The descent through the swirling clouds reminded Sinilian of Kamino — the homeworld where he was born. Though there wasn't much light — in the conventional sense of the word — on the clone-makers' planet.
He stood at the sliding door of the LAAT/i's troop bay, which had been launched from the Telos — the flagship of the invasion fleet for this star system just minutes earlier. Behind the marshal (given the number of clones still under his command, the rank sounded like a mockery), a platoon of clone soldiers stood in formation — helmets on, blasters in hand, bandoliers stuffed to the brim with ammunition. The clones quietly chatted among themselves, as any battle-hardened veterans do before the next engagement. Soldier jokes, whose hidden meaning was beyond the comprehension of outsiders. The last connection to peacetime, before the remnants of the 212th would throw themselves into another battle, becoming the vanguard of the invasion of Melida/Daan. The soldiers were drowning out their dark forebodings. And the jokes weren't exactly optimistic either.
Thanks to the inertial compensators, the troopers weren't thrown around when an enemy shell dissipated against the ship's deflectors, or when the pilots pulled unimaginable maneuvers to dodge enemy missiles. The Separatists, having been trounced in orbit, were doing everything they could to slow down the landing.
The commander imagined for a moment what the landing would be like if the squadron's small craft hadn't conducted an airstrike on the landing zone beforehand, hunting down and silencing enemy artillery. And for the umpteenth time today, he silently thanked General Dougan for the invasion plan he had personally developed.
No actions without preliminary bombardment. "I value my soldiers too much to reduce the CIS's ammunition stocks with clone bodies," he had said, justifying his position on the matter. And it had to be said — one phrase, one action, and this Jedi had already earned the respect of the entire 212th. Compared to General Simms's actions, even these simple conclusions allowed them to reduce losses tenfold.
Along with the sharp smell, the roar of the gunship's rear engines penetrated the cabin, one of which was noticeably malfunctioning: the transport had been battered in battle no less than the crew and the troopers it was delivering to the conflict zone.
Even at an altitude of four hundred meters above ground level, the cloud density remained high. The clone wasn't particularly surprised that he could barely see his own outstretched hand. What a planet.
The ship shuddered — an enemy shell exploded just ten meters from the starboard side. The pilots pulled another maneuver that made the stomachs of the entire landing party lurch. Thankfully, everything returned to normal a minute later.
Despite daily battles and brothers dying almost in their arms, the clones took the war much more simply than the Jedi — and that had nothing to do with the technology of their armor, received so long ago it felt like another life. Grown specifically for war, the clones thought the Jedi were crazy for going into battle wearing only hooded cloaks and carrying lightsabers as their sole weapons. Of course, this wasn't discussed openly — regulations forbade it. But sometimes such conversations would slip through among the troopers. Sometimes things got so grim on the front lines that the soldiers would take jabs at the Jedi too. Earlier — less so and more loyally, it seemed. But after the transfer to the Tenth System... breathing had become easier, somehow. Freer. Nothing seemed to have changed — the same war, the same Jedi in command. But the feeling was different.
The swirling clouds began to thin, and eventually, only a thin veil remained — a haze through which the first gunships burst with a roar, leaving holes in the atmospheric screen behind them. Below lay a nighttime city — the local capital, where the tin cans had dug in quite heavily.
A sudden bright flash made the marshal look up. One of the assault transports following in the second wave flared up like a miniature supernova, and for a moment, the world in the clone's eyes tilted — but just as suddenly, it regained its balance. The sound wave of the explosion reached them a few seconds later and felt more like a funeral dirge for those troopers who had died from enemy artillery fire.
"The flyboys didn't do a good job," a voice crackled in his helmet. "Five sorties with full bomb loads, and the Sep artillery survived."
Sinilian laughed grimly.
"Going to beat up the pilots again after the mission?"
"What, is that allowed now?" another clone responded.
"No," the marshal shook his head. "The General already chewed me out for a solid hour over that incident during reconnaissance, when some of the scouts kicked the asses of the gunship pilots who couldn't extract them fast enough."
"Is that so... Well, I wasn't involved in that one — I was busy having shrapnel pulled out of my liver."
