir," Dimus saluted and, with a quick pace that didn't stand out from the general flow of bridge activity, headed toward the comms section.
Meanwhile, Tigellinus, left alone with his thoughts, began to analyze. A habit that had appeared almost immediately after being transferred under Dougan's command.
So, only the lazy didn't know in the army that the Jedi had gone to settle scores with the Separatist commander. The "soldier's radio" couldn't be jammed by any technical means.
Despite the fact that Stiletto was based at the very edge of Ghent's zone of responsibility, the latest news hadn't bypassed them. The slaughter at Hypori, and Vreya, and Baron Kirvan's ultimatum... All of this had arrived along with a number of officers transferred by HQ under Rufaan's command from the Blade fleet. The very same one that now existed only in HQ records, while its commander floated in a bacta tank.
Dimus Lag, former second assistant on the flagship Telos, which had been knocked from orbit onto the planet's surface, was nearly the only survivor from the aforementioned starship. Command had promoted him to the next rank in view of his merits—firstly, he was a deck officer of the cruiser, and his subordinates—the pilots—had done a magnificent job. Secondly, he had managed to fight his way with a squad of clones to the nearly captured central computer and destroy all data. And this was while hordes of enemies were on board. Had that not happened—who knows what damage the HQ documents, plans, and dispositions of the entire systems army falling into Separatist hands could have caused?
So, the promotion to Captain was a perfectly justified reward. Another question was why, instead of an experienced officer, command had sent a yesterday's assistant to Tigellinus's new flagship. Without any experience of independent command of a starship larger than a picket ship.
Disra, a friend and ally, continuing his ascent to the heights of a naval career, had hinted to him as if in passing that for reasons incomprehensible to the officer class of Coruscant, the Chancellor's office had cooled toward Grand Moff Dougan. Everything seemed proper on the surface—they had placed massive forces and resources at his disposal. But the transfers and appointments of command staff—from simple midshipmen to ship commanders—were not being approved for some "technical reasons." The "Reflex Amendment" passed by the Senate, which allowed the Chancellor to personally oversee military matters, had changed the procedure for moving officers between different armies. And now you couldn't just lure a talented officer to your side so easily...
Rufaan was used to trusting his friend. The man was cunning and shrewd enough to have access to the real state of affairs. After all, it wasn't for nothing that he had urged Tigellinus to write a request for transfer to any other systems army. It meant something... strange was happening at the top.
The Vice Admiral couldn't, in all honesty, say that the Jedi Dougan was personally likable to him as a man. Primarily because Rufaan himself held extremely conservative views and did not strive to conform to the modern fashion of tolerant worldviews. But that was just a crude joke for gatherings among other fleet commanders.
In reality, Tigellinus had no intention of leaving Ghent for a completely different reason.
He liked serving under Dougan's command.
In Ghent, everything was measured, planned, and calculated in advance. Even the loss of an entire fleet hadn't turned out to be a major problem—the army had hundreds of ships in reserve. Ships weren't thrown into suicidal attacks at the whim of Jedi. Ground units cooperated closely with the fleet—not just in the sense of "hey, drop us off at the next planet." A combat brotherhood had formed between the two branches of service. Where the army respected the fleet, and the latter reciprocated.
There was no chaos, no pointless sacrifices, no stupid throwing of helmets at buckets... Or rather, they did happen—due to the fault of individual Jedi. Who almost immediately after that left the army.
Such an attitude toward service suited Rufaan perfectly. The competence of the command allowed him not to worry about his career growth. The prescribed bonuses for service in the remote regions of the galaxy arrived from the army budget regularly. The material part was steadily being updated.
Take, for example, Tigellinus's current flagship—the Valiant-class Star Destroyer. Traditionally named Avatar. Its predecessor, after the battle at Exsarga, was supposed to be scrapped—it was useless to repair it; it was cheaper to build a new one. The former flagship had met its glorious end in orbit of Hypori during the well-known operation.
And in exchange for the lost ship, Ghent had purchased from the Cube Drives corporation—one of the Republic's long-time partners and suppliers of combat and civilian starships—a pilot series of Valiant-class Star Destroyers.
Externally, they resembled the starships produced by Kuat Drive Yards—the Venators. In fact, the Valiant was based on that design. But unlike its prototype, the latter was not intended for use as a multi-role ship. Its entire internal space had been converted into a hangar protected by thick armor, not inferior to that of the Venator. Cube Drives engineers had significantly reworked the ship's weapon placement schemes and energy output, resulting in a ship not only capable of carrying more fighters (20 squadrons versus 16 on the Venator) but also possessing a greater number of turbolaser turret guns and reliable anti-aircraft cover—the common woe of Kuat designs.
It would seem a magnificent vessel had been obtained, capable of at least partially compensating for the enemy's superiority in fighters over Republic ships. However, it turned out not to be so simple.
The manufacturing company had come under investigation by a Senate commission, which revealed facts of developing and selling combat equipment to the CIS. The corporation was mired in endless legal proceedings. At the same time, sanctions imposed by the Senate prohibited Cube Drives from continuing the production of military equipment—until the end of the investigation. As a result, the first batch of Valiants was also the last. Ghent, however, received two dozen carriers in various stages of readiness. Only two of them were completed and reached the fleets led by Tigellinus and Makati. The rest of the company's representatives were delivered to the orbit of the moon of Christophsis, where locals were diligently erecting space docks and shipyards. It was rumored that the corporation, in exchange for the absence of claims from the customer, had handed over all technical documentation to the Grand Moff, and a significant portion of the company's personnel had changed jobs, settling in Crystal City.
Whether that was actually the case or not, Rufaan didn't know. He could only state the fact that his fleet now possessed a full-fledged strike carrier. And he used every day of the lull to conduct endless training exercises.
Fortunately, today he had managed to apply that knowledge in practice without much risk.
The crew was "barely" meeting the standards set by command—despite the core of the crew being battle-hardened veterans, the "dilution" of the crew's numbers with recruits affected overall efficiency.
So, it could be said that the directive from HQ had untied his hands in the matter of expanding the scope for maneuvers. After all, one could always go looking for one's commander on a carrier-class Star Destroyer supported by several Hammerhead-class cruisers.
And yet, one question gave Rufaan no peace.
Where are you, Grand Moff Dougan?
