Bolla assumed his opponent would begin the battle in the aggressive, assertive style typical of Dark Side adepts, seeking to overwhelm the Jedi Master with a hail of strikes. But the Sarkhai girl managed to surprise him.
"Believe me," she said quietly. "I don't want to kill you. Just give me the crystal and you can live."
"Never," the Rodian ignited his own blue blade, preparing to unleash the full power of his Makashi upon his opponent.
He cursed himself for not being able to sense the opponent's approach.
Especially after Count Dooku's monster had attacked the outpost and destroyed everyone there. Ropal painfully recalled that episode.
The fortification had just been built, and the Rodian himself and his apprentice had gone to negotiate with the local government when the droids, led by Savage Opress, delivered their deadly and terrifying blow. Only a group of commandos managed to later evacuate the bodies of the fallen Jedi to Coruscant. Many lives had to be sacrificed to retake the outpost occupied by the droids. But stability was brought to the region. To this day.
Today he was supposed to hold preliminary negotiations with the responsible parties on Devaron about building a dam. While the soldiers weren't engaged in warfare, and the war, thank the Force, had passed the planet by, they needed to be kept busy. In the Jedi's opinion, building a dam was a sufficiently labor-intensive activity that wouldn't allow the clones to indulge in idleness.
The gunship he and his Padawan were supposed to fly on was now burning out somewhere at the foot of the cliff, exploding the moment the Rodian approached it. A pity for little Ksebek — his Zabrak Padawan. The shock wave had slammed him into the monolith of the mountain ridge where their temporary dwelling was located. Neither he nor the gunship's crew could survive. The student's head, twisted at an unnatural angle, stared at the unfolding battle with lifeless eyes. Well, and the clones… he felt sorry for those guys too.
The Sarkhai had cut off his escape route, forcing the Jedi to retreat to the landing platform. Ropal didn't delude himself that he was facing some mercenary — the opponent held the hilt of her blade too professionally. What was curious was the fact that both blades were yellow, not red like the usual servants of Dooku.
The elegance of Makashi met the impenetrable defense of two blades. The Rodian was forced to retreat to avoid the hail of deadly fast thrusts from his opponent.
Even a short clash was enough for him to understand — in this battle, he would have to work hard to avoid death. Survive to report to the Council about the appearance of a new Dark follower of Count Dooku.
It didn't even cross the Rodian's mind that someone else might be hunting for the kyber crystal.
The Sarkhai had excellent training. Much better than his own. And years of experience that had honed her talents to such a degree that it was naive to think she would make a mistake allowing him to escape.
He lunged at her, executing a combination of strong thrusts meant to force the girl to retreat, to go on the defensive. A desperate attempt to buy time, to find a way to escape. To preserve the artifact the Council members had entrusted to him.
The opponent easily blocked the strikes, not letting the Rodian breach her impenetrable defense for a single second. She evaded a low slashing blow that threatened to cripple her. The Sarkhai replied with a quick thrust to the face, which Ropal dodged, pleased with such an easy feint. However, the very next moment, his lunge was caught by one of the yellow blades.
The energy blade of the Jedi's lightsaber was angled down, causing the strike to go into the void. The tip of the blade dug into the permacrete, leaving the Rodian open for an inevitable counterattack.
The girl threw him back with a Force Push.
The Rodian, flipping backward over his back, managed to land on his feet, which made it easier for him to block the Sarkhai's next thrust.
The Force counterattack didn't have the desired effect — the telekinetic burst dissipated across the surface of her energy defense, like ripples forming on water when a heavy object is thrown into it.
Gritting his teeth, Ropal continued his advance, mechanically noting that the enemy was using combinations and strikes he had never seen anywhere before. Obviously, the opponent had augmented her fencing style with something of her own creation.
However, he had survived the first onslaught and knew what to expect.
The next round of the duel proceeded in a more familiar style. The enemy advanced, using exhaustingly complex combinations, but Bolla blocked, deflected, or intercepted every strike, timely switching to counterattacks.
Which had no effect whatsoever. Her defense, simple and unpretentious, was practically impenetrable when executed correctly. And, most terrible of all, the Sarkhai used her weapons humiliatingly correctly. Terrifyingly correctly.
Understanding this, Ropal retreated and changed his tactics. He saw that the Dark servant couldn't be defeated with a simple onslaught, and switched to feints and quick thrusts, probing her defense for a weak spot. An attrition battle began.
Until now, the Jedi's fencing style had been rough and simple, though undeniably effective. Now his technique became more refined. He couldn't just barrel through unimpeded, realizing the mortal danger of that impulse, and so he tried to use an unpredictable style — from the outside, it looked like he was just striking blindly. Every time the opponent thought she had guessed the direction of his next strike, he changed tactics, breaking the rhythm of the fight and forcing her to retreat.
Bota allowed himself to be glad. It seemed the killer didn't suspect he was one of the best lightsaber duelists in the Order — they wouldn't entrust such a valuable artifact to just anyone. Time to demonstrate to her the utter flaw of serving the Dark Side.
Under the Jedi's pressure, the Sarkhai slowly backed away. He moved sideways, intending to outflank her on the left. The servant simply changed her retreat direction and took a few more steps back, maintaining a safe distance and continuing to parry his formal strikes and thrusts.
Ropal, with inner elation, prepared to execute a final combination, putting all his strength into it. A combination of strikes that should, that absolutely had to disarm her…
Deflecting his side thrust with one of her blades, the girl, blocking the opponent's weapon with her own, pinned the blue blade to the platform surface with the yellow one, then suddenly crouched, bringing the second blade from a vertical to a horizontal position.
The Jedi felt incredible pain as the yellow blade bit into the bicep of his right arm, severing it from his body in the blink of an eye. Like a piece of meat, it fell onto the platform, still clutching the hilt of the lightsaber, which deactivated upon touching the permacrete.
Barely holding back a groan, Bota collapsed to his knees, clutching the stump with his remaining hand.
"You left me no other choice," the Sarkhai said with sadness in her voice, spinning her weapon in her hands. "Please — give me the crystal and you will live."
"Never!" the Rodian blurted out.
"So be it," with a sigh, the girl raised her weapon.
* * *
The last thing the Jedi had time to think was that without the holocron, the crystal she would take from his dead body was useless.
"The Council has agreed to this appointment," Yoda said. "But not easily, far from it. Troubling is this move of Chancellor Palpatine's."
