Chapter 90 - Chapter 30

Cad Bane was watching a holovideo and picking at his teeth with a small durasteel ice pick when a warning light flickered on the console in his ship's cockpit. Sitting beside him, Billy announced:

"Arriving at the destination, boss. Reverting from hyperspace in three minutes."

"Good, kid," the Duros tossed back. "Take a break, I'll handle it from here."

The boy nodded silently and left the bridge, heading toward the cabins. His watch was over; the lad deserved some rest.

"And shave that crap off your face," the Duros shouted after him.

"This 'crap' is called a 'beard and mustache,'" Kidd retorted. "You'd know if you could grow one yourself."

"Little brat," the Duros grumbled, then added louder, "I'll beat the nonsense out of you, partner!"

"I know where to get more!" his colleague shot back, disappearing into his cabin.

Continuing to pick at his teeth, Bane switched off the holovideo. He had been watching "Bounty Hunters Guild's Greatest Hits: Volume VIII," a collector's edition of holocam-recorded assassinations. Rifles, blasters, slugthrowers, lasers, detonators, mines, disasters, reactor sabotages, vibroknives, toxic needles… The Guild regularly released these "compilations" showcasing the most interesting methods of killing. Usually, they were structured by theme—by target type, method of execution, or the manner of covering one's tracks. This issue was dedicated to killing Jedi. And, as usual, it only featured footage of hunters who had shelled out credits for the privilege.

Cad's kills never made it into the compilations. Firstly, he had no intention of paying so that a pair of Trandoshans—Guild leader Cradossk and his son Bossk—could squeeze even more credits out of him. It was enough that he paid his Guild dues on every contract as required.

Secondly, the idiots who filmed their work on holocams tended to live remarkably short lives. The compilations were posted in special sections of the HoloNet as advertising brochures for future clients. Or as training manuals for beginners willing to drop a few hundred credits for several hours of dull holorecords. Bane never bought them, always using pirated versions. Besides, there wasn't much to see. Just something to laugh at.

Because there was nothing of substance in these "hits" in principle. Catch a Jedi with grenades. Take him by surprise. Disarm him.

Garbage videos. Cad knew perfectly well how to take the life, disarm, or neutralize most sentients in the galaxy. Jedi were no exception. The mere fact that his current employer had once been his target and had "paid dearly" proved the Duros's competence and professionalism. In general, the change in his status proved that many were in need of Bane's services. And even if the start of his cooperation with the Empire hadn't been the most pleasant (the scars where they had sliced skin off him still itched), the new job and the salary suited him.

Faking his own death had cost nothing. A few rumors on Tatooine, a bit of panic in Hutt Space, three witnesses who saw him board a ship that subsequently exploded…

And just like that, Cad Bane no longer existed for the galaxy.

The Senate Bureau of Intelligence had stopped looking for him, his enemies had calmed down, his friends moved on… Though, what kind of friends could he possibly have, by the Hutt?

Except maybe this boy, Billy.

But even he was more of a colleague, a student, an apprentice. Not a friend. An associate, nothing more.

Like everyone he'd dealt with before, the lad wouldn't blink an eye before gutting him if that were the task. Not without difficulty, of course, but he certainly could.

The boy might look like a jester and a clown, but in the actual work, he was quite good. He shot straight, ran fast, and planned meticulously. If only he didn't get distracted by his trysts with his blue-faced senator, he'd be pure aurodium, not a man.

Either way, the Duros didn't want anyone else as a partner right now. The lad possessed rather specific qualities—he intuitively adapted to his surroundings, which, for the most part, consisted of morons. Therefore, Billy blended into the crowd with ease.

In time, he would pass his knowledge to the boy.

Outside the cockpit, the transluminal dimension known as hyperspace bloomed in a glowing cascade, drifting past the ship's stern. Bane turned his chair, moving away from the deactivated holoprojector to run a quick check on the engines and navigation systems.

At first glance, all systems were functioning correctly, but then he noticed minor fluctuations in the gravity field generator. Bane's abilities in gathering and systematizing data to control a situation were as high as his skills in creating chaos. And he liked it when everything worked exactly as it should.

The ship was called… the Hutt only knows what. An ordinary, unremarkable freighter stolen on Coruscant, spotted on Rendili, and vanished into the endless tangle of hyperspace jumps designed to cover their tracks. Even if they were being hunted, they had been lost long ago. The Duros knew how to cover his tracks like no one else.

Bane clamped the knife in his teeth, freeing his hands to work the engineering console. Once satisfied that the fluctuations in the field generator had normalized and were operating at optimal levels, he took the knife out of his mouth and playfully twirled it in his nimble blue fingers.

Rising from his seat, he left the cockpit to check his cargo, taking the knife with him. Bane proceeded to the relatively small hold, stopping near a two-meter black plastoid crate resting on a repulsor sled attached to the wall by magnetic grapples. There was a switch on the side of the crate; upon pressing it, the top lid slid aside, revealing a transparisteel coffin. Through the transparisteel, the unconscious, motionless body of a man was clearly visible.

"Well, hello, Senator Organa," Bane smirked.

In reality, the coffin was an exotic stasis pod. On one side were life-support monitors, around which a thin layer of ice had formed. With surgical precision, Bane struck with the knife, shattering the ice while managing not to damage the screen. The hunter leaned toward the monitor to read the man's vitals.

Organa's condition hadn't changed. He was as close to death as he had been aboard his corvette, which had been dropped at coordinates pre-programmed into the senator's hyperdrive. Yes, the "repairs" had been executed perfectly. As had the subsequent "accidental" discovery of the drifting Tantive IV, its boarding, and finally, the capture of the senator.

Yes, they could have taken him right on Rendili without concocting such a clever scheme. However, that might have left tracks leading back to Bane and Kidd. And the Duros didn't like complications in his work.

Whether the senator lived or died depended entirely on the adjustment of the coffin's settings. Bane would have gladly killed the man on the spot, but his mission wasn't the senator's execution. "Capture and deliver." Not "Find and destroy."

Back when he worked for the Guild, Bane could afford a loose interpretation of orders—rarely, but effectively. But when you work for the Empire… Disobeying an order is more trouble than it's worth. It was easier to do everything properly and get his hard-earned credits than to answer to the superiors later.

Bane closed the crate, sheathed his knife, and returned to the cockpit. As soon as he settled into the chair, the sublight engine automatically began to throttle down, entering a pre-set orbit.

From the cockpit, Bane saw a large planet against the backdrop of stars, and he didn't need to check the sensor readings to be certain that this planet was the destination.

He hadn't been here before. In fact, neither had the vast majority of sentients living in the Empire.

Cad checked the navigation display to ensure it was working correctly, cross-referencing with the coordinates in his head—the only place those coordinates were stored. He did this out of a habit that had become part of his current routine, a guarantee that he would never, under any circumstances, become a victim of anyone or anything, including equipment failure.

The planet had no remarkable features. No orbital repair yards, no orbital structures, no satellites, no starships scurrying through the system… A pristine world covered in lush vegetation, unknown in the inhabited part of the galaxy.

The planet had no name, only a code designation—"Meeting Place." Nothing more, nothing less. No additional explanations.

The navigation panel beeped—Bane intercepted a single unique transmission, a signal emanating from a small artificial satellite in the planet's orbit. The satellite was spherical, about half a meter in diameter. The signal appeared as a blinking green dot on the monitor; a brief description stated that the signal was being transmitted on a secure frequency. According to the instructions, it only activated during a rendezvous—not a minute earlier or later. If you're late, it's your own fault.

Bane knew the signal was intended for him and him alone. He turned the subspace receiver toward the signal and tapped out the passcode on the keys. If an incorrect code had been entered, the satellite would have self-destructed. Since the code was correct, the device transmitted a set of coordinates for the next destination to his ship. The coordinates pointed to a patch of terrain deep in the forest—a wide stretch of land on the far side of the planet.

Bane adjusted the sensor controls, deactivated the triangulation transmission from the satellite over the planet's horizon, and focused on the coordinates he had just received. He calculated a circuitous course to the planet's surface, as he believed there was always a chance someone was watching, and for that very reason, he had acquired another special skill that stood above all others. So, until he was absolutely certain that no one was watching or following him, he wouldn't go anywhere near his target waiting at the designated coordinates.

About two hours later, Bane was circling over the landing area, scanning the space, ensuring the safety of the "rendezvous." When the paranoia subsided, he lowered the ship onto an inconspicuous clearing hidden by the tree canopy.

After that, lowering the ramp from the cockpit, he headed for the exit.

They were already waiting for him at the ramp.

A lone human figure, clad in a strict military uniform. A blaster in a thigh holster. An unremarkable face, yet with a keen, observant gaze from cold and indifferent eyes.

"Admiring the views?" the man inquired.

"Checking for a tail," Bane replied hoarsely.

"A useful skill," the man nodded approvingly. "Don't do it again."

