Groups of Republic ARC-170s, dozens of squadrons strong, were making attack runs on the forward CIS ships, hosing them with hurricane fire from laser cannons. The fighters defending the Confederacy ships were being destroyed by meat droids with enviable pedantry, as if it were the Republic that had the army of machines.
To top off the hurricane fire, the clones added salvos of proton torpedoes, which left the forward invasion force with no chance at all. In an instant, two dozen invasion starships turned into a heap of scrap metal, blocking the path for the main body of the fleet.
However, this didn't cool the attacking side's ardor, only briefly slowed their advance toward the intended target. The shattered hulks of the Confederacy ships drifted, spewing myriad debris into space that clung to the deflector screens of the battle ships moving behind them.
The flagship's scanners impassively recorded how two dozen starships of the forward detachment perished one after another. The average lifespan of a Munificent-class frigate in this battle didn't exceed ten standard minutes. The last ship of the first group, however, lasted longer than the others. But it met the same fate — Republic fighters surrounded it, mercilessly showering the ship with coherent fire. The finishing touch, as before, came from several streaks of crimson proton torpedo tails. And as soon as the starship was torn apart by the shockwave of detonating explosives, the considerably thinned-out Republic aviation set about finishing off the remnants of the droid air wing.
When the last Vulture droid of the squadron turned into an expanding ball of superheated gas, the clones withdrew, leaving the ships of the second echelon of the droid invasion to be torn apart by the line ships of the Jedi armada — a single Venator, surrounded by a dozen Hammerheads.
Junk, as his Confederacy intelligence had assured him. "An antiquity dug up from the Order's storerooms, incapable of handling a single CIS ship." That's what he'd been told. Now, this "junk" was holding up quite decently under fire and biting back just as painfully at the invasion flotilla.
Since the invasion of the Bothawui system began, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he'd been outplayed. And the battle in orbit of the Bothan homeworld was far from his moment of glory — quite the opposite...
The Republicans in the entire fleet of the 13th Sector Army had two squadrons of Hammerheads — and at the time of the Jedi purge on Follin, all of them were stationed near Rodia. Neither of those squadrons could have arrived at Bothawui that quickly. Consequently — the Confederacy's intelligence had screwed up again, and the Rendili shipyards weren't under as vigilant control as he'd been assured. The Republic had managed to commission at least one more squadron of Hammerheads and secretly bring them here.
Grievous's invasion fleet was forcing its way through the asteroid field surrounding Bothawui Prime. The vanguard — two full squadrons of Munificents — breached the obstacle first, and immediately took a heavy hit from the Republicans — not a single ship managed to break through the massive ARC-170 airstrike.
He could have praised the enemy commander for his success — after all, destroying an entire CIS starship formation without any significant losses of your own wasn't something just anyone could do. But the general didn't utter a word.
First, because the enemy's successes were his failures. And despite the fact that CIS forces outnumbered the Republicans, this loss would be held against him. Even Stryklen hadn't been able to hold his position and had been forced to retreat. What a pity the remnants of his unit hadn't run into the Separatists here — the rout of a Republic commander who had held back CIS forces for so long would have been another triumph for the cyborg.
And second, the equipment told him a Jedi was behind this operation. Scanners had already spotted two Jedi interceptors that had retreated along with the starfighters. Delta-7s, otherwise known as Aethersprite... fighters piloted only by Jedi. And that pair would become his next trophies.
The unfavorable entry vector, calculated by the flagship's navigation officer, once again confirmed the general's conviction — you had to work exclusively with droids. Organics were far too unreliable.
Of course, he could have sent the ships around the plane of the asteroid field, but then the enemy would have time to rally forces for a counterattack. And Grievous didn't feel like dealing with Bothawui Prime's planetary shield. His raid was a lightning strike, not a methodical advance.
So, splitting the fleet into groups, the cyborg directed the starships through the wide belt of space rocks. First, he sent two squadrons of frigates, whose task was to thin out the enemy's forward forces and relay the disposition to the ships following behind. The Munificents handled their assigned task excellently. And so, the main force following the vanguard — Recusant-class destroyers, the remaining Munificents surrounding the flagship carrier-destroyer Invisible Hand, and five Lucrehulks forming the fleet's primary striking power — already had all the necessary information about the enemy.
The Republican group used asteroids as shields, meeting the general's ships with concentrated fire. Ten Hammerheads, one Venator, surrounded by barely visible specks of small craft, were already testing Grievous's ships for weakness. However, the distance between the opponents was still too great for aimed fire, so the forward ships of the droid armada, taking advantage of the absence of enemy starfighters — which had returned to their ships for rotation — launched their Vulture droids. The superiority in small craft allowed Grievous not to worry about a repeat of the maneuver that had cost him two dozen frigates — now any small Republican forces would be shot down on approach.
It seemed the enemy commander understood this too, because the Republican fighters didn't rush into battle, surrounding the capital ships like annoying gnats. And those didn't keep them waiting long. As soon as a third of the remaining droid ships had cleared the ill-fated asteroid belt, the Republican starships opened up with an artillery exchange.
Grievous had managed to glance through historical reference materials and stated without a doubt that the Republicans had significantly upgraded their Hammerheads. Now these ships were only slightly inferior in armament to the Venators, but were far behind them in the number of starfighter wings. Hence the Jedi's tactic was clear — after destroying the vanguard with fighter forces, they switched to a rigid defense. The Republican starships, whose weapons were designed for firing in the forward hemisphere, could concentrate fire on specific enemy ships. Overlapping their deflector shields, they strengthened their anti-turbolaser protection. And the small craft swarming everywhere handled the interception of missiles and droid fighters. Well, he had to admit — the tactic had a certain logic. But the Jedi had underestimated the number of ships Grievous had brought with him. Still, after a few minutes of battle, the general ordered his flagship, which had been moving in the front ranks of the main force, to shift into the thick of the formation. Unlike the Jedi, he could afford to put other starships in harm's way instead of his own. After all — they were just droids.
The enemy squadron commander had correctly identified Grievous's Providence-class as the greatest threat. Better armed than the Recusants, it carried a substantial starfighter wing and at the same time had significantly greater firepower than other CIS ships. The sluggish Lucrehulks didn't count. That's why the Jedi was primarily trying to knock out Grievous's ship.
