Shea opened her eyes the moment a quiet rustle reached her ears.
Years of continuous "experience" as a bounty hunter had instilled in her the habit of always staying ready. After all, any sound, however familiar, could ultimately prove deadly.
The rustle came from the direction of the main hold's entry hatch. Someone outside was carefully fiddling with the magnetic lock on the bulkhead. Obviously, the door's drive was already disabled — all that was needed was to overcome the magnet, slide the heavy bulkhead aside, and there it was — the cargo before them. And that absolutely could not be allowed.
"Kenny, we have guests," she said quietly into her comlink. The drone's communication system was connected to her comm device's frequency, so the ever-present guard on the corvette's bridge was now alerted.
"Already aware," he echoed. "I sent voltage through the hull, but they're in armor suits, similar to yours. Plus they quickly found and cut the wiring. I think there are two or three of them. All armed to the teeth."
"The night is no longer languid," the girl smirked.
The former Mandalore rose silently from the bed in the medical bay, where, despite the availability of other free bunks, she preferred to sleep. In full combat readiness. With a practiced motion, she placed the helmet on her head, connected the armor's computer system, and selected the infrared spectrum on her visor. A short walk to the hold, checking the tibanna charge in both blasters on the way, confirming it would be enough for a small war.
Time to prepare for the guests.
With an experienced eye, choosing a favorable position relative to the enemy's point of entry, Shea crouched behind one of the large containers, blasters at the ready.
Three minutes of annoying fiddling with the door lock dragged on. Shea was angrily considering whether to go help them. But finally, they managed it. The night darkness, illuminated by the moon's glow, flooded the cargo ship's hold.
And simultaneously, the first of the "thieves" entered. Yes, the drone hadn't lied — these were genuinely Mandalorians in full beskar'gam. And with jetpacks on their backs. She'd be interested to see whoever trained these fools. And break a couple of his...
Immediately after, without any interval, a second followed — also with a blaster at the ready. Shea waited a few seconds to rule out any more unexpected acquaintances. But no one else appeared. The pair, however, turned out to be curious enough to start rummaging through one of the containers with precious contents.
Shea smiled. Well, what could be simpler.
* * *
There might have been a cantina older than this one in this part of the Outer Rim, where Torch now sat, observing the sparse patrons from the darkness of a private booth. But no establishment in the galaxy could boast such a dense concentration of the finest mercenaries.
The spacious single-story building, which now held about twenty locals besides herself, had in former times been literally packed with mando, whose armor bore the marks of countless victories.
It was here, almost four thousand years ago, that a messenger from Darth Malgus had found her and offered a tempting contract, which turned into an attack on the Coruscant Jedi Temple, the sacking of the Republic's capital, and numerous slain jetiise.
Recalling the details of that operation, Shea allowed herself a smile.
Much time had passed since her return to Manda'yaim, but only today could the former Mandalore the Avenger afford to carve out time to rest. However, even while spending time in a cantina, she was still doing her job.
The journey to Mandalore was not simply a return home for her.
Traveling to the Mandalorian Sector was a kind of return to her roots.
She hadn't been home since the Second Galactic War.
At first, the war demanded she constantly be at the front lines, then... events took such a rapid turn that nostalgia had to be forgotten.
Even in the service of Valkorion, Torch hadn't managed to carve out a moment to get here. And after Set Harth took over most of the work, she spent most of her time in carbonite.
And now, the same work had finally fulfilled her long-time dream.
The planet made a... oppressive impression on her.
She remembered Mandalore with its ancient capital, Keldabe, as a vibrant, flourishing world, chosen by the ancient ancestors of her race — the Taung — as their home. Settlements built in the skeletons of terrible predators — mythosaurs — dotted the picturesque landscapes. Few mando liked to live in cities; most families or clans preferred their own small settlements somewhere in the wilderness, far from annoying neighbors and the noise of cities.
Now, only ruins remained of that former glory.
Lifeless deserts where not a single tree or blade of grass would ever grow again.
The dilapidated hulks of cities — those that hadn't yet been abandoned and deserted by their inhabitants.
Back on Christophsis, using the HoloNet, she had learned about the Mandalorian Purge.
A little over seven hundred years ago, the jetiise, fearing new wars with her people, had launched a preemptive strike. Orbital bombardments of the mando'ade worlds — Concord Dawn, Ordo, Fenel... Millions killed on a simple whim of those sensitive to the Force.
The Jedi, after thousands of years, had seized the moment — caught the Mandalorians by surprise when they were weak. And settled old scores...
The Republic could insist all it wanted that it was necessary to prevent future wars. Knowing the warlike nature of her people, they had no doubt that once they regained their strength, they would remind the Republic who the best warriors in the galaxy were.
After Ruusan, the Republic no longer had an army or fleet capable of waging full-scale war. Having defeated the Sith, they — and primarily the Jedi — decided that the threat had passed, and the final step before eternal peace was to break the spine of Mandalorian militarized society.
The Republic wanted to annex Mandalore to its territories to gain the legal right to dictate to its people whatever place it deemed fit. After the Purge, they imposed a Provisional Government on the sector, composed entirely of pacifists. Proclaiming themselves "New Mandalorians," they set about building a "civilized" society modeled on other Republic worlds.
Building a new structure without clearing the site of fragments from the old foundation was unwise. And Duchess Kryze's government was playing with fire by promoting pacifism without dealing with the militarists.
"Death Watch" an extremely radical group bent on the armed seizure of power in the sector. The only thing saving Mandalore from civil war was the foolishness of the "Watchmen's" own actions — people, regardless of race, had never been quick to follow terrorists who killed not only enemies but also civilians.
Presumably, the leaders of "Death Watch" weren't very intelligent people if they couldn't figure that out over the years of their organization's existence.
Shea had visited the Oyu'baat more out of habit. The most famous cantina of the Mandalorians had from ancient times been a refuge for the best of the best among her people's soldiers. Moreover, the leaders of numerous Mandalorian clans had gathered here from time immemorial to discuss significant events. From here, the campaign of Mandalore the Ultimate had begun.
