The scorching sun of Abo pleasantly warmed his skin. A light breeze ruffled his hair.
"A wonderful planet," Raith thought. "One could establish a nice resort here. Of course, if the most secret space station of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul weren't floating in orbit of the local star."
The New Forge.
That's what the Emperor had named it.
Raith hadn't delved too deeply into what had happened to the old one.
Officially, the planet was called Lehon—just like the solar system—but to the rest of the galaxy, it remained just another world in the depths of space known as the Unknown Regions.
Nearly four thousand years ago, in this seemingly unremarkable system located beyond the far reaches of explored space, Darth Revan and Darth Malak had discovered the Rakata: an ancient race of Force-wielders who had ruled the Galaxy long before the Republic's birth.
Dougan said a colossal battle had raged here, ending with the destruction of the predecessor to that magnificent orbital station now under Sienar's absolute control. The "Star Forge"a magnificent engineering structure created by the Rakata—had been destroyed, along with most of the Republic fleet and their enemies.
Even now, traces of that colossal battle remained in nearby space. The ships of both fleets had been consumed by the devastating explosion that destroyed the Star Forge. Everything caught in the shockwaves had been deformed and torn to shreds according to physical laws. The mangled pieces of metal had wandered through this system for a long time before being absorbed by the New Forge, transformed into parts of itself.
But even now, a huge debris belt orbited Lehon, captured by the Forge's mechanisms and converted into something new. Something designed by Sienar himself.
Ancient debris was being turned into starships.
There were only a few now—just two dozen—but this was only the beginning. It had taken a long time and all the shipwright's intellectual genius to rebuild even one assembly line of the Forge to produce new "Harrowers." Yes, it was little on a galactic scale—incomparably little against the armadas of the Republic and the Confederacy—but it was only the beginning.
The Jedi had assured him that the station's current capabilities were only a fraction. The station's true potential would only be revealed when a special fuel was delivered to its core. And then, Kuat of Kuat would be biting his elbows, lamenting that this magnificent factory didn't belong to him.
Raith was accustomed to working with automation. Despite his company uniting several hundred thousand sentients under its wing, he trusted machines more. That was why no one would ever know what ships were being built on the secret slipways of his company, far from human eyes.
He could already be proud that his "Furies" had been accepted into the Imperial treasury without any complaints. And, apparently, they had already managed to annoy Kuat—spies from that world were digging the ground with their noses to find out who had built these machines. According to rumors reaching him, one of the "Furies" had evacuated the most talented scientists from Kuat. A sensitive blow.
Where Raith always relied on his own mind, creating his masterpieces according to his own designs, other companies preferred to have entire groups of talented engineers designing their equipment. He didn't condemn this approach—every sentient survived in this crazy world on their own.
That was why, when he first set foot on this world's surface, he was happy that the only inhabitants of this system were lifeless droids, whose company he had grown accustomed to long ago.
There was no one here he had to consider. The locals had long since died, perishing soon after that famous battle. The huge contingent of Imperial stormtroopers based in the system, and the arriving replacements for ship crews, interested him little. They had their own command, so he didn't meddle in their affairs. Thus, the man could roam the entire planet without regard for anyone, unashamed to do whatever he wanted.
The Rakata were a race on the verge of complete extinction when discovered by those who would later become their executioners. In essence, all evidence of their existence outside this tiny world had already been destroyed: Raith had found not a single mention of the Rakata in historical chronicles. Only legends and speculation.
One legend, in particular, attributed the creation of the first hyperdrive to the Rakata. Maybe so; such dilemmas should be left to historians now.
Lehon abounded with sandy beaches and virgin forests. Many small tropical islands separated by the sparkling surface of a blue ocean, whose waters were as clear as a baby's tear.
Raith had located his residence on one of the largest islands on the planet. This truly giant landmass was almost entirely covered in dense, lush jungle. Stone ruins of structures, so ancient they at first seemed dilapidated, were visible here and there. But upon studying them closely, Raith concluded that once again the Rakata had managed to surprise those who would come to their home later.
The stone blocks turned out to be a building material stronger than permacrete. No wonder the planet had dozens of different structures preserved in relative integrity over such a vast time.
Unfortunately, the largest structure had been destroyed—someone had destroyed the foundation, causing the entire construction to collapse like a sandcastle at high tide. Restoration work was now underway there—the stormtrooper commander had thought it a bright idea to restore what Dougan called the Great Temple. Well, let them. Whatever amused the stormtroopers, as long as they didn't interfere.
Therefore, Raith chose a smaller building for his residence.
It had many underground levels—not to mention a truly huge number of rooms above ground. The ancient electronics and droids, which were of purely scientific interest to him, had been carefully moved to the extensive underground levels, where he spent time figuring out archaic mechanisms. The above-ground floors were still empty—except for Sienar's "official" office, from which he oversaw the station's work and occasionally immersed himself in new projects, inspired by his research in the secret underground laboratory.
A new type of interceptor, developed by him based on a hybrid of Rakatan and his own developments, now awaited him at the test range. Faster than its predecessor, even more maneuverable, it had not yet been put into production, as it required debugging of many systems. Of course, he could use the services of any of the clones, but the shipwright preferred to perfect his product before presenting it to the Emperor.
Raith stopped near the machine, which from a distance resembled the models he had modified for basing on the "Harrowers." After checking the suit's seal, Sienar easily climbed into the cockpit and closed the canopy behind him. Starting the pre-flight checks, he leaned back in his seat.
Perhaps Dougan's views on restructuring the galaxy were idealistic. Perhaps even radical. Not for him to judge. When the chaos began, he would be sipping his Corellian whiskey, sunbathing under the scorching rays of Abo. Those born for war should do the fighting.
His purpose in life was to provide his allies with weapons. Better than what the competition had.
