With a loud clang, the massive front door of the cantina swung open, letting gusts of a freezing blizzard into the room.
The day-shift miners gathered inside, heavily loaded with cheap booze, eyed the fool who had managed to anger everyone present with a mix of irritation and anger. None of the locals would think of opening the cantina door while a blizzard raged outside — the establishment's finicky heating system could easily break down from the temperature change. And then, the only place in the entire mining town where one could relax after a hard day's work would be on the verge of closure.
The miners' brotherhood had formed here long ago. Long before the Mandalorian Wars, the ice mined on Jedha was shipped to Taris, where it enjoyed wild popularity among the wealthy. But almost four thousand years ago, the planet was subjected to a nuclear bombardment by the Neo-Crusaders. The cause was the rakghoul plague epidemic, which turned the planet's already sparse population into bloodthirsty monsters. The ice cap, under the impact of the incessant bombardment, turned to vapor, and the planet was abandoned. It was only fifteen hundred years ago that the ice returned. And it was still in demand — time had not spared Taris, and now precious water was brought to the planet, no longer as a luxury, but as a necessity.
The harsh climate of this world had also left its mark on its inhabitants — taciturn, gloomy, dispossessed — they had come here for a crust of bread. And over the years, the desire to make a fortune and escape, spending the rest of their days in idleness, only grew. Rumors of Neo-Crusader treasures circulated throughout the sector. Everyone wanted to get rich by discovering a relic starship or a nuclear warhead, for which buyers could always be found. Years passed, but only a handful managed to escape the planet. The realization that most of the beings who flew here in search of fortune would die here, never having struck it rich, came slowly.
There were no old people here — backbreaking labor and harsh natural conditions left no chance for the sick and weak. And yet, they paid here — not much, but regularly and in hard currency.
With the start of the war, the Republic, through Taris, needed more and more ice. Every few days, a convoy of Republic freighters landed on Jebble. Only during loading could the day and night shifts of miners diversify their leisure time in any way. Swapping their boring prospector work for loader duties for half a day was the most common entertainment on the planet. On other worlds, robotic loaders were used for this, but on this one, they just froze solid before they could be useful in filling the ships' holds.
The next day, the caravan returned to Taris, and the settlement returned to its routine. The crews of Republic ships preferred to stay on board their starships, so guests in the cantina were rarer than good moods for its owner. So the appearance of a stranger, clearly not a local — otherwise, why the hell would he barge into the cantina in a blizzard? — led the alcohol-heated heads of the prospectors to carefully assess the newcomer.
He was of average height — shorter than any of the prospectors by about a head and a half, maybe two heads, below the average miner. Even the fluffy, apparently new, winter suit couldn't hide the far from heroic physique of the newcomer. From head to toe, he was dressed in polar gear — massive snowshoe boots, waterproof pants and jacket, an oxygen mask… Whoever he was, he had chosen equipment suited to the weather conditions.
The being paused for a moment at the door, surveying those present. Then, removing the hood and massive goggles from his face, he walked unhurriedly towards the bar. Only upon reaching it did he deign to take off the mask and jacket.
A surprised gasp rippled through the ranks of the miners.
A girl.
Young, pretty. Her face showed no signs of windburn, and her thin hands, freed from the captivity of massive mittens, clearly stated that mining work was unfamiliar to her.
Of course, the fairer sex wasn't a rarity on Jebble. But beauties like this hadn't been seen here in a long time.
"You're not as easy to find as I'd hoped," the girl said in a dry but melodious voice, settling in across from the bartender. "Maybe you could put up a sign…"
The owner of the establishment, who also doubled as the bartender, just shrugged vaguely. The Devaronian, generally speaking, couldn't care less about the newcomer's opinion.
The cantina had no name; nor did it need one. None of the locals ever had trouble finding it. Jebble was a small world, and there was only one settlement on it. There were few places to go: the mines, the colony, or the endless, featureless icy wastes. The mines were a massive complex, including caves and tunnels carved through the ice, as well as processing and treatment facilities.
The spaceport was also here. Freighters carrying loads of ice landed on it regularly — in strict accordance with the shipping schedule. Usually, the docks — pits and warehouses hollowed out of the thousand-year-old ice — only held service ships. When someone new arrived on the planet, it quickly became known — it was a small world, after all, and practically every inhabitant was always in sight. It was all the stranger, then, that they hadn't heard about the guest until now.
Literally three hours ago, another caravan had launched from the planet — they brought equipment and supplies to Jebble to keep the mines running. The treatment plants and the spaceport employed workers who were no longer hardy enough to mine the ice. They weren't paid as well as at the mines themselves, but they lived longer.
But regardless of where people worked, they all returned home to the same place at the end of their shifts. The colony was nothing more than a half-ruined town of temporary barracks, thrown together by the company in a haphazard pile to house the several hundred workers developing the mines. Every building was the same dull gray shade of durasteel, weathered and worn, covered on the outside with a thick crust of ice. Inside, the buildings looked exactly the same — temporary worker housing that had become all too permanent. Each had four small private rooms, meant for two people, but usually housing three or more — the company couldn't afford to buy new housing for the workers. Not because it lacked the means — every caravan brought millions of datari into the pockets of management. It was simply that those in power didn't want to spend extra money to improve the quality of life for their almost-slaves.
Sometimes entire families shared one of these little rooms — the choice was still limited anyway. And paying exorbitant sums to fix the situation was not in the merchants' honor. After all, no one had asked them to breed offspring.
Each room had bunks built into the wall, and the single door opened onto a narrow corridor, at the end of which were shared toilets and a shower. The doors, on poorly fitted hinges that were never maintained, had a habit of creaking; the barely patched roofs invariably leaked whenever it rained. Windows broken in the past were sealed against wind and cold, and were never replaced. In short, anyone who had ever been on the planet and lived in such conditions for even a few months had an indescribable desire to get out and never return.
The colony itself stretched along both sides of the central square for only a kilometer, so you could walk from any building on one side to a similar one on the other in less than a standard hour — if the ubiquitous wind and frequent blizzards didn't interfere. Considering the architecture's appalling sameness, navigating the colony wasn't too difficult. The barracks were arranged in straight rows, lengthwise and crosswise, forming a grid of unitary streets among the monotonously placed, snow-covered dwellings. The residents had tried to keep things clean at first, but over time they came to realize — you couldn't overpower the elements. And day by day, the colony began to look more like a collection of snowdrifts. However, those who had lived here longer saw the snowdrifts around their homes as a blessing — the dense snow helped keep the heat inside the buildings, which in turn helped save on electricity.
The snow-covered streets were trampled day after day by workers hurrying to their shifts or returning from them. An observant mind, however, might have discovered piles of garbage among the many snowdrifts — thanks to the constant sub-zero temperatures, the colonists had no need to fear rotting household waste. Nor did the colony's residents bother to carry trash containers to the outskirts, where the company had set up a dump many years ago.
