Lying in my quarters aboard my new flagship—a Hammerhead-class cruiser named the Wanderer—I lay on the hard bunk, eyes closed, letting the Force flow through me.
I was releasing the tension of the past few days, finally allowing my body to relax. There was no need to chase someone, rush somewhere, constantly expect an attack.
Now, only the lights of hyperspace and the upcoming leave on Ord Pardron awaited.
Not everyone appreciated the Elder's actions.
Transferring to a Jedi general more than fifty ships, not inferior to the Acclamator in either strength or speed. That would sting anyone. Four cruisers—Courageous, Majestic, Inflexible, Fearless—and the most damaged Warrior remained in orbit of Christophsis, along with the entire fleet of Thrantas. I had to make a grand gesture to the "donors" and return part of the ships. After all, five cruisers and thirty-five corvettes were a force the CIS would have to reckon with. And they would think seven times before planning another attack on the planet.
Bailur was already rubbing his hands, deciding where to allocate the ships. Just think—he'd already found crews and commanders. A savvy guy. But the Hammerheads wouldn't fly anywhere except with my fleet.
Senator Fren Eisel—the nephew of the Elder who had been elected ruler of the planet—saw to that. Something like a presidential republic was taking shape on Christophsis. The newly minted senator had been telling a reporter about this and many other things a week ago—the same reporter who had aired the scandalous interview with Elder Eisel two weeks prior. The second interview, with the system's newly appointed representative to the Senate, stirred up the HoloNet news feeds. Adding dividends to my popularity, in the form of public fame. A Jedi who made the population of an entire star system fall in love with him…
Recalling what had happened, I just smiled. Everything had turned out as well as possible. The grateful natives would eat out of the liberator hero's hand. And smart people who wanted to end up on top would always offer their services.
The Eisels were one of the minor oligarchic families. They simply hadn't had time to flee. They sat through the entire occupation without a peep. But afterwards, when the Separatist forces were finally defeated, they contacted me.
Well, I thought that Zho Ptar, whose brains had been soaked by Force Persuasion, would have to bleat in front of the holocameras. But everything resolved much more simply.
I admit, the guys are true patriots of their system. The battles had barely died down, and they were already asking for support to become the new government. I agreed to support them in exchange for my own demands.
We were both satisfied. Shirano and practically the entire contingent of Rendilians were not opposed to taking new citizenship. In fact, all power in the system belonged to the Self-Defense Fleet, led by Shirano, and the Self-Defense Forces, led by Shea. They would keep an eye on the nominal government. Whose tasks were only to get their percentage from profitable contracts and not forget to take care of the planet. Whatever pragmatic plans I had for Christophsis, they would fall apart if the planet continued to lie in ruins.
Now, thanks to propaganda and my actions on the planet, my legion was literally bursting with militiamen. As I was leaving, I literally had to beg half a million men and women aged 15 to 50 to stay on the planet.
In the depths of each Hammerhead, a battalion was flying to the sector army headquarters. And only ten cruisers carried clones. I had lost more than half of my guys. But the rest were battle-hardened monsters who feared nothing. We had almost no GAR equipment left—and what remained, I wrote off as scrap. Vizla would find use for that property. After all, they had to train the Self-Defense Forces on something. They still had to supply me with trained and drilled militiamen.
Of whom there were another two and a half regiments on the remaining Hammerheads. Of course, they were armed with whatever was available—Republican weapons, to avoid problems, I had strictly allocated only to the clones.
The clones…
I had given Alpha my word that I would tell him everything, but after arriving at the base. I had shared general information—about Palpatine, the clone army, the upcoming Sith coup, and the building of a resistance stronghold. The clone seemed to believe me. So, perhaps, under cover, I could scan him and find out if that damned chip was there or not.
On Ord Pardron, I had a lot of routine work ahead. I didn't even want to think about it. But one thing I knew for sure—the legion deserved some leave. At least a week of R&R. Didn't the guys deserve a break after such a meat grinder?
Though… from a legal standpoint, clones were completely rightsless beings. Property of the Jedi Order. Or the Republic—I didn't remember exactly when the Jedi handed the army over to the politicians.
I also needed to find time to slip away to Odessen. I hadn't bothered to acquire encryption equipment, so I had no desire to risk maintaining a holocall with the base.
Glancing at the chronometer, I figured I could sleep for about six hours. Half an hour before arriving at headquarters, the system would wake me up.
* * *
Captain Aeon Kreeves, standing on the bridge of his Acclamator, silently watched as the Separatists once again slapped the Republic's forces in the face. Though he appeared unemotional from the outside, inside he wanted to grind his teeth in helpless rage.
Aeon remembered the golden rule of command: "Don't lose control." In any situation.
It was terribly frustrating that, yet again for the umpteenth time in the past week, CIS mobile groups were making their raids on the sector army headquarters.
Yes, Ord Pardron had its own defense—a massive orbital station and a rapid reaction group of brand-new Venators. But the war was mercilessly draining resources. The destruction of the relief force for Christophsis had caused a terrible shortage of combat starships.
Now, the planet was guarded by only one Venator—the Moff's personal flagship—and a couple of Acclamators: his own, the Victorious, and the recently arrived (though, truth be told, exiled, after his ordeal in the Phat system) Equalizer under Gilad Pellaeon.
Unlike the neighboring 12th Army, with its bustling Lantilles, Ord Pardron couldn't boast orbital stations, platforms, or docks. Despite its proximity to the Corellian Trade Route, the commercial vein in the sector wasn't exactly gushing. Of course, the proximity to Hutt Space created a certain commercial prospect. But the Hutts weren't known for the cleanliness of their deals and transports. A small contingent of the Judicial Forces had chased local smugglers and pirates before the War, but without much success. Some blamed the later Moff Bailur, some blamed the Corps itself.
Pirates had become more active with the start of the war.
Requests for help, distress signals from nearby systems, kept coming to the orbital base. Smugglers, semi-legal traders, along with law-abiding merchants traveling the Corellian Trade Route, came under attack.
GAR command had sent down a task to the "Iron Spear" headquarters—deal with the pirates, ensure the safety of trade routes. But so far, all the Moff had achieved was that traders started using the Ord Pardron system as a temporary haven. No one had canceled the primary task of ensuring Kamino's security. That was why most of the ships entering the army left almost immediately, without lingering here. The Moff didn't risk incurring the displeasure of the Chancellor and the Senate, so the Kamino orbital group already numbered nearly a hundred new Venators and twice as many Acclamators. And this while the other "hot spots" of the army were literally suffocating from a lack of ships.
The Ord Pardron system was literally teeming with ships of all descriptions seeking refuge from the ubiquitous pirates. Not designed for such a flow of ships, the station was effectively creating a "traffic jam," forcing ships to spend days in the system until their turn came.