"I understand your concern, Master," I admitted. No kidding! Of all the things I'd planned for today, being inducted into the Jedi High Council at Sidious's insistence was definitely not on the agenda. And what's more, when I'd been cautiously nudging him toward the idea of creating sector armies, I hadn't been pursuing thoughts of climbing the Jedi hierarchy. That entire conversation was started only in the hope that Palpatine would appreciate my work against the CIS and put me in charge of the 14th Sector Army's territory. And only because its area of responsibility included Rothana — the place where Kuat Drive Yards produced a considerable portion of the Grand Army's hardware and ships.
"Believe me, I'm no less surprised than you are," I said. There was nothing shameful in this admission. The Council needed to understand that what happened was the Chancellor's own design, and I was just passing by. Which was exactly what had happened. "And this kind of attention from the Chancellor toward my person makes me uneasy."
"We are inducting you into the Council," Mace Windu spoke up. "But we are not granting you the rank of Master," came from somewhere to the side. Turning my head slightly, I realized it was Kit Fisto who'd said it. The cephalopod sat reclining in his chair, flashing a white-toothed smile.
Meaning, was that your way of getting at me, adding that? Or did you just decide to show off? Better go learn how to fight with a lightsaber — you might live a little longer.
Ah, I'd had hope, sure, but apparently I wasn't going to be one of the dozen. Honestly, I'd never even wanted to.
"Such a thing violates centuries of tradition," Piell chimed in. "One cannot be a Council member without the rank of Master."
Really. And what's gotten into the short, floppy-eared one? What business is it of his? I don't recall ever crossing paths with him. Why would he be fighting for my rights? Especially since I'm not against it at all.
"A vote must be held on this matter," Yoda reminded them. "Unanimous the decision must be, for Master Dougan to become a Master. Objecting, as I understand it, is Master Fisto."
"Master Dougan is too young for such a high rank," the Nautolan explained his point of view. What a screw-loose. I was too young for the rank of Master too. As far as I remembered, it was only given to those whose Padawan had completed their training and become a Jedi Knight. My thorn in the side wasn't getting that anytime soon. Certainly not in the near future. And further on, the very need for such a procedure might disappear entirely. For about twenty years.
"I object as well," the Iktotchi joined in with a low bass. "He only obtained the rank of Master recently. And a year ago, he had only just become a Knight."
No, bull-man, where are you butting in? Horns turned down, got too smart, did you? Go train with the tadpole. And take your horned, long-haired girlfriend with you. Maybe you won't get wiped out in a few seconds against Sidious.
"I concur," the hologram of Ki-Adi-Mundi nodded. "Other Jedi might misinterpret such a rapid rise for Master Dougan. We must not give cause for gossip."
Oh, go screw yourself! I wasn't planning on saving you in the first place.
"In that case, it is decided," Windu announced. "There is no consensus here, and we cannot grant you the rank of Master."
"I understand, Masters," I said with a submissive bow. I cast a furtive glance at the members of the High Council. In person or as holograms, they were all present. Only three seats were empty — those belonging to Unduli, Gallia... Damn it, who was the third one?
Looking around again, I realized the only horned one who wore a hippie hairstyle wasn't standing out. Yeah. Looks like Mace Windu's suicide squad was due for a rotation. Agen Kolar was, of course, a temporary member of the High Council, but in canonical events, he'd lived long enough for his memorable meeting with Palpatine's lightsaber. So where the hell had he gone now?
"Take your seat, young Dougan," the Afro-Jedi pointed to a high-backed chair between Ob Wan's all-too-familiar face and Piell's fierce mug. I practically collapsed into the chair, surveying the assembly once more. Most of them sat with stone faces, as if they'd swallowed a kilogram of seriousness. Only the Lannik, as soon as my rear hit the Master's chair, didn't hesitate to wink at me with his single eye — like, everything's fine.
Ah, buddy. Everything would be wonderful if, just under a thousand years ago, a group of Jedi hadn't blown their chance to finish off a half-dead Bane and his apprentice on Ambria. And right now, a hellish mess was gathering strength the likes of which you've never even dreamed. And judging by the fact that I'd taken Agen Kolar's seat, something had definitely happened to him. If he died, let's hope it was less ignominiously than in the original events I knew of.
Hmm, I had to admit, the spot was comfortable. Right across from the entrance to the Council chambers...
Memories hit me suddenly.
"Master Skywalker! There are too many of them here. What do we do now?"
Damn it all... The pain felt utterly real. Children... younglings. They'd be hiding right behind the chairs of Plo Koon, Yoda, Windu, Kenobi... And apparently, behind the one I was sitting in now, too.
No, of course it was unpleasant to realize that Oli had been influencing my emotions and perceptions all this time, but... the children had to be saved. Maybe I was a real bastard with a truckload of issues (thanks, family) in my past life, but the younglings weren't to blame that someone needed to slaughter all the Jedi from youngest to oldest in order to learn how to use the Dark Side.
Calling upon the Force, I tried to stifle the pain. The conversations in the room helped distract me from what had washed over me.
"First order of business in your new post, Master Dougan," Kit Fisto began, "you should explain to the Council the rumors that have reached us about the duel you arranged with Master Drallig in front of the younglings."
"We discussed this, Master Fisto," Yoda frowned. "Not right was Drallig."
"Master Drallig has trained thousands of Jedi," Windu interjected. "And his methods of instruction, while debatable, are effective. By challenging him, Master Dougan destroyed a teacher's authority before a group of younglings."
"And now it's being gossiped about in all the clans," Tiin added. "Such behavior is unbecoming..."
Are you kidding me?! You haven't found Darth Sidious, Dooku messed around in the Archives before he left, you never figured out Sifo-Dyas's death, the Grand Army is getting its teeth kicked in almost daily, and you decided to lecture me?!
"Doesn't the Council have anything else to do besides discuss this sort of thing?" I tried to hide my sarcasm, but from the satisfied smirk on the Lannik's face, the Korun's raised eyebrow, and Kenobi's disapproving head-shake, I realized I hadn't succeeded. "If that's the case, then let me explain that I don't find Cin Drallig's teaching methods acceptable. I saw him cutting a youngling's hair with a lightsaber — the one who fell asleep during his lesson. In my opinion, that's unforgivable for a Jedi. Even for educational purposes."
"You could have reported this to the Council," Plo Koon's hologram spoke. "We would have taken measures..."
"What spice are you guys smoking here?" I couldn't help myself. "Or are the Council members saying they didn't know this wasn't the first time it's happened?"
"Calm yourself, Master Dougan," Windu warned me. "Do not forget where you are."