***
On the bridge of the Sovereign, almost all members of the strike groups that had landed on the dreadnought were gathered. Commando squads: Omega Squad, Delta Squad, Ion Team, Aiwha Squad, Yayax Squad, Hurricane Team, Laskovyi May Squad, Inferno Squad... Yes, all commando squads loyal to me personally had taken part in this operation. They had moved out in advance to the rendezvous point on cloaked Furys, on which we had arrived here, and investigated the approaches and points of entry onto the dreadnought. In general, considering our capture of one of the four largest CIS ships without suffering significant losses (at such thoughts, Kylie's young and smiling face rose before my eyes...), the idea of involving only loyal and only experienced commandos for this operation could be considered justified.
Only the completely immature youth, like Vevat, or those whose trust was yet to be earned, remained at the deployment sites. Like Muunilinst 10, which had once distinguished itself with brave actions on the planet of the same name. Although they were brave lads, in no way inferior in professionalism to the rest—after all, they were trained by Mandalorians. Not some dregs who took their place after the war began.
A vivid confirmation of the decreased quality of training was Veshok Squad. Coming from the third generation, they had finished their training at the beginning of the second year of the war. And on every mission (of which they now had five under their belts), the boys took losses. Which immensely annoyed the other commandos, who weren't used to, like sports bike enthusiasts, noting significant changes in their roster at every meeting. Therefore, a significant portion of the reinforcements settled for a long time at training bases, where veterans mercilessly drilled the "youth," by hook or by crook hammering into their heads not just the basics of combat (which, God bless them, the current instructors on Kamino had already managed to do), but also the experience gained over all the elapsed time.
The latter had to be adopted, strange as it might seem at first glance, even by clones coming from the "reserves" of the sectoral command. Despite the fact that for the most part these were soldiers from the first two generations, they had practically not participated in battles, burdened only by guard duty.
Just like that, simply and elegantly, the plan to acquire a multi-million army of professional soldiers had turned into another struggle. Well, that was a secondary and routine matter.
As a separate group in the cockpit of the prize dreadnought stood the Nulls with their tireless leader—Kal Skirata. They had joined us quite recently—delivering Kylie's body to the Fury we arrived on. A little further off, lined up in front of the viewscreen, was the fair half of the task force: Lady Carsen, Lady Grell, Lady Atroxa, Lady Hexid, Lady Simi, Lady Morn with her apprentice Sariss. A pair of Dashade, who had returned with dissatisfied faces, were grumbling gloomily behind my back—the assassins had managed to escape them, using a miraculously intact CIS transport. Little Brother was tirelessly repairing the bridge equipment that had been smashed to bits. He was being helped by several clones from among the commandos—don't give engineers an inch or they'll start repairing something.
However, now—when the four-kilometer dreadnought was drifting in the cloudless sky of a peaceful-looking planet enclosed in the massive Mortis Monolith, thoughts were not at all about Sidious's trap.
But about what the coming day held for me.
"You know something about what's happening, don't you?" Adi, sitting next to me, inquired.
"What makes you think that?"
"You were the least surprised by what's going on," she explained. "Especially when that structure pulled the Sovereign inside without any effort."
"To start with, there can be only one Super Star Destroyer with that name in this galaxy," I noted, not looking up from my task—wiping splashes and streaks of blood from my mask and armor with the edge of my cloak. "And this piece of work by a dark Separatist genius clearly loses in size. From now on, this dreadnought is called Black Overlord."
"Let's assume that's somehow connected to the fact that almost the entire hull of the ship is scorched," Gallia nodded. "But you're avoiding the answer..."
"I'm trying my best to delay the moment when I have to start talking about what kind of mess we've gotten ourselves into," I had to admit.
"However, it's inevitable," Adi parried.
"I know."
"Maybe it's worth telling then? If we're in danger, we should prepare."
"I'm not sure we can," and again, a grim admission.
"Are there any enemies left in the galaxy that you couldn't defeat or fuck?" the Tolothian asked gloomily.
"You have no idea how many there are..."
"And yet?" Adi persisted.
"You'd pester a dead man," I sighed, getting to my feet. "Attention, everyone!"
Those gathered, looking up from their tasks, stared at me in silence. The clones lined up in a sharp military fashion—in distinct, neat groups with a leader in front. The Force-users watched with a cold-polite-submissive interest. And every single one of them—eating me with their eyes.
Brrr... a curious sensation. After the battle on Christophsis, I had felt something similar when the soldiers of the 204th Legion and the locals were eating me with their eyes. Now, the sensation was... only slightly weaker than that. Only the scale of the audience was thousands of times smaller. Funny... perhaps it was somehow connected to the fact that the Force wasn't breaking through the monolith, looping inside? Hmm... I bet the Force also can't reach us from the outside. Unpleasant, but not fatal.
However—unexpected again. Because if the Monolith blocked the spread of the Force beyond its limits (and knowing what kind of inhabitants cruise the vast spaces of the Galaxy Far, Far Away inside it, it's not hard to conclude that such technical solutions were not made by chance, but only to hide the aura of the Family's power from the rest of the galaxy), then questions might arise in the Empire. Because I was connected to my Hands, guardsmen, and Wrath through Force Bonds. I can't imagine what's going through the heads of Ashara (the only one of the Hands who didn't take part in the glorious event of taking movable property from the rich and expropriating it for the benefit of the even richer), the guardsmen, Vos... It's time to seriously get to work on stabilizing the political situation in the Empire, because if the Emperor disappears from view for even a moment, who knows what it will lead to. Oh, if only I had my own Dark Council... And a decent governor for Zakuul, because I fear the Guard, upon whose shoulders the responsibility for the original Imperial planets has fallen, will soon turn from an elite unit of Force-users into jacks-of-all-trades...
Okay, these are useful thoughts, but untimely. Damned comedown after the Dark Side... The wrong things are getting into my head.
"The place of our current stay is the Mortis Monolith," I said. "An extremely foul place, considering the character and stubbornness of its inhabitants."
"Who are we to face, Emperor?" Kal Skirata inquired. The old man, behind whom the six Nulls were positioned like a blocking detachment, looked extremely calm on the outside, almost relaxed. Although the Force said the Mandalorian was intensely focused, tense, preparing to absorb information. He extremely disliked the situation we all found ourselves in. And the same reaction was present in his "children"—Ordo, Prudii, A'den, Mereel, Jaing, and Kom'rk, whom the elderly warrior had adopted back on Kamino. The other clones—both the Alphas and the regular commandos—treated the situation with quite a bit of restraint. However, not all...
