In a sealed room, fresh air runs out very quickly.
Especially when the occupied space isn't very large, and there are more beings in it than there should be.
Like scavengers, they had to hide here, at an abandoned transport network station. Very deep underground. But at the same time, close enough to their main target — the capital.
The stern, courageous faces of the underground fighters expressed only courageous unity — each of them seethed with hatred, both for the corrupt government that had suddenly sided with the hated occupiers, and for those who had extended a helping hand in a difficult moment. But their goal remained unchanged — independence for their homeworld from any corrupt authorities or external pressure from the Republic, or the Confederacy, which was little different from it.
The meeting place was a wide platform bordered on both sides by a monorail — once, trains were supposed to run here, but the officials responsible for the construction had stolen more than usual. So for the last two years, the station remained merely a room with a finished platform, high ceilings, and several rows of columns on each side bordering the tracks. There were supposed to be only two exits from here — each located on the "narrow" sides of the station, leading to the surface. But after relentless bombardments, one of the entrances had been blocked by rubble, and clearing it was unprofitable. However, the collapse site had become an ideal part of the composition for the rare speakers addressing the gathered crowd. And the crates of weapons and ammunition stored in the unfinished tunnel branches served as a reliable guarantee that at the right moment, with blasters raised, the underground could tear their planet from the hands of the damned occupiers.
The only entrance, also the exit — a staircase blocked by a heavy blast door, masked on the surface by the ruins of a collapsed building. But those who knew what to look for always found the hidden entrance. And the cover group in the neighboring ruins could always shoot any unintelligent being who wandered in by accident. To keep them from interfering with the brothers-in-arms gathered below.
And the reason for their gathering here — all who remained alive — was far from routine. From the moment their underground organization was founded until now, never before had it been on the brink of destruction. And this, after such a tremendous triumph!
"Brothers!" Their Leader appeared on a small platform before the assembled crowd — a former guardsman who had rallied them during the Separatist occupation, and hadn't stood aside after the actual occupation of the world by the Republic. "Listen to me!"
The last was unnecessary — no one here was talkative, and they always respected their leader's words.
"Our allies in the government have brought bad news," a wave of poorly concealed hatred rippled through the assembled ranks. "The enemy has decided to strike at us. To deprive our homeland of its loyal sons and daughters in pursuit of absolute control."
The speaker's words reached the ears of each of the hundred gathered. The high ceilings, like acoustic amplifiers, carried what was said to every corner of the base.
"Our ally in the government has reported that they plan to summon mercenaries to our planet, who will hunt us like predators! As if we don't already have enough of those thugs who teach our youth to kill and send them into space to fight for the Republic's interests!?"
Zho Ptar was getting seriously worked up. Shouting slogans and curses at the heads of the hated Jedi, he smiled inwardly.
Yes, they were few, but every single one was an experienced fighter. Those who hadn't considered it shameful to support his contact with Count Dooku and ask for help. The noble lord hadn't refused, and the former militiamen who remained loyal to the former guard captain welcomed the opportunity to spite the enemy.
No one was counting the casualties from sabotaging the "Golan" defense platforms, or those who died disabling ground-based anti-aircraft artillery. The dead would be remembered by the survivors. And everyone knew that if they died, their sacrifice wouldn't be in vain. Their death in the name of freedom would open the eyes of hundreds of others — and then, maybe in a year, they could strike.
The meeting place was a wide platform bordered on both sides by a monorail — once, trains were supposed to run here, but the officials responsible for the construction had stolen more than usual. So for the last two years, the station remained merely a room with a finished platform, high ceilings, and several rows of columns on each side bordering the tracks. There were supposed to be only two exits from here — each located on the "narrow" sides of the station, leading to the surface. But after relentless bombardments, one of the entrances had been blocked by rubble, and clearing it was unprofitable. However, the collapse site had become an ideal part of the composition for the rare speakers addressing the gathered crowd. And the crates of weapons and ammunition stored in the unfinished tunnel branches served as a reliable guarantee that at the right moment, with blasters raised, the underground could tear their planet from the hands of the damned occupiers.
