Warm Loathsom, a general in the CIS army, could not hide his emotions. Or rather, the former general of the ground contingent on Christophsis.
The Kerkoidan mentally directed his irritation at his last interlocutor—Admiral Trench, with whom he had finished a communication session minutes ago.
Count Dooku, dissatisfied with the state of affairs on the planet, had decided to shake up the command, transferring primary authority to the Harch. Now the planetary forces were to obey commands from orbit. In effect, the former Jedi had humiliated the general, subordinating him—who had expended so much effort on destroying the Jedi group—to a mere fleet officer.
Warm didn't diminish the Harch's achievements in blockading Christophsis. Thanks to him, the planet was in an impenetrable ring of ships, preventing reinforcements from reaching the Jedi on the surface. But he himself had also put a lot of effort into destroying the resistance forces on this planet. How many clones had Obi-Wan and Skywalker lost before that damned Dougan arrived? Thousands! The Kerkoidan had lacked just a little to finish them off and force their surrender.
The arrival of reinforcements and the evacuation of the battered Republic forces lay on Trench's conscience.
"'You are incapable of dislodging a tiny Republic force, General,'" Warm mimicked Dooku. "'You have hundreds of times more soldiers!'"
The general stared irritably at the crystalline monoliths of skyscrapers visible from the windows of his residence. He had chosen the most luxurious mansion within the capital for himself. A small district of the city, turned into a bridgehead, had become a reliable thorn in the side of the capital, controlled by Republic forces.
Yes, he hadn't managed to break the Republic forces. Yes, he hadn't managed to breach their defenses. But Trench's landings hadn't succeeded either! And now, starting tomorrow morning, he had to hand over command!
The reservation for locals had been captured by those same locals. The humanity of Trench's approach to the people had backfired on him in a shameful defeat—now the people had seized a simply enormous amount of weapons and ammunition. And all the proton artillery had fallen into their hands too. And Loathsom had planned to use it to bombard the capital of Christophsis and force the Republic to peace.
The Harch was surely celebrating victory. With what gloating he had told Dooku that Warm was trying to preserve the capital only for its bank vaults. Perhaps that was the reason for the general's demotion. But, consider this—he had to get some perks from being forced to rot here, in a world of pompous and arrogant miners. He could have been leading victorious offensives somewhere in the Core instead.
Dammit, Trench! If he hadn't so ineptly lost his first battle group, the Jedi wouldn't have been able to bring their troops to the planet. And these new ones turned out to be better than the previous ones.
Warm had butchered the previous clones by the hundreds. The Jedi had literally paved the streets of the Christophsis capital with their bodies. But this new Jedi, Dougan…
He had allied with the locals. Sure, people weren't clones, but they could still hold weapons and point them at droids. And they put them to use, regularly wiping out CIS patrols.
Loathsom began noisily drawing air through his nostrils, remembering the last successful attack on the Crystal City. A bloody massacre, in the spirit of those Skywalker and Obi-Wan had been through.
Intelligence had discovered then that large militia forces—up to three thousand—had arrived in the city. They also delivered a reserve shield generator, captured in the valley, to the city. In the city, where only the central part remained untouched and all the periphery lay in ruins, the concentration of CIS enemies had reached its peak. And once they deployed the shield, they would become extremely dangerous… They couldn't miss that chance…
Trench and Loathsom struck simultaneously, crushing buildings, equipment, mowing down enemy forces… It seemed like the CIS forces were about to reach the Republic's central positions, but no… the enemy threw all their reserves at Loathsom's forces, slowed them, stopped them, and then pushed back the mechanical army. A second attack by Trench's bombers ran into an activated shield and hurricane fire from the surviving anti-aircraft artillery.
Expecting a counterattack, Warm had worn himself out hoping the clones would rush to pursue the retreating CIS units and run into the minefields left specifically for them… But it didn't happen. The clone equipment didn't budge. The 'meat droid' units didn't move either. The only consolation prize was that many militiamen had found their deaths on the left 'surprises.'
Almost a month had passed since the end of that massacre.
But, as before—everything remained in place.
The clones kept sitting in the capital, the locals holed up in a valley half a continent away from the capital.
Uncharacteristic behavior for a Republic commander. The Jedi had turned the city into an impregnable fortress after the very first attack. The approaches were mined, snipers and scouts on the buildings. Heavy weapons burned tanks and equipment before they even got close. The wide streets were blocked with barricades, and the houses fortified. Everywhere those clones with jetpacks scurried about, sniffing around…
And that artillery! Even though the Republic guns had a shorter range of fire, they still had them. And they inflicted incredible damage on his troops.
Though… they weren't his troops anymore. Trench had taken command.
Let him figure out how to beat this Jedi.
Warm scraped his needle-sharp teeth—a gift from his ancestors—against each other with a slight grating sound.
The war had been going on for six months. He had spent almost that long on Christophsis. His plan—to starve out the Republic forces—should bear fruit… He just needed more of those metal tin-cans…
The bridgehead held by CIS forces in the south of the capital was a small district where the elite once lived. A luxurious library, expensive boutiques, shops, immodest villas furnished with the latest technology, gleaming with opulence.
Occupying barely a dozen blocks, this district had its own station for a high-speed underground highway, blocked off as unnecessary years ago. Warm understood the rich—why would they use transport for the poor when a highway passed through their district? And only the rich on this planet had personal ground transport. However, after the capture of the concentration camp, Warm had ordered precautions. A good hundred meters of the tunnel were mined. The blast doors, designed to seal the tunnel against possible flooding, were lowered, and their controls were disabled. A similar procedure was repeated in all settlements on the planet controlled by the CIS. The general didn't make the same mistake twice.
The droid army had managed to entrench itself in this district because Warm had taken a liking to this refuge of oligarchs long before Dougan's forces appeared on the planet. Minefields, force barriers, barricades… Tanks had become part of a massive defense system. The latter became so threatening that the Republic didn't dare to storm it…
A massive explosion, somewhere on the outskirts of the district, was so powerful it blew out the fragile crystal used for window glass. The general felt the floor shake beneath his feet but managed to stay upright.
Sounds of gunfire from outside reached his sensitive ears. Rushing to the window, he saw with horror and dismay white figures of clones flashing inside the guarded perimeter of the bridgehead, mercilessly shooting the dim-witted B-1s. Like demons in the night, the clones soared into the air on their jetpacks, using heavy weapons to destroy tanks, landing transports, and walking assault tanks. All the equipment that could have given an advantage over the Republic was destroyed in the first seconds.
Looking more closely from the balcony at the crowd of attackers, the general noticed with surprise that besides the clones, his base was swarming with hundreds of native inhabitants of the planet, constantly supporting the clones with fire from captured CIS weapons.
"Get me Trench," the general, with uncharacteristic energy, returned to the operations room. He activated the holoprojector and gave the order to the appearing image of an OOM droid. The fleet idiot didn't understand him the first time, so he had to repeat.