"I don't care who it is," one of the clones said bitterly, but with a hint of anticipation, "we will put them to the fire in the name of the Empire."
"Sinner," a familiar, somewhat dark and unsmiling Necromancer said quietly, nudging his brother in the side with his elbow. "Shut up, for heaven's sake."
Assorted chuckles and smiles spread among those gathered. Yes, this commando named Sinner had managed to lift the mood. Judging by the color of his armor—matte black with red flame patterns on the pauldrons (Hutt, I need to smack the one who came up with the nickname "Infiltrator" for the replica armor of the Republic's Desolation Squad from the Galactic War era)—this guy was clearly from Inferno Squad. Led by Captain Korr, these guys—like the aforementioned Necromancer—specialized in the total extermination of their targets, bringing light, goodness, and democracy to enemies by burning everything flammable and blowing up the fireproof. In short—kind and sweet guys. There were only three of them—for several reasons. First, Kamino no longer had the capacity to churn out commandos. The embryos were gone. And on the planet now, after the contract with the Republic for clone production was closed, a total update of the production base was underway—cloning facilities were being fiercely and madly modernized. Naturally, they'll get Spaarti cylinders only over my dead body—it's not right for a planet to have the ability to produce millions of clones in two weeks. We all remember the Clone Revolution seven years after the proclamation of the New Order in the events I know. Considering that the Kaminoans "hid" a "few" ARCs and jet clone troopers, whom they turned against the Empire, I wouldn't be surprised if Lama Su tries a similar scenario with me now. At least, he'll try to keep some of the cloned soldiers "just in case." Especially in the current situation.
Secondly, Ghent directives allowed separate units, i.e., commando squads, to staff their ranks at the commander's discretion. And, apparently, Korr had found only one fighter since our meeting. Oh well. They'll manage; they're not boys.
"Despite all the jokes and laughter, the matter is not as simple as it seems at first glance," I noted, pointing a hand at the viewscreen. "The Family lives on this planet."
Seeing the lack of understanding on the faces of those present, I clarified:
"Does everyone know about the Celestials? They are the Skymen. They are the Architects," catching a hint of understanding from most of the Force-users, I added. "There is a suggestion that the Family is the last of them."
"Well, shit," Lady Simi spoke up.
"Uh... is it that bad?" Balda asked, scratching the back of his head.
"Worse than if a Death Star were hanging outside, or if we'd dropped in on the Yuuzhan Vong for a visit," I lamented. "The Celestials, in case anyone didn't know, are behind the creation of the Corellian star system. Centerpoint Station is their flight of fancy. Of course, the construction was made possible thanks to millions of slaves, for which they used most of the known races inhabiting the galaxy during their period of residence."
"Sir, are they that ancient?" Alpha asked grimly.
"Older than terentatek shit," Celeste commented. "In its time, the Covenant believed that the Maw installation was a creation of the Celestials, but no proof of that was ever found. Only quasi-scientific hypotheses of mad scientists based on extremely rare finds from the period of their dominance in the galaxy."
"So maybe everything will be fine?" one of Alpha's soldiers suggested. "Maybe if we touch them, they'll just crumble..."
"Who said that?" The aforementioned ARC turned sharply to the soldiers standing behind his back. "Private Joker?" Running a thumb across his throat while looking into the face of his jester-soldier, Alpha-17 turned toward me. "Forgive me, sir, it won't happen again."
"I forgive," shrugging, I cast a sad look at the serene sky of Mortis. "I forgive the dead everything..."
The pause hanging in the air betrayed a tension in the Force that had appeared among my grateful listeners. Eh, it's hard to joke in the company of clones. Especially in my status. Not everyone understands sarcasm yet.
"Okay, live on, Joker," I permitted. "And no, you're wrong. The Family—possibly the most outstanding Force users that ever existed in the galaxy. And I'm willing to bet a couple of my clones that we ended up here not because of a dreadnought system reboot."
"Do you think it's a trap, sir?" the commander of Omega Squad grew somber.
"More like the opposite. A polite invitation to visit. Only, I'm afraid, it might not end exactly the way we want it to."
"It's not quite clear," Nadia said. "Are they our friends or..."
"Can those who enslaved everyone they met on their path be friends?"
I clarified. "The ones who live for millennia but have done nothing to calm the bubbling shitstorm in the galaxy? As I recall, after meeting the Celestials, civilizations had two paths—become slaves or burrow underground waiting for the day the nightmare passes them by. I'm surprised you haven't heard of them before..."
"Only the general points," Kira stood up for the others. "It wasn't exactly the time to be studying galactic history."
"Then it's worth getting to know us better," a cloyingly sweet voice rang out from behind, nearly making me jump to the ceiling in surprise. Spinning around sharply, I didn't even notice how I activated both of my sabers. The other sensitives did the same. The clones leveled their weapons at the Daughter, who had appeared behind my back out of nowhere, while simultaneously moving across the bridge to take suitable cover in case of a scrap.
It was amusing to watch the faces of both Dashade who, judging by their expressions, were no less surprised than I was by such a sudden appearance. Consequently, the darling had materialized right in the cockpit. Powerful kung fu. Stronger than mine. And a subtle hint of her superiority to boot.
Adi, alone among them, diplomatically chose to refrain from demonstrating a bellicose nature. Oh, those Jedi polities.
But it was on the Tolothian that the sentient focused her gaze. She scrutinized her as if she were planning to eat her for lunch. Only after that did she turn her face, glistening with the Light Side, toward me.
"There is no need for aggression, Emperor Dougan," she smiled slightly. "There are no enemies for you here."
"Do you know her?" Gallia asked.
"I wouldn't say personally," I admitted. "But if I'm not mistaken, you are the Daughter."
"You know you are not mistaken," her cutesy smile was starting to irritate me. "Father wishes to see you in our humble abode for the upcoming meal. He is eager to speak with you in person."
"We graciously accept your invitation," the Tolothian said, stepping forward. "I am Adi Gallia, Master of the Jedi Order..."
"I know who you truly are, Master Gallia," the Daughter said coldly. "And I am not in the habit of speaking with servants when their masters are present."
"What a pretentious bitch," Kira's voice reached me. The Daughter twitched an eyebrow, and in the next moment, a piece of a mangled terminal struck the former Jedi Knight painfully on the head. "Ow!"