"Unknown this was to us," Yoda admitted. "Appropriate measures we will take, but your action also deserves condemnation."
"I agree," Master Rancisis broke his silence. Oh, dig-a-grave, another pile of hair was going to say something. I thought he was here as some kind of totem animal. "I hope you will hear our disapproval, Master Dougan."
"And offer an apology to Master Drallig," Shaak Ti added.
"In front of the younglings, you should do this," the Nautolan poured oil on the fire.
"I concur. It will help restore Master Drallig's authority," Tiin nodded. "Just as the rumor spread, so the apology will circulate."
Honestly, I wanted to jump up from my seat right then and there, shout "I am the Senate!" and start chopping this herd of complete morons left and right.
Oh, poor little Drallig, they hurt his feelings. What a delicate flower.
"Are you sure that will help?" Piell grinned. "From what I've heard of the stories, he provoked the duel himself. So he got what he wanted. In my opinion, Master Dougan deserves praise for being able to defeat Drallig in open combat."
The Lannik glanced at me furtively and winked cheerfully. With a barely perceptible nod, I expressed my gratitude.
"Such behavior should not be encouraged in the Order," Plo Koon remarked. "To bad consequences this could lead."
Damn it... I just have no words.
We'd been sitting here for about ten minutes, soaking up high-flown speeches about whether I'd done well or badly. In wartime. When every minute in the galaxy, a soldier, a civilian, or a Jedi could be dying. And the Council was wasting time on blather. Oh, I bet if I'd dropped a cigarette butt in an unauthorized place, they'd have put me in a corner. Or given me a caning.
"You should apologize to Master Drallig," Yoda looked at me. "In the presence of the students."
"As you command, Master," I bowed my head obediently, hoping this would somehow speed things up.
I wasn't going to lie to the Council. I'd apologize to the Troll. In a way that would make his face stretch even longer than when, exhausted and winded, he'd pompously lectured the younglings on the wisdom of combat. Hiding behind his words a complete lack of strength to continue the sparring. Unsurprisingly, when he saw the second lightsaber in my hands and my eagerness to continue, he returned my weapon, claimed urgent business, and left the training hall. A loss is a loss, as they say.
"The Senate has approved amendments to the military doctrine," Windu said without preamble. "The bill is titled the Sector Governance Decree. According to it, a new structural unit is being introduced — System Armies — from the First to the Tenth. Some armies are subordinate to us — the Council members — others to new officials, the Grand Moffs."
Well, well...
If my memory served me right, this rank first appeared under the Empire. Such officers were assigned to lead particularly important regions or installations in the galaxy. For instance, Tarkin had controlled most of the Outer Rim.
"System Armies comprise a number of independent units. In particular, each army's territory now operates its own space armada with all attached ground forces, assigned to the sector armies within its structure. Grand Moff Trachta leads System Army 'Aurek' and controls the territory of the First Sector Army 'Sky Hammer.' I will lead System Army 'Besh,' which includes the Second Sector Army 'Green Mantle.' The Third System Army 'Kresh' passes under Master Kenobi's command. From now on, you will cooperate with the troops of the Eighth Sector Army 'Sparkling Diamond' and the Ninth 'Copper Firecracker.'"
"Territory of the Banking Clan," Kenobi winced almost imperceptibly. "I'll need enormous forces to break their defenses — intelligence reports that Mygeeto alone is defended by several hundred warships."
"After the success at Muunilinst, developing the offensive should not be difficult for you," came Yoda's rather weak motivation.
"Yes, a simple task," Kenobi smirked but didn't argue.
"The Fourth System Army 'Dorn' is now under Master Mundi's command — these are the 'White Shell' and 'Shadow Hand' sector armies, that is, the Fourth and Fifth respectively," the large-headed Jedi simply nodded silently.
"Master Fisto," the Nautolan looked at the Korun with something like surprise. Honestly, I would have been surprised too — to me, the cephalopod didn't seem like much of a general at all. "You will command Army 'Eok,' which includes the forces of the Sixth and Seventh Sector Armies, 'Black Sword' and 'Golden Nyss.'"
"I will carry out any will of the Council," Kit said with a smile, bowing his head. Well, sure, why wouldn't you, when both your armies are in deep reserve. They handle patrolling, security, and pass their forces on to those who need them more. I had a feeling if this kept up, the Nautolan would turn into a seasoned warrant officer.
"Master Plo Koon," the Kel Dor's hologram turned its head slightly toward Windu sitting nearby. "You will lead the Sixth System Army 'Forn' its area of responsibility coincides with the borders of the Tenth Sector Army 'Scarlet Dagger.'"
"I'll set out for Taris as soon as I finish my current assignment," promised the Jedi who had brought Padawan Tano into the Order.
"The Seventh System Army 'Gren' passes under Master Ti's responsibility, who, until Master Unduli returns to active duty, faces the difficult task of stopping the Separatist advance together with the Eleventh Sector Army 'Burning Claw' and the Twelfth 'Azure Spear.'"
"Are we leaving Kamino unattended?" the Togruta asked in surprise.
"At present, all ready troops have already been deployed to the army," Windu cut her off. "After Luminara recovers, you will return and continue overseeing clone training."
"And as always, there aren't enough of them," Yoda echoed.
"The Republic cannot afford larger clone purchases," Ti reminded them. "Next quarter, we expect to purchase another five million clones — if our losses remain at the current level."
"Troubling all this is," the Grand Master sighed. "Much time the cloners need to replenish the army."
"That is correct," Ti agreed. "Ten years for an adult clone. Essentially, the third generation is all they can provide us with from finished product."
"Discuss this matter with the Chancellor we must," the aged Jedi decided. "Other ways to replenish the army we need."
"Arkanians and Khommites work with similar technologies," I recalled. "Perhaps we should send emissaries to them?"
"Reasonable your proposal is, Master Dougan," Yoda agreed. "Depend only on Kamino we cannot."
"We could conduct a mobilization among the Republic's population," Piell suggested.
"Let's not raise this issue again," Windu objected. "The Senate shot down that initiative at its roots."
"What about volunteer units?" I asked. "The 'Iron Spear' has several hundred thousand volunteers from Christophsis. Sure, they're worse soldiers than clones, but at least they can free up part of the regular army from routine tasks."
"Few the volunteers in the Grand Army are," Yoda noted.
"There are just over half a million across all System Armies," Koon spoke up. "And most of them are in the 13th Sector Army."