It was symbolic if she could find recruits here to break the spine of the Republic and the jetiise who stood in its defense.
However, the longer she spent here, the more she realized that her mission had become even harder. At least half of it, given the recent changes to the assignment.
These people... they were merely bio-waste, incapable of being called Mandalorians. The traditions of millennia had been thrown in the trash — and here, in the Oyu'baat, it was painfully clear.
As an ardent adherent of the Resol'nare — the sacred law for every wearer of beskar'gam — Shea had great difficulty restraining herself from redecorating the faces of those present with her crushing combat gauntlets.
Wear armor. Speak one language. Raise and educate new Mandalorians from children. Protect yourself and your family. Support your clan. Answer the first call of the leader of all clans — Mandalore.
Six actions, sacred to every Mandalorian. But not to those she saw before her.
Men and women, indulging in Corellian whiskey in the cantina, conversed with each other in Basic. Dressed in simple fabric uniforms, without the slightest sign of weapons, they boasted to each other about having recently completed some computer project for the Duchess's government, which resided in the new capital of the planet — a huge, domed city.
These people would not take up arms to rally under the banner of a true leader and defend even their own homes — let alone conquer the galaxy.
At that moment, she was a little envious of Vette — she had secured the support of an entire clan. She was their leader — and the clan would unquestioningly obey her will. They, without a doubt, were also not mando.
"You'd better hide your beskar'gam better," a young man — about twenty-five, no more — appeared in her field of vision. Thin, with a ridiculous beard, in a simple cloak, he seemed to have seen much in his life — impossible fatigue had stamped his face like a brand. Sigal. They had already met in the "MandalMotors" tower.
Dougan had demanded she obtain the developments of Mandalore's shipbuilders in the field of mass drivers. But the company's owner had only laughed in her face. Sigal, his assistant, had been present at the meeting, fully supporting his patron.
"'MandalMotors' is not interested in trading its secrets. The ones we still have," the distant descendant of General Zenlav — the company's founder — explained to her in parting. A pompous, self-absorbed bastard. Dirt under the fingernails, unworthy of attention. Bargaining with him was pointless, and Vizla left the company's office — a hundred-meter tower in the very center of Keldabe.
And she was very surprised when, two weeks later, Sigal contacted her and arranged a meeting. Here. Now.
"I don't need protection and I'm not going to hide my faith in the Six Actions," Shea explained briefly.
Wearing beskar'gam on Mandalore was prohibited by law — yet another absurd pacifist initiative. But in reality, the Duchess's power was limited to the capital — the rest of the territories supported her only when their interests aligned. Unfortunately, on the issue of unconditional disarmament, every single governor of the worlds in the Mandalorian Sector was in solidarity with her. Wearing armor could get you serious jail time and a trip to the far mines.
In Keldabe, they turned a blind eye — given that the government was nearby. So, Shea didn't particularly hide — her spacious black cloak reliably concealed her suit and jetpack. And the hood pulled over her head prevented the curious from seeing her helmet. But the boy, apparently, had spotted the gleam of beskar — either during the meeting or now. An observant lad, in that case.
"Commendable diligence," without even asking her opinion, Sigal sat down at the table, positioning himself to her right at a respectful distance. The darkness hid his face from the rest of the cantina, but not from Torch. An interesting way of communicating. "But it's not customary here. The legacy of the past is rejected and under a ban. The last ones to preach it are 'Death Watch.' And they are killed without question — as soon as they are spotted."
"I'll keep that in mind," the girl snorted. "Is that why you arranged the meeting?"
"No. You interested me."
"Sorry, kid, but my heart is already taken. Find yourself a younger girl."
"It turns out you can joke," Sigal smiled. "But my interest is of a different kind."
"Then you can find yourself a man for the night over in that group," she nodded toward the cluster of bio-waste celebrating their vague success. "It seems the bigger one is just the type for boys."
"Um... I'll keep that in mind," the boy hesitated. His face showed that Shea's assertive communication style had thrown him off balance. That's what happens when someone rehearses a conversation with someone in their head, and from the first minutes of actual interaction, everything goes off-plan. "But you've misunderstood me again."
"I will keep humiliating you until you pull your tongue out of that pile of crap it's in and start talking business," the Mandalorian woman explained.
"Oh, well, alright," the boy licked his dry lips. "I'm ready to help you."
"Thanks, but I clean my own armor, and you can keep licking your boss's rear. Otherwise, you can't be useful to me."
"In that, you are mistaken," a smile appeared on his face. "I looked into you a bit."
"Go on," fortunately, her hands were hidden under the folds of her cloak — without a sound, she aimed a blaster at her interlocutor's stomach under the table. No one was allowed to blackmail her. "Did you learn something new for yourself?"
"Our company's security service is the best in the sector. But even they couldn't find any information about your identity."
"Should I pity them for their incompetence?"
"Not necessary, they don't care. I'm just explaining why I took it upon myself to study your identity myself. And in that, I have no equal."
"Well then, entertain an old woman with your story."
"It's all very prosaic. You appeared out of nowhere — in the middle of the Battle of Christophsis. The locals managed to take a few pictures of you and uploaded them to the HoloNet. Along with your name. Quite strange for someone who adheres to the Resol'nare to serve a Jedi."
"You're confusing the concepts of 'serve' and 'cooperate.' Be careful, boy, you're stepping onto thin ice."
"I know. One meeting with you is already a risk for me. It would take nothing for you to pull the trigger and smear my guts across the walls. Yes, don't look so surprised — I know about the blaster under the table. Just like I know that you once commanded the Christophsis Self-Defense Forces."
"Go on."
"Actually, I've already finished. I couldn't find out anything else — and I tried. You're not running from the war, like many of the Duchess's supporters. And for some reason you needed mass driver installations. I'll venture a guess that you're acting on orders from your 'ally.'"
"Interesting reasoning. But so far I haven't heard anything useful for myself."
