"Sir," the lieutenant who appeared in Rivas's field of vision distracted him from reading the daily reports.
Looking at the young officer's face, the Duros tried to recall his name but couldn't. "Must be one of the new ones," Nuodo thought.
Having taken a contract with the government of Christophsis, the PMC was exhausting itself training a huge number of recruits. At the end of the first month of training, he'd had to strain his old connections to find replacements for his organization. The Duros's combat squad, which had numbered several hundred of the most desperate cutthroats from the Mid Rim, had now grown into a full-strength legion — by the standards of the Grand Army of the Republic. Naturally, it was impossible to remember everyone by face.
"What do you want?" Nuodo asked.
The massive training complex, built ten kilometers from the planet's capital, was essentially a small town. Thousands of barracks designed for the around-the-clock accommodation of over three million cadets, warehouses, arsenals, garage bays for equipment, huge training buildings, firing ranges, and dozens of parade grounds — all of this had been built in the shortest possible time by the locals themselves. Over ten thousand square kilometers of infrastructure intended to prepare Christophsians for participation in the war on the side of the Republic.
And at the center of all this splendor — a spacious open-air cantina (as it turned out, precipitation here wasn't the most common occurrence). It was located on top of a huge command bunker, from where observers continuously monitored every square meter of the complex. There too, with a view of the parade ground where recruits were practicing hand-to-hand combat skills, was Nuodo's own office. True, he preferred to spend most of his time above the bunker — and the weather was conducive to a healthy appetite. And reading tedious documents in the fresh air was a pleasure.
Here too, at the end of a shift, late at night, unit commanders would gather to report on their successes. Or to ask their patron for advice.
Now he was here alone — not counting this newcomer.
"We have a problem with one of the tanks, sir," the latter said.
"And what kind?"
"It needs to be processed under the third category," the lieutenant began to explain.
However, the Duros let his ramblings go in one ear and out the other.
An extremely interesting character entered the cantina.
A young man, in gray-green heavy armor, over which was draped a black mantle with silver elements. A pretentious look, he had to admit. But his face was unfamiliar to the Duros — despite the fact that the newcomer was moving in his direction. Along with a couple of brave clones in unfamiliar armor with black and silver patterns.
However, the PMC head quickly remembered where he had seen such armor.
The 204th Legion. "Dougan's Fist," as they called it among themselves here on Christophsis. A unit that had gone through the hell the Separatists had created on this planet. The very guys who had torn apart an enemy army that outnumbered them tenfold across the entire area. And afterward, if rumors were to be believed, the legion had distinguished itself in battles. The Victory at Ukio, thanks to which most of the system armies on the Outer Rim received excellent provisions — was the achievement of these clones.
True, these guys had been stationed on the planet for a long time, while their commander — Jedi Dougan (who had not long ago become first a Moff of the oversector, and then subsumed as many as three sector armies) — was off somewhere. Nuodo had heard that the Jedi had recently returned, but had never met him personally.
"Rivas Nuodo, I presume?" the Jedi sat down next to him without much ceremony, rudely interrupting the lieutenant's report. Though, perhaps it was for the best — the company head hadn't been listening anyway.
"Grand Moff Dougan," the mercenary greeted the Jedi. "Glad to finally meet you."
"Likewise. I wanted to express my gratitude for your work training the militia. Excellent fighters."
"That's what the locals pay me for — to make them the best," the Duros remarked.
The Jedi smiled crookedly. He wondered what was so funny about what he'd said.
"As I see, I interrupted your conversation?" At the Jedi's gesture, the pair of escorts sat down at the nearest table, at a respectful distance. Far enough to intervene if necessary, yet not so close as to interfere with what was happening at Nuodo's table.
"That's right," Rivas didn't mince words. "The lieutenant was asking my advice about sending a tank for repairs."
"Oh," the Grand Moff drawled. "And what happened?"
The Duros gave his subordinate a meaningful look. The latter, clearly embarrassed, lowered his gaze, constantly tugging at the tunic of his jumpsuit.
"Grand Moff, sir," the lieutenant said. "My name is Salov, I'm the commander of a group of instructors training the militia in operating heavy equipment. Specifically — TX-130 tanks."
"Get to the point, Lieutenant," the Duros asked. Who had hired this guy? The company head himself couldn't stand roundabout answers in a vacuum. Everything had to be clear and to the point.
"As you command. So, we have one hu... malfunctioning tank in our company. It's already exhausted its service life — training runs around the clock. First there were engine problems — it would stall at low RPMs..."
"And how did you park the tank in the garage?" the Grand Moff asked in surprise.
"We have open-air parking spaces, sir," the lieutenant explained. "A platform fenced on three sides by the perimeter. But, generally, we had to park at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour. Otherwise the reactor stalls and you have to spend half a day manually starting it with the 'crank.'"
Seeing the question on the general's face, the lieutenant clarified.
"We call the manual reactor warm-up device the 'crank.' A curved pipe..."
"However," the Jedi uttered. "And how do the recruits manage such pirouettes — parking at speed?"
"Not all of them, sir. We've had to repair the fence about ten times in a week."
Rivas, outwardly calm, was already mentally terminating the contract with this fool. Why on earth did he need to report that training was being conducted on old equipment, restored after the siege of Christophsis?
No, the client wasn't stingy with payment for services and equipment purchases. However, the worse the situation at the front became, the harder it was to acquire training vehicles. Manufacturers tried to send their products to the Jedi in the army, not to a training center on some planet. That's why Rivas had ordered that classes on the structure and repair of equipment be combined with the commissioning of knocked-out Republic and CIS vehicles. The recruits gained practical experience, and in the end, the fleet of training walkers and tanks was replenished. Slowly, of course — some machines had to be cannibalized for parts for others. But still faster than waiting for a supply convoy from Kuat or Rothana.
However, the Jedi just smiled.
"You teach your science in a fun way. So what about this tank?"
"It needs a major overhaul," the lieutenant said. "The reactor has melted, the repulsor unit has been twisted out. No possibility of restoration."
Equipment in the GAR had only four gradation levels. The first category included equipment that didn't need repair — mostly machines that had just arrived from the manufacturer. The second and third categories were those that required medium or major repairs of assemblies and components. The fourth category was scrap metal, to be sent for smelting — or cut up for spare parts for other tanks.
