"Well then," it wasn't clear from the face of the company head whether he was glad about what he was saying or still upset. "I hasten to inform you that Incom Corporation has officially ceased to be a private company."
"How are we to understand this, Kad?" Zki, sitting opposite him, frowned.
Lana, positioned at her colleague's right hand, preferred to remain silent. Kad Dallig was definitely going to tell his chief engineers something important—so why delay the inevitable with questions?
"The Empire has acquired another ten percent of our shares through front persons," the head of the corporation explained. "Now the controlling stake is in the hands of the government."
"I don't see anything bad in this," the female designer noted. "From the moment the Emperor became the owner of forty-five percent of our shares, the company's affairs have only gone uphill."
"And I didn't say it was bad," a slight smile appeared on the man's lips. "I prefer to view the Empire's latest infusion of money as a demonstration that our products satisfy them. Especially since, as I understand it, for the Empire, a private-state form of ownership of military-industrial complex enterprises is a common thing. Sienar Imperial Technologies is in a similar situation. There, the Emperor owns, if my memory doesn't fail me, sixty percent of the shares in general. Manaan's Blue Lagoon is only a third owned by the Selkath. The rest is held by the state. It could have been worse—Haor Chall Engineering belongs one hundred percent to the head of state. And they, for a moment—are the only ones in their sector of the military-industrial complex—not a single enterprise in the Empire produces ground combat equipment anymore. Just as no one except the Selkath creates surface and underwater combat vehicles. So, in our case, compared to others, the state's share of participation is minimal."
"Don't be so optimistic," Zki advised. All three sitting in the office were old friends and colleagues. Therefore, a certain liberty in a confidential conversation between the leadership and specifically these subordinates was a tribute to years of productive work and friendship. "It's not you who will have to spend another week making changes to the X-Wing project. Hutt take that Admiral Block! The machine suited the Emperor!? So why did this soldier get so picky? Well, yes, we didn't put a rear rapid-fire gun on the machine, as was agreed beforehand. No big loss! The deflector power and cornering speed of the T-65 are such that he will not only shake off anyone who gets on his tail with a maneuver but can simply ignore fire on the rear hemisphere for several minutes."
"And yet, the machine should be brought to perfection," Kad noted. "The Expeditionary Fleet also sent a remark regarding the rear rapid-fire gun. Like, think about it, install it."
"Darth Malgus is satisfied with everything," Lana reasonably noted, recalling that no complaints had come from the warlord, the first to request the new fighter for his armed forces in truly immodest volumes.
"Perhaps the fleet under his command is not conducting active combat operations," Kad suggested. "But we simply cannot send the soldiers to the devil with the words 'Take what you're given'."
"I would send them," Zki admitted. "The X-Wing is good. Putting additional weaponry on it is only spoiling it."
"Don't be a bore," Lana requested. "They demand it—install it."
"Sienar doesn't put rear turrets on its interceptors," Roel continued to stand his ground. Lana demonstratively rolled her eyes. Yes, sometimes she forgot how insufferable her former husband's friend was in his stubbornness. He would argue he was right until the end, despite the fact that the problem could be eliminated in a couple of days. Reduce the volume of the fighter's luggage compartment by sticking a rapid-fire laser cannon in there.
"Raith's machines are three times more maneuverable than ours," Kad reminded. "And they are interceptors, not heavy air superiority fighters. Do I need to remind you of the difference?"
"No need to remind me of anything," the male designer said tiredly. "It's just irritating. The first person of the Empire liked everything, and the General Staff suddenly decided that the machine is unfinished! And this thing of theirs: 'Four super-heavy bombs is good. But we need a full-fledged bomber, not one modified on the knee with a file.' I just want to punch him in the face!"
"Well then, head to Odessen," Lana advised. "I'm sure a couple of days in the brig will sober you up."
"Listen here..." Zki began, but Kad cut him off.
"Wrap it up," he advised. "I've looked at the T-65 blueprints. Laying two meters of wiring, a meter and a half of power buses, a pump generator, and the installation socket itself—nothing complicated."
"I know," Roel waved it off. "I was just planning to return to the ARC blueprints..."
"Still won't settle down?" Dallig nodded understandingly. "Well, it won't work to make it faster and more maneuverable, accept it as a given."
"It worked with the T-65," the designer countered. "So for the ARC, not everything is so unequivocally sad. You didn't want to buy out the blueprints at all! If not for me and my persistence in this matter, Subpro Corporation would be getting the money for these fighters now."
The remark was perfectly justified. And everyone present in the office knew it.
The ARC was a development of Subpro Corporation, a long-time trade partner of Incom Corporation. However, over the last ten years, this union had cracked, turning shortly before the Clone Wars into a giant rift and a division of jointly acquired property.
Incom Corporation's contribution, which traditionally specialized in fighters, including bombers, to the creation of the ARC was minimal. All employees of both companies knew this. However, Subpro Corporation's leadership believed that the fighter would not be in demand—at the time the prototypes and first production units appeared, the war had not yet begun. But the storm was already in the air.
First and foremost, Subpro Corporation was convinced that the extremely expensive and difficult-to-handle ARC was not a competitor to other fighter models in the galaxy. Therefore, with such ease, for minimal commissions, they gave the project to Incom Corporation. And then the war began, and the Grand Army of the Republic began to conclude contracts with everyone who was capable of providing at least something able to fly and shoot. Incom Corporation, with their fighter now, turned out to be in the right place at the right time. The Republican command signed a contract for the supply of millions of ARCs without looking. And they didn't particularly ceremony, simultaneously purchasing a huge number of Headhunters.
However, even in a period of military crisis, the Republic remains the Republic. With all its unimaginable bureaucracy.
The contracts had a limited duration in time—a year or a year and a half. A clearly defined volume of machines needed by the Grand Army. It was assumed that in the future the contracts would be extended—the losses of Republican ARC and Headhunter pilots with the start of active combat operations could amount to thousands of machines per day. It seemed the military was about to come running for new machines, but... they did come running.
Only to Kuat.
Since the beginning of this year, Incom Corporation had not received a single order from the Republic for the supply of new machines. Everything was limited to machine purchases by three system armies—"Greck," "Heft," and "Ghent." Of course, this helped keep the company afloat—the volumes were not small. While the seven other armies preferred to use the V-19 Torrent, Eta-2 Actis, Alpha-3 Nimbus, Delta-7 Aethersprite as fighters... On the face of it—a change in the priorities of the high command from the position of "as long as there is something" to "maximum uniformity."
The Republic, in the struggle with the nimble vulture-class starfighters of the Confederacy, was betting on similar light fighters.
The Emperor, however...
Lana, distancing herself from the men's dispute, delved into her thoughts.
Zakuul was something new, incomprehensible. A thing in itself.
A young but clearly militarized state, whose ruler clearly made it understood that the military-industrial complex is not the sphere where squabbles, intrigues, or the dominance of private capital are allowed. The Emperor held the controlling stakes in all enterprises supplying his army and fleet with the means of war. At the same time, excluding under-the-table games for certain orders, he clearly designated for each of the companies its sphere of activity.
Xi Charrian Laboratories was the sole supplier of military equipment for the army. Artillery, combat vehicles, tanks, assault droids—that was the essence of their production. Not to say that the insectoids were dissatisfied with anything. Fanatically devoted to work, they praised their master for every new order, which they fulfilled accurately and on time. They also turned out quite good medium-tonnage transports, currently plying between the worlds of the Empire. However, there were quite few of them, which is logical, considering that the Xi Charrians assemble their container ships on the ground, having no shipyards.