There were only two buildings in the entire settlement that differed in any way from the rest. One was the company store — the only one on this world. Vast sums had once been spent on its creation, and the spacious, dome-shaped building had been the only place in the colony whose lights burned at night for hundreds of years. The range of goods would have amazed even the inhabitants of the Outer Rim with its scarcity, but the locals were grateful for even this. Of course, when they had enough money to buy anything more than standard food rations.
The single entrance to the store was lit by a bright lamp, which, like a beacon in the night, attracted the occasional customer — trade, despite the small number of customers, went on around the clock. However, most often, locals wandered in here just to warm up before continuing on their way. Located strictly in the center of the settlement, the store could, if necessary, hold a hundred customers thanks to its spacious hall, but rarely were more than a dozen gathered there.
The store manager, an employee of the ice mining company, greeted visitors with a perfunctory "working" smile. Knowing the miners' tight credit situation, he graciously allowed them to buy goods on credit. A high interest rate was invariably charged on purchases against future wages. This ensured that buyers, working off their purchases, would spend even more hours in the mines.
The cantina, which the chance traveler had wandered into, was the second "attraction" of Jebble. The establishment had been built about a hundred years ago by the ancestors of the current owner on the outskirts of the town, and was located at the opposite end from the colony's main buildings, on the furthest edge of the gray tangle of barracks. It had only two floors, and since every other building was limited to one, it dominated the surrounding landscape. The lower floor was accessible to all customers and visitors, while the upper floor housed the owner's private living quarters. Few had been there, as the Devaronian didn't suffer from an excess of social interaction. However, visitors did occasionally show up there — those rare lucky souls who managed to find something valuable in the ice monoliths. Under the terms of the contract, miners were supposed to turn over everything they found to company representatives, but the latter offered mere pennies. The Devaronian, of course, wasn't known for generosity, but he offered a much higher price. It was no wonder that the lucky ones came to him to sell their finds. The company certainly knew about it, and had tried more than once to squeeze the competitor off the planet — and every time it had ended in miners' riots. As soon as the company started interfering with the cantina's business, the owner would close the establishment. And as a result, within a week, angry miners, perfectly aware of which way the wind was blowing, would deliver a "retaliatory strike" against the company. More often than not, these were "accidental" collapses of ice blocks onto equipment in the mines. Repairing it on-site was nearly impossible, so the company had to evacuate the damaged equipment to the spaceport, and from there to Taris. This cost an enormous number of credits, so now the company's management preferred not to interfere in the cantina's affairs — otherwise, they would have to incur significant losses. After all, something valuable wasn't found all that often. And even more rarely was the sale price enough for someone to leave the colony.
However, there was something the colony's management didn't know. Otherwise, they wouldn't have spared the expense to forcibly take what the night shift had delivered to the Devaronian a week ago. Of course, if he had paid up immediately, the fact would have surfaced immediately. But the cantina owner was an experienced businessman for a reason — he never bought anything sight unseen. He needed time to analyze the value of the find.
"And what is a pretty thing like you doing in a dump like this?" Des, the night shift foreman, asked, sitting down next to the girl and enveloping her in a characteristic odor — a mix of cheap booze and male sweat. He and his subordinates were relaxing after a hard day's work, sparing no expense — like the store manager, the cantina owner didn't mind serving customers on credit.
"I'm interested in antiquities," the girl answered evasively. She gestured to the bartender for a bottle of good alcohol, causing extreme surprise among everyone present. The drink cost about five times more than anywhere else in the galaxy, and even the company's management, who occasionally stopped by the cantina for a drink or two, never allowed themselves the extravagance of buying a whole bottle. "They say you can find a lot of interesting things on Jebble."
Des nearly burst out laughing when he heard that. Almost all newcomers said things like that. Then they spent decades in the mines, vainly trying to find anything at all.
But as soon as the first chuckle escaped his lips, all the rest got stuck in his throat like a lump. He had never backed down from a fight, and, truth be told, had started many of them. A man standing two meters tall, with a bald head, a massive face, and muscles that three decades of continuous labor had made him one of the most muscular men in the mines, he could have made a career as a bouncer or joined any mercenary squad. However, he was too stupid and lazy to change anything. Like everyone else here, he was waiting for his big score, and he was very hopeful that the latest find would change not only his fate, but also the future lives of all his guys.
However, now, when the stranger looked at him, it was as if a guardian angel had awoken in Des's brain. It screamed at the man with all its might that the person sitting in front of him was not just a tiny beauty he had first wanted to seduce and have a good time with. The girl seemed to possess an immense inner strength that rippled in her pupils. Instincts told Des that he shouldn't mess with her. How such a small female human could harm him, he didn't know, but even despite his strong intoxication, he preferred to be cautious.
"Ahem," the bartender cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. "Actually, I do have something. I don't know if it's what you're looking for…"
"I'm looking for something very specific," the girl said coldly, filling a glass with the amber drink. "The Dreypa's Oubliette."
The silence that had reigned in the cantina since her arrival erupted into truly uproarious laughter.
There wasn't a person on the planet who didn't want to discover this ancient artifact. The aura of mystery that had surrounded it for millennia could rival only the legends of the vast wealth hidden inside. Word had it that the Mandalorians had hidden their most valuable treasures in it when the rakghoul plague had broken out on the planet. However, among the miners, there were also those who believed the old fairy tale that a Jedi was frozen inside. Of course, a living being wasn't treasure that could be sold for a large sum. But if the latter were right, then the Order wouldn't skimp on rewarding the finder. Either way, a truly enormous reward awaited the lucky one — and a way off this godforsaken ice ball. But if that were true, then the Jedi would be conducting their own excavations here. So personally, Des leaned toward the idea that the treasure was hidden in the oubliette.
Despite millennia of searching and numerous conflicts among the miners, the icy shell held its secrets tightly. More than one generation of seekers had come and gone, but no one had ever achieved a result. Perhaps this was because few people now had any idea what the artifact actually looked like — over hundreds of years, that information had been reliably lost.
The Devaronian smiled condescendingly.
"Many seek it," he admitted. "But so far…"
"The last being who knew what that thing looked like died about a thousand years ago," Des grunted. With a nod of his head, he asked the bartender for another mug of local beer. Taking a sip of the chilled drink, he allowed himself to smile. His fear of the stranger had receded into the background. Alcohol dulls the senses…
"Then I'm incredibly lucky," the girl said, producing a miniature holographic projector from her pocket with an elusive gesture. An instant later, a blue image of a rectangular object began to glow above it…
"Hutt," the Devaronian hissed through his teeth. He tried to grab the device from the girl, but she was faster. Twisting the alien's wrist at an angle, she rose slightly from her seat.
"It seems I came at the right time," the girl chuckled. She burned Des with a warning look as he reached for the device. The miner, licking his dry lips, glanced at his comrades, who, attracted by the commotion at the bar, were already rising from their seats.
Two dozen burly guys, fueled by alcohol — more than enough to handle a girl and the bartender. Des had already calculated in his head that the cantina owner could never pay anything close to an acceptable price for the artifact that had been in his storeroom for a week now. The girl… Of course, she was dressed first-class, but how many credits did she have in her pocket?