"I'm getting to that. You won't get any military technology from MandalMotors — not for the enormous sum you offered my partner, and not through industrial espionage. I also wouldn't advise attacking our headquarters — our security is top-notch. It would be sacrilege to damage such a rare piece of beskar'gam. You know, I love history. And if the chronicles don't lie, the armor you're wearing was made by its owner in a single copy. An insanely expensive alloy of beskar and neutronium — it must be hard to carry such weight."
"If you weren't such a weakling, you could have gotten your own."
"What can I do," the young man spread his hands. "Every clan has its black sheep. In the Beroia clan, that's me."
Because she had her helmet on, the boy couldn't see her roll her eyes.
After the Eternal Empire's invasion, the leader of her people — Mandalore the Proven — had kicked the bucket. The clans, as they had hundreds of times before, scattered and ceased to be any kind of significant force. Shea had picked up the fallen banner of leadership, calling herself Mandalore the Avenger.
The Beroia clan were the first to join her war against Zakuul. They never questioned orders, always fought to the last. Their loyalty was undeniable. And even after the Eternal Alliance fell, the Beroia remained faithful to her. Only a direct order from Shea, who had accepted Valkorian's offer, forced them to return to Mandalore.
An interesting coincidence. Just like thousands of years ago, her Path had crossed with the Beroia again.
"Your words don't explain why your patron turned down a hundred million credits for what I need."
"Oh, it seems you haven't been to Mandalore in a long time."
"Quite a while. I see you're eager to enlighten me. Go ahead — don't test my patience."
"Three years ago, the company fulfilled a large private order — over a hundred Kom'rk-class fighter-transports. On the surface, an ordinary deal. But the Duchess's people found out that the client was Death Watch. A major scandal broke out — the head of the corporation nearly ended up in court. But it all ended with less bloodshed — they had to fire the entire development team, who almost immediately disappeared from the sight of any agencies — including our own security service. Though even without that, it's known that they joined Death Watch."
"Is that so? Never happened before, and here it is again?"
"I understand your sarcasm. I felt the same way."
"And then what?"
"The company paid a huge fine. The government imposed sanctions — and now we can't produce or develop military technology. The slightest deviation from this requirement — and we all face the mines. Excuse me, but what are you doing?"
"Checking if I'm wearing a vest. Turns out I'm not. Then I don't understand — why are you crying into it?"
"Just clarifying the situation for you."
"Since when don't companies sell under the table?"
"Since the head of the corporation became a member of Death Watch. I don't know the details, but not a single one of our 'black market' sales happens without their permission."
"Interesting. It's starting to look like the mission can't be completed on any front. Although... since when are guards born who can stop me?"
"You came here to complain about fate?"
"Not at all. I think I can help you."
"Interesting. How?"
"You see, I'm not just Zenlav's assistant, but also a co-owner of the company. A junior partner, to be precise."
"So you have access to the technology and can sell it to me?"
"Again, I have to disappoint you. I only handle administrative and economic activities. Access to research is limited to the heads of divisions and the owner of the company."
"You're starting to bore me."
"I'm getting to the point. The thing is, Zenlav has no relatives — his wife died a few years ago, no heirs. His parents died long ago too."
"So what?"
"If, say, Mister Zenlav were to disappear, with a lethal outcome, of course, that would make me the head of the corporation. And consequently — as a return favor, I would grant you full access to our research bank. Believe me, besides mass drivers, there's a lot of interesting stuff there. For example, we have an excellent repulsor tank design, compared to which Kuat's TX-130s are just some kid's backyard project."
"Shut up."
"You're interrupting my thoughts."
There was no dilemma before her — to end the founder's line of the company. If that was required to solve the problem of acquiring the technology, she would do it.
Another matter — what would the consequences be?
She wasn't about to trust this little runt — he was an ordinary corporate schemer. Concepts of honor and his word meant nothing to him. And it could all turn out that after the hit, he would turn her over to law enforcement — just to avoid fulfilling his part of the deal.
Unlike a standard contract, where payment was upfront, here she was playing with fire by agreeing. And she could get burned badly.
Failure was unacceptable — it was already hard enough to find mercenaries in the sector. And she had been planning to hire them to deal with the Christophsian rebels.
She had used the standard method, employed for thousands of years — she posted a request in the local section of the HoloNet. Random people couldn't access it — only those connected to this business. Random clients weren't allowed either.
But a lot of time passed, and no one had responded to the offer.
"What are the guarantees?" she inquired.
"I thought you understood that in such matters, there's no written document," Sigal allowed himself a slight smile. "But you're right, you don't have to trust me. Still, you won't find a better option — just like you won't find mercenaries to storm our office. That's why you're hiring them, isn't it?"
"Your awareness is unsettling."
"Oh, it's simple. I've been looking for a suitable candidate to solve the issue of my promotion for a long time. But since the Duchess came to power, all the worthwhile mercenaries have left the sector. I heard many went to the Hutts — they always have work in their line."
"Hmm... Doesn't it bother you that you'll be the first one suspected of involvement in your patron's death?"
"Well, you'll have to make sure I'm not exposed — otherwise you'll get nothing. Do we have a deal?"
"Boy, do I need to remind you that you're dealing with a very dangerous Mando?"
"That's exactly why I came to you."
"Pretty words. Pray I don't have to wrap your vocal cords around my fist later."
"I assure you — I have no such desire."
* * *
"Not a good time or place for a meeting," Vizsla snapped, barely stepping through the office door. The strong face of the governor of Concordia — Mandalore's moon — expressed a mix of irritation and fatigue.
Another pointless meeting at the Duchess's had just ended. Where the governor's arguments had again been ignored.
"Stupid woman," Pre thought. "Does she really think she can hold power with her tales about a new era for the people? A galaxy-wide war is the best time to build up our strength and take what is rightfully ours. But no, she decided to continue the policy of isolationism. As if that will stop anyone from intervening in the sector!"
"Good to see you," Vos Zenlav half-rose from behind his massive desk to show respect to the only person in the government who truly deserved it. "Have a seat. We need to talk."
They had known each other for over ten years — at the start of his political career, the future governor and the young owner of the corporation had met in Keldabe at a gathering of clan leaders. Despite their youth, both stood at the head of their respective groups. Pre — a clan that could not accept the Duchess's pacifism, Vos — dissatisfied with the decline in orders at his factories.
