The grimy dive owned by the Toydarian Tarre suited his state of mind perfectly. He had come here in his distant youth — with friends from the Academy. Whenever they craved adventure and new sensations, they would come here. To get blind drunk, brawl with the local thugs, feel free from all those stifling obligations that previous generations had placed on them.
A native of a wealthy family from the Core Worlds, a prominent man in his organization, he now found himself at rock bottom. Without work, friends, connections, or a pension. Even his acquaintance with Chancellor Palpatine had turned out to be nothing more than a soap bubble, bursting the moment he fell from favor.
Those who had called themselves his friends and comrades turned away, preferring to forget him. Standard practice — turn away from the disgraced, so as not to cast a shadow on yourself. But all his life, he had believed that beings valued him not for his status and social weight, but for his human qualities. Unpleasant to realize in your forties that you had been deluding yourself your entire life.
His family, like his colleagues, chose to forget him — his father had announced it almost immediately after the court had handed down its fateful decision. And now he, the shame and disgrace of his lineage, was to be erased from the family chronicles and forgotten, like a beggar glimpsed by a wealthy gentleman in an alley.
The two things he had treasured most in the world had turned away from him. His career and his family. Now it was all in the past.
And if he were guilty, he wouldn't be drowning his throat in third-rate liquor surrounded by scum. Though, given the situation, it was quite possible that soon he would become one of them himself. He'd attach himself to some gang and...
Shaking his head, the man in dark clothing — somewhat resembling a military uniform, but without insignia — downed another glass.
."..And now for army news," a pretty Zeltron appeared on the cantina's holovision screen. "With you, as always, Eline Tyrell. The Senate Judiciary Commission has finally found former Moff Bailur guilty on a number of charges. The public expected at least a long sentence in the Kessel mines, which would have been fair, given the crimes of the former official. But our most humane court in the galaxy has ruled that sufficient punishment for the Moff would be full confiscation of all property to the state and a lifetime ban from holding any public office of any rank. You'll agree, the court was extremely lenient with someone who helped slave traders. I remind our viewers that the long-running schemes and corruption flourishing in the sector army under his control were uncovered and stopped by Jedi Master Rick Dougan, Hero of Christophsis." A photograph appeared on the screen. The man, catching it out of the corner of his eye, smirked at his own thoughts and downed another glass. "Furthermore, as our special reporters have learned, another Moff — Ravik, whose sector army remnants were recently destroyed by General Grievous's fleet in orbit of Exxarg — may be implicated in Bailur's schemes. Interestingly, it was under his command that the star of Admiral Jerjerrod rose, who was dismissed from service this evening by court decision, where Captain Tarkin, acting on behalf of the Senate Subcommittee on Fleet Supply Group, accused the now-former admiral of leaking classified information about the state of fleet supply."
"Bastards," the man said quietly, pouring the contents of another glass down his throat.
What was he feeling now?
Disappointment.
Forty years of life, half of which had been given to the Republic. His career had had everything — ups and downs. And every time, he had emerged victorious. And even now, if that damned Ravik were alive, he would have had a chance to clear himself. To prove that the supply routes he had developed were actually intended for army needs, not for transporting slaves and contraband. But Ravik was dead — and with him, the numerous documents of the 14th Army had vanished into oblivion. Including the minutes of operational meetings where he had justified the usefulness of his plans specifically for the GAR. And the fact that after his transfer to sector command, Ravik and Bailur had used them for their own purposes — that wasn't his fault. But Tarkin — a strike cruiser in his dock — had proven more eloquent. What does a court need to pass a sentence? A man responsible for creating the routes, plus testimony from numerous witnesses confirming that slaves were transported along those supply lines. And that's it — career sunset, inglorious...
"You look unwell, Admiral," a figure wrapped from head to toe in a black robe sat down at his table, the farthest one in the corner, without permission. Settling across from the former officer, the stranger gestured to the owner and ordered a drink.
"Get lost," the man said without malice. He didn't want to see anyone right now. Especially when he had to think about how to live on. Without any support, since the money accumulated in his account would last only a very short time.
"With your permission, I'll ignore that," the man declared, leaning forward. Staring straight ahead at the tabletop, the former admiral noticed that the stranger's hands were clad in armored bracers studded with geometric spikes curving toward the fingers, designed to tear flesh and crush small obstacles. Handy when dealing with an opponent in close combat. Lifting his head to look at the stranger's face, the former admiral stared in surprise at an impenetrable metal mask framed by a deep hood.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked.
"A man capable of arranging your future."
"Is that so? And what do you want from a slandered and convicted being?"
"First of all, I'd like to talk."
"We're already talking. If that's all — get lost and don't bother me while I drink."
"Well, if you're not interested in my offer to return to your work..."
"Don't mess with my head, kid. The court's decision is final — even the Chancellor can't fix it, even if he does rule the Republic."
"Hm, did I say anything about the Republic?" the stranger asked in surprise.
The admiral raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"I'm not interested in working for the CIS."
"I'm not offering that. Let's just say — there is a third power in the galaxy. No less powerful."
Now that was getting interesting. The admiral felt the alcohol he had consumed over the past two hours beginning to release his mind. A third power?
Jerjerrod considered himself an educated and talented officer. Over his years of service to the Republic, he had proven it many times, which was why he had attained such a high post. But he had never heard of anything that could compete with the Republic and the Confederacy in the galaxy. And that made his inquisitive mind start working analytically again.
"Well, who is it? The Hutts? The Hapans? The Mandalorians?"
"None of the options you listed is correct," the man refuted his thoughts. "But I can assure you — unlike all the others, this state strives to bring order to the galaxy. Not formal order, as in the Republic, not terrorist order, as the Separatists want. The rule of corruption, conquest, pirate traditions, and criminal syndicates won't do either."
"So what is your state built on?" the admiral smirked.
"Absolute power," the interlocutor said. "Power in the hands of one who values the people who have given their lives for the good of his state. And who does not allow upstart captains to accuse HIS people of things they would never have done."
"You're talking about Tarkin," the admiral understood.
"Not only. Do you think there are few people in Palpatine's circle who are ready to walk over bodies to climb as high as possible? Regardless of the fact that in doing so, they drown those who are truly valuable to the galaxy?"
"Oh, so you think I'm one of the latter?" Jerjerrod smirked.
"Undoubtedly," there was such confidence in the interlocutor's voice that the admiral felt himself tense up inwardly. Were there really still people in power for whom he was not a nonentity? But even if so, what was all this for?