"And why is that?" the Duros smirked.

"You're making the defense system operators nervous," the man said in the same tone.

"There's one here?" the mercenary asked, trying not to betray his surprise.

"There is," the man made it clear the alien wouldn't hear any details. "Where's the cargo?"

"In the hold," Cad waved a hand.

"Partner?"

"Sleeping."

"Wake him up, I need you both," the man ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.

Bane was smart enough to know when he could argue with the brass and when it was best to keep his tongue behind his teeth. Though they had only met a couple of times (the current conversation being the second), he had no desire to cross the officer. The mere thought of it made his scars itch.

"Billy, wake up," Cad said into the comlink. For a few seconds, he heard only the crackle of static, then the boy's sluggish voice came through.

"Bane, I was having such a dream, give me half an hour…"

"Keep your wet fantasies to yourself," the Duros advised. "We're at the point. The Chief wants to see us."

"Two minutes," every hint of sluggishness vanished from the boy's voice.

"And bring the cargo," the Duros added finally.

The man watched this scene indifferently. Waiting for the alien to switch off the comlink, he asked:

"How's the apprentice?"

"Diligent," Bane admitted. "Plenty of nonsense in his head, but in time, I'll make a man out of him."

"Any problems with him?"

"None," the Duros lied without blinking. Superiors or not, no one needed to know the boy was continuing his trysts with the Pantoran. She was a mission of influence. Let her remain that in the reports.

"Prospects?"

"Give me a year, and you won't recognize Billy the next time we meet," Bane assured him. He wasn't being insincere. He actually liked the kid—for his spontaneity, his ease of communication. Yes, he pulled stunts crazier than most at times. But that's what youth is for—earning your lumps.

"Six months," the superior stated categorically. "And I'd prefer to still recognize him."

A crash sounded from behind. Cad, gritting his teeth, turned toward the source of the noise. Billy, having donned his ridiculous cloth-armor cloak and wide-brimmed hat (Cad reflexively adjusted his own), was pushing the stasis pod ahead of him on an antigrav.

Earning a judgmental look from his older comrade, Billy slid the panel aside, letting the man look at the transparisteel coffin containing the motionless body of the senator. Pointing to the fresh layer of ice around the life-support monitors, Bane explained:

"Icing is normal for this device. It means everything is working as it should."

"It means you have an ancient stasis pod," the man observed reasonably.

Ignoring his valid comment, Bane continued:

"To look at the monitors and gain access to the controls, you just have to break the ice. Like this," he pulled the ice pick from its sheath and professionally drove it into the ice; it cracked and fell away.

The man checked the controls, then leaned over the coffin and studied the senator's face. Not a trace of air moving through his nostrils. He was completely still. Nodding with satisfaction, the man looked up at the Duros.

"I was told I'd receive additional instructions," Cad Bane said.

"Follow me," the commander ordered.

Exchanging a glance, the mercenaries walked after the officer, not forgetting to push the transparisteel coffin ahead of them. Cad noticed the man's slight limp and gave a stealthy, satisfied smirk.

The path proved short.

They walked a few dozen meters through the forest before finding themselves in front of a security checkpoint camouflaged among the rocks.

Several men in similar uniforms and light body armor checked the access cards of all three, then watched the officer pass, paying absolutely no attention to his company.

"Is there a base here or something?" Billy asked quietly, turning his head like a child at the Festival of Light on Naboo.

"That's the one," Cad replied softly. "Talk less. I'll ask the questions."

"Sure, boss," Billy assured him, though the Duros had no confidence the lad would keep his mouth shut. He knew his younger comrade all too well.

As Cad suspected, the base itself was built deep underground. On the surface, there were only sentry posts leading to the entrances and a series of camouflaged equipment. Therefore, he wasn't very surprised when, after passing three lines of security, the officer led them to a turbolift disguised as a pile of boulders, where they were met by the sergeant of the guard. Checking the documents, he gave a command to his subordinates, and the massive armored doors of the cabin opened.

"You could have set up landing pads within the security perimeter," Cad remarked casually.

The man ignored his comment.

Waiting until the cabin reached the required level (the Duros mechanically noted the number "11" on the display), at the man's signal, the Duros and his partner handed over the transparisteel coffin to several base personnel. Then the cabin continued its movement, stopping at the "38" mark.

"They've gone deep," the thought flashed through Bane's mind.

On the new floor, they were met by the sparse interior of numerous gray corridors made of duracrete and locked doors without any hint of markings.

The man stopped at one of them, applied an access card, and stepped inside. Both mercenaries followed him, finding themselves in a small, modestly furnished office: a desk, a few metal chairs, a holoprojector. Nothing that could give even the slightest hint of the office owner's preferences or individual traits.

Gesturing for the mercenaries to take the chairs opposite the desk, the man took his seat across from them, immediately booting up the computer.

"Your new assignment is on Umbara," he began without preamble. "Senator Al Comlin will be on the planet for the next two weeks," an image of an Umbaran in rich clothing appeared above the tabletop. "He possesses vital data regarding the state of affairs among the senators of the Separatist Congress, which interests the leadership. According to our information, the senator will participate in an upcoming session where certain key issues regarding the continuation of the war between the Republic and the Confederacy will be discussed."

"What's it to us?" Billy wondered. "Let them bash each other however they want."

"Incorrect judgment, Agent Zero-43," the handler countered. "We are interested in everything that happens in the galaxy. Information is the key to prosperity. Obtain the information the senator will provide, then return here."

"When is the session scheduled?" Cad inquired.

"In a day."

"On our ship, it takes two days just to get to the Outer Rim," Cad objected. Catching his colleague's uncomprehending look, he showed him a fist under the table—so the intelligence officer wouldn't see.

"Your probationary period is over, Zero-9," the man noted. "The hangars are located on Level 6. Yours is the ninth. You are being assigned the X-70B Phantom. It's an experimental craft, but with state-of-the-art internals. I suggest you study the ship's technical specs before showing up in Republic territory."

"Oh, we got a new ride?" Billy grinned with a sort of childish spontaneity. The man gave him a deeply evaluative look, after which a slight smirk appeared on his lips, addressed to Bane.

"Six months, you say, Zero-9?" he clarified. "Well, well…"

"What six months?" Kidd blinked in bewilderment, causing the Duros another tooth-grind. "If needed, I can do it in a heartbeat…"

"Billy, shut your mouth," Cad requested. Closing his eyes, he gathered his thoughts and asked the man: "The senator's fate?"

"Extract the information covertly; protect the subject at all costs without raising suspicion."

"And what happens to Senator Organa?" Billy asked.

Despite the Duros trying to drown out his question with an attentive cough, the man sitting opposite heard it.

"Nothing terrible," he assured with a serious face. "We'll thaw him out, have a chat, give him some caf, a bag of pastries, and send him home."

"Really?" Billy beamed. Cad shook his head dejectedly.

"No," the man in uniform shook his head. "The senator's fate should not concern you."

Cad, seeing that Billy was about to ask something else, stood up hastily.

"The assignment is clear, sir. We are leaving."

"Good luck," the man nodded, losing all interest in them.

"I told you—keep your mouth shut!" the Duros hissed in the turbolift cabin. "You're talking to the wrong person!"

"What did I do?" Billy spread his hands. "A couple of silly phrases, and who knows, he might have said something more."

"You picked the wrong target," Cad smirked. "Damon won't talk even under torture."

"Who?" Zero-43 didn't understand. "What Damon?"

The Duros sighed wearily. Sometimes he forgot that his protégé still moved in extremely low circles and had never worked on contracts on Coruscant.

"Colonel Damon—former deputy director of the Senate Bureau of Intelligence," he explained. "Armand Isard 'devoured' his deputy when he started digging into a couple of senators. Remember the case about the senators involved in the slave trade?"

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that," the guy nodded.

"Damon oversaw the SBI's work regarding the Senate. He's the one who identified those bastards and dragged all their dirty laundry into the light."

"But they got off," his partner recalled. "And defected to the Separatists."

"As soon as he was kicked out of the SBI, the senators got away with everything," Bane smirked. "And once he was ousted, they started firing all his people. Direct subordinates, colleagues he was friendly with, and other principled types. Somewhere around five hundred, if I remember correctly."

"So it turns out, if he's working for us now, then his people…?" Billy deduced.

"Kid," Bane sighed. "Damon is the deputy director of the Imperial Security Bureau for foreign intelligence. In case you didn't notice, he's the one giving us tasks, not the other way around, which means he doesn't work for us—we work for him. Did you even read your contract before signing it?"

"Nope," Kidd admitted. "The main thing is we have carte blanche for any actions for the good of the Empire. The rest doesn't matter."