"Got it, got it," the latter finally said dully. His image was replaced by the Harch's hologram.
"Loathsom!" the native of Secundus-Ando didn't hide his irritation. "What's going on there?"
"I'm under attack!" the general snapped. Did he have more important problems? "The clones are inside the perimeter. Militias with them!"
Somewhere below, the front door, torn from its hinges, collapsed with a metallic clang. Almost a ton of armor, by the way. The Kerkoidan felt a sucking sensation in the pit of his stomach. They had come for him…
An angry chittering came from the Harch's mouth. The same OOM droid appeared in the holo-zone, handing the admiral a datapad.
"These attacks are happening in all major cities," he said, glancing at the message's contents. "Both megacities are already under attack."
"That's impossible!" Loathsom seethed. "How did they manage it?"
Christophsis had over a dozen cities. But only three were significant—the Crystal City, the capital of the planet, and two smaller megacities—the Northern and Southern cities. The latter were controlled by large military contingents of the droid army, and attacking them was simply impossible—if only because the space around the cities was under surveillance. Each city had an occupying contingent—at least five hundred thousand droids with associated heavy weaponry.
The Northern City housed all the interstellar infrastructure of the planet—workshops, launch pads, fuel depots, cargo areas and hangars, a spaceport capable of receiving the most massive civilian ships. At the very beginning of the occupation, the spaceport was bombarded from orbit—when the Jedi tried to use its defensive batteries to fire on the CIS squadron. Two megacities remained under the firm control of the separatists, their defensive lines impenetrable even for the new Jedi and his militia allies. But today, it seemed, something had gone wrong.
"Impossible?" the Harch squinted. "Look out your window, General."
Warm didn't need to look. The sounds of battle outside were already telling him everything.
"How did you let them through the perimeter?!"
"I didn't let them through! They appeared out of nowhere!"
Loathsom couldn't believe his ears. Just yesterday, everything was calm. The front lines were stable. And now, in a matter of hours, the Republic forces had broken through the defenses of three key cities? This reeked of sorcery... or something worse.
"Pull yourself together, General," Trench snapped. "We have a war to fight. Hold your position, reinforcements are on the way."
Warm looked around the operations room. The few droids that had been with him were already taking up defensive positions. He was a general, not some coward. If the clones wanted him, they would have to fight to get him.
He grabbed his blaster pistol and charged it with a gesture, the familiar hum of the weapon bringing a measure of calm to his raging thoughts.
"Very well, Admiral," he said, his voice steady again. "I'll hold this position. But when this is over, we will have a conversation about operational command protocols."
The Harch's hologram smiled, a sight that chilled Warm more than any blaster bolt. "I look forward to it, General. Trench out."
The hologram vanished, leaving Loathsom alone with the distant sounds of battle. He looked out the window again. White-armored clones were advancing through the streets of his stronghold, their weapons firing precise bursts. The defense perimeter had been breached, and now it was a fight for survival.
* * *
The New Forge hummed with an eerie energy as HK-47 stood before them, his blaster rifle unwavering.
"Statement: You are in my master's domain, meatbags. You will explain your presence, or I will be forced to terminate you with extreme prejudice."
Atroxa and Malgus exchanged glances. The situation had just become far more complicated than they had anticipated.
The Southern City was a residential zone — a vast metropolis where most of the planet's population lived. The remaining cities huddled around the two major ones, but they held no interest for the CIS — they had neither strategically important facilities nor the wealth of the capital.
"Just like they took the valley from you," the Harch chittered. "They're attacking from underground."
Loathsom let out a guttural roar, like his distant ancestors. He had been outmaneuvered! Again!
"Sir," the OOM droid appeared in his field of vision again. And though its metal head couldn't convey emotion, it looked extremely concerned.
The room's door shattered into splinters with a loud crack.
Like a meteor, a short — even fragile-looking — girl burst into the room. Her skin was snow-white, and her hair was the same silvery-white. "Sarkai," the general remembered the name of that race.
In her hands, the girl gripped an activated lightsaber with a pair of glowing golden blades.
"Another Jedi?" The general's surprise was boundless. "Here? But how?"
With a casual wave of her hand, the girl deflected a shot from one of the two droids near the general. The clone following her, in unfamiliar armor, took out both opponents with precise fire, then trained his weapon on Loathsom himself.
"You're under arrest, General," the girl said, deactivating her weapon.
He had no choice but to raise his hands. Seeing this, Trench's hologram chittered in displeasure. The clone instantly twisted his arms behind his back, clapped on cuffs, and led the prisoner away.
"A Jedi," Trench stated. "Another one. Unexpected."
"Is that a problem, Admiral?" The girl smiled easily, focusing her attention on him. "I advise you to surrender while you still can."
"I have nothing to fear," the admiral said proudly. "Soon I'll sweep you off this planet…"
The girl glanced at her left wrist, where a small computer was attached. Then she smiled, turning her gaze back to the CIS fleet commander.
"Admiral, I believe your problems have arrived."
* * *
Standing on the bridge of the Wanderer, Shea Vizsla watched the Hammerhead-class cruisers and corvettes form into strike groups.
The remote, uninhabited system in the Mid Rim held no interest for the warring factions. Which was precisely why, for the past month, the ships upgraded at the Rendili shipyards had been stationed here.
"All groups have reported readiness," reported Rear Admiral Ermin Shirano. Tall, muscular, with a strong jaw and chiseled features, graying at the temples of his short chestnut hair — in Shea's opinion, he could rival the finest sons of Mandalore in handsomeness and masculinity. "We're taking the fighters aboard and will be ready for the jump."
"Excellent, Admiral," Shea praised. "Are we on schedule?"
"Of course," the commander assured her. "That's what you're paying us for."
"And a lot, at that," the girl reminded him. The fleet commander grunted and retreated into the bridge. He had to lead an armada of ancient but well-modified ships into battle — a battle whose outcome would determine his commission and the bonus for his subordinates.
The Mandalorian woman studied the ships with anticipation. They were about to clash with Trench's fleet.
All vessels were divided into five groups. Each group was assigned its own front in the coming battle. Mandalore the Avenger had left Christophsis a week after the bloody battle that had cost the legion a significant portion of one of its regiments. The Fury had spent two days in orbit, gathering detailed reconnaissance on the CIS fleet. Twenty Munificent-class frigates, five Lucrehulk-class battleships, and Trench's flagship — a Providence-class dreadnought. The dreadnoughts were positioned at six orbital points. Frigates patrolled freely between them. Multiple fighter groups of all types were on patrol, apparently hoping to catch the "invisible" ship that kept breaking the blockade.
The first group consisted of seven Hammerhead-class cruisers and twelve Thranta-class corvettes. This group was to take on Trench's flagship and its enormous fighter wing.
Groups two through five each had ten vessels — five cruisers and five corvettes. Their job was to contain or destroy — depending on luck — the Lucrehulk-class ships.