"And what are the grounds for writing off this tank?" the Grand Moff inquired.
"Um..." the lieutenant hesitated. "As I already said — the power and repulsor units aren't working, the main gun works every other time, the ventilation, navigation, steering — everything is held together by a wing and a prayer... Sir, to be honest, the only things still alive on it are the hatch-opening mechanisms."
"And what's the problem, Lieutenant?" the Moff repeated.
"I'm doing this for the first time," he admitted. "Besides, the logistics department needs a detailed report on the reasons..."
"Don't bother your head or your people's. Write it as it is, I'll have to approve the equipment report anyway." The Grand Moff unceremoniously pulled the datapad from the lieutenant's hands, ran his fingers over the device, pressed his command cylinder to the reading slot, thereby approving the write-off report. Then he returned the device to the surprised mercenary's hands.
"That's all. Short and to the point," the Jedi explained. The lieutenant, glancing at the monitor, read the resolution aloud.
"The tank is screwed, stop violating the corpse." Having read the inscription aloud, the lieutenant looked at his boss. Rivas wasn't well-versed in Jedi slang either, so he silently nodded, as if to say, if the Grand Moff thinks it's "screwed," then it's definitely beyond repair.
"Is that all, Lieutenant?" the Jedi inquired. "Your commander and I need to talk privately."
"Yes, yes," the young mercenary nodded. "Sorry for taking up your time."
It took the tank instructor a couple of seconds to disappear from his superiors' field of vision. "Hmm," Nuodo thought. "If he handles the tank like that too, maybe I shouldn't fire him."
As soon as the lieutenant was out of sight, the Grand Moff, leaning back in his chair, said with a smile.
"Rivas, how about making some extra money?"
"Always with great pleasure, sir," the Duros said cautiously. "And what's the task?"
"It's simple," the Jedi said, still smiling. "We need to kill someone."
Looking into the cold eyes of his interlocutor, the Duros felt a chill of unease.
* * *
"Not the most hospitable little planet," Ahsoka said with a sigh, looking through the pilot's canopy at the barren landscape.
The rocks, devoid of any vegetation, had such a menacing, predatory appearance that they seemed like the fangs of a huge animal, whose mouth was a giant plain, in the center of which sat barely the only settlement on the surface of this lifeless world.
But only here was there a spaceport, albeit a shabby one.
"Actually," Nadia said quietly, "there are never any visitors here. At least, if you believe the records of Master Baas contained in his holocron."
The Togruta shuddered. She had never asked what fate had befallen the Jedi. And, frankly, she didn't want to know. Maybe because she was afraid of getting an answer... Or because she had stopped caring.
"Do you think we can convince them?" the girl asked.
The pale-skinned Emperor's Hand, tearing herself away from contemplating the instrument readings, looked her over with an attentive gaze. Then, smiling slightly, she said.
"I certainly hope so."
Ahsoka, though not particularly knowledgeable in mental techniques, still sensed the truthfulness of her companion's words through the Force. Though, who knows what adepts of the Unified Force were capable of? Perhaps the pale-faced woman was lying to her, and she couldn't tell.
"You're troubled," Grell stated, setting her ship down over a clearing in the shape of an irregular circle on the edge of the settlement.
No control towers, no customs. It seemed that in this world, everyone was so indifferent to what was happening that even their own safety didn't particularly concern them.
Not even onlookers who might have watched the landing of a clearly military vessel were to be seen.
"A little," the girl didn't hide it.
"Will you tell me the reason?" the Sarkhai asked in the same peaceable voice.
The Togruta, chewing her lip, said:
"I'm... not entirely sure I chose the right side."
"And why is that?"
The girl barely felt the jolt as the landing struts touched down. Only the subsiding light vibration of the hull indicated that the ship was completing its landing cycle.
"Master Dougan... He acted dishonorably towards me. And towards the Republic in general... Why all this? Couldn't there have been a more peaceful way out of the situation?"
"Are you sure that's possible?" the Sarkhai wondered.
"Isn't it?"
"In circumstances where both sides of the conflict are controlled by the same being?" Nadia chuckled. "The entire Republic is under the control of a Sith. The Confederacy of Independent Systems, albeit indirectly, is too. In these circumstances, a third party in the galaxy is the best choice for the population."
"Which will die in that war you're planning to start?" Tano frowned.
"A small victorious war for a better future," Nadia corrected her. "A push for the population to finally crawl out of their shell and open their eyes to what's happening. As it was in my time..."
"But the Order, the Jedi..."
"Ahsoka," the Sarkhai said patiently. "Neither the Emperor, nor any of us, have anything personal against the Order. I, Kira, Ashara — we were once members of the Jedi. And believe me, we have no desire to cross blades with our colleagues."
"But you killed the master who was guarding the kyber crystal for the holocron!" Ahsoka stubbornly reminded her. "Lady Atroxa captured Master Baas..."
"Unfortunately," Grell added sadly. "For the well-being of the Empire and all the people of the galaxy, sacrifices have to be made. Sometimes — too great ones."
"Yeah, right," the girl snorted. "And for some reason, the sacrifices always have to be Jedi!"
"Only those who will be against the Emperor and the course he has chosen for the Empire," the Sarkhai corrected the girl. "Compared to the total extermination that Darth Sidious has chosen for them, this is the lesser evil. You should talk to Lady Zavros — she oversees the Academy on Tython. And there are quite a lot of former Jedi there — including those who left the Order due to the start of the war. As far as I know, anyone who wants to join us won't be left out in the cold."
"Tython," the girl repeated. "I think I've heard something about it..."
"That's disheartening," Nadia, gesturing to the girl that they should move to another part of the ship, rose from her seat. "In my time, padawans were more... educated."
"Very funny," the girl said with a hint of offense in her voice. "So I skipped a couple of lessons..."
"Do you mind if I fill in the gaps in your education?" Nadia said with a smile, walking towards the compartment where equipment and ammunition were stored.
Ahsoka remained silent. What difference did it make what happened thousands of years ago?