As soon as the deflectors were depleted, the Invisible Hand took several punishing hits to the hull — the lack of physical protection in the asteroid field was taking its toll. Deflectors could only provide protection against energy weapons, not against rocks. And using particle shields would have significantly reduced the destroyer's speed.
The ship shuddered again. This time, according to the scanners, the cause wasn't an asteroid at all — the enemy had launched missiles. The point-defense systems operated normally, but about a dozen warheads managed to reach the ship's stern during a turning maneuver. The Providence listed to starboard, losing half its thrust at once, spiraling like an ancient bullet from an equally ancient rifle; streams of gas crystallizing in vacuum gushed from numerous breaches in the aft section. The rotation accelerated, throwing off the Republican gunners' aim. The Recusants and Munificents, seeing the flagship's dire situation, slowed their advance like a herd, allowing the Invisible Hand to leave the kill zone, retreating under the protection of its own ships' formation.
The ship left the asteroid danger zone, moved out of artillery range, but that didn't make things better. Surrounded by a good dozen escort frigates, the Hand still took enemy fire. Obeying the cyborg's command, the CIS ships surged toward their target, drawing the enemy's fire onto themselves. Unable to finish off the crippled ship, the enemy's turbolasers couldn't penetrate the Hand's sturdy hull and were forced to shift fire to the approaching main forces of the Separatist fleet. The Hand's armored hull, heated red by the barrage, held, but malfunctions kept cropping up throughout the ship and technical alarm buzzers screamed.
Grievous, without taking his eyes off the battlefield, noted that the idea of taking a newly commissioned destroyer into battle had cost him time in the fight. The Hand would need significant rework after the mission was complete.
On the flagship's bridge, the overheated Neimoidians were strapped into their seats at the consoles by a web of emergency harnesses. The air smelled of melting metal and sharp hormonal secretions. The unpredictably shifting gravity threatened to add an even worse stench: the faces of most of the organic watch crew had already turned a pale pink instead of a healthy gray-green. The officers were getting sick. The weakness of organics irritated the general.
The only being not strapped into a chair paced the combat bridge from corner to corner; a long, floor-length cloak fell from shoulders as sharp as bare bone. The being paid no attention to the impacts on the ship's hull or the deck's trembling; the frenzy of the artificial gravity didn't interest it; with a metallic clatter that drove superstitious fear into the Neimoidians, its legs measured out its steps.
The being moved on clawed feet of magnetized duranium, capable of grasping prey and breaking its spine like the talons of a Vratixian blood adler. The organics present on the deck couldn't boast of having seen such a sight. But stories of General Grievous's mindless cruelty extended far beyond the CIS's sphere of influence.
Reading his expression was impossible, since instead of a face, Grievous wore a mask of ceramic armorplast, stylized like an animal skull. But his venom-filled voice, hissing through an electronic vocoder, put everything in its place.
"Either recalibrate the gravity generators or shut them off entirely," the general snarled, jabbing a clawed finger into the chest of a cowering Neimoidian engineer's bluish hologram. "If you keep this up, you won't live to see the moment the Republicans shoot you."
"B-b-but... that's r'repair droid w'ork..." the organic tried to justify himself.
"They're droids, threats don't work on them. But threatening you makes sense. Which is what I'm doing. Understood?" The general's face couldn't show emotion, but his voice, full of venom...
The general turned away from his interlocutor and strode off before the frightened engineer could think of a reply. With long strides, he reached the front of the bridge and paused for a moment, surveying the battle. The limb he extended toward the forward viewport wore an armorplast gauntlet fused with living bone.
"Concentrate fire on the Venator," the unusual being ordered the senior gunner. The Hand could extract maximum advantage from the situation. While the enemy ship was turned bow-first toward the advancing armada, the Providence could strike at the lower part of the ship. And completely with impunity. The enemy fighters wouldn't risk leaving their starships unguarded to finish off the Providence, whose energy shields had failed. Well, even if their commanders were that stupid — thousands of Vulture droids awaited them on the flagship's hangar deck. "All batteries to maximum. Transfer all power to the weapons. Destroy the enemy flagship, and we'll be able to cut their forces in half and grind the enemy fleet to dust."
"But... the bow guns are already overloaded," the Neimoidian was teetering on the edge of panic. "In l'ess than a m'inute, there'll be a critical failure. We n'eed to r'estore the d'eflectors..."
"To hell with the deflectors! Increase fire!"
"But without them, we..."
The senior gunner's objection was cut short by an unpleasant wet sound that made every single organic on board duck their heads. Grievous's reinforced fist, with a squelch, pulled away from the mash of bone, flesh, and physiological fluids of the senior gunner. The general fastidiously shook the Neimoidian's brain matter onto the bridge deck. The same fist opened, grabbed the officer's corpse by the collar, yanked it from the chair, tearing the crash webbing. Casually, like an annoying speck of dust, the cyborg tossed the still-warm body to the far end of the bridge.
The skull-mask turned to the junior gunner.
"Congratulations on your unexpected promotion."
The newly minted senior officer's hands were shaking so badly he could barely unfasten his safety harness. Under the general's watchful eye, the organic, trembling with fear, made his way to the new console.
"Is the order clear?"
"Y-y-y..." Unable to form words, the organic nodded.
"Any objections?"
"N-n-n..." Now the new senior officer was shaking his head from side to side as hard as he could.
"Excellent," General Grievous said in a cold, indifferent voice. "Relay the order to the fleet — concentrate fire on the flagship. Power to the forward deflectors. The asteroids are behind us, we have nothing to fear."
* * *
Durasteel. Ceramic armored duranium. Electric motors and joints.
Inside: the remains of a living being. Once, he had been one. An outstanding warrior from the planet Kalee. The conqueror of the Huk. Now, everything was different.
He didn't breathe. He didn't eat. He couldn't laugh or cry. Neither rejoice nor regret.
In his past life, he had experienced what could be called life. In his past life, he had friends, a family, a duty. In his past life, he had things to love and things to fear. Now, all of that was gone.
After the Republic's intervention in the Huk War, where Grievous had broken the back and practically exterminated the enemy that had oppressed his people, the Kaleesh warlord entered the service of the InterGalactic Banking Clan.
The catastrophe cost him his body and most of his memories. He lost the ability to breathe, he felt no emotions and needed no love.
He hated the Republic and the Jedi, who were responsible for the debt yoke on his people.
He didn't remember the details of his life before serving the CIS — those memories were gone. But now he was no longer burdened by biological limitations.
