The ship's chronometer measured another segment of time. However, these are just numbers on a screen—on board a combat starship, concepts such as "day" or "night" do not exist. The crew had long been accustomed to measuring the passing hours with the term "watch." For the guests of the Chimaera, this grated on the ears, however, the naval personnel—clones, Christophsians, Twi'leks, other sentients—loyal subjects of the Eternal Empire—paid absolutely no attention to it.
The dreadnought's bridge differed strikingly from all designs familiar to Helnior. In contrast to the layout of Republican capital ship bridges, it was noticeably more spacious and consisted of three "working" zones.
The first stretched from the main entrance as a spacious walkway to the observation deck, in the center of which was the Grand Admiral's chair. On both sides of this part of the bridge were two spacious "pits" equipped with tactical terminals, where clones and ordinary sentients worked in total silence, occasionally speaking to each other for official necessity. And in this seemingly surreal picture, there was nothing strange. In the Imperial Navy, no distinction was made between clones and non-clones. All were equally loyal subjects of the Empire.
The Chimaera was not the first Imperial dreadnought whose bridge Helnior had visited. And, at first glance, the flagship was no different from others in its class. Except for one small—compared to the size of the ship itself—but significant difference.
The right half of the bridge, in addition to traditional control panels, also had a massive holographic projector. Around which the commanders of all structural units of the Expeditionary Forces of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul were currently located. Except for the commandant of the base on Nirauan (for objective reasons: what was happening on the bridge now did not concern him in any way).
At the head of the table, in total silence, was the Grand Admiral. He silently watched the three-dimensional image. At first glance, nothing significant. Just a couple of bulkers, slowly preparing for a jump into hyperspace. A familiar sight for any part of the galaxy settled by sentients. And not worth the attention, especially of such a large number of sentients.
With one small exception—these freighters belonged to the Eternal Empire. And they were a convoy, in whose holds lay the property of the Empire. Very expensive and valuable.
To an outside observer, the fact that two huge freighters were moving through the poorly explored territories of the Unknown Regions without any escort might seem surprising. However, this question had already been voiced by almost everyone present. And only one humanoid knew the answer to it.
But he continued to maintain silence.
Which gave rise to even more questions regarding what was happening, considering that the campaign to destroy the Ssi-ruuk had only recently ended, although local battles were still continuing in some places at the lizards' military bases. But those were already details. The stormtroopers of Marshals Tako and Alex were supposed to finish their work in the near future and take the remains of the Ssi-ruuk Empire's military facilities under their control. After which—they were to head to Nirauan for rest and replenishment of losses.
Although, in Helnior's opinion, the value of these bases was almost exactly zero. At the very least, because they were built for use by bipedal lizards and their no less lizard-like slaves. But not for humanoids. And what outraged him most of all was that for a clearly insignificant operation, Thrawn had allocated such large forces of Skymen to the clones.
However, this was of little interest to the Emperor's confidant with blue skin and glowing eyes.
In fact, Thrawn was currently the only Grand Admiral in the Imperial Navy. However, few doubted he would be the last. And, it must be admitted, he held his post by right of tactical genius. This contrasted sharply with the Republican Navy, where the highest ranks were given to scions of noble houses sitting in the deep rear. While the most promising officers trod the bridges of ships.
Thrawn could also have spent his time peacefully in his fortress on Nirauan, leaving the resolution of tactical tasks to his subordinates. But instead, he continued to lead his ships into battle, expanding the living space of the Empire, burning with turbolaser fire and trampling under the heavy tread of army units anyone who posed a threat.
"Grand Admiral, you are taking an unusual risk," R'Lair noted. The tips of his lekku were twitching, which betrayed the Twi'lek's irritation.
Which, in fact, is understandable—the scouts were run off their feet, rummaging through the ruins of the Ssi-ruuk bases, searching for valuable equipment and information. They worked day and night in the ruins, fulfilling their duty to the fatherland. Rare finds were sent to Nirauan according to the established scheme, where they were studied by relatively less mobile representatives of intelligence using special equipment.
"Risk is part of our job," Thrawn answered quietly. He never raised his voice at all. But even with such an approach to communication, he could make any recalcitrant subordinate know their place. "And our people know it."
"However, a transport without security forces almost under the enemy's nose—is fraught with an attack from these Tof pirates," Helnior noted. "Extremely unjustified, sir."
"I will take your opinion into account, General," a slight smile appeared on the Chiss's lips.
"All these flirtations with the Tof," Commander R'Lair said with clear irritation, "are a waste of time. They just need to be destroyed, and that's the end of it!"
Thrawn looked up from the hologram, which he seemed to be trying to hypnotize. Despite the fact that the action on the table's surface did not actually change, the Chiss seemed to be tracking every movement of the bulkers. It created the impression that every maneuver was a pre-planned combination, like a game in a logic game. When the enemy does not notice a deceptive maneuver disguised as an ordinary routine move until it is too late.
The half-breed was ready to swear that in reality, everything was happening exactly as Thrawn had intended from the very beginning. And everything happening was just one of his numerous lessons. The Grand Admiral strove not only for his own effectiveness but also did not shy away from sharing knowledge with his subordinates through visual lessons.
On the one hand, if this is a naval operation—why is he, the commander of the Skymen, present here? And the marshals standing on the opposite side of the holo-terminal. Misk, Skip, Dyato, Anton, and Smoke are clearly redundant here. All of them are representatives of the ground command. Another matter is Sev'rance Tann, who has already proven herself more than once as a naval commander. But what business do the others have with the navy's antics? Apparently, the bulk of the Twi'lek's irritation was dictated by these considerations.
But such a question could only be asked by someone who was not acquainted with the Grand Admiral. Because, in most cases, his tactical and strategic approach consisted of universal schemes and techniques. Which, with proper imagination, could also be applied in a ground battle.
And this placed Thrawn a step above all the other fleet commanders Helnior had ever known.
The Grand Admiral had already proven in two campaigns—against the Vagaari and the Ssi-ruuk—that his very unconventional approach to assessing the enemy through the study of art objects was extremely effective. It was logical to assume that future operations would be even more large-scale. And there was only one Thrawn, and he could not be everywhere.
Helnior smiled stealthily.
Yes, the Grand Admiral's plan had become clear to him.
Thrawn was passing his experience to his subordinates, striving to further increase the effectiveness of the Expeditionary Forces. And this seemingly insignificant operation was nothing more than a process of sifting out those capable of creative thinking from formulaic executors. Although, to be honest, the half-Arkanian had always considered clones effective, but still—executors. They are talented, proactive, and diligent. And yet—they are inferior to ordinary sentients in strategic thinking. So to speak—the costs of the birth process. Even if this is not talked about at every corner, the problem with clones is known to the command.
Then, why was it necessary to gather them here and now? Unless...
"Everything has its price, R'Lair," Thrawn said. "A threat must be understood before it is dealt with."
"Through art?" the Twi'lek snorted. "Oh sure, right."
"The Tof have no art," Tann smirked.
"In the sense we are accustomed to," Thrawn corrected. Catching the interested gaze of the scout and the Chiss woman, the Grand Admiral explained:
"They are simply a gang of robbers and bloodthirsty killers. Looters. Barbarians. Their culture does not create architecture, music, or strive for painting."