"It was on Tython that the movement known as the Je'daii originated. I believe you were told about this. So, after the attack by Vitiate's Sith Empire and the sacking of the Temple on Coruscant, we had to find a new home — and it became the long-abandoned and forgotten Tython. There the Order restored its strength, and it was from there that the fight against the invaders was waged."
"Just wonderful," the girl declared. "First this Vitiate tries to destroy the galaxy, and now he's helping Master Dougan conquer it?"
"Sentients change," Nadia smiled. "Vitiate has lived for thousands of years. He has come to know the Force as no other being could. Yes, he is predominantly a master of the Dark Side, but at the same time — a truly unique individual. And his desire to bring peace to the galaxy, to rid it of the constant wars that are mostly waged on a whim by the gifted — is quite logical. You shouldn't reject someone's wisdom just because someone once made a mistake. We are all not without sin."
Ahsoka thought, fixing her gaze on the wardrobe doors. There was a grain of rationality in Lady Grell's words, of course. But how strange it was to hear from a Jedi that a Sith could be right.
"I served Vitiate for three long thousand years," the Sarkhai continued, shedding her light outer clothing. "And believe me, after he tried to change the galaxy through total annihilation or violent conquest, this greatest of Sith learned his lesson. Of course, I don't rule out that the Plan he has announced to us isn't the only one. However, the Emperor is wise enough not to stake everything solely on the opinion of his ghostly teacher. After all, we, the Emperor's Hands, are always nearby, ready to help — not only with deeds, but also with advice."
"Uh-huh, wise," Ahsoka opened the wardrobe with slight irritation, examining the sets of clothing and armor hanging before her. Most of this wardrobe had been purchased by Dougan before their departure from Coruscant. Specifically for her. A small gesture that proved the Emperor cared about the fate of his supporter. Even in such a small matter. "Then why did he allow all this in the first place? The rise of the Sith, for example."
"A complex question," Nadia admitted. "But, as I understand it, Vitiate revealed himself to Dougan only after the war started. He was probably trying to use other opportunities, but didn't succeed. Before the Emperor awakened us, only one servant of Vitiate had been acting in the galaxy all this time."
"And who is he?"
"Set Harth. A former Jedi who has the skill to transfer his consciousness into a new body."
"So he can live forever?" the girl marveled, pulling off her tiresome red jumpsuit.
"In theory — yes."
Ahsoka fell silent, changing into simple but sturdy clothing. Wide pants with many pockets, a thin blouse, over which she put a comfortable vest.
"And you approach changing with knowledge of the matter," the Sarkhai praised her. Looking around, Ahsoka saw that she was sporting a similar outfit. Except that now a blaster dangled from her belt instead of a lightsaber pike. A typical freighter captain on the Outer Rim, not a subordinate of the Emperor.
"I suppose so," the girl admitted. Following her companion's example, she belted a wide belt around her waist, securing a thigh holster with a blaster on her leg. "I've had undercover experience before."
"Really?" Nadia said without much enthusiasm. "Care to share?"
Ahsoka thought for a second about where to put her lightsabers. Finally, concluding that the hidden pockets of her vest would be the best place for the weapons, she stuffed the hilts Dougan had given her inside.
"Nothing special," the girl shrugged. "The Separatists attacked my people, the Togruta Colony on Kiros was captured by the Zygerrians. They were planning to resume the slave trade in their sector. To expose them and free my kin, my teacher devised a cunning infiltration plan."
"Really?" smiled Nadia, heading for the exit of the compartment. "What stopped him from conducting a military operation or a diversion?"
"Well," Ahsoka hesitated, recalling her awkward feelings in that revealing blue outfit. "Teacher Skywalker's tastes are quite peculiar... We infiltrated the enemy camp, caused a proper commotion there, and freed my kin."
"And how did you manage that, if it's no secret?" Nadia inquired.
"We wormed our way into their trust," Ahsoka boasted.
"A human and a Togruta... and the slavers didn't grab you?"
"Not right away," the girl admitted. "But the disguise was excellent. Teacher disguised himself as a slaver, and dressed me up as a slave and presented me to everyone as his property. Naturally, we dressed accordingly," she added, a little more quietly.
"And that was your former teacher's plan?" Nadia asked with a huge dose of skepticism. Ahsoka looked at her with a hint of defiance. But, literally the next second, remembering how everyone had stared at her, making decidedly unflattering comments, she hastily looked away.
"Yes," she whispered softly.
"The Jedi who trained you is a sick bastard," Nadia said with a hint of irritation.
The Togruta wanted to defend Skywalker's reputation, but... stopped herself. Defend someone who couldn't defend her? Someone who would cause the deaths of huge numbers of Jedi and beings? A couple of months ago she would have readily crossed her blades with this lady. But after what Dougan had told her... if he could be believed, of course...
"I'll refrain from comment," she replied dryly. Despite occasional impulses, the Togruta still hadn't fully decided whether she believed the Immortal Emperor's prophecies or not. Time, as they say, would tell.
"What do you think," the Togruta asked as she descended the interceptor's ramp, "will Zeison Sha be glad to see us?"
"Actually, if the holocron records are to be believed, they're not the friendliest bunch," Nadia said, entering a combination on her wrist comm. Ahsoka, before the hatch closed, managed to see several assault droids rising from the corvette's lower deck. "But I'll do my best to recruit them."
"Because otherwise we'll have to destroy them," the Togruta said knowingly. "We didn't come here aboard a Star Destroyer for nothing."
"It would be a great shame to turn the Harrower's guns against potential allies," Nadia admitted. "So we'll have to be extremely persuasive."
"Oh, so I get to participate in the negotiations too?" the girl's eyes widened.
"Of course," Nadia smiled. "You don't think I brought you along just because I needed ballast in the hold, do you?"
"Well, actually, I don't weigh very much," the former Padawan turned up her nose.
"That's because you're still small," Lady Grell remarked.
"That's not true!" Ahsoka exclaimed. "I'm already..."
The next moment, the Force burned her with a premonition of danger. Obeying her instincts, the Togruta pulled the hilts of her lightsabers into her hands, activating the white blades. However, the frantically spinning disk she had just noticed didn't even think of splitting in two just because she touched it with the tip of one blade.