Vizsla sighed and stepped away from the observation screen. How much money had been sunk into these ancient — but admittedly sturdy — ships? For the same sum, she could have ordered hundreds of medium corvettes or frigates on Mandalore that would be a solid match for most Confederacy ships.
But it wasn't her place to count someone else's money.
Spending it, though — that she knew how to do.
Jedi were decent enough people, in principle. But when it came to war…
No, just think about it! Spending hundreds of millions to prepare an entire fleet… and not even remembering that the ships had no crews! What went through the heads of these fools with their energy toothpicks? Which one of them had flown to Rendili?
Thankfully, Dougan had decided to send her to Rendili to accept the shipwrights' proposal for building new Aurek-class and Claw-class ships. Her second task was to sign contracts for the repair of the Katana Fleet. And the main task was to coordinate the fleet for an attack on CIS ships at the right time.
The Jedi had initially wanted to send Carsen to the shipwrights, but as soon as the matter of crewless ships came up, he changed his mind and gave the job to someone who at least knew what it meant to lead people into battle. Of course, during the war with the Sith Empire, the Jedi had proven themselves — and quite well, at that. But not in full-scale battles.
The personal top manager of Rendili StarDrives — Ion Grettcher, a native of Rendili and the son of a relatively influential family — turned out to be a remarkably sharp fellow. Under other circumstances, he might have interested her, but… four thousand years of life experience left their mark.
The possibility of additional commission piqued Ion's interest, and he shared information that the soldiers of the Rendili Defense Forces, closely tied to Rendili StarDrives, often took private contracts, escorting large trade caravans on dangerous hyperlane stretches aboard their Dreadnought-class ships. The defense force command turned a blind eye, taking a cut of the contracts. It was from these Rendilian soldiers that the ferry crews for the ancient fleet were assembled.
And perhaps someone from the ferry crew wouldn't mind testing the results of months of shipyard work in action.
After paying the manager enough that he could have bought himself a cruiser, all Shea could do was watch as the man scurried across the planet, earning his credits. As much as the Rendilians might have wanted to uncover the client's identity, the buyer's name remained a secret, as did the target of the planned attack.
It took Ion three days to settle everything with the corporation and the Rendili Defense Fleet. Twenty thousand beings from the Rendili armed forces answered Shea's call — and the credits. In essence, that number was just the crew of one Dreadnought, but the selection principle didn't much concern Vizsla.
She had sixty-two ships, nearly a thousand fighters, and very little time to prepare them for battle.
Given the enemy's numbers, they could have jumped into the Christophsis system en masse and smashed the Separatists to pieces. But the Mandalorian doubted she could later explain to Dougan the reason for heavy losses.
Newly formed units needed training and combat coordination. That was exactly what the temporary commander of this entire fleet, Rear Admiral Ermin Shirano, was doing.
The number of ships, of course, called for a higher-ranking officer, but despite the generous commission, no one had volunteered. Shirano, who had previously commanded ship transport at Rendili, had positive recommendations from both his command and the corporation's leadership. And there wasn't exactly a wide selection to choose from.
Sparing no effort, time, or credits from the unknown employer's pocket, Shirano drilled his subordinates relentlessly. His determination to minimize losses through long training and discipline impressed Shea. As a Mandalorian, she did the same. "Sweat saves blood." This fundamental truth had been left in Mandalorian culture by their ancestors — the Taungs.
With time in hand before D-Day — that's what the Jedi had called the day and time of the Christophsis blockade-breaking operation — the Mandalorian watched the temporary fleet personnel at work. Dubbed the "Hammer Fleet," the cruisers and corvettes relentlessly pounded nearby asteroids, turning them to dust. The crews improved with each passing day. Their prior fleet service experience showed. Later, once the mercenaries received their pay, they would return to service in their home system. And the owners of all this upgraded old junk would have to find new crews to train. Of course, clone mercenaries from the Fett clan were promising material, but it just wasn't the same. The fleet, along with its crews, needed to be loyal to its master — Dougan. Not to the Republic.
No such task had been set for her, but as a leader of her people, she was used to thinking big. Though, in this situation, nothing beyond obvious conclusions came to mind.
About two weeks into her mission, she received a notification from Grettcher that the company's leadership was ready to proceed with the second item on the list.
This straightforward message indicated that the Rendili Shipyards were ready to begin the operation to reactivate the Katana Fleet.
She needed to transmit the fleet's coordinates and be present when the company's ships arrived. Literally — she had to participate in the ship count. The Rendili military fleet consisted mainly of Dreadnought-class ships, of which Shea had two hundred at her disposal. And the company very much wanted to avoid any accusations of wasteful spending or possible misappropriation of vessels.
"Admiral Shirano," the Mandalorian pulled the commander from his routine work. "We need to depart."
"As you command," the man agreed indifferently. Turning to the comm systems operator, he said: "Signal the Peacemaker that training command is being transferred to Rear Admiral Dellis."
Then, addressing the girl in Mandalorian armor, he said with a slight smirk:
"I'm entirely at your disposal, ma'am."
* * *
"Your employer isn't as simple as he seems," were Shirano's first words as the Wanderer dropped out of hyperspace at the rendezvous point.
"You think so?" Shea smirked.
The admiral gave her a skeptical look.
"These are Dreadnought-class cruisers," the man said, pointing at the uneven formation of ships drifting in space. At first glance, nothing remarkable was visible in the blackness of space. Only a trained eye could distinguish the specks of stars from the soft glow of running lights on hundreds of ships. "I could be wrong, but there are two hundred of them here. Give or take."
"That could be," Vizsla said, standing on the Hammerhead's bridge, watching through the transparent section as empty warships — sent here by the will of one long-dead being — moved before her eyes.
She paid no attention to the quiet chatter of the bridge crew, who were discussing what was happening in hushed tones.
"This is the Dark Force," Ermus offered his opinion. "These are Republic ships…"
"Admiral," the girl looked at the commander. "These WERE Republic ships. They're now in neutral space. Neither the Republic, nor the CIS, nor the Hutts, nor even the last gizka have any claim to them. Except," she emphasized, "my employer."
"We're going to have big problems," he warned. "The Republic won't let this slide — they desperately need ships and…"
"My employer," the girl interrupted, "will handle any potential problems. As you can see, repairing old ships and hiring an entire fleet of specialists isn't difficult for him. The Republic won't be a problem either. We spent a considerable sum to acquire these ships," she warned. "And we won't let anyone take them from us. The secret of the Dark Force will remain between us. My employer won't spare effort or resources to silence anyone who threatens the secrecy of his plans. I trust you understand?"
The man nodded affirmatively.
"The Unconquered is approaching," one of the navigators reported. "Arrival in a few minutes."
The admiral nodded again, acknowledging the information. Hands clasped behind his back, in the matte-black uniform of the Rendili fleet, he stood at the front of the command center, lost in thought. Vizsla didn't disturb him. She understood that sometimes a man needed to "stew" in his own thoughts before making a fateful decision. Nothing is more convincing than the arguments we form for ourselves.