All that was needed now was to take the find from the Devaronian. He could get a decu on credit at the store and pay for access to the HoloNet. After that, the rest was easy — post photos of the find on any auction. And wait for a buyer with money to show up… He just needed to keep everything a secret…
"Where is the oubliette?" the girl asked coldly. Des gave the cantina owner a warning look. There was a clear and obvious threat in his eyes.
"Never seen anything like it," the miner said as indifferently as he could. The girl slid her gaze over him indifferently, then increased the pressure on the Devaronian's wrist. Crying out, he began to shake all over.
"Press a little harder and I'll break your wrist and two bones," the girl warned.
"Drop it," Des said as indifferently as he could. "He, just like us," the man pointed to his colleagues, "doesn't know anything."
"What you're looking for," the bartender forced out, "I've never seen!"
"Really?" the girl snorted. "Then why did you take my projector?"
"I-I wanted to keep it for myself," the cantina owner groaned. "The miners bring a lot of stuff to sell. I figured if I had this thing, I'd be able to recognize the oubliette and buy it cheap."
Des licked his lips again. Even though barely a meter separated him from the stranger, he was still thinking about how to immobilize her. Her posture, her movements — everything indicated extraordinary training. And now, he had perfectly valid doubts about whether he could defeat such an opponent. However, he just needed to start — and the guys would join in. He had no doubt about that. He could explain things to them later.
"He's holding up pretty well," the man thought, watching the establishment owner writhing in pain. "And he quickly figured out what was what. Not that I'd cut him in, of course — let him stay on this planet and keep fooling the simpletons. And as soon as the buyer arrives…"
The realization hit him like a punch to the head during a good brawl.
"You flew here on your own ship, didn't you?" he asked as innocently as he could.
"That's not important," the girl snapped. She didn't even glance at her interlocutor, continuing to stare intently into the alien's terror-filled eyes. He was writhing in pain, but strangely enough — he didn't look away from his tormentor.
All of this seemed wrong to Des. Too brazen, too open… He would never have done it like that himself. Then again, the girl was probably alone, and he always had the entire day shift at his disposal, the core of which was now looking at the scene meaningfully. The guys had perfectly understood what he was planning. They were just waiting for his command.
"Oh…" the girl drawled, smiling. For the first time all evening. "I see."
A second later, accompanied by a disgusting crack, the barman's pain-twisted face turned just enough for his deadened gaze to see what was happening behind him. The next instant, the girl released her grip, and the alien's limp body crashed down behind the bar. It did not get up again.
A chill ran down Des's spine.
He had heard plenty of stories about the abilities of the Jedi — including the mythical Force. One of his buddies had recounted a tale that happened to a distant acquaintance of his. The guy had worked on Galidraan about twenty-five years ago, and he told a story about how a few Jedi had shredded some Mandalorians into tiny pieces. Not just any pacifists or mercenaries, but True Mandalorians, for whom war was the entire meaning of life.
His survival instinct forced Des to take a few steps back. The stranger shook her graceful head and slowly swept a heavy gaze over everyone present.
"I'm taking the ark regardless," she warned. "And we can do this the easy way — and then you can leave here disgustingly rich. Or the hard way." A cylindrical object appeared in her hands. About half a meter long, but Des would stake his life that this outwardly harmless toy was deadly dangerous.
But right now, everyone's attention was fixed on the holographic projector lying forlornly on the bar. A three-dimensional image of the recent find rotated slowly above it, allowing anyone interested to examine in detail what they had pulled from the deepest mine shaft a week ago.
"And besides," a voice rang out from the back rows. "We can take your ship and sell our find ourselves on any market in the galaxy."
Des thought in horror that one of his tipsy buddies had just voiced exactly what he had been thinking a minute ago. Only his undying sense of danger kept him from signaling an attack. While the barman was still alive.
One look at his colleagues made it clear they liked this option better. The lust for profit, reinforced by years of titanic labor, the anticipation of a carefree life, had blinded them.
With a soft hiss, a cold golden glow emerged from the hilt of a lightsaber.
"So," the red-haired stranger concluded, "it'll be the hard way…"
The tension reached its peak.
At the same time as the drunken mob rushed the barman's ruthless killer, Des rushed headlong for the entrance.
He didn't care that a fierce blizzard was raging outside, and that death from hypothermia might overtake him long before he reached the nearest shelter.
He was terrified, and ancient instincts demanded he save his own life. After all, he could find plenty of valuables in the mines and get off the planet later.
Alive.
It took him a couple of seconds to cross the cantina and grab the door. His developed musculature needed just one more second to yank open the only path to salvation.
But a lightsaber pike with an amber blade, thrown by a trained hand, cut him in two an instant before the man could do it.
Tracing an arc, the weapon landed in Kira's hand.
Just as the first wave of attackers drew close enough for her to end their worthless lives.
* * *
There was not a shred of doubt in her actions.
Only the efficient destruction of those who stood between her and the completion of her Lord's mission.
If this had happened a week ago, she would have undoubtedly hesitated, trying to find a less bloody way out of the situation.
Now, Jedi dogmas no longer restrained her.
Now, she saw only two dozen obstacles.
Without hesitation, Kira, fully surrendering to the Dark Side, severed limbs, cutting the drunken miners to pieces. From the very first seconds of the slaughter, the air in the cantina filled with the stench of burnt flesh.
The energy blade mercilessly crushed the men, slicing off body parts of all sizes. The cauterized wounds only delayed death — Kira spared no one.
Any survivor was a witness. A threat of exposure.
She would not allow it. Everyone present had to die, and the place itself had to disappear. No traces. After her work, not a single thread would remain that could help those investigating what happened here understand what had really occurred.
Fortunately, this galaxy had no shortage of individuals who could wield lightsabers. Well, and if the blame did fall on the Order…
For a moment, Kira hesitated. Her conscience stubbornly insisted that the Jedi were her family, who had taken in a runaway, taught her, set her on the right path.
The delay was enough for one of the survivors to throw a glass mug at her.
The hit struck her head — the only place not covered by thick clothing and the light armor beneath it.
Sparks flashed before her eyes, and she felt something warm trickle down the right side of her face.
Her nostrils drew in the salty scent of blood.
Her blood.
The girl felt a heat spread through her body.
Rage.
An almost forgotten feeling.
The incinerating wave of the Dark Side swept away all nostalgic memories of her Jedi past. There is no Light Side.
The Jedi will have to accept the Unifying Force — the way she did on Nar Shaddaa. They would all either become companions of the Lord, or die at the hands of the Sith and their puppets.
There could be no other way.
Such was her master's Plan.
The moment the rage seething inside her reached its peak, Kira let it pour out through her fingertips.
Force Lightning, destructive and yet mesmerizingly beautiful, surged forward, filling the entire space of the cantina. The few survivors, struck by the Dark Side technique, fell to the floor, writhing in pain.