On the grounds of dissatisfaction with the authorities, they found much in common. And over time, the discontent only grew — just as their friendship strengthened.
"Got anything to drink?" the politician tossed out, settling into a chair.
"Coming," the head of the corporation saw nothing wrong in personally pouring his visitor some premium alcohol.
Handing over a half-filled glass, Zenlav returned to his seat.
For a minute they were silent, enjoying the drink. Each thought about something personal. But the general direction of their thoughts was the same. Both had serious problems.
"Is it really that bad?" Zenlav inquired casually.
"Worse than it seems," Pre snorted. "She's simply incapable of seeing the big picture. Pirates have appeared in the sector, raiding our settlements, several ships have been captured. A supply convoy went missing — that's almost a billion in losses."
"And what does she say?"
"As always. Called on everyone to be restrained and not give in to provocations."
"Idiot."
"Completely agree. She's sure it's the work of the CIS and is ready to bury her head in the sand instead of repelling the attacks. Just think! Mandalore suffers from pirates! My ancestors would burn with shame hearing that."
"And the truth?"
"I had a talk with Dooku yesterday. He assured me that whoever these pirates are, he has nothing to do with them."
"And you believe him?"
"I have no choice. Our alliance is based on trust."
To successfully oppose Satine's government, Vizsla, as the head of Death Watch, had entered into a secret alliance with Count Dooku, the leader of the Separatists, who promised to help seize power in the sector.
Together they devised a plan to spread disinformation in the Republic's systems about Mandalore joining the Confederacy, the goal being to force the Republic into a military occupation of the planet and then paint it as the aggressor. Could there be any doubt that the Jedi, as soon as they obtained any credible evidence, would immediately send troops to capture the sector? Would Kryze's militia be able to withstand the pressure of a professional clone army? Not a chance.
The intervention would cause mass hysteria and unrest. The Jedi would be reminded of their past sins, and the people, every single one, would rise up to fight the invaders. In such a situation, the professional fighters of Death Watch, who would rush to liberate their home alongside the CIS army, would become heroes-liberators, and the transfer of power to Vizsla would go smoothly. And then... who would care that the governor of Concordia was the leader of Death Watch? History is written by the winners.
The first phase of the plan succeeded — rumors of Mandalorian belligerence multiplied and reached more and more worlds every day. And the samples of Mandalorian weapons that hit the market, in the hands of CIS mercenaries, only reinforced the legend. Soon the Republic would finally wake from its slumber and send troops. And then the wheel of retribution would spin at full speed.
Mandalore would return to its roots, cast out all the scum beyond its borders, and then, with fire and sword, sweep through the worlds of its ancient enemy.
The pirates operating in the sector were, of course, bad. But not terrible. They could be tolerated — for the sake of further undermining the Kryze government's authority. It would be easy to deal with them — Vos had enough in his arsenal. Yes, the days of the Basilisks were gone, but the future belonged to Death Watch and MandalMotors' developments.
Pre was already familiar with his friend's work. The fighter-transports were good, but not suited for a line battle. Only for raiding and sabotage behind enemy lines, when you needed to drop in a heavily armed group.
Mandalorians of the past hadn't cared much for ground vehicles. However, war had proven that without tanks and heavy artillery, there was nothing to do on the battlefield.
Just like in space — without well-armed ships.
The criminals the government exiled to Concordia had long been working for Pre, mining beskar in abandoned mines. It was stored in secret warehouses, but at the first need — he would transfer all the supplies to Zenlav and his people. And then the Jedi would remember what it was like to fight an enemy that had beskar on its side.
"You said the company had problems," the governor recalled.
The entrepreneur nodded, draining his glass.
"Two months ago, I had a conversation with a private individual. They were interested in our developments in the field of mass drivers."
Vizsla tensed. Such technology gave Mandalorians an undeniable advantage on the battlefield. And it was arguably the main weapon on designed ships and ground vehicles.
"Them? It was a woman?"
"Judging by the voice — yes. And she's wearing beskar'gam."
"Too suspicious," the governor didn't even consider the possibility that it might be one of his people — the only ones who dared to violate the demilitarization law. And if so, a new player had appeared on the field.
"Did she specify which installations she needed?"
"Shipboard ones. Exactly the ones Hypernetics plans to install on the new battleships."
"That can't be a coincidence."
"She didn't specifically mention that model, but she was interested in the blueprints, not the weapons themselves."
"Hmm... And who is she?"
"That's the most interesting part. She introduced herself as 'Shea Vizla,' but the security service couldn't find anything on her. Except that her armor is very ancient."
"Any smith can make a replica of old armor if they have at least a blueprint or a picture."
"I thought so too. You know, she offered me a hundred million for just the schematics," the friend chuckled. "Pretty expensive for a simple mercenary, which she undoubtedly is."
"You think she works for someone?"
"I'm more than sure of it. For someone rich enough that a hundred million is no big price for advanced developments. And not in credits — in aurodium. I almost drooled when she showed me a few bars — each worth around a million. Consider how much money you need to build a ship with such an installation — it's not easy unless you're building ships at our yards. And it turns out that the potential client is obscenely rich."
"Then it's hardly a Kryze spy — the budget has a hole big enough for me to fly an entire squadron through. She couldn't afford even one such bar. So it's someone new."
"Or old, just working carefully."
"You mean that 'Mandalore the Resurrector'?" Pre chuckled.
The rumors that a small group had appeared in the sector, commanded by this unknown, had only amused Vizsla when he heard about it. An unknown, out-of-nowhere Mandalore? And he actually thought people would follow him? Very funny.
"Exactly. He's ambitious enough for that."
"But too poor," the governor added. "His 'supercommandos' are armed with whatever they can get, fly around in junk, and his base — well, there basically isn't one. Some kind of tent camp."
"Well, whoever is behind her, her arrival made the little one stir behind my back."
Pre raised an eyebrow in surprise.
So that's how it was. So Sigal Beroia was actually something after all.