And when the dust from the galactic redistribution settled, he would become the largest supplier of military equipment. Most likely, the New Forge wouldn't go to him—Dougan was hardly foolish enough to entrust him with this perfect conveyor forever. However, the Jedi had promised that Sienar's company would eclipse Kuat and all its production facilities.
When the Eternal Empire of Zakuul crushed the Republic and the Confederacy, who would care about companies that couldn't provide their sides with suitable starships? "Sienar Systems" would transform from a secondary manufacturer, carelessly pushed into the background by Senate bureaucrats, into a hegemon compared to which the story of Kuat of Kuat's rise to power would seem like a children's fairy tale.
Hearing the readiness signal, the shipwright lifted the interceptor off the landing pad.
The test cycle began.
* * *
"Let's proceed to the vote!" a voice came from the Chancellor's central platform.
Standing in an empty doorway, Anakin could barely contain his rage.
Hypocrite!
Traitor!
Separatist!
How could he, smiling at those he had been working against until recently, promise to bring order to the banks' operations? And the senators? They were just as bad!
This man had financed the creation of one of the most productive droid factories on Geonosis. He had acted against the Republic! And now, they were seriously ready to discuss handing him the reins of the galaxy's most powerful economic structure? Just because Clovis had sworn to maintain neutrality?
What blindness did one need to not see this obvious lie?!
How could the Supreme Chancellor, Anakin's friend, express support for this... this...
"Looking at your strained face, Skywalker," a voice sounded nearby. "You either want to kill Rush Clovis with your glare, or you're trying with all your might not to run galloping to the nearest restroom."
"Master Dougan," Anakin greeted the approaching Jedi through gritted teeth. What was he doing here?
"Ah, leave those titles when we're alone," the other waved a hand clad in an armored glove. "You can just call me Rick. Or 'Dougan,' if you prefer."
"There's not much difference," the Jedi snorted. "You know my feelings for you anyway."
"As you know mine," the opponent remarked. "Shall we settle it right here with lightsabers?"
"What?" the "knight without fear" was taken aback.
"Dark Side over the shoulder," Dougan chuckled quietly. "Come on, relax. I just thought our mutual dislike had reached the point where it's time for a duel."
"Nonsense," Anakin snapped, continuing to devour the platform with his eyes, where Clovis stood awaiting the Senate's decision. And next to him, literally a meter away, stood his wife!
Anakin had cursed his lack of restraint a hundred times already.
Seeing the persistent banker trying to kiss his wife in his own home, the young Jedi had momentarily given in to rage, decorating Clovis's face with several good punches. And... had nearly beaten him to death. Praise the Great Force that Padmé had intervened!
Why, why had she agreed to work with Clovis to expose the Banking Clan? Why hadn't she listened to him, her husband? And how had she allowed that disgusting slug to be alone with her! After everything that had happened between them!?
"Breathe deeper," Dougan advised. "Or steam will come out of your ears."
"What in the blazes do you want from me?" Skywalker ground his teeth. "What are you doing in the Senate? Shouldn't you be returning to your system army? I'm sure they're waiting for you."
"Everything in its time," Rick smirked. "Actually, I had business with Chairman Papanoida. In case you haven't heard, both his daughters were kidnapped to force Pantora to join the Separatists."
"Pointless fuss," Anakin said without taking his eyes off the platform. "Papanoida, like any of their chairmen, has little say. The Assembly can overturn his decision at any moment."
"I thought the same," Dougan admitted. "Until a little bird brought news that all members of the Assembly, without exception, had been killed. They were flying to another government meeting, and lo and behold—their ships were blown up."
"An attack?" the young Jedi asked warily.
"No, not at all. Just five aero-speeders had their engines explode simultaneously. A coincidence, pure and simple," it was impossible to tell from the Master Jedi's voice whether he was joking or serious.
"The Separatists eliminated the people who were in their way," Anakin voiced his thoughts.
"My opinion exactly," Dougan nodded. "Now Papanoida is the only member of the government who can dictate his will to his people. Good thing his daughters were rescued, otherwise Senator Chuchi," he nodded toward the mentioned girl, "would be representing her planet in a different Senate."
"Good thing it ended so simply," Skywalker waved it off. Meanwhile, an approving murmur from the senators reached his ears.
"Well, well," Rick said. "It seems the Senate has once again shown its stupidity and appointed Clovis as head of the Banking Clan."
"Looks like it," Skywalker said through clenched teeth. Clenching his fists in pain, he watched with hatred as the platform carrying Padmé and the banker returned to its place. Only when it flew close enough did Anakin realize that, out of habit, he was observing the Senate session from the gallery accredited for the Naboo mission. And the representative of that planet, judging by her beautiful, frowning face, was very unhappy to see him.
"Grand Moff Dougan," Rush Clovis beamed with a sincere smile. "Glad to see you."
And with poorly concealed coldness, casting a contemptuous glance at the second Jedi, he added:
"General Skywalker," a barely noticeable nod of his head toward him indicated that the banker was not very glad to see him. And to hell with him; he hadn't come for him.
"Likewise," the black figure nodded. "I heard you can be congratulated on your appointment?"
"Thank you," Anakin didn't miss that the banker bowed to the Master Jedi slightly lower than etiquette required. But he dismissed it immediately upon meeting his wife's eyes.
"Senator Amidala, I need to speak with you," he said.
"Excuse me, General Skywalker," his wife shook her head. "I don't have time right now. Perhaps next week?"
A flash of rage nearly broke the walls of the furnace where the dragon of fear consuming Anakin was smoldering. The fear of losing her overwhelmed him again.
How could she be so heartless? Couldn't she see how much pain he was in? How he regretted what he had done?
"I'll contact you later, Senator," he said quietly, suppressing his emotions. Although he couldn't see Dougan's face under his mask, the Jedi's quick turn of his head toward him indicated that he had undoubtedly sensed his dark emotions.
Anakin feared to imagine how events would have unfolded further if he hadn't heard a tactful cough behind him. Turning around, he sighed and returned his rage to where it belonged.