It would seem that a small squadron, the powerful cover of a Valor-class orbital station—like the one that defended Carida—should have made the enemy think twice about whether to stick their nose into the headquarters system of the 13th Sector Army.
But after the first couple of raids, the pirates and the CIS realized that the defense forces of Ord Pardron could not protect the entire system, limited only to the planetary orbit. Therefore, their raiding groups reaped their bloody harvest from civilians, destroying their starships on the system's periphery, and slipping away as soon as patrol fighters or ships reached them.
The Separatists operated in small forces of three to four ships, primarily Munificent-class frigates. These former bank escort ships had very serious armament, deadly dangerous for unarmed transports. Especially annoying were the thousands of droid starfighters, like a swarm destroying small freighters and unarmed vessels. The pirates, on the other hand, used obscure modifications of former civilian starships that would bolt at the sight of ARC-170 patrols.
Having jumped into the system, the pirates would attack, and upon encountering resistance from the duty ships, would flee back home. The Separatists, however, did not shy away from brief skirmishes.
And so now, four Separatist frigates were preparing to slip out of the system, having done their dirty work. They were finishing off a small convoy of Corellian-built heavy freighters. The Equalizer and the Victorious were rushing at maximum speed to the conflict site, hoping that at least this time they could get even with the enemy for weeks of humiliation and endless slaps of transports being destroyed in the system.
The situation was, to put it mildly, abysmal. Especially considering that on both Republic ships there were fifty former cadets from Judicial Forces training institutions, who were to continue serving as midshipmen on ships of the 13th Sector Army. And these twenty-year-old youngsters were now watching as the Republic once again received a slap from its enemy. The same enemy that the HoloNet news feeds portrayed as incapable of an adequate response.
Hutt's breath! Such a blow to the reputation…
The last of the three transports burst into a yellowish explosion. That was it; the quartet of frigates prepared to jump to lightspeed.
"A large group of ships is emerging from hyperspace," one of the clone operators reported.
Aeon swore quietly. The Separatists had called in reinforcements, apparently deciding that Ord Pardron would finally suffer the fate of being attacked by a full-fledged fleet, as had happened with some sector bases. And now a couple of Acclamators would be flattened across the system…
"Warn the base and the Swift," Kreeves ordered for communication with the flagship.
But expectations were not met.
Peering at the viewscreen, the captain was astonished to see an entire fleet materialize in front of the CIS ships. Not looking like typical Republic cruisers, they nevertheless opened fire on the Confederacy's starships.
"The ships are transmitting Republic identification codes, sir," the same operator reported. "It's Jedi Knight Rick Dougan from Christophsis."
Kreeves's lips spread into a satisfied smile. Twenty-two Republic ships against four CIS ships.
"Cadets," he called out loudly, drawing the attention of the future midshipmen standing behind him. "Now you will see how the enemy gets a good lesson for the future…"
The ships' actions showed a coordination that was still lacking on GAR vessels. In groups of four to five ships, the newcomers—in which Aeon recognized ancient Hammerheads—concentrated their turbolaser salvos. Almost instantly, the Munificent shields collapsed, after which the crimson salvos of the cruisers tore open the armored hulls of the frigates, turning them into miniature supernovas. One after another, all four ships became a sea of debris.
The cadets behind Kreeves buzzed, sharing their impressions of what they had just witnessed.
Aeon understood their state of mind. The 13th Sector Army, despite fighting across its entire vast territory, couldn't boast many resounding victories. Taking Christophsis was one of the few successes of late. Returning Ukio to the Republic could also count as a success — rumor had it the Jedi Order had a hand in that.
True, all their successes had come to nothing — about a week ago, the planet had rejoined the CIS, once again depriving the GAR and the 13th Sector Army of a valuable food source.
Still, Kreeves forced himself to smile, right now it was worth enjoying the victory.
"Send out rescue parties," the captain ordered. The last thing they needed was those damned merchants starting to complain.
* * *
To be honest, the time of my absence from Ord Pardron had done the planet good.
A large number of new structures had appeared around the base — mostly the outer perimeter of the base itself, with many hundreds of barracks to house personnel. Arsenals, hangars for vehicles, fighter revetments, headquarters sections...
The base territory was no longer just a cave in the rock, but also a huge gray-steel fence enclosing a giant area. At a glance — no less than half the area of the Jedi Temple.
And at a respectful distance from the base, Pardron City was taking shape.
Before the war, few civilians lived on the planet — something around a hundred thousand people. They answered to the base commandant of the Justiciars. Now, the affairs of the planet, as well as the entire zone of responsibility, were handled by Moff Bailur.
Perhaps it was the oppression by pirates and separatists that gave rise to a centralized civilian settlement, instead of hundreds of villages scattered across the planetary sphere.
Pardron City. A grand name, certainly. But in essence, it was a small town, though it had already acquired its own spaceport and supporting infrastructure. To the delight of the soldiers from the base, the town already had a dozen or two cantinas and houses of ill repute. A couple of large stores. A small cultural district with a holotheater.
Despite the lack of skyscrapers — though I'd already noticed a couple of spots where they were clearly planned to be built — the town had its own unique charm, unlike the glitz of the Core Worlds' cities.
Flying over the town in a shuttle, I made a mental note to visit there.
But for now — military matters.
I needed to report my arrival to the Moff, quarter my troops, and wrangle at least a short leave.
"I've seen better backwaters," Kira remarked. In the Force, the girl radiated slight irritation, a contrast that resonated against the serenity coming from Grell beside her.
"It's actually our home," Balda, bringing up the rear of the procession, said, offended. "Not that we chose it, of course..."
"We haven't seen your base yet," Alpha jabbed. "Maybe it's even worse."
The two girls exchanged glances and laughed.
"Keep telling yourselves that, guys," Grell said through her laughter. "You'll get plenty of rest at our base."
"There are just no brothels there," I reminded them. "And you're not allowed alcohol yet anyway. You're only ten years old!"
With jokes and banter, our procession reached the army headquarters. Stepping aside to let a clone in brand-new armor pass, wearing the insignia of a Senior Clone Commander, we ducked under the building's arches, leaving the beginning rain behind us.
* * *
Watching the strange procession leave, Senior Clone Commander Nyx couldn't help but note their overall color scheme.
They were clearly led by a Jedi — judging by the lightsaber clipped to his belt. An extremely strange Jedi. In armor, with a face mask attached to the opposite side of his belt from the saber. Over the armor was draped a matte-black cloak with silver trim.
Behind him walked two girls, dressed in gray-olive armor over black undersuits. Armed with a pair of blasters, they gave the impression of bodyguards or mercenaries. And the cloaks worn over their armor, the same as the Jedi's, made it clear they were merely subordinates, matching their boss's overall style.
