All is fair in love and war.
I can't tell you about the first — never had the chance.
But as for the second — I got my fill, and then some. And as cliché as it sounds, I hope my three months on Christophsis are just the beginning of my adventures in a galaxy far, far away. Despite the tons of shit and horror I've seen in these five months since I arrived, it seems I've already gotten used to it. The idiot's dream came true. And I was in for a rude awakening dealing with that dream. Because if I don't manage to shovel my way out of the flow of shit and sticks the Republic and Jedi are building their war strategy from — I'll be crying bitter tears. If I'm lucky, that is.
Don't get me wrong — I had no grievances against Christophsis.
Even though this planet had gotten under my skin, its fine dust penetrating the tiniest pores so deeply that no soap could wash it out — not even with the help of sexy Twi'leks. Still, I held no grudge against this planet — the field of my first real baptism of fire.
How could peaceful citizens be to blame if their government abandoned them, selling them to the CIS for a couple of fat bank accounts? No, not at all. Especially since I'd had the "pleasure" of seeing similar things more than once in my own universe. It's the same politics — just on a galactic scale. With all its blackjacks and hookers.
Can they be blamed for us fighting for them? No, absolutely not. A good third of my forces is a combined regiment of local militiamen armed with captured CIS equipment. Almost two regiments of locals ready to fight for their planet's independence from Separatist rule — a weighty argument in a protracted conflict. Although, it's worth noting that they weren't exactly in a hurry to join my units in the first days of the occupation.
And the conflict here was going to be no joke. If my memory serves me right, the Republic was going to fight on Christophsis for nearly the entire first year of the war — the Jabiim massacre would definitely end before the Christoph system was liberated. And another war-torn world would rejoin the Republic.
The Republic. Like the locals, I'd soon start saying that word as a substitute for a curse.
Now, let's go through everything in order.
In my youth, when I watched the original trilogy movies in sequence, I thought the Republic destroyed by Palpatine was a veritable utopian state, the return of which the rebels were fighting for.
The prequel trilogy blew my mind. Corruption, lawlessness, slavery, predatory taxes... Was this the same ideal Republic Obi-Wan died to restore?
The Expanded Universe — books, games, comics — gave me food for thought. And the more I delved into the subtleties of life in the Republic, the more justification I found for Palpatine's actions... Although, what Palps did after seizing power... Forget it. Ideal rulers don't exist, of course, but a policy of terror is hardly the best way to keep the people's love.
For over two months, my legion has been left to its own devices, cut off from the main force of the 13th Sector Army. No reinforcements, no covering ships.
Since repelling Loatsom's tank attack, we've had several dozen more clashes with the enemy. In scale and intensity, they were nothing compared to the Separatists' previous push. Small mechanized groups — a few tanks, up to a company of droids — tested our defenses around the clock, attacking our forward lines now in broad daylight, now in pitch darkness. It became clear that the enemy was probing our defenses, studying us patiently with cold machine intelligence, preparing to sweep the hated Republic forces from their path in one decisive push.
From time to time, minor reconnaissance raids turned into bloody battles for one defensive sector or another. At the cost of heavy personnel casualties and legion equipment losses, we held the enemy's assault. And the moment the enemy forces fell back from our positions, the tireless engineers would rush to restore order at the front.
The Separatists, by hook or by crook, sought to drive us out of the capital, exhausting my troops with numerous attacks at any time of day or night. Tanks, infantry, rocket droids, spider droids... all of it met its end on the city's outskirts. But the longer our protracted standoff lasted, the more our resources dwindled. The number of clones capable of holding a weapon was slowly but surely decreasing. And along with it, the faces of the clones grew darker as, despite the obedience program implanted in their heads, a simple truth began to dawn on them.
The Republic abandoned us. Surrounded by the enemy, practically crushed, broken... with no chance of winning on our own.
The first and only attempt to break through Trench's deeply echeloned blockade cost the "Iron Spear" four — FOUR!!! — Acclamators and two Venators. By the most conservative estimates, Trench killed around a hundred thousand clones in an hour of battle, along with an obscene amount of equipment. The Separatist admiral got away with losing two frigates, which our elusive Fury claimed. The Republic fleet vanished into oblivion, losing to the enemy in a clean sweep.