Well... the Republic's citizens really didn't like defending their independence with weapons in hand. It was giving me déjà vu.
"Let's return to pressing matters," Windu suggested. And under the general silence, he continued: "The Eighth System Army 'Heft,' during Master Gallia's recovery, will be under Master Tiin's purview, and unites the forces of the 16th Sector Army 'Tusk' and the 17th 'Chrome Shield.'"
The Iktotchi nodded majestically. Yeah, even after the merger, his territory was half the size of mine. And I didn't recall any major bloodshed there.
"The penultimate System Army, 'Iok,' has been given to Grand Moff Octavian Grant. He holds control over the forces of the 'Night Hammer' and 'Dark Sword' armies, where Separatist attacks have recently increased."
"He commanded the Twentieth Army until recently, I believe," Kenobi recalled.
"Exactly so," Windu agreed. "His actions in defending those territories proved so successful that Chancellor Palpatine specifically singled him out among the recent appointments. Yes, it should be noted that the southern borders of the Twelfth and Fourth Armies have been changed — they now run along the borders of Hutt Space. That concludes this matter; we should move on to reviewing Master Kenobi's report on the incident on Felucia..."
"Forgive me, Master Windu," I raised my hand above my head like in school, trying to get their attention. "It seems you said there were ten armies, but you only listed nine... And you didn't say anything about the Thirteenth through Fifteenth Sector Armies..."
"Didn't your friend, Chancellor Palpatine, personally brief you on the matter?" Kit Fisto inquired with a smirk.
"He is not my friend," I objected. "And no, Master Fisto, he does not inform me of his plans."
"Then you should meet with him," Yoda advised. "All of Hutt Space, and the last three sector armies — now Army 'Gent.' Your army, Grand Moff."
Roll the asphalt into rolls... I'd overplayed my hand.
"So what happened on Felucia, Master Kenobi?" Oppo Rancisis, who had remained silent until now, inquired.
* * *
"This is going too far," Darth Malgus growled, watching his assault shuttle land on a tiny clearing free of trash mountains.
Lotho Minor — a planet that over the years of its existence had turned into a giant garbage dump — didn't just inspire hatred in the Sith Lord. The very sight of this dreary world, poisoned by filth down to its very core, drove the Sith into a frenzy.
It seemed the Lord had decided the Sith would drink the cup of humiliation to the dregs, carrying out errands beneath a glorious warrior. First, building a station in the Maw's belly, now this... what next? What could be more humiliating than this? Cleaning up after his orgies? Emptying his chamber pot?
And what could the Sith Lord — the one his Master had told him about — possibly want in this pathetic place? No self-respecting Force-sensitive would willingly end up here. Even after a defeat by a Jedi.
This was infinitely humiliating! What plans could the Emperor have for this wretch?
Barely restraining himself from kicking in the ship's ramp, the man jumped to the ground, surrounding himself with a protective sphere. Even through his respirator, the stench of this world seeped into his lungs, triggering nausea.
Ordering the "skywalkers" to guard the landing zone — the only one in the entire hemisphere — the Sith once again immersed himself in the Force.
Every warrior of the Empire knew how to use their power to locate Force-sensitives. Sometimes, this was how they found talented recruits. More often, Jedi spying in Imperial ranks, or renegades whose very existence shamed the Order.
Right now, his tracking skills were necessary to find the one who had decided to hide here. Amid the stench, the trash, and the unintelligent vermin whose numerous life signals created a background noise resembling "white noise."
The Force echoed back to him a spark of the Dark Side, located deep underground, some distance away. It was unlikely to be one of the locals — it must be the one he'd come for. Imagining having to dig through millennia of refuse, the Sith snarled.
The planet had no natural climate structure whatsoever. The unbearable heat — the product of rotting millions of tons of organic matter, chemical reagents, and spent fuel rods — far exceeded what he'd felt on Korriban. Even the local star's rays couldn't penetrate the haze rising from the dump's surface.
The Sith concentrated, trying to scan the garbage beneath his feet with the Force. If the defeated lord was hiding below, there had to be a way in — a passage, a tunnel, a cave, at least, where he lived. He wouldn't be digging through tons of trash just to reach this broken wretch.
Sensing a fairly spacious cavity a few hundred meters away, from which the aftertaste of the Dark Side was emanating, he slowly strode in that direction, all the while drawing the Force into himself, fueling his own rage with seething discontent.
A Hutt's assignment!
A Hutt's search!
A Hutt's Emperor!
Having moved a couple of dozen meters from the shuttle, Malgus assessed the structural strength of the trash heap his ship was resting on, using the Force, and then released the accumulated energy under his feet, blasting a path into the depths of the dump.
Falling into the abyss, he surrounded himself with a protective bubble to avoid unnecessary injury. Sinking deeper beneath the layer of garbage with each second, he finally, after several seconds of falling, reached a solid surface.
Finding himself in a narrow corridor laid among the mountains of trash, the Sith ignited his lightsaber, dispelling the darkness. Getting his bearings, he walked toward the large cave. His Master had said that was where the nest of this crippled Zabrak would be.
The journey didn't take long — a couple of minutes at most. During that time, he encountered several intersections with other tunnels but held his course unerringly. Every now and then, alarming sounds came from the piles of garbage, but the Sith continued to ignore them.
Reaching the cave, which had formed spontaneously beneath a layer of decomposing and rusting waste, he looked around with contempt. A true den, more fitting for a beast than a worthy continuator of the Sith cause. Decidedly, Bane's descendants had degenerated over the millennia if even in their darkest hour they couldn't find a better refuge than this.
The Force warned him of the attack in advance.
The Sith spun around in a flash just as an unknown monstrosity — the product of a union between morally obsolete manipulators and half a Zabrak — tried to land a blow on his back that would have snapped his spine.
Wielding his blade with incredible speed, Malgus sliced off the mechanical limbs in a fraction of a second, staring at the creature writhing at his feet.
"Red! Red! Red!" The creature pointed at the lightsaber with maddened eyes, in which the last remnants of former power still flickered, in superstitious terror. "The Master is near, the Master will not be pleased..."
"What nonsense are you spewing, scum?" Malgus kicked the mechanical torso of the most repulsive cyborg he'd ever seen with the toe of his armored boot. "Are you Darth Maul?"
"Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes," the Zabrak nodded so vigorously that saliva began to spray from his lips. "Sith-Sith-Sith, mighty, invincible..."
"I see," Malgus kicked the cyborg again. "It shows. Champion of life."