"So you've got a reason to visit the flyboys," a new brother summed up.
Quiet chuckles sounded over the comm.
Sinilian couldn't make out his brothers' expressions behind their colored T-visors, but he knew those faces as well as any other soldier who had been through war. It was the same face you saw in the mirror every day.
One face for the entire army.
"Two minutes to landing," the pilot cut into their channel. "Stop blubbering — or I'll dump you out of the bay before the drop point."
To confirm his words, the pilot tilted the ship slightly, causing some of the clones, despite their gripping boot soles, to slide inexorably toward the open bay. Fortunately, a few seconds later, the pilot leveled the ship.
The marshal sighed and moved on to the final readiness check before deployment. The armor, where there were no dents or punctures, was mottled with reddish-brown stains. Blasters sat comfortably in the clone's thigh holsters, and a kind of half-skirt — a kama that had become the latest fashion among clones almost as soon as ARCs started sporting them in the first year of the war — hung from his belt. Detonators in place, emergency rations in place. Well, as always — ready.
Other landing craft were similarly breaking through the cloud cover to the planet's surface, where a swarm of enemy missiles greeted them. Two, four, then five ships were shot down by direct hits: fuselages blazed, and crippled troopers tumbled out of the bays straight onto the roofs of the capital's buildings. Surviving such a situation without special equipment was pure science fiction.
A pair of wedge-shaped fighters roared past with a deafening howl.
Jedi.
The same ones who had been at the briefing. One of them was assigned as their commander. The other commanded a corps, and the soldiers' feedback about her was the most positive.
He had to dig his fingers into one of the viewing ports of the sliding door when the pilots pulled an especially sharp maneuver, dodging incoming missile fire. The Jedi fighters opened fire on a swarm of Vultures that had swept over the city's buildings. No fewer than a dozen Separatist fighters flared up and burned as blaster shots from the Deltas caught them. Huh. Turns out Jedi could be effective.
The last pair of fighters were taken out by clone missiles launched from the launch tubes on top of the gunships. And judging by the fact that no more enemy fighters appeared, these were the last ones the Separatists had. Looks like they saved them for last. Well, thanks to the Jedi for neutralizing the threat.
However, the interceptors didn't stop there. Pulling a maneuver, both ships began raining blaster fire on the positions of the surviving enemy artillery, almost immediately silencing two heavy guns.
"Command should have authorized an orbital bombardment," one of the infantrymen grumbled.
"Our objective is to capture the city, soldier, not wipe it off the face of the planet," Sinilian reminded him loudly. "Besides, the locals haven't been evacuated — one salvo from orbit and millions would die. They'd be shooting us in the back from every corner afterward."
The gunship, scraping its underside across a small section of the capital's central square, came to a halt, disgorging troopers from its interior.
"Move it, this isn't a resort!" Sinilian barked at the soldiers, while fully understanding that they would do their job perfectly even without his prodding.
The idea was simple as could be.
The enemy army was evenly distributed across the city's districts. Yes, their numbers exceeded the Republic forces, but they simply didn't have the strength to crush the groups that had landed in different parts of the capital.
The most numerous 327th Corps was currently fighting on the approaches to the city, advancing from four directions. The CIS army, throwing all available resources at destroying the enemy, had exposed the remaining districts of the city. Which, naturally, the invasion forces took advantage of.
The remnants of the 212th Corps landed in the center — a demilitarized zone separating the planet's two once-warring factions, which had divided the city, like the entire planet, into two opposing camps. Even though the Jedi had suppressed the conflict in the past, tensions among the locals remained.
The 204th Legion landed in the zone controlled by the Daans. With heavy equipment support, the troopers fell on the Separatists like a bolt from the blue, taking control of strategically important targets — ammunition depots, Separatist repair workshops — thereby cutting the occupying army off from its own rear services. At the same time, they moved toward Sinilian's troopers, destroying the units the enemy had left behind to control the local population. Once united, this group would strike the rearguard of the fighting Separatists, after first destroying their command center.
As expected, resistance in the central part of the city wasn't exactly strong, but it wasn't as fierce as it could have been if the Jedi hadn't split the enemy forces.