The reflective silence was broken by the arrival of another ship.
Vizsla wasn't particularly surprised to see a tactical command ship here.
"I thought these were scrapped long ago," she remarked.
The arriving vessel looked more like a massive station equipped with engines. In the era of the Mandalorian Wars, these ships had served as coordinators for small Republic fleets. Their memory was firmly etched in her people's history. A three-kilometer-diameter giant, though slow, had never been a hindrance to Republic offensives. Deep within this ship was a supercomputer that commanded its attached fleet group. "Impregnable" that was their class name. With impenetrable defenses from their own guns, these ships had brought victory in dozens of battles. Few Mandalorians could boast of capturing or destroying such a ship. Vizsla strained her memory. If she remembered correctly, only one Impregnable-class vessel had ever been taken by Mandalorian hands. In all known history.
"Almost all of them have been melted down by now," Shirano noted. "The Unconquered was converted into a mobile workshop around the same time the Katana Fleet was built. I might be wrong, but they were meant to be sold as a package. A mobile fortress capable of repairing your own fleet never hurts. Its holds can carry up to fifty thousand tons of cargo. Or," he pointed at the nearest dreadnought, "it could serve as a drydock for these fellows."
"Judging by the fact that this ship stayed with you," Shea noted, "the Republic didn't want to buy it?"
"Who needs a dock-base for a fleet that doesn't exist?" the admiral smiled. "Besides, it's rather expensive — almost three billion credits. The Republic considered it an excessively costly ornament. Perhaps your employer might find such a ship useful," he hinted. "His ships will need to be repaired somewhere…"
"I'll bring it to his attention," the Mandalorian promised.
The man continued watching as the enormous ship released hundreds of shuttles from its hangars, which raced toward the dead vessels.
"With a fleet like this, you could take a sector," he said. "And rule it…"
"My employer's plans span the entire galaxy," Vizsla said cautiously, lowering her voice so the others on the bridge couldn't hear. "And he needs talented specialists whose services he will reward most generously."
The man looked at her with distrust and caution, as if expecting her to reveal it was a joke. But the Mandalorian was dead serious. Not a trace of a smile, not the slightest hint of insincerity.
"I think," the man finally said, "your employer is an extremely ambitious man."
After these words, the man fell silent again. Together, they watched the Rendili Shipyards workers prepare to revive the legendary fleet. The seemingly excellent external condition of the ships was just a shell; inside were hundreds and thousands of faults that the Rendilians needed to fix, restoring the ships to their former glory and power.
Each was lost in their own thoughts, but that didn't change the nature of what was happening. The Emperor's apprentice wanted this fleet. And for it, he was ready to write off the lion's share of the funds from the company's numbered account. The shipwrights could only rejoice at such a lucrative and profitable order. Funds that had been lying idle had finally been released. An enterprise starved of government contracts on the eve of war received an unprecedented boost. Building new Hammerhead-class cruisers, repairing the Katana Fleet… even without Republic orders, the planet had every chance of continuing a comfortable existence.
And if so, the mysterious employer would always need experienced officers and personnel familiar with this equipment. Whatever the Rendili government might want, the corporation had long since become one with the self-defense fleet. No one was complaining, though. The Republic protected Rendili, even if it didn't use their services as much as before. That stung the pride of most Rendili natives. Rumors circulated in high circles about the government flirting with the CIS — the admiral's friend, Jace Dellin, spoke of this. Dellin was aiming to take the post of commander of the Rendili Defense Fleet by the end of the year. Like most old-school officers, Dellin had no desire to meddle in political squabbles or bow to merchants. And the Republic was cozying up to Kuat, whose shipyards were riddled with Rendilian spies. No one likes it when a wealthy client goes to the competition. Especially when that client determines whether your sandwich has delicacies or not.
"Tell me," the man had made his decision, "how do I arrange a meeting with your employer?"
"I can arrange that, Admiral," Shea promised.
* * *
The enemy's superiority in small ships — fighters and bombers — became apparent almost immediately. Like clouds of gnats, they swarmed the vessels, trying to drown them in a sea of laser fire.
The Thranta-class corvettes, Aurek-class strikefighters, and Claw-class ships handled the task admirably, cutting the small fry off from the larger ships. In the first half hour of battle, Shirano's squadron had lost a total of one corvette and a dozen fighters. Not a bad result, all things considered.
Given that by this time, Trench's ships had already moved out of orbit, with about five Munificent-class frigates disabled or destroyed, along with myriad fighters. The Rendilian commander's tactics, based on Vizsla's intelligence, were bearing fruit.
The enemy ships, stretched out in a blockade formation, were hit by concentrated massed fire from the invasion groups. Outnumbering the enemy, the Hammerhead-class and Thranta-class ships could dictate the terms of the fight without fear of strong resistance from the mechanical enemy. Target after target, the groups annihilated the blockade ships, shifting more and more deadly fire onto the Lucrehulk-class battleships and Trench's flagship itself.
The third group, pressing a Lucrehulk-class ship positioned above the planet's south pole, was making progress. The Trade Federation vessel had lost its shields and was burning, spewing millions of pieces of debris into the planet's orbit. A well-timed run by an Aurek-class squadron had destroyed the giant ship's hangar, leaving it without its fighter wing. Finishing off the wounded — but still viciously snapping — beast took only another ten minutes…
Trench's fleet was burning. The ships stretched across the planet's orbit were locked in a confrontation with five massive, well-armed groups that, with a well-rehearsed maneuver, concentrated fire to strip the shields from a chosen target. After that, the enemy had only minutes to live. The Thranta-class corvettes, operating in squadrons, practically unopposed, picked off the Munificent-class frigates, using their overwhelming superiority.
The Hammerhead-class cruisers, using a similar tactic, "cracked" the Lucrehulk-class ships.
Of course, the Trade Federation dreadnoughts turned out to be tough nuts to crack. Essentially serving as nodal elements of the orbital blockade, these ships flooded their opponents with streams of fire, forcing the Hammerhead-class cruisers to act more cautiously. The Rendili shipyard products circled around the massive dreadnoughts, pouring fire on them, preventing the enemy from zeroing in on a single target. The Thranta-class corvettes not engaged with CIS frigates — hardly inferior in armament to their larger brethren — supported the latter with fire while neutralizing enemy fighters.
Trench couldn't fail to understand that the numerical superiority of the arriving ships over his forces would eventually lead to collapse. After three hours of battle, more than half of the Munificent-class frigates had been reduced to clouds of debris. Two Lucrehulk-class ships were also scrap metal, burning up in the upper atmosphere. A third, dead in space and missing most of its weaponry, fought off the enemy with its last strength, sending wave after wave of fighters in a desperate attempt to break the onslaught.