Reaching out with the Force to this creature, Veradun broke the contact in disgust almost immediately.
To his immense disgust, the animal now lying at his feet was indeed the one his Master had sent him for. Humiliated, beaten, broken... In his days as a commander, Malgus would surely have finished the poor wretch, knowing he'd never be the same again. He'd even beheaded his own Master, though he'd tried to cling to the last seconds of life. This one didn't even have legs, but that was only half the problem.
He was insane. Yes, there was still something left in his head, but it was all so jumbled that it would take a well-trained brigade of Sith sorcerers to restore or at least attempt to fix the psychological trauma he'd sustained.
Even by Sith standards, it would be more honorable to end this "Darth's" suffering than to try and drag him to the surface.
Malgus hesitated for only a moment, then, cursing, hung his weapon on his belt. Hutt, he couldn't disobey his Master.
A crash overhead made him step aside, avoiding a large piece of scrap metal falling on his head. Glancing up, the Sith called upon the Force, grabbing a vile serpentine creature by the tail and slamming it to the floor. At least he could kill something.
"And what the hell are you?" Realizing the creature possessed higher nervous activity that resonated in the Force, he demanded an answer.
"Morley," the snake hissed, crushed by the Sith's iron grip. "I serve my master..."
"This is your 'master'?" The Sith nodded toward the defeated Maul, who was babbling nonsense. "I highly doubt it."
"But he is strong," Morley wheezed. "I saved him when garbage containers from Naboo were dumped on the planet. Helped him get back on his feet..."
"You're a lousy helper," the Sith didn't bother to continue the conversation, and with a crunch, tore the "snake" in two, scattering the halves of its body in different directions. Disgusting.
"Let's go, 'Darth Maul,'" Malgus smirked, following the path back, dragging the cyborg's body behind him through the garbage tunnels with the Force. "Time for you to meet your true master."
* * *
"How did it go, Master?" The moment the Council Chamber doors swung open and I crossed the threshold into the spacious hall, Oli appeared beside me.
The girl, though she looked cheerful, seemed... on edge, somehow.
"Under-over-drank," I commented.
"What does that mean?" The girl frowned.
"Too early for you to know, of course," I thought. Not the right time to reveal the truth about drinking to a minor. But she'd find out eventually, right? Better from her teacher than somewhere "on the street." "That's what you call it when you've had less whiskey than you could, but more than you wanted."
"Is that so," the girl said with delight. "Good to know. So where are we going?"
"The Chancellor is waiting for me," I said slowly, as befitted a Council member, moving through the Temple corridor toward the stairs, my student following.
"What for?"
"Well, how should I put it... Remember how hard it was for us when I became a Moff?"
"I wouldn't say it was that hard," the girl looked at my mask and faltered. "Yes, I recall... so much routine," nodding her head as if in agreement, her voice suggested her words didn't match her thoughts at all.
"Palpatine decided I didn't have enough crap to clean up after Kamino, so he did me a 'favor' by piling on not just responsibility for the entire territory of Hutt Space..."
"But part of their territory is in the Fourth and Twelfth Armies' area of responsibility," the girl recalled.
"Exactly. I'll forgive the breach of chain of command for your knowledge of the operational situation. This one last time," I warned.
"Forgive me, Master," the student grew serious. "I promise never to interrupt you again."
"Hmph. Don't promise what you can't keep. But at least try."
"And the other armies? The Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth? Why didn't the Council mention them?"
"Because they're mine now."
The girl's eyes widened. "All of Hutt Space?!"
"Looks like it."
"Master... that's... that's..."
"More trouble," I finished for her. "Much more trouble. The Hutts won't just give up their territory. And the Separatists are sniffing around there too."
"But the Council just gave it to you? Just like that?"
"The Council didn't give me anything. Palpatine did. He's setting me up."
"For what?"
"I don't know yet. But I intend to find out."
We walked in silence for a moment, the weight of the new responsibility settling on my shoulders.
"Master?" Oli's voice was small.
"Yes?"
"What are you going to do?"
"First," I said, "I'm going to meet with the Chancellor. And then... then I'm going to make sure that when the storm comes, we're ready for it."
Another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. Unfortunately, I still had no idea what the final picture was supposed to look like.
"Yeah. Never happened before, and here it is again," I commented. "Anyway, now the 14th and 15th Armies have been added to our territory. And the Chancellor appointed me Grand Moff of this whole mess called the 'Tenth Systems Army.' And also, at the Chancellor's insistence, I was brought onto the Jedi Council. True, without the rank of Master, but that's a minor detail.""
"Wow," Oli said admiringly. "But that's great! Your plan..."
"Not here, Snips," I warned. The girl realized she'd said too much and fell silent.
"Can I come with you?" she asked. "I mean, to the Chancellor..."
"I doubt he'd be happy about that," I suggested. "Especially since I thought you'd decide to support your friend Ahsoka."
"But she's on Felucia," Oli frowned.
"So you ran off as soon as I entered the Council chambers," I stated. The girl didn't deny it. "Oh, I have a feeling you're going to be the cause of my early gray hair."
"Don't say that, Master," Oli pouted. "So what about Ahsoka?"
What a good girl. Trying to change the subject cleverly.
"She really screwed up on Felucia. Went on reconnaissance, chased after droids, got carried away, and nearly got the rest of her unit killed. And then the little things — she disobeyed her Master's orders, Kenobi..."
"That's a lot for one time," Oli admitted.
"Even for her, it's too much," I agreed. "In the end, the Council sent her to guard the Archives."
"And you didn't stand up for her?" Starstone was surprised.
"I did. I went on at length about how young and green they are, that more time should be spent training Padawans, including in military operations, instead of throwing them into war like tossing them into a river, hoping they'll swim..."
"I didn't quite get that. Who was thrown into a river?"
"It's an expression. One people taught their children to swim that way — they'd throw them into a river and watch to see if they'd swim or not."
"That's barbaric," the girl grimaced.
"And you — can you swim yourself?" Catching a certain disgust in the Force coming from the girl, I had a well-founded suspicion.
"Me? Of course not," the student snorted. "Who in their right mind these days would think of getting into rivers?"
"Ah, right, right," I smiled under my mask. Someone was about to face the treachery of the Dark Side.
"So you helped Ahsoka?"
"Not a bit," I admitted. "The Council nodded along, saying, yes, there's a grain of truth in that, but orders must be followed under any circumstances. In short, your friend is in the absolute thrall of Jocasta Nu for the next month."