Instead, the weapon itself deactivated, ceasing to function.
"What the...?"
"Cortosis," Nadia said. She walked curiously over to the disk, sharpened along its entire circumference, which had embedded itself in one of the Fury's landing struts. "Looks like we're not welcome here."
Ahsoka, glancing at the weapon that had nearly killed her, reached out to the Force. A huge number of Force signatures suddenly reached her perception. The Togruta, while her companion examined the strange weapon, cast a threatening gaze over the structures surrounding the landing pad. Between them, and especially on the rooftops, a good hundred of the most diverse beings had appeared. The only thing they had in common was that each held the same disk that was now sticking out of the mechanism of the interceptor they had used.
"Uh... Lady Grell," the Togruta called out. "It seems we're more than just unwelcome here."
* * *
Tearing the monovisor away from his eyes, the Duros ran a hand over his blue-skinned face.
"This job looks like it's going to be tough," Cad Bane rasped, squatting behind the railing of the balcony from which he'd been observing.
The tools laid out at his feet were instantly in his hands—the bounty hunter began assembling his weapon.
The four-meter bastard—his mission target—was calmly butchering an still-living clone on his worktable in the building opposite. It seemed the thug, clad in some intricate armor, didn't even pay attention to what was happening around him. That was for the best.
Although, maybe the giant felt safe, given his guard of a platoon of sabotage droids positioned near the windows and doors of the laboratory.
Bane picked up an optical targeting system, intending to attach it to his rifle, but a sudden tremor in his wrists ruined his plans. The expensive equipment fell from his now-uncooperative hands and dropped back into the case.
"Hutt," the Duros hissed out a curse, suppressing the tremor by clenching his hands into fists. "When will this end already?"
"Amusing remark," an artificial voice reached him from the opposite end of the balcony. "Already asking for leniency, bag of meat?"
"Shut your vocabulator, fossilized piece of junk. If you were made of flesh and blood..."
"Critical disagreement. In that case I would not be as effective."
The Duros, twisting his mouth, glared hatefully at the mechanical killer.
"If it were up to me, droid, you'd be lying in an alley with a perforated chassis."
"In that case," a new artificial participant joined the conversation, "the scraps of your mortal body would be collected all over the street. Fine-dispersed organic dust with plasma searing—the best thing an Iokath combat drone can make from your species. 'Duros in its own liver'—yes, I think I'll call this dish that."
From the doorway leading to the living quarters, another partner of Cad's on this mission appeared.
"Drone," the bounty hunter sneered.
"Future decomposing mass," K1-Z3N greeted him, sending a joking military salute his way. "You still haven't assembled the rifle?"
"A little out of sorts after your recruitment method," Bane picked up the sight again. This time it took him only a few seconds to mount the equipment.
"Mother of mine entirely of program code!" the drone exclaimed in mock horror. "Biowaste, you should be grateful they didn't cut you into leather straps, but gave you a chance to keep darkening the sky and sending organics to a better world."
Cad, busy screwing the thick-walled barrel to the receiver, just ground his teeth.
The torture these two mechanical butchers had put him through in the Zakuul dungeons for several weeks—he had endured stoically.
Hadn't they flayed his skin enough, crushed his bones? Was it the first time they'd injected various serums, beaten him, and twisted his limbs out of their joints?
No, he had thought then. His tormentors would have to come up with something special.
And, blast those who commanded them—they did.
He would never forget what that fragile-looking Lethan Twi'lek with the intricate black tattoos had done to him.
She entered the torture chamber, "decorated" with clots of his blood, like a shadow. Without a word, this Twi'lek female settled down opposite him. The Duros tried to joke, saying he was such a tough nut that even the droids didn't have the patience to crack him.
And, without a word, the girl showed him how wrong he was about her.
His first thought, when all his nerve endings simultaneously exploded with indescribable sensations, was that pain couldn't be this bad. It felt as if every particle of his body was tearing from within. And burning, as if he had been plunged into molten lava.
After a few seconds, his mind performed the most logical action.
His consciousness went dark.
He didn't know how long he was unconscious.
But as soon as consciousness returned, it became clear that what had happened was just the beginning.
"Jedi... don't do this..." he said, spitting blood from his mouth.
"You're unlucky," the girl broke her silence. "I'm not a Jedi."
And again the pain washed over him.
He didn't remember how many times this procedure continued—lost count after the first dozen.
And in the end, he gave in.
For the first time in his life, Cad Bane told everything about his activities. In detail, thoroughly, giving places, times, known clients and accomplices...
And only after that was he sent to a bacta tank.
"It's ready," he said, checking the weapon's functionality.
"Then get to work, biomass. The sun is still high," who programmed this strange droid nicknamed "Kenny" for sarcasm?
"Don't chatter while I'm working," the Duros snapped, pressing his eye to the sight's eyepiece.
After he healed, the same Lethan made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
To work for the Eternal Empire of Zakuul. On a permanent basis. Otherwise... Cad wasn't an idiot. The time spent in the bacta had done him good. The realization of how much trouble his former clients could cause him if the information he'd revealed ever came to light dictated his corresponding answer to the offer it was absolutely impossible to refuse.
First assignment—essentially a trial by fire in his new capacity. As an Imperial Cleaner. And not the easiest one. No wonder they'd sent these two mechanical maniacs with him.
Having firmly fixed the rifle in his hands, the Duros, noting that both droids had taken their positions, pulled the trigger.
A crimson blaster bolt, tearing from the muzzle, rushed with incredible speed toward the external block of laboratory equipment located outside the room where the target now was. A flash, and instead of a shiny device, only chunks of charred metal remained attached to the wall.
Simultaneously, a pair of saboteurs patrolling the roof of the building opposite collapsed, struck by the rapid-fire sniper rifle NK-47.
The target reacted as planned. As soon as the "exhaust" stopped functioning, the four-meter giant interrupted his vivisection, used a comlink, but receiving no response from the destroyed guards, gave several orders to the sabotage droids. Four of the guards, grabbing their carbines, left the laboratory premises.
"We have three minutes," the Duros said, "before those big guys reach the emergency stairs and figure out what happened to the device."