The Selkath from Blue Lagoon firmly established themselves in the niche of surface and underwater military equipment and equipment for divers. True, unlike the other companies, the company from Manaan also produced similar products for the civilian sector. However, such a decision was understandable—there are not so many spheres of application for combat swimmers, so entering the civilian market guaranteed the Selkath additional income. As if they lacked the billions earned from the purchases of kolto, popular in the Empire instead of bacta.
Sienar Imperial Technologies produced capital ships—Harrower-class dreadnoughts, Terminus-class destroyers, Marauder-class frigates, TIE/sk x1 Superiority Fighters—the basis of the air wing of any combat starship. Recently, Raith Ta—
also provided the army and navy with cargo and passenger shuttles, and landing craft. Last week, the heads of the two corporations discussed the technical capabilities and the composition of the air wing for a new type of starship—an aircraft carrier, on whose decks Sienar-developed bombers were also expected to appear.
Incom Corporation supplied the Empire's army and navy with the notorious ARC-170s as long-range reconnaissance fighters, which frequently performed the roles of bombers or strike craft on the front lines. The X-Wings had firmly established themselves in the position of heavy superiority fighters, and no competitors were foreseen in that field. Except, perhaps, for those same ARCs. However, a comparison of both projects revealed the pros and cons of each, so there was no clear winner in such a hypothetical confrontation. And what did it matter? If you looked at it that way, both machines were being purchased by the Empire in incredible quantities, so there was no need to worry about profits. The Emperor gave the impression of a man confident in his actions. Such a person would not spend trillions of credits to buy shares in failing enterprises, nor in those whose services he would not need. And he certainly would not issue an order for the construction of ultra-modern spy ships (Lana recalled with a smile how much time it had taken her to rework the ancient schematics of the X-70B Phantom to produce a ship with the original design but packed with modern equipment) for the needs of the Imperial Security Bureau. Consequently, the Emperor preached the idea not of market competition between many shipbuilders of identical products, but of attracting individual manufacturers, specialists in specific fields, who only collectively could cover all the Empire's needs, binding them tightly to the Empire, in whose hands the controlling stakes of most of these enterprises were concentrated. This, in turn, allowed the head of state to easily nationalize companies and corporations should the need arise.
Indirectly, the latter assertion was supported by rumors, the source of which no one could determine, that the Rendili system would soon join the Empire. This meant, accordingly, the appearance of Rendili StarDrive products on the Zakuul markets, the most famous of which at the current time were the Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers and the Hammerhead-class cruisers. Unlike Kuat, Rendili did not possess a concentrated shipbuilding industry, relying instead on many small shipyards in the Mid Rim and Outer Rim.
Although Lana, due to the specifics of her profession, was more interested in the project of their modified Aurelk-class tactical strikefighter—another milestone of the past put on modern tracks—it was not difficult for her to realize that Rendili StarDrive, with its products, filled the niche of heavy cruisers—seemingly relics of the past—too slow compared to the Empire's dreadnoughts, possessing a small air wing and low speed. However, the Clone Wars had proven that these starships were capable of taking hits from higher-class opponents, and there were no better ships (with the exception of destroyers) for conducting defensive orbital battles. Since there weren't enough Harrower systems for everyone, the Hammerheads and Dreadnoughts were excellent defenders for remote star systems.
"Alright, there's no end to this argument," Kad waved his hand. "I gathered you to announce some news."
"Traditionally good and bad?" Zki smirked.
"Depends on how you look at it," the head of the corporation shook his head. "Incom Corporation is leaving Zakuul."
"What do you mean by that?" the engineers were stunned.
"The Emperor is transferring a planet to the corporation's jurisdiction—Vagar Praskat, recently conquered," Dallig explained. "All production facilities for creating fighters and starships will now be located there. I have already ordered the winding down of our production and offices on Fresia and Ranklige."
"That will attract a lot of attention," Roel noted. "Thousands of personnel, millions of tons of equipment..."
"Yes, all our super-heavy transports had to be enlisted for this," Kad agreed. "And we had to buy another thirty similar ones."
"And what, Republic intelligence slept through this?" Lana was surprised.
"The ISB is handling the cover-up," the man shrugged. "Setting up the legend is their job. We just load onto the ships, jump to the rendezvous point where the fleet meets us, and from there—to our new headquarters."
"Well..." Zki lamented. "Billions will have to be spent on construction equipment—it's basically starting from a clean slate."
"The Empire is fully financing the move," Dallig chuckled. "So it won't cost us a single decicred."
"At least something is encouraging," Lana sighed. "But I can't imagine how this can be carried out—I have twenty Phantoms in the process of assembly. And now—drop everything and move?"
"You are staying on Zakuul," Kad said slowly. "I have coordinated a number of points with the Emperor. In particular, all our facilities here are being moved to a special-regime status and will be guarded around the clock by army units. The assembly of stealth X-Wings, Phantoms, and other exclusive equipment will be carried out here. Under your leadership."
"I'm the head of a branch?" Lana was surprised. She knew absolutely nothing about how to manage anything larger than a team of engineers. And she had no particular desire to join the science of management.
"More like the experimental development department," Kad corrected. "The job is the same: create low-observable, flying, fast, and dangerous things."
"You say that as if there's something else," Lana squinted, leaning forward.
"Yes, there is," Dallig admitted. "Admiral Block has commissioned the creation of a small-sized assault ship—something between a Phantom and the assault shuttles in service with the Republic. With great autonomy, high speed, armament, and protection. Designed for the needs of a small military squad..."
"A specialized ship for army units?" Zki lit up.
"I suspect it's a starship for saboteurs or commandos," Kad shared his thoughts. "All the customer's requirements are on this holodisk," he handed a small disc to Lana. "And most importantly—complete secrecy. The ISB has developed a legend that the ship is being created as a field-courier."
"How interesting," Zki drawled. "And why did the order go to Lana?"
"Because you will be busy developing a full-fledged bomber for the fleet," a new holodisk appeared in the corporation head's hands. Roel, after a pause, took the information storage device, tossing it like a coin.
"But that's Sienar's task," he reminded.
"Joint production," Dallig sweetened the pill. "We have vast experience in creating bombers, he has problems with... anyway, it doesn't matter. He will provide us with any assistance, but we'll have to develop it together."
"The story with Haor Chall Engineering is repeating itself," Kad lamented.
"What's the difference?" Lana smirked. "The main thing is that we're in business."
"Agreed," Dallig smiled. "Though, I am interested in one question. If Sienar is ready to share the order, then what is he so busy with?"
The engineers looked at each other.
What could prompt a jealous shipbuilder to turn down a potential multi-million-dollar order?
Apparently—something worth much more.
***
"And how long is this going to drag on?" Deezy Azmo asked impatiently, looking at the endless line of sentients filling most of the flagship's corridors. In groups of fifty, under the guard of a platoon of volunteers in gleaming armor, they moved to the sections where they were to be housed. "Not an Imperial destroyer, but some kind of refugee barge."
"If it weren't for one specific Jedi in our lives," Spin Kotor reasonably noted, pressing against the wall nearby to let another Keshiri with a pet pass, "it's quite possible that the inhabitants of Geonosis would be in a similar situation."
"I would even say," Matthew added quietly, "that this," he nodded toward the refugees, "is the most likely scenario."
"Then it's a good thing everything turned out quite differently," Deezy chuckled. "Oh, Hutt, how much longer!"
Matthew Mantrell smiled almost imperceptibly, seeing a group of peasants appearing at the far end of the corridor, leading unknown animals resembling small banthas.
The resettlement of the people of Kesh had come as a surprise to everyone except the initiator of the order.
The Emperor did not initiate anyone into the details of his plan. However, no one asked for explanations. It had long been understood that the necessary information would be brought to the executors. And if something was not communicated—then so be it.