"Teacher Skywalker," the girl bowed and addressed him. "Chancellor Palpatine asked you to come see him."
"Yes, of course," he replied. How timely. He was always timely.
"Teacher?" Padmé raised an eyebrow. "I thought your Padawan had left the Jedi Order."
"She was expelled," Anakin clarified. "Not everyone is meant to become a Jedi and learn from the best. Aubrie," he indicated the girl, "is my new student. Much more capable than the previous one."
"Well, I'll be," Dougan said in a tone full of surprise. "Aubrie Wyn."
"Master Dougan," the girl reacted as if she had just noticed him. "Is something wrong?"
"No, everything's fine," the Jedi said in a tone full of disappointment.
"If so, we need to hurry," Skywalker said peremptorily. "Good day, Master Dougan, Senator Amidala. Clovis," Anakin looked the banker in the eyes, trying to make it clear that his contempt for the newly minted head of the Banking Clan had not gone anywhere.
After walking a few steps away from the group, Anakin heard the quiet phrase of the armored Jedi.
"Better hurry before the entire Padawan Pack gets snatched up."
* * *
"Your proposal, Supreme Chancellor, is indeed interesting," the Arkanian's face clearly showed a dismissive attitude toward his interlocutor. "But what didn't suit you about the Kaminoan clones?"
"Is that really so important?" Palpatine asked in a neutral tone.
In his thoughts, he was already sorting through options for killing the bastard. Unfortunately, he couldn't carry out the execution immediately. So he had to continue playing his role.
"Without a doubt," the pointy-eared one continued in the same politely disinterested tone. "Since you decided to turn to us for help, it means the Kaminoans didn't suit you for some reason?"
"Not exactly. Kamino has been attacked repeatedly, which poses a threat to our clone factory. There's a war in the galaxy, and we can't afford to lose our soldier resource."
"That is, your proposal has nothing to do with the fact that Kaminoans can grow a combat-ready soldier for you only in ten years, while we can do it in just three months?" the alien remarked.
"So fast?" This was indeed new information for the Chancellor. When choosing a new clone supplier, Palpatine had bet on the Arkanians only because Isard had provided data indicating that the pointy-eared ones could provide a combat-ready unit to the customer in six months. But not twice as fast.
The Khommites—another cloning specialist—managed it in a year. Moreover, their products were not subject to rapid aging, which was one of the order's conditions. On the contrary, Khommite clones aged much more slowly. Of course, this was a plus for Palpatine's Plan—once the Republic fell, he would need an army and fleet of obedient soldiers to keep the galaxy under control. And, unlike the Arkanians, the Khommites categorically refused to implant inhibitor chips, which were supposed to ensure unquestioning compliance with Contingency Orders.
The Arkanians did not have such a reverent attitude toward their products. Their services were half the price of the Kaminoans', but at the same time, the pointy-eared ones demanded an order for nearly a billion clones—not only line infantry, but also support personnel, auxiliary branches. A huge sum, but thanks to the compliance of the Muuns, who had returned the funds stolen by the previous Banking Clan leadership, credits were available. Even more than needed.
And at the same time, the information about such rapid clone production required consideration.
"I was informed of a longer production time," Palpatine decided not to conceal such information. "What is the reason?"
"We managed to improve the product training process by acquiring some technologies from Cartao," the Arkanian frankly admitted. "There is no longer a need for a product training period. They emerge from the tanks already with the recipient's memory."
"How curious," Palpatine smiled.
Doriana the Hutt. He was supposed to deliver the surviving Spaarti cylinders to the treasury on Wayland. Instead, he had disappeared along with the cargo. The commander of the ship sent for him had determined that a day before their arrival, another Republic "Acclamator" had been in the system, onto which the surviving samples had been loaded. What kind of cruiser it was, who had sent it, and where it had gone remained a mystery. Palpatine first thought the Jedi were involved, but had to conclude that the Temple Guard had nothing to do with it.
Increasingly, it seemed to him that a third force had appeared on the dejarik board. Too often, planned events were disrupted. And from both the Republic and the Separatist sides. The disappearance of the Spaarti cloning cylinders, the vanishing of Dooku's dark acolytes without a trace. And then that flare of the Dark Side shortly after the Battle of Geonosis. What a pity he hadn't been able to determine its cause. Sidious had hoped that a new capable Dark Side adept would fall into his hands, one who could replace the prematurely deceased Asajj Ventress. No matter how much Dooku boasted, the acolyte was far more capable in killing Jedi than the other Dark Acolytes.
Good thing Rush Clovis obediently accepted Count Dooku's offering, receiving a list of accounts where the Republic's money had gone. Of course, they couldn't be recovered, but it helped him look good before the Senate. Now all that remained was to make him act according to the Plan. And the Grand Army's clones would pay a visit to Scipio, establishing Republic control over the banks.
"But since the cloning facilities are under attack by the CIS," the Arkanian noted, "if you agree to our terms, you should place our laboratories in a completely secure location."
"Oh, don't worry," Palpatine smiled. "Everything has already been prepared on one of Coruscant's moons for you to work in complete safety."
"The very heart of the Republic?" The alien grinned. "Excellent, that suits us. Are you ready to discuss the donor question now?"
"Professionals should handle the details," the Chancellor smiled. "The only thing I'm interested in is how quickly you can start production."
"Two weeks after we sign the contract. The equipment is compact and can be delivered in the shortest possible time."
"You told my assistant that your products would surpass the clones we currently use," Sidious pretended to recall some information.
"After we obtain a gene sample, we'll need a few days to modify them. Our clones will be faster, stronger, smarter. If current Mandalorian mercenary clones are two to three times superior to Separatist B-1 battle droids in combat performance, our product will be five times deadlier. Without false modesty, I can say that Arkanian technology is the most advanced in the galaxy. I'm surprised the Jedi turned to the Kaminoans to create an army."