"Tell Father that I have other business and plans for today," I said peacefully, while simultaneously calling upon all the sensitives through our connection in a combat Meld to take a wait-and-see position in the dialogue. "Therefore, I would be grateful if he..."
"This is not a request," the Daughter stated. "I do not advise keeping him waiting."
With those words, the ethereal and, truth be told, eye-catching girl vanished into thin air. Eh, despite everything, she had a cute look. Eh, Anikey Skywalkered, you called the wrong lady an angel.
The air filled with the sounds of deactivating lightsabers. It felt like being in an airlock.
"What was all that about?" Adi frowned. "A rather chaotic first meeting..."
"We were clearly shown who is in control," Skirata said.
"And it was quite transparently hinted that our appearance here is by no means accidental," I said grimly. Yes, it seemed my guess about the suddenly non-functional hyperdrive was correct. And I didn't like that one bit. "And they almost explicitly warned of possible unfavorable consequences."
"What shall we do?" Adi frowned. She, like the other sensitives, now more closely fit the term "puzzled." Though... considering what had happened between us—"preoccupied" as well.
"Take the ship outside the atmosphere," Skirata, upon whom I rested my gaze, nodded in agreement. "We need to repair all possible defense and offense systems."
"Is a battle expected?" Boss, the commander of Delta Squad, asked gloomily.
"In this galaxy, even peace negotiations can turn into a bloody brawl," I had to flash some erudition regarding the Expanded Universe.
"Balda," I looked at the commander of Laskovyi May Squad. "Scour the ship—I need a shuttle to descend to the surface."
"It will be done," the ARC nodded silently to his men, and the commandos vanished from sight, nearly running toward the turbolift.
"Wouldn't it be better to use one of the Furys?" Atrox inquired.
I shook my head.
"I really don't want a certain bloodthirsty creature getting its hands on a ship with a hyperdrive. Oh, and one more thing. Kira, Nadia, Celeste—I have a very special assignment for you."
***
A'Sharad knew the terrain as well as the clones, but he allowed them to move ahead of him. After all, the soldiers of the 95th Reconnaissance Corps had shown themselves in the best light. Stubborn, almost meticulous, competent, and agile, these clones had raised his perception of the soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic to a new level. The mere fact that, despite the corps' specialization—reconnaissance and sabotage—they crushed the enemy with equal skill through both ambushes and the routine skirmishes with enemy forces that had become typical on New Cov, spoke to the professionalism of these men.
However, right now it was best for them to act covertly. Because finding oneself in the enemy's rear, at a significant distance from the main clone forces, was not the best way to spend the evening. Force forbid the Confederates suspect something and move their headquarters. You'd be searching for their commander all over the planet. Whereas today, he would definitely be in a specific place at a specific time.
Why a tactical superdroid—as the new type of CIS command droids were called in the GAR—would personally be present at one of the outposts of the second line of defense, no one knew. But missing such an opportunity would be extremely foolish. Decapitating the enemy command with a single strike meant winning half the time. Because no matter how dutiful the Separatist soldiers were, the absence of a clear vertical of power always left them at a loss. Xiaan Amersu—his... close friend and, concurrently, a Jedi well-acquainted with the staff eggheads—had once mentioned that research into CIS droid software showed that identifying a commander was programmed by the creators as one of the priority tasks. But the mandatory destruction of the enemy was lower in significance. Consequently, by depriving them of command, one could always count on a few minutes of advantage in the coming Republic offensive. And minutes in battle sometimes decide everything.
"Half a click to the target, sir," a clone with the markings of a Marshal Commander appeared beside him. Ivan, it seemed, was his name.
"Excellent," Hett smiled. "That means very soon."
"Yes, sir," a voice came from under the helmet. The clone, whose armor was covered in various shades of green, fell back slightly, joining the rearguard group following closely behind.
Yes, a strange fellow. A corps commander, yet he dives into the thick of it. Strange behavior for clones in command positions. Or does he want to prove that the plan proposed by Hett is untenable without his participation?
The man raised by Tuskens only smirked.
Sure, right. Thinks he's a genius.
"Sir! I am resolutely against such an operation! We cannot be certain of the prisoner of war's words!"—that's what Ivan had said, apparently, when Hett voiced his plan.
The idea—destroy the enemy commander and take advantage of the droids' confusion for a subsequent offensive—was not new in essence. In Ghent alone, they had pulled it off more than ten times. And why not? Simple and effective.
The bloody battle on New Cov had already cost many lives. Commodore Zsinj's Rapier Fleet had been thoroughly battered in a grueling, multi-day battle with the Separatists. The latter were commanded by some Muun from among the former servants of the Banking Clan. One would think, where would a former banker get a talent for large-scale space fleet operations?
But no. He had it. And it wasn't just throwing masses at the Republicans, but a very skillful tactic. So elegant that the relatively small fleet defending New Cov had already broken the teeth of the Blade and Shield fleets under Admirals Syn and Teshik, who had sequentially left more than half their ships in orbit of the otherwise unremarkable world and were now licking their wounds in orbit of the planet Linuri, located further south along the Corellian Trade Spine.
To be fair, it must be said that Zsinj was truly lucky. His fleet was little different from the previous two—both in quantity and quality. A single Venator as a flagship, outdated Hammerheads as the main strike force, and Marauders acting as light support ships. Zsinj, full of strength and having suffered no loss in ships or men, merely finished off the Muun, most of whose fleet had already been mercilessly battered by previous attacks. What was so elegant or clever about sending your flagship and landing ships ahead of the main forces, luring most of the undamaged Munificents toward such tempting prey, and then—bringing the main part of the fleet into the system behind them and destroying them first with massive missile volleys from the Marauders, and then methodically "chewing up" the "cripples" remaining in the planet's orbit? Hett saw nothing unusual in this.
Did it sting him that Zsinj—an ordinary man, albeit a high-ranking one—brushed aside Hett's advice for a crude and furious invasion with all forces? Yes. Because it was insulting—when the army command strictly suppressed Jedi interference in fleet affairs. As if to say, you command a corps? Then command it. On the ground. And don't stick your nose into strategic matters.
Perhaps that was why Hett sought to quickly conclude the barely begun ground operation.
The Separatists fought desperately. In the two days since the battle began, they had thrown waves at the beachhead occupied by Republic troops, but each time they were pushed back with enormous losses. Not even the mercenaries—organics fighting for the CIS—helped them.
But they did help the Jedi.