"In that case, your method of understanding the enemy is worthless against the Tof," the Twi'lek noted. And, at first glance, he was right. "We are only wasting time and sacrificing people by sending Hermit and his people to certain death. Unarmed bulkers with a special forces unit on board—it's a joke! Pirates are not inclined to negotiate..."
"You are right," Thrawn confirmed, causing unprecedented surprise among those present. "The Tof cannot be understood in the way I am accustomed to..."
"Then I don't understand why our ships are not yet in their systems, wiping their planets into dust?" the Twi'lek said. "You didn't stand on ceremony with the Vagaari and the Ssi-ruuk."
"Both of these races posed a clear threat to the Empire, being almost at our doorstep," Thrawn reminded patiently. "They are predators, and moreover—non-humanoids. Their needs are simple—slaves. Any diplomatic way of eliminating the threat from them is unacceptable. You, R'Lair, would not agree to give the Vagaari several thousand of your compatriots in exchange for the technology of mass shadow generators?"
"Of course not!" the Twi'lek cried out. "That's inhuman!"
"I would receive a similar answer when posing a similar question regarding the Ssi-ruuk," the Grand Admiral voiced his thoughts aloud. "The Emperor knew this better than anyone. Therefore, no one intended to stand on ceremony with the Vagaari and the Ssi-ruuk. We are not barbarians, after all, to establish diplomatic relations by trading our citizens for valuable technology."
"And yet, you sent transports with no protection or guns to an uninhabited remote system bordering the one occupied by the Tof," Sev'rance Tann stated.
"I sent special forces to a system close to the territory controlled by the Tof," Thrawn clarified. "On slow-moving bulker ships stripped of armament. I cannot use the same techniques for humanoid and non-humanoid races."
"Is this some kind of trick, sir?" Marshal Misk suggested.
"It is not a trick," Thrawn rejected. "It is a provocation. And a diversion. All in one."
"And what's the difference?" Marshal Dyato grimaced.
"If it were a trick, then each of the transports would be equipped with scanning equipment for long-range reconnaissance and identifying the strengths and weaknesses of the Tof's defenses in the border systems," Thrawn said.
"And the provocation lies in the fact that the Tof, seeing unarmed ships, will try to attack them," Helnior understood.
"Exactly so," Thrawn agreed.
"You wouldn't risk crews and ships, of which we already have few, just to provoke the Tof," Sev'rance said.
Thrawn smiled barely perceptibly.
"Of course, I wouldn't," he agreed. "The deflectors of these bulkers are capable of withstanding fire from a Harrower."
"With all due respect, sir," R'Lair said, "then what is the point? The Tof, if they want to get the ships and cargo, will simply bring more ships and still get their way..."
"Patience," the Chiss urged. "Soon everything will become clear..."
As if the phrase spoken was a hidden command.
New markings appeared on the hologram. One large ship—clearly a raider, which immediately began to cut the bulkers' course, simultaneously disgorging dozens of miniature fighters and boarding bots from its depths.
"It has begun," Tann commented.
"Sir, wouldn't it be better to send them reinforcements?" inquired Marshal Anton, who was in charge of the 11th Assault Corps.
"They will undoubtedly have them," Thrawn assured. "But not before the Tof show us everything they are capable of."
"Excuse me, sir?" Smoke, commander of the 12th Corps of stormtroopers, frowned.
"You see," Thrawn said, like a lecturer before students. "Mr. R'Lair quite correctly noted that pirates and killers do not create works of art. And I cannot analyze their way of thinking. But it is in my power to give the Tof the opportunity to demonstrate their own kind of art to me."
Silence fell among those present.
"Fighting style," Helnior guessed.
"Exactly," Thrawn confirmed. "Methods of attack, robbery, and murder—this is the very art the Tof can boast of. Ordinary races leading a sedentary lifestyle embody it in something material. But, as was correctly noted, the Tof are barbarians. Greedy and aggressive. A real threat to the Empire."
"Then why didn't we launch a preemptive strike?" Misk inquired.
"We, unlike the Tof, are not barbarians and bloodthirsty killers," Thrawn noted. "And we cannot repeat the same technique indefinitely. It worked once—the Vagaari fell in less than a week. It took us twice as long to destroy the Ssi-ruuk. I have no doubt that the Unknown Regions and Wild Space differ little from the galaxy we know in terms of espionage."
"Is that why you use a new strategy in each new campaign?" Sev'rance clarified. "Vagaari—capture of the leader and a methodical invasion. Ssi-ruuk—a strike at the capital followed by luring out the enemy's armed forces. Tof..."
"Regarding the Tof, I chose a strategy of provocation and studying their capabilities in dynamics," Thrawn finished. "The Tof, as I expected, have a network of spies—otherwise, even if they had discovered two large transports, they would hardly have made do with only one mother ship. Not knowing the characteristics, capabilities, and even the value of the cargo—it is very doubtful. Two bulker ships are, of course, a valuable cargo, but with one ship there is always the possibility of missing part of the prey—which has never been noticed of them before."
"And by attacking our ships," Helnior said, "the Tof have actually manifested an act of aggression against the Empire."
"And we are fully entitled to strike the enemies of the empire with all the means at our disposal," Thrawn nodded. "GEMINI."
The droid, integrated into all the dreadnought's systems, responded instantly, appearing as a miniature figure on the edge of the holographic table. Outwardly resembling a protocol droid of a common series, GEMINI, meanwhile, even carried herself as an individual, unblinkered personality. The complete opposite of the Republic's droids.
"I am listening, Grand Admiral Thrawn."
"Transmit information for Captain Hermit over an encrypted channel to the bulkers," the Chiss requested. "And also duplicate it to the Dogma, the Nemesis, and the Stormhawk."
"By all means," GEMINI assured him. "Ready to receive the data."
"'Begin,'" the Chiss spoke the code phrase. The droid's hologram, freezing for a moment like an idol, came back to life.
"Done. The recipients have confirmed receipt of the encrypted data."
"Excellent, GEMINI. You are dismissed," the Grand Admiral said. Waiting for the hologram to disappear, the Chiss looked with a smile at the hologram of the Tof ships' fruitless attacks on the bulkers. The massive vessels, hung with massive cargo containers, were dotted with numerous marks of Tof landing bots.
In the next moment, the walls of the containers flew aside, releasing hundreds of Imperial ISF-TIE TIE/sk x1 Superiority Fighter into space, which, like a pack of hounds, drenching the space with green streams of deadly energy and marking it with salvos of missiles, destroyed the enemy's small aircraft in the blink of an eye. The Tof battleship, seeing that it had fallen into a trap, began to turn away, clearly intending to slip into hyperspace.
However, it was out of luck. Because right in front of it, at a distance of some hundreds of thousands of kilometers, three ships appeared—a Harrower accompanied by a pair of Marauders.
"So, the Dogma's task force is in position," Thrawn commented on the lashing rain of turbolaser bolts and missiles that instantly stripped the enemy of deflector shields and engines. Then the dreadnought, taking an optimal position, began to shell the enemy ship with ion cannons, bringing all its guns and the slightest signs of electronics operation to silence in fractions of a second.
"I suppose," Helnior said, "that the struggle for our bulkers will begin now? After all, they have enemy landing forces on board."