The droids didn't need much urging—they were already waiting for the Duros in the speeder. Vaulting over the side, Cad, taking the pilot's seat, floored the accelerator pedal, steering the machine toward the neighboring building.
Yes, they could have not reinvented the hyperdrive and started the attack directly from the laboratory roof. But then the noise would have been significantly louder.
As soon as the door onto the roof swung open, releasing a squad of saboteurs, the trio of killers turned them into scrap metal in less than a few seconds. Running past the charred lower limbs of a pair of droids destroyed by a single shot from Kenny's plasma cannon, the Duros grunted approvingly.
"Nice gun, scrap heap."
"Envy in silence, victim of a failed abortion," Kenny retorted, rushing down the stairs. Of the three, only he had heavy armor and could at least briefly come under enemy fire without fatal consequences.
The second maniac followed, switching his sniper rifle for a heavy repeater. In a confined space, where the interior not only prevents you from swinging the weapon's barrel but generally restricts movement, a short barrel—just what the doctor ordered.
Cad habitually drew from his holsters a pair of his beloved BlasTech LL-30s, once made to his personal order.
As soon as the group reached the base of the top floor, the building shook noticeably.
"Sincere joy!" HK-47 exclaimed, simultaneously blowing off the head of a sabotage droid that appeared in the doorway. "The enemy found my gift! How glad I am! I hope they like it!"
Bane shook his head, pushing away thoughts of what might have happened to those who stumbled upon the tripwire of a dozen plasma grenades.
After racing down several more flights, simultaneously turning any droids that got in their way into scrap metal, the group reached the main level of the laboratory. Glancing over the railing below, the Duros noted with satisfaction that the exit had turned into an impassable fusion of permacrete, metal, and droid parts.
"You sure know how to set up an ambush," he praised HK-47.
"Mockery. I killed my first thousand beings back when your grandfather wasn't even a twinkle in your great-grandfather's scrotum, bag of meat. I am the ultimate killing machine!"
Cad grunted, tossing a pair of thermal detonators into the laboratory. As soon as the smoke cleared, all three raiders were inside.
"Zeta Magnus," Cad said, his voice raspy, addressing the four-meter giant who hadn't stopped his procedure of reducing the number of limbs on the still-living clone. Bane felt a wave of nausea looking at the partially defleshed body of a GAR trooper, his arms severed at the collarbone, a section of his rib cage cut out... clearly suffering, but kept alive only by the numerous injector tubes with which the target had studded his victim.
Up close, the bastard was even more shocking.
Ugly, as if composed of pieces of different species, despite his intricate armor, he seemed like one huge target. But Cad didn't kid himself. If it were easy, they wouldn't have sent these two piles of archaic scrap metal with him.
Meanwhile, the CIS scientist, tearing himself away from his work, slowly looked at the trio that had wrecked his laboratory. After sizing up each of the intruders with a heavy gaze from under his helmet, Magnus finally dropped his work, stopping sawing off the foot of the human soldier's right leg.
"You have come here in vain," the mutant said in a threateningly low tone. "I, Zeta Magnus, the greatest scientist, will destroy you like bats!"
Cad wanted to say something cheeky, but at that same moment Zeta Magnus moved.
A fist in an armored gauntlet came down on HK's head. He dropped to his knees, ripping a burst from his repeater into the scientist's side. Zeta didn't even flinch. Continuing to press the droid, who had moved out of the danger zone, the scientist, grabbing some ancient axe, began swinging it, trying to hit HK's chassis with the blade.
Despite his more than impressive size, the mutant moved quite impressively. Firing bursts from both blasters at him, Cad could only marvel at how virtuosically HK toyed with the bastard, stepping out of his way every time the latter thought he was about to win.
Kenny, meanwhile, holding the defense at the door, was shredding the awakened guards with plasma charges.
"Hurry up," came from the entrance. "These crappy knockoffs keep coming."
"Almost there," Cad, putting two crimson bolts into the back of the mutant's head, cast a quick glance at the laboratory's main computer. Seeing that the enemy was busy getting disoriented and receiving blows from a rifle butt to the face from HK, who was gleefully howling, "Admiration. What a large bag of meat!," Cad proceeded to the main part of today's mission.
Connecting a reader to the computer, he, ensuring the download had started, began rummaging through the tables. Any found recordings and holodiscs instantly went into the cavernous pockets of his backpack.
Meanwhile, the confrontation between the ancient droid and the Arkanian mutant reached its peak. The droid managed, throwing aside his own weapon, to snatch the axe from Magnus's hands. The killer's chassis gleamed with many fresh nicks—apparently the giant had managed to hit him.
"I will destroy you all!" the monster roared, lunging at the droid.
"Mockery. Is the hat fitting for the organic?"
HK deftly dodged the enemy's thrust. Wielding the axe with lightning speed, he delivered several strikes to the mutant's limbs, causing him to howl like an enraged rancor, while streams of black substance flooded the laboratory. However, the assassin droid, as if in a death dance, kept moving around the wounded creature, landing chopping and slashing blows to vulnerable spots—where Magnus's huge paws couldn't reach HK or his weapon of retribution.
Cad could only watch in admiration. "If death has a face, it undoubtedly belongs to HK-47." The thought, as sudden as it was true, came to him. And despite his own merits and skill, Bane still acknowledged the droid's extraordinary talent for destruction.
Suddenly he felt something touch his legs. Reflexively drawing his blaster, he spun around.
"Well, that's Jedi shit," he said.
Before him was a cot with a test subject. The same clone Zeta Magnus had been quartering. And now, by some unknown means, this clone—or rather what was left of him—had managed to roll his cot over to Cad. The Duros cast a skeptical glance at the legs of the laboratory table. How convenient—with wheels.
The clone couldn't say anything. His mouth was gagged, and a tube going into his throat either fed or drained some yellow-green sludge. One of his legs, practically sawed off at the ankle, was hanging by a piece of skin and muscle. The other, by contrast, seemingly intact, turned out on the side away from Cad to be opened and empty of contents. Completely. The Hutt geneticist had literally hollowed out the limb, filled it with some kind of gas, and then, sewing a transparent film into the skin, restored the leg's airtightness.