"Everything matters, Billy," the pair walked down a wide corridor, reaching the doors of the required hangar. Bane, sliding his fingers into a hidden pocket of his belt, pulled out a thin information card—an ISB agent ID. Applying it to the reader, he waited for the massive hangar door to slide aside. "Only because I took you under my wing are you a Zero-level agent—with a license to kill and all that. Hutt, if the mission requires it, we can even call in a fleet and burn a planet to the ground! If you were on your own—they wouldn't have taken you for anything. And your ten thousand credits a month salary would be gone! And your girlfriend from Pantora is not a cheap thing."

"It's love, Cad," Billy sighed. "Besides, I have to maintain my reputation as an industrialist."

Bane gave an irritated grunt. The kid was in love up to his nostrils. He definitely wouldn't listen to the voice of reason. So he'll either get burned himself, or everything will work out. There was no third option. All his older comrade could do was be there and not let him screw up.

"What a beauty," Billy said admiringly as the view of an elegant ship, looking more like a luxury yacht, opened up to them. "Rayo will lose her mind when she sees this!"

"What the hell is Rayo, kid?" Cad growled mockingly. "We have a mission!"

"Oh, stop giving me that," Billy smirked. "We got here in our bucket in ten hours from the galactic center, and in this bird—it'll be twice as fast. We'll have time to drop by Coruscant after the mission! Why are you grinding your teeth, Bane? Let's get on board! I call first at the helm!"

"A grown-up idiot in love," the Duros commented quietly, watching his companion's receding figure. "She'll break your heart, kid. And out of grief, you'll become the best bounty hunter in the galaxy."

After a pause, the Duros added even more quietly:

"'Students repeat the path of their teachers'... Hutt, poor boy…"

***

Before the eyes of Deran and Mifispi, standing on a sheer cliff, the tall hospital building shuddered from the explosion of a generator hidden at its base. Clouds of smoke billowed toward the heavens, and the structure swayed dangerously. Fortunately, contrary to Mifispi's fears, it did not collapse, and none of the wide streets connecting the city center to the outskirts were affected or buried under mountains of duracrete and shattered transparisteel. This meant nothing would stop the advance of the 305th Assault Corps units toward the central part of the capital of the planet Enark. The sabotage of the deflector field generator, which the Neimoidians and their mechanical army were using for cover, was intended to disorganize the organic enemy. And to instill confidence in a swift rescue for the soldiers of the Republican army entrenched in the opposite part of the capital.

"The boys from Breakthrough Squad did a good job," Commander Naluan said approvingly, referring to the sabotage. "No collateral damage. If we're lucky, we can take the city center without unnecessary destruction."

"As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather have Rockclimber and his Ion Team here," Mifispi said. "Those guys would have blown the whole center, and there'd be no fuss."

"You just want to blow everything up," the Togruta sighed. "There are living sentients there. Some of them are innocent."

"This planet is the regional headquarters of the Trade Federation," the Marshal recalled the briefing. "There are no innocents here."

Ten kilometers to the east, the shimmering red energy dome that had concealed the landing platform flickered and died, leaving the giant hexagon, where the traders' cargo ships once landed, defenseless against invasion.

"Efficient," the girl evaluated. "The second generator in five minutes. Are they teleporting or something?"

"Most likely they just split up," Mifispi said, smiling at the Jedi's joke.

Not a second passed before a swarm of Republican V-19 Torrent starfighters and ARC-170s plummeted from the sky, drenching the ground with cannon fire. In response, anti-aircraft batteries on the landing platform and from the roofs of skyscrapers spoke up, piercing the sky with bolts of pure crimson energy.

"Admiral Kreeves started off briskly," Declann commented, pointing to the swarm of fighters nimbly darting between buildings, burning out enemy fire points.

Further south, five hundred meters above the churning waters of the bay, the Acclamator-class assault ship Victorious—the Rear Admiral's perennial flagship—hovered motionless. Assault craft tore away from its hangar bays and, under continuous incoming fire, headed for the shore at full speed.

"It's about to start," Mifispi grunted. "The 804th Legion has begun landing. Soon it's our turn."

"I remember the plan, Mifispi," the girl smiled. "I am the author, after all."

"Yes, ma'am," the Marshal nodded. "I'm not so old that I'd forget that."

Her reward for his joke was another frank smile.

Making a detour through the city, the clone and the Padawan eventually turned south and set a course for the base of the corps' main forces. After passing a few more streets, bypassing patrols and droid units rushing to the front line, they checked the city map, emerged onto a street parallel to the main one, and ran with all their might toward the magistrate.

The plan was simultaneously simple and, in Mifispi's opinion, overly convoluted.

Since the main strike group of the fleet was stuck at Rindellia, having unexpectedly run into a powerful orbital cover group and a very extensive enemy base on the ground, the campaign to relieve the remnants of the troops ("What troops," Mifispi thought, "a couple of regiments left from two corps") of the "Greck" system army of High Jedi General Adi Gallia had once again undergone changes.

While Admiral Makati's Spear was grinding down the unexpectedly tough Separatist orbital group, and the soldiers of the 217th Assault, 156th Assault, and 73rd Reconnaissance Corps of Marshals Riviriv, Ventor, and Micky—whom Mifispi knew personally and highly valued for their professionalism—were operating on the ground, the headquarters, not wanting to lose the momentum of the offensive and not giving the CIS the opportunity to bring in reserves through their favorite secret hyperspace paths, threw Rear Admiral Eon Kreeves's fleet at Enark.

The Anvil, as if justifying its name, didn't stand on ceremony and hammered the enemy for all it was worth. A massive missile and torpedo attack by cruisers against the Confederacy starships in orbit (there they were, the "lost" Munificent-class star frigates and Recusant-class light destroyers from Rindellia) literally knocked out most of the enemy's light destroyers in the first minutes of the battle. The enemy was stunned—though that was the last thing anyone expected from droids—and was pushed back from orbit. Hammerhead-class cruisers and Marauders took the vacated position in orbit with a daring dash and were now holding back the Separatists while the Acclamators dropped the landing force.

The idea of landing directly on the Separatists' heads had to be abandoned as soon as they received a message from the surviving Republican units about the presence of enemy J-1 proton cannons. These proton monsters, a pair of which could easily knock any Republican ship out of the atmosphere, had to be reckoned with. This, in turn, delayed the relief of the besieged clones, whom the Separatists had driven to the northern part of the city—a piece of sparsely built-on rock rising above an abyss.

Using field deflector shields, the Separatists simultaneously protected their positions from orbital fire and, under their cover, were hastily advancing on the entrenched "Greck-ites," as the besieged units on the planet had come to be called. Whoever was commanding the Separatists on the ground clearly realized that since the Republican Acclamators had landed fifty kilometers from the city, a general offensive on their positions would occur quite soon. And the Separatists clearly didn't want to fight on two fronts—against those advancing on the front line and those entrenched in the rear. Therefore, before it was too late, they were trying to crush the "Greck-ites" to turn the full force of their army against the landing force.

Headquarters calculations showed that in a standard assault, the droids would have enough time to destroy the defenders—who were already firing back while literally standing in ruins. Not a single whole building left to serve as cover.

Therefore, Commander Naluan proposed an extremely risky but, apparently, the only correct way to invade the city and liberate the besieged.

While three of the four legions in the 305th Assault Corps landed from ships outside the enemy's weapon range, a commando squad attached to the corps—the guys with the callsign Breakthrough Squad, who had distinguished themselves in the first year of the war—would infiltrate the city and, by the time the main forces approached, destroy the protective field generators, opening the city to an air attack. Admiral Kreeves, with the help of an air raid, would silence the anti-aircraft and Planetary Defense artillery. Simultaneously, three legions would attack head-on, while the LAATs would land the 804th on the largest landing_

platform adjacent to the positions held by the "Ghent (army)" men.

In summary, reinforcements arrive for the exhausted boys, drawing most of the fire onto themselves, while the main body of the 305th Corps rolls like a steamroller through the forward droid positions on the southern outskirts. Yes, it will cost sacrifices, and likely significant ones. But when it comes to saving brothers, the clones are united in their impulse.

"We should have carried out a surgical strike," Mifispi lamented, watching as one of the cargo LAAT/c ships, engulfed in flames after meeting a heavy proton charge, fell like a fiery stone within the landing pad area.

He and the Commander had arrived in the city along with the commandos. But while the latter dealt with the city's defensive systems, the Jedi and the Marshal moved straight toward the enemy headquarters.

Yes, this bright idea—to break into the enemy command post and capture the Separatist commander as a duo under the noise of the cannonade, leaving the corps to the legion commanders—had come into Deran's head about an hour ago. Had Mifispi not noticed the Jedi girl taking a speeder bike from one of the scouts with the firm intention of penetrating the city alone, she would have certainly sped off to the city center by herself. And she surely would have died. Because while crossing the droid positions, the Marshal, who had tagged along, had saved her life exactly five times.

"Don't blame yourself," the Commander replied. "All the commanders agreed to this plan. We knew it wouldn't happen without sacrifices."