Sinilian, firing the last charge from his blaster pistol, picked up a carbine from a fallen brother without stopping. Ducking behind the cover of a decorative permacrete fence that ran around the perimeter of the government building where the CIS command was holed up, he saw an incoming comlink signal.
"General Sitra, we're one push away from the city hall," he reported.
"Excellent work, Sinilian," a Jedi interceptor streaked through the air. Climbing steeply, it suppressed a Separatist rapid-fire emplacement with precise shots that had been pinning down his troopers. "I'll join you as soon as I've destroyed all the CIS repeaters."
"Whatever you say, General," the marshal shrugged.
"Leave a few... tin cans for me too," her voice suggested that the soldier slang was new to the Twi'lek. The clone grinned under his helmet.
This General caught on much faster than those Jedi he'd dealt with before.
"Don't worry, there's enough here for everyone."
* * *
Oli was almost glad to feel the approach of a fight. Now she could distract herself from the lingering depression that had settled over her since she'd been to Zakuul.
A beautiful world.
A lovely world.
Untouched by war.
During the time her teacher had spent in the capital of his Empire, the girl had managed to snatch some time to wander through the Spire. And what she saw evoked mixed feelings.
On one hand — the capital amazed with its splendor, the design of its buildings, and its cleanliness. Seeing streets free of trash and dirt — yes, this wasn't Coruscant, where even on the upper levels there was always room for the refuse of sentient life. Here — thousands of droids in an endless stream cleaned, tidied, corrected the tiniest imperfections. That was good.
But the emptiness... It hit her impression hard. Yes, Zakuul wasn't an ecumenopolis like Coruscant. However, in the city that stretched for thousands of kilometers across the planet's surface, there was no sign of numerous inhabitants. Most of the commercial spaces were empty, the windows of shops and restaurants — sealed tight. And only the endless stream of black-and-gold clone armor, the shiny armor of volunteers, the occasional insectoid Xi Char, and a couple of Twi'leks — that was the entire population of this world. Though, toward the end of her stay in the Spire, she noticed that family couples and children had started appearing on the streets. The uniform mass of black and shiny was gradually being diluted by simple outfits, the dresses of human women. The steady hum of cleaners was beginning to be broken by children's shrieks and cries.
As the teacher explained before they left — the first wave of settlers from Christophsis had arrived. Over a hundred million people had left their own world to settle here. Though, why wouldn't you live here when you're offered luxurious apartments completely for free — even housing for the lowest class here on Zakuul was many times better than the flophouses most of the galaxy's population could afford.
At the same time, Oli couldn't shake the feeling of a gnawing emptiness whenever she remembered Zakuul. And longing would overtake her. Because here, tens of thousands of light-years from the Republic's capital, the Empire's inhabitants could get everything they could ever dream of. But for some reason, the teacher wasn't in a hurry to invite everyone here.
And yet how many lives could have been saved if the Emperor had decided to put out a call among the galaxy's inhabitants. To escape the war here — where, under the protection of the Eternal Empire's mighty ships, you could live without waiting for the CIS fleet to appear over your head one day and grind cities and civilians to dust.
"Oli!"
The voice that sounded in her head made the girl flinch.
"What the hell..."
"You're thinking about the wrong things, student! We have a fight on our hands."
"TEACHER?! But how did you...?"
"Damn it all! Oli! If you haven't noticed — they're trying to surround us. Eleven against two. Doesn't that bother you?"
"Sorry, teacher..."
Carefully clearing her head of extraneous thoughts, the girl pressed her back against her teacher's back, not taking her eyes off the squad of massive droids that had spread out around the perimeter of the Lucrehulk-class's bridge. Gripping electrostaves with both hands, they kept their red optical sensors fixed on the pair.
"Looks like they're waiting for orders..."
"Oli, of course they're waiting! Sora is sizing us up, deciding when the right moment to attack will be."
"So we meet again, Dougan," Balk said quietly. "This is a real celebration for me."
"What kind of celebration is that?" the teacher asked with genuine surprise. "The pot calling the kettle black."
The Weequay bared his teeth.
"I will kill you, Jedi," a threat crept into the former fencing instructor's voice. A chill ran down the girl's spine.