More than two hundred years ago, this clan had managed to acquire almost a third of the company's shares — business failures of one of the current head's ancestors had opened the door for new investors. They had risen quickly and taken a place beside the head of the corporation. Pre had no doubt that the boy intended to change the company's leadership — never mind that Vos was infertile and couldn't leave an heir. And the damned new laws didn't allow the head of the sector's largest company to follow ancient traditions and take an adopted son who would bear his name and continue the clan's work. However, the man was in his prime, so all he had to do was wait for a change of power and everything would be fine. There was a candidate for adoption, and raising a worthy successor from him was something the descendant of General Gustav Zenlav could do like no other.
He just needed to get rid of the annoying Beroia boy.
"What did he do?" In principle, it was possible to try to cause him trouble through legal means — the imperfection of Mandalorian laws made that easy.
"He met with her at Oyu'baat. My people couldn't get close enough, but the talk was about removing me from my position. In the most lethal way," Vos smiled. He wasn't afraid for his life — the company's security consisted entirely of Death Watch fighters, and they were the best soldiers in the sector.
"Did you find out if she's local or a freelancer from outside?"
"She arrived on her own ship — some ancient wreck, but heavily armed. She spends her time wandering around the city — through the old quarters."
"Maybe we should pay a visit to the ship?"
"We tried. Didn't work out well. Anyway, I sent a couple of people at night to scope things out. None of them came back, and they were supposed to be back by morning. And they were some of your best men."
"And you weren't afraid that questions would start about your employees' disappearance? Or that if they were captured, it could be traced back to you?"
"Why would it be traced back to me?" Vos asked in genuine surprise. "The mission was disguised as a Death Watch operation. Two men in armor and with your weapons..."
"You're setting me up big time, Zenlav!" Vizsla barked. "My men shouldn't be doing that kind of operation!"
"But in case of failure, no one could connect them to me. As it is, it's just some vague Death Watch mission. Maybe they wanted to steal the ship or sabotage the spaceport?"
"Or conduct reconnaissance on an enemy spy's ship," Vizsla snorted, already calculating how to spin this story after seizing power. Mandalorians love heroes, so their failure (and success for the disappeared group was out of the question) would serve as a good legend for the others.
"This mercenary is extremely dangerous," Vos sighed. "Probably the most dangerous of all those left in the sector. It's no wonder Sigal approached her — there are no other takers. You'll laugh — there's a posting on the net for hiring Mandalorians. The pay is more than I make in a month. It's definitely the work of my junior partner — that's how he found this Mandalorian woman. Judging by the posting date, he's been looking for a killer for me for a very long time."
"So the pup has cut his teeth," Pre grinned. "His last stunt — leaking the fighter data — caused a lot of trouble."
"Yes, and a lot of expenses."
"Calm down, almost all that money went to our cause — squeezing credits out of Kryze for Concordia's needs is easier than shooting a CIS droid. Your losses — six new mines for Death Watch. But it's a common cause, isn't it?"
"Exactly," Vos smirked, taking a sip of his drink. "And soon it will..."
Pre felt hot drops land on his face. He opened his mouth in surprise, watching Zenlav gasp.
When the time came, Death Watch would sweep him away as a radical criminal.
"Why not deal with it now?"
"To what end? Deprive Kryze of another chance to show her incompetence?" Vizsla grinned. "No, let her drink this cup to the dregs."
The comrade refilled the empty glasses.
Pre accepted his with gratitude and raised it in a salute. The head of MandalMotors followed his friend's example.
"This is the Way," Vizsla solemnly uttered the ancient Mandalorian saying. But now it had been forgotten — only adherents of the old traditions would occasionally use it in their speech. As a symbol of reverence for the culture of the Six Actions.
Vos smiled. He couldn't openly show his affections, but Pre forgave him some deviation from tradition — for the sake of the cause he was driving toward victory every day.
"This is..."
The descendant of the ancient general didn't finish.
Pre felt a hot liquid hit his face, splashing like a fountain. Instinctively, he closed his eyes at that moment, and when he opened them a moment later, he made several discoveries at once that sent him diving to the floor.
First — bloody shreds where his old friend's head used to be. Fragments of skull and brain were scattered all over the office, indicating the enormous kinetic energy of the weapon used.
Second — a neat hole in the transparisteel of the window behind Vos. With a trained eye, Pre traced the possible direction of the shot — a massive figure in full Mandalorian armor. It took a few seconds to realize that the shooter was wearing the symbol of Death Watch on his chest. And the armor looked like what his men used. Even the jetpack that roared to life, carrying the shooter away from any possible witnesses.
Third — a large-caliber rifle with a massive barrel. Clearly a firearm, still in use in the Outer Rim territories. Despite its great stopping power, such models of death machines were not widely used — with the introduction of personal shields and armor, such specimens lost their relevance. Except that they were sometimes still used to kill unprotected targets.
Fourth — the shooter was definitely recorded by external surveillance cameras. In a state where in the past almost every citizen had jet equipment, the security of high-rise buildings necessitated such measures. Pre cursed furiously. Vos personally controlled this area of building security, and even if he contacted his people this instant, they wouldn't have time to wipe the disks on which the recordings were being written. And removing them from the building when law enforcement was about to arrive was the height of idiocy.
Pre slammed his fist against the table leg in frustration. The brat Sigal had actually managed to do his deed. There was no doubt — this was his doing. And the cunning bastard had decided to frame Death Watch to divert suspicion from himself.
"You little bastard," Pre hissed inwardly. "You don't have long to live."
For now, he needed to look after his own skin. Cursing in the language of his ancestors, Pre Vizsla contacted law enforcement via his comlink.
* * *
A week later, Shea was drinking in the same cantina. Sure, she could have changed her hangout spot, but that would require a good reason. And she didn't have one.
Plus, the food and drinks at Oyu'baat were always the best on all Mandalore.
Sipping a low-alcohol cocktail through a straw, the woman was enjoying her cool drink when a familiar figure, still in the same black cloak, appeared before her as if from thin air.
"Good to see you in good health, Shea Vizla," the boy was noticeably more lively than at their last meeting. A grin from ear to ear, practically glowing with happiness. He brazenly sat down across from her, blocking her field of view and fire with his body. Idiot.