The last two, with the five remaining Munificent-class frigates, converged on the planet's north pole, where the Invincible-class heavy cruiser — Trench's flagship — was fighting off the First Group. It was the Quarren-made vessel that had managed to disable the Warrior, hitting it with a homing missile during a maneuver that struck the bridge. A lucky hit caused a loss of control. Before control was restored from the backup bridge, the cruiser had taken several more heavy hits, removing it from the active battle. With its bow destroyed, the Hammerhead-class cruiser withdrew from the fight and remained under the protection of two Thranta-class corvettes for the duration, which kept the Hyenas away from the wounded ship.
By the end of the fifth hour of battle, when the Harch had only his own flagship — which would need extensive repairs — and a pair of Lucrehulk-class ships battered to the point where they were better off scrapped than repaired, the CIS admiral executed the most sensible maneuver the situation allowed.
Blazing with fires from unsealed compartments, spewing myriad pieces of debris into space, three barely alive ships from Trench's armada left the Christophsis system, putting a definitive end to the blockade of the planet.
"Order to the squadron," seeing the enemy's retreat, the rear admiral snapped into action, "begin rescue operations. Fighters are to continue hunting enemy squadrons." In retreating, the Harch hadn't bothered to retrieve even part of his fighter wing.
Shea noted the mission's success with inner approval. The enemy fleet wasn't just beaten — it was destroyed. Crushed in every sense. The Lucrehulk-class ship that couldn't get its fires under control was a fine prize — one that still had to be captured, however. Having lost only four corvettes irrecoverably, the squadron had sustained damage of varying severity, but except for the Warrior, no critical failures were observed.
The losses among fighter personnel were disheartening. Over two hundred machines, along with their pilots, had been lost. The remaining forces would be enough to organize system patrols and hunt down stragglers. But for the near future, the squadron had lost most of its fighter wing. If the enemy brought in reinforcements, that could become a problem.
"Contact the planet," he turned to Vizsla. "The blockade is destroyed. The ships are ready to provide support for the ground operation."
* * *
With the remnants of the orbital force in flight, mopping up the remaining forces on the ground was only a matter of time.
Nadia's capture of the general had only played into our hands, hastening our triumph.
We had arrived just in time.
Loathsom, by mining sections of the tunnels, had only made our job easier. Detonating the minefields had triggered tunnel collapses, which turned into excellent routes to the surface. Half-blocked with rubble, they hindered the passage of our heavy equipment but allowed the infantry to deploy. With support from clones using jetpacks, the infantry and militia, in a single surge, overwhelmed the droids.
Nadia and Balda attacked Loathsom's bridgehead, leading the Third Regiment and its attached two and a half thousand militia.
Kira, supported by the First Regiment — which had suffered the fewest losses — and an equal number of locals, was fighting for the Southern metropolis.
I, with the remnants of the Second Regiment and the largest militia detachment, was to take the spaceport. Faithful Alpha was also under my command.
The remnants of Rudi's Fourth Battalion and Mimo's engineers were to defend the base against any possible attacks.
In total, the militia had been able to field up to ten thousand fighters. I had taken four thousand of them for myself. I had thrown the last battalion into attacks on other settlements on the planet.
We weren't trying to win on all fronts at once. For the most part, the attack was aimed only at capturing Loathsom and the Northern metropolis. The other attacks were meant to tie the enemy down in combat and prevent reinforcements from arriving. My star armada was doing the same thing in orbit.
It turned out even better than planned.
We had managed to catch the enemy by surprise.
The OOM droids commanding the enemy contingents on the planet were serious opponents. Like relays, they transmitted orders from the central computer to subordinate forces. More autonomy, more tactical flexibility. In almost every settlement on the planet, CIS units were under the command of these droids.
Perhaps only blind luck, or experience in guerrilla raids, had helped the militia break the enemy forces. Rudi, to whom data was flowing from across the planet, was informing me in real time that another settlement had been taken from the enemy.
Our first major success was the capture of Loathsom. The destruction of the Separatist bridgehead was the most critical element of the plan. Through monitoring the Confederacy's communication systems, Republic forces learned of the transfer of authority. If it had taken place, it would have been impossible to force the droid units to stand down.
In the Clone Wars animated series, Obi-Wan managed to force the CIS forces to surrender by capturing Loathsom. Why not pull off the same trick? Why destroy thousands of extra droids and sacrifice lives if it can be avoided?
However, an unpleasant surprise awaited us.
With the start of the Clone Wars, the Confederacy of Independent Systems developed a need for a new type of battle droid. Like the Republic, the CIS needed talented officers capable of commanding ordinary droids in both ground and space battles. Unfortunately, neither the Republic nor the CIS had a store that sold tactical geniuses, so while the Republic gained experience through trial and error, the CIS continued its experiments with droids. Trying to make them smarter, loading them with various tactical algorithms and only the Force knows what else, Confederate scientists finally achieved success.
The result of the work of Separatist engineers and scientists were the T-series tactical droids. These two-meter-tall units, resembling ancient Cylons from a well-known universe, were intended to command military ships and combat units of the CIS.
Which they, in fact, handled perfectly.
The capture of Loathsom, unfortunately, did not simplify our situation. The bridgehead that had frayed our nerves finally fell. And along with it — all its defenders. Grell reported large stockpiles of captured weapons and equipment which, according to Mimo, were relatively simple to return to service.
But that did nothing to ease Kira's and my position.
The CIS armed groups controlling the Northern and Southern megacities found themselves under the command of tactical droids. Those guys simply ignored the broadcast order from Loathsom to surrender. We ended up with two very massive centers of resistance that could only be taken by force.
* * *
"The Third Regiment is moving to help the First," Alpha informed me, diving into the same crater I was in.
It was hard to call a giant bomb crater a trench, of course, but there was nothing else. The greatest miscalculation of the GAR was the clones' lack of ordinary entrenching tools. For crying out loud — not even a single entrenching shovel!
"I'm happy for them," I replied, trying to shout over the roar of nearby explosions. "But how does that help us?"
"Grell and Karsen will crush the forces in the Southern megacity, then they'll help us," the commando explained.
"And I thought it might be something good," I could only spread my hands.
The Northern megacity was no smaller than the capital, but unlike it, it had few skyscrapers. Built, essentially, only to support the spaceport, which the local elite had placed at a distance from the residential areas, the megacity contained more than ten landing pads capable of receiving enormous starships. If the Lucrehulks could descend into the atmosphere, they would have found excellent parking spots here.
Even before the War, the Christophsians had equipped the spaceport with some semblance of anti-aircraft artillery. However, the Separatists had destroyed it when the army of the previous Jedi tried to use it.
In its place, the Separatists brought their own. How disappointed I was to see a dozen operational anti-aircraft guns at the droids' disposal. And, I must admit, this mechanical fellow had used them quite creatively.
The repaired guns now kept our own starships in orbit, preventing them from intervening in what was happening. At the same time, the cannons were pounding our positions, not letting us finish what we had started.
By blowing up a section of the tunnel, we rushed to attack and captured two-thirds of the spaceport's territory, giving the droid contingent a real beating before the tactical droid joined the battle.