"I cannot imagine what size the Tof landing force would have to be," Thrawn said matter-of-factly. "But to cope with the corps of Marshals Tako and Alex, reinforced by some of your combat droids, the Tof need an entire army. Which, to the misfortune of the enemy paratroopers, they do not have."
"I'm curious to know, where are the Nemesis and Stormhawk groups now?" Helnior asked. Although he had already begun to guess what the answer would be.
"Receiving telemetry of enemy actions from GEMINI from on board the Dogma and invading the star systems occupied by the Tof," Thrawn answered as if it were a matter of course. "By my estimates, the orbital defense of their home—the planet Tof—should fall in six hours."
"So soon?" the Twi'lek was surprised.
"This battle showed that the Tof's capital ships have nothing to oppose even one Harrower," Thrawn stated. "Against eight star destroyers of a class similar to the Dogma, fifty Marauders, and twenty heavy cruisers of the Dreadnought class, they have no chance at all. Oh, by the way, General Helnior, a shuttle is waiting for you in the lower hangar to take you on board the Nemesis. Clearing the planet Tof is your task. Don't worry, your mechanized corps of Skymen is already in place."
"Yes, sir!" the half-breed said respectfully, heading for the turbolift.
"Lady Tann, your transport is also ready. The Stormhawk and its squadron await your arrival. GEMINI will brief you."
"Moving out immediately," the alien nodded and joined the man near the transport cabin.
"Here goes the fun," he snorted, waiting for the cabin to arrive at the desired deck. "It looks like another race will be wiped from the pages of this galaxy's history."
"That's true," she agreed.
A gifted sentient was approaching.
"And now, esteemed Marshals," the Grand Admiral's voice reached them, "you are to hear your personal objectives for the seizure of the remaining planets controlled by the Tof. You didn't think I summoned you here for nothing, did you?"
Unable to suppress a smirk, the half-breed Arkanian mentally applauded the brilliant Chiss.
One could learn a lot from the Grand Admiral.
And there was no reason to delay such an excellent endeavor.
Stepping inside the turbolift, both maintained stoic expressions. Right up until the cabin doors closed and it began to move.
Helnior, placing a hand on the girl's slender waist, drew her close, sealing her lips with a passionate kiss.
"Take care of yourself," he either asked or commanded his beloved.
"Don't you dare die," she echoed back, finishing the words of the marriage vow given to her lover on the ruins of the burning Ssi-ruuvi capital, amidst the agonizing screams of the exterminated lizards.
"Not a chance," the general chuckled. "I have no desire to leave such a lovely, young, and sexy widow all alone."
The sentient's lips lit up with a sincere smile. Pressing her whole body against her husband, she whispered words of farewell before being forced to exit at her required deck.
***
There was no room for them on the cruisers. Not even on the "The Resolute"—the Valiant-class Star Destroyer carrier and flagship of Vice Admiral Makati. It was packed to the brim with clone fighters and their bombers.
The rest of the fleet's ships—the Hammerheads and Marauders—were also overloaded with fighters. It was a weak attempt to somehow neutralize the enemy's superiority in starfighters. Where they were supposed to carry two squadrons, they took four. As a result, the hangars were stuffed to capacity with V-19 Torrent starfighters. Even the ARC-170s followed the objective on their own—much like the Jedi squadron.
Though... what kind of squadron was it?
Out of the dozen pilots heading to Rindellia as part of the squadron under Garen Muln, only Osko Djlok, Jaizen Suel, and Tsui Choi were permanent members. Siri Tachi, Sia-Lan Wezz, Rii'ke En, Mander Zum, Melik Galera, Olana Chion, K'Kruhk, and Bol Chatak, who joined them at the last moment, were, so to speak, temporary pilots. With the exception of the latter, the other Jedi were participating in the battle for Rindellia only because either their own units were to land on the planet after the space battle, or they were to participate in a similar event—but on Enark, located further down the hyperspace route. In words, it was simple. Capture two small planets, and the road to Naboo is open. The thin trickle of communication between the Tenth and Seventh Systems Armies would be restored.
But it was only easy in words.
Osko Djlok opened his eyes for a moment, casting a slightly blurred gaze over the instrument panel. Five minutes until arrival. Time to get ready.
Flipping switches, the Zabrak Jedi began restoring the secondary systems. The astromech, whose dome peeked out from the socket in the front of the hull, rotated its head in a friendly manner. The little guy had missed him. Six hours in hyperspace was quite an ordeal.
However, as soon as their journey through hyperspace ended, a new "pleasure" would begin. One that not everyone would survive.
Just a year ago, in the Rindellia system, Admiral Grievous's flagship—the dreadnought Malevolence—had carried out a massacre of a Republic medical convoy. There were no survivors. And, as if in revenge for the destruction of the ship, the Separatists organized a full-scale base on the planet. Complete with planetary defense guns, deflector shields, and other charms of life. A rather impressive fleet appeared in orbit—five Recusant-class light destroyers and ten Munificents. Small fry that any backwater squadron could smear across space. But shortly before the start of the battle at Hypori, news came from reconnaissance that new "clients" had appeared in the system: seven Lucrehulk-class battleships and a Providence-class carrier flagship, on whose bridge, according to rumors, was Admiral Trench himself—Hutt take his arachnid ass.
And as if the news of the increased enemy numbers wasn't enough, command demanded the seizure of the ground base. Whether intact or not, Dougan's order did not specify. Therefore, Makati clearly did not intend to play nice—otherwise, he wouldn't have gathered such an impressive flotilla to destroy the Seps.
One Valiant-class Star Destroyer, thirty Hammerheads, and two dozen Marauders. In the second wave—more than thirty Acclamators, whose task was to arrive in the system after the fleet suppressed resistance and drop the landing force right on the droids' heads. The Spear fleet itself was supposed to leave adequate cover in orbit and continue its movement to Enark, where the enemy had been grinding Master Gallia's exhausted units into the dirt for weeks.
And as regrettable as it was, he had to fly to the target, relaxing stiff muscles in the cockpit of an Ether Sprite. Fortunately, the Force had not abandoned him, and meditative techniques helped pass the time. But, Sith take it, how his body ached!
In moments like these, he barely remembered he was only thirty. For a Zabrak, the prime of life. For a Jedi, even more so. But such flights would surely finish him off. He would have to talk to Garen—let him go to Master Dougan and squeeze out a separate ship to base the Jedi squadron. It wouldn't be a great loss for the fleet to hand over one Marauder to Jedi command. A beautiful, fast, and well-armed machine—Osko had seen that for himself during the battle at Hypori. The nimble little ships tore Separatist starships to shreds. Mesmerizing. And lethally effective.
Exactly what suited the spirit of a Jedi ace. Speed, pressure, killing accuracy.
Though... Garen would likely chicken out. Even regarding the question to the Grand Moff (Djlok smiled, remembering that the commander of the Tenth Systems Army was actually younger than him) about the fate of the Starfighter Corps, he had to be worked on for a long time. A sluggish and stubborn guy. He should be piloting a dreadnought, not a fighter. Though, to his credit, the "Sprite" in Muln's hands was like a ballerina cutting throats and taking scalps.
The pre-combat check of all systems took the allotted time until the exit from hyperspace. The Zabrak, pulling the control handle for the hyperdrive rings, transitioned his fighter into real space.