"And you, don't be sick," the girl said, pulling away from her drink. With a nod of her head, she signaled the boy to move aside. He did. "What brings you here?"
The man hid his hands under his cloak for a second, then produced a small rectangular black box. Carefully pushing it toward Shea, he grinned.
"This is everything you were interested in. In minute detail."
"Thank you," Shea moved the infochip into a pocket on her belt.
"Oh, I should be thanking you," the boy leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms over the back. "Everything worked out perfectly. Of course, the investigation is still ongoing, but I'm not a suspect. The cameras caught a Death Watch gunman with a firearm. He tried to disappear into the abandoned areas of the residential sector, but law enforcement managed to damage his jetpack. He managed to hide somewhere in the poor district — you know those huge semi-underground complexes with tiny rooms? No? Well, now you do. It took the police almost an hour to search the building — and they found him unconscious in one of the rooms. Apparently, he crashed through a wall during the fall and broke his spine. Too bad he can't be prosecuted," a look of sadness appeared on the boy's face. It looked almost genuine.
"So now law enforcement is busy with Death Watch?"
"What? No. The police don't have the resources or the manpower for that. They found the killer — case closed. They offered condolences to the company's staff."
"With this approach, you could start a full-scale war on the planet, and they still wouldn't find the culprits," Vizsla snorted. Blatant incompetence, which worked in her favor.
"I hope it doesn't come to that," Sigal darkened. "At least not in the near future."
"Will anything change?"
"Absolutely. You know, I've creatively rethought your idea about mercenaries," the boy admitted. "And I've decided to completely replace the security of my company and its subsidiaries."
"Why?"
"The man who shot Vos Zenlav was our employee. Turned out to be a member of Death Watch. Obviously, the organization crossed the path of some powerful people somewhere," Beroia smiled. Hints so vague that only a complete idiot wouldn't understand them.
"I don't care," the girl shrugged. "I got what I wanted.""
"And even more," the sector's newest major entrepreneur assured her. Noticing that Shea Vizla's helmet under the hood had turned in his direction, he added, "I took the liberty of supplementing the information on the chip with a detailed description of what my company can provide you... and those behind you. As I mentioned during our last meeting — our products can compete with many galactic leaders in heavy engineering. My predecessor worked actively in this field — for a not entirely suitable potential client."
"Don't bullshit me, kid," Shea snorted, setting the empty glass aside. "Even with a change in leadership, under the current government you won't be able to start producing military equipment."
A slight look of bewilderment and confusion froze on Sigal's face. As if he realized he'd overthought his own conclusions.
"That's under the current government," he added quietly. "It seems to me that your employer, since he can afford to secure the loyalty of such a fine subordinate as yourself, can solve the problem. It's not much different from the previous one."
Shea grinned.
The kid, for all his flaws, could have become a useful Mando in his time — back when Shea herself was in power. Yes, he wasn't strong in open combat, and ruthless training was unlikely to make a true warrior out of him.
But he was cunning and calculating enough to carve his own path to power with that innocent face of his. Under different circumstances, with the same directness he'd just shown in suggesting she change the sector's leadership, he could command soldiers. For the sake of strategic victory, he wouldn't shy away from any means. Even personal merit — which was valued among the followers of the Six Actions.
"I'll pass your words along to whoever might find them interesting," she promised. "If necessary, we'll get in touch."
"But you don't have my comlink frequency," the young man objected, seeing the girl rise from the table. The meeting was over; both sides had fulfilled their obligations to each other. No point in staying any longer.
"I do know where to find you, Sigal Beroya," nodding to him in farewell, Shea Vizla tossed a few small coins onto the bar counter and walked out of the cantina.
* * *
The streets of Keldabe were dark. The government had set such high tariffs on electricity that everyone who valued the extra credits in their pocket preferred to save money, plunging their homes into the light of ancient flame lamps. A time-tested method used by no fewer than a hundred civilizations — since time immemorial, slow-burning candles made from nerf fat had been far cheaper than the services of state energy companies.
For the same reason, not a single lamppost was lit along the entire route from the cantina to the spaceport. And the reason wasn't even that many of them stood with broken light panels, like monuments to countless fights or vandalism. It was simply that no one saw the point in powering a half-empty city when all life had clustered in the new capital — Sundari. And those who couldn't afford the luxury of living there — well, the resources of a dying world weren't enough for everyone.
The choice was as simple as a blaster shot. You either depended on a pacifist government, or you were left to fend for yourself. And don't be surprised if, on the gloomy streets of Keldabe after sunset, a couple of headhunters showed up looking to line their pockets with whatever you had.
But there was another side to this situation. Few would risk messing with you if they saw a blaster on your belt.
That played into Shea's hands when she was disposing of the bodies of the unlucky Death Watch fighters.
She killed the first one by shooting through the thin fabric armor between his helmet-covered head and chest plate. A pierced neck doesn't let you live long.
The second one was quicker, though. But no smarter. In a cramped space, he tried to use his jetpack to gain an advantage by rising to the ceiling. A tactic Mandalorians had used for a very, very long time. Unfortunately, no one had told him that in an enclosed space, you didn't get much of an advantage that way. But breaking something when activating the pack — that was easy.
He damaged his jetpack. Unlike the armor, it didn't have any beskar to speak of, so it deformed on impact and stopped working. And crashing from a height of three or four meters onto armored containers packed to the brim with aurodium — that didn't do your health any favors either.
Disarming a prisoner was a matter of a couple of minutes. Wearing beskar'gam had one unpleasant consequence — a hard blow to the head would definitely give you a concussion. That was what Shea's plan for capturing a "tongue" was based on. While he was trying to get up, she'd already taken both his blaster pistols.
A strong kick from her armored leg to the head of the Death Watch soldier, who was on all fours, knocked him onto his back. Another concussion. His movements slowed, so she, without much hurry — and the droid had appeared in the cargo hold, coming from the medbay — approached the enemy.