"Sure you can?" Oli felt the Force begin to gather around her mentor.
"Can you handle the droids? I'll take the bastard myself."
"Yes, teacher."
"Be careful with them. Nasty, treacherous creatures."
"Just looking at them gives me goosebumps."
"Don't hold yourself back with the Light Side. Use your emotions."
"And... if I lose control and they overwhelm me?"
She had never used the power of the Dark Side before. But during her time in the Archives, she had learned well enough that uncontrolled emotions were a Jedi's direct path to the abyss. From which there was no return.
"Don't be afraid. We'll get through this together. If you stumble — I'll catch you."
The girl felt approval emanating from her teacher. The waves of energy that connected them literally permeated her, forcing her mind to open.
The fear of indescribable horror receded, filling her with anger.
And along with it, the girl felt something rising inside her from beneath majestic depths, breaking the dogmas of the Order — a wave of heat. And Oli felt a power within herself that she had never had before.
Sora, unexpectedly thrusting his right hand forward, sent a powerful Force Push.
The teacher, not without effort, dispersed it by raising a Barrier.
"Your strength has grown," Sora noted.
"Oh, you have no idea how much," the Emperor laughed.
In the same second, the fallen Jedi lunged at them. Simultaneously, teacher and student moved into action.
She didn't see the full picture of the battle, but she felt it in her gut.
She sensed Dougan blocking Balk's thrust, holding his blade with one hand. And she felt his left hand, clad in a heavy armored gauntlet, smash into the Weequay's jaw, sending him stumbling back several steps.
Without delay, the droids joined the fight.
The first MagnaGuard that charged at her, with a series of powerful strikes delivered with strength unattainable for an ordinary human, forced her to leap aside. The girl, hoping to damage the enemy's weapon, slashed at the electrostaff, but got no result — the lightsaber bounced off the staff without harming it.
"What the Hutt?"
"Oli, their weapons are made of phrik!"
"Couldn't you have said that earlier?"
"You didn't ask."
Gritting her teeth, the girl dodged a thrusting strike from a second droid. Arching her body so the weapon wouldn't pierce her side, she delivered a diagonal cut to her enemy's head, but the machine dodged in a fraction of a second, trying to punch her with one fist. Oli performed a backflip just as a third opponent was about to attack her from behind.
Landing on her feet, she saw the MagnaGuard's unprotected back and seized the opportunity. The blade entered the enemy's body near the right shoulder, made a diagonal cut, and exited where most humanoids have their groin. The destroyed droid crashed to the floor.
"One down!" she sent the thought to her teacher triumphantly.
"Well, that leaves four," came the reply instantly.
Oli, cursing, counted the remaining opponents. Indeed — only the two currently advancing on her, spinning their weapons in a surreal whirlwind, were still intact. And her master was fighting two more. While the Weequay...
"Teacher! He's coming up from behind!"
"I know!"
Avoiding a sweeping strike from a droid, Oli rolled to the side, simultaneously sensing that her teacher, having chopped off one droid's arms and head, had thrown another away from him with the Force, then blocked the former Jedi's thrust again.
Oli, letting one droid's thrust pass over her head, cut off its legs at the knees, and before it could topple sideways, she sharply rose to her feet, slicing the droid from bottom to top. Kicking the debris aside, she looked triumphantly at the last remaining opponent.
The droid, as if it hadn't noticed it was alone, spun its weapon in its hands. Oli, looking at the violet electrical discharges, just smiled.
The enemy rained a hail of furious blows upon her, trying to overwhelm her with strength and speed. Oli distantly understood that the machine surpassed her in skill — the style her mechanical opponent used was unknown to the girl. But at the same time, the connection with her teacher gave her the necessary calm, not allowing the triumph of her first victories to cloud her mind and make mistakes.
The droid lunged, intending to pierce her thigh. The girl deflected the pike with her blade using maximum force, simultaneously crouching down. Returning her lightsaber to its starting position, she severed the MagnaGuard's legs. How simple it all was. And just like that, the fight was over.