"I remember, ma'am," Mifispi admitted. "I just wonder every time—how many boys could have been saved if we fought just a little bit better."

"I'm afraid we'll never know that."

"What about your Jedi abilities?" Mifispi inquired. "I heard you can see the future..."

"Other Jedi—perhaps," Naluan agreed. "It is inaccessible to me. I hope only for now, and not forever."

"I heard that Grand Moff Dougan can single-handedly cut down an entire army of droids," Mifispi shared the rumors, casually checking his wrist-mounted deck. Aha, friendly dots were already close.

"Maybe so," the Padawan said indifferently. "Master Windu destroyed many droids on Dantuin practically with his bare hands. But they are members of the High Council of the Order, and I am a simple Padawan."

"Forgive my bluntness, Commander, but what the Hutt do you Jedi need this Council for?"

"I didn't understand the question," the Togruta admitted.

"I mean, why is it necessary?" Mifispi clarified his question.

"They command the Jedi," Deran said. "They set our tasks, give us orders. The Council is to the Jedi what high command is to you—it teaches and punishes."

"I've talked to other Marshals who came from other armies. They say things aren't the same for them as they are for us. The Jedi themselves run into the attack on the front lines, setting tasks while ignoring the terrain features and enemy disposition. Last year it was a total nightmare—they were moving in tight formation against droid 'boxes.' Now it seems to have gotten a bit easier, but not by much."

"Actually, if you haven't noticed," Deran smirked, "I am a Jedi, and I'm also on the front lines. Even behind enemy lines."

"That's different," Mifispi grimaced. "Right now we're acting as saboteurs, and here, I admit, your Jedi skills are very useful. But from what the other guys say, it turns out that the tactical layouts and generalizations that High Command distributes to the army and navy are intended only for us, the clones. Because only we follow them. More precisely, we try to follow them—when it doesn't contradict the direct orders of a Jedi commander. So I wonder—if, as you say, the High Council teaches the Jedi, then why aren't you taught how to wage war like we are? We would be even more effective than we are now."

"Jedi are guardians of the peace," the girl said didactically. "We are not soldiers..."

"Then why do you command us? Since you aren't qualified personnel?"

"Good question," the Togruta sighed. Noticing movement ahead of her, she made a gesture to the clone, and the pair ducked into the nearest alleyway, waiting for a squad of super battle droids to march past. "To be honest, I didn't want to command a corps at seventeen."

"You're almost twice as old as me, ma'am," Mifispi noted.

"Older?" the Togruta frowned. "In what sense? You're about thirty..."

"Eleven, ma'am," the clone corrected. "I just look older."

The Togruta's eyes went wide. Mifispi looked at her, then remembered that despite his practically friendly relationship with the Commander, they had never touched on this topic before.

"We have accelerated aging," he explained. "In ten years, we reach the age of an adult."

"You're not a specimen," the girl noted crossly. "You're a human!"

"As you wish, ma'am," the clone agreed. "If you say 'human,' I'll be a human. If you order me to become a bantha, I'll wrap myself in a thick-pile carpet and start growing horns."

"You know, you used to be less humorous," the girl noted, cautiously peeking around the corner. No, the droids were still marching. "But since you had that check-up on Christophsis, you've become talkative, Hutt take it, you won't shut up."

"Should I be quiet, ma'am?" Mifispi asked with a hint of offense. It would be a shame if so. He liked talking to this girl. In her company, it was somehow easy and natural. And she herself was beautiful and pleasant to talk to.

Sinilian, the commander of the 212th Reconnaissance Corps, once said that after the examination at the medical center on Christophsis, it was as if the clones found it easier to breathe. Mifispi noticed it in himself. If before he just nodded his head and nothing interested him besides the war, now... He was even dragged to a comedienne's performance once during a rest period on Christophsis. He understood little of her monologue, but the others—mostly Christophsians—laughed. Since then, he spent all his free time scouring the HoloNet, downloading and reading books—indiscriminately, everything in a row. Some were about the history of the galaxy and wars. Others were about romance and relationships.

It was after the latter that he began to treat the Togruta differently. If before she was just a commander to him, now...

"By no means," the Togruta shook her head. "I like you better this way. As if you're enjoying life..."

"We give you life."

That was what the medics on Christophsis told all the clones without exception before their examination. And, it seemed, they hadn't lied. In a sense.

"To the fullest," Mifispi confirmed. "Ma'am, may I ask a question?"

"Go ahead."

"If we survive, may I invite you for a drink?"

"Uh..." The Togruta opened her mouth in surprise, blinking her eyes. "Yes... of course... Just don't forget that we're both non-drinkers."

"Not even a thought, ma'am!" the Marshal frowned under his helmet. "I was going to suggest juice."

"Yes," Deran nodded. "I wouldn't mind some right now. My throat is as dry as Tatooine..."

Mifispi, smiling under his helmet, touched the magnetic latches of the plastic backpack on his back, pulling it down to the pavement. The droids continued to keep step, marching parallel to their hiding spot. They couldn't notice the Jedi and the clone—the "tin cans" were marching in the opposite direction from them, and they were both hiding behind a substantial dumpster. So there was no fear of being caught by surprise.

Opening the top lid of the backpack, the Marshal handed the girl a flask extracted from its depths.

"Berry juice, ma'am."

"Well, you're full of surprises," the Togruta giggled softly, gratefully accepting the container of cool liquid from him. While she drank the juice in greedy gulps (fine, they can't teach Jedi tactical mastery, but can they at least explain to them that one should take food and drink on raids?), the Marshal moved spare power cells into the pouches on his belt, putting the empty ones in their place. He wasn't used to scattering government property. The logistics guys grumbled quite often about the loss of equipment, so recently Mifispi had decided to be extremely thrifty. He read in one of the books that a careless attitude toward the property entrusted to you was a sign of one's own lack of upbringing. And he didn't want to be such a person. Even if he was a clone, he was still a boy from a decent family. Of course, if the incubator counts as "mom" and "dad."

"Thank you," having quenched her thirst, the Togruta handed him the flask. The clone screwed on the cap and packed the container back into the backpack. "Don't you want a drink?"

"No, ma'am," he admitted. "My armor has a climate control system. I don't get hot or cold. That means I get thirsty less often."

"Lucky you," the Togruta sighed. "I wish I had an 'Infiltrator' like that..."

"I don't think the logistics guys would have a helmet of the right size for you, Commander," Mifispi noted.

"You're really burning like napalm today," Deran said with a note of admiration.

"The commandos from Inferno Squad are more the napalm specialists," Mifispi recalled. "Just tell them something can be blown up or burned—it'll burn right down to the planet's core."

"That was a figure of speech," the girl wrinkled her nose. "It means you joke very accurately and often. And your jokes are understood."

"The part about the helmet wasn't a joke, ma'am," Mifispi corrected. "There really are no helmets for Togruta in the warehouses."

A smile played on the girl's lips.

"But it's funny to me," she said. "If we survive—the pastries for the juice are on me."

"I'll decline, Commander," Mifispi warned. "I read that they make you fat. My armor is one size—if I don't fit into it, it'll be bad. But for you..."

The smirk instantly vanished from the girl's face.

"Doesn't it say in your books that hinting to women, even Jedi, that they'll get fat is wrong?" she inquired.

"No, ma'am. I read about the pastries in 'Guidelines for Proper Nutrition for Men.' There wasn't a word about women there..."

"When we're done on this planet, I'm going to shake out your deck and delete all the junk you're reading there," the Togruta warned.

"Ma'am, this junk is dear to me as a memory," Mifispi admitted. "I need a lot of books—I read fast."

"I'll download the entire Jedi Temple Archive for you if I have to, just so you stop reading trash like that 'Guidelines' of yours," the girl assured him.

Mifispi nodded in agreement. You don't argue with the commander. Or with women. He had read that too.

Meanwhile, it seemed there would be no end to the stream of droids.

The Marshal, setting aside the friendly conversation with the Commander, pulled up a map of the city on his wrist computer. If the droids kept coming and coming, it meant they were reserve forces, and they were moving toward one of the three locations of the Republican soldiers. He needed to understand exactly where and send a warning.

Checking the map, he bit his lip. The droids could only be moving along this street toward one place—the southern outskirts, where any minute now, three legions of his clones were supposed to engage in battle. Judging by the distant explosions and the noise of skirmishes—both the "Ghent (army)" men and the 804th were defending fiercely. That meant the droids hadn't been recalled from their directions. A reserve? Most likely.

Using a comlink in the immediate vicinity of the enemy army was dangerous—if the signal source was detected, they wouldn't get out alive. But a warning was necessary. It was a pity he didn't have encrypted communication systems like on the commandos' "Katarn-class commando armor"...

Exactly! Mifispi nearly slapped his hand against his forehead. Breakthrough Squad was still in the city. And judging by the markers on the map, the boys were already at the meeting point. If they could reach them, they might make it in time. The droids still had at least an hour to stomp to the southern outskirts. To the rendezvous point—half an hour.