When taking prisoners for interrogation, the main thing was to remember that not everyone was willing to survive torture. And if there was a chance, the prisoner would definitely escape. She wasn't about to allow that.
Two swings of the vibroblade, and the chest plate and back plate clattered to the hold floor. With a precisely calculated punch to the back, Shea Vizla robbed him of any ability to move his limbs. Howling in pain, he discovered in horror that he couldn't feel anything below his neck.
Crushgaunts had been banned after the Mandalorian Wars for a reason — in the hands of a skilled user, they maimed as badly as a thermal detonator. But Mandalore the Avenger wasn't particularly interested in any conventions that reduced her lethality on the battlefield.
He wasn't a very talkative prisoner, so it took several days to get him to talk. Water torture, as always, helped extract the most intimate secrets. About the company head's orders. About the conflict between the leaders of MandalMotors. About his membership in Death Watch. The droid, present at the interrogations and often participating in them, methodically recorded everything he said.
Much of it had no value in the current situation, but it would certainly come in handy later. And when the company guard started saying that besides the boss, the junior partner had also asked them to find out who she was, the plan was born on its own. Disunity at the top — a lucky way to achieve what you wanted. If one disagreed, the other would help. It was unlikely the Death Watch soldier, choking on his own urine (well, she wasn't going to waste drinking water on him), had lied about the young partner's ambitions. And after the woman promised to spare the prisoner's life and deliver him somewhere he'd get help, he started "singing" about everything he knew. Listening to his stories about the relationships within Death Watch, Shea could only marvel at what rabble joined it, since a fervent representative of theirs so easily took the word of the one who'd broken his spine.
In the end, she kept her word — at night, before the operation, she moved him to an abandoned poorhouse. Realizing during the ride, tied across the speeder, that they weren't taking him to the medical sector at all, the prisoner got worried. But it's hard to say anything with a gag in your mouth. And at night, even the local thugs had enough sense not to mess with a swoop driver wearing Death Watch armor.
Leaving the prisoner in blissful oblivion — after two blows from the crushgaunts to his temple, he had no chance of coming out of a coma — Shea, after cleaning an assault rifle from her stocks on the corvette, fulfilled her part of the deal.
And there was about a kilometer left before she reached the Defender, which the droid had been repairing, and set off back with her prize.
Shea kept to the middle of the street to avoid breaking her legs on the scrap metal lurking in the shadows along the edges.
An ordinary person would hardly have noticed them. Even someone wearing ordinary beskar'gam — the same. But her armor was made by her own hands, and no one in four thousand years had managed to learn all its secrets.
And now, watching in infrared light the people who'd come around the corner of another dilapidated building, she activated the surrounding space scanner with a smirk. Yes, they were alone, without support. Apparently, Death Watch's leadership underestimated her. Especially if these were at least as good as the previous two.
Shea winced. The second Death Watch soldier's body was still lying in the corvette's freezer. Naturally, she'd have to get rid of it as soon as the ship reached the stratosphere. But first, she should strip the armor off him — even if it wasn't fit to lick her own boots, it was still a war trophy.
A fraction of a second before it happened, a feeling of impending danger came... and of where it was coming from. Three silhouettes were moving toward her: two were coming head-on, and the other was attacking from above, using a jetpack. Shea had time to think with disappointment that these idiots had been trained by the same person as the first two. Because the delusion that a jetpack was a panacea in any situation seemed extremely widespread in this organization.
Shea dodged the attack line with a roll to the side, just as the third of the group decided to fire a rocket at her. The explosion was powerful, but the armor's composition allowed her to avoid a concussion.
A short burst at the ground pair forced them to leave the line of fire in search of cover.
"Mandalorian," the droid's voice sounded in her ear. "We have an urgent call."
"Bad timing," the girl replied, activating her wrist console. "I've got a small scuffle here with some idiots from Death Watch."
"No wonder. Do you need my help?"
"Yeah. Shut up and warm up the engines."
A faint hum behind her was evidence that the repulsor pack had activated. Perfect.
Shea Vizla tore off her now-unnecessary cloak and channeled additional energy. Soaring upward, the girl instantly oriented herself. The pair was still on the ground, and the third was stupidly turning his head, searching for a target. Well, no need to keep him waiting.
Shea fired several blaster bolts at the enemy, forcing him to move through the air. The next second, estimating the location of the other two, she extended her arm in that direction, releasing a series of grenades.
The pair, as soon as they saw the enemy attacking their comrade, didn't hesitate to take advantage of the situation, activating their own rocket packs. In another situation, that would have given them the chance to overwhelm Shea with numbers. But for that, their enemy would have had to be dumber than the one they were facing now.
An assortment of grenades — fragmentation, high-explosive, ion — detonated as soon as two new targets entered their kill zone. Motion sensors linked to detonators — one of the few tricks Shea kept in her head. This — and much more — were the reasons no one ever serviced her weapons.
One of the enemies was shredded by small but razor-sharp fragments — for a man encased in beskar armor, no more than an annoyance. But for a rocket pack, a real disaster.
Losing fuel, in clouds of smoke and fire, one of the enemies went into an uncontrolled fall. The second turned out to be smarter. Having felt the heat of the high-explosive grenade, he accelerated simultaneously with the shock wave that hit him, so the ion warhead's explosion not only didn't short out his systems but didn't cause any damage at all.
The third enemy, after receiving a precise shot from Shea into his weapon, tried to rush into hand-to-hand combat, but took a kick to the head from the girl, who spun wildly in place around an imaginary axis, and flew off to the side, disoriented. Too bad it wasn't downward.
Now she had only one enemy left. Armed with two vibroblades — apparently, he'd lost his blasters somewhere during the ascent — he hesitated, obviously expecting support from his other comrades.
Shea leaned to the side, avoiding a burst from the ground — without looking, she launched a series of high-explosive and shaped-charge projectiles in that direction. Their total area of effect was significantly larger than what a man, even without the extra weight of armor, could cover in the time he had left. As soon as the explosions rang out, a desperate howl came from the flames, turning into an agonizing scream. One down.
The enemy who'd been thrown aside regained control and rushed at her, simultaneously spraying her with yellow bolts from his weapon. The second, also not losing his composure, charged at her with his vibroblades.