Like an ancient blade with a swollen guard, he sliced through space behind the "The Resolute." With practiced movements, he jettisoned the now-unnecessary hyperdrive ring, throwing the machine into an upward barrel roll. He wasn't particularly worried about the abandoned property of the Order—it would be picked up by tugs from the carrier.
At first, taking a position at a significant distance from the destroyer, Osko thought his vision was failing him. But, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, he was convinced he wasn't mistaken.
"Vanguard-4 to Leader," he opened a communication channel intended only for the pilots of the Vanguard Jedi squadron. "I don't know who screwed up, but we are traditionally in a sarlacc's ass."
Bad premonitions wouldn't let him relax. And how could one relax when all the reconnaissance data could be safely thrown under a bantha's tail?
What Recusant-class light destroyers, what Munificents? More than two dozen Lucrehulk-class battleships hovered over the planet, already launching clouds of interceptors. Not to mention the enemy carrier doing the same thing.
"Thanks, Four," Garen replied dryly. "We noticed. Aces, break into elements and prepare for battle."
Noticing the signature of Mander Zum behind his fighter, who had become his wingman for the duration of the operation, Osko only shook his head. Reality was unprincipled and cruel. How else to answer the question—"who brought an archivist, who spent his whole life behind dusty shelves of datacrystals, into the active army?" And even more so—gave him control of an entire corps! Allowed him to sit at the controls!
However, in fairness, it should be noted that unlike fencing and many of his other "peculiarities," Mander handled a fighter quite well. At Hypori, he even managed to send one of the Separatist fighters to technological heaven. But that was more of an exception that proved the rule—just because you're a Jedi and know how to pull the control sticks of a fighter doesn't make you an ace yet.
Pity few understood that. Which, as one might expect, led to predictable results.
On Osko's advice, Mander led his fighter above the "The Resolute," which was taking a position in orbit relative to the planet's surface. Simultaneously, the flagship was disgorging dozens of fighters that rushed toward the impenetrable clouds of Vulture-class starfighters released by the Separatist starships. A brutal fight lay ahead, and the Jedi were in the perfect place to be at its center.
As intended by the attack disposition, "The Resolute," surrounded by Marauders, appeared over the Separatist position, who traditionally lined up their ships in a cruising order in a single line in the planet's orbit. The Hammerheads materialized right in front of the enemy flagship, which immediately fell under the crossfire of both of Makati's detachments.
And judging by how disorganized and formulaic the enemy's response was, they weren't being commanded by the legendary Trench at all. Ah, a pity. How much evil would have left the galaxy if the Jedi had managed to destroy that warlord.
Suddenly, Osko noticed that "The Resolute" wasn't just continuing to pour fire from all its guns into the enemy flagship, but it wasn't stopping its rotation along its axis. The ship had already turned its broadside to the planet's surface, which... was somewhat strange. Considering it had exposed its entire "back" to enemy fire.
Before he could be surprised by such maneuvers, the "destroyer" fired a salvo from the port-side guns facing the planet. All the artillery spoke at once: both the heavy turbolaser batteries and the ion cannons. Blue energy bolts tore through the light cloud cover and crashed down onto the planet. Very beautiful—considering the fact that the turbolaser turrets located on the "back" were now facing the enemy flagship and mixing it with space dust. While the broadside batteries were burning everything living on the planet's surface.
And very terrifying. The Zabrak did not envy those who were down there now, where a sea of fire was beginning to spread across the surface. Streams of energy fire mixed the structures of the Separatist base, which were outside the deflector, with the soil. The enemy, as always, did not splurge on expensive defense systems, covering only the most important part of their base—the command post. Structures outside the deflector fields ceased to exist, turning first into a pile of rubble and then into fine dust in the blink of an eye. The local forests growing in the immediate vicinity of the Separatist base caught fire...
The pilot felt extremely uncomfortable next to a ship sowing death and destruction on an industrial scale—he had never seen anything like it before. Just imagine for a moment that instead of droids, organic opponents were hunkered down on the planet... Brrr, it sent shivers down his spine.
The whistle of the astromech forced him to pay attention to the tactical monitor. The deflector shields covering the base were gradually thinning. "The Resolute" stopped processing the planet with turbolasers and switched to ion guns. They caused much less damage, but Makati would get an almost intact base. He wouldn't have to spend money on clearing rubble and restoration. After all, according to the plans, the Separatist efforts were intended to be used for their own purposes.
Oh, what would happen here when the base's shields died...
The astromech triumphantly announced this joyful event. Osko felt the corners of his mouth pull toward his ears, but... his heart wasn't in the right place. As if something wrong was happening. Something...
Activating his comlink, he contacted Garen:
"Leader, this is Vanguard-4, I have a bad feeling..."
"You're not the only one, Vanguard-4," replied Jaizen Suel, the squadron commander's wingman.
"Everything is not going as we were told at the briefing," Muln noted. "It looks like Admiral Makati is changing tactics on the fly. Alright, enough lounging around, the droids are breaking through to the flagship..."
The task of the Jedi squadron in this battle was unusual—to protect "The Resolute." The Vice Admiral decided that this would be the best use for the Jedi—guarding the command ship. And considering the heterogeneity of the squadron, assembled in haste, there was a certain logic to it.
Most of the Republic's fighters had already met in a deadly clash with the Separatist droids. The battle of light forces seethed in the space between the Hammerhead detachment and the Separatists, as well as between the latter and Makati's flagship.
Every now and then, a miniature flash lit up space—another clone died. But since the first battle at Geonosis, everyone had grown accustomed to such an abundance of death.
"Vanguard Squadron," the voice of the dispatcher from "The Resolute" appeared on the command frequency. "Previous order canceled. Fall back to point 2.4.5 and wait for instructions..."
"What?!" Garen even lost his speech for a fraction of a second. "Are you out of your minds? The Vultures from the Lucrehulks are about to be on their way!"
Djlok, having punctured a Separatist machine that slipped through to the flagship, glanced toward the Trade Federation battleships. The squadron commander was right—at least seven squadrons of Vulture-class starfighters and no fewer than a dozen Hyena bombers were moving toward the Republic flagship. Even the Jedi couldn't handle that! Hope for the Marauders?! But they were busy polishing the hulls of the nearest Separatist ships and were clearly outside the effective fire zone to cover the flagship.
"The Resolute to Ace Leader," the dispatcher tiredly interrupted the squadron commander. "Admiral Makati knows this. Carry out the assigned task. Another air group will handle the cover."
"Hutt knows what!" Bol Chatak cursed. "This is idiocy!"
"I don't think so," Siri Tachi said with a chuckle in her voice, her fighter flashing a few meters above Osko's cockpit canopy. "Look!"
And indeed, there was something to admire.
The armada of ARCs, whose arrival everyone had conveniently forgotten with the start of the battle, slipped out of hyperspace, appearing on the flank of the enemy squadrons rushing toward the Valiant. The guns of the newcomers spoke—and half of the Separatist machines were blown away as if by the wind.
"Clever, clever," Master K'Kruhk commented. "Makati lured the enemy air wing toward 'The Resolute'."
"They could have told us about that," frustration sounded in Olana Chion's voice. And the Zabrak understood the girl perfectly—no one likes being "played in the dark."