Now he had a purpose.
It was built into him at the level of microchips and software algorithms that controlled his mechanical body.
He was built to bring fear. Something resembling a skeleton was equipped with limbs whose design was taken from the legendary Krat battle droids. His face and appearance were born from a child's nightmare. More than once, meeting Jedi face-to-face on the battlefield, he had seen fear in their eyes. An animal, convulsive fear that broke their vaunted will and composure.
He was built to suppress. The ceramic armorplast armor protecting him could withstand a direct hit from a light fighter's laser cannon. His indestructible hands were ten times stronger than human ones. They were driven by electronic reflexes; in a sharp movement, they became a barely visible flicker. Not one or two Jedi, let alone clones, had been torn apart by his hands. And the more he killed, the more unbearable the thirst for even more killing became.
The touch of the hilts of Jedi who had died by his hand, through palms of armorplast and durasteel, evoked something resembling joy in his brain.
But only resembling it.
The general remembered joy. He remembered anger and rage. He remembered regret and sadness. Distantly, like the feeling of wind on a sunny day.
He just didn't feel them. Not anymore.
He wasn't designed for that.
His task was the Jedi purge. Every one of those pompous, arrogant bastards would fall by his hand. Neither Durge nor anyone else could compare to him in effectiveness.
The Confederacy's leadership had allocated him a huge fleet — a hundred and fifty ships. He was to cut through the front line of the 13th Sector Army like a red-hot blade, destroying pockets of resistance.
Then, according to the plan, his armada would invade the Both system. Dooku had strongly insisted on not being gentle with the Bothans — the ears and eyes of Republican intelligence. The invasion fleet would carry out an orbital bombardment. Never before had the Separatists so openly destroyed other worlds. But today, the Count had made an exception... The Bothans were destined for an unenviable fate — the survivors would envy the dead. For existing on a lifeless planet wasn't something every species could handle. And especially not the soft-handed Bothans...
Eleven enemy ships — that was nothing. No matter how strong the Republican ships were, his armada outnumbered them.
From the board of the flagship Invisible Hand, Grievous watched with a smirk as more and more Separatist ships emerged from the asteroid field behind the first ten Munificents. Freed from the danger of the asteroids, they blanketed the enemy with a merciless barrage.
Sixty frigates, forty Recusants, ten Lucrehulks... the axial tilt of Bothawui Prime, which forced the Separatist armada to take the shortest route to the planet, irritated the general. He didn't like the instructions the CIS leadership gave him, because they all had only political motives. The real military effectiveness of the Confederacy's forces was far greater than what was achieved in these offensives. The cyborg had repeatedly pointed out to Count Dooku the possibility of victory where many CIS generals received orders to retreat... But the man just brushed him off like an annoying insect, claiming everything was going strictly according to plan. But whose plan?
For this same reason, the general disliked organics. Stupid, dim-witted, cowardly... droids were a hundred times easier to deal with.
"Sir?" a Neimoidian comms officer's thin voice cut short the general's pacing. The cyborg's thoughts were interrupted. "We're being hailed from the Salvation. They're offering to cease fire and surrender..."
The dark yellow eyes in the slits of the skull-mask narrowed. The general studied the sweat-covered face of the crew member. Then, when he was sweating so much a puddle of sticky perspiration had formed beneath him, Grievous shifted his gaze to the tactical display.
Surrender? On the verge of triumph? What nonsense. But a pause in the battle would let the turbolasers cool down and give the engineers a chance to tame the artificial gravity generators. Continuing the fight with minimal chances of victory, and given the unpleasant consequences of crossing the asteroid field, every chance counted.
"Acknowledge receipt of the message. Prepare to cease fire."
"Y-yes, sir," the newly appointed gunner was still shaking. But even on his distorted face, a smile was visible. Disgusting. Did they really think he would surrender the entire fleet to the Republicans?
"Cease fire."
The plasma streaks linking the Hand and the strike group ships vanished. Following the flagship's orders, the other ships also stopped firing, but not their movement toward the intended target — the Bothan homeworld. The Republicans, as if in a silent dance, pulled back, yielding space to the invasion ships.
"N'ext message, sir. It's the commander of the Serenity."
Grievous nodded. He didn't care. It could be the Supreme Chancellor himself.
"Activate it. And get the guns working before I throw everyone overboard."
Above the external communications holographic projector, the bodiless ghost of a young man of average height and build appeared, unremarkable in a uniform with commodore's insignia. And if not for the cold confidence in his gaze, his polite, unremarkable face wouldn't have lingered in the interlocutor's memory.
"General Grievous," the young man said abruptly. "I can't say I enjoy your company. My name is Osvald Teshik. I am the commander of the Shield Squadron."
"How interesting," the cyborg snorted. "And where is Admiral Stryklen and his battered fleet? I was counting on finishing off that bastard here, in the Both system."
"Rear Admiral and his ships are where they're supposed to be," the officer noted evasively and, without changing his tone, continued. "The commander of the sector army 'Iron Spear,' Senior Jedi General Dougan, to avoid bloodshed, offers you to surrender the flagship and order your..."
"Surrender?" the general's vocoder emitted a quite recognizable chuckle. Absurd. His armada had defeated the Republican group at the Monastery, forcing the last fifteen ships of Admiral Stryklen's fleet — battered Acclamators and equally damaged Venators, three of them — to retreat from the system. And now, consolidating his victory, he had come to the Bothan homeworld. Despite his losses, he outnumbered the enemy ships almost six to one — and that was just in starships. The advantage in fighters was simply crushing. With this lull, the Republic was digging its own grave.
"I ask you to thoroughly consider the proposal, General, as the commander will not make it a second time. Honorable captivity is better than inglorious death. Think of the lives of your crew."
With an icy gaze, Grievous swept the bridge, packed with Neimoidians trembling in fear. Lives? Of the crew? That wasn't even funny.
"What are you talking about?"
The young officer wasn't surprised; rather, he seemed confirmed in his pre-made decision:
"Is that your answer?"
"Not at all," Grievous straightened to his full height; when he did that, he added another half meter to his already imposing stature. "I have a counter-proposal," casting a glance at the monitor, he noted with satisfaction that most of his fleet had already left the asteroid belt. Excellent. He could surround the Republican upstart and tear his ships to pieces. "Prepare for battle and boarding. As soon as I set foot on board your flagship — I will crush your skull with my own hands," the general laughed, clacking his reinforced fingers and clenching them into a fist.