It wouldn't have been so infuriating if the Republic had been acting blind.
But I handed Bailur the entire enemy disposition on a silver platter.
In the first month on Christophsis, my ground recon, together with the camouflaged Fury, had determined the enemy's force strength down to almost the last unit of armor. And all of it was forwarded to the sector army headquarters via the Fury's next run, on which I'd organized the evacuation of the critically wounded from the planet, and then the delivery of ammunition on the return trip.
I did everything in my power to prepare the allies' breakthrough. From the very start of the blockade, Trench hadn't received a single additional ship, not a single transport with reinforcements for the ground forces. So, by the Force, the CIS's resources aren't infinite. With one powerful strike, we could return the planet to the Republic's fold... We just needed to choose the right tactics for the relief. I made all of this as clear as possible to the Moff in my report.
I was ready to strangle the GAR task force commander who had arrived for our "relief" with only six ships. The Admiral — Don't Know His Damn Name, some Gran — had barely entered the range of our communication system before appearing on my holoterminal in all his glory.
Puffing out his chest plates, he pompously told me he was about to sweep aside Trench's ships with the fire of his Venators and Acclamators, after which he'd deliver new equipment and reinforcements.
I didn't even have time to object before hordes of Trench's fighters, reinforced by concentrated fire from the Separatists' capital ships, reduced the Gran's detachment to scrap metal. Watching thousands of sentients die due to the feeble-mindedness of an alien who, apparently, was appointed to command by an even more feeble-minded sentient, I couldn't believe it was real. The Force screamed as though boiling water was being poured onto its exposed flesh...
In an hour, the Republic lost an enormous amount of military force. The two frigates shot down were just a modest attempt to open the score. Besides, the Fury took a hit too. Trench, that cunning bastard, managed to damage the ship's hull and some systems, so extended reconnaissance flights by the Sith interceptor were now just a dream.
And on top of that, taught by bitter experience, Trench had deployed a constantly moving patrol field of fighters around his ships. An attack from stealth, like we'd done before, would now inevitably lead to the destruction of our stealth ship.
Atroxa, who piloted the Fury in that battle, was the only pilot who managed to reach the surface intact. A small cargo of medicine and provisions was instantly distributed from the ship's holds to the legion personnel.
The Lethan handed me the command manifest, given to her personally by the Moff. Skimming through it, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I couldn't even think of a synonym for what the Iron Spear command had done. Bailur had sent me six ships, packed to the brim with clones and equipment. Just so you know, one Acclamator held more than a legion. Including crew, support personnel, and troops — 16,000 clones, 320 74-Z speeders, 80 LAAT gunships, 48 AT-TE walkers, 36 SPHA walkers. About 156 V-19 Torrent starfighters. And that's just on ONE cruiser. Four of them died...
The Venator's specs were better than its predecessor's in terms of space combat. But statistics are stubborn. 192 V-19 Torrent starfighters, 36 ARC-170s, 40 LAATs, 24 walkers. 7,400 clone crew on each, up to 2,000 troops. On board the Venators, another almost 18,000 clones met their death.
I didn't know how to politely describe what the Moff had done. Not only had precious Republic ships been sent to the slaughter, but also the clones, who were always in short supply. Who were needed like air... more than fifty thousand had met a horrible death in the cold depths of vacuum and on the cramped decks of starships.
Maybe it was because I eventually found the right words in my subsequent report — sent with Atroxa a week after the squadron's destruction — that I received a mournful message from Bailur stating that the 13th Sector no longer had sufficient forces for the relief of Christophsis as I had proposed. A subtle hint that I was also to blame for what happened. As if I had driven thousands of clones into their graves.
Bailur's message reeked of cold bureaucratic "back off, sir." Which made my blood boil with rage and a desire to gut the bastard. But, like Vader, I couldn't choke him from across half the galaxy. And I regretted it.