Meanwhile, the ARC-170 squadrons, having scattered the enemy fighters to pieces, split into strike groups, each of which targeted a specific Separatist ship.
"I bet the Seps are going to have a rough time now," the voice of Sia-Lan Wezz sounded on the squadron frequency. And as if in confirmation of her words, tiny crimson flashes of proton torpedoes began to detach from under the fuselages of the ARCs, rushing toward the enemy ships. Osko, and Mander following in his wake, clashed with a pair of leaked Vultures, sentencing the latter to the fate of drifting space junk in the blink of an eye.
The explosions of the enemy fighters coincided with brilliant flashes at the site of five Lucrehulk-class battleships, which, as soon as the radiation intensity subsided, began to fall apart.
"Five down," Tsui Choi commented, "a little over a dozen and a half left."
"I don't know what Makati has planned, but this is clearly a surprise for the Separatists," Jaizen Suel noted. "The Hammerheads chewed up two more, and the Marauders are burning at least three Lucrehulks."
The Jedi squadron, gathered at the point designated by the dispatcher, could admire the scene unfolding before them.
The enemy flagship was exchanging fire with "The Resolute," but judging by the number of scorch marks on the hull and the explosions and decompressions of damaged compartments occurring every now and then, it was clearly not in the best position. On one side, it was continuously attacked by Torrents, plowing through the hull plating; on the other—missiles from the Marauders, their turbolasers, reinforced by the guns of a row of Hammerheads and "The Resolute" itself. From the side, it seemed that there wasn't a single intact spot on the enemy flagship—even the through-hangar had turned into a blazing firestorm.
Suddenly deprived of the support of the nearest ships destroyed by the ARCs, it found itself alone, surrounded by Republic starships. No wonder that, catching missile salvos in its engine nozzles and losing headway, it received new blows like a slow bantha, rapidly reducing its chances of continued existence.
However, on the Republic's side, not everything was smooth either. More than half of the Hammerheads were ruins that continued their battle in some unknown way, firing back at the enemy from surviving guns. However, at least two cruisers had already been knocked out and, venting the remains of atmosphere and plating into the icy vacuum, were busy saving their crews.
"Force, what kind of idiot thought of using this ancient, terentatek-crap, miracle-holding-in-space..." Melik Galera spoke for the first time.
"Careful with your expressions, Knight Galera," the squadron commander rebuked the relatively young Jedi. "Actually, you are serving in an army under the control of that very 'idiot'."
"I apologize," the Jedi immediately backed down. "Just... the Hammerheads are inferior to those same Venators. If there were Star Destroyers here instead of this junk, there wouldn't be even wreckage left of the Separatist fleet."
"If there were Venators in Ghent instead of Hammerheads," Sia-Lan Wezz joined the conversation, "the Republic's budget would have cracked. Fifteen hundred Star Destroyers is an extremely expensive pleasure."
"But there was enough money for Hammerheads," Galera persisted.
"They were purchased by the Christophsians and voluntarily handed over to Dougan's jurisdiction," Mander Zum broke his habitual silence. "A very worthy asset in the first year of the war, when the core of the Separatist fleet was Munificents, which the Hammerheads tore to pieces."
"Oh, I didn't know," Melik reported. "But now we clearly need something more powerful."
"That's true," Siri Tachi joined the discussion. "After the Banking Clan stated it wouldn't participate in the Clone Wars and began dealing with its dissidents, the number of Munificents under Count Dooku significantly decreased."
"But there are many more Recusants," Jaizen Suel lamented. "So, Ghent just became a hostage of the situation. They prepared to oppose Munificents, and it turned out a little differently than desired."
"Now that Rothana is under our control," Siri Tachi added, "the situation should change for the better. After all, the new ships will be stronger than their predecessors."
"That's true," Garen Muln agreed. "But I'm interested in what the Hutt we're doing here? An entire squadron waiting for who knows what..."
The dispatcher, as if hearing the squadron commander's indignation, intruded on the Jedi channel:
"Vanguard-Leader. Be ready to cover the landing."
"What kind of news is this?" Osko was taken aback. "They're in the second..."
However, the appearance of wedge-shaped Acclamators, exiting hyperspace above their current position, provided answers to all questions.
"Hutt knows what," Master K'Kruhk lamented.
"Vanguard-Leader to the landing ships, we are your escort," it was clear from Muln's voice that he wasn't very happy with what was happening. Jedi as nannies for an armada of infantrymen... Yes, it hit the ego hard.
But nothing could be done; such were the orders.
"Vanguard, cover the assault ships," came the voice of the Jedi Master known in the Order as the Dark Woman. According to the command's plan, she was to lead the ground offensive on Rindellia. And then on Enark—the strike cruisers would support Admiral Makati's fleet with fire, with the simultaneous landing of infantry and equipment.
Djlok whistled in surprise. Yes, the original plan had finally gone under a bantha's tail.
"Landing force," Muln said tiredly, "I'm not sure the surface is ready to receive guests..."
"Then you check it," the Dark Woman smirked.
The silence that settled on the air was broken only by the hiss of interference. The Zabrak waited for the other members of the squadron to protest, but they too were silent. Muln spoke, and his voice lacked both anger and strength. The fire seemed to have gone out in the Jedi.
"Vanguard-Leader to squadron," Garen commanded dully, "form Echo-3 order."
"Leader," Bol Chatak intervened. "Not everyone present is familiar with your maneuvers..."
"We break into pairs," Suel explained. "And approach the target from different sides."
"That way we'll survey a larger area," Master Choi added.
"There we go," Siri Tachi lamented.
A dozen Delta-7s dove, entering the upper layers of the atmosphere.
Osko felt each of his squadron mates through the Force. Confident, calm...
A flash of pain seemed to tear through his head.
"Boss, this is Four, something's wrong here. I have a bad feeling..."
"Acknowledged, Four. Everyone pay attention—surprises are possible," Garen reacted. The Zabrak smiled.
When he first joined the squadron, the commander had been extremely skeptical of the recruit's heightened premonition regarding upcoming dangers. However, after Vergesso and Hypori, he changed his tune. Practice showed that the Zabrak, more than anyone else among the Jedi, could feel the approach of problems long before their active stage.
The tactical monitor was still empty. The deflector shields of the enemy base, continuously receiving gifts from orbit, gave up the ghost—the backup generators, engaged after "The Resolute" brought down the main ones, also surrendered. And the faster the surface approached the nose of Osko's fighter, the more he understood why command had so diligently worn down the enemy's deflectors. And why huge forces were required for this seemingly routine landing operation.
The Separatist base, according to the information provided at the pre-combat briefing, occupied an area of about several square kilometers. But only the central part was protected by deflector field generators. The information on this Separatist stronghold was provided by Bothans—it seemed they had gone all out for revenge for the attempted invasion of their home system.
But the furries forgot to mention (or deliberately kept quiet—it didn't matter anymore) that the CIS outpost was located at the base of a massive mountain range, the size of which was such that all the cruisers, including the arrived landing force, could hover over it and still not cover a third of the area with their shadow.
As if in a nightmare, the squadron rapidly descended into the lower layers of the atmosphere. And meeting them just as quickly rose hundreds of pillars of blindingly crimson energy.