However, now, the Emperor had summoned the three of them to the bridge. Immediately after the three commanders of the Christophsis volunteer corps returned from the surface, where part of the personnel of their units had been thoroughly—using technical means—combing the deserted settlements, occasionally finding locals in huts who wished to hide from the mass resettlement. Such people were brought by the soldiers aboard the dreadnoughts, placed comfortably in the brigs. It seemed that the negligent subjects of the Empire awaited trial upon arrival at their new place of residence. According to Imperial laws. Harsh, but fair.
The Emperor ordered everything that could be carried away to be taken from the planet. Livestock, food supplies, equipment, artifacts. Even the remains of the ancient dreadnought Omen would leave this planet. Teams of engineers were already working on this relic, patching its holes and restoring the heavily damaged ancient hyperdrive. It had to be admitted that the hull and numerous internal damages of the Sith dreadnought had been restored by the locals on their own—and quite well. All that remained was to revive the ship and lift it into orbit.
Admittedly, the value of the dreadnought as a combat ship compared to the Harrowers or the Black Overlord was small. However, the size... On its board, of course, if a huge number of completely unnecessary things were thrown out, up to two hundred thousand settlers could be placed. Given the extremely limited number of ships suitable for such an operation, restoring the relic made sense.
Matthew only for a moment imagined himself in the place of the ship's droid—GEMINI, who watched what was happening through hundreds of systems. The droid was surely in a computer equivalent of shock—she could hardly have imagined that combat ships could be used in such a way.
And yet—it turned out they could. Moreover, if one tried, a significant number of sentients could be brought aboard these ships. Ten times more. If placed in every corridor, passage, every workshop, and hangar—then thirty thousand would fit. With all their belongings and pets.
However, there was no other way—no ships of this kind yet existed capable of holding millions of settlers on board. Among whom were many who were ready to leave the confines of their home world, which had protected them from all worries for millennia.
The path from the officers' quarters to the bridge took a long time. Constantly maneuvering through the living stream, the trio reached the required section.
"By the Emperor's summons," Matthew informed the pair of monsters standing at the entrance. The Dashade, measuring his companions with a contemptuous gaze, briefly lingered their eyes on him. Mantrell felt no timidity, looking into the eyes of the Shadow Killers. He knew they fed on Force adepts, but reasonably believed that on a ship where there were several hundred Force-users, his not-so-strong gift would not attract much attention. Compared to ordinary people, he was luckier. But in the company of fully trained adepts—well, no more than a light snack.
The brutes silently let the trio inside.
The bridge turned out to be overcrowded with sentients.
Crew members—clones and Christophsians—scurried between control panels like insects in a disturbed swarm. A working noise hung in the air, composed of the voices of numerous sentients talking among themselves.
And in the far part of the bridge, in the company of the already familiar commander Lady Vette, stood the Emperor.
His back was turned to those entering, and the blue-skinned Twi'lek was telling him something, occasionally pointing at a data pad. The Emperor, however, was immovable. He was looking at the mass of the Separatist dreadnought hanging a few hundred kilometers off the bow of the flagship Harrower. It seemed that what was happening did not concern him in the least.
"Your Majesty," Matthew announced his presence. Of the three, he was the only one who had received a promotion, becoming, in essence, the first volunteer to reach the rank of general.
"You were in no hurry, General," the ruler noted. However, without giving a chance to explain the reasons, he continued. "Marshals Azmo, Kotor, I am glad to see you. I have a task for you. For all three of you."
"Whatever you wish, Sire," Mantrell answered for his friends without a shadow of subservience or fawning. Although he did not often communicate with the leader of the Empire, he knew that the man frankly hated it when people groveled before him. He respected strong people—even if they were his enemies. And he preferred to keep strong allies close. As close as possible.
"You did good work destroying slave organizations in the Outer Rim," he announced. The Emperor turned to face his subordinates. More precisely—his face mask. Matthew automatically noted that the lord's armor bore traces of a recent battle. And a rather fierce one at that. "Vette claims that you showed extraordinary energy in exterminating such bio-waste. Why?"
"I hate slavery, sir," Matthew reported. "My late wife grew up in Zygerrian slavery. If I could, I would continue to exterminate them until the end of my days."
"Marshal Azmo?" he asked, nodding slightly to the general.
"My brother died at the hands of slavers," the Rodian explained. "My father died trying to save him."
"Marshal Kotor?"
"I was a slave," the man stunned his colleagues with the admission. Matthew exchanged surprised looks with the Rodian. They had not known such details about their colleague. Despite having known him for more than ten years. "I was born into a family of slaves, grew up, and escaped. As punishment for the escape, the Zygerrians destroyed my entire family. And a dozen others. But you knew that already, sir?"
"Certainly," the Emperor agreed. "You were assigned this task because you were more motivated than others. And I would like you to perform one more. Drive a nail into the coffin of the Zygerrian slave trade."
"We will perform it with readiness, sir," Mantrell answered for the others. However, even his rudimentary Force abilities were enough to feel the grim anticipation emanating from Deezy and Spin.
"After the devastation of Zygerria, quite interesting information fell into the hands of our intelligence. Have you heard anything about the planet Kovak, General?"
"No, sir," Matthew admitted.
"The others, I assume, haven't either..." the Emperor said. He took the data pad from Vette and handed it to Matthew. "All the necessary information is here. The planet belongs to the Zygerrians. Spies have tracked several ships heading to the planet, including some with Zeltron slaves on board. The planet's coordinates have been established. They are just waiting for you to arrive and pour fiery hell on their heads. The task is standard—destroy the defenses, eliminate all slavers, free the slaves. It won't be easy—there are almost half a million of them on the planet. Conduct recruitment work on site. Our spy will contact you, General. Though, I think you are familiar with him."
"Sir?"
"I won't spoil the intrigue. I am placing the Black Overlord at your disposal," the Christophsian barely had enough restraint not to cry out in surprise. "I think among the nearly one hundred thousand of your subordinates, there will be a sufficient number of sentients capable of at least partially replacing the destroyed crew. On the lower decks, you will find a lot of damaged Confederacy equipment that can be restored—specifically, AAT tanks. Use them to the full. But with minimal casualties among those you intend to free."
"We will bring this to the attention of the personnel," Matthew said, casting a quick glance at his two companions. Considering that during the occupation of Christophsis, the Separatists had more than once driven entire settlements into slavery in an unknown direction, the soldiers would be extremely inspired by another opportunity to pay back the Separatist collaborators.
"You have a week, General," the Emperor warned. "Officially, all this time the Black Overlord will be at the other end of our super-sector. Not a single living soul must witness that it was Christophsian volunteers who destroyed the slavers."
"Sir?"
"The CIS has too many henchmen among all sorts of scum—including slave traders. It will be extremely difficult for them to explain to such hangers-on why their newest ship is destroying their own allies."
"Devilishly clever, sir," Dizmo appreciated.
"Psychology, Marshal," the Emperor countered. "The more stakes we drive into the fragile relationships between our enemies' allies, the easier it will be to destroy them one by one later."
"Yes, Sire," Matthew agreed. "We will meet the deadline."
"Report the results of the operation to Lady Vette," the Emperor ordered. "She will provide the necessary transport by then."
"Will the former slaves go to Zakuul?" Deezy clarified. Matthew recalled that this was exactly what had been done with the previously freed ones. They were initially filtered, weeding out the unreliable, then transferred via a transport company to the territory of the Empire, where the security service, more skilled in the matter of exposing various kinds of sentients, continued to work with them. No one intended to keep enemy spies, dissidents, or any other infantile scum in the young state.