Unlike the armchair commanders, I was on the front line. My soldiers were dying before my eyes, suffering the gravest wounds. There, on Ord Pardron, on Coruscant, clones might be treated like meat, like expendable resources, like meat droids. But for me, they remained living people. Disenfranchised. Doomed in advance to slaughter — either at the hands of droids or from accelerated aging. I knew it was stupid to get attached to them — one day they would turn their weapons on me. But I couldn't live and fight, afraid of every rustle behind my back either.
I discussed the Moff's response with a small war council — just me and my two Hands. No matter how loyal the clones were to me or the Republic, it was too early to let them in on what was happening. Until I fully understood what would make the clones raise their weapons against the Jedi — the chip or blind obedience to Emergency Orders — I could only rely on those personally loyal to me. It was already enough that some clones knew the secret of the Fury's camouflage. Of course, those were only the regiment commanders and ARCs, whom I trusted not to gossip with subordinates. But you never know.
The discussion took place at night in my office, after Atroxa had delivered the message. Just me and two sexy girls. I agree, it sounds like the beginning of a famous adult film, but not this time.
"Perhaps you shouldn't have called their plan 'bantha shit' and its designer a 'moral lover of same-sex relationships,'" Vette suggested when I complained about the dispatch from Ord Pardron.
"I still don't understand why I couldn't gut the Moff like a shaak," Atroxa wondered, toying with her lightsaber hilt. "He was literally devouring me with his eyes," the Lethan squinted, licking her teeth with the tip of her tongue. "One swing of the blade and..."
"Enough," I cut off my Hands' musings. Both Twi'leks grew serious, focusing their attention on me. Even the restless Vette had become more docile after... the incident in the shower.
"This," I waved the datapad with the Moff's message, "is the Moff's direct answer. He made it unequivocally clear — he no longer cares about us."
"And what will our next actions be, my Lord?" Atroxa inquired.
I leaned back in the chair. I needed to think. Very, very hard.
The legion's strength was running out — no use putting a brave face on a bad game. Up to a third of the personnel had light or moderate wounds but hadn't been pulled from the line. Over 500 had already been evacuated to Ord Pardron. Ammunition was running low. Equipment would soon be useless without spare parts or ammo. The kinetic cannons on the walkers had exhausted their combat loads in the first few weeks. There had been hope for a breakthrough, but now...
It was time to admit it to myself — Valkorion's apprentice was stuck in a deep hole.
I suspect the Sith ghost, who hadn't appeared for weeks, was actually watching from the shadows, evaluating. Waiting. But for what? Victory or failure?
Though... it didn't matter. He had to understand that without outside help, my army would fall. And our Plan would be screwed. Unless he had another Plan?
Damn! Nothing but questions. When would the answers come?
It's incredibly hard — living a double life. I don't fully trust Valkorion. I don't trust the Republic either. But I'm directly tied to both. A servant of two masters.
What do I do to survive in this Hutt-infested universe?
I wanted to live.
I wanted to be stronger. The power I absorbed with Kun's spirit, which Valkorion taunted me with... The universe in my hands. Just reach out, and I'd be at the pinnacle of power. Like he said? War hero. Savior of the Galaxy. Its Lord... What was it Vitiate said? I was to become the liberator in the eyes of the galaxy's inhabitants. Sure. I can't even liberate a lousy little planet, and I'm already opening my mouth about the galaxy.
The Sith stubbornly insisted that I could do all this. That I would fulfill his Plan. Was he wrong? I don't believe it. That bastard even orchestrated his own return. I can't imagine the Emperor creating a plan that didn't have the ending he wanted...
But does that ending include me, as he promised? Or will I, like Revan, like the Hands, be used to provide a bridgehead for the true Sith fleet to invade...
The Sith fleet...
The fleet...
I should have given myself a solid facepalm. But not in front of the Hands. They were chosen by the Emperor to serve me. To carry out my will.
Well, I'd tested them in one particular area of fulfilling my fantasies. But I couldn't do everything through the bedroom, could I?
I channeled the Force's currents through myself, letting them calm my mind. The outlines of a plan formed almost of their own accord, amid the heat of disappointment, apathy, and self-flagellation. I needed to think it over, polish it, discard the excess, and produce a finished product. I remember in that first game about Revan, the Sith in the Academy on Korriban said that victory must have true grandeur. Or it has no power.