In a crazy bank, Muln, flying first, broke away to the side, trying to steady his smoking machine, which had become disobedient after a couple of hits. He saw how, in a flash of blinding light, showering his neighbors in the formation with a hail of small debris, the leader of the second pair, Master Tsui Choi, disintegrated.
With horror, he watched his astromech scream shrilly, losing half of its domed head—but it was precisely this that saved Osko's own life.
A burst from rapid-fire turbolasers, clearly installed in the folds of the mountainous terrain for a reason, burned out the cockpit of Melik's fighter, but judging by the small black dot, he had managed to eject.
"The Resolute!" Djlok yelled, pulling his machine away from the deadly trap. "The base is active, heavy barrage fire..."
Fire brushed past on the right, and he saw how the machine of Vanguard-2, Jaizen Suel, tumbling over its nose, plummeted down like a stone. Fortunately, the Force suggested that the girl had been able to use the evacuation equipment, hiding from the enemy targeting system in the low cloud cover.
"Leader down," Djlok began to list. "Deputy commander—too."
"Take command of the squadron, Vanguard-4," the dispatcher ordered in an unperturbed tone. "We are directing ARCs to you to suppress enemy fire points."
"To the Hutt with it!" the right engine, taking a direct hit, stalled. "Bomb it from orbit! I'm getting the people out!"
"Denied, Vanguard-4," the dispatcher objected. "Seven minutes until the ARCs arrive."
Osko shook his head in irritation.
Seven minutes!
The Seps had knocked out a third of the squadron in three! A Jedi squadron! Muln, Suel, Choi—all aces who had been through more than one battle! And they were swept away like trash from a table.
What could be expected with only seven mediocre pilots in formation?
His ship, shaking like a nuna during a hurricane, barely pulled out of the dive. Zum held on behind, obviously deciding to back up the lead.
What an idiot!
"Vanguard-Four to the remaining," Djlok threw out, gritting his teeth. "Loose formation. We need to hold out..."
They passed through the low cloud cover that the strong wind had wrapped around the base. And now they were back in the very center of the bacchanalia.
The Deltas rapidly darted around the mountain ridge, sometimes pouring fire from their guns into spotted targets. But all for nothing—the CIS turbolasers were covered by deflector shields. "Just like on droidekas," the ace thought.
Events were happening too fast; no one had time to react. Djlok tried to level the machine and didn't immediately orient himself. He heard K'Kruhk, who was unsuccessfully calling his wingman, and only after a few moments realized that Zum was still hanging on his tail.
"Four to Eight!" he addressed his wingman, "get the hell away!"
Hutt take this damn pair distribution. Muln, the leader, usually flew in tandem with Suel; Choi led Djlok. With the appearance of other Jedi, they had to act differently.
Garen Muln had to work in a pair with Melik Galera, Vanguard-11. Jaizen Suel led Rii'ke En, number ten. Tsui Choi—Olana Chion, seven. Djlok got Mander Zum, eight. Sia-Lan Wezz, having the callsign "Vanguard-7," as the most experienced of those who joined, became the leader of an element consisting of herself and Siri Tachi, "nine." Bol Chatak, having the serial number "Vanguard-12," was subordinate to Master K'Kruhk, whose callsign was one less than his protégé's.
A complete mess, appearing only because there aren't enough aces in the Jedi pilot corps to staff one full squadron.
"Understood," Zum replied. In the same second, his fighter banked to the side, avoiding a burst, then soared upward.
The reticle turned red; a short chime signaled a target lock in the earpiece. The Zabrak pressed the trigger, releasing a long burst into a turret spotted earlier.
The flickering deflector didn't allow him to see if he had hit anything, and if he had, what. Osko fired several more times, then did a zoom climb, went straight up, and dropped onto the enemy from above. He put the machine on its left wing just in case to reduce the probability of being hit. Then he decided it wasn't worth the risk and turned away. The interceptor, having turned into a barely controllable structure, barely stayed in the air. If the droid were alive, he could count on a repair, but...
The Zabrak mentally thanked the Force for switching the base model to the 7B, where the astromech was located directly in front of the cockpit, not on the side in the wing. Had he stayed on the old model, he would already be burning out with a hole in his chest.
"Siri! Sia-Lan! Get out!" Mander Zum's hysterical cry cut through the channel. "Up! Bank away!"
The white-and-silver interceptor piloted by the white-haired beauty, spiraling down, dove from above onto one of the gun emplacements, continuously pouring fire from its guns.
Djlok wanted to shout at the girl to get out of there—the twin guns, having stopped shooting at Master K'Kruhk's darting fighter, began to rise to destroy the insolent Jedi. Especially since the interceptor's guns were ineffective...
Before his eyes, the installation's protective field shattered under the hurricane fire of Wezz's fighter, which appeared from behind a massive mountain crag, after which the energy daggers of Siri's machine's guns pierced the mechanism, causing an internal detonation.
"How?" the Zabrak gasped.
"Normally," the blonde girl replied in a level tone. "I press the trigger until the end."
Tumbling over the right wing, Djlok pulled the machine into a wide and smooth turn to be outside the control zone of the enemy's anti-aircraft artillery. The Jedi stomped on the right pedal: the machine raised its rear rather indecently. Then, playing with the control stick of the disobedient machine and the fuel supply to the reaction chamber, he forced the fighter to almost crawl over the mountain range, its nose barely missing the rock.
Directly on course in a shallow ravine, he noticed another turbolaser tower. But unlike the others, it wasn't protected by deflector fields. However, judging by the numerous hit marks around it—someone among his comrades-in-arms had already been busy.
The tower was firing after the retreating red interceptor with black patterns—Bol Chatak's machine. Deciding to take advantage of the situation, Osko, approaching at a killingly close distance, crawled up to the death machine and, lowering the tail, pumped several quick salvos into it.
The installation exploded, throwing the Jedi's long-suffering fighter to the side.
Tumbling head over heels, the Zabrak thought sadly that the machine was toast—all sorts of sensors were screaming frantically in the cockpit, signaling malfunctions.
As soon as the Delta-7 stopped, its canopy, which had cracked upon impact, slamming against a protruding crag and falling onto its belly with a heart-wrenching screech, Osko used the Force to kick out the now-useless canopy, jumping outside.
A battle seethed in the sky—the thinned Jedi interceptors continued their attempts to thin out the enemy's defenses. Not without success, it must be admitted. Sia-Lan, whose fighter had been riddled by a burst from a turbolaser tower, jumped out of the cockpit, landing nearby. The uncontrollable machine crashed at full speed into the ill-fated Separatist gun, destroying it along with the crew.
The Jedi was unhurt, and noticing her colleague, she waved her hand in a friendly manner. He didn't remain in her debt, then noticed rapidly approaching dots behind the girl's back.
"Droids!" he shouted, simultaneously rushing toward his colleague.
His lightsaber came to life with a blue flame, after which, sensing the threat, the woman brought her own weapon to combat readiness.
The pair of Jedi reflected the first shots of the B2 squad with ease. Some went into the formation of the Separatists' barrel-shaped machines, while the rest ricocheted off the Jedi's energy weapons somewhere to the side. However, a couple of fallen enemy fighters—
clearly a poor result. Especially considering that more and more were appearing behind the first ones.