"There are other territories of the Empire that need population," the head of state replied meaningfully. "Perhaps one day you will visit them. Lady Vette can share her impressions—she was there for quite a while."
"A paradise," the Twi'lek said with a smile. Matthew listened to his intuition. He knew the Twi'lek girl quite well and could say with certainty that she was telling the truth.
"We are ready to depart immediately, Sire," the Christophsian assured his ruler.
"As soon as the last Keshiri are loaded onto the transports—return your people from the surface and depart," the Emperor instructed. "Ah yes, commandos will go with you. Inferno Squad. Only three people—they will not inconvenience your units."
"May I ask why clones are being sent with us on such a task?" Matthew became wary. No, he treated the soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic with respect. And if it were an ordinary routine mission within the Republic's military campaign—he wouldn't have asked a single question. But now... the mission was clearly for the benefit of the Empire. So why were GAR units participating in it?
"Don't worry, General," a satisfied chuckle came from under the mask. "Captain Korr, Necromancer, and Sinner are loyal to the Empire. And they are going with you because I promised to let them burn an entire planet. Kovak will do like no other."
"We'll arrange it in the best possible way, sir," Mantrell assured him, noticing the predatory smiles appearing on his companions' faces out of the corner of his eye. Oh yes, burning slavers in their own homes—this was something the First, Second, and Third Volunteer Corps of Christophsis could, knew how to, and practiced.
***
Despite the absence of sound in the vacuum of space, the consequences of the endless salvos of turbolaser batteries echoed as a clearly perceptible hum through the deck.
Helnior felt the work of the Nemesis's turbolaser batteries even through the rather thick polymer soles of his boots. The metal under his feet hummed, a blunt reminder that thousands of systems and mechanisms designed to carry death were working in its depths.
And they were delivering it to the surface of a small planet lost within the borders of an unexplored region of the galaxy. Faithfully, time after time, the turbolaser towers of his flagship, turned toward the planet's surface by the bow at a slight angle, sent a sea of coherent green fire.
In this situation, it was impossible to miss. Even if a green novice were at the weapons control panel, missing a planet is truly impossible. Because there was no specific target on the surface of the planet Tof. The planet itself was the target.
There were no valuable resources here, nor any significant industrial facilities. Even the ships located at ground airfields and spaceports were outdated junk, fit only for pirates in such a remote region.
No innocents remained in the Tof capital. Slaves or prisoners were no longer kept here; the capital of the pirate empire was a world for the elite—the most influential and wealthy Tofs, served by servants of their own race. Looted riches and valuables were no longer kept here. This desolate, vegetation-free world held no economic value in principle.
Instead, what was happening now had a completely different purpose.
As soon as the squadron led by the Nemesis invaded the Tof system, destroying all the bandits' orbital forces in a short and merciless battle—forces that could in no way pose a threat to Star Destroyers accompanied by "dreadnoughts"—Helnior explained the reason for the Eternal Empire squadron's appearance in the local star system, outlined the further development of events, and as a decent representative of a race close to humans, suggested the Tof leaders evacuate women and children from the planet that was to become a battlefield. He silently ignored the stream of insults in a mixture of Galactic Basic and some local dialect. And ordered the first target burned.
A pair of "dreadnoughts," positioned in orbit over a huge cliff, at the foot of which was one of the Tof bases preparing fighters for an attack, disappeared in fire as soon as the streams of green fire rained down from the sky.
Turbolaser bolts, capable of incinerating buildings, scorched the base down to its rocky foundation. Fences, buildings, warehouses, equipment, personnel—all turned into charred slag, dust, and ash, swept from the surface of the cracked and crumbling stone by the winds.
Only after this did the enemy deign to agree to the ultimatum.
A huge caravan consisting of weather-beaten transport ships, among which even a Trade Federation freighter was spotted—the kind upon which the Neimoidians later began to create warships. A heavily dented, objectively old, but still usable spacecraft.
And this entire line, taking off from the opposite side of the planet, hoped to escape. Unfortunately, they had to be disappointed by the Marauders hiding in ambush, who stopped the caravan with missile and turbolaser fire.
Helnior did not lead the landing personally. For this, he had excellent subordinates—Mandalorians who had arrived at the disposal of Grand Admiral Thrawn's Expeditionary Forces, led directly by their war leader—Mandalore the Avenger.
Young growth, barely learned to handle weapons, but already having some experience in liberating their sector from criminals and killers. And the participation of three divisions of young Mandalorians in the campaign against the Tof was the ruthless practice necessary for all warlike peoples. And where else to undergo it, if not on a race of bastards?
As he had expected, the Tof didn't care about the offer to save their people. Exhaustive information provided by Thrawn about this race indicated that the Tof become ruthless and bloodthirsty from birth. A child might not yet have started walking, but already kills its first victim—a slave, of which these creatures turned out to have in abundance.
It was no wonder that the Tof preferred to take out looted riches and slaves to their remote base-worlds rather than women and children. Every Tof is a killer and a butcher. Every Tof is a fighter capable of killing an invading army soldier. And the more of them on the planet, the more soldiers the enemy would lose during a ground operation.
This was exactly how Helnior reasoned, putting himself in the place of the Tof leader.
This was exactly what Vizla's people later reported to him, having interrogated the few surviving crew members. Battle is the life of a Tof. They would never keep a slave by their side to put them under blasters instead of themselves. Simply because they know—the moment they let their guard down, any slave will sink their teeth into their throat. Undoubtedly—they will die themselves, but they will also kill their tormentor. The last justice for those who do not even dream of breaking free.
More than two million slaves. Of all possible races. Predominantly—former smugglers, members of reconnaissance vessel crews, careless traders... Those of whom no relatives or loved ones in the Republic had heard for many years. Those who no longer cared about the homes and families they left behind. Those for whom it was enough to be warmed and fed, after which they were offered citizenship in the country that did not leave them in trouble. Nine out of ten sentients would agree. Well, and the tenth... His fate was in the hands of the ISB.
Helnior was not concerned with the fate of idiots who did not want to trade the rotten Republic with its bureaucracy, infantilism, and unemployment for the Empire, developing in seven-parsec leaps, where there was always a shortage of jobs and qualified personnel. Because one had to be completely gone to reject the hand giving you bread and shelter. To return to the Republic after captivity, which did not even remember its missing citizens, let alone undertake rescue expeditions... yes, such irrational biomass existed. And there was a lot of it.
Yes, in the Empire, it is necessary to work. For everyone. If you don't want to find a job yourself, the competent authorities will find one for you. And willy-nilly, you will still labor for the good of society, receive the wages due to you, and pay a specific percentage of your earnings as taxes.
In the Republic, you could lose a limb while drunk, file for disability, and live on benefits for the rest of your days. In the Empire, that wouldn't fly. Here, qualified specialists would examine you, select a high-quality prosthesis, teach you how to use it, and send you to a competent employment service that would find you a job sufficient for you to feed yourself, your family, and pay rent. Yes, and don't forget to pay the installments for the prosthesis—the Empire's budget is huge, of course, the Republic never even dreamed of it, but it's not bottomless. Everything in this galaxy has its price—goodness too.
However, this was all lyricism.
His business was war. Questions related to increasing the number of the state's citizens were the competence of entirely different bodies.
Now, he was more interested in the picture unfolding before him.
Endless streams of turbolaser energy, like a deadly rain, poured onto the Tof planet.
Monstrous charges of green death were belched by hundreds of gun barrels, crossing the cold vacuum separating the planet's sphere from the Empire's lethal ships in seconds.
The Tof had no planetary shields. For them—bandits and killers—such technology was unnecessary; in this sector of the galaxy, few would dare to attack them. Except for the Empire.