Bringing up the rear was a pair of clones, not dressed in standard Phase-1 armor. Though it wasn't so much the armor that stood out as the black-painted armor elements with silver trim. On the left side of each clone's chest was some kind of insignia, but Nyx hadn't had time to make them out.
He had arrived on Ord Pardron this morning. His training on Kamino was complete. Long, grueling drills on a special program had allowed him to rise above his initial position — battalion commander — and take command of an entire legion. His instructors singled him out for his tactical mind, resourcefulness, and reticence. Walon Vau praised him for his assertiveness, strength of character, sense of justice, and ruthlessness. The instructor said he would have made an excellent commando, but Nyx had chosen a different path.
Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to catch the Moff. First, the adjutant fed the clone stock excuses, until, finally enraged by the delay, Nyx promised to cut out his eye if he didn't tell him where the Moff was. The adjutant, a puny little thing, deigned to tell him.
Now, the Senior Clone Commander was making his way to the improvised Officers' Club — a cantina on the base grounds where off-duty officers of the 13th Sector Army liked to spend their time. Nyx had heard about this place in less than half a day. A place where you could get anything you wanted — from booze to drugs and prostitutes.
Disgusting. A warrior's duty was to fight to the last drop of blood. Not to party while war raged all around. Especially not in the 13th Sector Army's position — the enemy was pressing from all sides; clones, his brothers, were dying by the thousands... No, this wouldn't do. He would get a legion under his command and depart to fight for the Republic... What was this now?
A group of clones was coming toward him, escorting a Kerkoidian in handcuffs. Holding their DCs at the ready, a platoon of clones moved slowly along the path toward the detention block. But that wasn't what caught the Senior Clone Commander's attention.
"Sergeant," calling out to the platoon leader, the clone beckoned him over. As soon as he obeyed, Nyx poked a finger at his chest plate.
Like the armor of those two clones, the armor elements were painted matte black with silver trim. But at least the infantrymen were wearing standard Phase-1 armor.
On the clone's chest was a clearly visible pentagonal emblem with silver edges. At the top of the emblem was a regular silver hexagon with a snow-white eight-pointed star. Below the hexagon was a circle with four diagonal bands, in the center of which a white number "204" stood out.
"Who are you people, and why is your armor repainted? What is this non-regulation emblem?"
Like his instructor, the clone poked his interlocutor in the chest plate with each question, putting force behind it.
The sergeant silently endured his superior's outburst, then said with dignity:
"We are soldiers of the 204th Legion, sir," the clone-sergeant introduced himself and his men. "And this," he touched the left side of his chest plate with feeling, "is our emblem. If you have a complaint, take it up with Jedi General Rick Dougan, our commander. And now," the clone took his rifle in hand, saluting his senior, "allow us to escort the captured separatist general to the guardhouse."
* * *
The Officers' Club, as they grandly called the spacious two-story cantina with a panoramic roof, greeted us with loud music. The dim lighting atmosphere in the establishment gave me the feeling of that very place where Obi-Wan had cut off a thug's arm in "A New Hope."
Scanning the cantina with my eyes, I easily found the Moff's colorful figure. His adjutant, some timid little fellow, had ratted out his boss to us. And, apparently, not just to us.
Looking closely at the faces and insignia, I noted with surprise that the cantina had a certain gradation for its clientele. The lower floor was occupied by junior army and navy ranks. At a dozen tables sat representatives of the junior command staff. And also a rather sizable group of young ensigns, enthusiastically surrendering to the power of alcohol. As it happened, the youngsters had occupied all the space near the stairs. Eyeing their behavior and the volume of bottles on the tables, I realized with a sigh that a drunken brawl was inevitable.
But the second floor — the domain of senior command staff — army leadership, captains of capital ships... Though I also spotted a couple of civilians there, whose mercantile class was unmistakable even behind expensive clothes. Weightily and decorously, the father-commanders sat on leather sofas, sipping bright liquids from glasses.
The two floors were connected by a wide staircase, which, like a social elevator, divided the patrons into social groups of privileged individuals and workhorses. Though, looking closer, I realized that more than the stairs, the floors were separated by a thick transparent ceiling-floor that muffled sound.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure in snow-white armor, briskly and actively ascending between the floors. The figure radiated an aura of contempt and impatience, extreme irritation. The evening was ceasing to be languid.
"Thanks, guys, I'll take it from here. Go to the legion, make sure everyone — including the militia — gets food in the mess hall," I ordered the clones. Without any sentimentality, the ARCs left the establishment. Left alone (both Hands had gone to the quarters assigned to our legion's command staff), I headed unhurriedly toward the Moff. Bailur, like some petty tyrant, had concentrated all power in his hands. Now you couldn't even get barracks for a legion without his approval. The question was, what did he need a headquarters for?
"I'm telling you," a pleasant female voice reached my ear, slightly drawling from drink. "That was a demonstration battle. You can't time an exit from hyperspace that perfectly."
The source of these conclusions was a girl. Twenty to twenty-two years old, short in stature, with a pretty face and dark red hair hidden under a headpiece. The girl's eyes sparkled as she addressed half a dozen of her comrades. They occupied one of the tables, nearest to the stairs. And judging by the abundance of empty bottles on the tabletop, the kids had a good reason to celebrate.
"They just put on a show for us," the girl continued.
"Mara," one of the guys sitting at the table named her, "calm down."
The speaker shot her comrade a look full of indignation.
"Treuten, I don't like being led around by the nose! We came to fight, not to watch demonstrations..."
At that point, I became interested, so, sharply changing my route, I sat down next to one of the clone lieutenants, lazily sipping from a mug... what was that, caf? Caf in a cantina? Seriously?
Seeing me, the clone tried to salute, evidently noticing my affiliation with the Order, but I stopped him with a gesture. Waving to the bartender and ordering myself some caf as well, I began listening to the continuation of the conversation with interest. Sitting just a couple of meters from the group, I also briefly observed another scene.
The clone in armor, with the insignia of a Senior Commander, was saying something to the Moff in a restrained but furious manner. The latter, lazily glancing around at his civilian companions from time to time, was clearly not happy with the conversation.
"We haven't even received our assignments yet!" another ensign — slightly plump, with funny youthful mustache — retorted to the girl. "What war are you talking about?"
"The one the Jedi dragged us into!" the girl answered hotly. Perhaps even too loudly. Patrons at neighboring tables noticed the noisy group.
"Let's keep it down," suggested a fourth member of the team, a boy with curly blond hair, wearing fighter pilot stripes on his uniform. A silent brunet, modestly sipping a cocktail through a straw, nodded in support.
The young ensign, with an aristocratic face, fine features, and short-cropped hair, stood up, interrupting his comrades' argument. The group fell silent, sipping alcohol from their cups.