"A month?" the girl repeated. "Your leave seems to be ending around then... Maybe, now that you're a Grand Moff, you could arrange for Ahsoka and her Master to serve in our army?"
"Our?" Approaching the stairs, I looked at my student. A shame, of course, that she couldn't see the skepticism on my face.
"Your army, Master," the girl corrected herself. "Sorry."
"That was a joke," I ruffled Starstone's hair with my hand. "But no. He won't serve under my command."
"He?"
"Skywalker."
"Oh..."
"Should I show you the visions again?"
"No need," the girl paled. "I just thought maybe you could somehow fix him..."
"You can't tell a deaf man, you can't show a blind man, you can't prove anything to a stupid one," I said didactically. Seeing the lack of understanding in the girl's eyes, I sighed and added, "I don't think he can be helped. And it's not part of my plans anyway."
"I see," the girl said dryly. Clearly, my answer didn't sit well with her. But what can you do. You can't please everyone.
"So, what should I do while you're gone?" the student asked a few minutes later, in the silence, when we'd already reached the base of the High Council Tower.
"Can't you find something to do?" I was surprised. "I'll mark this day in the calendar in black."
"Why that color?"
"It's a day of mourning!"
"Master!" Starstone protested reproachfully. "I'd rather go to Ahsoka, it's more fun together..."
"Don't even think about it," I said a bit more sharply than I'd intended. Noticing the wary look from the dark-haired girl, I took a deep breath to calm down and said in my usual tone, "Don't bother the girl. She's already under Council sanction — do you want her to get in trouble for wasting time gossiping with you instead of doing her duty?"
"As you say, Master," the student pouted. "Then I'll wait in my room until you need me."
"Excellent idea," phew, looks like I dodged that one. "See, you can be smart when you want to be. I approve!"
"Yeah, right," at the fork, our paths were supposed to diverge in opposite directions. "You only yank me around like a pet when you need something..."
"Hey, stop right there," I glanced quickly around and, seeing no one, grabbed the student by the arm and pulled her close. "What kind of stunt is this?"
"It's not a stunt!" the student bristled. "I just thought that since everything is clear between us now, we'd be like Revan and Malak..."
"Mother of... where did you even read about them?" I rolled my eyes.
"You have to know where to look," the girl grumbled. "The Order only cleaned up our history in the Archives. But there's also the Republic Historical Service — and everything there is unretouched. And it's open access — I've had clearance since my apprenticeship with Jocasta. I've been studying it bit by bit..."
"Listen here, Malak on a budget," I patted the girl's cheek, lowering my voice. "Unlike you, Revan's real apprentice was a fully trained Jedi. And his Master didn't worry that if he sent him on a mission, he'd get into a mess he couldn't get out of on his own."
"And you're actually worried?" the girl sneered. For a minute she stood there, bristling like an offended child who hadn't been bought an ice cream. Though, I was starting to forget that she really was a child.
"Stop clowning around," I had to switch to a demanding tone. "This isn't a game. Forget about secrecy, and everything goes down the drain..."
"You probably meant 'contraception,'" came a voice I knew very well, a few meters behind Oli. Looking up, I mentally cursed everything in existence. Damn cloaking and blocking of the Force Bond. With them, I felt blind and deaf — my Force perception radius had dropped to a minimum.
"Master Drallig," I said as amiably as possible. "This isn't good — they put you here to watch, and you're eavesdropping."
"And may you not ail either, not-quite-Master," the sword master chuckled. "What are you whispering about?"
On his face, as always, a smug smile reigned, as if glued on. As if it wasn't him, the renowned master, who had lost to a passing Jedi no one had even heard of a year ago. Honestly, if I'd been beaten the way I beat him, I'd be too ashamed to keep a poker face.
"I'm telling my Padawan that if she thoughtlessly takes examples from me, the Council will one day make her apologize to a weakling who lost after a fight he himself started," oh, it's a shame you can't see my face right now, you long-haired piece of... In my world, the local thugs would have taught you some manners for that hairstyle long ago.
"Well, if you ever take up her training," Cin chuckled, "maybe someday she'll actually win, instead of wiping the walls with herself."
"Why, I...!" The girl flared up, almost lunging at the Jedi. But I managed to hold her back.
"Easy, Padawan," I asked. "Don't touch the crap, and it won't stink."
"You're quite the comedian," Drallig said, smiling as he walked past us, patting me on the shoulder like an old friend. "Stop by when you're ready for round two, ignoramus."
"Right after you stop losing in the first one," I promised.
With his perpetual smirk, the sword master strode away, whistling some tune.
"Complete moron," I commented.
"Master, you're not going to fence with him again, are you?" Oli asked, puzzled.
"What's stopping me?" My voice was dripping with surprise. "Last time, if he hadn't refused to continue, I would have wiped the floor with him."
"Killing a Jedi within the Temple walls," the student snorted. "What could possibly go wrong?"
* * *
"This tavern stinks of rot," Walon Vau commented, washing down a simple meal with a mug of Corellian liquor. "Why the hell would anyone schedule a meeting for us here?"
The Mandalorian's irritation was understandable to every one of his kinsmen present in the cantina. Except for the Toydarian owner, the establishment was empty. Despite the fact that the lower levels of Coruscant were teeming with all sorts of scum who preferred to spend their time here, no one wanted to continue their nightly carousing in the same room as six Mandalorians who, ignoring the rules and laws of the Republic's capital — tightened after the terrorist attack in the Administrative Sector — were in full armor and hadn't even removed their helmets indoors.
Each of them, former Cuy'val Dar, "those who no longer exist," honored the ancient traditions of their homeland, specifically the Six Actions, passed down from the time of the Taungs. And so, to show up here, in this dive, having received a summons from one who dared to call himself Mandalore... Though logic insisted such a message should be ignored and the work Kal Skirata had offered them — training Republic commandos — should continue, blood and years of honed discipline did their work.
Walon Vau.
Mij Gilamar.
Vad'e Tay'haas.
Vonte Terro.
B'arin Apma.
Llats Ward.
Six of the seventy-five selected by the last one who could call himself Mandalore, Jango Fett, to train the clone army. Those whom Kal Skirata had roped into a new venture. Strange that he wasn't here himself. Though he was tied to his "Nulls" Jango's enhanced clones — he was as much a Mandalorian as any of them. And if someone...
The cantina's front door swung open so abruptly it was as if an airspeeder had crashed into it. None of the six even flinched — anyone who wanted to mess with a Mandalorian in armor was inevitably dead. And with six Mandalorians...