Bursting into the Tof atmosphere, the sea of green fire ruthlessly tore the sparse cloud cover to pieces, literally evaporating weather phenomena. Walls of colorful death collapsed uniformly onto the planet's surface, sweeping away everything in their path.
For the first time in the last thousand years, sentients applied the notorious Base Delta Zero order. Developed in ancient times when the Republic still wanted and could, this order allowed any world to be reduced to an atomic state.
It was even amusing that this order had come to the Imperial fleet straight from Republic departmental documents. And unlike its creator, Base Delta Zero could not be considered something bloodthirsty or immoral. A standard order, though requiring a few more ships and firepower.
But what he had was enough for the immediate execution of the plan.
Yes, he would have to stay, but he wanted to see everything with his own eyes.
And there was something to see.
Positioned along the planet's equator at the most advantageous angle, the ships of his squadron maintained continuous fire on the planet.
The total power of the salvos was such that it was enough for the total devastation of the planet.
The turbolasers glowed red-hot, spitting out charge after charge. The gunners, to avoid system breakdowns, were forced to take turns withdrawing towers from the general cannonade—to allow the icy vacuum and built-in systems to cool the metal of the barrels.
But the silence of one tower out of an entire battery, of which there were sixteen on the Nemesis alone, brought the Tof no salvation whatsoever.
The energy rain evaporated the oceans, seas, and rivers polluted by their negligent masters. The sparse cloud cover, dispersed by fire at the very beginning of the bombardment, obeying the universal law of the water cycle in nature, turned into volatile steam soaring into the upper layers of the atmosphere, where they turned into dirty clouds of impossible colors. Such cloud cover, which had been natural bodies of water just a few hours ago, hindered precision fire. If there were any, of course.
But no one here was engaged in shooting aborigines from the board of a Star Destroyer.
The squadron crew had taken upon themselves the mission of the total destruction of the planet. Turning it into a lifeless desert that would remain so for dozens of generations. Fire from orbit burned away the remains of forests, mixing clouds of smoke from fires breaking out across all the planet's continents into the vomit-colored cloud cover. The flames burned away centuries-old trees, incinerating them to the state of volatile black dust in fractions of a second. Shrubs evaporated, leaving no trace on the charred soil, which had finally lost its fertile layer...
But who could call this piece of glowing slag, shimmering through the fog with a crimson glow, soil? Only a very optimistic specialist. Because not a grain of earth remained on the planet. Not a grain of sand, not a piece of silt or sod. All of it burned in the celestial punishment. Never again will a blade of grass grow on this planet—for all the plants, of which there were few to begin with, had burned—if not during the bombardment, then certainly from the raging fires.
All the useful minerals with which the local land might have been rich were turned into billions of atomic chains that would never come together again. Any seeds burned in the hellish fire.
Never again on the planet Tof will even the smallest piece of green appear.
laziness.
Just as there will be no more steep cliffs or sheer precipices here. No gentle hills, or plateaus as flat as a flight of thought, used as landing pads. Nature's stone monuments have perished, split into pieces, turned into glowing streams of rubble. Collapsed by precision hits, they overwhelmed the plains with torrents of rockfalls that crashed onto the heads of the panicking Tof, maiming and killing them. But perhaps it was a death too swift and even merciful—to die because your vital organs were crushed by a giant boulder.
Because those who survived faced far greater suffering.
The biosphere fought for itself until the last. Mother Nature strove to protect her wayward children, opening up grottoes and caves previously hidden by the depth of the oceans, where they could wait out the storm.
If only the storm had a time limit.
But the streams of green turbolaser messengers of death continued to pour from the sky for days on end. The toughest rock formations crumbled, unable to withstand the high temperatures, splitting apart and exposing the shortest paths to the planet's core for the orbital gunners.
Where once there hadn't been even a slight breeze, fire tornados now raged, destroying the truly precious supply of oxygen across the entire planet. They swept across the world in random cataclysms, inevitably catching the rapidly dwindling population in their deadly embrace. The Tof burned to ashes—those who had time to realize how unfair life was. Such "lucky ones" evaporated in a fraction of a second.
But the unfortunate ones had time to feel it for themselves—what it's like when an irresistible force turns your hair, which covered almost the entire body of a Tof, into a smoking, smoldering mass due to the proximity of the open flames engulfing everything. The stench eats into your nostrils, cuts your throat, and makes your eyes water. How it flares up, failing the struggle against the physical laws of the universe. How you and your clothes turn in the blink of an eye into a blazing bonfire that only grows brighter because there is simply nothing to extinguish it with. Any moisture on the planet—even your own sweat—had long since evaporated. Everything beneath your feet was heated to the limit.
Finally, your skin begins to dry and crack like the handiwork of a primitive shaman who stretched the untanned hide of a stranger he killed over a drum. At first, it's just a dull, itching sensation, the echoes of dehydration. Then, everything intensifies. And when your body simply screams for even a little moisture, the thought enters your head that there is moisture inside you. Running through your veins. In a fit of madness, you try to extract at least that, even if it's just as hot, as long as it's liquid...
However, it's all in vain... The heat becomes so unbearable that your parched skin, if you've been lucky enough not to be caught by one of the fire tornadoes yet, simply ignites. Because now it is so dry that it flares up from any nearby source of fire.
And you burn. You suffer and howl like a beast while your muscles and tendons experience agonizing pain in contact with the open flame. If you're lucky, you'll die of shock.
But that would happen to an ordinary humanoid.
The Tof are much hardier than other humanoid races. Therefore, charred and scorched, with a body stripped of flesh and snow-white bones glimpsed through the gaps in the blackened meat, he still hopes to be saved. To reach any cave, to take cover...
But he doesn't make it. Even if the cave is only one meter away, at arm's length—it won't help.
Because your scorched lungs, partially burned out from inhaling the red-hot air, will bring flakes of ash into your gut along with the next portion of heat. The very ash that will clog your chest, which you will try to spit out in the hope of getting rid of the omnipresent light companion of catastrophe.
But you won't be able to.
Because back when the cliffs were collapsing, the sand was turning into glass and evaporating the next second, when the rubble rolling down from the breaking mountains was turning into a viscous, glowing basalt wave, those bombarding your planet delivered the final blow. They triggered volcanic eruptions that every second spew millions of tons of ash and molten lava from the planet's core, heated during the bombardment. This lava will never cool; it will continue to flood the surface, scorched to a slag state, until the glowing matter of the core penetrates every crack and crevice, burning the corpses of the dead.
Everything will continue until the crimson glow of the heated surface begins to show through the dusty clouds of smoke and stench from below.
And only then will the fire from the heavens cease. Because the besiegers have achieved their goal—never again on Tof, or any other world where this is repeated, will life appear—neither organic nor artificial. From now on, the landscape of this world is a lifeless desert where for several centuries only bacteria accidentally delivered to the surface by a meteor will survive.
Such is the order for Base Delta Zero.
Helnior stood on the bridge of the Nemesis, watching as the planet once inhabited by billions of Tof, covered by a shroud of volcanic ash, began to take on a crimson hue, so massive and bright that there could be no doubt.
"GEMINI-56," the half-breed addressed the droid. "Send a ciphered message to Grand Admiral Thrawn."
"Ready to receive the message," stated the hologram of the droid, hidden deep within the ship behind thousands of bulkheads.
"'Base Delta Zero order executed successfully. Many trophies captured. Advise rendezvous point,'" he dictated.
"Message received," the hologram reported. "Encrypted and sent. Can I be of any further assistance?"