"Let's not quarrel," the ensign suggested. In an exemplary uniform, clean-shaven, he gave the impression of the most sensible person in the whole group. Raising his glass, he proposed a toast. "To our baptism by fire!"
"To our baptism by fire!" his comrades echoed.
Finally, my caf arrived, along with a couple of cookies. The clone lieutenant, as if apologizing for the youngsters, lowered his voice and said:
"Forgive them, sir," glancing at the ensigns with a certain sympathy, the clone returned to our conversation. "They were on a combat ship for the first time today."
"Seriously?" I smirked.
"Yes, sir," the clone nodded. "I'm the commander of Blue Squadron of ARC-170s, Lieutenant Fredd, from the cruiser 'Equalizer.' Captain Pellaeon commands her. And this group of greenhorns are our cadets."
In the back of my memory, the name of the cruiser's commander stirred. A very familiar name. And a very promising name, I had to say.
"Well then," I smirked. "I guess they really do have something to celebrate."
Glancing at the youths and meeting the red-haired beauty's eyes, I turned away, clicking for a waiter droid. I was damned hungry. And I didn't want to talk to the Moff on an empty stomach. The Force suggested that after talking to the Moff, my appetite would disappear.
* * *
Teren Rogriss, a graduate of the Judicial Forces Academy, was one of fifty ensign interns invited to intern aboard the strike cruiser "Equalizer." A first combat sortie, and here — a victory.
Before their eyes, the Republic fleet had destroyed a CIS battle group. Wasn't that a reason to celebrate a successful start to military service? For almost a month, all one hundred of them — academy cadets — had languished here on the planet, carrying out minor errands and analyzing thousands of reports. Now the internship was over. Their entire group — ensigns — would receive assignments to combat ships and throw themselves into battle.
Their group of classmates — six academy students — weren't the most outstanding. The outstanding ones were those fifty who had interned on the Moff's flagship. Scions of wealthy families. Those who hadn't lifted a finger at the academy. But they had honors patents and lieutenant ranks.
The instructors called Teren and his comrades "solid mediocrities." "You'll never become admirals," they'd said. "But the fleet's best ships will be under your command." Good executors — that was the maximum their mentors had predicted for them.
Teren looked at his comrades. He was the unofficial leader of their group. But each member was an interesting personality in their own right.
Mara Cross — an impulsive red-haired beauty. Tough, unscrupulous. She told everyone she aimed for a staff position, but her results in capital ship command disciplines... to put it mildly, could put many to shame. But regular disciplinary violations, a quarrelsome nature, and an intolerance for compromise prevented her from rising high.
Treuten Teradoc. Always polite, calm, rational, excessively pragmatic. He seemed unfazed by what was happening. But he was the group's safety valve, stopping them in time from actions that could have unpleasant consequences.
Amis Griff. A joker and the soul of the company. He tried to turn any conflict into a joke. Not always successfully. At just over twenty, he looked older than his peers. And he was craftier.
Garven Dreis. A born commander of anything that flew faster than a corvette and was smaller than a patrol ship. A pure fighter pilot. And, oddly enough, the team's diplomat. Only he could find the right words to reconcile his comrades in a conflict.
Ryan Torsil. Always Dreis's silent friend. The same reckless small craft enthusiast. And also a programmer from heaven. Word had it he'd earned money for academy tuition through electronic piracy. No one had ever been able to prove it.
Rogriss considered himself the group's strategist. His analytical mind, though inferior to Mara's abilities, kept him in control always and in everything. And that had allowed him, the only one in the entire group, to earn lieutenant's stripes. And, though he hadn't told his comrades yet, he'd also received an assignment. Unlike his friends, who faced an unenviable role at headquarters. The newly minted lieutenant was thinking that, in general, he could eventually request his comrades be transferred to his ship — a brand new medical "Pelta." And spare them the fate of staff rats.
He was just about to announce this when his pre-prepared speech was interrupted by the appearance of a stranger.
The man in the black cloak immediately caught Teren's attention. He wasn't wearing standard uniform, but the guards at the entrance hadn't even stopped him. No, he'd walked into the cantina with his own security — the lieutenant had noticed a couple of brutes in unfamiliar armor before they left. That meant only one thing — this man wielded great power. Enough to disturb the Moff's peace. And, judging by his glances, it was the Moff and his entourage that the man was interested in.
Only one conclusion suggested itself. This man was a Jedi. And he had arrived recently. Otherwise, the cadets would have seen him before. In the time they'd been here, almost all the Jedi generals attached to the 13th Sector Army had been to headquarters and were known to the young lieutenant by sight.
The Jedi calmly settled a couple of meters away from them, one table over, engaging in an easy conversation with a clone pilot. He glanced over at their table a couple of times, right when Mara was making drunken criticism of the GAR and the Jedi. However, Teren didn't miss that once, the beauty, the object of the entire course's desire, met eyes with the Jedi. And had been watching him ever since. Sideways, briefly, but she didn't look away.
"Guys," she finally said. "There's a Jedi in the cantina."
The group stirred. All sorts of rumors circulated about Jedi. From kidnapping children to their supernatural abilities. Word had it Jedi could turn invisible and eavesdrop on other people's conversations.
"Where?" Torsil perked up, turning his head. Mara whispered the direction.
"Oh, Hutt," Griff muttered, hiding his face in his hands.
"No way!" Dreis responded. "That's a Jedi?"
Indeed, his comrade's doubts were understandable. This character didn't look like a Jedi. Armed to the teeth in armor that, by Teren's estimation, cost no less than tens of thousands of credits, he looked more like a mercenary. But the ensign preferred to trust his instincts.
"Be right back!" Mara exclaimed, shooting away from the table like lightning. The nimble beauty left the table without a trace of shyness and headed straight for the Jedi.
"She's crazy," Teradoc shook his head. "He's a general! He'll brush her off like an annoy—"
The ensign didn't finish. Before the eyes of all five, the girl, after exchanging a few words with the Jedi, sat down next to him. The stunned friends could only watch as the impulsive beauty carried on a conversation. Though, a couple of minutes later, she was already waving them over, beckoning her comrades to join.
The Jedi, pausing his meal, glanced at the group and also waved, saying, join us.
"If we get kicked out of the fleet," Dreis warned, "I'll strangle her."
The other four boys supported him with silence.
* * *
After meeting the young officers, I sat with an impassive face, listening intently to their names. Through meditation, I had mastered not only someone else's body but had also stirred my own memories. So, much of what I knew about the Star Wars universe was again on the surface of my memory.
Teren Rogriss, Treuten Teradoc. A pair of future Imperial admirals who would become military leaders after the Empire's fall.
Amis Griff. Another Imperial admiral.
Garven Dreis. Ryan Torsil. And here they'd delivered us future Rebel pilots...
Hearing such names made my eyebrows rise on their own. Meeting future renowned military figures of the Empire and the Alliance like this, while they were still green boys... That was priceless!