Kira breathlessly absorbed their suffering, reveling in it. As she had done hundreds of times during her training on Dromund Kaas, in her childhood. She had escaped the fate of becoming Vitiate's puppet in the past. Now, she served the apprentice of her former Emperor. This was how it was meant to be.
The circle was complete. And she was bound to serve the one who would bring peace and tranquility to the galaxy.
Only after smoke began to rise from the charred bodies, and the stench of burnt flesh became absolutely unbearable, did Karsen cease the execution.
Surveying the scene of the massacre, she noted with indifference that no survivors remained. And if that were the case…
The girl closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the location of the ark in her mind, obtained from the barman's mind.
As soon as the image formed, she thrust her free hand forward. Clenching her fingers into a fist, she smiled as a section of the cantina ceiling collapsed with a deafening crash.
With a casual gesture, she used the Force to clear the dust from the spot where the debris had fallen.
A matte-black box, with precise geometric shapes. A strip of indicators on its side. Paint worn by time and temperature changes… But the contents…
Kira concentrated, directing the Force into the ark's shell. Penetrating through multiple layers of metal and electronics, she finally reached the inner part.
A young woman immersed in stasis. Regular features, a long black braid. Outdated armor over a young body. And a simple ornament on it…
Satisfied with her findings, Kira tucked the lightsaber hilt into her sleeve. Putting on gloves, a mask, and goggles, she pulled her hood over her head.
Then, estimating where the Fury was waiting for her return, the former Child of the Emperor smashed through one of the cantina's walls with a powerful Force Push and leisurely headed for the exit. The ark, caught by the Force, levitated silently behind her.
The mission was almost complete. And that was all that mattered.
The blizzard raging outside the damaged cantina was no obstacle to her. The Force reliably shielded her from the annoying snowflakes. Without any difficulty, under the cover of the pitch-black night, Kira vanished into the blizzard, carrying away the only truly valuable thing on the planet.
Only an hour later, an explosion that leveled the remains of the cantina woke the peacefully sleeping inhabitants. But by then, the Fury, lightened by the mass of two shock missiles, was already rising into the upper atmosphere, hidden from casual eyes by cloaking fields.
* * *
"Despite this, my friends," the Chancellor's hologram rolled his eyes, "the problem cannot be ignored."
Those gathered exchanged glances.
"We understand your concern over the current situation, Supreme Chancellor," Mace replied restrainedly.
"Oh, my friend," Palpatine raised his hands placatingly. "This is by no means my whim. Senator Orn Free Taa gave an entire speech at yesterday's emergency session about the dire situation of his homeworld. And he found plenty of supporters ready to back him on the issue of an immediate military operation to lift the occupation of the planet. Even more agitation in the Senate is being caused by the situation with restarting the droid factories on Geonosis. Believe me, I am doing everything I can to give you time to regroup your forces, but even my efforts are becoming insufficient."
In the silence of the Temple's tactical center, only the hum of communications equipment could be heard. And the grinding of Master Windu's teeth.
The protracted nature of the war was creating more and more points of tension between the Jedi Order and the Senate. Palpatine's supporters were increasingly calling for a swift defeat of the Confederacy's forces and the liberation of the thousands of worlds currently under the enemy's mechanical soldier's heel. Master Windu had tried time and again to appeal to reason, arguing that in the current situation, offensive actions would lead to even greater difficulties. The failed operation on Jabiim, the unending siege of Foerost, the standoff at Atracken — these were stark examples of the consequences of rash attacks.
And now, the Supreme Chancellor wasn't asking, but demanding they strike specific targets. Which couldn't help but strain the Jedi High Council.
However, there was another reason for the cooling of relations between Palpatine and the Council.
The soft, kind-hearted Chancellor was rapidly concentrating more and more power in his own hands. Time and again, as soon as the dust settled from one crisis, the Senate would scream hysterically for the Nabooan to take on even more responsibility. Which he did.
It had been less than two months since the terrorist attack in the Administrative Sector of Coruscant. Four extremely powerful explosions had seriously damaged not only the buildings of the Central and Appellate Courts, but also the Senate Office Residences. Thousands of casualties, chaos, riots… The horror that gripped the Republic's capital was so all-encompassing that no one on the Council was surprised by the emergency Senate session.
Master Windu, who had attended this 'event', looked terrible upon his return. The phlegmatic Korunnai could not find words to describe what had happened. While most issues required the Senate almost years of deliberation, a package of laws to strengthen protective measures on Coruscant and increase government control over public life was passed in the first reading by a majority vote. Even the Loyalist Committee, which included the Order's friends — Bail Organa and Padmé Amidala — supported their colleagues. Which inevitably led to the elevation of Palpatine himself. And this could not help but trouble the masters.
The search for the unknown Sith, whom Count Dooku had mentioned in his conversation with Obi-Wan Kenobi, had yielded no results. Although none of the shadows had abandoned this pursuit, no one realistically hoped to find the instigator of this war in the foreseeable future.
"We cannot agree to this," the Grand Master said in a stern tone. "Fierce fighting is happening across the galaxy. It is difficult to find reserves for offensives."
"My friend," the Chancellor looked sympathetically at the short Jedi, "are you really telling me that we will leave the homeworld of the Twi'leks to be ravaged and allow the Geonosians to continue building their monstrous engines of death?"
"Master Yoda meant to say that the Order is deeply engaged in planning operations in these directions," Windu said coldly. "But at the moment, we simply have no source for a sufficient number of Star Destroyers to both break through the enemy's defenses and land enough army units for ground operations."
Adi Gallia, the third and final master of the High Council currently present on Coruscant, sighed heavily.
For almost a month, the CIS had been testing the strength of virtually all active sector armies. Thousands of enemy starships, millions of droids — and this entire armada had fallen upon the Jedi and the clones. The galaxy blazed everywhere there were hyperspace routes. At the cost of incredible losses, they had managed to contain this enemy offensive of unprecedented scale. Of course, many worlds had to be abandoned, and the thousands killed on the battlefields would be an eternal reminder of the relentless cruelty of war.
But now, when every army was licking its wounds, and the reserve armies were literally drained dry and bloodied in favor of the hardest-hit 'colleagues', carrying out the Chancellor's will — to launch an attack on Geonosis and Ryloth no later than two weeks from now, and finally consolidate their power over those territories — was pure suicide.
"My friends," the Chancellor folded his hands on his belt, "I would be happy to give you time to build up military strength, but the Senate Bureau of Intelligence reports that if we do not intervene immediately, the Geonosians will send tens of millions of droids into their army — and everything we have achieved at such great cost will be in vain. And if we allow the Techno Union to continue oppressing the Twi'leks, we will have to live the rest of our days with the guilt of having starved millions of beings to death in the CIS's concentration camps on Ryloth. I… I am not ready to take on such a tremendous burden."
The Chancellor's voice wavered. The mask of an experienced politician cracked, and beneath it, the masters could see the same kind-hearted senator from Naboo who had tirelessly defended the principles of the Republic.