They had to hurry.

Mifispi looked at the map again. They needed a bypass route. And after several attempts, he found it.

"Ma'am, there seem to be a lot of droids," he said. "We're just wasting time here. I've found a bypass route."

The girl stood up silently, and they took off again. This time—away from the droids.

Again—alleys, streets, intersections, arches... Mifispi was fully immersed in the operation, and the thought of starting a conversation with the Togruta didn't even arise. She seemed to have caught his mood and was in no hurry to break the silence.

After fifteen minutes of circling the district, they reached the desired building.

"A shopping center, maybe?" Deran frowned.

"Doesn't matter," Mifispi parried the question. "The main thing is that it has a walkway over the street the droids are using."

The building turned out to be empty. Logical—during the assault on the capital, few people wanted to wander through shops. Mifispi, followed by the Padawan, flew up to the necessary floor like a whirlwind. Yes, there it was—the passage existed. Only...

"The fighters did their best," the Togruta concluded, pointing to a huge hole in the center of the walkway, which an ARC-170 could easily fly through. Although, Mifispi could swear that was likely what happened—one of the pilots was coming in on a target and paved a path for himself below the firing sector of the Separatist guns.

"Dead end," the girl commented. "There's about twenty meters of open space here. I might be able to jump it, but you..."

"Don't worry about me," Mifispi smirked, approaching the gap. On the move, he attached a harpoon with a thin but strong cable to his rifle. "The ceiling height here is about twenty meters. I'll fire the harpoon into the ceiling on the other side and fly across the breach, holding onto the rifle. I'll turn on the cable retraction on the winch—and that way I'll get across safely, without the risk of falling on the droids' heads in case of a wrong cable length calculation."

"Clever," the girl admitted. "And you don't have a second cable? The longer I look into this breach, the less I want to fall on the droids' heads if it doesn't work."

"There's a spare cable," Mifispi admitted. "Only one harpoon. But we can fly across together—the cable holds up to two hundred kilograms, so we could even take a soda machine with us."

"And how..."

"I'll hold the rifle and turn on the winch, and you'll have to hold onto me," he figured out the essence of the girl's question. She thought for a moment and nodded.

With practiced movements (oh, how many times he had cursed this element in the final exercise of his training. "Citadel," damn you), he secured the harpoon and checked its strength. The grip went firmly into the ceiling slab, and there was no threat of them falling.

Approaching the edge, he waited for the Togruta to hang onto him, then pushed off from the edge of the abyss.

The durasteel bodies of B1 battle droids only had time to flash before his eyes before they were on the other side.

"The battle is in full swing," Deran said, peering at the city scene while the Marshal extracted the equipment. Casting a glance in the direction the girl indicated, Mifispi nodded silently. Yes, the fight at the landing pad was becoming increasingly fierce. Republic fighters and flying droids, gliding at altitudes significantly lower than normal, were dissolving in clouds of flame. Red and blue streaks flashed constantly, green fires from ARC-170 bursts tore through the sky... his boys were fighting desperately. Even without macrobinoculars, it was clear that the 804th had broken through to the surrounded brothers and was now carefully leading them out of the danger zone: on the pad, unlike the northern outskirts, there was still something to use as cover.

As soon as he finished fiddling with the hook, they rushed toward their goal again.

Two hundred meters before the rendezvous point with the commandos, Mifispi suddenly realized that he had never told the Commander that he had changed her order for Breakthrough Squad. According to her plan, the commandos were supposed to retreat from the city after the sabotage. Mifispi, however, had ordered them to arrive at the meeting point near the Separatist headquarters.

Directly on course, at the intersection of two curved streets, the commandos should be waiting for them in a small diner.

Storming the enemy headquarters as a group of six was much more pleasant than as a duo.

The Commander would understand.

Seeing a commando in matte-black "Katarn-class commando armor" peek out of the building directly in front of them, Deran only gave the Marshal a squinted look. Yes, she understood. And at least she wouldn't give him a dressing down in front of the commandos.

Like shadows, the special forces soldiers fell in behind them, moving toward a skyscraper that looked ordinary. Except for the advertising sign of the Trade Federation regional center on it.

And, strangely enough, there weren't too many droids around. Just a few sentries, who were of no use.

"They sent a huge crowd of droids out of here a little over an hour ago," the squad leader reported. "We reported this to the Victorious. The Admiral promised to cover them from the air with ship artillery—as soon as the fighters suppress the last J-1 proton cannons."

"Yes, we saw them too," Mifispi admitted. "I was just about to ask you to report them to headquarters."

"Done and done," the commando smirked. "There aren't many 'tin cans' left. No communications lines lead to the building—they're completely autonomous. No entry points except the main entrance. Shall we break in with a fight?"

"And inside?" the Togruta asked.

"Unknown, Commander," the commando admitted. "Our equipment can't penetrate this thickness of the building. It seems the traders built a bomb shelter here, not an office building. Duracrete walls ten meters thick."

"Then we storm it," Deran sighed. "Since there is no other way."

They crossed the wide street where the building's main entrance was located in a couple of seconds. They ran swiftly, simultaneously destroying the B1 battle droids that had lost their vigilance. It created the impression that they were in a shooting gallery.

There was an entire squad of B1 battle droids in the lobby. They had to work for it, but there were no casualties among the soldiers of the Republic.

The turbolift leading to the floor occupied by the trade representative delivered them to the required level without any trouble. As soon as they slipped out of the cabin, which was cramped for six people, they found themselves at the aim of a dozen blaster carbines of CIS droids.

Infiltrator droids, their yellow optical sensors shining, held the brave six at gunpoint like a firing squad. And behind them were at least a dozen B2 super battle droids, aiming their rapid-fire built-in blasters at the Republic fighters.

"Did you think I wouldn't have insurance?" a Trade Federation customs vizier, sporting a luxurious robe, asked triumphantly as he appeared behind the battle droids. "Droids, kill them!"

What happened next occurred very quickly.

Mifispi instinctively took a step forward and to the left, covering the fragile girl with his armored bulk. An "Infiltrator" can withstand a couple of blaster shots. A Jedi robe, however, cannot.

Deran gasped when two droids with blasters aimed at him and opened fire. Two short bursts slammed into the Marshal's breastplate, throwing him back like a doll.

Mifispi felt pain throughout his torso. Falling onto his back, he felt himself being grabbed by the arms and dragged aside like a sack of vegetables, behind a massive colonnade.

"Hold on, brother!" one of the black-clad commandos shouted, trying to be heard over the roar of battle. Tearing the helmet off him with a vibroblade, he cut the breastplate fasteners, tossing aside the armor, which was pierced in several places. Short strokes with the cold weapon—and the undersuit followed.

Mifispi felt his body becoming heavy. His vision blurred, and as if in a dream, the Marshal watched what was happening in the room, distantly realizing that bacta patches were being applied to his chest.

And in the room, a real hell broke loose. In the center of which was the beautiful, in her deadly magnificence, Padawan Deran Naluan.

The Togruta stood under the concentrated fire of the droids, spinning her saber so fast it seemed she was wielding a circle of light, reflecting the energy charges back at the droids. The "tin can" chassis shuddered under the fire of their own blasters, but not one of them was knocked off its feet.

She dodged the next fiery discharge, quickly calculating its trajectory so it would slam into the bulkhead without hitting any of the soldiers, and jumped forward, aiming her saber at the neck of the nearest droid.

Deran's lightsaber passed through the first target and cut off the built-in weapon of the next. Twisting her wrist, she sliced the nearest droid from the bottom up, halving its head. The first pair of defeated Infiltrator droids had not yet fallen to the floor when the second pair raised massive vibro-swords. However, they didn't have time to do anything—the surgically precise shots of the clone commandos blew out their electronic brains.

The Padawan was about to attack the remaining droids when Mifispi suddenly discovered the girl was no longer in her previous spot. He felt an icy needle bite into his body, and a stimulant ran through his veins. Adrenaline hit his temples, and the Marshal felt better. The fog cleared, the dizziness went away. His hand instinctively reached for the blaster pistol on his hip.

"Cool it," a commando pressed him firmly against the column with his back. "The stim lasts three minutes. After that, you'll be smeared like glitter-paste on armor."

"Commander..." Mifispi tried to explain, but the clone, picking up his rifle, put a burst into a B2 super battle droid that had approached them, knocking it onto its back.

"She's fine," he shouted, spraying the next one with fire. "By the other column."

Mifispi turned his head and smiled, seeing that the Padawan, surrounded by three commandos, was completely safe and sound. Even, having stopped her performance with the saber, she had borrowed a blaster from one of the clones and was shooting droids.