The only mystery for me remained Mara Cross. Beat me, but I don't remember that name.
"Sir," Rogriss cleared his throat and inquired. "How did you manage to orient so quickly and open fire on the enemy ships? A couple of minutes' delay and that would be it, they would have escaped."
I smiled. How to explain to the kids that my ships were crewed by professionals drilled to automaticity? Promising to tell them another time, I changed the subject.
"And what wind brought you to such a wonderful place as Ord Pardron?"
"We're academy graduates," Mara explained. "Before graduation, we were offered a transfer to the active fleet. We agreed. But instead of real work, we're stuck with paperwork at headquarters."
"Is that so," I smirked. "Already itching for the bridge of a ship? Can't wait to spill some Sep blood?"
"It's not that, sir," Teradoc hesitated. "We didn't study to rot in headquarters."
"Then what for?" the Jedi inquired. The simple question made the kids hesitate. Finally, Dreis said decisively:
"We learned to kill the Republic's enemies!"
The Jedi looked curiously at the former cadets' faces. Lacking a more coherent answer, the youths supported their more resourceful comrade.
"You don't need to study at the academy to kill an enemy," Dougan said didactically. "For that, it's enough to put on armor, pick up a rifle, and join the infantry."
"But, sir...!" Mara nearly jumped out of her seat.
"Don't interrupt your superior," the Jedi said didactically and continued his interrupted thought. "You are fleet officers. Your boots will tread the decks of ships with crews of a thousand or more. And your knowledge, your experience, your ability to make decisions could determine the lives of you, your comrade, the entire ship's crew, and even the fleet. Fail to fix a short circuit in an engine's power module, and you'll die along with its crew. Miscalculate a course, and your ship will splatter across the surface of the nearest planet. One careless word during a comm session, and the enemy will capture you, torture you to death, and extract whatever information they need."
The youths sat with their mouths hanging open in astonishment. Clearly, such thoughts had never entered their bright minds.
"Your desire to take the bridge of your own ship is understandable," the Jedi assured them. "But ask yourselves — are you ready to bear responsibility for your decisions? The result of a thoughtless action could be the deaths of hundreds of your friends..."
The cadets sat, crestfallen. From their frankly embarrassed faces, I could see I'd completely wasted this explanatory conversation. They still didn't understand that every wrong action was followed by bitter consequences. And, given their age, they didn't want to think about it.
"The General is absolutely right," Fredd supported me. "I've been fighting since Geonosis. And I've seen the cost of command errors," the clone stopped short, realizing he'd just given his opinion of the Jedi. Looking at me, he said: "Sorry, sir, I spoke without thinking."
"But you spoke correctly," I acknowledged. "Geonosis showed us all what a lack of proper experience and hasty decisions cost. Thousands remained there, and any one of them could be sitting with us at this table right now..."
"I heard," Mara said cautiously, "that nearly two hundred Jedi flew to Geonosis, and almost all of them died. Were they unprepared too? It was their operation."
"The answer to that question is much deeper than you think," I admitted.
"Will you tell us?" a spark of curiosity lit up in the girl's eyes. "I've always wanted to know how Jedi think..."
Fortunately, a waiter droid approached the table. The situation allowed me to avoid answering.
"What else would you like, gentlemen officers?" The metallic servant's synthesized speech stirred the kids slightly. The first hesitant orders came.
Glancing upward, I noticed that the Moff's expression, as he talked to the clone, had changed for the worse. Bailur was obviously bored and seemed to be looking for an excuse to get rid of the insistent interlocutor. His gaze wandered across the interior, demonstrating utter disinterest in the conversation.
"Droid, put all the cadets' expenses on my tab," I rose from the table, catching the Moff's gaze. Seeing me, he was first astonished, then a smile lit up his face. With an unambiguous gesture, he invited me upstairs.
"Stay safe, future legends of the galaxy," I shook each of the boys' hands, and kissed the girl's hand.
After that, I walked quickly toward the stairs. Fredd, following me, said goodbye to the group and headed outside.
* * *
"Future legends of the galaxy," Teradoc snorted. The guy looked disappointed. "Is he mocking us?"
"Shut up, would you?" Teren was concentrating on his order. He decided he'd had enough alcohol for the evening. A small dinner, then back to the barracks. He needed to get some sleep. In the morning, he had to report to headquarters and receive his first assignment.
"He was more courteous with us than he had to be," Mara remarked, watching the departing man. Then, turning, she added in a half-whisper, "Did you see how surprised he was when he heard your names?"
"Really?" Torsil perked up. "I didn't notice. I'd never seen a Jedi this close before."
"As for me," Griff chimed in, "he was surprised we even had names. Probably thought we were just numbers, like the clones."
Amis' words sparked sharp protest among his comrades, and a low-voiced argument flared up between the young officers. Teren cast a sideways glance at Mara, noticing that the girl couldn't take her eyes off the Jedi. She was unlikely to realize she was being watched. Otherwise, her predatory gaze, her bitten lower lip, and her rapid breathing wouldn't have betrayed such obvious excitement.
* * *
The evening in the cantina, despite the absence of the fleet admiral and his deputies, was still a success.
Gilad was lounging in a luxurious chair, enjoying an alcoholic cocktail. Across from him sat Aeon Kreeves — the commander of the Victorious. Together they were engaged in a relaxed conversation, pausing occasionally to order new drinks.
The only high-ranking guest at the establishment was the Moff. He had visitors. A tight circle had gathered in a private booth, in the part of the second floor farthest from the stairs. And for hours now, a private conversation had been going on.
The captain didn't speculate about the substance of that conversation. On the base, only the dullest person — or a clone — didn't suspect what the Moff was really up to.
And in the context of clones, the captain didn't mean they were any worse than anyone else. It was just that those guys didn't care about anything at all except what concerned their service.
If he told his crew, made up entirely of clones, that the Moff was moonlighting on the side, organizing security from available forces for major smuggler or Hutt convoys, every single one of them would say it wasn't their business.
But it was his business — Gilad's. He didn't want to rot here, a guard for a gathering of merchants waiting in the system for the Moff to allocate them escort forces so the Separatists or pirates wouldn't pick them off along the way.
Out there, all across the Dafillevean sector, Separatists and pirates were in charge. Dozens of garrisons were sitting without supplies or reinforcements, because most of the free forces of the 13th Sectoral were working for the Moff on the side.
This arrangement had become possible because all the light cruisers, frigates, patrol ships, and corvettes under Bailur's command were crewed either by clones — who didn't ask questions — or by green lieutenants from wealthy families who kept quiet while waiting for new ranks and positions.