"What do you want me to do?" the admiral asked quietly.
"The same as before," came the reply. "Be what you were born to be — an officer destined to command a fleet capable of bringing peace to this galaxy."
"But I've been stripped of all rank and opportunity..." Repeating this fact made the admiral sad. He felt sorry for the years of his life wasted, shattered against the stone of injustice and deaf bureaucracy. He was a soldier who had become obsolete and been written off.
"Tell me, Admiral, are you at the beginning of your path or at its end?" the stranger asked unexpectedly.
"I don't know... probably at the end. My career is destroyed."
"It was destroyed by politicians and schemers, who for the most part now rule the Republic for their own gain. Perhaps it's worth accepting the helping hand extended to you, to rise up and crush your enemies? Do you not feel from your own example what lawlessness is happening in the galaxy when two forces decide which of them will fall and which will continue to live, squeezing in their vice the throat of everyone who disagrees with the opinion of this violent power?"
"But," the general tried to protest. "Power must be strong. So that beings can never doubt those who rule them."
"So that the unfeeling machine of bureaucracy never grinds anyone else in its millstones, throwing them out onto the backstreets with an outstretched hand, waiting for mercy." The interlocutor spoke so insinuatingly that every word, like life-giving moisture, fell on the admiral's tormented soul, healing the scars, mending them.
The stranger kept talking, and with every word, the admiral understood that he was sympathizing more and more with this man. He was frank — a quality quite rare in these times. He didn't offer big money, didn't promise a carefree life. He only offered a chance to get even. To join a team of like-minded people ready to take the galaxy, which was rolling into the abyss, and bring order to it. With a strong, iron hand of absolute power that the Republic had never dreamed of. Nor any other state entity in the galaxy. Happiness for all. A utopia that could become reality. But before all that, there was much work to be done. Too much for one man to handle. The very man now sitting before him.
"Are you ready to join us, Admiral?"
Jerjerrod felt his brow furrow. He had heard a similar question many times — in childhood games, at school, at the Academy, in service. Every time it meant he had to make a decision — make a choice, one of many. But he had lived long enough to understand — when someone extends a helping hand after you've lost everything, the choice won't be easy. And the consequences could be most unpredictable.
"Would I be wrong to say that our path will inevitably lead to a collision course with the Republic and the CIS?" he clarified.
"You are absolutely right. Like other threats to the galaxy, they stand in the way of achieving the highest goal. So I can more than guarantee that one day they will become our enemies."
"I hope it happens in my lifetime," Jerjerrod remarked darkly, draining a glass filled to the brim with alcohol in one gulp. Strange, he hadn't even noticed himself drinking the liquor his interlocutor had ordered. Moreover, most of the bottle was already empty. "When should I start?"
"Consider yourself already in service, Admiral." He couldn't see his interlocutor's face, but he could sense that the man was pleased.
* * *
There's something to be said for enjoying ordinary food. Not the slop from the mess hall aboard a destroyer, and not even the food from the officer's galley.
But real food, the kind ordinary beings not burdened by the hardships of war could afford. Though, Block corrected himself, glancing at the price tag next to each dish, the average resident of the capital planet couldn't afford to eat here even once a day.
Here on Coruscant, it was as if nothing reminded you of the mass bloodshed in the galaxy. Despite the fact that the Separatists had managed to leave their mark with a terrorist attack here too, peaceful life hadn't been disrupted for a minute. It was as measured and unhurried as before the Clone Wars. People woke up in the morning, got themselves ready, went to their civilian jobs, then spent time with friends and went to sleep.
In his understanding, this was wrong.
The Republic was waging a war for its very survival, and consequently, every sentient being capable of holding a blaster was expected to report to a recruitment center and ship out to basic training. The clone army was undeniably good. He enjoyed working with them — easily trained, dutiful, loyal soldiers. And sure, they all looked alike, came out of test tubes, and by the war's end they'd be decommissioned anyway, thanks to accelerated aging. But they fought and died for a state that gave absolutely nothing back to them. Providing uniforms, weapons, a bunk in the barracks, and rations — that didn't count.
Sometimes he wondered why this was happening. Why, despite all the assurances, neither the politicians nor the Jedi wanted to change anything. They used the clones as expendable material, without even thinking about preserving their lives. And why bother — they could always make more.
It would be a different story if every soldier in the Grand Army were a citizen of the Republic. Then the fun would start.
Would incompetent commanders be able to explain to the public why entire units thrown into frontal assaults had been wiped out? Hardly.
But now they could.
And it was starting to make him sick.
His father had always told him to be patient. Whether you thought your superior was right or wrong — you never stuck your neck out while you were under his command. Be an honest soldier, follow orders — and there would be a minimum of questions.
He had tried. He served honestly and exemplarily — it was no accident he'd become one of the youngest admirals in a year of war. He always did what he was told.
But he was tired of putting up with all the Jedi's whims and the bureaucrats sitting on their asses at headquarters.
At first, General Kenobi had seemed like a sensible man. Calm, level-headed. From the moment he first set foot aboard the Negotiator, Block had thought he'd be working side by side with a suitable commander.
He'd heard from other commodores and admirals that the Order's members were extremely mediocre officers. They didn't shine with talent or calculation. Kenobi had seemed different. And Block had been glad of that.
Until recently.
The first bantha had bellowed during the last invasion of Geonosis. He and Yularen had been running operations simultaneously — each with his own Jedi. Wulff had been less fortunate — he'd served under the reckless Skywalker. But he put up with it, smoothing over the rough edges as best he could. What could you do — the man was phlegmatic to the bone. And even after only a single destroyer remained of the entire advance invasion force, Yularen stayed true to himself. Concussed, with several broken bones as a result of the Jedi's gamble, he didn't criticize his commander. At least, not openly.
Block, however, couldn't stomach it.
That the enemy knew the operation's details had been obvious the moment the Vulture droid squadrons appeared on the scanners. There was still a chance to fight back — if they launched the fighter wing in time. There was time — nearly ten minutes before the enemy arrived.
But Kenobi ordered otherwise.
Go into a defensive posture. Without the fighter wing.
A decision bordering on madness. Anyone understood you couldn't fight off a faster enemy with artillery alone. But the general said to wait.
The result — they lost most of the Venators assigned to their command. The rest survived only by a miracle. If he hadn't disobeyed the general, if he hadn't given the order to launch the small craft — who knew how many more ships and crews would have been left drifting on approach to the bug planet.