Behind him, some Neimoidian whimpered softly. Without looking back, the general grabbed his head with one hand and slammed it into the control panel. A coward and a weakling.
"May I use your definition, sir? Absurd."
"Then tell that command of yours that if my ships don't land troops on Bothawui Prime within an hour," the general narrowed his eyes, "I will break through to the planet and slaughter all its inhabitants. And I'll broadcast the execution on the HoloNet. Do you understand me?"
The young man didn't even blink.
"What makes you think you'll succeed?"
Stupid sentient.
"I outnumber you, human," the cyborg replied with disgust. What idiots were in command of this army? What was the point of putting an idiot in command of a squadron?
"Ah!" the young officer repeated without expression. "You mean that..."
He leaned back, clearly addressing someone outside the projection zone.
"Contact the Blade and Mace squadrons."
Then, returning his gaze to Grievous, he allowed himself a smile, seeing the latter's confusion.
"You must have miscounted, General," Teshik's words were now laced with venom. "Count again..."
Sensors screamed in alarm. Almost simultaneously, the Invisible Hand took several solid hits in a row, from which Grievous himself barely stayed on his feet.
"G'eneral, n'ew R'epublic sh'ips have arr'ived!" one of the Neimoidian officers screamed hysterically.
With a furious roar, the cyborg crossed the distance to the control panel, greedily staring at the sensor readings.
The enemy group had qualitatively strengthened with a single massive hyperspace jump.
In the plane of the ecliptic, cutting through the airless void, showering the Confederacy's ships with streams of plasma and missiles, completely fresh, unbloodied Republic forces slipped in. Two Acclamators, surrounded by a dense ring of two dozen Hammerheads.
Now the enemy had deployed in full force. Teshik's squadron and the twenty-two capital ships that had joined it, like ancient boxers, took the blow of the pressing second-wave ships — the last Munificents and the Hand joining them. The crimson salvos of the CIS ships spread across the deflector fields, now reinforced by the reinforcements. In response, the Republicans answered with a hurricane of fire that had mediocre results.
In the first minute of the new ships' appearance, Grievous's armada lost six Munificents and one Recusant, flaring up like blinding suns. A second later, they silently vanished in the thermonuclear fire of detonating reactors.
"Redirecting the energy has paid off," the general noted with grim triumph. Yes, Teshik now had two new squadrons of battleships. So what? Their starfighter force wasn't enough to break through the thousands of Vulture droids Grievous kept around his armada for defense. And the extra energy directed to the forward deflectors minimized the enemy's results. Of course, frigates kept failing under fire and exploding, but their places were taken by Recusants emerging from the asteroid belt. And the Lucrehulks would crawl out soon enough.
Grievous decided to adjust his plan. The frigates, supported by the Vulture droids, would finish off Teshik's ships, while the Lucrehulks, right in front of the Republicans, would bombard Bothawui Prime and land a multi-million strong invasion force on it.
"Relay the order to the fleet..." the voice from the cyborg's mechanical vocoder rang out.
* * *
Throwing my fighter into another barrel roll, I let a burst of crimson laser bolts from a droid starfighter pass wide of my Delta-7, which extended my existence for another indefinite period.
"Flying is for droids," I muttered through my teeth, remembering Kenobi.
"Master," the voice of my headache — meaning my Padawan, Oli — responded in my earpiece. "You're doing great. But in terms of Vulture droids shot down, I'm still ahead..."
"Yeah," I yanked the yoke toward me, forcing the Aethersprite into a loop in the vacuum and getting on my pursuer's tail. A squeeze of the trigger — and another droid turned into a cloud of debris and superheated gas. "Now you're not."
"That's not fair!" the girl exclaimed. "On the simulator, you were way worse..."
"So that's where the dog's buried," I groaned. "You dragged me into a fighter battle knowing I performed worse than you on the trainer?"
A moment of silence was a far more eloquent answer than the words that followed.
"Me? What? Hmm, no. Master, I would never..."
"Oh, I'm going to have to have some educational moments again..."
It seemed I really was a lousy teacher. Because the child — I mean, the Padawan — was getting out of hand before my eyes. Little remained of her former modesty and tact — no, of course, 'in public' she remained restrained and sensible. But when we were alone, she changed abruptly. As if I wasn't her mentor, but a friend, or something...
Of course, I am to blame for this myself. I set the direction for our Padawan relationship not as "teacher and student," but rather as "big brother and little sister." And now it's coming back to bite me. I look at Oli's behavior, and in my head, I keep comparing her to that cartoon Ahsoka. What nonsense...
Anyway, about how I allowed myself to be dragged into those "TailSpin" adventures...
As soon as the planning for Grievous's "meeting" was finished and the officers rushed off to carry out the plan at a double-time run, that little nuisance — who will definitely be the death of me somehow — latched onto me with requests to join the squadrons in the space battle.
Beyond the usual "Puss in Boots eyes" routine, she used more convincing arguments. Like, one Jedi in a starfighter cockpit is worth a whole squadron, and it's beneath me to wear down the soles of my boots on the bridge when we could be helping by shooting down the "small fry."..
To be honest, I wasn't against flying a starfighter myself. Until now, all I'd done was pilot the Defender and even then, most of the process was handled by user-friendly algorithms. And the corvette, of course, had never been in a space battle, so I hadn't tested my ship on "manual control" yet.
All I really had behind me was experience from playing flight simulators. I don't even remember the names of those simulators anymore, but at least I had some kind of foundation. Or so I thought at the time.
So, whether it was self-preservation or the Force, I decided to go train on the onboard simulator. As it turns out, there were a good dozen devices for pilots on board, which they could use to sharpen their skills with various types of vehicles.
It looked like a simple cockpit, similar to the one on a Nu-class shuttle. Designed for two people. You could set a training flight for yourself, or a simulation for a "leader-wingman" pair. A handy gadget.
You put on a virtual reality helmet (I had to take off my own mask for a while), and the control sticks were standard for all GAR equipment — thankfully, almost everything was developed by the same supplier. You set the parameters — what ship you wanted to fly, from an assault shuttle to an Aethersprite — choose a program, from a simple flight to a full battle, launch it, and off you go to conquer virtual space.
It was there, in the confined space of the simulator, that I realized how right Sidious was. Yes, droids are the best weapon against a Jedi. A machine doesn't feel emotions that a Force-sensitive can pick up. And consequently, precognition doesn't work properly either.