Surprise appeared on her face when the machine, instead of obediently falling onto its back and waiting for the Padawan to end its existence, deftly jammed the tip of its pike into the bridge deck and, using the weapon as a pivot point, struck her with its leg stumps with such force that Oli flew several meters to the side, hitting her head against a control panel.
Her consciousness instantly filled with pain. Sparks began to dance before her eyes, and the spot where she'd hit the panel grew warm. Getting to her feet, the girl felt a quick trickle running through her hair, splattering her clothes. Touching the impact site with her hand, she saw her own blood on the fingertips of her gloves.
"You bastard!" she snarled, looking at the last surviving MagnaGuard, which, taking advantage of the respite, had seized the weapon of one of its fallen comrades and was now approaching her, using the pikes as crutches.
"Just you wait," the rage inside her surged in response to the burning pain in her head. "I'm going to take you apart for spare parts."
* * *
Throwing Sora away from me, I moved out of the MagnaGuard's attack line, slipping my weapon into the space between his arm and body. The droid, unable to stop in time, plowed its body into the golden blade, and its right arm fell to the floor with a dull clang.
"You're good," Balk hissed, pushing the crippled one away with contempt. "It will give me great pleasure to kill you."
"The higher you hold your nose, the harder you fall," I recalled the saying.
Taking a couple of steps back, I gestured for the fool with the lightsaber to follow me into the corridor. The bridge was getting crowded with all the scrap metal. The Weequay, smiling predatorily, followed obediently, not taking his eyes off me.
"Sorry I hurt your feelings," he said coldly. "You're good—very good. But who are you compared to me?"
"A human, harem master, future ruler of the galaxy," I shrugged.
The Weequay burst out laughing. I felt he was only making this conversation to recover his strength. After all, the first act of our duel had been intense—not a single intact terminal remained on that part of the bridge where we'd fought. Even the corpses got it—there's a severed Neimoidian head lying around. Sora cut it off and tried to use it as a projectile while I was dealing with his droids. Bloodthirsty bastard—no respect for the dead.
"Why did you slaughter the entire crew?" Honestly, I wasn't interested, but fighting him when he was already worn out? There's no honor in that.
And to be honest, I'm a bit off too. The deeper I immerse myself in the Force, the more I use it—and when you fight one against seven, you have to push yourself. Especially with the MagnaGuards. Yes, they're not much of an enemy—I don't know what Dooku and Grievous taught them, but against Niman, they're just children poking at poop with sticks in a sandbox.
"You're going to die anyway," are you serious? Old man, you can barely stand. Some legendary fencing instructor. "So I'll tell you."
"I can't wait to hear this fascinating story," exchanging phrases, we circled at the intersection of three corridors converging on the bridge, not taking our eyes off each other.
"Count Dooku ordered me to kill you," the Weequay hissed. "And I decided—why not not only kill this thorn in the side, but also destroy your authority in the eyes of the public by telling the whole galaxy how you mercilessly destroyed an unarmed crew?"
Seriously?!
"The dumbest plan I've ever heard," I didn't lie to the fool. Really—stupidity of stupidities.
Balk rushed at me. Blindly and furiously, exuding the Dark Side like smoke that made it hard to breathe. Good thing I'm not squeamish.
Sora Bulq managed to surprise me.
Either the old man had upgraded his program since our last meeting, or he deliberately didn't show me all his cards last time.
The rage with which he, like a whirlwind, attacked me, pushing me away from the bridge, stunned me for a second. All-consuming, devoted, inexorable, like a natural element, it had a certain natural magnetism.
The same magnetism with which people watch huge tsunami waves appear before them, ready to crash down on their heads, sweep them away, carry them thousands of meters from where you just were, breaking all your bones, tearing you apart like the pages of an old yellowed newspaper.
Enough to break the will of any gifted person. Or at least make them hesitate.
But that's why I'm Vitiate's apprentice. Though with difficulty, the lessons of past encounters with Dark servants have paid off.
Surrounding myself with the Force, I summoned my own Darkness from the depths of my consciousness. No need to hold back anymore. Fighting the guards within the limits that Sora had already seen, I was hedging in case this hemorrhoid-faced monkey could escape again. It's not good to reveal my affiliation with the Unified Force when that information could leak and definitely reach Sidious's ears.