No, of course, all this activity was covered by heavy operations across the entire area of responsibility. Radnor, Mon Gazza, Roon, Molavar, New Cov, Filve... Battles were being fought for every system. The combat commanders simply had no time to deal with what was happening here, on Ord Pardron. They were up to their necks in shit, waiting for help and reinforcements. Which would probably never come.
At the moment, the 117th Legion was recovering on-planet — a unit that had barely managed to escape from Ukio. The planet, where the Jedi had conducted negotiations about returning to the Republic, slammed its doors right in the face of the GAR. The LST Convincing, which was supposed to deliver the 117th Legion to the planet — the legion's mission was to deploy a full-scale base — was now waiting its turn for repairs. Although, to be fair, it would be easier to scrap it than to fix it.
The ship and its support forces, transporting the legion led by a Jedi — whatever his name was, ah, screw it! — had been ambushed by two dozen Munificents and one Lucrehulk-class that arrived before them. The Separatists had gotten their way again, and the planet, like a galactic prostitute, had turned its back on the Republic once more. The Convincing and its escort of three Consulars and two Peltas came under a barrage of fire. According to the senior officer of the Convincing, it was a real massacre.
One of the Peltas and the lead Consular were destroyed in the first minutes after exiting hyperspace. The Convincing, the second Pelta, and the other two Consulars, which followed behind them, literally survived hell. There wasn't a safe spot left on the ships. The Separatists were shooting them up, targeting the bridges and trying to cause as many hull breaches as possible. Obviously, they planned to board and capture the ships. But the first officer of the Convincing ordered a retreat. The battered ships barely made it back into hyperspace. It was only by a miracle that they limped to Ord Pardron. The strike cruiser had lost its commander, almost its entire officer corps, and up to three hundred crew members. And of the legion they were transporting, only an understrength regiment and about fifteen hundred wounded remained.
Equipment, base-building gear... all of it ended up in open space. While retreating, the ships had jettisoned everything unnecessary to avoid hull ruptures in hyperspace. And as a result, the entire army was once again dependent on food supplies from the Core Worlds. Rare and irregular supplies. Which the local merchants took advantage of, jacking up prices on the most ordinary goods.
Now the survivors were waiting for the Moff's decision on their future. There wasn't even a way to send the surviving clones to other planets — they simply didn't have enough ships. Almost all the combat-capable line ships of the 13th Sectoral were either fighting or guarding a number of strategic worlds like Kamino. Hell, even in orbit around Kamino, a whole squadron of Venators was sitting idle! And fifty Acclamators! Although what they were needed for there was anyone's guess. The attack had been repelled, defensive platforms had been delivered to the system. Why keep a whole fleet in the ass-end of nowhere when it was needed elsewhere?
That was exactly what the two captains were discussing.
"It's going to get a little easier now," Aeon assured him. "Did you see that fleet of Hammerheads? They took those Munificents apart for spare parts in seconds."
"That ancient junk was lucky to have made it here at all," Gilad chuckled.
"Don't say that," his colleague objected. "I heard they've been seriously upgraded."
"Then they'll be stripped apart soon," Pellaeon scoffed, nodding toward the Moff's booth. Near it, to his surprise, stood a clone. Judging by the additional armor elements — a senior clone commander. The clone, without ceremony, gestured for the clone soldiers standing guard to disappear, then stepped inside. "Those museum pieces will end up hauling their weight in a convoy. Although, there's a silver lining — all our frigates will come back. We'll have something to chase the Separatists with on their next raid."
"There's another catch," Aeon looked around, making sure no one was eavesdropping. "Things aren't so simple with those ships."
"What do you mean?" Gilad didn't understand.
"Did you hear about the massacre at Christophsis? When Vice Admiral Akwish's ships were destroyed?" Gilad nodded. Another resounding slap in the face for the fleet. "Well, the locals bought a whole armada of ships — cruisers and corvettes — from Jedi reserve stocks. They paid mercenaries, and then those ships ground Trench's blockade squadron into stardust."
"You're joking," Gilad tensed.
"There was even a HoloNews report about it."
"And they sold those ships to us?" Gilad assumed. Buying, even outdated ships, when every vessel counted, was a perfectly reasonable decision.
"Nope," Aeon smiled. "Remember I told you I dropped a Jedi off on Christophsis? And his legion?"
"I remember."
"Well then, the grateful citizens of Christophsis gave their ships to that Jedi."
"Hah," Gilad chuckled. "To a specific Jedi? That's some kind of fiction."
"Don't say that," Aeon pulled out a datapad and handed it to his comrade. "The system is rejoining the Republic, taking on full support for the entire fleet, and even supplying volunteers for a battalion for that Jedi."
"That's nonsense," Gilad grimaced. "The Senate won't tolerate that. Some system dictating terms."
"Look further down," Kreeves poked his finger at a block of fresh HoloNews. "The Senate passed a bill in its first reading. Even without the Christophsis senator present. So now, in the 'Iron Spear,' we have a Jedi with a personal fleet."
"This is ridiculous," Pellaeon stated his opinion. "The Senate doesn't do anything for nothing."
"Well, read further down," Kreeves was smiling. "'Christophsis is supplying the Grand Army of the Republic with strategically vital metals and ammunition components at record-low prices,'" he read the first line.
"'The Christoph system, liberated from CIS occupation, has announced reduced purchase prices for the Republic on strategically vital metal ores and Nergon-14, which are essential for us to continue the war,'" Pellaeon delved into the news feed. "'Despite the price reduction for the Republic, the system's government is still making a fortune in profit, which they intend to direct toward rebuilding their planet after the recent occupation.'"
"See?" Aeon nodded.
"Not really..." Gilad admitted.
"That Jedi is their national hero on that planet," Kreevs explained. "At first glance — just a kid, but it seems there's something to him. They practically worship him. I think Christophsis deliberately buttered up the Senate by lowering purchase prices to push their bill through."
Gilad, acknowledging that his colleague's reasoning had merit, leaned back on the sofa, took a sip of his drink, and cast a lazy glance around the cantina. And nearly choked on his liquor when he saw a striking figure in armor and a black cloak step into the Moff's booth. Was that a mercenary?
"Hutt," Aeon had also noticed the newcomer. Carefully nodding toward the new arrival, he said quietly, "And that's the Jedi who crushed Trench at Christophsis."
Gilad looked at his friend with fresh eyes.
"I didn't know he was so young."
"You should have seen his operation to break the blockade the first time," Kreeves said dreamily. For a moment he rolled his eyes, then said, "Let's call over a couple more space wolves to wet our whistles..."
* * *
Rurkh Bailur rubbed his hands together — the general's appearance among his guests had clearly caused a stir. The Jedi was too young to understand the subtleties of politics. But, as people were saying, capable enough to participate in a campaign. Well, a valuable acquisition. Especially with those ships of his. Under the protection of a whole fleet, he could run convoys for his new clients all the way to Hutt space. And make some very serious money for the protection.