In the sense that several captured Aqualish mercenaries told the Jedi with the tattooed face that they had once been the personal guard of the CIS ground commander—a tactical superdroid. And they honestly spoke of his habit of being at a relatively safe distance from the front line—for a better understanding of what was happening at the front. Most valuable was the commander of one of the mercenary squads, who reported when and at which specific outpost the notorious Aut-O would appear.
Yes, as it turned out, superdroids, like clones, had a habit of taking unique names for themselves.
In short, one way or another, today this tin can would meet its end.
No matter how much the corps commander objected to Hett's plan. And Knight Keto, whose 63rd Assault Corps had arrived as reinforcements. "To consolidate and develop success,"—that was how LeshKa, the commander of the 63rd Corps, quoted the order from Aayla Secura, who was temporarily filling in for the Grand Moff.
The smiling face of this war-hardened clone had begun to irritate Hett almost from the first minutes. He hadn't been fighting for just a day, yet the jokes and relatively light disposition—an obvious defect in the clones' programming for obedience and submissiveness—wouldn't leave him. This Marshal "blossomed" especially in the presence of his commander—the lovely, fragile, yet deadly Sera Keto. Drallig's former apprentice was a true monster on the battlefield. Her level of mastery with two blades was simply mesmerizing. A'Sharad had picked up some elements from sparring with her, improving his own style. After all, a second sword can always come in handy.
One way or another, Hett viewed this raid behind enemy lines as a sort of vacation—an opportunity to rest from the daily routine of a military unit fighting on the front lines. To clear his head.
And at the same time—to earn himself a small piece of glory.
The jungle through which he and a company of soldiers had been pushing for the last two hours suddenly ended, opening into a spacious clearing in the center of which stood the buildings of the outpost. Nothing remarkable—a massive headquarters building in the very center, topped with a satellite dish. A couple of smaller structures, an improvised landing pad for transport ships. A few droid patrols. No searchlights, no heightened combat readiness...
Just perfect circumstances for a small, brave feat.
Crouching behind lush bushes like the members of his squad, Hett thought with a smile how romantic it would be when he presented the head of the tactical superdroid as a gift to Xiaan. The Rutian had always been an impressionable girl, but at the same time, she knew how to find joy in small things. It was this—simplicity and directness—that attracted the man raised by Tuskens to this lovely Twi'lek.
Yes, it might have seemed that his promise—to unconditionally follow Jedi traditions and customs—had been broken. For Jedi are not permitted to love. And Xiaan constantly reminded him of this. Hett listened and agreed, hiding his feelings deeper. Acknowledging the necessity of following the Order's ideals. For the sake of winning the war.
Everything changed after the Council sent them to the Tenth Systems Army. Here, Xiaan turned out to have many acquaintances and friends whom she hadn't seen for a long time. Aayla Secura was the most prominent figure in Amersu's current circle. At her request, the Rutian had unhesitatingly called her corps to arms and set off to rescue Dougan, who had fallen into an ambush (due to his own lack of foresight!). The very same one they whispered about in the Temple. Talked about on the HoloNet. Even in the minutes they spent alone, Xiaan frequently mentioned this Jedi Master. In a completely innocent context—oh, what a fine fellow he is, liberated an entire system, saved an army from starvation by capturing Ukio, exposed slave traders, got rid of more than one of Count Dooku's Dark acolytes, joined the Council at such a young age...
Jealousy pushed Hett to this step. The desire to regain the attention of his close girl. A'Sharad, who would almost single-handedly capture New Cov (immediately after the destruction of the Separatist commander, Ivan would transmit a coded signal, and Republic units would begin their offensive, sweeping the droids from their path), would instantly become a topic of discussion. And would return Xiaan's attention to him.
Pressing his macrobinoculars to his visor, Ivan studied the terrain.
"I count twelve sentries," he reported to Hett. "All B-1 models."
"Three sentient technicians are hiding on the other side of the outpost," the Jedi added, listening to the Force.
He didn't need macrobinoculars to determine that there were sentients at the facility: not just technicians, but mercenaries armed to the teeth, languishing in the nearby buildings. Fifty—a piece of cake, even considering there was no less than a B-1 battalion at the site. For the scouts attached to him—a piece of cake.
Discarding thoughts and emotions, Hett opened himself further to the Force. He believed the Force would lead him as long as he was firm in his decisions and did not succumb to anger. The Dark Side had already been in his life. Not the brightest memories were associated with it. Therefore, he carefully avoided uncontrolled emotions, repeating the text of the Jedi Code to himself.
So, all that remained was to determine the style of attack.
Getting rid of the guards was merely a vital necessity.
Aut-O was definitely in the main building. If he wanted to, he could reach the structure in five seconds. The clones—a few seconds longer. In general, everything suited him—when he burst into the administrative building and destroyed everyone there, including their commander, the rest would be simple—covering the retreating Jedi.
Briefly explaining his plan to the Marshal, he listened to another lecture on the theme of "Sir, something is clearly wrong here! Too few guards to defend such an important figure in the CIS world!" Oh, that annoying conversation again!
"We do as I said," Hett grew stern. "No improvisation! Strictly according to the plan!"
"As you wish," Ivan said with feigned indifference. He exchanged glances with the nearest clones, but they remained silent. They merely raised their weapons, taking aim at pre-selected targets.
At the Marshal's command, they carefully picked off the nearest sentries with aimed shots, after which, taking cover from return fire, they conducted a methodical culling of the surviving mercenaries and droids. Meanwhile, the Republic sabotage squad rushed forward.
Despite a sometimes weakened contact with the Light Side due to a strong intoxication with rage in times past, Hett remained a master of martial arts; nearly thirty years of intense training had honed his reactions and turned his body into a true machine, full of speed and power. The Force pointed him toward sources of potential threat; his green blade sliced through the thick air, reflecting shots, severing limbs. Time slowed down, allowing him to feel every energy bolt, every swing of the vibroblades the mercenaries possessed. An unfailing sense of purpose warned of every threat and allowed for the best way to eliminate it.
One by one, opponents fell victim to his strikes. One of the droids collapsed as if cut down; steam rose from its molten circuits. One of the mercenaries recoiled with a groan: his chest smoked from a deep cut, and no blood seeped from the vessels cauterized by the blade's contact with the energy weapon.
Another, who jumped right in his path with a heavy repeater in hand, the Jedi decapitated.