The commando sitting nearby, pulling out a couple of EMP grenades, rolled them across the floor. Half a dozen droids that had survived the firefight fell like they were mowed down as soon as the blue lightning touched them. Immediately after, a pair of commandos, jumping over the remains of the "tin cans," rushed toward the Neimoidian, who had tried to hide behind a desk. Clubbing him over the head with their blasters, the clones, twisting his arms at the shoulder joints, slammed his face into the floor.

"Order the droids to surrender, scum!" demanded the commando with captain's rank insignia. "The squad leader, it seems," Mifispi thought, feeling the fatigue rolling over him.

The Neimoidian babbled something in Galactic Basic with a characteristic accent. But the Marshal could no longer make out the words.

The Togruta's face appeared directly in front of him.

"Don't worry, Commander," the voice of the clone who had given him medical aid reached him. "He'll live. I've called for an evacuation transport."

"Was he hit badly?" the girl asked anxiously. Her voice betrayed her concern.

"Pierced right lung, liver," he listed. "I filled everything with foam and applied a patch. That'll be enough for a couple of hours."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The girl ran her palm over the clone's cheek, looking into his eyes.

"Why did you do that?"

"I was protecting you," Mifispi replied in a slurred voice.

The girl shook her head.

"I'm a Jedi, I can handle it myself."

"Couldn't... risk it... Commander," his eyelids felt like lead. Mifispi heard the roar of a "Latti," but he was being pulled inexorably into sleep.

"Deran," the Togruta said. "Call me Deran."

***

If you want to cease existing, there's no better way than to throw yourself right into the enemy's teeth at four-to-one odds.

Who would have thought that the Kaminoans and their hired personnel could turn out to be the best teachers the Republic could buy for money. And the endless clashes with droid fighters, bombers, and other small flying Separatist trash had polished what was laid down in his genes.

And now, the CIS forces would have to experience on their own skin the basic rules established in Blade Squadron.

First: any target, at any time of day. Second: offense is the best defense.

Only a few days had passed since the Scimitar fleet had kicked the Separatists out of the Gizer system—an important world located at the intersection of several hyperspace routes. Bloodied but not broken, Commodore Sagoro Autem's fleet had taken a death grip on the reconquered planet. Wits even joked that the task force commander would never leave here as long as a single drop of the famous Gizer ale remained on the planet.

He might not leave, but the Separatists could "ask" them to.

Everyone understood this. And everyone realized that the sooner the task force learned about the concentration of enemy ships, the better.

And since all the ships were occupied either with repairs or on patrol duty, who would get the honorary role?

Exactly. The boys from "Blade."

For this reason, twelve ARC-170s made a jump into an unremarkable, uninhabited star system half a parsec from Gizer. A standard reconnaissance: reach the target, shut down the reactor, sit tight and don't stick your head out, let the sensors work. Their fighters were designed to be so stealthy to various types of scanners that with the main power plant shut down, the Seps would never find them.

Of course, unless they get to the spot before you.

There was only one enemy—a Munificent-class star frigate, in a modification that was very, very much disliked in the GAR.

Hutt electronic warfare ship. From the deck of such bastards, propaganda is continuously broadcast, and CIS "slicers" try to interfere with the operation of Republic communication systems. The guys on Hypori fell for something like that—the result is known to all. Despite the fact that the Seps had a huge orbital and ground grouping destroyed, General Grievous managed to escape.

Alright, that's all lyricism. Time to get to business.

To start with, Fakir, piloting his ARC-170, surprised his opponent—the pilot of a Ginivex-class starfighter—with a somewhat lopsided tailspin. The ARC-170 is a heavy fighter-reconnaissance craft, and the key among those three words is "heavy." The creation of the dark Incom Corporation genius possessed enormous firepower—the best in its class. The machine was easy to operate. Costly to maintain, but let the bosses worry about that, not the pilots.

However, sluggishness in turns... That was perhaps the biggest drawback of the ARC-170s. But even that, skilled pilots easily outplayed.

Fakir was an extremely experienced pilot. For a time, he and most of his squadron, which had been significantly thinned by enemy actions, were assigned to Jedi aces. However, several joint raids proved that such a squadron could not exist as a single organism. Therefore—clones separately, Jedi separately.

In his view—a correct decision by command. No need to create mixed units where crews cannot feel each other. The Jedi rely on their vaunted Force, normal pilots—on instrument readings and the accuracy of their settings.

The first opponent shattered into a million fragments as soon as the heavy laser cannons of Fakir's machine—Blade Leader—converged on it in green beams. That one's done. Bring on the next.

"Looks like the Seps are running out of droids," noted his wingman, Jaig, Blade-2. Once, this pilot had participated as a test pilot for the first ARC-170s, thanks to which the lion's share of "infant" errors was identified much earlier than during direct use of the fighter during the war. "Since they've released such an ancient thing into space as the Ginivex-class starfighter."

"Less trouble for us," Fakir noted. "There are about four squadrons of enemy fighters on the Munificent-class star frigate. And I'd rather wipe my feet on mercenaries than on soulless droids."

He didn't like droids. Not all of them, of course. That cheerful bucket of bolts that was part of his ARC-170 crew, he recognized and respected.

But those droids that tried to kill him—no. And he approached the question of the existence of CIS battle machines, which were so eager to end his already short life path, with full responsibility.

Therefore, banking into a simple turn, he went head-to-head with another Ginivex-class starfighter. He opened fire while still on the approach, then stopped the rotation; anyway, in such a whirl, the chance of a lucky shot was no greater than the chance of him managing to set fire to the snowdrifts of Hoth. Fakir targeted the nearest pair of enemy fighters, finishing with his latest victim, and warmed up on the new combatants with all four cannons. One "bandit," as the pilots called enemy fighters, exploded. The mercenaries, having lost most of one of their squadrons, closed ranks again. A "herd," as Fakir called this formation.

In such a formation—approaching the target with the whole squadron—there was neither logic nor effect when it came to fighters. Bombers, or as they were affectionately called in Ghent (army), at the suggestion of the Grand Moff—"beavers," could fight off a pressing enemy in a tight formation. But for fighters, no matter how outdated they were, it was just a burden.

Well, if the Separatists wanted it that way, the response would be appropriate.

"Blade Leader to squadron, hunt in pairs," he ordered, pulling his machine, followed by his wingman, into another mid-level aerobatic maneuver.

His victim was the one on the edge of the formation. Jaig, who had previously limited his participation in the battle to repeating the leader's maneuvers, suddenly gave chase. Fakir prepared to cover his wingman. That was the whole point of such a hunt—to attack the chosen enemy in turn. The ARC-170s, which now had rapid-fire guns on the stern instead of laser cannons, had no special need to hold the rear—if necessary, the gunner could treat anyone interested to a burst of excellent density and accuracy.

The future candidate for the scrap heap turned his bank into a climb, intending to shoot at the enemy's stern. Jaig's two lasers shredded the right side of the Ginivex-class starfighter's fuselage, forcing it to spin around its axis. Fakir, timing the moment, added from his own guns, tearing the target apart.

The ARC-170s circled around the huddling mercenary fighters like narglatch around a herd. From time to time, someone would dive and treat the enemy to fire. It was difficult to hit each other, and if a gift from a colleague did arrive, the Republic fighters equipped with deflectors didn't care. On the other hand, even a somewhat aimed shot could seriously maim any of the enemy fighters, or even blow it up.

Fakir, checking the tactical monitor, smiled contentedly.

While his pair was finishing off the enemy's long-suffering squadron, three other pairs were taking bites out of the other squadrons. The last four ARC-170s were continuously pounding them with cannons, occasionally launching one or two proton torpedoes at the long-suffering Munificent-class star frigate, which had been deprived of its hyperdrive during a simultaneous raid by the entire squadron during the first "acquaintance." There was little point in this—the anti-aircraft armament of the Banking Clan frigates handled four to eight torpedoes.

The main thing for the Republic pilots was to win time. A Hammerhead-class cruiser was already on its way, which would flatten the Banking Clan's handiwork across the interstellar void.

The clone fired at random from his laser guns into the thick of the Ginivex-class starfighters, hit one enemy fighter, and was just watching the fire consume the Ginivex-class starfighter when the anxious bleating of the astromech droid forced him to pay attention to a specific section of space.

Where in all its glory, shining with a black-and-silver hull, streamlined hull contours, and the strict geometry of a vertical bow section, from_

A "Hammerhead" dropped out of hyperspace.

"Now the fun begins," one of the pilots whistled.

And indeed—releasing a couple of squadrons of those same ARC-170s from its hangar, the Republican cruiser, spewing radiation from its massive engines, began to close in on its opponent slowly, almost languidly.

"Blade Leader to squadron," Fakir opened the comm channel. "We have a couple of minutes before the 'competitors' arrive. We need to reap the maximum harvest."

Fakir didn't like sharing his rightful prey with anyone. If not for that Hutt-cursed frigate, they would have handled the Ginivex-class starfighters themselves. But Commodore Autem wouldn't pat him on the head if he found out that in pursuit of the "Blades'" personal score, they had let a more important target slip away.