"They worked you over, kid," Cad said with a hint of sympathy. He didn't understand such cruelty and never would. Judging by the clone's pleading gaze, he perfectly understood his prospects.
"You sure, kid?" The Duros glanced at Kenny, who at that moment punched through the chassis of a B-2 droid that had tried to force its way into the laboratory. HK, meanwhile, had significantly advanced in the task of disassembling the mutant. Some distance from the torso lay both legs and arms, severed with surprisingly surgical precision. And HK, continuing his dark work, wielding the axe like a factory pneumatic cutter, was chopping off pieces of the enemy's body, not forgetting to hose the convulsing Zeta Magnus with his repeater, which was back in his manipulator. Now the remains of the giant looked more like a charred piece of meat—and not of the best quality. But where the head was, he couldn't see.
The clone blinked affirmatively, trying to nod. Bane, looking at his hands holding the blasters, just sighed.
"May your final path be light!" Cad forced out an ancient posthumous saying of his people. Noticing a characteristic movement of the eyes, Bane raised his weapon, aiming it at the test subject's head. Meeting the cripple's gaze one last time, the Duros pulled the triggers.
A pair of crimson bolts bit into the clone's head, ending his existence.
Satisfied that the human's brain was no longer functioning, the Duros turned back to the computer, continuing his interrupted work. Information from the hard drive mercilessly transferred to the removable storage. Judging by the data volume—there was plenty of interesting stuff there. And not from just one year of work.
"We're done here," Cad announced, extracting the data storage. Hiding it in a secret pocket in the folds of his cloak, the Duros fired a series of shots into the laboratory equipment, smashing everything in sight.
"I've been waiting," K1-Z3N's voice came from the entrance. The drone, sporting several black scorch marks, was unambiguously hinting at the doorway piled with enemy droid bodies. And, Cad could swear by the most sacred—a good half of the nearby area was undoubtedly littered with the hulls of destroyed CIS fighters.
"Blast the wall," Bane, remotely controlling the speeder through his wrist comm, directed the vehicle toward the expected evacuation zone. The drone, without hesitation, shot out a section of the wall from his shoulder cannon, large enough for even a herd of banthas to pass through. As soon as the dust and permacrete crumbs settled, Cad pulled a container of impressive size from the cargo bay of the speeder that had approached the breach.
"Loading up," he ordered both droids. While the accomplices took their seats in the cabin, the Duros opened the top lid of the package and entered a combination on the display. Slamming it shut, he locked the clasp and was at the pilot's seat in three steps.
"Time to go," Bane floored the accelerator pedal, tearing the machine from its spot.
While the speeder raced through the planet's busy streets, merging into traffic flows, weaving between other vehicles, the Duros noted with relief that no pursuit had appeared. Excellent. So Magnus hadn't kept any reserves, fully concentrating the detachment assigned to him by Count Dooku in his secret laboratory. Well, the CIS was down a couple hundred droids.
"Returning to the ship," the organic informed his mechanical colleagues.
Glancing at the countdown on his wrist comm, the Duros smiled.
With a deafening roar, throwing thousands of various fragments into the sky, an explosion rang out behind the group departing from the operation site, covering the tracks of the clandestine incursion.
"Well, we're done," Cad said, noticing a slight tremor in his hands, trying to cheer himself up.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a target approaching him on the right. Spinning sharply on the spot, the Duros drew a blaster from his holster, jamming it against the armored plate of the helmet with a narrow viewing slit. The rays of daylight fell on the deathly pallor of the extinguished eyes...
"Voice of Zeta Magnus. 'I, the greatest scientist, will destroy you like bats!'" HK-47 mimicked, twirling the disemboweled head of the dead mutant on his manipulator like a hand puppet. "Skeptically. So where are you now, bag of meat?"
* * *
The ancient factory district of Coruscant, once the industrial heart of the planet, now a slum where various kinds of scum tried to scrounge a credit or two through makeshift production in abandoned factories. Those same deserted workshops had also become a refuge for hundreds of thousands of the dispossessed.
But among all this man-made chaos, there was an unremarkable building that was completely impossible to penetrate. Its secret owner had seen to that.
And now, standing near an armored window that offered a view of the ruins of the industrial might of the Republic's capital, Darth Sidious listened to his apprentice's report.
"Are you certain of the veracity of this information, Lord Tyranus?" he asked coldly.
"The droid did an enormous amount of work collecting and analyzing information," Count Dooku said, not taking his eyes off the polished floor surface. "Some information was confirmed from other sources."
"Interesting," the former apprentice of Darth Plagueis said slowly. "And what conclusion can be drawn from everything we know, Lord Tyranus?"
"For now, only that we know, Master," the Count replied without a moment's hesitation. "The Jedi Dougan is playing his own double game. And using helpers, at least one of whom is about three thousand years old."
"That might explain some oddities," Palpatine said. "In particular, the mystery of the fleet production on Rendili has finally been solved."
The corners of the Chancellor's lips curled upward.
How... interesting it all turned out.
A Jedi, not particularly outstanding among his comrades, suddenly—or rather, after a very long absence and stay in the Unknown Regions—returns, and events begin to revolve around him.
What conclusion can be drawn from all this?
Dooku was absolutely right—Dougan, under the cover of official events, was running his own little "game." And he had no small number of helpers in this.
The mere construction of a fleet and the support of an entire star system—and not the poorest one—was already a signal in itself. Which, however, was quite easily accepted by society. After all, to them this Jedi was a hero.
If the Order learned that their favorite was behind the Temple raid that Cad Bane couldn't handle, Jedi punitive squads would not fail to appear on Christophsis, where the headquarters of the 10th System Army was currently located. And there was no need to guess for long—Dougan wouldn't stand against the Order's combined might. After all, his entire army was essentially Sith puppets.
But should they rush events?
"Lord Tyranus," Palpatine turned to his apprentice, "of all your servants, only Sora Bulq and Baron Kirvan managed to survive meeting him in open combat."
"Indeed, my lord. Tann, Ventress, Opress—all dead. Both Bulq and Kirvan claim the Jedi is incredibly powerful in the Force. Not like the Chosen One, but hardly inferior in power to any of the High Council members. I believe he is dangerous to our Plan..."
"Our?" the Nabooian clarified in an icy tone.