"The 'Red Tails' have suffered serious losses since the start of the war," Adi Gallia reminded. "The remnants of the sector fleet are concentrated near Exxarg; fortunately, after the second battle, the planet is under our control. But they are clearly insufficient to break the defenses of even one world. In the orbits of either of these planets are full-strength squadrons of enemy capital ships. Moff Ravik has just over two dozen Star Destroyers under his command, and those are heavily damaged, holding the remnants of his oversector's territory."
"The Moff has already reported the current situation," the Chancellor said coldly. "But this doesn't change the overall picture. The failures of the 14th Sector Army command will still have to be examined by a Senate commission. However, this does not relieve us of the responsibility for a swift lifting of the siege…"
"No one understands that better than the Council," Windu snapped. "But the galactic front is literally holding on by its last strength. The first reinforcements for the sector armies will arrive no sooner than in a month — and only after that can we talk about Ryloth and Geonosis."
"Just this morning I had a conversation with the Director of the Senate Security Service," Palpatine narrowed his eyes. "And he presented me with some curious information…"
"Hear it, we would," Yoda folded his hands on the end of his cane.
Together with the other two masters, he silently stared at the Chancellor's hologram, waiting for an answer.
The resulting paradox would have been funny if it weren't so sad.
The Republic's intelligence service as a unified body is a myth.
On paper, of course, it's simple — intelligence, and that's that.
But in practice, what begins is, as they say, a 'circus with horses'.
The Grand Army of the Republic had its own military intelligence — both tactical and strategic. The former, as always, were the clones. Specially trained and conditioned, they were irreplaceable on the battlefield. If a visit to the enemy's rear was needed, the clones went there. The latter were numerous, scattered units, composed primarily of Bothans, who worked undercover in every half-decent corner of the galaxy, gathering information piece by piece. Most of the intelligence on the CIS's planned operations came from them.
But the Senate has its own intelligence service. Headed by Armand Isard. The Bureau of Intelligence works directly for the Chancellor and reports everything to him. It is Palpatine who possesses all the information, and it is his decision whether to inform the army command or the Jedi Council of what his people have uncovered.
However, the war had already shown how unproductive such duplication of work was. About a month ago, a bill was introduced in the Senate, according to which (if you removed all the accompanying 'padding' from the document), after its signing, the Senate Bureau of Intelligence would take over the entire network of Bothans. Unified command in this field would optimize the exchange of information, and consequently, should improve the supply of fresh, and most importantly, still relevant intelligence to the sector armies.
"Isard is confident that strikes against Ryloth and Geonosis are possible within a week," Palpatine said quietly. The Chancellor's eyes followed the masters' reactions with curiosity. Seeing their incomprehension, he continued. "And that includes time for thorough planning."
"No one understands that better than the Council," Windu cut in. "But we need at least a month to prepare a new invasion group."
"I'm afraid we don't have that time," Palpatine shook his head. "The intelligence data is quite clear."
"When the necessary forces appear," Yoda placed both hands on his cane and twitched his ears slightly, "Move out immediately, we will…"
For a moment, silence reigned in the room. The masters' entire demeanor signaled to the Chancellor that he should end the communication session. Palpatine, in turn, looked at each of them in turn, as if he wanted to say something.
"I am afraid," the Chancellor finally said, "that delay will only breed new squabbles in the Senate and discontent with the Order will only grow."
Adi licked her dry lips.
The first year of the war had been, to put it mildly, mixed. Many planets abandoned, millions dead. The keepers of the peace had made incredible efforts to prevent the CIS's droids from breaking through to the heart of the Republic and committing a massacre like those on Jabiim, Mimban…
The public had finally been driven into a frenzy by the terrorist attack in the Administrative Sector of Coruscant. A power failure, chaos, riots… A strike at the very heart of the Republic — nothing was more terrifying to the citizens' consciousness. To understand, in such a blatant way, that the destruction and death of war weren't just happening out there, on the fringes, but could happen here, in the most protected place of the Republic.
"The 'Iron Spear' can help the 'Red Tails' in carrying out these two operations," a new voice interrupted the conversation.
Until now, he had been standing silently by the only window in the hall. With his arms folded across his chest, he looked out at the sunset creeping over the Republic's capital.
Adi looked at the Jedi in surprise. In a black cloak with silver trim, armored from head to toe, the master had remained silent for a good half hour. He had not reminded them of his presence for so long that the master had even forgotten about him. And this despite the fact that the Chancellor had contacted the Council precisely during the report of the newly appointed commander of the 13th Sector Army.
Seeing the looks directed at him, the Jedi walked over to the tactical terminal.
"Chancellor," he gave a slight nod in greeting.
"Glad to see you in good health, Moff," the Tholothian woman noted out of the corner of her eye how the muscles on Master Windu's face twitched at the mention of the Jedi Master's new appointment. "It's pleasant to know that you are thinking more optimistically than the esteemed masters. But if I remember correctly, your fleet was seriously damaged in recent battles and can barely handle its own tasks, let alone support neighboring oversectors."
"Indeed, my army has suffered serious losses — both in personnel and in the fleet. But we have a certain reserve of ships that have not yet been called upon."
"Are your friends from Christophsis ready to give you another entire fleet?" Windu inquired sarcastically.
Master Gallia sighed quietly.
The Korunnai's dislike for the controversial Jedi was widely known in the Council.
Mace did not trust the newly appointed Moff. The latter's rapid career advancement was the subject of gossip for all the Temple's inhabitants — from younglings to masters. And unlike the master, the others saw nothing wrong in the comprehensive assistance of the Christophsis government. On the contrary, in such dark times for the Order, it was pleasant to know that there was a place in the galaxy where Jedi were not only not despised, but immensely adored. It meant that not all was lost for the reputation of the Jedi who were dying by the thousands on the battlefields.
The Tholothian woman sadly thought about the fallen.
In ten months of war, over three thousand members of the Order had died — masters, knights, padawans… About another thousand had gone into voluntary exile in protest against the start of the war and Jedi involvement in it.
Almost irreparable losses.
With pain in her heart, she received every new report of Jedi deaths — and the longer the war lasted, the faster the losses grew. And the emptier it became under the Temple's arches. Gazing at the thousands of younglings, the young master fearfully wondered who would teach them after the war was over.
Without doubt, those who survived the horrors of the war would never be the same keepers of the peace again. Dozens of battles would leave their indelible mark on them, which would inevitably affect the teaching methods for the rising generations.
The Grand Master was right. Dark times had come for the Order.
"No," Dougan undoubtedly felt the undisguised animosity from the Korunnai, but ignored it. "This time, Christophsis is not our ally. It's enough that they've taken on the repair of a significant portion of the damaged ships."
"And building new ones for you," the Chancellor reminded them.