If so, then my victory on Christophsis had to be one they'd remember.
I was the student of the most powerful Sith in the galaxy. Time to stop whining and solve problems. Let the CIS leaders cry in the corner over their failures.
"My Lord," Vette's voice pulled me out of my semi-meditative state.
Bringing my attention back to the Twi'leks, who were tensely staring at my detached form, I felt with slight satisfaction the mild anxiety emanating from them. From the Lethan, it was practically radiating in waves. If I wanted, I could almost grasp the invisible thread connecting me through the Force to the gifted one and dive into the world of her emotions.
Hmm, that was new.
From such prolonged use of the Force, my head was spinning slightly. During all my time on Christophsis, I had somehow distanced myself from the Force, completely switching to my intellect and command, relying on myself more than on the omnipresent substance.
"You've been in meditation for over an hour, my Lord," Atroxa explained her concern, as if answering a question I hadn't asked yet, which was about to escape my lips. "We started to worry."
"How strange," a thought flickered. "It's like she guessed my question."
Deciding to look into it later, I relaxed my shoulders.
"Girls, I have a job for you."
* * *
Atroxa left the planet ten days later. The engineers had to work hard to patch up the Fury. Unlike previous runs, she had to make a jump much farther than just to the 13th Sector Army headquarters. And the final outcome of her flight was supposed to be quite different.
Same for Vette's mission. Though less significant, it had its own justification.
Sith, like Jedi, could be wrong in their dogmas. But there was a rational grain in every teaching.
Specifically, the postulates about attachments. The Jedi denied them entirely. And the Sith didn't particularly favor attachment to specific companions either. I decided not to reinvent the wheel.
I watched the interceptor's departure from my office. I sensed Shea approaching the apartment. Giving myself a mental scolding for neglecting my lightsaber and Force training, I tried to stay sharp. Thankfully, rituals and Force techniques I could replicate kept flashing through my memory. Though, I shouldn't do that in front of others.
"I'll bet you'll call someone else to replace them," the Mandalorian suggested. "Like a couple of Jedi girls."
"Aren't you supposed to be on recon?" I cut off the overreaching red-haired warrior. I hadn't had close contact with her until now. Never had the chance. The Emperor claimed the Mandalorian had her own reasons for joining our enterprise. I'd like to know what they were... Otherwise, there might be, God forbid, a conflict of interest, and I'd lose a valuable asset.
That I needed the Mandalorian, I didn't doubt for a second. As a field commander for the jetpack clones, she created veritable meat grinders for enemy recon and sabotage groups. And, I had to admit, the clones gravitated towards her, willingly speaking with a kin of their progenitor in their native language.
Of course, Vizsla didn't reveal what time she was from. Vague enough hints about the Mandalorian past were enough to keep the clones from asking unnecessary questions.
"Just got back," the girl tossed the datapad onto the table with a deft throw. Catching the device with the Force, I pulled it to me. "A patrol intercepted a local who was stubbornly making his way into our rear through the sewers."
"I'm surprised he managed to deliver the message," I noted.
"He didn't," the girl shrugged. "The flamethrower crews aren't jokers. They flushed the system with fire, then picked up the datapad. He shouldn't have thought he was smarter than us," the girl remarked. "Then he could have just walked up to a checkpoint and gotten off with a couple of shot legs..."
"You'll wipe out the locals at this rate," I noted.
"All the better," she parried. "The planet will be mine. Or have you got your eye on it?"
Not deigning to answer the Mandalorian, I immersed myself in reading the report.
"The militia?" I was surprised a couple of minutes later. "What's this all of a sudden?"
The girl spread her arms, flopping onto the sofa.
"In a month and a half on the planet, we hadn't heard of them," I mused. "And now..."
"The Jedi before you didn't suspect their existence either," the redhead remarked.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"Extra people won't hurt us," she shrugged. I wasn't even particularly surprised that the Mandalorian knew the essence of an intelligence report meant for me personally. "And if they're eager to die instead of us, I'm all for it — I'll give them weapons myself and show them where to best cover me with their bodies."