"Your plan, my lord. Forgive my error..."
"As strange as it may seem, Dougan is useful to us as well," Palpatine observed. "He commands the army quite skillfully, and has repeatedly defeated CIS generals."
"I am concerned about the fleet being built with the money of one of his confederates," Tyranus admitted.
"Yes, that fact deserves particular attention," Sidious noted. "We cannot allow some Jedi to wield forces sufficient to oppose our army."
"Should I intensify the offensive in the territory of the Tenth System Army?" Dooku inquired.
"That as well," Palpatine agreed. "We need to deal with those ships the Christophsians acquired for him as quickly as possible."
"I will send powerful forces to that part of the galaxy," the Count promised.
"Exterminate every unit and every ship created for him," the Chancellor ordered. "Intelligence has provided me with information that Dougan is transferring a large number of young and already established officers into his army. This is clearly not without reason. They may be his supporters and like-minded individuals. They too must be eliminated — as quickly as possible. Let it look like a routine Confederation offensive."
"It will be done, Master."
"That is not all, Lord Tyranus. The Rendilians need to be taught a lesson. Remove them from the game once and for all. Begin working with their government — offer them every possible benefit. In exchange, they must switch to the CIS side. Their decision must be sincere and unwavering."
"Master, but this system is practically under the Republic's nose..."
"Precisely, Count," Palpatine smirked. "Ensure the Jedi learn of your actions. Use your double agent — the Jedi Quinlan Vos. He has returned, hasn't he?"
"Yes, my lord. Several days ago, he arrived on a stolen ship."
"What is the reason for his prolonged silence?"
"After he eliminated his rival, he undertook a journey through the worlds of Sith Space to delve deeper into the Dark Side."
"And you believe him?"
"He is one solid knot of rage, my lord. Even I did not anticipate he could fall so deeply into the Darkness. But I am certain he is more devoted to us than ever before."
"And not the slightest sympathy for the Jedi or the Republic?"
"No, my lord. He hates them with all his heart."
"Excellent," Sidious smiled. The Jedi's spy game would once again work against them. "Have him pass information about your plans for Rendili joining the CIS. The Jedi will do everything for us — destroy the Rendili fleet, damage their slipways — Dougan will have nowhere left to build his starships."
"Perhaps we should strike Kamino again?"
"For what purpose?" Palpatine was surprised. "In time, they will hand over the last clones to the Republic. Although these creations are hardly needed anymore — the Arkanians have long been ramping up production of clones who are utterly loyal to me. No chips, no secrets — they are excellent soldiers for whom the Supreme Chancellor's will is iron law. The Kaminoan clones proved too weak. Arkanian products will help us increase the effectiveness of the operation against the Jedi."
"As you say, Master."
Sidious sighed.
"A crude but quite viable strategy — using ancient resources for rapid fleet-building on the side. We will eliminate that advantage from Dougan."
Dooku wisely remained silent. Interrupting one's mentor was a sign of low intelligence from an aristocrat. And Dooku had never been feeble-minded.
The Chancellor continued to think.
His instructions were only part of the plan to destabilize Dougan's position. This Jedi needed to be tested — to understand where his true inclinations lay. Perhaps he was rational enough to take his side and act henceforth in accordance with the will of the Sith. But for that, it was worth conducting a series of preparatory operations.
"What is known about his underlings?"
"Nothing beyond what the droid uncovered. They vanished, as if lying low. Our friends from Mandalore report that one of his servants — a Mandalorian — recently arrived at Keldabe."
"Have our friends from the Death Watch pay her a visit," Sidious ordered. "I need her alive. We need to ask her a few questions about her patron."
"Perhaps we should take measures against Dougan himself?"
"Of course," a soft chuckle escaped Palpatine's lips. "He is currently on an inspection tour of the territory, according to his report for the first month of work. Have your best beings give him a hot reception. If he survives — we'll see where he might be useful later. If he dies — then he's of no particular value."
"I will employ the best servants for the hunt for this Jedi."
"Hm," Palpatine thoughtfully stroked his chin. "How are things with our most effective hunter?"
Dooku, furrowing his brow, spoke with slight bewilderment:
"He was severely injured in the last mission. We preserved his remains, as you ordered. For future experiments..."
Sidious smiled. Meeting his gaze, the Count felt a chill run down his spine.
"I think we should give him one more chance. Even if he doesn't kill Dougan, he will definitely reveal his potential. And accordingly — report it to us. Then I will decide the fate of this Jedi. Provided he survives, of course."
"As you command, my lord."
* * *
Gazing at the faces of the generals standing before me (mother of pearl, forgive me for using that word for these particular Jedi), I exerted great effort to keep from punching their smug mugs right then and there.
"Master Simms," I said quietly. "Please repeat the task assigned to you."
Oh, glory to the Light Side of the Force and its techniques for relaxation and anger dissipation. Otherwise, by God, I'd have drawn my blades and chopped these bastards into kebabs.
Quiet. Breathe out. Steady. You can't kill Jedi aboard your own flagship. Especially in the presence of three unit commanders.
"And what did you do?" I asked in the same honeyed voice.
"I divided the squadron ships placed under my command among the Jedi subordinate to me — Malorum," a young guy with a face just begging for a brick looked at me with an arrogant stare. I felt my eye begin to twitch. "My padawan, Noira Na," a dark-haired girl of about fourteen stood next to the arrogant bitch, eyes cast down to the deck. "Master Ku Ran and Knight Citra," among the designated Jedi archaeologists, only the purple Twi'lek (cute, actually) was present at the "briefing."
"In each group, by my order, sufficient forces were included for possible opposition..."
"Enough!" I slammed my fist on the table. Almost everyone in the reception room flinched. Only the clones — Sinilian, Nyx, and the astromech droid quietly lurking in the corner, Little Brother, showed no sign that my gesture had affected them. "I'm tired of listening to this bullshit! Master Simms, what spice are you smoking?! You were tasked with sweeping the systems in the border region, where enemy forces are highly active! The order, damn it, clearly stated — sweep the systems with all available forces one by one."
"That is what I did, Master Dougan," the Jedi, arms crossed, looked at me defiantly. "In each system, the reconnaissance ships entered only after the previous group had reached its objective."