The simulator spent a grueling four hours squeezing the life out of me while Oli snickered in embarrassment. I crashed into asteroids, nosedived the Azure Angel into the landing strip, and blew up while coming in for a landing. Not to mention the constant getting shot down and rammed by those damn virtual enemies. Everyone and their mother — from pirates to Vulture droids.
Every failure cost me a little bit of my composure and self-esteem. I could be endlessly good at lightsaber duels, but when it came to flying starfighters, my Padawan could give me a handicap. A handicap so big I'd never catch up.
"Master, maybe you really should stay on board?" the little brat suggested, watching me pace nervously through the corridors after the simulator. "Not everyone can fly like Skywalker... Even Obi-Wan doesn't like flying..."
"Damn little brat," I thought. "Comparing me to that crippled stump. If only you knew how virtuosically that Sith would fly in the future, despite having his hands and feet cut off..."
The last part irritated me the most. No, even with his legs cut off, Vader was one of the best pilots. And here I am — alive, healthy, a student of the greatest Sith in the universe — and I can't even rock the wings without losing control! It's infuriating. Burns with a fiery rage. When they compare you to someone, and it's not in your favor.
"Right," I said as indifferently as possible. "Well, if Skywalker is better than me, maybe you should become his student?"
"He has Ahsoka," Oli sighed. Then, catching herself, she rattled on. "I didn't mean it that way, Master. You're better than Skywalker. You fought Sith and won..."
"I hate children!" came the thought. Clearly, she blurted it out without thinking. But my patience is wearing thin. I hate being worse than someone.
"Meet me in the hangar," I said dryly when we reached a fork in the corridor. I headed for my quarters, leaving the girl alone in the middle of the hallway, thanking the Force that she didn't follow me.
I walked toward my cabin, immersed in gloomy thoughts.
I can't be worse than that cripple. I have all my arms and legs. I'm a master, commanding a sector army. Damn it, I have an army and a fleet under my command that could easily kick the ass of any oversector! My Hands are the best mercenaries, Jedi, and Sith of the last five thousand years...
And still, the name Skywalker is like a trigger for me. Being compared to him is like a slap in the face. Even though my brain knows I'm better, my emotions are taking over. Where does this come from? I don't understand.
I honestly didn't care about Skywalker's adventures with his girl. They didn't conflict with my plans, so they weren't a threat. By the time the Chosen One's roof caves in, I'll already be ruling half the galaxy. And no matter how much Sidious boasts, my master is cooler.
Which means I have to be cooler too. Stronger, faster, more skilled. After assimilating Kun's knowledge, I could kick any Jedi's ass without breaking a sweat. Of course, I shouldn't get a big head yet — I'm sure even the Council members could give me a run for my money. Yoda fought Sidious on equal footing, and he, for your information, is certainly the most powerful Sith in the galaxy in the last thousand years.
Knowing the Force's twisted sense of humor, I wouldn't be surprised if I end up having to fight Skywalker, Sidious, and half the Council in the end. I can't take them all with just Niman. I only beat Sora Bulq thanks to the Juyo elements I picked up from the Defender's database. But learning from recordings... I can understand a Force technique, I can reproduce it. But for lightsaber combat, you need a living opponent. A skilled one.
Or... it hit me. Not quite a living one. A Force ghost would do. Like Kun. Find it, suppress it, absorb it... By assimilating its knowledge, like I did with Kun's, I'd become stronger. With minimal time spent learning new things. I'd just need to "remember" it...
Hmm... When I absorbed Kun, I didn't choose which pieces of knowledge became mine. I absorbed it all. And if my memory serves me right, Kun owned his own ship and participated in space battles as a pilot.
I didn't even notice when I reached my cabin. Locking the door behind me, I sat cross-legged on the floor in the lotus position and opened myself to the Great Force.
Be worse than the Chosen One? Fat chance.
* * *
"Attention all stations, this is Black-One!" While the fighter's reactor was warming up and the R2-series astromech was running diagnostics, I spoke on the general channel to all fighter pilots. "Our objective is to strike the enemy's vanguard. We're going to create a traffic jam at the exit of the asteroid field. Hit them with everything we've got. Don't spare rockets or torpedoes. As soon as we've smashed their vanguard, we fall back to protect the ships."
"Copy."
"Objective clear."
"Red Squadron standing by..."
Confirmations came in one after another.
My hands rested on the fighter's control sticks. The electronics beeped, constantly confirming the readiness of various systems on the Azure Angel. The Jedi starfighter, painted black and silver, slowly being transferred from the 204th Legion to various parts of the army, trembled on its landing struts, ready to launch and soar into zero gravity.
Next to it stood another identical one, "Black-Two." Behind the callsign was my Padawan, who remained silent while I prepped my fighter for flight. Honestly, after meditating and absorbing another portion of Kun's knowledge, that nagging feeling of resentment faded. As befits a Sith apprentice, I became completely indifferent to who compared me to whom and how. There's a mission that needs to be accomplished. And it will be carried out regardless of whether I'm worse or better than Skywalker. In the end, I can always finish him off by siccing my Hands on the bastard. Or, you know, by frying him with lightning when he puts on that lovely suit of his, perfect for catching electricity.
A message from the astromech appeared on the monitor: "Fighter fully combat ready."
"Well then," I retracted the landing struts, letting the ship hover on its anti-gravity cushion. Pushing the control stick forward, I dipped the fighter's nose slightly and, with a small burst of acceleration, guided it out of the hangar. "Let's go fry some droids..."
* * *
I won't say Kun's "memories" were outdated, but they clearly weren't enough to make me an ace in modern combat. Sure, I wasn't getting lost in the mess of levers, switches, and buttons on the instrument panel anymore. And my maneuvers didn't disgust me anymore.
But borrowing someone else's experience in using the Force and piloting skills are different things. Piloting requires a lot of training. So, by the Great Force, if I survive this battle, I'll be adding piloting lessons to my lightsaber and Force training.
I deliberately avoided flying close to asteroids or hugging the hulls of starships. I didn't need to.
I'm a fighter, so — those ugly-looking Vulture droids over there are my targets. Oli, who was following me like she was on a leash, was enthusiastically spraying the droids with green fire, ending the existence of one after another. My main priority was to stay out of her way and not get myself killed.