"Not a bad day to die," Osko joked grimly, parrying another shot. In the distance, he saw the emerging dots of ARC-170s, but they were so far away that without Jedi abilities, they were indistinguishable. And the remnants of Vanguard Squadron seemed to have dissolved. No, through the roar of battle, he could hear the frequent yapping of the remaining interceptors' cannons, but apparently, the pilots had moved to the far part of the ridge—closer to the reinforcements.
He calculated the arrival time of the reinforcements and the speed at which more death machines were materializing from the depths of the rock, appearing in various corners of the mountain ridge with the clear intention of surrounding (which they had already achieved) and destroying a pair of Jedi.
"The joke is funny," the Jedi praised. "The situation is terrifying."
"Are you afraid?" Djlok asked in surprise. "We are Jedi; we know no fear..."
"Yeah," the woman nodded grimly, parrying another blaster bolt. "That's why we die Hutt-knows where and how."
"Such is the fate of the guardians of peace," Osko shrugged. "We don't choose it..."
"Not on my watch, boy," the Jedi huffed, tirelessly parrying shots. "Just a little bit more..."
In the next moment, a white-and-silver interceptor slipped out from behind the rock formation, heavily scorched and smoking mercilessly from numerous holes in its hull, but still miraculously staying airborne. It described a full circle around the pair of Jedi, scattering the hordes of droids with its cannon fire. Then, emitting a plaintive grinding sound from its nozzles, it crashed onto its belly nearby.
The canopy flipped open, and Siri Tachi jumped out of the seat, tired but very much alive (which couldn't be said for her fighter or the astromech, clearly torn apart by a direct hit from a B2).
"You're just in time," Sia-Lan said to her wingman. The blonde girl gave a forced smile, and only now did Osko notice that her left arm, despite the protective armor, was scorched by a blaster bolt and hung limply like a whip along her torso.
"I was racing at full tilt," the girl said. "As soon as you reported you were surrounded, I drove at full speed..."
"This might not be my business," Djlak uttered, looking at Sia-Lan. "But you didn't have a comlink with you..."
"We communicate using the Force," she explained.
"Battle Meditation," Siri specified. "It allows us to maintain contact between gifted individuals at a significant distance. It connects the minds of several gifted ones, turning us into a coordinated organism."
"Fantastic!" the Zabrak gasped. So that was how this pair managed to take down the shields and blow up the turbolaser tower with such surgical precision! That was where such accuracy and coordination came from!
For a moment, the Zabrak imagined what results a squadron of gifted pilots linked by Battle Meditation could achieve...
"Can anyone teach this?" he asked, as if casually.
"Only," Sia-Lan looked him straight in the eyes, "not the Jedi."
Djlak "froze" for a moment, pondering the answer. Then, waving his hand, he said:
"I don't care if it's a Hutt! Teach me!"
***
Running a hand through my hair, damp after the shower, I looked with a smirk at the glowing creature who was donning her clothes without the use of hands. Standing with her back to me.
"Leaving already?" I huffed.
The Daughter, giving me an indifferent look, raised her arms, allowing the tunic to take its place on her torso.
"Talk here is meaningless," she said. "Everything we needed from each other, we accomplished during the night."
"To hear you tell it, it wasn't me who fucked you, but you who fucked me," I frowned. It's uncomfortable to feel that way. When you've been phallomorphized to the right condition, the job is done, and then—a wave of the hand. Like, the Moor has done his duty, the Moor should clear out.
My conscience immediately threw up a full chronology of my past bedroom exploits. Yes... not the most pleasant aftertaste—feeling like those who were used for a one-night stand.
Though previously, such things didn't sting or bother me.
Oh, damn Mortis, what are you doing to me.
"Facts are stubborn things," the Daughter said, approaching me. Still the same commanding touch-me-not, with a detached, spiritual poker face. A higher being, after all.
One would think it wasn't her moaning like a harbor slut a few hours ago, growling with pleasure as I wound her thick mane around my hand and tilted her head back, begging to be had like a common peasant girl. Ah, women...
"All you women want from men is sex," I sighed. "And we, by the way, sit in the corner afterward, hugging our knees and crying. Instead of at least cooking some borsch first..."
"Don't act like an egocentric," the girl requested, touching my lips with her own. Goosebumps ran down my body, and hair in all the immodest places stood on end. Not just the hair, for that matter. "It was a wonderful night."
"One would think you have much to compare it to over the last couple of tens of thousands of years," I said, once the currents of the Force overflowing the Daughter stopped agitating my body.
"I will leave that unanswered," the celestial said indifferently. "It is time for me to return to my abode."
"I thought you, like a typical strong and independent middle-aged woman, lived with your parents..."
"Don't play the fool," the Daughter advised. "It doesn't suit you. And yes, I have my own dwelling on Mortis. Just like Father and my brother."
"Then why didn't we go to your place?" I wondered. "It would have been more comfortable than a bed built by low-sentient beings."
"Brother has a habit of dropping by without warning," the Daughter explained. "I don't think you would have survived his reaction had he seen what we were doing."
"And on board the dreadnought, you think he wouldn't find out what's what if he wanted to?"
"You suspect yourself that we cannot exist without air," the Daughter smiled.
"What makes you say that?"
"Was there another reason you ordered the ship to a higher orbit, beyond the atmosphere of Mortis?"
"Guilty on all counts," I admitted.
"I need to get to the planet," the Daughter said. "It will be dawn soon; I might be missed."
"I've already given the orders," I won't specify why she couldn't have been missed during the night. "The pilots have lowered the dreadnought's orbit, and we are now in the upper layers of the atmosphere. I thought if you were missed during the night, you wouldn't want to 'show up' on a transport vehicle. Again."
"Excellent," the girl said, silently leaving the cabin I occupied, passing harmlessly through the wall with the transparisteel viewport.
As soon as the figure of the massive, shining gryphon began to recede from the ship, I took a deep breath.
Well, the strangest experience in the last year and a bit. Hell! In my whole life!
Who else can boast over a mug of beer, in the company of drunken men, that they spent the night with a beautiful two-meter-tall lady, perfectly built, immensely tender and debauched, and old enough to remember the primordial soup of most of the galaxy's races.
Though... who am I kidding. I won't tell anyone about this. I just don't have people that trusted to tell such things to.
"Pitiable hovel!" I heard a serpentine hiss behind my back, somewhat resembling Basic.
I turned around—no, still a humanoid.
"And a good morning to you, Son," I waved, picking up one of the two glasses half-filled with fruit juice from the table. "Can't sleep?"
"You are an arrogant upstart," the celestial hissed through his teeth. "I will smear you across the walls of this compartment like an insect."
"Why can't you all just give it a rest?" I sighed, waving my free hand at him. "Well, here I am."
A stream of hissing red lightning erupted from the Son's hands, rushing toward me as I calmly drank the juice. From the outside, it probably looked like I was destined to repeat my experience with Force Lightning that Sev'rance Tann gave me during our first meeting, but... Guys, c'mon! I know how to learn from my past mistakes. Not always, true, but...
The lightning passed through my body without meeting resistance and slammed into the chair behind me, causing the very expensive piece of furniture to flare up like a match, disintegrating into dozens of flaming pieces.
The stunned Son looked at me in surprise as I continued to consume the juice without pausing for a second. When the liquid in the glass was gone, I put it back. Next to an identical glass. Half full. Or half empty? Who the hell knows.