Without a doubt, Palpatine knew about the hundreds of ships laid down on the Rendili slipways under contract from Christophsis. The Council's own spies had reported similar information. The trend of a private entity acquiring an armada comparable to that of several system armies was recognized by the masters as dangerous. But for now, the spies were just watching the situation develop. As long as the ships and volunteers from Christophsis were integrated directly into the 'Iron Spear', it was acceptable to everyone. The army's enormous area of responsibility justified such steps — especially since Hutt Space had always been a source of problems. Of course, a treaty of alliance had been signed, and the bandits strictly observed all its terms on their end. Their services in restoring war-ravaged worlds and supporting refugees were truly invaluable. But few in the Order doubted that the Hutts would attack at the first opportunity. And then, stopping their armadas would require far more than a standard oversector fleet.
"Let them build," Dougan shrugged. "These ships strengthen our squadrons, and without any burden on the oversector's budget. The freed-up funds will always find use in procuring new batches of clones and military equipment. We need many things — medical stations, orbital repair docks… I won't bore you with a list; you know the army's situation as well as I do."
"Indeed," Palpatine smiled. "Let's return to discussing your statement about helping with the attacks on Ryloth and Geonosis. Where are these ships coming from, if the ones in the oversector need repair?"
The Chancellor voiced the question that interested everyone present without exception. Adi readily prepared to listen to the master.
"Sector Command Directive 218-037," the master said. He then explained, "The battle at Kamino cost us dearly. To repel Admiral Merai's attack, we needed to bring in significant forces from the same 14th Sector Army. Three months after that, the sector command ordered the protection of strategically important worlds — including Kamino. Moff Bailur sent almost a third of all his available ships to defend Kamino — a hundred starships, half of which were Star Destroyers. The rest were patrol corvettes."
"Master Shaak Ti reported on this," the Grand Master said thoughtfully.
"I remember the reason for this step," interest appeared in the Chancellor's eyes at Dougan's words. "But only the sector command can dispose of this fleet — the risk of losing Kamino is too great."
"The command used ships from this fleet twice," the Moff continued. "First, to break the blockade of Christophsis, then for Master Windu's attempt to break through to Ryloth to aid the besieged group. Both times, unsuccessfully. The result was the loss of about thirty ships — of the Venator and Acclamator classes. Currently, there are two dozen of the latter and eight of the former in orbit around Kamino, in fully operational condition. These ships can be used to destroy the orbital groupings at Geonosis and Ryloth."
"But then we would put Kamino's safety at risk," Gallia reasonably noted.
"I might agree with the master," the Chancellor said, stroking his chin with his fingers. "It's too risky an undertaking. As soon as the Separatists learn that Kamino is defenseless…"
"This risk is justified by the current situation," Dougan insisted. "The Iron Spear held firm against a far more serious enemy. Our front is stable, and all hyperspace lanes are patrolled by combat formations. There are no major enemy formations in my army's area of responsibility. The nearest large groups are precisely in orbit of Geonosis and Ryloth. So neutralizing the threat they pose is in our own interests. Besides, it's our duty to help Moff Ravik, just as he helped us."
"And yet, it is a questionable venture," the chancellor said thoughtfully. "Kamino would be left open to a surprise attack."
"But at the same time," Windu spoke unexpectedly, "it's a genuine opportunity to strike at the blockaded worlds. If we win, it will calm the Senate and ease the situation on the front overall."
"Perhaps," the chancellor mused. "You know, Master Jedi, there's something to that. The enemy knows our forces are insufficient to strike and won't expect such a risky venture. I'm no expert in military arts, of course, but I believe Moff Dougan's proposal merits consideration, Master Yoda."
"We will deliberate on this proposal," the Grand Master said quietly.
"I trust in your prudence, Masters," the chancellor replied instantly, wearily smiling. "With that, please excuse me. There is a wonderful performance at the Opera tonight. Masters Yoda, Windu, Gallia." He bowed respectfully to each of them, and the Jedi returned the gesture. "Moff Dougan."
For a moment, it seemed to Adi that just before the connection ended, the chancellor had stared at Master Dougan, who stood like a silent monolith by the holoterminal, for a little too long. She wouldn't bet on it, though.
* * *
As soon as the chancellor's hologram vanished, clearing the holographic terminal, silence fell over the tactical room.
Each of those present was lost in their own thoughts, but without a doubt, their minds circled the recent events. The chancellor's request-order couldn't help but be alarming in itself.
Ryloth had been under occupation for several months. Yes, the locals' situation was unenviable, but by no means as critical as the politicians seemed to think. Despite the defeat of Master Ima-Gun Dai's ground forces and the construction of a massive battle droid factory on the planet, the overall situation was far from critical. Of course, a humanitarian catastrophe is a terrible disaster. The convoys with supplies and medicine were far too few to rectify the situation on an entire planet. However, the Order's intelligence was fully confident that the population's strong ties to the criminal underworld were a reliable barrier against the planet's destruction.
In light of this, Senator Orn Free Taa's hysteria about a potential crisis on his homeworld seemed incomprehensible.
"Dark times have come for the Republic," Master Yoda sighed sadly.
"As for the Order, too," Dougan replied. Like an ancient battle droid, he exuded no emotion. But every one of the masters knew how deadly this Jedi was on the battlefield.
Few modern Jedi could boast of killing two followers of the Dark Side at once. Let alone holding his own in a lightsaber duel against Sora Bulq himself... That was worth its weight in gold.
"Master Dougan," Windu said impassively. "You should continue your report on the state of affairs in the sector army."
"As you command, Master," the Jedi said with a slight bow. "At present, we have a serious shortage of personnel and ships. Only a quarter of the mandated strength is operational. Sector Command has approved my proposal to increase the army's authorized strength by another two-thirds..."
"How?" Adi frowned.
"Previously, we operated according to the norms of the early war periods," Dougan explained. "But with the addition of Hutt Space to our area of responsibility, the situation has become more complicated. We have expanded our theater of operations, both through the alliance with them and through victories over the Separatists. To prevent a crisis like at the start of the war, we need to have much more massive army and fleet forces."
"As far as I know, your appropriations haven't been increased," Windu remarked, squinting. "And your advance purchases will go toward paying off loans from Moff Trachta. How do you intend to realize your ambitious plans?"
Yoda remained silent, but his face showed he was interested in the same question.
"I intend to direct most of the funds towards purchasing clones—both line infantry and ship crews. Elder Aisel has informed me that within the next month, Rendili can supply the army with up to fifty Hammerhead-class cruisers. In the same timeframe, Sienar will send us twice as many Marauder-class corvettes..."
"The Council does not approve of your business dealings with that supplier," Windu shook his head. "He's been seen trading with both sides, and that corvette of yours hasn't been approved by the Senate Armament Committee."
"With all due respect to the senators," the Master Jedi said with clear irony, "Sienar's ships have performed excellently in space battles. Their missile armament helps us neutralize the CIS's advantage in small craft. As for trading with the Separatists—that seems to be a matter for military intelligence. Let them figure it out. My job is to look after the army."
"Are these ships reliable?" Yoda inquired.