"O'kara (oh, stars)!" Mij Gilamar, the field medic, whispered softly. His helmet barely moved, indicating the threshold to the others. Reluctantly, as if they might see something interesting there, the rest, under Vau's grumbling, turned their heads.
And there was indeed something to see.
Since ancient times, one of the traditions of those from Mandalore who adhered to the Six Actions was the creation of their own armor. In the days when they held a good part of the galaxy in fear, only those who had achieved great martial glory could create armor fundamentally different from what ordinary warriors wore. Of course, over the millennia, traditions had been either forgotten or reinterpreted — the same Cuy'val Dar wore uniform armor, differing from each other only in the color of their elements or minor clothing details like a cloak, kama, or other trifles. And since the moment the Jedi rained fire from their warships upon Mandalore, no one had dared to create a new type of beskar'gam.
Now, before them stood a verd, a warrior, in armor completely unfamiliar to modern Mandalorians.
"He must have balls of beskar to flaunt that in front of us," Walon said, barely containing his anger.
The appearance of the armored elements left no doubt — the man who was now staring them down was clearly wearing Mandalorian-style armor. The design, though outdated, was a part of their culture that any Mandalorian could recognize from a thousand fakes. And the grayish-blue tint literally screamed that the material used to create this beskar'gam was nothing other than beskar — Mandalorian iron.
Unlike their own helmets, the newcomer did not use a T-shaped visor; instead, at eye level, the helmet had a yellow-orange strip of material transparent from one side. Similar to what was integrated into their own helmets, but without the tinting that improved work on planets with unbearably bright suns.
"Hey you, di'kut," Vonte's voice rang out, "come here."
The newcomer didn't move. Walon didn't miss that the unknown person, at the sound of the Mandalorian language, clenched his hands into fists. Apparently, he wasn't planning to voluntarily part with what he wasn't supposed to wear.
"To hell with it," Terro abruptly rose to her feet, nearly knocking over the table. "I'll do it myself. Watch my ele..."
The Mandalorian woman in red-painted armor quickly approached the stranger. A dozen thin braids falling onto her cloak from under her helmet bounced in time with her steps, betraying the impatience in the former clone instructor's actions.
"Come on, take it off," she raised her right hand, from the forearm of which a vibroblade emerged, aimed at the stranger's neck.
No one had time to see what happened next. Everything blurred into a gray-blue-red-black blotch, resulting in two things at once.
First — Vonte found herself lying face down on the dirty floor of the dive, her right arm twisted behind her back in a typical combat hold from the Mando hand-to-hand combat arsenal.
Second — the stranger stood with one foot on the back of the fallen Mandalorian woman, and with the free hand held her head lifted off the floor, having wrapped most of her braids around his fist.
"Mir'osik," came from under the stranger's helmet. Judging by the voice — a female stranger. Moreover, speaking correct Mando'a, without any accent. The five instructors exchanged glances. Over the years of their travels across the galaxy, even their own speech had acquired foreign inflections. Like anyone who communicates with non-Mandalorians. "In four thousand years, I see the Mando have not only renounced the Six Actions but have also forgotten how to properly greet the Mand'alor!"
At the utterance of the ancient title of their people's war leader, the five instructors jumped up from their seats. There could be no doubt — before them was one of their kin — even many inhabitants of their home planet couldn't pronounce the ancient title correctly.
"Who are you?" B'arin Apma asked more quietly, trying to defuse the situation. The "quietest" of the six, but no less dangerous.
"You'd better answer who you are," the stranger retorted with contempt. Releasing Vonte, she stepped a few paces to the side, narrowing the possible firing arc from her kin. The tribeswoman in red armor, cursing quietly in Mando'a, rejoined the others. Walon could feel in his bones that the woman wanted blood now more than ever. An unimaginable massacre, using heavy weapons, after which this establishment would turn into a burned-out shell. "You certainly can't be sons of Mandalore."
Turning her head toward the stunned Toydarian, who was watching the events from behind his counter, she threw just one word in his direction:
"Scram."
The owner of the dive, as if he'd only been waiting for permission, instantly disappeared through the back door into the kitchen. Judging by the clatter of falling dishes coming from there, he continued his retreat at superluminal speed.
"You're the one who called us here," Walon stated the obvious. "Why?"
"You still ask?" The stranger tore off her helmet with a jerk, revealing a stern but at the same time feminine face, framed by long, rust-colored durasteel hair. A gesture demanding the others repeat it. Otherwise, one could inflict the gravest insult on the one who had trusted his brethren and revealed his face. And one could answer for such an insult only by shedding blood in a mortal duel. "You, Cuy'val Dar, have been boasting for ten years that you instill our people's traditions in your cadets. And what's the result? Hiding behind the Six Actions, you didn't even try to stop the pacifists who turned the planet and the entire sector from the home of the galaxy's best warriors into a den for beggars and bums?"
"Who are you to make such accusations against us?!" Walon threw through clenched teeth, starting to get worked up. No one had ever been allowed to accuse him of cowardice or betrayal of his people with impunity.
"Vau," Llats Ward, a fierce warrior, the only one in the entire group who knew by heart all the great battles of Mandalore's glorious past, caught his arm, adding quietly, "I don't believe what I'm saying myself, but she looks like..."
"I am Shea Vizla, of Clan Vizla," the redhead shouted proudly. "Known as the Torch, named Mandalore the Avenger. I am the one who destroyed hundreds of Jedi and participated in the destruction of their Temple almost four thousand years ago. I am the one who helped crush the Order of Revan. The one who led the Mandalorians against the Eternal Empire. And the one who will spill your guts and beat the crap out of anyone who tries to dispute my right to rule Mandalore and everyone born in the sector I made prosperous and respected, while you, shameful pups, wallow in the mud training soldiers who could be sent to occupy our world. Serving those who destroyed our culture and exterminated the true Mandalorians, who carried out the massacre..."
"That can't be," Vad'e Tay'haas said quietly, but with doubt. "If you were who you claim to be..."
Vad'e had always been known for his excellent reflexes. But now, yanked from his spot by a strong cable fired by Vizla, he plowed his face a good ten meters across the distance separating them and ended up at the armored boots of the redhead.
"One more word, nibral, and I'll flay you alive," she warned, giving the Mandalorian a light kick in his battered face.
"I am Mandalore the Avenger," she reminded. "Four thousand years in carbonite haven't changed me, but they have changed my people. And anyone who stands in my way as I strive to restore our world, our sector, our people's glory and deserved respect in the eyes of the entire galaxy, will know my wrath."