The only entrance, also the exit — a staircase blocked by a heavy blast door, masked on the surface by the ruins of a collapsed building. But those who knew what to look for always found the hidden entrance. And the cover group in the neighboring ruins could always shoot any unintelligent being who wandered in by accident. To keep them from interfering with the brothers-in-arms gathered below.
And the reason for their gathering here — all who remained alive — was far from routine. From the moment their underground organization was founded until now, never before had it been on the brink of destruction. And this, after such a tremendous triumph!
"Brothers!" Their Leader appeared on a small platform before the assembled crowd — a former guardsman who had rallied them during the Separatist occupation, and hadn't stood aside after the actual occupation of the world by the Republic. "Listen to me!"
The last was unnecessary — no one here was talkative, and they always respected their leader's words.
"Our allies in the government have brought bad news," a wave of poorly concealed hatred rippled through the assembled ranks. "The enemy has decided to strike at us. To deprive our homeland of its loyal sons and daughters in pursuit of absolute control."
The speaker's words reached the ears of each of the hundred gathered. The high ceilings, like acoustic amplifiers, carried what was said to every corner of the base.
"Our ally in the government has reported that they plan to summon mercenaries to our planet, who will hunt us like predators! As if we don't already have enough of those thugs who teach our youth to kill and send them into space to fight for the Republic's interests!?"
Zho Ptar was getting seriously worked up. Shouting slogans and curses at the heads of the hated Jedi, he smiled inwardly.
Yes, they were few, but every single one was an experienced fighter. Those who hadn't considered it shameful to support his contact with Count Dooku and ask for help. The noble lord hadn't refused, and the former militiamen who remained loyal to the former guard captain welcomed the opportunity to spite the enemy.
No one was counting the casualties from sabotaging the "Golan" defense platforms, or those who died disabling ground-based anti-aircraft artillery. The dead would be remembered by the survivors. And everyone knew that if they died, their sacrifice wouldn't be in vain. Their death in the name of freedom would open the eyes of hundreds of others — and then, maybe in a year, they could strike.
The attack coordinated with the separatists nearly failed when the Republic fleet entered the system. At the very last moment, instead of landing troops, the CIS commander had to cover their tracks and bomb the intended bridgehead that Zho's people had prepared for them. Thousands of civilians died at the hands of secret avengers so that no one would learn about the landing. But it all turned out to be in vain.
Republic reinforcements crushed the CIS forces in space, and the original plan had to be abandoned. And to keep the city's purge from being exposed, Zho requested a bombardment. After all, who could later sort through the rubble to tell whether a given traitor — someone who agreed to work with the occupiers — had died from an airstrike or a shot to the back of the head?
But under the cover of the bombardment, containers of weapons were dropped in the designated squares, disappearing that same night into the depths of the underground base.
Everything seemed to be going perfectly. But the truth found its way to the surface — the government learned about Zho's group's activities. And according to information from a reliable source, the occupiers planned to enlist the support of mercenaries who would find and destroy the insurgents.
Despite his experience in guerrilla warfare, when Zho created the underground, he refused to use encrypted transmissions to communicate with his comrades. Each of them waited for a personal order, delivered by couriers in one way or another.
And critically important information, he shared at gatherings like this one — when all the brothers were here and no one...
Behind the armored door — the only entrance — a barely perceptible sound rang out. As if something enormous had crashed against the bulkhead.
Those gathered grew restless, exchanging glances. What could it be? A random malfunction in the opening mechanism, or some piece of debris falling from above?
"Mito," Zho contacted the cover group commander on the surface without a moment's delay. Short-range transmitters helped maintain contact with the guards, who were supposed to raise the alarm if anyone appeared within several kilometers of the base.
But no such signal had come. Which meant everything was clean up top. Then why was Mito silent?!
The sound repeated, but this time much stronger.
A minute later — another. So powerful that fine dust rained from the ceiling.
"To arms, brothers!" Zho barked the order. The command coincided with the fourth, strongest blow. After which a tense silence fell.