"Yes, GEMINI-56, inform Mandalore the Avenger confidentially that I wish to see her in an hour in the Nemesis lounge. It's time to hear what new things the Tof can tell us after watching the destruction of their planet."
"Executed, General Helnior."
"Dismissed," the half-breed nodded. Turning to the deck crew, he ordered the stand-down from battle stations.
The job was done. It was time to rest.
***
"Am I interrupting, sir?" A familiar voice came from behind.
Like the millions of others I had heard, it belonged to a clone. But despite looking identical and having no outward differences, each of them had some individual trait. Something barely noticeable that set one clone apart from the rest.
"No, Darman, come in," I was sitting in the wardroom of the Fury, which Omega Squad used. My remaining conscience wouldn't allow me to return to Christophsis on one of my Harrowers. As for the Black Overlord, I had sent it on a delicate mission.
So now our motley crew—the commandos, the Hands, the Dashade, Adi—had to return on the commando squads' ships. Atrox, Vette, both Shadow Killers, Adi Gallia, and I had the honor of flying on the ship of the legendary, and I don't use that word lightly, Omega Squad. In terms of the number of "good deeds" they'd performed, perhaps only Delta Squad could top these guys.
"I've always wondered how you tell us apart," the commando said sheepishly, closing the door behind him and sitting opposite me. "Is it all your Jedi abilities?"
"Partly, yes," I agreed. "You can say all you want about being 'one face, one blood,' but in the Force, you always differ from one another. Besides, you're the only one in all of Omega who still has a standard haircut."
"Oh," the commando grinned. "I completely forgot about it, sir."
In the Force, he seemed relaxed and cheerful, but I could see something was troubling him. Hence these misplaced jokes—an attempt to defuse the situation.
Darman wanted to ask me for something. Something very important to him. And for some reason, he was dragging the bantha by its tail.
"Is that a lightsaber?" he asked, nodding at the disassembled hilt of one of the two identical blades I possessed.
"The very one," I nodded, returning to work. Of course, I could have just asked the commando point-blank, but I didn't really want to rob him of the initiative in the conversation. If what he came with was so important to him, he would speak up. When he was "ripe."
I was almost certain I knew the reason he had come to talk to me. Yes, it seemed everything happened this year. But I thought it would be a bit later. Either way, if I was right, this conversation was extremely important for Darman. And it would be better if he spoke first. I wasn't going to pull information out of him with pliers.
"It once belonged to a very interesting and controversial individual," I explained, removing a slightly clouded crystal from the hilt. "Emperor Arcann, to be exact. Oh, you little pest! And I was wondering why I stopped feeling it."
"Feeling it, sir?"
"A lightsaber is a very non-standard weapon," I drew his attention to the details. "To assemble it, your hands need to grow from the right place, which, unfortunately, isn't the case for everyone. Every part must be perfectly fitted to the next. See," I pointed to a small scorch mark near the focusing lens, "there was a short circuit here. Either from age or something happened in battle. But either way, the system became unstable. Energy levels fluctuated, which eventually resulted in the crystals used to focus the blade losing their integrity under the influence of a large amount of energy." I applied the Force slightly, and before the surprised clone's eyes, the crystal crumbled into dust in my fingers.
"Sir? It won't work anymore."
"It will, Darman," I assured him. "This crystal isn't the only one in the galaxy."
With those words, I took a pair of miniature transparent boxes from a pouch on my belt, containing crystals pre-cut for use in my twin blades. To be honest, I kept all the necessary spare parts on my belt to repair both sabers. Practice in the Galaxy Far, Far Away shows that one should be ready for any surprises. Including the failure of the traditional weapons of the gifted.
"So, it's only about half an hour's work here," I explained. "Replace the damaged elements and reassemble."
"I see, sir," the clone nodded. "I'm probably interrupting at a bad time."
"I didn't say that," I had to remind him. "It must be important if you came to me personally. So, I'm all ears."
Darman was silent for a few seconds, then said:
"Sir, I have served you faithfully since the moment of my transfer. I support you in everything, as do many other clones. And I have never asked for anything for myself. But now... I ask you to remove General Mukan from field missions."
"Is that so," as soon as the first commando and line infantry units began arriving in the army, I decided, without overthinking it, that since I currently had more Jedi under my command than line units, why not attach "free" Jedi to commando squads? Etain Tur-Mukan continued to work with Omega Squad, whose soldiers had known her for over a year and were quite well-disposed toward her. And I admit, if I didn't know certain details of the relationship between Darman and Etain (thanks again, Force, for my memories of the Star Wars universe), this commando's request would have been extremely unexpected. "And the reason?"
"She's unwell, sir," the clone admitted. "When we were preparing for the mission to the Separatist dreadnought, she was very tired, she was often nauseous. I think she's sick and should rest until everything returns to normal."
"I suspect Etain, with her character, won't be resting at the base for nine months," I chuckled.
"Nine months, sir?"
"Darman, she's not sick. She's pregnant," I explained. "But it's temporary."
The commando, staring at me, frantically processed my answer.
"You mean there's a baby living inside her, sir?" he clarified.
"Yes, Darman. A little one. But it will grow and become big," I said with a smile. "So, congratulations, future father."
"But how, sir?" the clone spread his hands. "How did it happen?"
"Do you want me to explain the whole process in detail?" I asked. "Children—that's what happens when a man and a woman learn the mystery of making love... Anyway, Darman, I'm not the best model of morality in that regard, so I won't use pretty words."
"Sir... but the baby... it will get part of my genes, right? Including the accelerated growth gene," Darman panicked.
"It won't," I assured him. "All those clones who crossed over to my side, in addition to having their inhibitor chips removed, receive a vaccine against accelerated growth. But even without that, according to the Kaminoans, the gene that accelerates your growth and development is not passed on to the next generations. So you can rest easy in any case."
"Thank you for the information, sir," the clone thanked me. "But what about my request?"
"I'm not a villain. Etain will be removed—I'll think of a pretext. However, I admit, the rear of an army fighting in encirclement is not the best place for carrying a child and giving birth. Maybe you should go to Mandalore? I don't think Skirata would mind hiding her there."
"It's dangerous there, sir. Constant war," Darman explained. "I don't want them to get caught in the crossfire. Maybe you could transfer Etain to Zakuul?"
"A sound suggestion," I evaluated. "Does the mother of your child even know about Zakuul?"
"No, sir, I haven't mentioned it."
"I suspect she won't exactly appreciate such a surprise," I chuckled. "But I think I can help you."
"Really, sir?"
"Of course, Darman. Am I the Emperor or just out for a walk?"
***
Leaning his back against the wall of something remotely resembling a sentient's dwelling—looking like one, but after a bombing, being eaten by a sarlacc, and thoroughly dilapidated—Ivan thought sadly that it would have been more merciful to level all the buildings on this wretched planet with the tectonic plates. However, command, for some reason, was against it.
And quite wrongly so.
There was nothing on this planet that could justify the bloody slaughter taking place here.
After the ambush at the Separatist outpost, he and only five clones out of all those who followed General Hett managed to return to the base. The enemy was jamming all communications as if on cue, and Ivan could only report the Jedi's capture in person.
However, as soon as he appeared at the base, it turned out that things were even worse than he thought.
The enemy had begun an offensive. Apparently, they believed General Hett was the only Jedi on the planet and planned to pull the same trick on the clones that they had wanted to pull on the enemy commander.
But it didn't work.
The positions of the 95th Reconnaissance Corps and the 63rd Assault Corps were located in a settlement—if this abundance of trash heaps and rotting ruins could be called that. Overall, a completely idiotic place for a base.
Except for one thing. What the stormtroopers and scouts didn't lack was ingenuity and brute force, respectively.