Her answer was dead silence.
Each of those present, torn by cognitive dissonance, tried to decide for themselves what was more important in their fate.
Only a fool couldn't see the obvious — nothing in this galaxy was strange anymore. The Republic builds a fleet of dreadnoughts and loses it without a trace. An expedition is sent beyond the galaxy. The Jedi create an army in secret from the Republic they serve. The last true Mandalorian became the donor for millions of clones. The inhabitants of an entire planet unquestioningly obey a single Jedi, build a fleet for him, and gladly fight in his name.
In such circumstances, when the galaxy had gone mad, the return of an ancient warlord no longer seemed like a wild notion. On the contrary, in the context of everything, it seemed as mundane as the Jedi, the ancient enemies of Mandalore, becoming commanders of a Mandalorian's clone army.
This galaxy had decidedly gone mad.
And it was quite obvious that Shea Vizla hadn't gathered them here for nothing.
Each of the seventy-five members of the Cuy'val Dar, like their deceased leader Jango Fett, was an adherent of ancient traditions that glorified martial feats. Perhaps they were the only ones who still observed the tenets of the Six Actions, even partially. It was no wonder the Mand'alor had come for them.
As in ancient times, the leader demanded obedience. That was the sixth action. Everyone must answer the call. Submit to the great design and walk their path of glorious battles from beginning to end. Be faithful to their sacred duty.
Because this is the Way!
There could be no other.
"There's already one on our homeworld calling himself Mandalore," the field medic said. "There can't be two leaders by definition..."
"The one calling himself by my title is just a clone — one of those Alpha-class commandos personally raised by Jango," Shea stunned them. "As soon as we're done on Coruscant, we'll head to Mandalore. And restore the rightful power there!"
Walon felt that this was the moment he had lived his whole life for. The very moment every boy or girl in the Mandalorian Sector should grow up for. The moment when the leader calls for a campaign.
And it didn't matter what Skirata would say. It didn't matter what consequences would follow from the instructors leaving the Special Operations Brigade, where they were "training" new commandos to replace those who had already fallen in this war.
Everything became unimportant when the Mand'alor's call sounded.
"The Republic won't let us return to our old traditions," Llats noted. "They have a huge fleet and army. Our sector faces occupation if we move against Duchess Satine's government..."
"By the time I come to restore my power over the Mandalorian Sector," Shea said, "the Jedi and the Republic won't have time for us. My ally will see to that."
"Have we ever needed allies before?" Vad'e, still lying on the floor, asked with a hint of mockery, earning a painful kick to the kidney area. Walon mechanically noted that such a move must have caused his comrade truly unbearable pain. Yet he didn't even squeak.
As befitted a valiant warrior of the Mand'alor.
"I chose you because you are the ones who have strayed the least from the Path," Vizla said, without looking, striking the Mandalorian lying at her feet again, this time with her heel on his ear. Feeling the pain, he stopped his attempts to cut the cable wrapped around his neck. "And I, Mandalore the Avenger, call you to a new campaign. All who are not with us are against us. All who are against us will fall. All who refuse to join or submit will be silenced forever. So?!"
Shea freed the unfortunate compatriot from the trap, and while he was on all fours, a kick accelerated him toward the other five Mandalorians. Once among them, he threw a fierce look at her, promising nothing good. But Walon, meeting his gaze, silently put the insolent comrade in his place. The redhead, from whom such exchanges didn't escape, just smirked, putting her helmet back on.
You don't joke with the Mand'alor. You obey him, or you die by his hand.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Llats Ward had never been against a good fight. It was no wonder that with the appearance of a strong leader, the only one anyone could submit to, he was the first to rally to the banner of the new crusade against the Republic.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," following Ward's example, B'arin Apma put his bu'shey (helmet) on his head, dropping to one knee, looking through his visor at the one who had literally risen from the ashes of time.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Mij Gilamar, in his golden armor, joining the first two comrades, looked comical in that coloring of his beskar'gam. But Walon, who had known him long enough, would advise no one to cross this Mandalorian with a scalpel.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Vonte Terro's crimson armor took its place in the line of those ready to follow the Torch.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Vad'e Tay'haas looked the redhead straight in the visor, which showed that the Mandalorian in purple armor hadn't yet fully grasped the seriousness of the moment. However, Vau had known him long enough to understand — behind this bravado hid the heart of a true warrior. Yes, even if their meeting with the old new leader had been chaotic, and everything she said needed to be verified, before her only Jango had tried to do anything useful for the planet. Not drag it into senseless wars, as the clone "Mandalore" had tried. Not carry out terrorist attacks, as the scum from "Death Watch" did. He worked tirelessly and invested every last credit into the cause of the planet's revival. Perhaps sacrificing fabulous sums to the pacifist government wasn't the right step. Perhaps it really was time to strike at the shaky foundations of a demilitarized society and, through purification by fire, temper a new generation of Mandalorians?
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Walon knelt last. His black armor seemed to absorb the dim light of the cantina, and he himself seemed like a ghost from childhood nightmares. Though, when he did his job, he became a nightmare for older beings as well.
"I expected nothing less from you," there was a hint of pride in Vizla's voice. "Return to the Special Operations Brigade barracks, pack your things. You no longer serve the Republic. Your one-year contracts for training commandos have ended, haven't they?"
"That's right, Mand'alor," Vau answered for everyone. "They were going to be extended next week."
"Talk to the others from the Cuy'val Dar," she ordered. "Everyone you trust must join us."
"Kal Skirata is faithful to the tradition of the Six Actions," Tay'haas muttered. "He could be useful — he has extensive connections."
"Kal Skirata is only concerned with keeping his children — the 'Nulls' alive," she stunned them with details that not even all of Kal's close friends knew. "He is devoted to them, and they to him alone. Walon," she addressed the sergeant. "Tell Skirata that if his clan joins, I will give him the cure for his sons' aging. But his loyalty, and that of his sons, must be absolute."
"Your will shall be done, Mand'alor," Walon promised. "Are there any other orders?"
"Certainly," Walon noticed that every single instructor tensed up, ready to outdo each other in their eagerness to carry out the leader's will. "But first, you need to change the color of your armor."
"A covert operation?" Vau clarified.
"Exactly," Vizla nodded. "We will strike at our enemies. And soon."
As one, the Mandalorians kneeling on the floor slammed their armored fists against their chest plates with a clatter.
Six of the Cuy'val Dar were ready for any trial.