Despite the order given, the insurgents froze, as if afraid to move. As if outside there was something — or someone — capable of detecting their movements.
But on the other side of the armored barrier, there was only darkness.
"Mito, answer!" Zho said with poorly concealed rage. Yet, as before, the answer was silence.
Which, a second later, was broken by a horrifying screech that made everyone present clamp their hands over their ears.
It sounded as if metal was being torn. Slowly, deliberately. As if someone could derive perverse pleasure from such a thing.
That was enough for the bewildered insurgents to rush to the arsenal. Snatching up the uncomfortable but simple-to-maintain E-5 carbines of separatist manufacture, the rebels quickly took their positions, aiming their weapons toward the presumed point of entry.
The screeching coming from the bulkhead became unbearably ear-splitting. But with those sounds came the understanding of what was happening.
The bulkhead mechanism worked vertically — pressing a button on the panel would cause a massive hydraulic system to lower or raise the multi-ton barrier. And once it reached the bottom position, four thick cast locks hidden in the thickness of the wall's ends would engage. These mechanisms, manually operated from inside the station, provided additional protection in case someone managed to breach the hydraulic systems — one primary, two auxiliary, and one backup. Two extra layers of defense in addition to those four...
Four...
Suddenly, Zho understood what those dull sounds from outside had meant.
But before he could say anything, the enormous rectangular bulkhead, its bottom edge gouging the floor covering, under the force of something unknown — like a hinge held by locks on either end — slammed flat onto the ground with a deafening crash, kicking up clouds of dust.
A refreshing breeze mixed with dust poured inside. So thick that nothing could be seen more than a few meters ahead.
A quiet clang rang out — as if something heavy and clearly metallic had fallen onto the fallen slab. But what it was couldn't be made out.
Then, like lights from the underworld, at about human height, two bright yellow optical sensors ignited in the mangled doorway.
"Joyous observation. There you are, meatbags," the dust settled a little, and in the doorway, like a titan blocking the way out, stood a protocol droid of unknown design. In the lamplight, its paint — like ubiquitous rust — seemed to Zho like old, caked blood. The droid held a heavy rifle in its hands, which it instantly brought to a combat position and aimed at the nearest insurgent. "Mocking warning. Do not move, meatbags. You will remain here regardless."
And then, true hell broke loose inside the underground station.
* * *
Sitting on the massive stone steps leading to the abandoned station, Vette was frankly bored. Piercing screams reached her from below, and sometimes even blaster bolts flew out, but the Twi'lek was positioned above the line of possible fire, so after the first dozen random shots, she stopped paying them any attention.
She was genuinely bored.
While the insane assassin droid rampaged below, she passed the time cleaning the carbon scoring off her blasters.
Finally, about five minutes later, the bacchanalia ended. The screams, the shouts, the shooting — all of it stopped. From below, out of the unfinished station that had become a tomb, only the metallic footsteps of the killer could be heard.
Measured, unhurried, the death machine climbed upward. Like a piece of poodoo, dragging behind it by one leg — held by a manipulator — the tanned, slightly portly man. The reason they were here.
"Caustic remark. You owe me a hundred credits. I finished faster than seven minutes."
"You're a droid!" Vette protested. "Why do you need money?"
"Patient explanation. I need to pay a taxidermist so this meatbag's head doesn't lose its shape."
"You're going to carve him up for a trophy?" the Twi'lek grimaced with disgust. An unpleasant smell came from the unconscious body. Apparently, the underground leader had soiled himself when he met HK-47.
"Sincere surprise. Are there any orders from the master forbidding this?"
"No, but... What the hell do you need a piece of his body for?"
"Clarification: I am an assassin droid. My primary function is to blast holes in the meatbags the master wishes removed from the galaxy, master. Oh, how I hate that term!" At the end of the tirade, the droid threw up its hands, sending the not-so-light body of the prisoner briefly into the air, where it fell to the ground with a disgusting thud. "Irritation. Organics! You have all those squishy parts. And all that water! I have no idea how that constant sloshing doesn't drive you insane! I'll have to dry him out thoroughly to get rid of that bothersome liquid."