Therefore, minefields appeared on the outskirts of the city, and any approaches to the settlement were covered by heavy weapons, the icing on the cake being the AV-7 Antivehicle Cannons located in the central part of the city, which were now, without delay, spewing a sea of Tibanna at the advancing columns of droids.
Droids died by the hundreds, possibly even thousands. However, few cared. The Separatists—because they had more. The Republicans—for the same reason. The Separatists have more. Of any type and in any quantity.
Ivan emerged from cover, firing suppressive fire at a group of B1 battle droids appearing on the far side of the street. The droids had broken through the engineering barriers and minefields on one side, and since then have been trying to overwhelm the Republicans with numbers in a continuous stream. The clones, for their part, bit back hard.
Ducking under the supports of an AT-TE crawling out from behind the ruins, Ivan pressed his back against one of them, clicking out an empty cartridge on the move and inserting a new one.
The tank fired continuously at the encroaching droids, like a scythe of death gathering its harvest. Laser cannons didn't stop, the main caliber gun barked loudly... A single tank, raising clouds of dust, swept a huge number of enemy fighters from its path.
"Grenade launchers!" a shout came from behind. Ivan aimed his carbine at the source of the sound but lowered it with relief, noticing Republic soldiers in the characteristic sand coloring of the 63rd.
Marshal LeshKa, whom Ivan identified by the red pauldron with the legion emblem, waved his hand to someone behind him, and a squad of clones appeared under the belly of the AT-TE, with grenade launchers on their shoulders. A moment, and dozens of rockets sped into the distance, crashing into an AAT that had appeared among the Separatists. Which, nevertheless, managed to fire from its turret.
A bolt of energy raced toward the Republic tank, with the clear intention of wrecking the driver's cockpit. However, literally a couple of meters from the transpari-steel cockpit, the energy bolt dissipated, spreading across the surface of a translucent force field that had suddenly surrounded the cockpit from the enemy's side. A second such dome deployed at the main gunner's position, protecting him from several stray blaster bolts.
"What is that," Ivan asked, pulling up alongside LeshKa. "Droideka shield generators?"
"Yeah," the stormtrooper commander chuckled. "I covered all the vehicles with them. No sense letting them go to waste."
"Cheap and effective," the "infiltrator" approved. "If we survive, I'll put the same on our AT-RTs."
"Yeah..." the stormtrooper drawled. "Nobody gives a damn about clone lives. It's a good thing we have decent command. Under other Jedi, losses were just enormous."
"Yeah, we weren't so lucky with our general," Ivan agreed, instinctively ducking his head. It seemed the enemy had brought up wheeled tanks and was now burying the Republic positions under avalanches of missiles. A good dozen of them literally tore apart the AT-TE that had so effectively crushed Separatist droids just moments ago. The shockwave and hundreds of various shards literally scattered the grenadiers in all directions. Not one of them got up. "He went into the enemy's lair and stayed there. We barely made it back."
"Dead?" LeshKa clarified, waving a hand to the grenadiers toward some appearing droids.
"Unknown," Ivan admitted. "Either that or captured."
"That's bad," LeshKa nodded toward an improvised cover—a miraculously surviving corner of some solid building. Agreeing that talking on the firing line was not the best idea, Ivan changed his location. "If he breaks under torture, it'll be bad. Jedi know a lot. So, hope they finished him off."
"Thoughts like that could get you sent to Kamino," Ivan smiled grimly, referring to the memory-wiping procedure applied to clones the command deemed "defective."
"Not scared," LeshKa noted. "I've long dreamed of becoming a waste disposal tech or like Ninety-Nine—helping out."
"Haven't you heard?" Ivan was surprised, instinctively ducking his head. "Ninety-Nine died during the second battle for Kamino."
"I know," LeshKa brushed it off with a hint of anger. "I feel for our brother."
"That's for sure," Ivan agreed, looking out from behind cover. "Looks like they've sent in the tanks."
"That's bad," LeshKa stated. "Need to call for reinforcements—this section of the front is left wide open."
"Did you only have one tank?" Ivan was surprised. "You're supposed to have several hundred by the book..."
"And you think they're only breaking through here?" LeshKa asked, taking a rocket launcher from his plastic backpack. "They attacked only one section of the defense to distract us. And once they realized it wouldn't work, they rushed the whole perimeter."
"Sith," Ivan would have spat if he could. But he didn't want to take off his helmet for that. "I need to get back to the corps base. I haven't been there since I got back from the raid. I don't even know where my people are. Comms are jammed..."
"Yours are on the western and southern sectors," LeshKa recalled, launching a red flare into the air. "Droids there have no armor; your guys on AT-RTs are having fun. By the way—very effective. Soon you'll be able to build a wall out of 'clankers' there."
"And who's commanding them?" Ivan grew wary. Yes, the idea of going behind enemy lines with the general seemed less optimal with every passing moment. Hutt take that Hett!
"General Keto," LeshKa replied. Taking a pair of thermal detonators from a pouch, he wound up and threw them one by one toward the advancing droid columns. They were about thirty meters away, so two explosions occurring one after another, literally scattering the lead "box" of droids, created a decent pile of wreckage. "That'll hold them for a couple of minutes. Falling back."
Ivan, crouching so as not to stand out too much among the ruins, moved after his fellow marshal. Every now and then they began to encounter units from the assault corps. Loaded with heavy weapons—rocket launchers, heavy repeaters—they set up firing points without any commands from officers, effectively using the terrain and the layout of the destroyed settlement to provide suitable protection.
It took them ten minutes, maneuvering between soldiers and equipment rushing to the front, to reach the location of the field headquarters.
"General Keto," the "infiltrator" greeted the Jedi girl, stepping under the canopy of the command tent. The clone removed his helmet, looking at the Jedi and several clones inside.
"Ivan?" the girl was surprised. "Glad you made it back alive. Where's Hett, where are your people?"
"The whole squad is dead, ma'am," the clone reported. "We were ambushed. I managed to break out with a few soldiers, but General Hett decided to capture the enemy commander alone. His fate is unknown to me."
"Well, it's known to me," the Jedi stated sadly. "The CIS Shadowfeed has been blaring for hours that he's been captured."
"Ma'am, I'll assemble a squad and we'll free him," Ivan volunteered readily. Yes. Hett might be a piece of work for a Jedi, but he was still his corps commander. And it was the duty of every clone to do everything to save the life of a superior officer.
"They've already moved him off New Cov," the girl shook her head, making her braids bounce comically on her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Marshal, General Hett is no longer our concern."
"As you say, ma'am," the clone nodded. "I want to return to my soldiers."
"Right, about that," the girl grimaced in annoyance, lightly tapping her forehead. "Pull the boys back to the second line of defense."
"I thought we were doing well in that direction," the clone frowned. "Why abandon our positions?"
"Not just you, Marshal," Sera admitted. "I'm pulling all units back to the second line. Commodore Zsinj is going to support us with orbital fire and an air strike. There are seven million droids against us—enemy ships managed to drop a landing force. So, orbital bombardment is the only thing that can save us from total destruction."
"I understand, ma'am," the clone nodded, putting his helmet back on. Now it was clear why everyone was retreating to backup positions. When the front line is jagged and it's not entirely clear where your own are scuttling on the ground and where the enemy is, there was always a risk of "friendly fire"—when instead of enemy battle droids, gunners lay their turbolaser shells on their own troops' positions. This hardly happened anywhere anymore—but in the first year of the war, when Separatist electronic warfare units literally lived on Republic communication channels, receiving a couple of bomber runs or a turbolaser volley as a "greeting" from orbit was common.
Now, though, everything had changed. Encryption had improved, and diverse units had learned to work with each other.