He could only thank fate that Commodore Pellaeon's squadron had been nearby. Of course, the jump from Rodia, where the 13th Sector Army's units were still licking their wounds after the massacre with the Separatists, wasn't quick — a little over an hour had passed after Block's call before reinforcements arrived. But it was terrifying to think what would have happened if Pellaeon had been farther away.
Doubly unpleasant was that the enemy commander had managed to survive yet again. Breaking through, abandoning his escort ships to die. But even that breakthrough came at the cost of the surviving trio of one destroyer. Sure, the reactors had been saved from exploding, and a third of the crew survived the total decompression — the CIS flagship had literally riddled them with its guns. But the ship wouldn't see active service for the next few months. If it got repaired at all.
But the worst was yet to come.
The ground operation on Ryloth nearly stalled — the Jedi had sent almost all the Acclamators in to land without proper reconnaissance. They all landed, sure — but more than half as wreckage. And that was nearly a hundred souls — even if they were clones. The Jedi lost several of their own and almost all their equipment — rumor had it that Commander Windu had to gather forces for the invasion of the capital from the locals. Absolute horror.
The siege of Geonosis had completely stalled. Pellaeon's squadron, already battered from the battle with the CIS orbital group, together with Block's remaining ships, managed to land the assault force — before General Grievous's ships returned to the system. And once again, there was a massacre. Both in space and on the ground. Maybe the Force really wasn't a fiction, and it was the Force that sent Master Unduli to the Republic forces, under whose command the space battle was fought.
Sure, the Separatists had numerical superiority — but they were driven back. Having lost almost all his ships — Block had only one Venator and a pair of Acclamators from the second wave left. Pellaeon had lost all his ships except his flagship. But Grievous was forced to flee. Only afterward did they learn why the numerically superior enemy hadn't been able to fully utilize its fleet's capabilities. It was worth remembering Moff Ravik with a kind word — now deceased. He had lost every single one of his ships, but he managed to hold the planet and inflict significant damage on the enemy vessels. Damage that, under the wise leadership of Master Unduli and the competent execution of her orders by Block and Pellaeon, turned into a rout of the CIS fleet. A victory, though close to defeat. It seemed like a time to celebrate, but…
The Jedi who had managed to land before the space battle began nearly suffered defeat. Truly monstrous losses. Even the participation of the heroic Skywalker in the battle didn't save them.
Four Jedi were killed, Ki-Adi-Mundi and Kenobi were seriously wounded, two legions were wiped out to the last man — the price that had to be paid to break through the bugs' defenses on the ground. Though, if Block's covering squadrons hadn't arrived in time for the Jedi — they would have had to be evacuated.
The battle on Geonosis continued. A new giant droid factory had been destroyed — largely thanks to the involvement of Master Unduli and her Padawan. Monitoring the situation on the planet through the command network, Block noted that Skywalker's risky plan to destroy the enemy's new equipment prototypes had worked, of course. But the losses the clones had suffered… No wonder the planet was still being cleared.
When Commodore Kreeves's squadron arrived to relieve them, Block felt relief. Handing over command and the remnants of his invasion fleet to the new officer, he headed here, to Coruscant. To have a talk with sector command.
It was impossible to fight when the Jedi constantly controlled you, like training wheels on a child's bike. It was a disgrace to the system when admirals had to personally command not only the entire fleet but also their own flagship. Yes, there was a shortage of senior officers — massive attrition. But why not give the green light to promising junior officers?
In the 13th Sector Army, command had the right policy — every major ship should have its own captain. An admiral should monitor the battlefield as a whole, not get distracted by orders concerning the flagship. Pure idiocy.
Unfortunately, his noble impulse found no support in the minds of the staff officers. On the contrary, his detailed report on serving under Jedi command became the reason he was removed from active combat duty. Put into the reserve. Where he could rot for months while those thick-headed banthas wrecked fleets.
He tried to fix the situation, but nothing worked. It only got worse.
They made him undergo a medical board, which diagnosed him with severe nervous exhaustion. The result — an indefinite leave. And he would certainly never again command anything larger than a patrol Carrack.
Hearing the command's decision, he clearly understood that perhaps the CIS, fighting against the Republic's injustice, its bureaucracy, and its numerous violations of the law, might be right. A seditious thought, and he drove it away, but he kept coming back to it again and again.
Silent rage choked him. Outwardly remaining calm, he seethed with fury inside.
He wasn't even fifty yet, and he was already written off to the reserve. From which there was no way out — only retirement. And not a retirement for length of service, which could have ensured a comfortable existence, but on medical grounds. Which meant — minimum benefits, barely enough to keep from starving to death.
And there was no changing it now.
Though, one chance still remained.
This morning he had received a message from an encrypted user about a meeting at this restaurant. Someone wanted to discuss his further service with him. Probably there were still thinking people in the Republic who understood that war was no time to be throwing away experienced officers.
"Good afternoon," came a muffled but clearly young voice from behind him. It sounded like a vocoder, the kind often used to disguise one's real speech. However, raising his eyes to the man standing frozen at his table, the admiral noted that he had completely wasted his time trying to do that. Especially in front of a combat officer.
"Glad to see you, General Dougan," Block rose from his chair, straightening his tunic as a sign of respect. Even if the meeting was informal, an officer should look presentable in any case.
"For heaven's sake, don't say it so loudly," the Jedi said with a chuckle, extending his hand. The officer returned the greeting, and both sat down at the table. "I'm, shall we say, incognito here."
"In that case, you should have changed your image," Block remarked. "The entire galaxy knows the Jedi who wears armor. The only one in the whole Order, by the way."
"Hm, true enough. But I think everyone should decide for themselves how to stay safe on the battlefield. Wearing armor even on Coruscant doesn't seem like a waste to me. In light of recent events…"
The attack on the Chancellor near the Opera House had been the talk of the entire capital. As had the fact that his life had been saved by the commander of the 13th Sector Army himself.
"I understand you," the officer said with a smirk. On board a starship, he never even thought about wearing armor. But when landing on a planet — he always put on a cuirass and an infantry helmet. "So I take it you're the one who arranged this meeting."
"Exactly right. I understand the sector command has written you off?"
"Much to my regret. I'll have to sit in the reserve for another five years or so, and then — retirement. On medical grounds."
"Not the most pleasant end to a career for a combat officer," the Jedi noted.
"I expected nothing less from the idiots in command," the admiral snorted. "As I understand it, even you can't change the command's decision."
"I'm afraid so," the Jedi said with unexpected frankness.
Block was surprised. He had expected that, like his other brethren, he would start hedging, trying to get something in return for vague promises.