The smell of filth became unbearable, and the girl covered her mouth with her hand.
"What the hell did you drag him up here for anyway? The order was to kill them all."
"Feigned offense. You are an ungrateful meatbag. You want me to do the butchering down there? What if someone objects?"
"Then go ask them," the girl chuckled, pointing at the dark maw of the passage leading to the underground station.
Simultaneously with those words, a powerful explosion rang out from underground, nearly knocking her off her feet. But the nimble droid caught her by the arm, preventing her from landing on her rear. And a massive section of ground above the station's location collapsed with a monstrous roar, filling the void that had formed.
"Distressed regret. I would ask permission from one of the leaky meatbags down there, if they hadn't just been vaporized."
Imagining what had happened to the people underground after the fuel-air explosive that HK had brought on the mission went off, the girl felt a wave of nausea. Now there weren't even bodies left — not even molecules. It was a good thing they'd left the ship a considerable distance from the target and had managed to get far enough away after completing the mission.
"Sardonic remark. Don't you want to bring this meatbag around?"
Vette turned away with a curse, bending over so the contents of her stomach wouldn't splatter her suit.
* * *
Consciousness returned the moment he felt his right knee flood with pain. With monstrous screams, Zho came to, finding himself lying on his back in the middle of the Wasteland — that's what they called the areas of Christophsis unsuitable for cultivation or any use. Usually, they stretched for thousands of kilometers around any inhabited settlement on the planet.
The sun blazed into his eyes, but almost immediately he made out the droid's shadow above him — that terrifying death machine that had moved like it was charmed among his people, killing them one by one. Its actions made Zho admire the killer — it moved gracefully, efficiently. Like a ballerina who slits throats and takes scalps.
And now, under the right foot of this monster lay what remained of Zho's kneecap. At some distance from them, on all fours, stood the Twi'lek, noisily expelling the contents of her stomach.
Zho felt a needle from a pneumatic syringe enter his neck. The next moment, his body seemed to lose its nerve endings, and the pain receded.
"Explanation. I injected you with a stimulant, meatbag, so you would answer my questions. Is that clear?"
"Y-yes..."
"Exclamation. Wonderful! Finally, I can talk to someone who isn't afraid of blood loss!"
Zho licked his dry lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pool of blood spreading around him from the wound where his knee had been — the droid still stood there. That meant he didn't have long. He was the last of the resistance — this droid had wiped out everyone. Which meant its master would certainly review the recording. Zho would die as a freedom fighter should — unbroken, with a slogan on his lips.
"Requirement. Tell me everything you know, meatbag. And then I will allow you to die quickly. Irritation. Although I would prefer that you run from me — I need to calibrate the targeting module."
"Y-you'll get nothing out of me!" Zho blurted out, gathering his meager saliva and spitting onto the droid's armor. Unfortunately, a random breeze carried the insulting moisture back onto the insurgent's face.
"Anticipation. Say that I can torture you to get the information I need!"
After these words, the sounds from the Twi'lek grew louder. And the intensity of her spasms seemed to increase.
"Do what you want!"
"Joyous observation. Excellent!" The droid stepped onto his second knee. Through a haze of oblivion, Zho felt echoes of pain. The stimulant was probably wearing off.
"Coward!" Zho hissed. "Our fellow citizens will awaken from this stupor, and righteous wrath will roll over you like a boulder tumbling down a mountain! Kill one of us — two more will take his place. Hydra Dominatus!..."
* * *
The spasms released Vette as soon as she heard the insurgent's last words. Something like a battle cry, or a slogan. She needed to find out what was what.
The girl got to her feet, turning toward HK and his prisoner. Just as the droid's metal foot slowly lifted from the crushed chest of the man, whose terror-stricken gaze was fixed on the Twi'lek. Bloody foam still bubbled on his lips, making Vette feel the familiar urge, and she dropped to all fours, thin streams of bile expelling from her empty stomach.
"Mocking remark. I'm not hearing any sounds of hydro-domination or rolling, meatbag!"