Then things got more interesting. In fact, the remaining territory of the spaceport to be captured was one continuous permacrete plain. On one side — us; on the other — the enemy bristling with a dozen guns, who had taken control of the massive spaceport building. A stalemate.
To the left, right, and behind, the droids were surrounded by landing pads, which ruled out any flanking maneuver or attack from the rear. The air was covered by artillery.
And this time, the 'subway' station didn't come anywhere near the droid positions.
The starship landing pad was strewn with the bodies of clones and militiamen who had died trying to storm the spaceport building. On the flat terrain, they became like targets in a shooting gallery for tin cans.
The 'Rush the Center' plan, with which we had captured most of our current positions, drowned in blood. The few survivors hid in improvised foxholes, crawling as close to the droid citadel as possible. But with each such crawl, there were fewer of us.
We managed to divert most of the guns by calling in air support, which, although unable to cause serious damage to the enemy fortification, got on the tactician's nerves. At the same time, it prevented all ten guns from plowing up the square and sending us to the Force.
"How long until our artillery arrives?" I asked.
I didn't see any other option — since we couldn't take the building, we'd have to level it to the ground.
"The guns are already in place," Alpha reported. "Mounting the carriages. Another half hour, and we can open fire."
"I hope we don't get shredded in that time," I replied doubtfully.
I needed to buy time. Stop the exchange of fire, giving the engineers a chance to finish mounting the guns and the medics a chance to collect the wounded. I shared this thought with the commando.
The clone froze for a moment, as if stunned by what I'd said, then decisively rejected my idea.
"Droids don't negotiate, sir!"
"Well, we'll see about that!" The clone's response gave me an idea. As they say — 'a good idea comes after the fact.'
* * *
Tactical droid TX-65 was a typical representative of its family. With a barrel-shaped yellow-and-blue torso and a flattened head equipped with red photoreceptors. Organics might have found dozens of other ways to describe it, but for a tactician, that didn't matter.
Only the completion of the task — the Confederacy's victory in this war — was the direct and obvious goal for each of the tactical droids. And nothing should interfere with the execution of that plan.
It, like the other tacticians, had been assembled at the Baktoid Combat Automata factory. Impossibly large volumes of data had been loaded into its electronic brain, subordinating the droid to a single goal — the destruction of the Republic's forces. Ground battles, space battles — it was all the same. The Republic must fall, and its masters were destined to be the rulers.
General Loathsom had assigned it to command the garrison in the Northern megacity. A strategically important outpost on the planet, the spaceport in this city allowed the reception and dispatch of large-tonnage ships.
But the general hadn't used the spaceport, and no reinforcements arrived. At the head of a half-million army, TX-65 could not understand the reason for such idleness of so valuable a resource. All its heuristic and tactical algorithms pointed directly — it should receive as many troops and heavy equipment as possible and destroy the Republic's resistance forces.
TX-65 knew that the new clone commander had significantly strengthened the defensive perimeter of his base. Simple calculations indicated that the passivity of the Jedi and his soldiers served a purpose unknown to the droid — perhaps they were waiting for relief. But, in that case, they should intensify the pressure even more. Land additional forces from the ships and begin the assault.
However, a personal antipathy had arisen between Admiral Trench and General Loathsom. Their behavior called into question the possibility of fruitful cooperation and the achievement of the goal set by Count Dooku — the destruction of the Republic's forces.
TX-65 began to act. Although it only had ineffective B-1s under its command, with their help it managed to restore the functionality of most of the spaceport's anti-aircraft artillery, preparing it to fire on ground targets. And it turned out to be just in time.
The clones had used an underground transport tunnel and managed to capture virtually all of the peripheral territory of the spaceport in record time. The tactical droid was only able to prevent their further advance with artillery barrage fire.
An assessment of the situation eloquently indicated the practically accomplished defeat of its troop group.
It had just over fifty thousand B-1 series droids left under its command.
The reactor that powered the anti-aircraft guns was in territory occupied by the enemy. According to TX-65's calculations, no more than a day would pass before the enemy could figure this out, cut the power to the artillery, and storm the spaceport building.
In addition, the enemy had AV-7 cannons. After the capture of General Loathsom, these guns could be reoriented to destroy the units under TX-65's command.
The droid could spend hours developing plans for its own defeat, using the available information. Of course, under different circumstances, it would prepare defensive plans for the further retention of the assigned facility.
But all of them were pointless.
The organics would destroy its group. At the cost of heavy losses, but they would still bring all the droids under its command into a state that precluded functionality. Including itself.
A droid did not know what 'death' was, as that concept was inherent to organic life. But cessation of function...
"Hello-hello," the communication system suddenly came to life. "Hey, tin can, how are you doing?"
The contingent's headquarters was located in the spaceport's control tower. The powerful equipment left by the previous occupants would have given the tactician an advantage if it hadn't been limited by its meager forces.
"The transmission is coming from the clone side," the nearest B-1 reported.
"I know," the tactician cut it off. "Open a communication channel."
"Tactical droid TX-65 of the Confederacy of Independent Systems army speaking," it introduced itself. "Identify yourself."
"Well, well," the voice sounded pleased. "I thought I'd have to search the whole building for you. This is Jedi General Rick Dougan. You've heard of me, right?"
"I possess information," the droid confirmed. "What is the purpose of this communication session?"
"You see, my mechanical friend," the voice said, "while you and I are chatting here, my soldiers are deploying artillery — the same kind that pulverized Loathsom's tanks. And in half an hour, my guns will raze your entire building to the foundation."
"That possibility has been calculated," the droid replied. "You will suffer losses in the assault."
"Well, you won't exist at all," the human countered. "Do you need that — just came off the assembly line, and already heading for the smelter?"
"My unit is not important," the droid replied. "The Republic will fall. My task will be carried out by other droids. The Confederacy will win."
"It will fall, it will fall. You just have to wait a couple of years," the Jedi replied unexpectedly. "But what good does that do you? You won't be around anyway. Just like me, probably."
Critically assessing information from the enemy, the droid could not help but note that there were no facts in his words. And without facts, it was impossible to calculate a model.
"More data is needed," the droid stated.
"What data do you need, droid?" the human asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued: "The war will last three years, or thereabouts. The Republic and the CIS will pummel each other until, one day, the Sith behind this whole war implement their entire plan. The Jedi Order will fall; all CIS droids will be shut down. The Republic will be transformed into an Empire, with a Sith at its head."
"Count Dooku will come to power," the droid concluded. "That is an acceptable outcome."
"Count Dooku will be finished off by Anakin Skywalker. And then Darth Sidious, who is manipulating all of us and ruling the Republic, will turn him into a Sith. Everything has been predetermined for a long time, droid."
"The information has no confirmation," the droid countered. "There are no facts."
"You must know that Jedi have the ability to see the future, droid," Dougan appealed to the tactician's memory banks. "I have seen all of this, and I know what will happen in the future."