"I don't understand it myself," Palpatine spread his hands. "Because you couldn't have hidden several million clones from the entire world for ten years," he thought. "Perhaps they don't trust you?"
"In that case, the feeling is mutual," the Arkanian remarked coldly.
Making another dash, the senior clone commander, Micky, dove into the nearest blast crater. A strange name for a clone. On Kamino he'd been called CS-37/666. But the Duros instructor declared that his number was the devil's number and that he shouldn't flaunt it in polite society. A pity he hadn't managed to uncover the full depth of the connection between religion and numbers back then. When he'd tried to pry this from the instructor, genuinely not understanding how faith could be so blind as to fear simple mathematics, the mentor had gotten angry, calling him intolerant of others' beliefs. The Duros hadn't bothered to explain what "tolerance" meant either.
After much deliberation, the clone had chosen a name for himself — Micky. Many did this — as it turned out, commanders found it hard to pronounce their numbers to get the clones' attention. And, on the advice of the Mandalorians who trained many of his brothers, the clones began adopting names. At first timidly, keeping them only for their inner circle.
But Geonosis changed everything. They'd finally entered battle. Done what they were created for. And there, they learned what death on an industrial scale meant, when red blood soaked the planet's sand.
Despite the time that had passed, he still hadn't gotten used to his new call sign, but what could he do. It was more convenient for the generals. Who were they to argue?
A moment later, a burst of blaster bolts whistled over his head, fired by a wall of B-1 "boxes" marching emotionlessly toward his unit.
Behind him, two clones who'd been running after him fell with heart-rending screams. The war continued its bloody harvest.
Peeking out of the crater, Micky began analyzing the meat grinder the Jedi General had led them into. Yes, he believed it was because of the Jedi's orders that their corps had been surrounded by Separatists. This wasn't a clone's whim or insubordination. Just a statement of fact. Because of the order for a frontal assault, the corps had lost two battalions in the first minutes, killed in the fire and deadly howl of CIS missile fragments.
From the very start of the Battle of Geonosis, their 77th Reconnaissance Corps had been sent into battle at the tip of the spear, even though none of the Jedi had bothered to learn their specialization. Like the commandos, the scouts were thrown into the inferno like ordinary infantry.
They could indeed be called elite compared to line infantry clones, thanks to their abundance of various equipment — at least, that's what the instructors said during training. Their strength lay in stealth and maneuver. Not in tight formations and firefights with the enemy.
According to the plans, they weren't supposed to be in the front lines, serving more as a second line or the vanguard of an invasion, systematically eliminating the most dangerous opponents or rescuing units from overwhelmingly superior droid forces. But the Jedi had decided otherwise. No one challenged the order. They had to obey — by right of their "birth."
They were rightless and submissive, bound to obey — that's why they were created. Their job was to fight, not to discuss. That's what the generals were for — to ponder orders and set tasks.
But unlike his other brothers, Micky was engaged in an uncharacteristic task. He was rethinking the commanders' words. But he wasn't in a hurry to share his thoughts with anyone — not even his brothers. Good soldiers follow orders. They don't discuss. They just execute. Any orders.
Micky wondered — why did it have to be this way? Why did the Jedi need an army of obedient soldiers who were forbidden from birth to argue with their commanders? He was tempted to ask the instructors, the Kaminoans, or the Jedi themselves. But he held back.
Not because he considered his thoughts blasphemy. Rather, out of self-preservation. Clones who didn't follow orders were disposed of by the Kaminoans. How — no one knew. Those who went for disposal never returned. The "Nulls" and "Alphas" whispered that physically healthy clones simply had their memories wiped and were sent to other units under new identities, but for obvious reasons, this couldn't be confirmed or denied.
Micky clearly remembered the moment questions started forming in his head. A training exercise in combat-like conditions, about a year before the Battle of Geonosis. One of the clones in his unit failed a training task involving disarming an explosive device — the entire squad died. Micky himself got off with a severe concussion and head injury. The wounds healed, but the headache never went away. Sometimes it overwhelmed him so much that he had to clench his teeth to keep from screaming. Only the medication from his portable medkit helped. But he couldn't keep living on painkillers. His body was getting used to them, and the pain was gradually returning. The medic said it was called "tolerance" and that switching medication could help. But who would do that, even for a commander of an army where everything — from soldiers to ammunition — was identical?
Dirt showered into the crater. Tiny bits of soil rattled against his helmet. Shaking his head, the clone brushed the grains off his gear. Leaning out from the crater's edge, he swept his weapon across the advancing droid ranks almost without aiming. Aiming wasn't necessary in this situation — every blaster bolt would find its target.
Something exploded nearby — another Separatist missile tore a chunk out of the planetary crust, scattering pieces of clones who'd been less fortunate than him.
Micky felt something fall onto his back and something warm trickle down his collar. Reaching behind his helmet, he pulled out a brother's arm, severed at the elbow. An arm just like his own — identical down to the micron. Throwing the body part onto the crater floor, he bitterly acknowledged that another of his brothers-in-arms had died.
Sand cascaded into the crater as the commander of one of the legions within the corps landed beside him. Micky recognized him immediately by his habit of frequently checking the charge in his DC-series rifle. Ogre. Commander of the 306th Legion. A decent fighter, but overly meticulous.
"Alive?" he asked, emptying a cartridge at a droid unit that had appeared. The tin cans fell like cut grass, smoking from their pierced hulls.
"As you can see," Micky replied. "You?"
"Shrapnel in the leg," Ogre showed the inner surface of his left thigh, where a palm-sized piece of metal had pierced the snow-white armor.
"You need a medic," the clone commander determined.
"No kidding?" Ogre whistled. Yeah, he was a joker too. "I had no idea. Well, you hold the front line here, and I'll hit the infirmary real quick."
"Not funny," Micky leaned out of the crater. Just in time to spot a pair of B-2 super battle droids trying to flank their position on the right. Now both machines were just chunks of high-tech scrap metal. "What's the overall situation?"