So, let them have their moment of glory on the cruiser as well.

It was within the power of Fakir and his boys to reduce the number of marks on the fuselages of other squadrons. And, naturally, they would take full advantage of this chance.

***

The Capitol building of the capital Tahv, on the planet Kesh, was striking in its magnificence. A minimum of metal, a maximum of wood, glass, and stone.

In this majestic structure, the Force could be felt—mighty, bright, faceted by thousands of skilled architects, just as a jeweler facets a diamond, turning it into a brilliant.

And this riot of splendor stood in stark contrast to my first sensations in the Jedi Temple, where only a luxurious shell remained of its former grandeur, its core having rotted away over millennia.

I moved up the wide paved steps of the main entrance, feeling through the Force hundreds of eyes fixed upon me. Keshiri and humans, sentient gifted and ordinary—they all whispered among themselves, trying to find the answer to a question none of them dared to ask.

I didn't want to indulge in special sentimentality. The Galaxy was waiting for my return; every minute, the Sith conspiracy against me continued to bloom and reek there. And the bud of my own Plan was blossoming.

One cannot let everything take its course.

But I also had no right to fly away from here, leaving thousands of gifted on the planet.

The Son was right—there was a countless number of potential recruits here. The Force suggested to me that there were practically no weaklings among them. Each had a quite confident average potential in the Force, sufficient to withstand a horde of Jedi. Yes, we need such people.

I ascended the wide steps, accompanied by the rhythmic tap of my own footwear against the stones. A ringing silence hung in the air, undisturbed even by Vette following at my heels. The Twi'lek, clad in a sexy tight-fitting jumpsuit with a pair of blasters on her hips, moved noiselessly right behind me, ready to cover my back at any moment.

Before me, the massive gates of the main entrance were already visible. And several Keshiri guards, armed with pointed pikes. They tried to step in my way, to bar the path, but who were they against me? I had business inside, and they were a tiresome nuisance.

Numerous beautiful buildings towered around me, connected by suspended walkways and smooth streets paved with cobblestones... All of this was insanely beautiful, proving once again just how industrious the Keshiri are.

But I didn't come here for that.

Like Darth Malgus before the start of the attack on the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, I, graced by the Light side, came here to pay a "visit of courtesy" to comrades who were definitely no longer my comrades.

No government will voluntarily kneel before someone they are seeing for the first time. That was the calculation.

They honor the precepts of their ancestors—that is good.

And they very much want to break away from this piece of rock—which is also good. The inhabitants of Kesh simply couldn't fail to notice the Black Overlord hovering in the stratosphere and the Harrower-class dreadnoughts in the atmosphere, busily landing three corps of volunteers ready to slaughter any settlement at my slightest command. They aren't blind, after all.

The guards watched the approach of Vette and me with great wariness, whispering quietly among themselves. Their postures betrayed extreme tension, and the pikes pointed in our direction showed a readiness to oppose a man in sealed armor, a face mask with a horizontal visor, and a black-and-silver robe of the finest expensive fabric thrown over the protection.

They didn't know what to do—one of the guards bolted from his spot, disappearing under the vaults of the Temple. The others, surrounding us in a semi-circle, held their pikes at the ready, clearly hinting that further passage was forbidden.

"Who are you?" asked one of the Keshiri, apparently the senior among those present.

"Make way for the Immortal Emperor of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul!" Vette shouted ringingly and clearly. However, this made little impression on the guard.

But in the Force...

Turning around, I noticed to my satisfaction that a huge crowd had appeared in the main square of the capital, which I had crossed not long ago. Keshiri, humans, gifted, non-gifted... There were hundreds, no, even thousands of them. And all as one—watching me with unquenchable interest.

"There is no passage further," the guardsman warned. "Only by permission of the High Lord!"

"Then let him haul his old ass out here and kneel," Vette said with feigned pathos.

The guards exchanged surprised looks. Yes, they hadn't heard anything like that yet. It happens.

The returning guardsman was not alone. Several gifted came out into the street with him—encased from head to toe in armor of some very ancient design. Such armor wouldn't even stop a slugthrower shot.

"The High Lord demands you for an audience," said one of the newcomers. Likely the internal security. Or something like a company of the guard of honor. Though, what difference did it make to me?

"Won't he burst from his demands?" Vette inquired in a tone that made everyone present grow wary at once.

"Quiet, dear," I requested. "No need to make them open a brick factory ahead of time."

At the entrance, one of the gifted demanded my lightsaber. Shrugging, I gave him all three, which clearly puzzled him.

"It's alright, son," I chuckled. "Strength is not in sabers. Strength is in truth. Whoever is right is stronger."

Leaving the slowly processing Sith to be bewildered in the Keshiri way, I walked unhurriedly down the corridor.

Yes, the locals had clearly made an effort to create such beauty under conditions of limited resources. Bas-reliefs, statues, skillful carved panels... what these guys hadn't amused themselves with over the last five thousand years.

The corridor led me and my two companions to massive wooden doors, which opened upon my approach. Stepping inside without fear, I noticed that the door leaves closed immediately. It seemed the Lords didn't trust their security very much.

The main hall was enormous. Probably roughly equal in area to my Throne Room on Zakuul. Except it was clearly furnished ascetically.

Thirteen simple chairs, on which sentients sat, stood at equal distances from each other around the circumference of the hall. In the center—seven rich seating spots, occupied by already more influential gifted—this was easy to understand from the aura emanating from them, many times stronger than the one surrounding the outer thirteen. And in the center of all this obscurantism—a luxurious throne, on which sat a middle-aged man with gray hair and an aura of the Dark side overflowing. A weighty little man. Perhaps the only one of all who could represent even some danger to me. However, the seven Sith closest to him were also clearly not born yesterday. Quite a company had gathered—one tough guy, seven big shots, and thirteen outright losers whom even Vette would beat down with wet rags.

"I am pleased to welcome you, traveler," said the one who seemed most dangerous to me. "Why are you here?"

"This planet has what I need," I shrugged. "So I dropped by for the light."

"With an entire fleet of ships?" a chuckle was heard.

"Kesh is not the richest planet," the leader confirmed. "But we are ready to share, whatever you might need, in exchange for a few of your ships."

"I'm afraid I've been misunderstood," I shook my head. "I don't intend to share anything with anyone. I came to take everything," a wave of surprise rolled through those present. The Force visibly filled with rising anger. "And, naturally, I don't intend to give anything back in return."

"Your words are unusually bold for one who came without weapons to a meeting with the rulers of the planet Kesh," the leader said with ill-concealed rage. "But it will be even easier this way. We will kill you and seize your ships. And we will return to the stars once more!"

With these words, the Sith closest to me leaped from his seat. Blue-violet lightning tore from his hands, rushing toward me.

Without even looking toward the attacker, I thrust my hand toward the lightning, absorbing the deadly discharges. Then, still without taking my eyes off the other opponents, I clenched my fingers into a fist, using the Force in the manner of Darth Vader to break the neck of the unlucky offender.

"I'm on a time crunch," I explained. "Does anyone want to leave? Last chance."

"Take him!" the leader ordered.

Unlike me, the opponents did have weapons on them. In the semi-darkness of the hall, a dozen and a half crimson lightsabers flared up. Aha, so not everyone decided to join the party.

Well, let them stand and watch.

Without ceremony, I used a Force Push to blow out the massive doors, calculating the strike so that the guards standing on the other side remained buried under the leaves.

The first Sith who ran up to me, waving a light blade in some ridiculous style—a mixture of Makashi and Shii-Cho—I simply sent flying with a powerful Force Push that shattered his bones and turned his insides into a bloody pulp.

The second and third tried to attack simultaneously. Dodging one, I intercepted his arm with the blade, drove a knee into his gut, twisted the wrist, and plunged his own lightsaber (god, what a piece of junk?!) into the throat of the third. After which, overcoming the second's pathetic attempts to break free, I tore out his larynx, leaving him to bleed out on the floor.

The fourth tried to hurl his lightsaber at me, hoping to sweep my legs, but instead, using the same telekinesis, I redirected the weapon, lopping off the heads of three opponents at once. The owner of the saber, stunned for a moment, became a victim of Force Lightning, which turned him into a medium-rare steak in the blink of an eye. A subsequent telekinetic shove smeared the charred carcass against the wall.

The eighth opponent, already armed with two lightsabers, decided to cooperate with the ninth and tenth, who began to shower me with weak lightning, hoping that my distracted attention would allow the eleventh and twelfth, accelerating with Force Speed, to strike me in the back. Yeah, fat chance. Throwing back the trio of losers with a Force Wave, I deprived one of those attacking me from behind of mobility using Stasis, and instantly deprived the second of life, drawing it out with Force Drain. Ooh, invigorating.