It's hard to be wooden up to the waist. Especially on the upper half.
Shea timed it and released a long, flexible cable at the enemy. Its metal core was practically indestructible — as was the tip, made from an alloy of a dozen metals. Piercing straight through the blaster-wielding enemy's shoulder, the hook securely locked on the exit side. Shea squeezed her fist twice — the electronics kicked in, and the wounded enemy, against his will, began to move toward her. His attempt to resist, by intensifying his pack's jet stream, tore Shea from her spot, causing the second enemy to fly past, managing to slash her vambrace with his blade. No big deal.
The girl twisted, firing a precise shot that pierced the pack of the enemy who'd flown past. With a scream, he plummeted down.
One left. Bleeding profusely, he furiously tried to cut the cable with his vibroblade while she was busy with his friend. Predictably — unsuccessfully.
Shea wound the cable around her arm, causing the enemy pain. He lunged at her with his knife, only to be intercepted. A short struggle — and his own vibroblade went into his throat.
The last one.
With a practiced motion, Shea detached the tip from the cable, letting the body slide down. Connecting both parts of the weapon, she used the winch again and returned it to its place. A quick check showed the infochip was still there.
Looking around, she noticed several onlookers watching the fight from house windows. Staying in the shadows of the buildings, they thought she didn't see them. Fine, you're not dangerous.
Unlike the two medium-sized light ships heading her way. Definitely friends of the ones she'd just killed. Well, so be it. Smirking, the girl turned to face the spaceport and, increasing her power output, rushed toward the ship.
Vaulting over the buildings, she landed on the permacrete base of the pit that served as the ship's landing pad.
Disabling the repulsors, from a height of just over a meter, the girl landed on both feet. A short run — literally five or six steps — to absorb the inertia. And now she was under the ship's massive hull.
"You're keeping me waiting," the droid remarked. "The ship is ready for flight."
"So what are you waiting for? We've got pursuers."
"Well, if you don't want to be inside the ship when I lift it into the air — then I just wasted time waiting," Kenny noted sarcastically.
Shea Vizla wearily waved her hand at the droid, quickly climbing the ramp into the corvette's interior. The droid followed her.
It took the partners a minute before the onboard computer executed the pre-launch algorithm. The hydraulics returned the ramp to its place, the automation locked all entry compartments.
With a roar from its starting engines, the Defender soared into the air.
"We have two pursuers," the droid reported, as the ship shuddered from several hits to the rear deflector. "Death Watch ships."
"Perfect," Shea smirked, taking the weapons operator's seat.
Compared to the firepower this ship had possessed in the past, it now not only outclassed both enemies. It could easily turn another pair of the same into scrap metal.
Unlike modern ships, where each gun was operated by its own operator, here all the cannons were controlled by one person. And as it happened, on land or in space, there was no equal to Shea.
A short burst from the main caliber dampened the insolent ones' ardor. Realizing these weren't the medium turbolasers they had at their disposal, the pursuers scattered. A typical strategy — catching the enemy in a "pincer," putting them in a crossfire — effective and simple. At least from one side, you'd achieve success.
The only problem was that this ship carried an unpleasant surprise for anyone who suddenly decided to attack a modestly sized vessel.
Banking sharply, the Defender came head-on at the pursuers, spraying both with fire from all guns.
One of the Death Watch fighters spun like a top as soon as the salvo tore through its deflectors. In the sea of fire, the shock missile Shea had launched went unnoticed. Still, the enemy pilot managed to react at the last moment — whether the warning systems had worked, or someone in the cockpit had spotted the long ion trail, it was hard to say. But they managed to dodge certain death. Instead of blowing the ship's nose to pieces, the projectile sliced through the engine nozzles, causing the starship, never completing its last maneuver, to begin descending chaotically into the atmosphere.
The sight of his comrade's swift demise sobered the second Death Watch soldier somewhat, and he banked wide, intending to get on the corvette's tail.
However, meeting his end in Mandalore's sky wasn't part of the corvette's crew's plans. Taking advantage of the respite, the ship climbed steeply upward. A long energy trail stretching from the stern indicated the pilot was squeezing maximum acceleration out of the ship, which would inevitably press everyone on board into their seat backs. The inertial dampeners couldn't fully absorb such G-forces, which meant it should make controlling the corvette harder and reduce the intensity of its defensive fire.
The pilot of the last Death Watch ship was apparently thinking along those lines, because, using the superior aerodynamics of his elegant and deadly ship, he began to catch up with the fugitive. The guns in the forward hemisphere continuously spewed streams of turbolaser fire, but as soon as they licked the rear deflector, the corvette's artillery reminded them of its presence.
Not wanting to follow his comrade's example, the Death Watch ship turned aside, exiting the fugitive's kill zone.
"Looks like we've lost them," distant stars flickered before the bridge's viewport. Shea confirmed the last enemy ship was far behind and switched the ship's artillery to "travel mode."
"And, surprisingly, without critical damage," the droid remarked. Its manipulators fluttered over the instrument panel.
Shea Vizla turned toward the navigation computer. Familiar coordinates. But they were headed to another part of the galaxy.
Kenny taking the initiative to plot a course — that was something new. Dougan had directly ordered that the Iokath spawn was under her command. And if so, something extraordinary had happened.
"Why are we going to Coruscant?" she inquired. She didn't like the Republic's capital in principle. A stifling world of politicians, windbags, scum, and all sorts of bastards.
"A message came through the emergency channel from Darth Atroxa. Everyone is to report to the headquarters there," the droid said, not taking his attention off the ship's controls, deftly activating the hyperdrive. A moment — and the stars stretched into a bizarre attraction before them.
"Oh?" The Mandalorian leaned back in her chair, putting her hands behind her helmet and crossing her legs on the panel. "And what does that tart want from us?"
"Rick Dougan has been assassinated," K1-Z3N reported in a deadly calm voice. "He's in the Jedi Temple in a coma."
"Hmph," the Mandalorian whistled. "Valkorion's apprentices don't live long, do they."