"We're getting killed, but we're getting tougher," Ogre pulled a thermal detonator from his pouch and, with a swing, sent it several dozen meters ahead of the crater. The explosion boomed, and several B-1 fragments whistled over their heads. "Three legions turned to dust in less than two hours. Nothing left but yours."
"That exceeds acceptable losses," Micky said grimly.
"Agreed. Wasn't in the manuals. So, what are your orders?"
"Let the Jedi decide that," Micky cut him off. "Or the Marshal."
"I think so too," Ogre waved somewhere behind him. "But our commanders got blown up by a missile. And they didn't give us a spare Jedi. Or a Marshal. You're the highest rank. Give the orders."
"We have the same rank," Micky objected.
"I have no one to command," Ogre shouted at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard over the roar of shells exploding nearby. Yeah, even the helmet's built-in communicators were useless in this hell. "Give the orders."
Micky looked out of his improvised trench again.
The droids were flanking them. They hadn't closed the ring around the 77th yet — heavy blaster repeaters in several entrenched positions were keeping them from breaking through. That was good. Bad news was that through the dust clouds behind the endless stream of B-1s, CIS heavy armor was moving. That was a real problem.
"We need to retreat and regroup," Micky decided. "It's clear here — we'll be crushed as soon as the tanks arrive."
"Then fall back," Ogre grabbed a spare cartridge from Micky's belt without asking, flopping onto his belly on the crater's edge so only his hot head in its white helmet was visible. "I'll cover you."
"That's wrong!" Micky objected. "I gave you an order."
"We have the same rank, remember?" Even through the battle's roar, he could hear Ogre's laughter as he hosed the tin cans with tibanna.
He couldn't abandon his comrade, and he wasn't going to. Ogre had decided to sacrifice himself, having fairly assessed the survival chances of two clones, one of whom could barely walk. That wasn't right.
Micky dropped down beside him, joining the suppression fire.
"Are you out of your mind?" Ogre shouted. "Get out of here, or we're both dead!"
"Scouts don't abandon their own," Micky remarked grimly, switching to rapid fire.
Emptying the magazine of his DC-15A blaster rifle, he reloaded with practiced, automatic movements and resumed cutting down the B-1 droids marching in tight formation straight toward his position with precise shots.
Ogre kept up, covering the right flank.
They had to duck to the bottom of the crater several times to avoid being perforated by concentrated droid fire.
And there, lying on the bottom in relative safety, he saw the bottoms of once-snow-white LAAT gunships, now caked with local sand, as they roared past at treetop level, blanketing the orderly droid formations with fire from all barrels. The pilots were clearing space ahead of them. The brothers were giving them a breather.
A wall of fire rose into the sky, utterly destroying the fragile armor of B-1 droids and dealing serious damage to the more advanced B-2 super droids. But even the latter were nothing against the laser turrets mounted on the gunships' sides. Concentrated beams of light cut through the enemy army like a hot knife through butter. Excellent, time to catch their breath. A minute would be enough.
"What a scorcher," Ogre grumbled, lying a couple of meters from Micky. He'd taken off his helmet, exposing a face familiar to every clone to the blazing sun.
"An even worse hell awaits us," Micky shifted a little closer to the crater's edge, looking for new targets among the pile of scrap metal that had just been charging at him.
The dust from the numerous explosions hadn't even settled when two "Hailfire" droid tanks shot out of nowhere at high speed. What the bantha shit!
Without slowing for a second, they launched a volley of missiles that, leaving thick trails of black smoke, flew toward the second echelon units.
Explosions followed, accompanied by plumes of fire and smoke. Even though Micky couldn't hear them, he felt like the death cries of his dying brothers were ringing in his ears.
Three Republic AT-TE tanks, slowly advancing toward the front line, blew apart like they were made of paper when a second barrage of Separatist missiles struck the reinforcements rushing toward the scorched earth.
"At this rate, we'll lose all our heavy weapons!" Ogre groaned. Out of the corner of his eye, Micky noticed it was getting harder for him to climb to the crater's edge. Blood loss was taking its toll.
"And what did you expect when we landed on this planet?" Micky replied, not stopping his fire on the droids. "It was only easy in training."
The enemy artillery ceaselessly mixed the surviving clones with the sand. Every single piece of corps equipment had been reduced to glowing, smoking hulks belching acrid black smoke, around which small groups of wounded scouts gathered. The air was filled with an unbearable stench of burnt flesh and melted wiring, from which even the helmet respirators offered no protection.
"Last cartridge," Ogre said, snapping in a magazine.
"I've got a couple of grenades," Micky replied, preferring not to think about what would happen when the ammo ran out.
Dying wasn't scary. They'd emerged from the cloning cylinders with the thought that if they didn't die on the battlefield, they'd soon die of old age — their fast metabolism hinted that their lifespan was short. And yet, they didn't want to die.
The droids kept coming, replenishing their losses in seconds. It was easier for droids — they didn't know what death was. They felt no pain, knew no emotions.
And they, despite being clones, were still human, even if sent to the slaughter.
The air force, though dominant in the sky, couldn't stop the oncoming waves of the enemy.
Mixing with the dust clouds, the enemy advanced toward them, and in this situation, you didn't need to be a Jedi to calculate your chances of surviving this apocalypse.
Their position was at the very front line. To the left and right, a few dozen meters away, were similar craters, but mostly filled with corpses. Further away, through the dust clouds, blue blaster bolts were still breaking through — meaning someone was still alive there. But for how long?
"We fight to the last," Micky instinctively ducked as an enemy shell exploded nearby. "Then we fall back."
"Should've thought of that earlier," Ogre snapped. "They're two hundred meters ahead of us. Like the flyboys didn't just burn them from above."
"Droids, what can you expect," Micky shrugged, taking aim at another target.
The DC-series rifle clicked dry. Ammo was gone.