So, there was no particular danger that Commodore Zsinj's flagship would open fire now and grind the Republicans themselves into the dirt.
Ivan, leaving the tent, spotted a speeder bike assigned to his corps. Requisitioning it from a soldier, he sped toward the second line of fortifications.
The trip took only a couple of minutes. Leaving the vehicle in the care of the nearest scout, the marshal stepped under the canopy of a massive fortification—a duracrete "pancake" erected by engineers as a long-term firing point. Dozens of heavy repeater barrels peered through narrow embrasures toward the enemy, ready to unleash their rain of blaster bolts on the foe as soon as they appeared on the horizon.
"Marshal," the commander of the legion responsible for this sector of the front greeted him, "we didn't think you'd return."
"Later," Ivan brushed it off. "Are we ready for the orbital strike to begin?"
"Yes, sir," the commander nodded. "Soldiers are in cover, the front is cleared. The strike will hit in two minutes."
"Distance between our current positions and the wall of fire?" Ivan asked, using macrobinoculars to examine the ranks of battle droids advancing on the abandoned first-line fortifications.
"Two hundred meters, sir," a clone engineer jumped in. "We left minefields in case any droids break through."
"Excellent," Ivan nodded. "Well, all that's left is to wait for the start..."
The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the roar with which blue bolts of turbolaser energy began to bite into the ground, tearing huge chunks out of it. The perfectly straight rows of droids vanished in a series of explosions, tearing apart any Separatist plan to destroy the Republic ground contingent.
***
From his position next to the cargo containers, he could hear the roar of a freighter in the landing dock.
The Tof were preparing to retreat.
Having taken the most valuable items and loaded them onto the freighter, they planned to flee quickly, leaving the planet clearly captured by stormtroopers.
Hermit, hiding a smile, lovingly stroked his sniper rifle—his favorite long-range weapon.
The enemy thought they were safe in this part of Nagi—occupied by the Tof almost three hundred years ago, where no battles raged. No wonder—this landing pad was in the furthest corner of the Nagi capital. There were no Imperial stormtrooper units here; the locals, suddenly realizing that the attack by an unknown ally was a real chance to throw off the enemy yoke, had crawled out of their shelters, bothering the former occupiers in every way. Sometimes with sabotage, sometimes with a razor-sharp blade to a vulnerable spot on the body.
The Jabiimite assessed the locals' abilities quite adequately—they were second to none in close combat. Although they seemed utterly emaciated, in reality, it was nothing more than their body constitution. Nagai are naturally thin but wiry. And as agile as a nexu. And just as deadly.
It was no surprise that Grand Admiral Thrawn used stormtroopers under the command of General Sev'rance Tann to destroy the Tof on this planet. A total sweep using "skymen" would have cost the Imperium thousands of casualties among the locals—simply because the droids didn't particularly care about targets, preferring to shoot first and ask questions later—whether they had killed a friend or a foe. The only exception was the soldiers of the Imperium itself, entered into the "skymen" database with a "friendly target" tag. Everyone else was just a target to them.
It would have looked bad—coming to destroy the Tof and, in the process, finishing off the Nagai as well. It would have been an unpleasant incident.
Apparently, the Grand Admiral had clear instructions regarding the fate of this race—do no harm. Hermit could bet his salary and undergo the extremely painful and unpleasant brainwashing procedure a second time if Thrawn wasn't planning to bring this people into the Imperium.
Which, in general, was logical. These guys were extremely capable fighters. True, they act crazy with those cold weapons of theirs. But if appropriate skills were applied, they could make good soldiers for the Imperium. Forty-some million new citizens—a trifle, of course, but a pleasant one. Sometimes it's not quantity that matters, but quality. And these guys were quality masters of close combat.
Hermit rubbed a barely healed scar on the right side of his face—a souvenir of a meeting with a Nagai who hadn't figured out who was his friend and who was his foe. The fight had been hot but short.
"They're about to leave," the author of the scar on the special forces squad leader's face whispered to him. Hermit, for all his desire, could not pronounce his long name. The young Nagai was the guide for the Hellbringers, thanks to whom they were able to get so far behind the Tof lines without trouble. "Those are the last containers..."
"Quiet," Hermit requested. Before, he wouldn't have hesitated to use choice words to explain to the kid that his special forces soldiers were already spread out around the landing pad. All ten Tof had been in their sights for a long time. But it was far too early to start the fray. "That's not all. They're clearly waiting for someone."
Hermit was used to trusting his intuition. And right now, it was telling him to wait.
The Tof, despite being representatives of a race that had long ago gone into space and mastered hyperspace travel, in reality remained barbarians dressed in skins. They had no uniform or rank insignia.
But looking at the Tof loading containers into the ship, he could swear they were all just common soldiers. No officer would bother himself with carrying heavy loads. Especially if they didn't belong to him.
Therefore, it was perfectly logical to assume that the Tof squad in this part of Kotokai—the Nagai capital—was clearly busy packing someone else's looted goods.
"Boss, we have three targets approaching from the south," a headset whispered in the voice of one of the clones. Yes, as much as Hermit wanted to have ordinary sentients under his command, there was a problem with that. They simply didn't exist.
And the Imperium hadn't had time to train its own cadre of saboteurs yet.
"Wait," Hermit ordered. The Nagai youth shifted restlessly beside him. At the same time—without making a single sound. The Imperial made a mental note to himself—to submit a report to command about recruiting at least this kid into service.
He'd hardly refuse—the planet was poor, with virtually no food or technology.
On the other hand, they had extremely developed martial arts and stealth skills. Although... Three hundred years of enemy occupation would do that to sentients.
The trio of Tof arrived right on schedule—two minutes after the observer reported them. Hermit, looking over the arrivals, shot a mocking glance at the Nagai, as if to say, what did I tell you?
The local, staring intently at the figure of one of the Tof—the largest one, with Aurodium trinkets in his hair, on one...
Khanii blurted out:
"That is their field commander. He must be detained!"
"The Punisher?" Hermit clarified.
"The Butcher," the Nagai added grimly. The commando nodded silently, bringing a comlink to his lips.
"Take out everyone except the big one. We take him alive." To be honest, Hermit didn't care whether they executed the bastard or took him prisoner. But his intuition told him that a people given the chance to tear apart their former punisher would be slightly more grateful than if he simply put a hole in the bastard's head.
"Targets assigned?" Hermit inquired, raising his rifle. Through the eyepiece of the computerized sight, he caught the leader's knee. The comlink filled with the clicks of confirmation. "Go!"
With the soft whine of blaster fire, twelve hairy bastards collapsed onto the landing pad, never to rise again. The latter was quite impossible in their case—precise hits of Tibanna to the head had forced them to scatter their brains.
The leader, however, whose knee had been turned into a pulp, lay by the ramp with furious curses, vainly trying to crawl up it and escape. The Nagai, like a pale shadow with a black mane of hair, rushed forward. Hermit barely had time to notice a short blade flash in his hand...
With elusive movements, the Nagai slashed the tendons of the Tof's arms and legs, leaving him lying like an immobile sack on the ramp.
Hermit approached, watching as the Nagai looked at his defeated enemy with eyes burning with rage.
"You can slit his throat," Hermit suggested. Though, on the other hand, what use was one punisher? It was unlikely he had left such a deep mark on the soul of the entire population. But the boy clearly had a very hostile attitude toward him. Perhaps he shouldn't count on the whole people, but recruit at least this boy? "No one will judge you, kid..."
"There is no honor in killing the weak," the Nagai youth shook his head. "And I am not a kid. My name is Ozrei N'takkilomandraife!"
"Whatever you say, kid," Hermit shrugged.
***