"May you be rammed by an anchor right through the spine!" Feeling an uncontrollable trembling in my hand, I stood up, planting my hands on my hips. "How fucking monochrome and dimwitted do you have to be to pervert an order like that?! You were supposed to take all your ships, shove your sting into one system first, then, still as a tight and loving company, into another, and so on, fucking hell, until every planet, moon, asteroid, comet, and other astronomical crap in every system is exhausted!"
"Master Dougan," Simms said with a slight hint of disdain. "I think you're forgetting yourself. I will report your behavior to the Council..."
"Report to fucking Heaven's Office for all I care!" I snapped. "It's only thanks to Knight Sitra that the mission can be considered successful. What did the others achieve? Nothing! For those who have flies screwing in their ears," I pointed unceremoniously at Malorum, who was boredly examining the ceiling, "I'll spell it out. Ni-cka-co-la. Va-ni-a. Ha-ri-ton. U-lia-na. Ya-kov. No-thing! But losing four Hammerheads completely and one — left on the Christophsis orbit in a repair dock for a long time — that, you fucking managed. Congratulations. Marshal Sinilian," the clone stepped forward. "What are the losses of your corps?"
"Five thousand one hundred forty-seven soldiers, sir," the clone stated as a matter of fact. Well yes, with commanders like that, what else to expect. Thank goodness at least he survived himself when that idiot Simms, leading two Hammerheads, charged a CIS convoy — ten transports with an equal number of escort frigates. "And a third of the equipment attached to the corps. That's what's left of the corps."
May it all get fucked by three-phase current!
"Just a fucking fantastic reconnaissance result, Master Simms," I praised. "Not to mention that General Ku Ran deserted and buggered off over the horizon, hair streaming behind him — gone without a trace. With generals like these, we don't even need Grievous for the CIS — we'll manage ourselves."
"Master," the Twi'lek quietly spoke up. "Are you not being too..."
Are you kidding me, head-foot?! In the twenty-four hours these imbeciles needed to carry out the order, a sixth of the corps was wiped out, along with half the squadron and all personnel. Just fucking fantastic.
I felt rage beginning to kindle inside me. Why are they so stupid?! By God, I wouldn't shed a tear if Vader chopped them up with a lightsaber. Hell, I'd help him!
"No, not too," well, why is the Dark Side always at hand, while that bastard, the Light Side, you have to beg to come? Meditate, clear your mind of all sorts of obscenities, like imagining how that pair of Jedi would feel in an open airlock. Eh, as they say — nothing relaxes you quite like the sight of your enemy's innards winding around the propeller of the motorboat you're driving. "Remember this, Knight Sitra, as the most sensible of all, except for Padawan Na. 'There is no worse enemy than an ally who is a fucking moron!' Knight Malorum, Master Simms, I'm giving you your first and final warning. Either you carry out my orders as they are meant to be carried out — or..."
"Or?"
"Or to the Hutt with the 'or,'" finally, the Light Side prevailed. "I'm relieving you of command. Return to the Temple — as soon as we reach Ryloth, transport will be arranged for you."
Sinking down, no, literally collapsing into the chair, I watched the pair of Jedi leave my quarters. Ah, I feel sorry for the padawan girl. As sure as night follows day, she'll die — if not under that crazy woman, then at the hands of the clones. Rescue her? I'd like to — why should children suffer for the sins of their predecessors?
But how, if the master is still alive?
Send NK after Master Simms? Not such an honor to distract such a valuable asset with her.
Fine, I'll deal with this later.
Hutt!
That's right.
I've got a whole platoon of padawan-Michurinists sitting around, twiddling their thumbs on Christophsis. Hutt. If the negotiations between Sera Keto and Commander Sendula on Ryloth hadn't reached a dead end, I'd definitely have found time to deal with the kids. That spiteful bastard took a stance — said Master Windu promised Republic forces would be withdrawn from the Ryloth system after the Separatists were defeated, so please pack up and get lost. And they didn't give him any brains in either lekku. The thought that if we withdraw our troops and remove our ships from the system, the Twi'leks will be occupied by the CIS army again — no, he hasn't heard of it. So now, as the plenipotentiary representative of the Republic's political authority, I have to move in that direction to conduct high-level negotiations. Hutt, how simple it was when I commanded only my own legion. Why the hell did I climb up the ladder? I could have just sat quietly in the backwaters of the galaxy, building my army and scheming. But now — it's all a mess. I need a break — to clear my head, shake things off, and get back to planning.
And first of all — deal with the padawan issue. Right now, all I can do is send word to Aayla, who's preparing for departure to Melida/Daan. The Separatists there decided to show the locals what's what — the planet controlled a system with two gas giants that, unexpectedly, turned out to be suitable for producing starship fuel. As it turned out, the sector army command had placed a SECRET refueling station there at the beginning of the war — half the Outer Rim used its fuel. They just forgot to include it in the register of strategic assets when handing things over. They withdrew the ships, tankers, personnel — and FORGOT. No wonder the Separatists stumbled upon such a treasure during their counteroffensive and stuffed it full of everything that could shoot. Result — we're flying to take back what's ours. With the forces of the 327th Corps, the 204th Legion, and the remnants of the 212th Corps — everything we currently have, we'll be clearing the system. Planet by planet. At least we have reserves of ships and men to fix the mistakes of our predecessors.
Yes, I could have sent someone else. But I have a feeling that if my subordinates screw this up (remembering the command level of MASTER Simms — it's more appropriate to say 'when' not 'if'), the situation will be truly dire. So far, fuel reserves were enough for a couple of months. Thanks a lot, logistics — at least you told us.
"Master Dougan," the purple one spoke up cautiously. "What are your orders regarding me?"
"Right... forgot."
"Take command of the remnants of the 212th Corps," I said in a calm tone. Oh, Light Side, you're like heroin — you have a sedating effect. Now I don't even feel like raging. And the trembling in my hand (incidentally, where did this tremor suddenly come from?) has stopped. I called up a system map on the holographic display of my desk. "Marshal Sinilian, Marshal Nyx, General Sitra, come closer, I don't bite. We need to discuss how we're going to take back our refueling stations."