But now...
Sora chose a one-way road. The very one Oli was so afraid of.
The Weequay under Dooku's command had broken all barriers of his unity with the Dark Side, drinking the power that emotions can give to the very bottom. But apparently, now someone knocked from below.
At the very last moment, when the crimson blade was about to touch my body, golden energy stood in its way. The former Jedi's face was mere centimeters from mine. I looked into his eyes and no longer saw a rational being.
Balk had turned into a deadly dangerous animal. Whose instinct is to kill for his own whim.
And it's time to put an end to this.
* * *
In the distance, the silhouette of Zogoro was already visible—the second largest city on Exsarg, nestled at the foot of steep hills. Now, essentially, the last pocket of resistance on the planet.
But, Hutt's belch—what a tough nut.
Zogoro was located on the ocean coast. The hills, essentially just cliffs weathered by time and wind, on which the Separatists had built long-term fortifications, protected the city from attack on three sides. The only possible direction of attack was the coastal part.
That's where the main cargo spaceport of all Exsarg's mining industry was located. And unsurprisingly, the CIS had turned this city into a fortified citadel—the vast underground storage facilities of Zogoro were filled to the brim with previously mined minerals.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mifispi caught a glint from the control tower—a structure rising even above the hills. That's where the Separatists had installed the shield generator that covered the city, protecting it from air attack.
Although there weren't many droids here—only a few hundred thousand—they had fortified themselves well. But instead of laying siege to the city and spaceport, General Fort ordered an immediate assault.
There was no strategic reason for this. Admiral Tigellinus, albeit at the cost of heavy losses, had managed to break through to orbit, inflicting significant damage on the Separatist reinforcements and forcing them to withdraw from the planet deeper into the system.
It was good that the army command had sent reinforcements—more than two dozen starships—Hammerheads and Marauders. Even if they were just launched from the slips with untested crews, their mere presence helped keep the enemy at a considerable distance from the Republic positions. And the admiral nipped all attempts to break through to the surface or launch a massive bombardment with bombers in the bud.
"Missile!" came the pilot's cry, and the next second their assault transport shook violently.
"How, by the Hutt, did you miss a missile?" asked Mifispi.
"They're blinding our scanners. Five kilometers from the shield, nothing can be made out."
Arguing with his brother was useless. He should have argued with General Fort, who authorized this mission. But arguing with him was useless. He doesn't hear opinions different from his own.
The general pursued only one goal—to free Master Salmara, captured by the Separatists during her rescue mission. All the clones assigned to her died fighting off the enemy and trying to rescue comrades from a downed ship. Generals Marek and Shrain, who had returned from a raid, had also suffered significant losses. If not for the timely arrival of the Christophsian corps with new ships, the Separatists would have wiped them out like exterminators kill parasites.
And now the remaining half of the 305th Corps was to participate in a brutal battle to free one Jedi. General Fort wanted to involve the volunteers in this mission as well, but their commander, a man of no small courage, in a very indecent manner advised the Jedi to reread the regulations of the system army, according to which the volunteers report directly to Grand Moff Dougan. And the only order they received from him was to take control of the capital, mines, and factories. Nothing was said about the cargo terminal, warehouses, and especially freeing a Jedi.
In the end, Master Fort gathered all remaining clones under his command—even vehicle drivers—and launched an offensive. Which objectively promised to turn into a bloodbath. Since the general didn't even deign to send commandos ahead to disable the enemy's defensive systems.
Climber and his "Ion Team" were acting independently, under threat of court-martial. After the commandos returned from searching for the surrounded Jedi (it was Climber they owed the information about General Salmara's location), Mifispi sent them to Zogoro to at least disable the shield generator. The anti-air artillery and fortifications couldn't be suppressed quickly anyway. But by depriving the tin cans of their main defense, losses could be reduced. By the Hutt, as soon as the energy dome falls, the gunships will be able to strike firing points in the area and the city itself—fortunately, there are almost no locals here—the population abandoned the city, hiding in the forests as soon as the CIS troops appeared on the horizon.