A pity only that his fleet didn't consist of clones. The Moff inwardly winced, remembering the directive from sector command — to fill out the ships with personnel and small craft. How much money would he have made if he could put clones and clone commanders on those ships?! So obedient, and not asking questions...
Only this Nyx kept droning on like a broken record that he was supposed to command a legion. And no matter what, give him that legion. And the answer that there simply were no legions — for some reason, it didn't satisfy the clone.
Still, why shouldn't the Jedi carry out an escort mission? It just needed to be set up properly.
"Hello, Moff!" the Jedi nodded.
"Glad to welcome you to our company. Gentlemen," Rurkh, demonstratively ignoring the persistent clone, sitting on a luxurious leather sofa, turned to his companions, "Allow me to introduce Jedi General Rick Dougan!"
The merchants sitting nearby bowed restrainedly, waiting with anxious eyes for the Moff's next move. "They're scared," Bailur thought with pleasure, "that's good. They'll be more agreeable."
Rurkh offered the Jedi a seat. The latter, however, redirected the offer to the clone. Who didn't play hard to get and plopped down on the sofa opposite the Moff.
"So," Rurkh spread his hands. "Allow me to congratulate you on your resounding victory at Christophsis."
"Thank you, Moff," the Jedi smiled. Rurkh noted with inner triumph that the young man — hell, practically a boy — was uncomfortable in their company. But never mind, he'd have to endure it and do his duty — since he couldn't get rid of the clone right away, he'd do it gradually. "I actually wanted to talk to you about quartering my men in the barracks."
"It will be arranged," the Moff promised. "Let's return to this conversation tomorrow, but for now..."
"No, today," the Jedi replied unexpectedly sharply. The Moff, preparing to shift his attention to the merchants, was slightly taken aback. What did this boy think he was doing? "My men have spent almost four months in wretched conditions," Dougan continued. "And it's night outside. We're all tired and want to rest. While we're talking, shuttles are transporting my battalions to the planet."
"You should have notified me in advance," the Moff grimaced. What did he care about some clones? They died by the millions every day. And so what? Let them sleep a day or two somewhere, nothing would happen to them. "It will be extremely difficult to find a quartermaster now..."
"I sent the request a week ago," metal crept into the boy's voice. "Right after I received the order to return to my duty station."
"So," Bailur concluded, "it didn't reach me. You know, the cadets at the Academy of Judicial Forces handle the paperwork — they must have messed something up."
"But that doesn't change the situation," the Jedi insisted. "We need barracks."
What a little bastard! Who did he think he was? Rurkh irritably thought about how he'd spent the last hour buttering up those two Hutt big shots, telling them how he had everything under control, how he was ready to help them with a convoy. They'd almost shelled out ten million dataries, known as credits, when this snot-nosed kid ruined his whole image.
"What you need first, my friend, is a quartermaster," the Moff strained with all his might to maintain a friendly tone. "He'll tell you which barracks are empty..."
"They're all empty!" the clone unexpectedly spoke up. "On the planet, there are only elements of the 117th Legion — in barracks E, and parts of the garrison — they're in barracks A. After the departure of the 611th, 804th, and 156th Legions, barracks B, C, and D are free."
Hearing this, the Jedi frowned. Without taking his wary eyes off the Moff, he said, "You see, we can take any of the three barracks. You just need to give the order..."
"You bastard," the Moff thought about the Jedi. The boy had apparently forgotten who he was talking to. Well, no matter. That was fixable.
Rurkh thought with satisfaction that the Jedi had just made himself an enemy of the Moff. And with his connections, this upstart would quickly meet his end.
"Take Barracks D," he ordered. The boy quickly stood up, preparing to leave the meeting. "Get a good night's sleep and rest — tomorrow at noon you need to be at a briefing at headquarters. You and your fleet have a vital mission."
"Sir, my men are exhausted, and the ships just came out of combat," the boy backed down in the verbal sparring, allowing the Moff to take the dominant position in the conversation. "We're understrength in personnel..."
"General," the Moff said in an icy tone. "You have a whole night ahead of you. Sort out your unit's problems. By tomorrow afternoon, your men and your ships must be ready to escort the convoys," he nodded toward the civilians, "through enemy territory."
For a moment, the Jedi was taken aback. The Moff saw the confusion on his face. But almost immediately, he regained his previous composure.
"As you command, Moff Bailur," the boy stood up, bowed, and turned to leave.
"And one more thing, General," Rurkh decided to solve two problems at once. "You need an experienced commander for your legion — Senior Clone-Commander Nyx is at your service."
The clone, like his new commander, got to his feet, adjusting his helmet more comfortably. And together, the pair left the booth.
Rurkh watched them go. He had just gotten rid of his headache — the Jedi and the persistent clone. A pity about the boy's ships, though — the Hammerhead cruisers weren't just ancient history; they were the glory of the Republic. But the Moff didn't like people who contradicted him. The boy, like the clone, had only themselves to blame for what would happen to them. Command demanded decisive action. Who else, if not the hero of Christophsis, should charge into battle and seize victory?
"Moff," one of the merchants called out. "Can he be trusted?"
"The Jedi?" Rurkh was surprised. "Not for a moment. Keep the true contents of your holds to yourselves, and everything will go as agreed. And now, about my commission..."
* * *
"What a tool," I said as soon as I left the Moff's booth. The clone following me was silent. For some reason, I wanted a cigarette. My nerves were acting up. I was itching to go back there and just smack the bastard hard enough to knock his head off his shoulders.
"We weren't properly introduced," I extended my hand to the clone. "Jedi Knight Rick Dougan."
"Senior Clone-Commander Nyx," he shook my hand. "A pleasure, General."
"Likewise, Commander," through the Force, I could feel someone on the second floor watching me. Concentrating, I noticed my acquaintance sitting in the distance — Captain Aeon Kreeves, who, seeing that I'd noticed him, made an inviting gesture. He was sitting at a table with half a dozen fleet and army officers, nursing their drinks.
"Come on, Nyx," I called the clone. "Looks like someone wants to chat with us..."
* * *
When everyone had settled into comfortable chairs, Aeon introduced the Jedi to the officers at the table: "Gentlemen, allow me to present Jedi Knight Dougan, the liberator of Christophsis."
"A pleasure to meet you," the Jedi smiled at the assembled group. "In turn, let me introduce Senior Clone-Commander Nyx — he's the new addition to our illustrious 204th Legion."
Hearing the legion's name, the clone looked warily at the Jedi but said nothing. The newcomers sat down at the table, across from the officers.