Smirking at the girl's dark humor, I sank into the chair, delving into the reading.
Zho Ptar — that was the name of the local militia leader. "Most Esteemed Jedi Knight Dougan," the Christophsian wrote. "I am proud to be able to thank you for holding Crystal City against plunder by the mechanical army's forces. Our hearts beat as one in a shared impulse toward liberating our homeland from the Occupiers. The establishment of justice and legitimate authority on Christophsis is our common goal. My fellow concerned citizens are ready to join your army of liberators. We have many resounding victories to our name, and I am confident that several thousand new fighters, well acquainted with the geography of our homeworld, will not be unwelcome. We will await your response within a week. If you are open to a meeting and cooperation, launch three flares from the magistracy. If not, and we have misjudged you, ignore this message and feel free to act as you see fit. Captain of the Internal Guard — Zho Ptar."
"Do we know what forces they have?" I inquired.
"We only learned of their existence about four hours ago," the girl said with a grimace. "If he truly had major forces, they wouldn't be requesting support, and there wouldn't be Republic troops on the planet."
"He writes about several thousand," I noted.
"Our supplies are already running out," the girl reminded me. "Even a thousand new mouths means cutting the clones' already meager rations. If there are more — you'll be depriving the most combat-ready part of your army of necessary sustenance."
"Whoever these militiamen are," the girl continued, "it will take a lot of time and no small amount of ammunition before they amount to anything worthwhile."
Logic was practically written in red ink in her words. Would these new troops be useful? Shea was right — no militia can replace career soldiers. But the resources they'd drain from us... it's hard to even imagine how much.
On the other hand, a militia isn't a scary thing to throw forward as a living shield for the clones. The principle of acceptable losses — let more die, but the weak ones, so that the strong minority can keep fighting. Is that reasonable? It's reasonable. But the stumbling block is resources. Even with the best will in the world, we simply couldn't train — let alone equip — our potential allies with standardized GAR weapons.
Then again, who said the worst soldiers had to get GAR weapons in the first place?
As if reading my thoughts, the girl pointed toward the outskirts.
"If I recall, an entire landing barge crash-landed there..."
"And I think there was more than one," I remembered. Of course! And thousands of droids had found their final rest in the surrounding area thanks to our artillery over the past few days.
"But even so, we simply have nothing to feed them with," the girl noted.
"They must have been eating something before this," I snorted. "So let them come bearing gifts..."
* * *
The rendezvous with Christophsis's militia leaders went by rather routinely. About fifty officers — mostly representatives of the Christophsis armed forces — arrived two days after we'd sent the signal.
But the result... that turned out interesting.
Our scouts met the negotiators several kilometers outside the city. They escorted them to the First Battalion's operational headquarters. Along the way — they disarmed them.
Zho Ptar made the impression of an authoritative military man.
Nearly two meters tall, covered in rippling muscles that his light Christophsian armor could barely conceal, he was twice the build of the clones. Dark-skinned, bald, with a pair of sharp brown eyes. Mighty arms strong enough to snap a tree trunk in half.
I recalled the words from his message with a smirk and instantly dismissed the idea that he had written that "letter to a Jedi soldier." A direct, palpable threat radiated from this man. One I could feel through the Force. Warriors aren't diplomats. And he was no exception. He was a born killer, but by no means a master of elaborate speech.
"I'm glad to welcome you," I said, pointing to the chairs for Ptar and four of his companions — the rest had stayed outside what used to be a bank branch, now converted into a headquarters. "I'm Rick Dougan, Jedi Knight."
"Zho Ptar," the giant rumbled, perching himself on a tiny metal chair. "Captain of the Christophsis Internal Guard. Senior officer among those remaining," he waved a hand toward his four companions.
Unremarkable guys. Every single one — fit, equally dark-skinned, with short haircuts, in light armor... practically the same height, resembling each other like brothers, they only created an entourage atmosphere. Which they decidedly were not.
I might be a complete novice a hundred times over, but the Force told me these guys were no commanders. Possibly security, bodyguards... or assassins.