Together with Blue Squadron, for the first half of the battle — until Grievous's vanguard choked on our proton torpedoes — Oli and I floated in the space between the two squadrons, intercepting any droids that managed to break through to our ships. Hunting "singles" or small groups was easier than what the guys in the other squadrons were doing. They seemed to be fighting their way through hell, sliding between the energy tracers of anti-aircraft artillery, maneuvering in the folds of enemy ship hulls, somehow not only surviving but also significantly reducing the enemy's starfighter count. The capital ships were taking a heavy beating too.
As soon as the last frigate of the vanguard scattered its debris in a silent explosion, the depleted flotilla of Republic small craft fell back to the ships of Shield Fleet. Most of the V-wings and Aethersprite went for rotation — which is what they call a small ship landing for refueling and rearming.
Oli and I, along with a dozen relatively full squadrons, covered this "shift change," fighting off the remnants of the Vulture droids, which, having lost their mother ships, switched to a "fight to the death" protocol.
In one of the sector command's memos, I read that CIS fighter droids are strictly assigned to specific ships. For instance, unlike organics, Confederate small craft can't "land" on any ship other than the one they launched from. Simply put, once a Vulture takes off from a Recusant, it can't land for refueling on a Munificent or another Recusant — it's prohibited by the ship's programming. This was done to make it easier to calculate each ship's losses after a battle — statistics are sacred to droids.
And this same protocol works against the CIS if their carrier is destroyed in battle but its air wing survives. In that case, the fighter droids attack the nearest enemy target. If these "orphans" happen to survive the battle, they're picked up by a special transport, their memory is wiped, and they're sent to another ship, counted as a "new" unit.
Yes, the memory wipe procedure — that's what will never allow droids to develop into individuals and use their accumulated experience against humans or other enemies. In my situation, thanks to regular memory wipes, CIS fighter droids always fight using the same old program, one that the clones have already memorized cold over the course of the war. Hence the fantastic kill counts for those "tin cans" an average pilot can take out up to twenty or thirty enemy fighters in a single battle.
Meanwhile, the battle was unfolding in a, to put it mildly, disheartening manner.
The enemy's vanguard — two dozen Munificent-class frigates — no longer posed a threat to us, having been turned into scrap metal or helplessly drifting hulks. But right behind them, a second wave was advancing.
And now it was no laughing matter.
The Munificents, so familiar to us, but from the second attack wave, were rapidly breaking out of the asteroid field, hammering the Salvation and its attached ships with hurricane fire. The arrival of the Dagger and Mace squadrons allowed us to instantly turn the last of Grievous's Munificents to dust.
Right behind them, like hyenas arriving to feast on the battlefield, Recusants appeared before the Republic starships. The relatively intact Munificents from the second group were spreading out, making way for the fresh, unscathed ships that were supposed to finish our destruction. Grievous had adopted my own tactics — grouping his ships closer together so that the deflector shields of adjacent destroyers would overlap, strengthening their overall defense. And by diverting power from all deflectors to the forward ones, the cyborg had turned his army into a kind of Teutonic "wedge," pushing my cruisers back.
It seemed that the battered Republic ships, partially deprived of artillery, smoking with countless fires and breaches, were barely holding off the armada of Vulture droids that the droid ships had spewed from their bays. A small group of ships — a dozen Recusants and all the Lucrehulks — were about to emerge from the asteroid belt. When that happened, two things would be inevitable: the defeat of my three squadrons and the occupation of Bothawui. Although, what occupation? The Bothans would face a massacre...
But only if I lose, of course. And as it happens, I don't intend to do that.
"Black-One to Black-Three," I activated the comm channel to the Defender.
"I'm listening, Master Jedi," the mechanical voice of the Iokath droid responded. "Is it time?"
"Stay off the comm, tin can," Alpha's voice cut into the channel. "Sir, ships are in position, awaiting the go-ahead."
"Proceed," I commanded. "And I authorize you to rip off Kenny's arm if he butts into the conversation again."
"You hear that, scrap metal?" the second ARC chuckled. "You'll be headed for the scrapyard soon."
"Try your luck, organic," the Iokath droid retorted cynically, reinforcing his words with the characteristic sound of a plasma cannon's servo-drive. "As long as I'm at the helm of this corvette, I decide when the contents of your stomachs end up outside. Jump!"
The protesting yells from both ARCs, who were serving as crew members on my corvette, were cut short as the ship entered hyperspace. Smirking, I addressed the astromech.
"Send a message to our forces on Kothlis: 'Move out.'"
The droid chirped in response, confirming the order. My eyes mechanically scanned the screen displaying the question, "Do we have forces on Kothlis?" and I ignored the inquisitive bucket of bolts.
"Well then," I said, switching back to the general channel. "All fighters, engage the attack."
* * *
If he had teeth, Grievous would have ground them. But all he could do was curse the Jedi's treachery.
Their reinforcements had made the jump from the Kothlis system, as indicated by their vector of entry into the system. Just a few light-years from Bothawui Prime, this industrial planet was the Bothans' source of manufactured goods and immense capital.
The CIS leaders had planned to strike this planet too, but Count Dooku had voiced his strong opinion. Despite its apparent peacefulness, the planet had powerful defenses. And the general of the droid army didn't want to mess with the ion cannons that, according to the former Jedi, reinforced its protection.
Above the plane of the asteroid belt, coming in on the right flank of the Recusants' strike force, three dozen corvettes dropped out of hyperspace. The cyborg was surprised to recognize them as Sienar Systems Marauders.
"Raise the shields!" the general roared, opening a channel to the Recusants' droid commanders. But it was too late.
Grievous could only concede that the enemy's positioning was perfect. The massed missile and turbolaser fire from the Marauders literally mowed down the CIS ships. Within the first few minutes of the battle, two dozen Confederate destroyers were knocked out with critical damage incompatible with continuing the mission. And the armada of Vulture droids, which had been sent in pursuit of the retreating Republic ships, practically dissolved in the bluish flashes of exploding baradium warheads from the concussion missiles.
The particle shields of the Invisible Hand absorbed the enemy fire, which, after a while, was joined by Admiral Strikelenn's famous ships. Surrounding the corvettes with their armored bulk, they amplified the already devastating onslaught on the CIS ships, turning the remnants of the armada into scrap metal.