All sorts of rumors circulated about Dougan. About his friendship with the Chancellor and Moff Trakta. About his loyal attitude toward officers, most of whom he had pulled from other armies. About his organizational skills and business acumen. Fleet officers especially often discussed the inexplicable love the inhabitants of Christophsis had for this Jedi.
Seeing him, Block felt an inner joy. Perhaps Dougan had some connections that could overturn the medics' decision and return the admiral to active duty. He admitted he might even have to return with a lower rank than he currently held. But he thought he could come back, wipe the noses of those thick-headed Republic bureaucrats.
His hopes, it seemed, were not to be fulfilled. Dougan couldn't undo what had been done. But then, why this meeting?
He was about to ask that question, but the Jedi beat him to it.
"As I understand it, you haven't had a chance to enjoy the local cuisine, Admiral?"
"You know, I can't stomach a bite," Block admitted. "And besides, all this is beyond my means right now."
"Come on," Dougan waved his hand. "This is a business lunch, so all expenses are on me. But I think we should move to a private booth."
Block turned around.
The restaurant was located on the top floor of one of the tallest skyscrapers on Coruscant. The atmospheric shield prevented gusts of wind from sweeping everything over the railing, and the falling rays of the sun pleasantly caressed the skin. Numerous tables were arranged across the main floor of the restaurant, and in one corner there was a podium where musicians played at night.
But there were also several private booths, separated from the main part of the restaurant by thin but sturdy partitions. Block recalled that some kind of jammers were installed above this part of the restaurant, which prevented various recording devices from working — which was why celebrities liked to sit in the booths. Renting one cost up to a hundred thousand credits, ten times the price of a single table.
"I thought Jedi didn't have access to such funds," Block said. Dougan waved to the waiter, had a brief word with him, and then, together with the officer, proceeded to the reserved room.
"Let's just say, Admiral," the booth had one table, spacious enough for a large company to gather around. Luxurious sofas, arranged in a semicircle around it, allowed one part of the patrons to admire the city views, and the other — the paintings on the wall. The Jedi sat on the first sofa so that the light fell around him, leaving his figure in shadow. Block, accustomed to looking his interlocutor in the face, sat opposite, occasionally glancing at the paintings by Alderaanian artists. "I'm not quite an ordinary… Jedi."
"I've already noticed that. But that still doesn't explain the reason for our meeting."
"We'll get to that," the booth door swung open, and a living waiter slipped inside, quickly beginning to set the table. It took him about ten minutes, after which, receiving a credit tip from the Jedi, he left, locking the door behind him. "But let's have a bite to eat first."
"No objection."
The meal took a little over an hour, during which they managed to chat about several inconsequential topics. The admiral noted that the temple guard behaved casually, as if talking to an old friend, even though they had never met before. It was appealing — not many officers could say they'd been in such company.
Moving on to desserts, Dougan, stirring his fruit juice with a straw, suddenly asked:
"How do you see the future of the galaxy, Admiral?"
"We'll win," he replied without hesitation.
The Jedi laughed quietly. His mask lay on the table, so the officer could hear the young, not yet fully matured voice of his interlocutor. And for some reason, that voice was infectious with energy. As if it brought back youth.
The admiral wanted to ask the Jedi Master what he found so funny in his words, but caught himself thinking that the answer to the question would make him stop. And, most likely, the feeling of lightness would leave the admiral. And he had no way of knowing: whatever had amused Dougan, it was genuinely funny. The admiral smiled politely.
"What if I told you that both warring sides are led by the same man?" The laughter stopped, and as the admiral had feared, the feeling of youth vanished. And the weight of his years pressed down with renewed force.
"That can't be," the admiral said, but the same second, hearing a chuckle from the Jedi, he felt he was wrong. Logic told him his interlocutor's judgment was incorrect, but… could a Jedi, this Jedi, be wrong?!
"And yet it is," Dougan continued. "Once, the Jedi fought against the Sith — the same adepts of the Force. Almost a thousand years ago, the Jedi decided they had defeated them. But that's not true. The Sith survived, and now they operate from the shadows."
"And the Jedi know about this?" His mouth suddenly went dry. Block immediately drank a glass of water.
"The Order is as blind as those who wrote you off," the Jedi said grimly. "It only became known during the blockade of Naboo. But since then, the Order has never learned the identity of the one who controls events from the shadows."
"It seems idiots aren't only sitting in sector command," the admiral said angrily. Hutt's blood! The Jedi had known about their ancient enemy for almost eleven years, and they hadn't done anything?!
"I completely agree with you," the Jedi unexpectedly supported him. "The Order is as blind as a gizka. And, unfortunately, that will lead to its downfall. The enemy plans to destroy the Jedi. Every single one."
"And you're so calm knowing this?" The admiral was surprised. "Ready to accept death? Resigned to fate?"
And again that cheerful laugh. This time it lowered the officer's indignation, making him listen to the Jedi's words.
"Not at all, Admiral. I am not satisfied that someone decided to plunge the galaxy into a bloody war to settle scores with an ancient enemy. And it's doubly incomprehensible why billions of sentient beings, who bear no guilt in all this, have to die."
"It's nice to hear that at least someone among your brethren knows how to use their brains."
"But, as you understand, the one who has taken power into his hands and, like an orchestra conductor, directs this war, will not surrender. He has surrounded himself with thousands of supporters who will ensure his continued hold on power. And, unfortunately, he cannot be removed from the highest post without bloodshed…"
Block felt his throat go dry. The highest post. It couldn't be.
"Believe me, Admiral, I'm not deceiving you," the Jedi said. And the officer believed him. He didn't know why, but he felt sympathy for this man. And he was ready, at the very least, to hear him out to the end.
"The galaxy is heading toward new wars. First this one, then a civil war that will end many years later — the remnants of the old regime will cling to power until the very end. And then — hundreds more conflicts of various kinds. The galaxy will remain in a state of unending conflict until its very end, and the number of casualties will only grow."
"This is madness. It has to be stopped!"
"That's exactly what I'm doing, Admiral," the Jedi explained. "I already have the means to resolve this conflict in my hands. But I'm afraid further chaos can only be avoided by concentrating all power in one's own hands."
"Tyranny," Block breathed out. Something that contradicted all the tenets of the Republic.
"More like monarchy," the interlocutor corrected. "Do you agree that if the Republic were led by a strong and willful leader, capable of foreseeing danger and responding to it with full force, without resorting to half-measures, every sentient being would live long and happily?"