"Empty," Micky announced, pulling a detonator from his pouch.
"Then let's get them closer," Ogre slid to the bottom of the crater. Micky followed suit. Scanning the bodies of his brothers, he noted that none of them had a full cartridge left. They'd all been spent. Detonators too. Depressing.
"Give me the second one," Ogre held out his hand. Micky placed the spherical grenade in his palm, noting that his brother's armor was stained with blood mixed with stuck-on grains of sand.
They waited exactly five minutes — long enough for the "cans" to get within throwing distance. They carefully crawled to the crater's edge. Just as expected — about twenty meters between them and the enemy.
In sync, without a word, both clones hurled their detonators into the enemy's midst. Explosions followed, scattering the tin cans into tiny pieces.
"I think that's it," Ogre noted. "Knives?"
A vibroblade was part of a clone commando's kit. Line infantry wasn't equipped with such luxury. But scouts were a different caste.
How many could they take out before the droids shot them? A couple, maybe three. Not many, of course, but it wasn't their place to choose.
"On three," Micky warned, staring at the pulsating blade.
"One," Ogre counted.
"Two," the clone commander echoed.
Just as "three" rang out, gunships flashed across the sky again, spewing fire from their cannons. Micky sprang up from the crater, instantly snapping the thin neck of the nearest B-1. He slashed another across the "head." A third — he drove the weapon into its chassis.
A missile screamed through the air.
Micky managed to yank the cold weapon out of the shorting enemy before the shockwave hurled him upward, slamming him mercilessly into the crater floor.
Everything swam before his eyes. He caught a glimpse of Ogre, despite his wound, still cutting down enemy soldiers. But the next shell burst sent him tumbling to the bottom of the improvised trench as well.
The last thing Micky remembered was his comrade's back approaching...
Micky jerked his eyes open and sat up in bed.
Silence reigned around him, broken only by the snoring of brothers in the neighboring bunks. Cold sweat ran down his back, making him shiver from the unpleasant sensation.
"Hutt's Geonosis," the Marshal clone commander swore, swinging his legs onto the floor of the compartment.
The events of his first battle always came to him in his sleep. And they brought Micky back to that state of despair and unbridled rage.
Yes, they'd survived then.
By a miracle.
The flyboys had literally burned a perimeter around them, into which second-echelon units poured. Only thanks to them was he still alive — the droids wouldn't have wasted much time finishing off concussed clones.
Then came a long recovery on Kamino. The few survivors, including Ogre, were sent there to recuperate. Which did little to help those who'd lived through that nightmare. Of the thirty-some thousand, barely over five hundred remained. And every single one — wounded, concussed, maimed. Those who'd lost limbs were promptly sent for disposal by the Kaminoans.
It was there — in the medical bays — that he understood there was no memory wipe. Defective clones were simply destroyed.
Ogre had only avoided a similar fate by sheer luck. Despite his shattered bone and massive blood loss, he was still valuable. So he was sent to the medics, not the disposal block.
After Geonosis came other battles, little different from that first slaughter. They suffered losses just as horrific as the first time. Again they returned home, healed, were replenished, and returned to duty. Jedi came and went, one after another, dying on the battlefield.
He'd had to leave the legion in the care of another clone commander, taking command of the corps. Not because he was so talented.
No.
Just because he was resilient.
The war had dulled his feelings. Weakened his desire to think. More and more often, he just wanted to follow orders and worry about his own survival and that of his brothers. He'd been doing relatively well — after the slaughter on Mimban, a whole three battalions of the corps had survived. Though, once again, a Jedi had died. What was his name?
Micky couldn't remember anymore. They changed so fast there was no point in memorizing them all.
Now, after a long recovery and replenishment — the fourth one — a new battle awaited them on Kamino, on Doom-Bradden, where he would once again show the tin cans why he was called "the Furious."
* * *
Cronal struggled to open his eyelids.
His head was spinning, his mouth dry.
It had happened before, when meditations ran long.
With difficulty, he stretched his stiff legs, the Prophet rose from the floor, brushing off his robes.
The Dark Side gave everything he needed. But today, the dark art had been exceptionally rich in revelations.
Moving with difficulty, the man reached the water vat. Scooping up a ladle of cool liquid, he drank it all without stopping. Only then did he allow himself to return his thoughts to his vision.
Their cult had existed for hundreds of years, founded by Darth Millennial. The latter, considered a renegade in the Order of Sith Lords, had left what he saw as the doomed followers of Darth Bane's Rule of Two, vanishing into the depths of the galaxy to comprehend the secrets of the future, neither supporting nor rivaling the Sith or the Jedi. Useful wisdom that allowed one to live longer.
Cronal smoothed his long black beard — all cult members wore them. An indispensable attribute, just like the black robes that literally absorbed light.
Some time ago, the cult had found a patron — Darth Sidious, heir to the ancient tradition of the "Rule of Two." And already under his guidance, the Prophets, first cautiously and then more and more brazenly, interfered in the affairs of the galaxy.
The idea of destroying the Temple Archives' information on nearly four dozen worlds, one of which was Dromund Kaas, seemed to Sidious himself to be his own. In reality, by skillfully weaving a web of intrigue, it was the Prophets who had managed to push him toward that thought. An ancient world, saturated with the energy of the Dark Side, now belonged only to them and was a secret from the rest of the galaxy.
A planet whose surface had never seen the sun. Saturated with the power of the Dark Side of the Force, it had been the cult's home for many years. Dwelling in the Dark Temple — a monumental structure from the time of Emperor Vitiate's Sith Empire — the Prophets were always in contact with the Force, which ensured the accuracy of their predictions.
Collaboration with Sidious had its advantages.
First and foremost for young Kadann. The young Prophet with an unusually strong gift for seeing the future had been placed at the head of the cult at Darth Sidious's insistence. And he had held power in his hands for several decades. Yes, under his leadership the Prophets flourished, and for that, he had to be given his due.