Grievous didn't need to consult the sensors for analysis — he could see for himself that the one and a half dozen Acclamators and three Venators bore signs of hastily repaired damage. Fresh patches over breaches, a large number of inactive artillery pieces knocked out during the Monastery battle... But the Republic destroyers weren't here for that.
Their hangars, protected by shimmering energy screens, were disgorging hundreds of fighters and bombers, which, with a short dash toward the armada's rearguard, completed the slaughter.
With all the fury he could muster, the general slammed his fist into the display of the nearest terminal, turning it into a pile of wreckage.
"Defensive formation 34," Grievous snapped at the crew, barely restraining himself from tearing each of them apart. "Disengage. Set a course for Mimban..."
* * *
"This is almost too easy," Martio Batch grimaced. The commander of Arrow 5 squad stood in the small CIC of the flagship Marauder, watching the wreckage of separatist frigates rain like a fiery hail into the atmosphere of the backwater world of Dessel.
The commander wasn't wrong. The enemy had only four Munificent-class frigates in this system. The Banking Clan ships put up a fight, but they couldn't withstand the coordinated missile and turbolaser fire. Still, Martio figured that the forces of his Arrow 5 would have been enough to destroy this group. Why send an entire squadron of twenty-one ships on a routine mission when light forces would be sufficient to establish dominance? Though, he suspected the army commander was being overly cautious, sending a hastily assembled unit with overwhelming firepower. And he needed to protect the landing force too.
Batch figured his squad could take care of itself. Corvettes, by their nature, are raiders designed for "hit and run" tactics. No CIS ship below the cruiser class was safe from their missile armament. Three screening squadrons, powerful weapons that even battleships would envy... Yes, truly a ship built exclusively for war. Every detail was meticulously thought out.
"Captain Batch," a tiny holographic image of Commodore Tigellinus appeared on the panel. "Organize system patrol and blockade." Martio nodded in acknowledgment of the order.
"Consider it done," he voiced his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the commodore's strike cruiser, its arrowhead hull hovering above the corvettes' current position, continuously launched squadrons of fighters and gunships into the vacuum. The Hammerheads escorting it spread out in a thin layer across the planet's orbit, spewing their own small craft as they went. A complete and unconditional blockade of Dessel. Cruisers as the nodal points of the blockade, surrounded by nimble light forces of fighters... and the swift corvettes with their escort, prowling the system... Well, no droid that had landed on the surface would escape such a mousetrap. Still, Martio was ready to bet his monthly pay that any attempt by the CIS to break the blockade would also turn into a slaughter of tin cans. "We'll have all system entry vectors under control in half an hour."
"Excellent, Captain Batch," came the cold aristocratic reply from the flagship. "General Kota and his ground forces will conduct the landing operation, and we can consider the battle won."
"Yes, sir," Martio nodded to the hologram. The speaker thought for a moment. Then, looking at his subordinate, he asked. "Don't you think we brought excessive force to capture such an insignificant section of the front?"
"Those were the orders, sir," the captain shrugged. Indeed. The Jedi gave the order; what's the point of discussing orders?
"Indeed," the commodore smiled, barely moving his lips. He touched an invisible button on his end, and the hologram disappeared.
Martio exhaled noisily. The clones standing at a distance from him paid absolutely no attention to his actions. The captain closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. Considering himself far from ordinary, Batch couldn't shake the feeling that all these appointments to the newly formed squadrons were made with a great deal of trust.
The Jedi, of course, were quite the commanders; many of them could easily be replaced by clones. Their mystical Force supposedly allowed them to foresee the future. In the fleet, few believed in this — after all, many Jedi had fallen in battle. If they had the gift of foresight, couldn't they have protected themselves?
But this particular Jedi, under whose command he was now to serve... Captain Batch would never admit it to anyone, but this man (and was he even a man?) in the black armor instilled a superstitious dread in him.
Jedi are a thing unto themselves. Everyone in the fleet knew that Jedi listened to their Force and had little interest in the fates of ordinary people. But this one... Within the framework of twenty sector armies, he found ordinary officers, not the most remarkable ones, and entrusted them with command. Was it because of their merits in service to the Republic? Martio didn't think so. Their victories and achievements were too insignificant (in a galactic context). But there, at the briefing, the Jedi said that under his command were the best officers in the Republic Navy.
Of course, it could have been an encouraging motivational speech from the Jedi before the upcoming battles, but...
Was there a more effective Jedi in all twenty sector armies? Of course, the legends of this war, Skywalker and Kenobi, were famous thanks to the Republic's media holdings. But Dougan... A Jedi to whom an entire star system pledged allegiance, one so wealthy it could build a massive fleet? Whose volunteers, with fanatical looks, rushed to the front lines, while other Republic citizens preferred to sit it out in comfortable homes, entrusting their protection and safety to clones grown for that purpose and those who had put on a fleet uniform? No, there was definitely something more going on here than simple charisma and luck.
Take Skywalker, for example — he pulled off much larger operations. Jabiim alone speaks volumes. He conducted hundreds of operations in the Mid and Outer Rims, but never achieved what Dougan had. And the latter seemed to do everything right... and only made decisions that led to correct outcomes. Outcomes that brought stunning victories. And every action, as Martio had noticed, the Jedi backed up with words. The right words.
The unshakable certainty with which the Jedi spoke his words made Martio doubt the fabricated nature of Jedi abilities. Rick Dougan knew that before him were the best officers. And therefore — he made sure in advance that they would serve under his command.
These thoughts sent a chill down Martio's spine, making him shiver. If Jedi truly see the future, know what will happen, why didn't they prevent this war? Why did they let the Confederacy start it?
And in the context of this question, the captain could only come up with two answers. Either not all Jedi see the future as clearly as Dougan, or...
At the thought of this, Batch wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Could it be that this war is exactly what Force-sensitive individuals are after? And the lives of millions are just small change for them?! After all, as the Jedi claim, no one truly dies; they only return to the Force. Which the Jedi serve...
Either way, Martio Batch had no intention of becoming a victim for goals that weren't his own. And therefore — it was worth sticking with the side that did everything right.
* * *
The speeder-taxi carefully parked between two landing beacons. Kira noted with slight surprise that, despite the years that had passed, the equipment was still functional.
The driver droid, after receiving payment for the completed job, zipped off into the never-sleeping, colorful, and riotous atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa.
The private landing pad she had arrived at greeted her with emptiness and faded panels that once proudly displayed Republic banners.