He felt the presence of the clones, trailing him by a few dozen meters, successfully opposing the enemy with equal success; the hiss of their laser fire alternated with the steady hum of the outpost's generator.
One of the droids flared up, erupting in a fountain of shrapnel.
Hett managed to dodge as a hail of molten metal fragments showered the face and shoulders of one of the mercenary technicians who had appeared in his path out of nowhere. Terror was written on the Neimoidian's face, his mouth open in a silent scream. The Jedi, without slowing his pace, grabbed him by the collar and impaled him on the energy blade.
Dodging a scarlet burst fired by someone, he noticed two more technicians running away, saving their Separatist lives. He was not averse to letting them go; however, Ivan showed no such mercy, cutting them down on the run just a few meters from the saving entrance to the main building.
The tension of the battle was fading.
Hett looked around with a smile. The clearing was a slaughterhouse, strewn with the corpses of mercenaries and pieces of destroyed droids. In several places, the bodies of clones were visible, but they were insignificantly few. Compared to the losses among soldiers at the beginning of the war, what was here now was negligible.
"Cover me," he tossed to the approaching Ivan. "I'm going after the droid."
"Yes, General," the clone replied, immediately relaying orders to his subordinates to take the most suitable positions for a possible defense. Excellent. The rear was securely covered.
The Jedi smirked at what was happening. How simple it all was.
Hett's breathing and pulse were rapid, which, however, was nothing bad. However, for a split second, his concentration faltered, and his vigilance was lost.
The trembling blade of a knife belonging to one of the mercenaries, lurking in the darkness of the doorway to the main bunker, missed his body by centimeters. The Jedi spun on his heels and knocked the opponent off his feet, simultaneously depriving him of his left foot. The mercenary howled, his eyes wide with terror, and with a simultaneous swing of both hands, he involuntarily brushed against the lightsaber blade. Severed fingers fell to the floor with a barely audible sound.
A short swing—and the decapitated, maimed mercenary merged with the Force.
Hett, swift as a fighter, raced through the corridors, repeatedly neutralizing any droids he encountered. He paid no attention to the locked doors along the sides of the main passage—his target was in the furthest room straight down the hall.
Finally, when the goal was reached, A'Sharad unlocked the door with a smirk and stepped into the gloom of the command center.
"Aut-O, I've come for you!" he said with a barely perceptible smirk.
Inside, there weren't many droids—just a pair of B-1 units and a tall, significantly more massive tactical superdroid. It stood by a holoterminal, engrossed in conversation with a holographic figure in a cloak and an uncovered head.
"As I understand it, Knight A'Sharad Hett?" Count Dooku inquired lazily.
"Confirmed, Lord," Aut-O mumbled, activating some device on its forearm. "Exactly on time."
Hett felt that something was wrong. The sound of several doors opening simultaneously behind his back reached his ears. Turning around, the Jedi saw hundreds of droids—B-2s, droidekas—beginning to emerge from the previously blocked passages. And they were all moving in the direction he had come from. Only a few, from the nearest room, headed toward him. And though there were only five of them, every single one was an IG-100 MagnaGuard.
The man tried to calm his rebellious mind. Turning to the droid with the clear intention of finishing it off, he noticed distantly that numerous lights were beginning to turn on under the ceiling, picking out the frames of other droids from the darkness, designed specifically for fighting Jedi.
"Welcome to the trap, Knight Hett," Dooku said in a mundane tone. A'Sharad took a sliding step to the side, but almost instantly, a bright white light flared beneath his feet and above his head, and electrical currents pierced his body, robbing him of consciousness.
***
The massive structure atop the cliff, with a huge glowing crystal casting reflections through the impenetrable darkness for many kilometers around—the place where Anakin Skywalker first met the Father—gave the impression of a monumental mausoleum. And inside, this feeling only intensified, thanks to the icy, tomb-colored lighting.
Leaving the shuttle on the landing pad in front of the entrance, I slowly climbed the steps, entering beneath the vaults of the Father's abode.
Everything here was saturated with the Force. Mighty, inexhaustible. It felt like you could breathe it in or scoop it up by the handful.
Like a young stellar giant, at the far end of the dais leading from the entrance to the central platform, the Father sat in a meditative pose. Even sitting, he surpassed me by a couple of heads. A sort of Hyperborean from the super-fantastical theories on the Ren-TV channel.
The old man meditated silently, eyes closed. I stood before him, gazing at his serene face. It seemed he was completely unafraid of what was happening. And this was despite the fact that he obviously had a very accurate perception of me. It wasn't for nothing that the Daughter called me Emperor.
"Greetings, my friend," black eyes with green pupils scrutinized me from head to toe.
"We are not friends, Father," I shook my head.
"Indeed?" although it was a question, it was uttered without the slightest intonation. A voice that seemed to be emitted by thousands of mouths. I shuddered at the analogy with Vitiate. He spoke exactly the same way. "I thought we were doing the same work."
"I am fighting against the mutual extermination of sentients in this galaxy. You, on the other hand..."
"Both you and I act in the name of the Balance of sides," the Father said sententiously. "Each by our own methods."
"Your method is to watch as year after year the galaxy sinks deeper into the chaos of internal strife?" I clarified. "Because based on what I know about you—Celestials are total assholes."
"Yes, you know much," the old man rose to his feet. "That is obvious, given your origin. Yes, I know you came from another universe. Through the efforts of one extremely ambitious and vile being."
"That's all sophistry," I cut him off. "Unlike you, Vitiate is doing at least something to end the bloodshed."
"His methods are crude," the Father said. "To consume life in the galaxy to rebuild it according to his desire. To conquer the galaxy and impose his order. Both previous times proved to be failures. Why should I believe his current plan is any different from the previous ones? Everything he does is merely a seizure of power over the galaxy. The creation of my kin and ancestors. For the sake of his ego."
"Hm. So the theories that the Celestial River was created entirely by your hands are true?"
"Your drive to obtain even more information, even in such a situation, is commendable," the smirk on the Father's face chilled me to the bone. "But that hypothesis is incorrect. The galaxy formed without the interference of the Architects. We merely... adjusted it a little."
"Centerpoint Station and Sinkhole Station," I nodded. "The Corellian system and the Maw installation."
"And not only those," the Celestial replied meaningfully. "But you are right; those objects are the fruits of our labors."
"More precisely, the labors of your slaves," I corrected. "Let's not forget that you conquered civilizations, turning them into your slaves."