The tactician remained silent. It analyzed what the Jedi had said. Much remained unknown. If a Sith ruled the Republic and sought to destroy the Jedi, why didn't he just let the CIS march on Coruscant? The droids would carry out the purge. The GAR just needed to stay out of the way.
But the Republic government was doing the exact opposite. The clones and the Jedi were only capturing more and more new territories. The Jedi were dying, but still not as quickly as they could have if they were surrounded by an entire army.
Not enough data. The human hadn't shared everything he knew. It was impossible to construct a stable model of how events would unfold. The results would not be optimal.
The droid fell silent, analyzing the situation.
If the human's input was correct, then this entire war had no meaning for anyone except a narrow group of beings. The Sith and the Jedi — long-time opponents waging wars for control over the galaxy. If the outcome of this war was predetermined, then its entire task — the Confederacy's victory in the War — lost all meaning.
If there was no point in fulfilling the primary objective, then achieving victory in this battle was also meaningless.
But this conclusion was only valid if the Jedi's words were true, which they were, lacking in detail. More data was needed. Then, in its electronic brain, another plan was born. It needed solid reasons to defend its position and put forward its demands.
"Cease fire," the droid ordered.
"Siiir?" one of the commanders drawled.
"Keep the Republic forces in your sights," it ordered. Then, opening a communication channel, it said: "I require additional information, human. Move into the spaceport building with your hands raised. If you attempt to attack us, we will resume fire."
"Whatever you say, tin can," the human agreed. "But one clone comes with me."
"Acceptable," the droid allowed. "Only one, and unarmed."
"Agreed," the human agreed. "Brew us some caf in the meantime."
* * *
"Sir, have you lost your mind?" As soon as the Jedi stopped talking to the enemy, the commando spoke up. "Going to them? They'll shoot you!"
"Not just me," the Jedi reminded him. "You too."
"That's not funny, sir," the clone assessed. Seeing the Jedi hiding his lightsaber in the chest plate of his armor, the clone hastened to prepare as well.
"I'm not one to criticize, sir," he continued. "You certainly talked his ear off. It sounds like you short-circuited his entire brain. But why do we need to go inside? There must be a hundred thousand droids in there — take a look, there's practically a platoon peeking out of every window."
"I didn't lie to him," the Jedi admitted, stunning the clone.
"Sorry, General, but what did you say?" the commando asked again.
The human rose to his full height. Holding his hands above his head, he waved them at the droids.
Cursing softly, the clone followed suit.
"This is a damn stupid idea!" the clone hissed. Then, catching himself, he added: "Sir!"
"Alpha," the human addressed him. "Listen to me. I didn't lie to that droid by a single iota. Everything is exactly as I told you. The Republic is under the control of a Sith Lord who controls both sides of the conflict. His goal is to destroy the Jedi Order, establish a regime of Sith terror, and rule."
"We must report this," the stunned clone managed to say. "The Jedi and clones together will put things in order."
Slowly walking across the landing pad, the human continued.
"Remember the Contingency Orders, Alpha," the Jedi prompted him. "What does Order 66 say?"
"'In the event of actions by Jedi officers contrary to the interests of the Republic, and upon receipt of direct orders, confirmed as received directly from the Supreme Commander (Chancellor), GAR commanders shall liquidate said officers with weapons, and command of the GAR shall pass to the Supreme Commander (Chancellor) until a new command structure is established,'" the clone recited without hesitation. Then he fell silent, stunned. "So... we're the ones who do it?"
"Exactly, Alpha," the Jedi nodded. "Ten years ago, one Jedi foresaw this war. He approached the Kaminoans with a request to create a clone army. As soon as they accepted his order, the Jedi was killed by Darth Tyranus — Count Dooku, the future leader of the CIS. I'm not sure what will make the clones raise their weapons against us — the Contingency Orders or the biological implants in your heads — but you will do it. Every single one of you, as one. And the Jedi Order will fall."
"We must resist that," the clone said decisively. "We must inform the army command, the Senate, the Chancellor..."
"The Chancellor is the villain," the human smirked. Seeing the lack of understanding, he continued. "He is a Sith — a member of an order, the ancient enemy of the Jedi. He is in hiding, wielding enormous power among senators and the military. He controls Dooku, being his master — Darth Sidious."
"Sir," the clone was taken aback. "If you know all this, then why are you doing nothing?"
"Me?" the human seemed surprised. Then, as if remembering, he explained: "Well, I just told you..."
"So they could kill us both right now!"
"Oh, right," the human caught himself. "But, regardless, I am acting."
"How?"
"Alpha, if we survive this, I'll tell you everything. For now, let's try to get the droid to switch to our side."
* * *
After hearing the human out, TX-65 remained silent. For exactly three minutes.
That was how long it took to assess the truth of the Jedi's words and model the information received from him.
The results... did not please it.
As the human had predicted, after the death of its leaders, the CIS would fall into the hands of the victor.
The Republic would fall shortly after. One giant holochess game. Where both sides were played by the same person.
"Darth Sidious," the tactician repeated. "A high-ranking Republic official?"
"Exactly," the human confirmed.
The droid calculated silently. The man hadn't given it the Sith's name or position, but that wasn't necessary. 'Baktoid' had provided it with a perfect brain.
"Sidious is Chancellor Palpatine," it replied after a couple of minutes of calculation.
"How the hell?" the clone cursed.
"It's simple. The transformation of the Republic's form of government into a monarchy benefits the ruler of the new state. The current Chancellor has more privileges than his predecessors. He commands the army and the fleet. He has a majority of supporters in the Senate. Further consolidation of power in his hands is in his personal interest. Any other figure trying to seize power would receive neither political nor military support."
"Well, that all seems right," the human said.
"The Jedi Order will resist the seizure of power," the tactician continued. "Consequently, they must be eliminated. Sending Jedi into a controlled war against a state with no restrictions on recruitment is a perfectly logical step. The larger the enemy army, the less chance the Jedi have of surviving."
"It seems to me," the clone remarked, "this droid thinks logically."
"That is a fact," the tactician confirmed. "I am a machine. I cannot make mistakes."
"Then make the right choice," the Jedi spoke. "The CIS faces defeat. The entire droid army will never achieve its goal. The Republic will not be defeated. It will only grow stronger."
"That is the most probable outcome," the droid confirmed.
"Then explain why you should die for a lost cause?"
"The input data was different," the droid reminded him. "Victory awaited the CIS."
"But now you know that isn't true," the clone pointed out.
"You'll be sent to the smelter," the Jedi suggested. "There will be no need for tactical droids in the new army. You will be destroyed."
"An obvious option," the tactician agreed.
"But," the Jedi noted, "there is another."
TX-65 turned its optical sensors toward the human.
"Speak, human."
* * *
One of the countless dive bars on Coruscant's lower level had given shelter that evening to many wanderers from the lower levels. The establishment's owner — a Toydarian named Siun Tarr — kept his bulky body aloft with flaps of his leathery wings. Ever since a clever customer had bought his ancient droid, he had been performing the duties of bartender and waiter in his establishment, glancing suspiciously at the patrons gathered there. Shady characters. Bandits, small-time mercenaries, workers from the lower levels. In a word, the usual crowd for his place.