My entourage consisted of all three ARCs, Shea, Phob. Outside — several hundred clones of the First Battalion. Was that reliable protection? I hoped we wouldn't have to find out. Because Ptar still had forty-five more men outside this outpost. And those were only the ones we knew about.
"Pleased to meet you, Captain Ptar," I smiled with just my lips. "Were you looking for us?"
"That's right," the Christophsian frowned slightly. "Your army is... competent enough, since you haven't surrendered Crystal City yet. We didn't expect that from your... these," the man gestured unmistakably toward my clones.
"Sir," Balda cracked his knuckles meaningfully. "I think he's asking for it..."
"Easy, Balda," I raised a conciliatory hand. "I don't think he meant to insult you. Otherwise," I smiled coldly, "it would be pretty stupid of him to be rude to us in our own headquarters."
"Don't get me wrong," Zho slapped his knees. "You and your army are among the few who actually fight the Confederacy. For the most part, the Jedi just ask for help, while the clones die by the hundreds of thousands across the galaxy..."
"An interesting point of view," I smirked. "And where did you learn this? The enemy is blocking all communication channels."
"Not their own channels," Ptar returned my smirk. Seeing my confusion, he continued. "We knocked the Separatists off one of their relay stations. And we've been listening to their transmissions in passive mode. Mostly it's Hypercommunication Cartel boasting, populism... but even among all the propaganda, you can tell the Republic is suffering one crushing defeat after another."
"What's the Hypercommunication Cartel?" Vizsla inquired.
"A Separatist equivalent of the HoloNet," Zho explained. "Broadcasts throughout Confederacy territory. News, politics, propaganda, front-line reports..."
"And yet," I concluded. "Despite the Republic's defeats and the Confederacy's victories, you sent negotiators to us. Why?"
"We don't like the position our system has ended up in," Ptar narrowed his eyes. "The CIS doesn't care about Christoph's future — they just want our resources. Once they break your resistance, they'll move on to plundering our system's wealth. Our mines in the belts have been captured by them, but the Separatists aren't rushing to start mining — the arrival of that detachment scared them. So they're waiting for General Loathsom to destroy you so Admiral Trench can establish a defensive perimeter in the system."
"The CIS has plenty of resource worlds," I noted. "Christophsis isn't the biggest of them..."
"Christophsis is one of the largest suppliers of nergon-14," Ptar interrupted me. "In the nearby sectors, at least."
Like the infamous baradium, nergon-14 was one of the most powerful explosives in the Galaxy Far, Far Away. And it was often used in proton torpedoes. Now it was clear — raw material for the war machine. That's what the CIS wanted here.
"And so?" I clarified. "Your people are ready to join us to liberate the planet?"
"That's right," Zho confirmed. "Not all of us had anything to do with weapons before the war, but they're ready to learn in order to bring independence to our planet."
"Independence?" I was surprised. "Isn't Christoph planning to join the Republic after the war?"
Zho Ptar tensed noticeably. Judging by the look of it, my words didn't please him.
"The Republic," he forcefully exhaled through his nose. "And how is it any better than the CIS? Predatory taxes, bureaucracy, corruption... Christoph will be independent as soon as we throw the Confederates out of our system."
"Then what reason do we have to help you?" Alpha inquired. Seeing the guard captain's confusion, he continued, addressing me. "The Republic sent them help in exchange for joining."
"That was a promise from our oligarchy," the guardsman growled. "Not from us!"
"That doesn't change the substance," Berserker cut in. "You lured Republic troops here so we could liberate your planet for you!"
"Our brothers are dying here in the Republic's name!" the normally calm Phob flared up. "You deceived us!"
"Don't you dare call us liars!" Zho jumped to his feet, his jaw muscles working.
The situation turned explosive. I watched Ptar's bodyguards tense up. I felt that blood was about to be shed.
"Stop!" I reinforced my voice with the Force so strongly that most of those present covered their ears. "Everyone out!" I addressed the clones.
"Shea," I nodded to the Mandalorian. "Make sure nothing happens outside."
"Your men are free to go too," I addressed Ptar, whose fists were clenched. "We'll talk in private."
Nodding to his bodyguards, the dark-skinned warrior stared at me.