"Is that all?" I asked as if nothing had happened. "It's just that it's getting late, and I still wanted to drop by your old man's place at noon today..."
"How?" the Son asked in astonishment. "I am the embodiment of the Dark Side of the Force! My techniques are perfect! Is it she who protects you?!"
"Only two things protect me," I had to lift the veil of mystery, "brains and barrier-type contraception. By the way, there are a couple of used packs from the night over there; you can take them, use them, I'm not stingy. And don't look at me with such a wild gaze! I'm a boy from a decent family—I don't want to catch some Cretaceous period crap on my dick. And I didn't find my dick in a dumpster..."
"You will answer for your insolence, human," the Son rasped. However, his enraged expression changed in an instant to an impenetrable mask. Identical to the one the Daughter had. "But I will grant you a chance to survive."
"Oh, now that's a worthwhile dialogue," I appreciated. "Just don't threaten me anymore, or I'll be scared shitless. So, what do you need? Actually, don't say it. Let me guess... You want to get out of here?"
"I have spent a millennium in this prison!" the Son said with malice, clenching his hands in helpless rage. "You have no idea what agony it is..."
"I do," I countered, recalling an incident from the very beginning of my studies on Earth. "I had a kidney stone once. Oof, when it was coming out, I thought I'd die."
"Sarcasm," the Son identified. "You are literally saturated with it..."
"As the galaxy is," I shrugged, "so are the answers. You know, I could take you out on my dreadnought—together we could bring peace back to this galaxy."
"Yes..." the Son said with anticipation. "Your current teacher is a child compared to me. I will reveal to you all the secrets of the Dark Side. And the galaxy under our leadership will flourish, reaching the heights of its existence."
"Sounds more sensible than what I heard from your Father..."
"Father," the Son said, as if spitting out filth. "The old fool! He uses me and my sister for his own ends. He restrains me!"
"Well, the old man is weak, as far as I know," okay, let's throw some shit at the fan. "It would cost you nothing to get rid of him."
"Most of my power comes from him," the irritated Son lamented, pacing the room, casting wild and rage-filled glances from his red eyes at the crumpled bed. "He controls Mortis, and as long as he lives—it is difficult to leave it."
"But possible," I reminded him.
"Yes," the Son agreed. "Nothing can leave Mortis without Father's permission. Therefore, you must convince him that you will become the conduit of his will in the outside world. He will allow your ship to leave the Monolith, and just before exiting the atmosphere, I will enter the airlock and escape with you."
"The plan is as reliable as a Swiss watch," I said reproachfully. "Father will realize sooner or later that we've tricked him. Most likely immediately after we leave Mortis."
"That will no longer matter," the Son snapped. "We are in orbit of a planet where thousands of Sith reside. Powerful, talented. I will appear before them as their god, and they will follow me, desiring power and knowledge. I will have an entire army of gifted ones serving only me, just as you have your own. Father will not risk attacking us."
"He doesn't need to attack," I countered. "He'll track us somewhere in the galaxy using midi-chlorians and seal us in black holes, like he did with the Servant..."
"Ah... 'The Mother,'" the Son said with biting hatred. "A lower being whose cycle of existence should have been ended long ago."
"So why didn't you do it?" I asked.
"I desire it with all my heart!" the Son roared. "Father needs her for some reason. Her death will bring him much pain... Yes, first of all, we will destroy the Servant. This will undermine his strength—she is his complete antipode; they are interconnected through the Force. I think that will be enough to keep the old man out of my business. Likely, I will even do it quickly—after all, thanks to her, I was able to leave this dungeon, if only for a short time!"
"There are a few points here," I noted. The Son cast a withering look at me. "First: the Centerpoint Station. Even a powerless old man will be able to use it again to imprison us..."
"He won't be able to!" the Son waved it off. "To control that station, it is not enough to belong to the race of Celestials. A massive amount of Force is needed to power the station. He has not possessed such for a long time. Every time the Servant broke out of her prison, he sent me and my sister to bring her back. Without my Force, he can do nothing. And if he tries—it will cost him his life."
"Okay," I agreed. "But don't forget that he can pass some of his power to the Killiks so they can do all the work for him again."
"They are pathetic creatures and incapable of opposing me," the Son snorted. "With your army and our Force, we will destroy them without breaking a sweat if he decides to use them against me."
"We'd have to find them first," I noted. "They're somewhere in Wild Space..."
"You are appallingly petty," the Son said irritably. "I made the Killiks what they are, and finding them will not be difficult! Even now, restricted by the Monolith, I know that their scouts are exploring the worlds of the nebula you call the Utegetu Nebula!"
"Don't get angry!" I asked. "You understand, I'm risking more than you. You can easily destroy any of your kin; they, on the other hand, would grind me to powder with a single glance if something happened. It's logical that I'm trying to calculate all the options before it's too late."
"All of them?" the Son asked suspiciously.
"Absolutely," I admitted. "And, to be honest, I would be much calmer if you took the Dagger of Mortis from the sanctuary."
"The only weapon capable of killing me?" the Son flared up. "Planning to kill me?"
Crackling red lightning appeared in his hands, ready to fall upon me. Yeah, I touched a nerve with this guy with my distrust. I should explain before he starts wrecking everything here. I'm not sure the same trick will work on him twice.
"Yes," I agreed. "The dagger can kill. You, Father, and the Daughter. Any of the Celestials, if I'm not mistaken. And in my view, the only weapon capable of killing my mentor should be kept far away from those who might use it."
"You are not mistaken," the Son agreed. "And... your thought is quite sound. But it is in the Sanctuary, in the altar, where no Celestial can obtain it. So you are worrying for nothing."
"Not for nothing at all," I countered. "In case you didn't know, your Father wants to bring the Chosen One to Mortis, whom he, by his own words, created."
"I do not care about my Father's affairs," the Son snorted.
"You should," I shrugged. "After all, he is not a Celestial. And since he follows your Father's precepts, why can't he take the Dagger to kill you?"
The Son thought for a moment, stroking his chin.
"You speak reasonably," he said after a few minutes of reflection. "I will show you where it is. You will take it."
"Let's make it simpler," I suggested. "Surely your Father is tracking my movements—since I'm not in his field of vision. And as soon as I show up there, he'll immediately realize what's what."
"Such a turn of events cannot be ruled out," the Son agreed. "Then send one of your people there. The Sanctuary is located at the base of a rather prominent mountain—a massive peak with a blue-green crystal burning at the summit."
"I will immediately give the orders to do so," bowing politely to the Son, I hid a smile. "My ship is at your disposal... Master."
"You will be properly rewarded for your service, my apprentice," the Son said triumphantly. "By the end of the day, the galaxy will know our greatness!"
In the blink of an eye, in place of the tall bald man with deathly white skin and tasteless red tattoos, a huge bat with a predatory grin appeared. Filling the cabin with a vile cry that nearly burst my eardrums, he vanished, falling through the deck.
Shedding my Cloak, I stepped into the room where my own phantom, created with an Illusion, began to disintegrate, melting into the air. And with it—the empty glass on the table.
Picking up a real glass product with a real drink inside, I drained it in one gulp.
"And these beings teach me how to properly handle the galaxy," I said dejectedly, putting the empty container on the table.
I had to hurry—time was running out, and there was much to be done.