"I… I… think so, yes," the admiral agreed unexpectedly. After all, that was exactly it! While the Senate was dithering over every issue, a monarch could simply send a fleet to a rebellious sector and suppress all injustice. If the Republic had an army, no one would even dare to raise their head, let alone create an entire opposition state.
"But every leader needs suitable officers he can rely on," the Jedi continued. "And since I've decided to bring peace and tranquility back to this galaxy, I need such officers."
"I understand," and he truly realized why he was here now. Dougan, whatever he was planning, had seen his talent, his abilities among thousands of other commanders. And had personally decided to recruit Block into his retinue. Just think — if this man ever ruled the galaxy, then he, Admiral Block, would be one of those who would carry out his will. One who might reach Coruscant and personally put a blaster to the head of each of those who had once rejected the admiral. "But how can I help you? I'm nobody now."
"That's where you're wrong, Admiral," the Jedi placed his hand on his mask, intending to put it back on. "You are my punishing sword. And if you agree — we have a lot of work ahead."
"I am entirely at your disposal, my lord," as befits an officer in the presence of a superior, Block rose, straightening his tunic and nodding formally. He was ready to bring peace and order back to this galaxy.
"Splendid, Admiral," and again the quiet youthful laugh brought peace to the aging admiral.
* * *
"Jan!"
Adar Tallon, bursting into his office, was brimming with enthusiasm. Out of breath, he could barely utter a word, which made his expression incredibly comical.
Tearing himself away from contemplating his reflection in the mirror, Captain Dodonna cast a mocking glance at his friend.
"And what made you run as if Mandalorians were chasing you? By the way, you were late for the evening briefing. Trakta wasn't very pleased."
"To hell with him!" His old friend waved his hand. "I have such news!"
"And it was worth risking a disciplinary action? You didn't submit your report on counter-tactics against Separatist fighters."
"It's worth a career!"
"You're right about that," Jan snorted, smoothing down the cowlick that had popped up on his crown. "Absence is grounds for dismissal. You were gone all day."
"I had a meeting…" his comrade hesitated. "The kind that happens once in a lifetime!"
"Sure, sure," the Commenorian snorted again. "Alright, I covered for you this first and last time. Tell me what happened."
"One moment," the colleague darted to the table, pouring himself some water from the carafe. Quenching his thirst, he grinned from ear to ear and flopped onto the sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "You have no idea who offered me a transfer to the active army."
"Do I have to guess, or are you going to tell me?"
"Moff Dougan," Adar blurted out.
Dodonna whistled in surprise.
The only Jedi who had been given undivided command of an army in the Outer Rim. One of the largest among the rest. And, surprisingly, he had known no defeat, having almost completely pushed the Separatists back to the borders of the oversector in a short time. Of course, his losses had been enormous — in light of the recent attacks on Geonosis and Ryloth — but where weren't they?
Jan recalled that not long ago, sector command had been in turmoil over the huge number of starship captains transferring to the Iron Spear. They were lured into that cesspool with promotions in rank, which naturally increased their pay and brought them closer to earning the coveted staff officer bars.
Of course, at first glance, Dougan had called in not the most outstanding commanders — a couple, sure, deserved attention, but the rest were typical mediocrities, or even worse. Just Makati, against whom many influential officers had turned, or Syn, who dabbled in drugs.
"It seems the commanders he recruited earlier ran out sooner than planned," Jan smirked. He wasn't acquainted with any of those who served under Dougan. And he wasn't particularly eager to be — they all gave him a feeling akin to a toothache.
"No, it's much more interesting than that," Tallon grinned. "We're being invited to the army headquarters."
"We?!" Dodonna raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," the grin on his face grew even wider. "Dougan sent transfer requests to his command for me, you, and Sagoro Autem — that's what they told me in the personnel department."
"You and I, that's understandable," Jan nodded, turning to his own thoughts. Both officers had made a name for themselves in their time with revolutionary ideas in the field of modern space combat. And if Dodonna himself could boast of having the gift of a strategist when it came to organizing supply and siege operations, even proposing several types of siege weapons that, unfortunately, were still unclaimed by the Grand Army of the Republic, then his comrade had made a name for himself with revolutionary ideas in the field of individual matelot actions.
But as for his other friend, former Senate guardsman Sagoro Autem, clarity eluded the strategist's gaze.
Sagoro had left his job in the Senate after a tragic and extremely unpleasant incident involving his family. For a time, he worked as a mercenary — one of the best, in fact — but then ended up in prison. And only a confluence of circumstances, such as a Jedi operation on Brentaal IV, allowed him to secure a pardon. On Dodonna's advice, he applied to the fleet, and not long ago became the commander of a light cruiser. And he hadn't achieved any particular success in that field, languishing in the operational reserve of sector command. The very same one that threw senior officers at any possible gap in the front line.
"What difference does it make?" Adar grimaced. "The main thing is that we can go to the active army. You understand the prospects yourself."
Of course, Jan understood. Rotting in sector command was certainly less dangerous to life, but on the front lines, promotions came faster and the salary was many times higher than his current one. The latter wasn't small to begin with, but the army didn't skimp on pay for those on the front line. A couple of years of such service — and you could buy a perfectly respectable apartment on Coruscant.
"You know," Dodonna said with a smile, "I think something might come of this."
* * *
"You can't just leave like that!" Wallace blurted out, standing in the doorway of her room. "I… I won't allow it!"
Lira, measuring her father with a cold gaze, continued packing her suitcases. What did she care what the old man wanted? She was leaving Coruscant whether he liked it or not.
To be honest, she hadn't considered her father's opinion since her teenage years. When she became old enough to understand that the state she had to live in was hopeless. The ideals of the Galactic Republic, to which her father was devoted, were merely a myth trampled by all those wealthy or influential enough.
Of course, she felt a certain amount of gratitude toward her parent — if only because it was through her contempt for him and his stagnation that she chose weapons development as her path. Sure, a year or two ago this direction in engineering thought interested few, but with the start of the war, the rotten bureaucracy remembered its young talents.
Her father condemned her passion for military technology, so she remained fanatically devoted to her work. And the Venator she had developed was like a spit in the face of everything the old man believed in. And he, a well-known lover of diplomacy and negotiations. Which couldn't help but be disgusting.
And besides, he was jealous of her.
After all, Kuat Drive Yards had chosen her project as the primary ship for the Jedi fleet. After the Acclamator, created with her father's involvement, had proven completely inadequate in modern space battles. And even his desperate attempts to modify those "strike cruisers" hadn't resulted in anything that could decently compete even with enemy frigates.