For the first time in a thousand years, the Prophets had reached such a level of development that they could not only contemplate the future but also push the stubborn wheel of history in the direction they deemed correct. Hundreds of spies across the galaxy were ready to carry out their masters' will — they only needed to give the appropriate order.
His own daughter, Sariss, was one of them.
Cronal thought with irritation that it was a brilliant idea to keep the girl in ignorance of her own origins. She was born from a forbidden love affair, by the standards of the Prophets, between Cronal and an ordinary woman whose name didn't matter. Nor did her subsequent fate after childbirth.
The Prophets honored the path of destruction, inextricably linked to the Dark Side. And therefore, Sariss's conception was blasphemy. Cronal renounced her without any regret, allowing other cult members to make his own daughter an object of sexual desire. In a closed cult group, where Force-sensitive women, by the peak of their powers, turned into wrinkled old women — the Dark Side spared no physical beauty — having a young and attractive submissive individual at hand to satisfy one's natural desires was truly a gift from Providence.
Her strong connection to the Force ensured the girl a tolerable fate — while she wasn't busy satisfying the lust of some cult brother, Sariss served as an excellent conduit for the Prophets' will. And even Kadann, the upstart and favorite of Darth Sidious, couldn't deny that Cronal's daughter was the best of the instruments of the Dark Side Prophets' influence on the galaxy.
Cronal didn't envy that Kadann, half his age, led the most influential Sith organization in the galaxy at his age. He understood perfectly that his hour would come. And the full power of the cult would one day belong to him.
Partly — precisely because Sariss, on his orders, fulfilled every conceivable and inconceivable desire of the brothers, sometimes even at the cost of severe physical injury, he was slowly gaining influence among them. Like any Sith, he was an excellent manipulator, using barely perceptible levers of pressure to make them more and more loyal to his figure with each passing year. And even the numerous instances of incest with his daughter helped him in this. Knowing about this perverted relationship, the remaining Prophets considered it merely a tribute to the cult's philosophy. And nothing more.
However, Kadann, due to his youth, yielded to Cronal's experience.
In particular, it was the young cult leader who informed their patron that the Prophets were powerless to discover the root cause of the Dark Side of the Force's flare-up a year ago. This didn't please Sidious, who, over years of collaboration, had grown accustomed to the Prophets having an answer for everything. A tiny episode in the cult's biography — but significant in terms of cooling relations between the young leader and the powerful patron.
Cronal, however, had succeeded where his brethren had failed.
He had managed to break through the veil hiding the truth. Just as the Prophets hid the future from the Jedi Order's seers, the source of that flare-up had perhaps the most perfect mental defense of any he had ever seen.
And yet, Cronal had succeeded.
Through long meditations at the very limit of his abilities, he managed to grasp a certain kinship between the mental protection of the flash source and the aura that reigned in the Dark Temple. The realization of this fact nearly drove him mad, for it was believed that the Sith — who had once held absolute dominion over this region of the galaxy, for whom Dromund Kaas had become home after many years of wandering in search of salvation from the Jedi purge — had perished in the abyss of the ages.
Yet the Force cannot lie to one who commands it.
There could be only two explanations for this kinship.
Either the ancient Sith Lord had managed to survive these thousands of years since the Jedi's defeat of the Sith Empire.
Or there existed in the galaxy a Sith who had mastered the ways of the Dark Side through the most ancient knowledge originating from this world.
Regardless of which of these theories was correct, a power had appeared in the galaxy that simply had to be reckoned with. At least until the moment when he, Cronal, learned the limits of this unknown Sith's might. And by the most conservative estimates, an individual capable of hiding himself from the gaze of the Prophets must possess immeasurable Force, surpassing everything the inhabitants of Dromund Kaas could bring to bear against him.
The realization of this fact had come to him during his morning meditation.
Cronal was in no hurry to share his discovery with his brethren. And not at all because they were hardly capable of such deep immersion in the Force to understand the truth of his observations. Having surrendered their fates to the will of Darth Sidious, they had already made their choice.
Cronal, however, had made his.
"Sariss, come to me," he said into the comlink.
"At once, Lord Cronal," the girl replied submissively.
Under the supervision of her brothers in the cult, Sariss was learning the ways of the Dark Side. No, she would not become a Prophet — one had to be born with such a gift for that. The girl, unfortunately, had not been so lucky. But at the same time, she handled a lightsaber excellently and turned her emotions into indomitable weapons. When she finished her training, she would have no equal. Among the Jedi, at least.
Encouraging her meetings with the cult's members, Cronal also pursued another goal — to seize the secrets of his brethren, so that one day he could turn them to his advantage. And so, sharing their bed, Sariss continued to listen, watch, and remember. To later pass everything on to him alone.
"You called for me, Lord Cronal," the door to his chambers swung open, and before him stood a pretty girl of fourteen with short, light hair. She wore a light sleeveless blouse and a neat hooded cloak. As was proper, her posture displayed complete submission and a desire to serve in any way.
"I have a task for you," the Prophet quenched his thirst once more. Damn Hutt side effects of such exhausting Dark Side practices.
"Whatever you command, my lord," the girl knelt before him, demonstrating her readiness to receive information.
"Right now, the other brothers don't need you," the Prophet lied. There were those eager to enjoy a young body in the cult every day. "Go to the Savarin sector in the Outer Rim. There you will gather information and make contact with a certain being. Tell him that I wish to meet him."
"I will carry out your orders exactly."
"No one must know about this mission," he warned. "Take my personal transport."
"As you wish, my lord," Sariss said obediently. "But how will I recognize the one I'm to meet?"
A good question, of course. In his visions, Cronal had never been able to make out the face of the being behind the haze of the Dark Side. But was that really so important? A being so steeped in Dark Side practices would surely notice Sariss, no matter how skillfully she hid herself with the Force. Consequently, he would make contact himself. At the very least because he wouldn't miss the chance to find out why she was on that planet.