"And do you not do the same?" the Father asked, slowly pacing around me. "Recruiting supporters, digging into the thoughts of the hesitant, nudging them toward decisions beneficial to you. Outright subordinating some."
"All of it is for the sake of the ultimate goal."
"And yet, our actions, identical to yours but on a larger scale, you condemn," the Father stung me. "Double standards? I confess, I expected you to be glad to meet me. For you already know much about my children and the role we perform in the galaxy."
"Well, yeah, I know. The Family—the last of the Celestials. The Son—the embodiment of the Dark Side, the Daughter—the Light. And You—keeping the balance between them. A miniature embodiment of what's happening in the galaxy," I lazily recounted what I knew.
"Exactly so. This system has been flawless for hundreds of tens of thousands of years. But now you appear in it—an unknown variable."
"So that's why my ship ended up here. You wanted to look at the new animal in your zoo personally. Eh, and my clones were worried it was their fault. Well, I'll go and make them happy?"
"The comparison is crude, but accurate," my interlocutor nodded. "The Son has already given you clear messages and hints about meeting us twice, but you chose to ignore them."
"Your Son chose an extremely extravagant way to transmit information," I shrugged. "A Sith meditation sphere as a relay..."
"Our powers are great. No sentient is capable of surviving direct communication with us, even across parsecs. Therefore, this method was chosen. Fortunately, this primitive device has been dangling in this remote system for millennia."
"Oh, so we're in the Kesh system, then?" I was surprised. Seeing the Father's inscrutable gaze, I explained: "I only know of two places where such spheres existed. Ziost—but the spheres there are... occupied. And, actually, Kesh."
"You think logically," the Father praised. "And yes, you are right. The Monolith is in the Kesh system. A small whim of my Son."
"Can we stop beating around the bush?" I asked impatiently. I hadn't liked this conversation from the start. And with every new phrase from the Father, I liked it even less. "Tell me what you wanted to say, and I'll move on with my friends. We've got a lot to do, you know."
"Impatience is a sin of youth," the Father sighed. "After living several thousand years, you begin to understand that haste leads to nothing good. Your teacher could have conveyed this wisdom to you. Instead, he prefers you to get your own bruises."
"Valkorion demonstrates his loyalty to my decisions, allowing me to gain life experience in this galaxy independently."
"Not everything is as you wish to see it, young Egor." The Father clasped his hands behind his back, stopping and looking at the single doorway, beyond which flashes of white lightning flickered through the gloomy sky. "He could have passed his wisdom to you in a less extravagant manner. Vitiate is capable of remaining in the real world for a long time, slipping out of the Abyss. But he is afraid."
"Of whom? Palpatine? The Jedi?"
"Of us," the Father said confidently. "Of me and my children. He knows that his past atrocities nearly destroyed the system, and therefore—if we catch him, we will easily return his spirit to where it belongs."
"So what's the problem?" I asked. "He's in my head. Occasionally."
"He does not stay for long. He knows his energy is like a magnet to us. And as soon as the Monolith heads toward where he appears—the Emperor flees. Hides. He does not want to bear responsibility for his crimes."
"That was almost four thousand years ago. Hasn't the statute of limitations passed?"
"Crimes against the system we created have no statute of limitations," the Father said harshly. "There is no forgiveness for him. He knows this, which is why his third attempt to replay the existing world order is taking so much time. Recruiting supporters. Laying the bricks of a future triumph. Bit by bit building his Plan. Millennia of preparation so that you would appear. A beautiful and powerful instrument in his hands. And despite clear cheating on his part, the main conditions have been met. Only slightly rigged by him."
"Can you explain yourself even more cryptically?" I said with pleading eyes. "It's just so awesomely vague and meaningful that I'm about to burst into tears, and my liquefied brains will start leaking out of my ears."
"I see your thoughts, Egor," the Father reminded me. "Why the explanations? I know your hypotheses and guesses regarding us. And I cannot say they are untrue. Perhaps that is why Vitiate chose your consciousness for his plans."
"To be honest, I'm in a deep daze," I had to admit the obvious. "My head is about to explode from all your 'I know that you know' business. Why don't you try answering normally for once in your life? Say, just tell me how things really are. Who knows, maybe I'll be inspired by your ideas, and we'll wipe out Vitiate together. And continue the Architects' wonderful endeavor. Whatever nonsense you're doing here."
"Stirring the past will lead to nothing," the Father countered. "What was—is gone. Unlike the future, it cannot be changed. We should act together to destroy your Teacher's intrigues and return the system to its natural state."
"System, system, system," I grumbled. "You talk as if the galaxy is for you..."
The Father gave me a long, piercing look.
"A correct thought. I think so,"
...that it was precisely the justice of your arguments that became the reason Vitiate used you specifically. You are clever enough to act independently.
"Don't try to smooth-talk me, old man!" I hissed. "Is the entire galaxy just an experiment to you? Is that the thought you saw in my head and confirmed as true?!"
"Not an experiment. A system. An experience. A test. Call it what you will," the Father said imperturbably. "I see your indignation. Allow me to clarify everything."
"You'd better try, if you want me on your side."
"Many years ago, my race came to this galaxy with one single purpose," the Father said. "To observe the development of life. Our own past has long since faded into oblivion, and our own age is coming to an end. I and my children are the last representatives of the Architects. And it is ours to answer for the stability of this system."
"Simply put, the Celestial River is just an ant farm to you. Where you can, with a clear conscience, watch life evolve..."
"And find our ideological successors," the Father agreed. "Those who, after our death, will continue to preserve the Balance. Who will not allow the Force to overwhelm the galaxy so much that everything here falls apart."
"And for this purpose, you enslaved other races?" I clarified.
"To build any project, a labor force is necessary," the Father countered indifferently. "A small price to pay to achieve the ultimate goals."
"Well, of course," my sarcasm was impossible to hide. "After all, watching the development of other races is immensely interesting. But personally, for me, there is a difference between watching football and playing it. The latter is much more interesting."
"That is also what some of our kin eventually decided. To cease interference and allow the galaxy to develop on its own. Others, however, were against it. A civil war broke out, in which representatives of both factions perished."
"Hmm... sounds somewhat familiar," I admitted. "But if all of your kind died, how did you survive?"