No wonder the old man had become like an enraged nexu — such a treasure as his own daughter was slipping from his control. You'd have to be an idiot not to understand that once she stopped working for Kuat Drive Yards, his own career would go downhill. Lira, like many in Kuat's engineering and design group, understood that her old man's glory days were over. And in the modern world, he wasn't competitive. Even his new project, which he had only just begun developing together with Lemelisk, was so raw that at least a couple of years would pass before he could build even the first series. And that despite the fact that Lira had developed her ship from scratch in less than three months. And besides, after Bevel himself left, the head of the design group could only kick himself.
"If you intend to stop me, you'll have to try harder," she remarked coldly. "Because I won't stay here a minute longer."
"You can't just leave like that! What about your contract?" And that was desperate persuasion. What kind of idiot raised her? Did he really think that she, the smartest girl engineer, would just run away?!
Lira shook her head. No, the old man would never accept her genius. Just as he would never renounce the fading Galactic Republic. Bevel was right — there were no prospects here. The Galactic Republic was declining, and she shouldn't let its wreckage bury their talent. Especially when there was a worthy alternative. Though, if everything she had read was true, then the new path she had embarked on would be a worthy challenge for her genius. And in the end, her creations would prove how wrong her father was.
"How can you do this to me?" Seeing that she wasn't listening to him, Wallace collapsed onto a chair in complete despair, clutching his head in his hands. His entire appearance radiated helplessness and confusion. However, the girl paid it no mind. What did she care about the feelings of a man she held in no regard?
Packing the last suitcase, Lira took one final look around her quarters, allocated by the board of Kuat Drive Yards. The five-year contract she had signed with the best shipbuilders in the galaxy at the start of the war with the CIS wasn't even half fulfilled. The forfeit she and Bevel had to pay to their new patron was truly enormous — with the proceeds, the company could have built a couple of Venators and still have money left over. However, judging by everything, the new employer, who had generously topped up her personal bank account with a five-million-credit advance, was not short on funds. Bevel Lemelisk, who had also been favored by luck, told her with his characteristic absent-mindedness, without concealment, that his share was half that amount. Well, Lemelisk had never been driven by a desire for wealth. His only wish was to create. To build weapons — the more powerful and terrible, the better.
Glancing at her dejected father, the girl silently left the apartment and got into the hover-taxi waiting for her. Lemelisk, who had been waiting for her all this time, didn't even notice the new passenger, engrossed in examining something on his datapad. Obviously — the employer's requirements for the new project, for which one of the best scientists had been poached from Kuat. And, judging by her colleague's deep immersion in the reading, the matter promised to be seriously fascinating. And destructive.
The young engineer had "figured out" her colleague from the very first days. Bevel could lead anyone by the nose — anyone smart enough to hire him — talking about his loyalty to the Galactic Republic and the ideals of humanism. In reality, deep down, her colleague craved creating weapons of destruction. And the bigger and more terrifying they were, the more satisfaction their creator would get. No wonder her father, who had known this man for a long time, had invited him into his project, intending to use his colleague's genius to regain his glory as Kuat's best shipbuilder. Only a fool could think that way. Any halfway experienced technical team, studying the drawings available even now and comparing them with her father's other works, would find a huge number of inconsistencies. All because the Victory project was being developed with Lemelisk's brains. Her father only cleaned up his numerous errors and miscalculations so that the final result wouldn't have critically important flaws.
Lira allowed herself a smile, looking at her distressed father. If she thought globally, Wallace would never be able to create anything surpassing her Venator on his own. And the Victory without Lemelisk would never be as deadly as originally intended. And if so, it would be a long time before the Galactic Republic could replace her design. And even though all rights to the Venator belonged to Kuat, that didn't matter much. The company's management could no longer restrict her funds dictated by the idiotic doctrine of the Galactic Republic. The employer had promised her complete freedom and the absence of any persecution from the authorities and the Jedi Order. Well, that suited her.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice they had reached the hangar. The taxi droid helped them unload their luggage, after which the two engineers headed toward the waiting ship.
By Lira's estimation, she had never encountered a model like this before. Something between a heavy fighter and a light corvette. The presence of guns in the bow made it clear that the transport sent for them was by no means civilian. That was flattering — it meant the employer had taken care of their safety. Which, in turn, meant an understanding of the engineers' value by someone who had paid a tidy sum to secure their attention and talent.
Approaching the ship's ramp, the girl smiled when she saw a Twi'lek Lethan standing by the entry hatch, leaning her shoulder against the bulkhead. The same one who had conducted the hiring negotiations with them. Confident, commanding. But submissive. And loyal to her master, whose identity was yet to be learned.
Lira was generally indifferent to other, non-human races, but she always believed that humans should play the leading role in the galaxy. Of course, there was no need to exterminate dissenters — it was enough to create conditions under which non-humans would themselves understand who was the master and who was the loyal servant. And, according to the employer's representative who had arranged their contracts, the employer had clear plans on that matter.
"Lady Blisstex, Lord Lemelisk," the Lethan greeted them in a well-trained command voice. "Glad to see you. You're early."
"Nothing's keeping us here," Bevel shrugged. The engineer looked tired, as if he had spent a sleepless night. Though, the engineer's phlegmatic state was normal, and the people who worked alongside him had gotten used to ignoring it.
Lira gave a restrained smirk. There was no point in having heart-to-heart conversations with someone whose mind couldn't compare to her own. The Twi'lek had done her job — hired two brilliant scientists. Now let her deliver them to the workplace, and they would part ways. After all, she wasn't paid to exchange pleasantries with every first servant.
"In my opinion, we should get to our employer as quickly as possible," she voiced her thoughts.
"Absolutely, Lady Blisstex," the Twi'lek smiled, baring a row of sharp teeth. For the first time in her life, the girl felt a chill of fear run down her spine. "Please, come aboard."
Only then did she sense the aura of authority and decisiveness emanating from the alien. As if she were a weapon. Precisely calibrated, devoid of the slightest error. And ready with equal effectiveness both to protect them from harm and to kill them if they suddenly decided to act willfully.
The girl, maintaining her former haughty-cold demeanor, ascended into the ship's interior. Hmm, inside it seemed more spacious than outside. Well, no one had forbidden her from inspecting the ship. Handing her luggage to Bevel (her colleague never refused to help), she slowly began to study the transport.