"They handle the tasks assigned to them, Grand Master. They cost less than any Star Destroyer, but their range of applications is much broader."
"And yet, you haven't abandoned the use of Acclamators and Venators," Gallia recalled, remembering the latest intelligence reports.
"Exactly," the Jedi nodded. "With the lull on the front, I've reorganized my forces, switching to a mobile task force tactic. The flagships of such groups are capital ships—Destroyers or light cruisers. Escort vessels are a pair of Hammerheads and Marauders, plus a medical ship. Such a grouping is quite capable of opposing the main Separatist detachments, which mostly consist of Munificent-class frigates."
"Such tactics won't work if the enemy throws powerful formations against you," Windu objected.
"Precisely why, upon receiving new ships, I will bring my existing strike squadrons up to full strength. They will be the ones to conduct offensive operations in the future. By establishing strongpoints and refueling stations on controlled territory, I will create a deeply echeloned defense network, where strike squadrons are the core and mobile formations are the periphery. Thus, when encountering small enemy forces, the mobile formations can handle it themselves. If we run into large forces, the squadrons will engage."
"You have a large area of responsibility," Windu reminded him. "Will you have enough strength for such actions?"
"At present—current forces are only sufficient for patrols. As I said, most of the ships are under repair, and to speed that up, much needs to be done. But if the delivery schedule for ships and clones isn't disrupted, then the plan will be executed precisely."
"It seems you have a plan for every occasion," Adi smiled.
"War demands being ready for anything, Master Gallia," Dougan bowed courteously in response to the compliment. "I try not to sacrifice my subordinates needlessly. Speaking of which..."
"Is something troubling you, Master Jedi?" the Grand Master inquired.
"It concerns the Jedi assigned to me," he explained. "The best way to demonstrate is..."
He placed an information crystal into the holoterminal's receptacle, and before the masters appeared a recording of a recent battle at the Monastery's relay tower.
Adi watched with horror as fragments from various security cameras showed an armored Zabrak cutting through clones. After the first gruesome Jedi killing, she felt her heart start beating with terrifying speed.
"That is enough," Yoda interrupted the recording. Reaching out a small hand, he took the crystal, which immediately disappeared into his robe pocket. "There is no need to watch this again..."
"You've already seen the recording?" the Master Jedi asked in surprise.
"Intelligence informed us of Count Dooku's new acolyte shortly before the Monastery massacre," Windu said coldly. "We still know little about him, but his affiliation with the Separatists is beyond doubt."
"In less than half an hour, he destroyed two companies of clones, blew up the CIS communications tower that was supposed to be used to hack the enemy's communication systems," Dougan listed. "And... without any mercy, killed Coffi Aran, Justus Farr, Bultar Syon..."
"We are aware of the losses," Windu interrupted him. At that moment, Gallia understood her colleague-master better than anyone. In war, cases of so many Jedi dying in such a quick battle were rare. The only thing worse than what happened at the Monastery was the tragedy on Jabiim, where, according to rumors, local loyalists were still resisting, surpassing the bitterness of the loss.
"I would like to begin a search for this acolyte," Dougan voiced his thought. "The sooner we stop him, the sooner we end his atrocities. And under my command, I have a well-proven group led by Knight Sia-Lan Wezz, which..."
"That is for the Council to decide," Windu cut him off. "You already have enough assignments without taking on another..."
"As you command," Dougan bowed submissively.
"Finding this killer will not be easy," Yoda frowned. "A Master is needed here."
"Allow me to lead this mission," Adi Gallia voiced her recent thoughts.
No, Dougan was right in his own way. After Palpatine's election as Supreme Chancellor, Sia-Lan had gone with her team members—Rorworr, Vor'en Kurn, and Dil Sarul—to the snow-covered planet Palurne to find a Sith temple there. The team discovered ruins possibly inhabited by Dark Side creatures or cultists and reported the find to the Jedi High Council. The subsequent cleansing allowed the Republic to eliminate another threat from the ancient enemy.
Over the next decade, Wezz prepared for the trials to become a Jedi Knight. Shortly before the Clone Wars began, Wezz and her team went to Corellia, where they successfully, without casualties, prevented the assassination of Senator Alastar Trin from Corulag by CIS agent-mercenaries.
After that, the foursome went on missions together many times. They launched attacks on commando droids and criminal bosses, uncovered the activities of bounty hunters living in the Royal Hutt Hotel, and clashed with deadly Tuskens on Tatooine. Once, they were ordered to investigate the disappearance of an arsenal ship responsible for disposing of battle droids left over from the invasion of Naboo. The search led them to the space station Kwenn, where they defeated several reactivated droids. They also prevented Korann from becoming the first Core World to secede from the Republic. Rorworr's team investigated rumors of Separatist activity on this small industrial planet and discovered a droid factory there.
Of course, the team didn't always act according to the Jedi Code. For example, they got into brawls in cantinas with gangs of Aqualish and Rodians, for which Wezz received a serious dressing-down from the Council. It was unknown how their fate would have unfolded if the Grand Master hadn't ordered Wezz placed under Dougan's command. It wasn't said openly, but by sending Sia-Lan to the active army, the Council was confident the team would follow her and add many more victories to their record.
But going up against a killer... Yoda was right—that was above their level. This required "heavy artillery"several Masters and senior Jedi. Only a well-prepared, experienced group of Jedi could find and neutralize this threat.
The Zabrak was clearly at the beginning of his journey into the Dark Side. His rage gave him power, but it was blind, uncontrollable. Once Dooku "polished" his new assassin, he would become a terrible threat to any Jedi.
"I have no objection," Windu voiced his opinion.
"You will need help in this matter," Yoda pronounced. "Perhaps you have candidates for this search?"
"Siri Tachi is currently in the Temple," Adi recalled. "I'll speak with her."
"Isn't she involved in the mission on Genian?" Master Dougan's question was laced with surprise, as if he was so confident in his information that he didn't hesitate to confirm it with the Council.
Windu looked at the Jedi with extreme suspicion. Even Yoda couldn't hide his interest. It was understandable—the mission to seize Talezan Fry's decoder on neutral Genian, for use at a secret base—a listening post for CIS communication channels on Azur—was top secret. It would have been carried out if not for the destruction of the communications center at the Monastery. The Council believed the device for "ice cutting" would be most effective on Separatist equipment. So the equipment was delivered to the Temple for subsequent transfer to the Monastery. The fateful events had put an end to an excellent plan. Now, all the Order could do was use the mechanism on Azur.
"A secret mission this was," Yoda noted justifiably. "Or at least it was."
"My apologies, Masters," Dougan immediately faltered. "The thing is, I was planning to ask you to send this Knight and her Padawan to my army, to replace the fallen. But I heard in the hangars that she was on an assignment..."
"The Temple Guards should strengthen security," Yoda squinted. "Otherwise, our secrets will cease to be such."
"I will personally see to it, Grand Master," Windu volunteered, not taking his suspicious gaze off Dougan.