"Rear Admiral Ilizo Var," Kreeves introduced an older man with a short beard. "Responsible for the defense of the Ord Pardron system. Captain Gilad Pellaeon — commander of the Equalizer. Captain Fev Darill," a short man with a thin mustache and a bald head nodded briefly. "He's our intelligence. Major Ronett Dialo — personnel and logistics," a stocky colonel, whose uniform was straining over a mountain of muscle, shook the Jedi's hand. In his signature style — full strength. The Jedi didn't even flinch.
At Aeon's gesture, the waiter — this time, a living human — quickly filled the glasses. Nyx politely declined.
After a few drinks, the conversation shifted to more grounded matters.
"What's the news on the military situation?" the Jedi asked. "I've been... out of touch lately."
Aeon glanced at Darill. The man leaned over and activated a datapad lying on the table, on which a map of the galaxy appeared.
"Our situation isn't as good as the HoloNews makes it sound," the captain pointed to several spots on the map. "The GAR has laid siege to several key worlds: Cato Neimoidia, Scipio, Castell, and Foerost. But it hasn't gone beyond a blockade. The CIS doesn't have enough strength to lift the siege, and we don't have enough for a decisive offensive. The Separatists are attacking the major hyperspace routes — if they capture even one or two lanes, we'll be in serious trouble. The CIS will be able to deliver reinforcements dozens of times faster than we can. The Confederacy controls Yag'Dhul and Sluis Van, and with them, a significant portion of the Rimma Trade Route and the Corellian Trade Route. You could say the southern part of the Rimma is already in the CIS's pocket."
"Not bad," the Jedi assessed. "But what about our army?"
"It's even worse here," Gilad chimed in. "The CIS has controlled the Abrion sector — with its agricultural worlds — practically since the beginning of the war. That's how they were able to strike through the Rishi Maze at Kamino. Fortunately, that direction has now been blocked by our significant forces. We're largely cut off from our forces that landed on planets at the start of the war. Molavar, Shimia, Filve, and a dozen others — almost all our clone units are cut off from supply lines, blockaded. We don't have the strength to relieve our troops, so we do what we can — hold the line. But it gets harder every month. Supply lines are disrupted. And what sector command sends us is a drop in the bucket. If this keeps up, the CIS will capture all the resource planets, and we'll simply starve."
"Well, that's a long way off," Dialo said with a laugh. "But the situation really is dire. Instead of equipment and ammunition, we have to send transports for food. And supplies from the Core Worlds aren't as substantial as we'd like. Plus, pirates and raiders regularly attack our supply ships. And we don't have enough forces to defend them. Eh, if only Ukio hadn't surrendered to the CIS..."
"Basically," Var interjected, "the only thing saving us is that the CIS isn't launching a large-scale offensive. With our forces and equipment, we'd be crushed."
"The CIS doesn't have time for that right now," the Jedi countered. "They weren't ready for us to have an army and a fleet. They're having to restructure for wartime needs themselves. Their hopes for a quick victory over the Judicial Forces and the Jedi didn't pan out. The CIS's victories were only possible because of a massive concentration of army and fleet on a specific front. But they can't develop the offensive now. They need time. We should use that to retake some key worlds in the sector — to reinforce the rear."
The assembled men exchanged glances. The Jedi had astutely noted their own thoughts. Kreeves exchanged a look with Pellaeon. Could it be that the Jedi was the one they needed?
"Having our own resource base would let us stop worrying about food for the army," the clone said, looking at the map. He explained for those present. "Rapid clone growth leads to a high metabolism — as a result, we eat more than regular people."
"Yes," Dialo confirmed. "Thankfully, we managed to stock up on equipment and supplies in the first months of the war — before the Separatists and pirates became total assholes."
"Surely we're not so short on ships that we can't scatter that rabble?" the Jedi asked in surprise. "A couple of raids would be enough to drive them off."
"I'm afraid, honored Jedi," Var noted, "we don't have enough ships. The Moff has concentrated most of the line fleet on certain... tasks," the admiral grimaced as if from a toothache as he said the last word. And the light forces are busy... guarding trade convoys.
The special emphasis the elderly commander placed on the ships' activities did not escape the Jedi. Aeon noticed a flicker of irritation cross the temple knight's face. Most likely, even if he didn't know exactly what the Moff was doing, he suspected.
"At the moment, you have the largest forces at your disposal," Pellaeon explained.
"The ships are there," the Jedi smiled. "But I have a severe shortage of junior and senior command staff. The ship crews are made up of former Rendili military personnel — those the Christophsis government managed to poach with generous pay. But almost all the captains and senior officers left the bridges as soon as they were paid off. To plug the gaps, I've had to do some active shuffling."
"Well..." Dialo drawled. "We're not exactly flush with officers. A hundred cadets arrived this month, but more than half have already been assigned to the light forces. We can't even recall them — they're on raids. At best, there are maybe a couple dozen officers on the planet right now — those recovering from the Convincing and Academy graduates..."
"I met a group of midshipmen downstairs," the Jedi recalled. "I think they wouldn't mind doing something useful."
"Sector Command Directive orders the Convincing to be written off," the intelligence officer suddenly said. Those present looked at him, and he just shrugged. "It'll be announced tomorrow. Secrecy, gentlemen," he explained his silence. "But for the common cause, why not?"
"The crew of that ship could merge into our fleet," Nyx suggested. The Jedi nodded in agreement with his subordinate.
"But we have no small craft at all," he said. "The Hammerheads can't boast a large air wing."
"I don't think that will be a problem," Admiral Var said. "I'll order some reserves transferred to you."
"I think Commodore Gastano won't refuse to lead your squadron," Dialo smiled.
"He's recovering at the medical station near Naboo," Pellaeon recalled.
"If so," the Jedi said, "then he won't make it in time to join us. Tomorrow we're leaving for a convoy. We'll be escorting a caravan."
"There are no fleet transport convoys scheduled for tomorrow," Dialo objected. Then, meeting Darill's eyes, the major fell silent. Kreeves and Pellaeon pretended to be interested in the contents of their glasses. Admiral Var looked away, watching the Moff in his private booth engaged in an animated conversation.
The Jedi followed his gaze and was silent for a moment. Then he said, "And no one has tried to fight this?"
Kreeves sighed with relief. The Jedi understood everything. And, so to speak, had picked up the scent.
"We have extremely few Jedi in our army," the admiral explained. "And those that are here are tied up in blockades."
"The last time I saw a Jedi here was about a month ago," Pellaeon recalled.
"Surely someone can report this?" Dougan was surprised. "Sector command is unlikely to approve."
"All of this has broad patronage in the Senate," Darill explained. "The previous head of intelligence was working in this direction."
"And then?" The clone apparently also figured out what was going on.
"His ship never made it to sector command," the admiral spread his hands. "And no trace was ever found."
The Jedi downed his drink in one gulp, grimacing. Putting the glass back on the table, he scanned those present with his eyes.
"Gentlemen, would you care to pay a visit to my flagship?"