Simple ergonomics, enhanced functionality. The ship was decidedly combat-oriented, but built for important persons accustomed to luxury. A holographic terminal in a spacious room, clearly intended for crew meetings. Not a cheap item — even the Venators had only one unit. She had never even heard of such things being installed on ships smaller than a cruiser. That would explain why she, who had been interested in military developments for a long time, was unfamiliar with this type of ship. Clearly built to a custom order. Interesting, who could have realized such a project? Kuat? Unlikely — she had access to all their developments, even custom orders. Rendili? Also no — their design was too rounded, as if they didn't know what angles were. Someone from the CIS? Even more doubtful — they fought over every credit and would sooner strangle themselves than create something like this. Sienar? Hmm… that seemed likely. Judging by the engine sounds, it was definitely ion technology, which Raith literally lived and dreamed of. So, his business wasn't doing as badly as they said on the Kuat board — this one ship alone was worth something like a Venator. And it was unlikely to be the only one.
As soon as the deck trembled under her feet, the girl realized the ship had lifted off from the hangar surface. Hmm, it would be amusing to see her father's face now if he knew his daughter was flying away on a ship built by his competitor. Skillfully built — the obvious shouldn't be denied.
However, while she had time, she should study the technical specifications that the client had transmitted along with the contract. Unlike Bevel, she hadn't even touched her project — her father had been constantly hovering nearby. She didn't need that whiner seeing even a part of what she was about to create.
The room with the holoterminal was perfect. Fortunately, she had long ago had a device implanted that allowed her to work directly with the computer environment.
Waiting until the ship went to lightspeed, she loaded the data from the file sent by the client onto the terminal. So, what did her mysterious employer want?
A three-dimensional holoprojection of a ship appeared before her, resembling a pointed dagger with a short hilt. Something vaguely similar to the concept of her father's project, only without the bridge extended to the stern. Well, the schema was certainly crude — clearly created by someone completely unfamiliar with holographic descriptive geometry. It looked like it was just drawn in a 3D editor on the first datapad that came to hand. Indeed, not everyone could be a genius. She would have to be lenient with her new…
Glancing at the technical specifications, the girl felt her mouth go dry. Her vision darkened, as if she had been struck on the back of the head. But she knew for sure that nothing of the sort had happened. It was just that, again, from an excess of emotion, the implant was "glitching." That had happened before…
"I see you're not used to putting work off," the earlier Twi'lek appeared in the doorway. Apparently, she was the only crew member on this ship. Though, if it was sufficiently automated — Sienar's favorite "feature" for small ships — then that was quite enough.
"Your master hired me to work, not to loaf around," she remarked.
"I remember," and again that frightening smile. "You were promised work on a project that would overshadow everything you've created before. Judging by this," she pointed at the hologram, "this is it?"
"Yes," the girl nodded. Shifting her gaze to the schema, she felt that the client had not deceived her. On the contrary, he had thrown her the challenge of a lifetime. Much of what he demanded to be realized in metal was unattainable even on the most advanced shipyards in the galaxy. Some technologies she had never even studied before. But… wasn't this perfection worth spending the best years of her life on its creation? A project that would truly overshadow everything previously created in the galaxy. Both literally and figuratively. "It… will be magnificent."
"As is everything my master plans," this time, the Lethan's smile made Lira shudder all over. Who was he, this being who could tame this ruthless killer? Truly, he had enough power, resources, and ambition to achieve his goals. And she, Lira Blisstex, would be the one to create the perfect weapon for him. Not a Star Destroyer. Not a cruiser. Not even a dreadnought. She would give her all, pour every skill, knowledge, talent, and soul into the project. But her Super Star Destroyer would become the ship from whose board the will of the victor would be dictated to the rotting Galactic Republic. And along with the greatness of her new master, she herself would triumph over all those who dared to challenge her creation.
Her Executor.
Maybe Bevel was right — there was a certain euphoria in creating weapons of mass destruction.
* * *
The company they had gathered was the strangest possible.
Dr. Nikolai Kainsworth, stealthily studying the faces of his fellow travelers, caught himself thinking that each of them was familiar to him. And in a professional sense.
Not that the acquaintance with many had been pleasant. Each of them was quite successful in their field. With the start of the war, the direction of his fellow travelers' work had become in demand — unlike his own.
The cyberneticist's project to counter the CIS army not in real, but in virtual combat, had been met with approval by the army command. Of course, it was cheaper to fund cyber warfare than to build thousands of warships. He was confident in success. And almost ready to crack the program code that would allow deactivating enemy soldiers right on the battlefield.
But, by a decision of the Senate committee, a little over six months after the start, the work was shut down. His people, not wanting to be left without a salary, instantly defected to other projects. He himself remained faithful to cybernetics to the end. To the last credit. But he never managed to get a resolution.
His name was finally anathematized at the last meeting of the Ministry of Science. The leadership of the Galactic Republic had summoned all the outstanding scientists to solve the mystery of the CIS superweapon that had appeared then. Something that could destroy entire Jedi battle groups without leaving a trace.
The discussions were heated, as if the scientists themselves were engaged in mortal combat.
It was then that he had met each of the men present in the transport's lounge that was carrying them away through hyperspace.
Umak Leth — an engineer who had long been a trusted representative of the Galactic Republic government in the Ministry of Science. It was he who led the work on unraveling the mystery of the Separatist superweapon. And the only one who, in the end, turned out to be right. Or rather, close to the truth. The dreadnought Malevolence had ultimately met its end at the hands of the Jedi. A great pity that they couldn't preserve at least something for subsequent study. Even though it wasn't in his area of expertise, the cyberneticist would have been interested in examining the remains of the huge ship, equipped with a truly enormous ion cannon. It was rumored that Umak had been negotiating with the Ministry of Science about creating his own version of a superweapon, a response to the CIS. But his idea wasn't supported, and so the brilliant (Nikolai acknowledged others' talent without shame) scientist and engineer languished in the depths of the useless Ministry of Science, doing routine work.
Frap Radicon — again an engineer. But unlike the previous one, his field of knowledge was gravity. More precisely, its artificial implementation. No modern ship or space station could do without such a necessary device as an artificial gravity generator. Frap, however, was promoting a somewhat futuristic idea — the creation of artificial gravity fields sufficient for transporting huge space objects. A theory undoubtedly worthy of attention — after all, if it were implemented, there would be no need to assemble huge structures far from the manufacturer. The entire assembly process could be done right in orbit of the manufacturer planet, after which it could be towed to its destination. Yes, Radicon had certain fixations, considering himself one step away from achieving his goal, but the rest of the scientific community considered him little more than a dreamer of the impossible. There was no substance in the galaxy capable of creating such artificial gravitational masses. Therefore, no one wanted to fund a project doomed from the start. And, like his colleague at the Ministry of Science, Frap languished in routine.