"Since circumstances have turned out this way," Dougan seized the opportunity, "may I request her transfer to the 13th Sector Army?"
"I will consider this decision," Yoda said wearily. "Knight Tachi may lack the strength for success in the search. We should inform Obi-Wan."
* * *
The last two jumps of the XS-class freighter named Dangerous Twi'lek had been made at its limit. A brief check-in with the astrogation beacons showed the blind jump had brought them to the edge of charted space. Unexplored, wild territory. Not a place you'd expect to run into patrols or random traders who, given a favorable opportunity, instantly turn into pirates.
In theory, no military ship commander would risk his vessel chasing some freighter. Even though a caravan of five light freighters, which Jorj Car'das had been leading just an hour ago, was being pursued by a corsair in the service of the CIS, it was unlikely there was a complete idiot on board. Continuing to chase a paltry smuggler into uncharted territory was the height of stupidity. At least, that's what the ship's owner thought.
So far, the theory wasn't working. The pirate had intercepted them in orbit of Chalcedon, from where they were supposed to make a series of jumps to their designated target. And there shouldn't have been any CIS ships here at all—after all, this was the backwaters of the galaxy, and the boundary of the 19th Sector Army's responsibility.
And while Jorj was figuring things out, the enemy dangerously closed in on the caravan. Already sensing something was wrong, the Corellian ordered the call signs, with which the employer's representatives had thoughtfully supplied them, to be broadcast.
And at that very moment, from the depths of the surprisingly agile ex-passenger liner, streams of turbolaser fire poured forth. Right after came dozens of starfighters cobbled together from scrap metal...
He preferred not to engage the insolent fool, though he could have easily turned his people around and blown the bastard to atoms with all five ships. The caravan was already behind schedule, and they probably wouldn't be patted on the head for delivering their cargo late.
So, Jorj decided to use the old smuggler's trick—zigzag, making jumps to various worlds in nearby space to throw the enemy off the trail. It made sense. There was no need to get into a pointless fight, and damage could be avoided...
However, they were already waiting for him in orbit of Cerea.
A whole squadron of Munificents, a dozen matelots strong. And clouds of starfighters.
The skirmish was short but intense. Losing two ships, torn apart by CIS starfighters, the thinned-out caravan, though it managed to "pluck" the enemy by unleashing a volley of proton rockets, retreated to Trenwit.
That cost them another ship—an ambush was waiting there too. But this time, Jorj felt his fallen colleagues were avenged—in a desperate burst, the smugglers managed to destroy one Banking Clan frigate with assault missiles.
But the trend was very, very grim... If they kept making jumps into even vaguely familiar systems, they'd be bound to run into a more serious opponent. Odds were, the smugglers had stumbled upon a lurking Separatist group operating on the Republic's borders.
Having lost his last companion, Jorj no longer doubted that escape required desperate measures. There were perfectly understandable reasons to equate a blind jump with an incredibly stupid idea.
Which was exactly why he made a jump to random coordinates.
Dropping out of hyperspace near the Rattatak system, the Corellian almost relaxed. And he nearly paid with his life when a CIS ship emerged from lightspeed right behind him. Accurate fire destroyed one of his turrets, vaporizing the compartment where the second pilot, who was acting as gunner, had been.
To the soundtrack of turbolaser fire, swearing in a mix of Huttese and Corellian, Car'das made another random jump.
Since that memorable meeting on Myrkr, the smuggler had gotten to know his new ship well enough. And he understood that such "stunts" would negatively affect the hyperdrive. Possibly even destroy the focusing lenses...
Well, Corellians always tested their luck. To the last drop.
The motley sky of hyperspace had barely shattered into thin lines, eventually transforming into a familiar starfield. A tiny, distant disc of the local star shimmered directly ahead with a yellowish-white gleam. Mentally preparing for the worst, Car'das cast a cautious glance at the sensor panel.
With a short flash of light, an old acquaintance emerged from hyperspace—a modernized starliner. The Corellian sighed in resignation: he was too tired even to let loose with creative swearing. Well, it had been heading this way. He couldn't shake the enemy off his tail—the temperature in the hyperdrive's cooling loop had been beyond the permissible limit for a while. But he simply refused to accept the fact that a rusty pirate bucket could track him. No such technology existed!
Then, it dawned on Jorj. The thought was as simple as it was wild.
There's a beacon on board. It couldn't be anything else! But who, and most importantly, when and on which planet had planted it?
Could this compromise his routes? Did the enemy know about the mysterious planets where he and his comrades delivered their sealed cargo?
Rage began to boil inside the Corellian.
Like hell I will! I'm not giving up! Choke on it, you bantha-dung, seps!
Imagining how he would hunt down the bastard who had set up this trap, he diverted all power to the sublight drives. The freighter shot forward, rapidly approaching the unknown planet. The second jump had carried him deep into Wild Space. No wonder the navigation computer was silent. There were no familiar constellations here, so he and his enemy were in the same boat. Except his freighter had more modern scanning equipment.
And he knew this planet's magnetosphere would hide him from orbital scans. And hiding on a planet was the easiest thing in the world.
The enemy was already launching a swarm of its undersized starfighters. If he had working weapons, he'd take care of them in a few minutes—before the raider even caught up.
The freighter was already in the upper atmosphere, starting its search for a secluded hiding spot, when the scanner detected a powerful energy emission.
"Hutt," Jorj grunted, throwing a quick glance at the display, all while wrestling with the control yokes to survive the atmospheric turbulence. There was clearly a power source here, nestled somewhere in the middle of an equatorial forest, about a quarter of the way to the planetary horizon. "Bad. Very bad."
Generators like that aren't installed on anything smaller than a decently sized base. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, that meant either a smuggler base or a pirate base. Or even a research outpost set up by the CIS fleet—they weren't lurking in nearby space for nothing. Whichever it was, he doubted whoever lived there would be happy to see him.
Still... Car'das bit his lip thoughtfully. Those fighters behind were getting closer by the minute; even if he started landing the Twi'lek right this second, they'd still intercept the ship reactor's emission before he could shut it down. But if he first flew closer to the second power source, it might confuse the pursuers' sensors, and maybe he'd get a decent chance to slip away.
Either way, it was worth a try.
He had already reached the forest edge and was flying at treetop level when the scanner noted one of the pursuers falling like a stone. It soon became obvious the pilots hadn't spent enough time honing their atmospheric maneuvers. Still, he had almost reached the unknown power source. The settlers had undoubtedly been alarmed by the approaching ships. And if organizing a welcoming committee wasn't in their plans...
A few moments later, the freighter was zooming past a clearing, and Jorj caught a glimpse of a single tiny house, resembling a shed with a couple of metal hulls attached to one side.
Then he was over the forest again, racing towards a line of riven hills emerging from behind the trees. Ahead, there was a perfect gorge, with trees sporting incredibly massive crowns growing on its rim. Steering the ship there, Jorj allowed himself a smile—none of the pursuers showed up on the scanners.
The trick had worked—perhaps the only thing that mattered in such circumstances.