* * *
"If you meant to insult my men," I noted, "you succeeded."
"We came here to form an alliance," Ptar cut me off. "We don't need the Republic's yoke after the war."
"Suppose that's so," I nodded. "But if we defeat Loathsom's army and Trench's fleet, what then?"
"We will restore control over our system and remain independent."
"And what will stop the CIS from capturing you again?"
"The Republic," Zho said pompously. "We plan to conclude a treaty of alliance with the Republic — our security in exchange for preferential rates on our resource sales. Otherwise — Christophsis is rich enough to pay for mercenary services."
I had to admit — it wasn't a bad plan. What would it cost the Republic to send a few ships and a battalion of militia here? But the discounts would be substantial.
"I'm sure," I smiled, "that will be the case. But first we need to liberate your planet, don't you think?"
"I believe," Ptar smiled, "that together we can do it."
"What forces do you have?"
"Up to five thousand guard soldiers and militia," Zho said proudly. "We're armed with captured Republic and CIS weapons."
"Not bad," I noted. "And are you able to supply such an army with food?"
Provisions and medicine. Exactly what our troops on Christophsis were lacking.
"We're prepared to provide food and clean water for both our soldiers and yours," Ptar assured me. "The CIS forces haven't touched our livestock farms or crops."
"Is that so," I smirked. What purpose would the CIS have in preserving the food base of an occupied planet? The Separatist army doesn't need food. An oversight on Loathsom's part? Or a trap set in advance?
"How long have your people been eating from those fields?" I asked.
"Since the beginning of the siege. As soon as the CIS army entered the cities, we evacuated people to the foothills of the Impassable Mountains, into the planet's resource regions. There's a beautiful valley there — Atheria, whose pastures cover an area dozens of times larger than Crystal City. On three sides, the valley is surrounded by the ridges of the Impassable Mountains, and across the entire valley, from the mountain's headwaters, flows the Criol River, which empties into the ocean. Over a thousand years ago, our ancestors placed fields and meat-packing plants there. Essentially, all of Christophsis's food industry is concentrated in Atheria."
"And the enemy doesn't interfere with you in this?" I was beyond surprised.
"They tried," Zho shrugged. "They wanted to set up something like a spaceport in Atheria. Started building their base deep inside the Impassable Mountains. Set up a protective barrier at the valley's borders, posted guards. They wanted to cut us off from our resource bases and force the planet to surrender. But we rose up and captured it."
"An entire droid base?" I wondered — was he embellishing something?
"They hadn't finished building it. Just an operational headquarters, protective field generators, security batteries. A small garrison — just over a thousand droids."
"And how did you manage to capture the tin cans' fortifications?"
"The complex is connected to Christophsis's metropolises by high-speed underground highways," Ptar explained. "To make it easier to deliver workers to the factories and products to the cities. We used them to evacuate people from the cities. And when the droids built their base, we just appeared behind their lines — they didn't even have time to activate the droids."
"Well," I thought ruefully. "If only I had that luck."
"The enemy's defenses were designed to repel attacks from outside," Zho continued. "We caught them by surprise and crushed them."
"Trench didn't try to bomb the valley?"
"He tried," Zho grinned. "First he sent bombers — but we activated the Separatists' own protective field and fought them off. Then he sent several capital ships to bombard it, but we deployed the droid artillery and sent Trench's ships running."
"What kind of weapon did the Separatists share with you that you could fight off capital ships?" I asked curiously.
"We have fifty J-1 proton cannons."
"Impressive."
And our "allies" came bearing gifts. Not only did they have a resource base, but they also had cannons capable of harrying a fleet in orbit.
"I definitely need to form an alliance with you," I smiled. Seeing some wariness in my interlocutor's eyes, I caught myself. "Questions of your planet's post-war organization are entirely your people's affair. I am merely fulfilling my duty — liberating you from the Confederacy's yoke."
"Then," Ptar shook my outstretched hand, "I think we'll get along."
Squeezing the guardsman's firm palm, I momentarily recalled his words about the planet's solvency.
"Zho," I tried to smile as harmlessly as possible. "Can Christophsis afford to buy a few ships?"