While the remaining ones feigned some semblance of an attacking formation, I finished off the Stasis-bound Sith with relish, turning his insides to mush with a Force Crush.

Yes, a decidedly successful visit. Five minutes had passed, and I had already refreshed my memory of a quarter of my Force abilities. Eh, I should have gone out to slaughter enemy sects myself.

The suffering of others wafting in the Force fueled the Dark side in me more and more. It grew with every second, so I shed my Force Cloak, appearing before my enemies in all my glory for the first time. The absolute weapon of destruction.

And through the waves of fear and horror, I clearly caught the surprise emanating from the main Sith. He took no part in the ongoing slaughter, prudently choosing the role of observer. The bastard was sacrificing his henchmen, striving to learn as much about me as possible. A familiar tactic—I had used it myself more than once.

A Sith who appeared right next to me out of nowhere slashed with his saber, missed, but had no time to do anything else. Touching him with the Force, I instantly plunged him into hibernation using Morichro. To be honest, at first I thought of a completely different technique, but seeing the stiffened man falling to the floor, I stepped on his throat with a slight smirk, ending his mortal path.

The eleventh opponent rushed at me, bringing as many as two lightsabers into the light of day. Seeing my motionless figure, he charged forward with a furious roar, dragging two more along with him.

Their collective method of killing did not work. The Phantom obediently melted away as soon as several lightsabers pierced it. I, standing a meter from the nearest bastard, shed my Force Cloak. I snapped the neck of the nearest one with my bare hands, distracted the one standing next to him with a Mind Trick until I tore one of the sabers from his hands, with which I decapitated the third, after which, without looking, relying on the Force, I plunged the trophy saber into the back of its own owner with the reverse grip favored by Ahsoka Tano.

"Your lords run out fast," I complained, looking at the thirteen corpses scattered in the poses in which death had found them. Pointing the lightsaber at the seven High Lords, the leader's henchmen, I inquired:

"Will you also last about five minutes?"

My answer was a guttural howl of hatred as the pack of lords rushed at me. Figuring I had a couple of seconds, out of boredom I turned to an extremely extravagant Force technique...

Bodies, their pieces, and lightsabers caught by a Force Maelstrom instantly acquired the speed of jet projectiles and began to swirl around me.

For the first time in all my use of the Force, I felt a slight fatigue... Yes, it seems the test of my arsenal confirmed an obvious fact—one cannot with impunity do what others cannot. During the past fight, I had spent so much Force using techniques that are not even accessible to most living in the galaxy that it's no wonder my internal reserves began to diminish.

Time to wrap up this test drive of assimilated knowledge. Especially since the enemies had already entered the range of the Maelstrom...

With an effort of will, I activated every single lightsaber, in the blink of an eye turning the seven High Lords into finely sliced pieces of abstract wonders.

Yawning tiredly, I allowed the Maelstrom to dissipate, simultaneously pulling one of the lightsabers into my hand. Glancing at it briefly, I mechanically noted that the construction was rubbish. Alright, it'll do for one time.

"You handle the Force magnificently," the leader rose from his seat. "But the winner of this battle will be the one who is better with a lightsaber!"

"A cliché phrase," I yawned again. "Especially since I've seen something similar somewhere before."

The man bolted from his spot, enhancing himself with Force Speed on the move.

He picked the wrong target. His lightning-fast attack shattered, colliding with my Force barrier. The opponent retreated.

Tightening his grip on the hilt of the lightsaber, the Sith took a step to the left, forcing me to change the angle of my advance. I delivered several provocative strikes from the Soresu arsenal, which my opponent deflected with ease and even contempt.

"You fight with sabers noticeably worse than you handle the Force," he said mockingly.

"Don't nag," I requested.

The fencing duel was beneficial to me. While we exchanged blows with minimal use of the Force, my internal reserves were recovering. And he... touching the opponent with the Force, I only smirked.

He was hoarding the Force. A lot. Very much.

The Sith continued to move to the side:

"You are a powerful Sith," he admitted. "Why did you appear on Kesh?"

"As I already said—I have an interest here. And you are mistaken again. I am neither Jedi nor Sith. Something much more balanced. Your friends," a short nod toward the pieces of bodies. "learned this from their own experience."

"What could someone like you need in our world? There are no resources, no wealth here..."

"And what does any Emperor need?" I smirked, seeing his eyes round with realization. "Exactly. I will take all your people for myself. A dead man no longer needs them. How many of them are there, by the way? A million or a million and a half?"

"Tens of times more," he said. "But they will not follow you. You reek of the Light side, no matter how you mask yourself. We, the Sith, know the price of the Dark side..."

"Everyone who doesn't go with me will die," I smirked. "Never seen your planet burned by an orbital strike?"

Squeezing the hilt of the saber with both hands, I stepped forward and with one swift, sweeping blow nearly knocked the weapon from the opponent's grip. The latter barely managed to maintain his balance; in the next second, he rushed forward, making a feigned diagonal lunge from the left, then moved the saber in an arc to the right and attacked. A crimson streak of energy should have pierced my defense, but it turned out differently: the blade bounced off my raised left hand, and the Sith's weapon ceased to function.

I immediately aimed a strike at the neck, but the Sith turned sharply to the right, and his second lightsaber, thrust forward, nearly sliced me in two. I had to retreat.

The ruler of this world knew a thing or two about perversions. His fencing style was an absolutely wild mixture of all the styles known to me, plus ridiculous sequences, clearly of his own composition. Unpredictability is a terrible force, which I nearly learned from my own experience.

Slightly bending at the waist, the Sith began to retreat, parrying a swift series of sharp but incredibly powerful strikes. With one quick jump, he was out of reach of my blade; in the next second, he tilted his body to the side, brought the saber over his right shoulder, and rushed into the attack. I calmly parried the lunge without changing my stance or retreating a single step, however, my lower torso and legs were left unprotected. The low mobility of Niman, which I used for the fight, was taking its toll. Juyo was my trump card, especially since it wasn't fully mastered. But, apparently, I would have to stop the lessons on absorbing Karness Muur's knowledge and take up what Marr could give me. Juyo is definitely there.

In the blink of an eye, the Sith dropped to the ground and, thrusting the saber before him, did a somersault over his shoulder.

For a second, it seemed his saber would make a neat cut in my knee joints, however, I had already calculated this strike in advance; a moment before contact, I jumped, performed a half-turn in the air, and landed behind the Sith, leaving a diagonal cut on his back. A pity though, the light armor took the blow. The opponent performed a roll, and in the next moment, my crimson blade plunged into the floor in the spot where he had just been lying. The man leaped to his feet and immediately attacked swiftly, leaving a furrow on the right pauldron. Annoying. I liked the cortosis coating of Anakin Skywalker's armor. A pity the antique is coming to an end. Well, no matter, I'll make another, improved version later.

In a fraction of a second, I covered the distance separating us and suppressed the opponent's defense with a series of sharp vertical strikes, missing by mere millimeters each time; meanwhile, the blade crushed everything that came in its way. And no more lace and elegance, no fencing tricks: only dimensions and natural power became my weapons. This was that very interesting Skywalker style—Djem So, the direct opposite of the jagged style my opponent used—and he had nothing to offer in response.

The Sith was ready to repel another attack when I suddenly stopped, and the crimson blade retracted back into the emitter.

Before he could figure out what was happening, I had already spread my arms to the sides, opening myself to the Dark side.

I was surrounded by a translucent Force sphere—a protection against dozens of lightning discharges striking vertically downward. Violet discharges of electricity pierced him from head to toe, making the man howl like a wild animal. But the opponent turned out to be experienced enough. Scorched, but not critically, he surrounded himself with his own Force Barrier, powerful enough to hold back the Lightning (ah, so that's what he was hoarding the Force for) and rushed at me. What did you only want to achieve by this?

When the Sith was close enough, I destroyed the Force Storm created with such elegance, after which, like a billiard ball, I threw the High Lord to the other end of the hall with a Force Push. The head of the lost tribe, knocking over his own throne with his body, turned in flight and landed on his feet, in the same second avoiding a series of swift Niman lunges.

With a somersault, he moved to the side, trying to break the distance between us, but, catching him with a Force Grip, I yanked the opponent toward me at a frantic speed.

The trophy blade entered exactly into the man's cervical vertebrae. A slight movement of the wrist to the side—and the decapitated torso falls to the floor.

Holding the head of the former ruler of Kesh by the hair with my armored fingers, I turned it to face me.

"That was awkward," I admitted. "Decapitated you and didn't even ask your name."

Surveying the wreckage in the hall one last time, I sighed tiredly.

Then, tossing the Sith blade aside, I walked slowly toward the exit of the Circle of Lords residence.

Time to demonstrate to my new subjects that the time for change has come. I think the head of the previous ruler will be sufficient as proof.

Though... Orbital bombardments have never left anyone unenlightened.

One way or another, Kesh and the Lost Tribe of Sith now belong to me.