"I and my children did not seek participation in conflicts. We became innocent witnesses to the mutual destruction of the last representatives of my race. We mourned them. And for millennia, we watched as civilization slid into the abyss of chaos. The mutual, uncontrolled destruction of races that none of our contemporaries have even heard of opened our eyes to what was happening. This galaxy is flawed without external control. I realized that one day sentients would go beyond the limits of the galaxy. But what will they bring to the universe if they cannot agree among themselves? Destruction and chaos. The same scenario threatened if we simply revealed all the secrets of the Force to the races inhabiting the galaxy. In their egoism, they would turn into hideous creatures, obsessed only with their petty desires."
"Let me guess. This conclusion is based on what happened to Abeloth?"
"Yes. An extremely eloquent example of gaining the Force without a proper understanding of the laws of the universe. We imprisoned her where she would harm no one. We created an ideal system that would not allow her to escape. This allowed us to lower the tension in the galaxy. But the problem was far from solved. There were too many Force-sensitive races in the galaxy that would simply destroy it on the path of their formation. And then, I, the Son, and the Daughter did what we had to. We immersed ourselves in the Force, seeking to glimpse the future. After the future became clear to us, it only remained to shield the most promising races from the rest of the galaxy, allowing them to develop and comprehend the Force in isolation. Shielding the galaxy from the rest of the universe became an additional guarantee that sentients would not break out beyond its borders until they reached a level of understanding of the Force sufficient to keep it in Balance and continue our work."
"And I was wondering why all three situations were so similar. An anomaly that prevents leaving the galaxy's borders. The Impenetrable Caldera that hid the Sith from the rest of the galaxy. And, of course—Tython, where you dragged all the Force-sensitives to master Balance. This is all your work!"
"Exactly so," the Father agreed. "I put a lot of effort into creating suitable conditions for the development of the Je'daii Order."
"Right. The moons Ashla and Bogan, a planet where the Force is in balance..."
"All this was supposed to help Force-sensitive sentients understand the vital necessity of Balance in the Force. But, unfortunately, it did not have the desired effect."
"What a surprise," I smirked. "Never happened before, and here we go again. Let me guess—the Rakata messed up your cards?"
"I did not take into account that a great deal of our technology fell into their hands. And they proved clever enough to master it, pervert it, and turn it into a weapon," the Father lamented. "Even you are marked by their technologies."
"Yeah, that happened. And you know, I feel great."
"That is heartening. Since you have a great deal of work ahead of you."
"No-no-no," I protested. "Don't try to force your mantle of the guardian of Balance on me now. I don't care about this existential crap. Go on, offer it to Anakin Skywalker."
"We did not create him for that."
And right here, I confess, I was a little... well, how to put it. Completely. SHOCKED!
"Wait-wait, what? YOU created Anakin Skywalker?"
"Yes," the Father answered simply. "He is the rarest example of our kin's power. Our greatest invention. The strongest of the Force-sensitives. The one who will restore Balance."
"I thought he was conceived by midi-chlorians..."
"Ah, our little spies," for the first time, a real emotion appeared on the Father's face. "No, they serve a completely different purpose. Anakin is my personal creation."
"Would I be far off if I assumed that with their help, you also control life in the galaxy?" I was practically certain of the answer. And because of that, my rage flared up more and more.
"Yes. They harm no one. But I always know how many gifted of one faction or another are in the galaxy," the Father replied, hiding nothing.
"And why do you need such information?"
"To understand how successfully the system is working," the Father revealed. "Without revealing ourselves to the galaxy, we can observe the development of the gifted. And, if necessary, correct it."
"For the sake of Balance?"
"Exactly so."
"Similar to what the Chosen One is supposed to bring?"
"Yes."
"And you honestly don't give a damn how many sentients die in the process?" I boiled over. "That's billions in every sector of the galaxy. Thousands of Jedi and other Force-sensitives!"
"The system is unstable," the Father explained. "The number of Jedi exceeds the number of Sith and other followers of the Dark Side. This must be corrected to begin a new cycle of the galaxy's evolution."
"So that's the essence of your system? Evolution through conflict?"
"Yes. For when one side gains an advantage, the system falls apart," the Father explained. "We have observed this for millennia. As long as there were enough Sith, the Balance was unshakable. Over the last thousand years, the scales have tipped in favor of the Light Side."
"But the dead...!"
"Acceptable losses," the Father waved it off. "After all, you don't think your idea with the Unifying Force will pass bloodlessly for the galaxy?"
"Naturally not!" I agreed. "But it will be the final confrontation! After which the only significant force remaining will be precisely those who know how to channel both sides of the Force! None of the radical groups will gain the upper hand!"
"Except your own," the Father countered. "And where is the Balance then?"
"In an Order of individuals who will control all aspects of the Force! Not just the Dark and Light sides, but everything available! I strive to integrate all known knowledge of the Force into the training process, without rejecting individual currents!"
"And thereby you introduce imbalance into a system that has worked for tens of thousands of years!" the Father said sternly. "Your efforts, whispered by a Sith, will only lead to the creation of three opposing camps! Your knights, the Jedi, and the Sith! This will cause even greater disasters than those you so fear!"
"I won't allow that! Zakuul will eventually absorb all the Force-users in the galaxy! Just as it was with the Je'daii!"
"That viewpoint has already outlived itself," the Father sighed. "Progress is possible only through the conflict of two opposing sides. What you have planned is a worthy conclusion to our ideas. But you want to get the result here and now, without a long evolution of views. You impose your point of view where sentients should reach everything with their own minds!"
"Even if it takes long years and mass bloodshed? Crises of political systems?"
"A worldview imposed by force will never live long! My approach will allow the Force to be purged of many of the weakest adepts, allowing the strongest, the most adapted, to survive!"
"Darwin would be turning in his grave at your speeches!" I shouted. "The Force will be purged... this is the nonsense of a senile old man!"
"You are too young to understand what is predestined," the Father shook his head. "It is unpleasant to realize, but you are too narrow-minded. However, I do not ask you to make a decision immediately. You and your people will be guests on Mortis for a while. I hope that communication with my children and meditation in the most powerful place of the Force will finally allow you to make the right decision."
I wanted to say "Go to hell," but...
The conversation with the Father forced me to look at many things from a new angle.
In one thing the Architect was right—I needed to think a lot.
"I gladly accept this invitation," however, I couldn't overcome the bitterness in my voice. "We'll look at the sights, talk to interesting sentients..."
"I am sure I was not mistaken in you, Egor," the Father smiled, looking me straight in the eyes. And for the umpteenth time during this conversation, I felt goosebumps.
***