Cronal had once visited that world and almost immediately recognized the distinctive architecture. He could not be mistaken — the being he was interested in would undoubtedly appear on Christophsis. If Sariss had to wait there for twenty years, then she would live out her life there.
"He will recognize you himself," the Prophet shared his reasoning. "Use Force Cloaking to hide your affiliation with our order. And wait there as long as needed. Appear in the city every day so that he can notice you."
"But how…"
"He is extremely powerful in the Force and will see through your tricks almost instantly."
"My lord, but I can't maintain the Cloaking constantly," the girl reminded him. "I don't have enough strength for that…"
"Then you'll have an extra chance to practice," the Prophet cut her off, irritated by her pathetic excuses. "Or have you forgotten your place?"
"No, my lord…"
"And I can see that you have," Cronal felt a surge of strength, sensing the girl's fear of him. Absorbing her emotions, he channeled them through himself, restoring his own power. Good… Just what he needed now.
"Lock the door," he ordered. The girl obediently slid the bolt on the massive doors, not raising her head.
"Go to the bed and undress," he continued commanding the girl.
He was no longer young, so each time he needed a good boost to avoid any mishap. He simply couldn't allow that — she was his daughter, after all. For her, he always had to be the best of the best.
Watching the last of the girl's clothing fall away in the half-darkness of his chambers, Cronal gazed with concealed desire at her unformed body with its awkward feminine features and childish face. Yes, just what he needed.
"You are beautiful," he said, stroking her back.
His hand kept encountering scarred tissue as he ran it from her shoulders to her lower back. Traces of previous encounters with him. Memory of paternal instruction. And proof to others that he felt no platonic feelings for her. She was merely a tool in his hands. No more, no less.
"Hand me the whip," he said breathlessly.
The girl shuddered all over but obeyed. She always froze in fear first, then cried out in pleasure when his whip, woven from the hide of a young rancor, cut into her childish pink skin.
Few among the Vices of the Dark Side knew more about him than he wished to reveal. Cronal himself had spawned most of the rumors about his origins, making them so plausible that sometimes even he got confused by them.
To some, he was a former Republic senator who had retired from politics and devoted the rest of his life to studying the ways of the Dark Side. Some desperate fools even claimed he had been friends with the Grand Chancellor when the latter was just a simple senator from Naboo. What foolishness.
To others, he was simply a mad old man mired in his own insanity.
The Prophets knew an entirely different theory about his origins. Born of a Dathomirian witch, he had been abducted in early childhood by the Rand Wizards, with whom he lived for many years, absorbing their wisdom. Then, answering the call of the Dark Side, he had found the Prophets himself and joined them.
But in truth, everything was far simpler and more prosaic.
At the dawn of his life, when he still bore the name Peres, he was found by the Jedi and brought to the Temple, where he underwent training. Not without difficulty, of course, since from childhood the boy was plagued by envy of his more successful peers. But one way or another, his last refuge was the Temple Archives, where for many years he edited the largest library in the galaxy, filling it with information from hundreds of sources of historical wisdom preserved by the Jedi. And the longer he did this, immersing himself in the chronicles, the more convinced he became that the path of the Light Side was not for him.
That was how he found the records about Dromund Kaas. A place where, long ago, the greatest being of the dark side had revived his civilization, becoming even stronger. In the end, Vitiate had built his Empire, which eclipsed all the achievements of the Sith since their discovery.
But he had failed to preserve his legacy.
Yet at the same time, the chronicles claimed that the veil of the Dark Side on the planet was so great that destroying the Sith legacy had required an entire squadron, which had relentlessly pounded the planet — covered in an impenetrable cloud veil — for a whole day.
He broke with the Order, filled with hope of finding this world and claiming all the artifacts discovered there — not everything could have been completely destroyed. Something must have remained.
He allied himself with an Arkanian genius geneticist who helped the future Prophet change his appearance to remain unrecognizable. What he had worked on in the Archives was too important to allow the Jedi to track him.
Unfortunately, the geneticist had to disappear after the operation. Cronal preserved his outstanding work, and during his wanderings across the galaxy in search of a new home, he studied everything the geneticist had managed to obtain in his short life. Periodically, in remote corners of the planet, Cronal conducted experiments on local animals. Not always successfully, admittedly. But that was the local fauna's problem.
He discovered Dromund Kaas after several years of searching. And from the very first glance, he fell in love with this world, full of destructive, untamed Force. A Force he could subjugate and command.
Unfortunately, his first experiments cost him dearly. No, he had avoided physical deformities. Except that all the hair on his body had fallen out, and his skin had taken on a deathly pale hue. It had nearly cost him his life, but he survived. Largely thanks to the Prophets, who found him and nursed him back to health. Then they offered him the chance to join them and together unlock all the potentials of the Dark Side.
No one can resist such temptation. And Cronal was no exception.
And yet, after decades, he had still not advanced up the career ladder, continuing to occupy one of the lowest ranks among the Prophets. He had managed to gain some recognition from the others when an opportunity arose to influence them by offering his own daughter to their withered, feeble bodies.
Was such treatment of his own child vile and criminal? Yes, perhaps somewhere in wild, underdeveloped sectors that was the case. But those who understand the path of the Dark Side, who know that any means are good to achieve a goal, will not waste time attaching significance to such a trivial episode in the lives of beings from the Unknown Regions.
Cronal snapped out of his thoughts, casting a glance at the girl quietly sobbing at his feet. How lovely — he hadn't even noticed that he had turned her back into a bloody mess, leaving not skin but mere shreds of tissue.
"Excellent," Cronal admired his own work. "Do you enjoy this lesson?"
"Yes, my lord," the girl whispered. She was not sincere — the Prophet could feel it. In that case, she needed another lesson.
Growling in anticipation of pleasure, the Prophet lashed his whip across his daughter's bloodied back with all his might.