The Hero of Tython had received the fortress on the Hutt homeworld as thanks for resolving the crisis with the Hutt Cartel. Years later, Kira recalled with a smirk the Hutt Toborro's attempt to build a superpower capable of competing with the Republic or the Empire. A plan that rested on a single foundation — the Hutts' exclusive mining of "isotope-5" had failed spectacularly.
An incoherent attempt by the Hutts to stake a claim on a sector of the galaxy only led to strained relations with the other two superpowers. And as a result — only thanks to the efforts of the Jedi did the Republic not launch another crusade against the aliens.
And now, thousands of years later, she once again stood on the threshold of her beloved's secret fortress-home. The Hutts, not prone to nostalgia, had quite quickly forgotten the deeds of the Jedi and his companions. So now, before her, there was no luxurious dwelling, no elite apartments... Standing under the arches of eight illuminated columns arranged in a semicircle, she gazed at the walls and doors, mercilessly distorted by time.
She didn't know how the Emperor's apprentice could have learned the location of the Hero's fortresses. But the fact remained.
Vette, whether by chance or by the will of the Force, had stumbled upon the shelter on Yavin 4. Kira could only contain her horror as she read the Twi'lek's report to Dougan about the discovery of a disguised temple complex.
The stronghold, as personal shelters were commonly called in that era, was the personal residence of the fallen Revan. The Shadow of the once-great Force adept, obsessed with the idea of finally destroying the Emperor, had turned Yavin 4 into his headquarters. Across the entire planet, ancient temples and sanctuaries became the site for hundreds of rituals. In the planet's forests, armies of Massassi loyal to the Shadow, Jedi, and Sith lay hidden... Had the Shadow conceived something constructive, his resources would have been enough to build his own state. But he craved something else. The Emperor's resurrection threatened the extinction of the entire galaxy — and as the development of subsequent events showed, it nearly led to that.
The Hero of Tython slew the Shadow. The loyalists, the Revanites, saw a certain symbol in this, so it was no wonder that many of them later joined the Alliance.
But back then, when Revan freed the Emperor's spirit and himself became one with the Force, he revealed the location of his shelter to the Hero. Hidden by a Rakatan cloaking screen, protected by every possible type of weapon, the shelter was unreachable for anyone except its master.
The future commander of the Alliance went there alone. None of his companions were invited to follow him. So what happened there during the two days the Hero spent atop the mountain, wandering among the ancient structures, remained a mystery. But his return to camp was accompanied by a powerful explosion at the site where the stronghold had stood. No one suspected that the Hero might have deceived them, preserved the fortress.
Kira didn't even entertain the thought that this could be a coincidence. That the fortress on the mountain peak, hidden by a cloaking field, was merely an accident. No. The Hero had deceived her and the others. He had hidden something from his companions that he preferred to take with him to the grave.
Over the years she had lived — albeit mostly in stasis — Kira had learned to no longer give free rein to her feelings. But now... The Hero was the only one who had never lied to her. But it turned out that even her beloved had his secrets.
Dougan had forbidden any visits to the fortress and warned against any attempts to break into it. An unambiguous indication of the shelter's importance.
The second discovery was made by Nadia. During her time on Coruscant, the Sarkhai had uncovered the fate of the legendary Jedi's very first stronghold.
Once, Coruscant had avoided the fate of being tested by the Republic's own super-weapon — the "Prison Planet." In gratitude for saving the Republic's capital, the Hero, then still a young Jedi Knight, received a luxurious penthouse as his property.
100 Republic Avenue, Embassy Quarter. Once — one of the elite residential complexes of Coruscant. Business tycoons, politicians, and other wealthiest and most significant people from across the galaxy sought to acquire housing in one of the first hundred complexes. The architects had not planned to continue building along this street further, but judging by the fact that the most significant residence of the powerful now bears the number 500 — something clearly went wrong.
Over four thousand years, building 100 had turned into housing for the upper middle class. But the luxurious two-story penthouse with its own landing pad and stunning views of Coruscant remained unattainable for those wishing to buy it. No one had ever seen its residents, but all required payments were always made on time, which prevented anyone from taking the property. And the atmospheric deflector shield, which protected any Coruscant skyscraper from the insane wind, kept out uninvited guests.
Nadia had also obtained the access codes that allowed her to penetrate the deflector shield's dome and boot up the shelter's central computer. And again, without opening the front door, the Hand had withdrawn.
And now the stronghold on Nar Shaddaa.
Despite the planet's reputation, the fortress didn't even have passive defenses, let alone guards. However, the security measures in the capital of Hutt Space could rival those of Coruscant, meaning that as long as the property had an owner, no one would break in.
Flying around the stronghold in a taxi, the Jedi couldn't find any traces of attempted break-ins. Even the transparisteel windows — they too remained intact. As if four thousand years hadn't passed...
Kira entered the access code that Dougan had given her into the control panel. The computer didn't respond for a while, then the heavy doors of the main entrance slid apart with a soft hiss, allowing her eyes to peer into the impenetrable blackness. The hilt of her blade slid into her hand of its own accord, and a golden blade burst forth, dispelling the darkness.
Behind her back, quiet exclamations rang out. Kira rolled her eyes, cursing herself for losing control.
Damn Dougan.
The Emperor's apprentice had saddled her with two Twi'lek slave girls as ballast for this mission, acquired by him after a deal with the Hutts. Kira didn't know the details, but she'd bet that the slaves weren't part of any official agreement between the Republic and the Hutts.
Rick wanted both girls, who modestly called themselves "masseuses," to go with her to Nar Shaddaa and take part in reactivating the fortress. And despite her objections, he hadn't accepted her refusal.
And now two pretty little fools, dressed in light armored jumpsuits, with blasters comically protruding from their hips, were following her. As if they could do anything in a serious scrape? They'd been scared just by the sight of her lightsaber...
The Force whispered to her that returning here wouldn't be without incident.
Kira didn't know why she, of all the Hands, was the only one ordered not just to check, but to reactivate the stronghold. Could Rick know that from the moment it had belonged to the Hero, the house on Nar Shaddaa had been a love nest for the future Alliance commander and his beloved?
"Don't come inside," she threw over her shoulder. The last thing she needed was to spoil the Emperor's apprentice's personal toys. "Both of you stay on comms — report anything suspicious to me."
Without waiting for either of them to answer, the Jedi activated the light on her collarbone and stepped into the darkness.