No other regulars were ever here.
In the corner, a jukebox was playing something, and on an old monitor mounted on the far wall, as was fitting for this hour, the news was playing on the HoloNet.
The announcer — a slick-haired Devaronian in a suit that would have gotten him a vibroblade in the throat on this level in an instant — was talking about the situation at the front. Day after day — only disappointment. More tactical retreats. Of course, the Republic was waging a victorious campaign. Geonosis, Muunilinst, Brentaal IV... But these were just drops in the ocean. The galaxy was vast. And few believed that the Grand Army of the Republic, under the command of the Senate's attack dogs, was really as good as they said on screen.
But, thanks to a Givin tech, Tarr's receiver also picked up signals from the Hyper-Communications Cartel. Listening to the latter threatened serious trouble, but patrols had never appeared on these levels, so the cantina's patrons, who weren't inclined to believe the official media, sometimes gathered to listen to CIS channels.
The Republic was still bogged down on Atracken, suffering huge losses. The siege of Foerost was also not yielding results...
"The galaxy is divided: after the Battle of Geonosis, Count Dooku's droid armies are rapidly seizing the most important hyperspace routes, cutting the Republic off from most of its territories."
The Confederate announcer — a young and attractive Twi'lek — instantly riveted even the most drunken eyes.
"The clone army under the command of Jedi generals is failing — they have too few soldiers and ships to gain a foothold on the Outer Rim. And more and more planets are siding with the Separatists. Those planets whose governments and people remain loyal to the Republic are being attacked. The Jedi are busy with the war, and there is no one to keep the peace. Chaos reigns everywhere, crime is on the rise," the announcer's voice sounded matter-of-fact, yet emotional. "In the past week, the Republic has lost ten Jedi Knights supporting the bureaucratic regime..."
"Hey, boss!" Tarr's attention was drawn to a Nautolan named Shido — small fry in the Black Sun syndicate. But just mentioning the cartel was enough on their level to earn a certain amount of respect. "Switch to the Republic channel." He waved his datapad. "There have been updates on the site."
The Toydarian switched the channel without a word.
"This is Elin Tyrell with you," the red-skinned Zeltron, host of one of the news programs, as always positive, attractive, and friendly, clad in a form-fitting jumpsuit that accentuated her young, toned body, was usually broadcasting about the Republic's victories on the battlefields. Just as she was now.
"Citizens of the Republic," she addressed the audience. The girl was in a spacious office, the walls of which were decorated in a dark green style. "Today I am on the planet Christophsis, which was literally a battlefield just yesterday. We are broadcasting live from the office of the ruler of Christophsis, from the University of Exact Sciences."
The girl rose from a luxurious carved chair and walked to the window. The holocamera, following her, revealed to the viewers a huge square, flanked on three sides by the university building. On a small platform stood a figure in a matte-black robe with silver edges. The figure was clad in dark gray armor, its face hidden by a mask. But that did not prevent the figure from speaking, nor the crowd from listening attentively. Behind the figure, like two brothers, stood a pair of clones in unfamiliar armor, a warrior girl with loose red hair, and several clones in standard armor. On either side of the figure in black, five-pointed oblong black flags hung from T-shaped poles.
"For six months, the CIS army held the planet in an impenetrable blockade, forcing its inhabitants to surrender."
The girl returned to her seat, and the camera took a wider angle, now capturing a small coffee table on the other side of which sat an elderly Christophsian with close-cropped gray hair, in a tunic of expensive fabric. The old man was thin, and his face bore designs executed in white paint. The establishment's owner recalled that he had once happened to visit Christophsis. The arrogant rich had quickly shut down his cantina, but he had managed to get acquainted with the planet's culture.
The white markings on the face could only be afforded by the rulers — the planet's nobility. But the old man didn't look very rich.
"But yesterday, Christophsis finally won. The CIS troops were defeated by Jedi General Rick Dougan, and the fleet... Here we will need a comment from the planet's new ruler. Elder Aisel, tell us, where did Christophsis get such a fleet?"
"Christophsis is rich," Aisel began, his voice unexpectedly strong for such an old man. "We purchased old ships from the Jedi Order and modernized them at the Rendili Shipyards. That fleet was what crushed Admiral Trench's occupation fleet. In addition to destroying most of the fleet, we managed to capture one of the Trade Federation's battleships."
"Well, it's pleasant that through the efforts of the Republic, another world has been liberated and will return to the fold of our state," the girl chirped, but was interrupted by the old man.
"The Republic had nothing to do with it," he declared. "All your state did was abandon General Dougan and his 204th Legion here to their fate. They, not the Republic, saved us. Jedi Rick Dougan is a national hero of Christophsis. We will honor him."
"But the general is in the service of the GAR," the girl reminded.
"The Grand Army of the Republic, the Senate, and the Chancellor didn't care much about their people here. They were left without reinforcements, without food, without equipment…"
"But the Republic did attempt to break the blockade," the Zeltron recalled.
"Of course," the Elder confirmed. "Part of the debris in orbit is all that remains of those reinforcements."
An awkward silence fell. The correspondent frantically thought how to salvage the situation, because the facts stated were not at all what she had hoped for. But it was Eisel who spoke first again.
"Reflecting on the fate of our world, we did not want a repeat of the past," he remarked. "But the general convinced us that we should rejoin the Republic. We are a people who have experienced this painful war. Who if not us should open the Senate's eyes to what is happening?"
"That is an excellent decision, Elder," the girl noted. "The Grand Army of the Republic will not allow your world to suffer another occupation."
"We will see to that ourselves," the man remarked. "We are creating the Christophsis Self-Defense Forces, which will include the militia forces organized by General Dougan, and we will also use part of our fleet for this purpose."
"And what will you do with the other part of the fleet?" the girl asked in surprise.
"Only one Jedi saved our people," the Elder said vaguely. "We will repay him in kind."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," the girl spread her hands.
"The Republic couldn't break the blockade because it didn't have ships," the Elder explained. "So that the Hero of Christophsis never finds himself in that situation again, our planet is transferring all its Hammerhead-class cruisers and Thranta-class corvettes to Jedi General Rick Dougan. Christophsis also assumes all obligations for the maintenance and support of these ships. Our militiamen are ready to join the general's 204th Legion and help him in the liberation struggle against the Confederacy. From now until the victorious end, our system will be a reliable stronghold for him and his subordinates…"
At these words, the cantina patrons began to buzz, discussing the Elder's statement.
"What's this all about?" a surprised voice came from one of the regulars. "An entire system swore allegiance to the Jedi?"
"Not to the Jedi, but to one Jedi," Shido countered. "He solved everything there alone. Not your Skywalker…"
"Hey, what are you, picking a fight…?"
A heated argument broke out in the establishment…