And the last in their small company was an officer of the Grand Army of the Republic. Major Rebus. An engineer in the field of small arms. Though, the officer hadn't gained a famous name — among all those present, he was a representative of a field that was not only filled but overflowing with thousands of competitors.
The cyberneticist recalled that at the aforementioned meeting, Rebus had proposed a theory that the CIS was using super-powerful blaster weapons, sufficient to vaporize a warship. Yes, an interesting theory, but like Frap's life's work, it was deemed by the gray-haired men of science of the Galactic Republic as too fantastic. Defending his point of view, incidentally, cost the major his career — he was discharged for some medical reasons — Nikolai knew this because he had worked in neighboring labs with him. Back when he still had a job.
And now, the four of them — outstanding scientists and engineers, retired but not by their own will, unrecognized geniuses — sat in the mess hall of an old transport that was delivering them to the other end of the galaxy. And that was strange.
"A curious company we have," Leth was the first to break the silence. Apparently, he had been thinking the same thing as the cyberneticist himself. And, judging by the silent nods of the others, they were clearly thinking the same.
"I think we all have the same story," Rebus voiced his thoughts. "A stranger who offered a job via holotransmission?"
Silent nods of fair heads. Nikolai felt a certain anxiety. A cyberneticist knew no coincidences — every action was the result of program code. And consequently — four identical algorithms leading to the same result — a mediocre transport in one of the spaceports of Coruscant. A pilot droid, a steward droid. And not a single crew member. Only an instruction from the mysterious employer — not to worry and wait for the meeting. Frankly spy games that he didn't want to play… If not for the enormous funds promised for the work — not one-time, but permanent. Someone desperately needed scientists — smart enough, but at the same time, not favored by the powerful. A subtle calculation — few would refuse a fabulous salary in modern realities. If even Umak had decided to leave his position at the Ministry of Science, it meant that each of those present, like Nikolai, had received a generous advance. The unknown employer was clearly interested in them, and therefore wasn't stingy. What also did him credit was a clause in the agreement according to which Nikolai could freely conduct his own research and development unrelated to the main work. But not to the detriment of the latter. A sensible remark for those who understand how important their own projects are to scientists. True, the agreement to the strictest secrecy and work "on the territory of a complex reliably isolated from the entire galaxy" caused some concern. However, big money always entails serious restrictions.
"Looks like we have a long flight ahead," Leth reclined his seat, clearly intending to sleep. The others were about to think the same when, by the jerk under their feet, Nikolai realized the ship had exited hyperspace.
"What the Hutt," cursed the former officer. "I saw the pilot set course for Alderaan. We couldn't have arrived so quickly."
"Agreed," Frap remarked gloomily. "We've been traveling no more than five hours. We need to look around."
Without a word, they headed to the cockpit, fortunately the droid hadn't locked it. And who would it be afraid of?
"Hmm, the tin can fooled me," Radicon chuckled. "This is definitely not Alderaan."
Through the transparisteel, they could only see the black cold of space. No nearby stars, no planets… A secluded corner of the galaxy.
"I don't want to disappoint anyone," Umak rapped his knuckles on the pilot droid's head. "But this guy is fried. And he's unlikely to be able to take us where we need to go."
"Did the navigation system short-circuit?" the weapons engineer suggested.
"I don't think so," while his comrades in misfortune were dealing only with the mechanical part of the problem, Nikolai, guided by his instinct, directed his gaze at the navigation system. Too modern for such junk. "Whoever did this, he acted cleverly. The external program shell of the destination matches the Galactic Basic designation for Alderaan. But the galactic coordinates in the system itself are completely different."
"And where are we?" Umak inquired, frowning.
"I think we jumped in the completely opposite direction," the cyberneticist shared, recalling all his knowledge of galactic astronavigation. "We're somewhere in Wild Space. And, judging by everything, the engines on this tub are also modified."
"It seems our employer went to great lengths to keep us from questioning our destination until now," Leth chuckled.
"If this is a prank, it's unjustifiably expensive," Frap kicked the instrument panel without malice. "And how will we get back if this pile of metal is dead?"
But before any of them could answer, they had to turn around at a binary whistle. Nikolai stared in surprise at the tiny astromech droid, which had been serving as a steward until now, distributing refreshments. Now, having gotten rid of its cart, it turned its head, softly whistling a trill about having a message.
"He says he wants to play a holo-recording," Nikolai translated, realizing his comrades didn't know Binary.
"Let him play it," commanded Umak, increasingly assuming the role of leader of their small group.
A small blue figure — a person in a long hooded robe, armored from head to toe — appeared before those gathered. Nikolai felt that this individual was vaguely familiar. But he couldn't remember who it was or under what circumstances they had met.
"Greetings, gentlemen. I apologize for having to use secrecy for your delivery to the facility, and also for not being able to meet you in person. But I assure you that this will happen in the near future. I selected each of you for your undeniable talent in your field. And I believe that you can benefit my endeavor like no one else."
"Well, of course," Frap chuckled. "We are the best of the unrecognized geniuses."
"That's for sure," agreed Umak. Nikolai and Rebus preferred to refrain from comments.
"I hope for fruitful cooperation," the stranger said with confidence in his voice. "And, yes, it's not worth getting on the nerves of this ship's commander. It's not safe for your health."
After that, the hologram faded, leaving a lingering bewilderment in the transport's cockpit.
"And what the Hutt is going on here?" Rebus asked his colleagues with the usual army casualness.
Nikolai shrugged. Pointless to say anything in this situation.
A dispute began among the engineers about what to do next. Nikolai decided not to participate, but to work on the navigation system. More useful than empty hot air…
"Colleagues," looking through the cockpit's transparisteel, he called out to his fellow sufferers. "It seems we have company."
The trio of engineers turned their heads quickly enough to witness huge triangular ships emerging from hyperspace, with a squat superstructure and a split bow.
Suddenly the instrument panel came to life, above which another bluish figure appeared. About twice as massive as the previous one, with a completely bald skull and an impressive respirator mask on his face.
"My name is Darth Malgus, the Emperor's Hand. Umak Leth. Major Rebus. Dr. Nikolai Kainsworth. Frap Radicon. You have been chosen to serve the Empire's great purpose. Prepare to board the Striking Hand."