When approaching from the coastal strip, the stormtroopers came under merciless fire, relentless like a downpour. Several LAAT/is had already buried themselves in the waves, shot down by aimed fire—penetrating the shield, the ships hovered in the air for a moment, becoming excellent targets for enemy gunners.
It shook again—this time harder than before. And the gunship, having survived the hit, began to vibrate noticeably.
"What happened?" he asked the pilot over the comlink.
"The stabilizer is damaged," the pilot replied. From his voice, it was clear he hadn't listed all the damage. Mifispi, looking through the slits in the protective doors at the gunship's hull, noticed that one of the aft planes had become noticeably shorter. Hutt. If this had happened a few kilometers from the coast, it would have been bad. Fortunately, they were very close to the coast.
"Hold on!" Another hit, and the machine, nosing sharply, went down. Gradually the dive turned into a shallow trajectory, and it became clear that a head-on collision with the sand wasn't threatening them. Five seconds later, their LAAT/i made a hard landing on the crests of foaming waves. The ship turned and pointed its blunted nose at the city's silhouette.
"Everyone out!" commanded Mifispi. "You and you," he pointed at two brothers nearest the cockpit. "Get them out."
No need to clarify or repeat.
As soon as the troop bay opened, the clones rushed out.
They were already met by hundreds of battle droids, standing right on the beach without the slightest fear, spraying the landing force with their carbines. The Marshal, without thinking long, flopped onto the sand, simultaneously taking out the nearest B-1s with aimed shots.
A familiar noise sounded overhead. There was no need to even turn his head—it was clear it was a Republic gunship. It flew forward a few hundred more meters, clearing the beach with its cannons of Separatist droids. Having organized a bridgehead, the ship suddenly began to gain altitude and hovered on repulsors. The next second, Master Fort dropped onto the shore, activating his lightsaber mid-flight. Parrying the droids' blaster bolts, he seemed unshakable, like an ancient god.
A few meters from him, his Togruta apprentice and two young Jedi—Marek and Shrain—landed similarly.
Then clones began to descend on ropes: holding rifles in their free hands, they sprayed the enemy with fire. When the last fighter reached the surface, the transport lifted its nose and began to taxi away from the shoreline. Similar events were unfolding all along the coast. Several assault ships failed to dodge artillery fire and crashed into the water right on takeoff.
Some came under fire before even unloading their troops.
Crouching low to avoid a stray shell or blaster bolt, Mifispi rushed forward, trying to close in with the commanders. As soon as he was a step away from them, the blackness of night was broken by a bright flash over the city. By the time the sound of the explosion reached his ears, through the darkened polarized visor of his helmet he could already see that the control tower had shortened by a good ten meters.
The crimson glow of the energy shield began to slowly but inexorably disappear.
"What happened?" The clone commands had already rushed forward, sweeping away the disorganized enemy.
"The commandos destroyed the shield generator," Mifispi explained to the bewildered Jedi.
"Who gave the order?" Master Fort asked sternly.
"I did, sir," the Marshal did not lie.
"Arrest him," the Jedi ordered, grabbing the nearest clone by the shoulder. That one, after looking at his commander for a second, finally extended his hand, into which the Marshal placed his carbine.
Hutt's belch.
"Master, but..."
The Padawan's objection was cut short by a stern look from the Jedi Master.
"Disobedience must be punished, Deran," he said dryly. The other two men remained silent, watching as the corps commander handed his soldiers the last thermal detonator. He felt no anger—only that he had done his job. Apparently, the tin cans, along with this diversion, had also lost their command—the artillery fire died down, the CIS soldiers eased their pressure, looking around aimlessly—looking for someone who could give them an order.
"Master Fort," the Togruta continued to insist. "This diversion weakened the droids and..."
"Don't you dare argue with me," the Jedi said arrogantly. Waving to the other two subordinates, he rushed after the clones. To exploit the success that the Marshal had achieved for him.
"This is wrong," the Togruta said bitterly.
"It's nothing, Commander," the Marshal tried to reassure her. "I did what I had to do to save as many of my brothers as possible."
"I understand," the girl said just as sadly. "Master... is quick to forgive. I'll ask him not to pursue..."
The next moment, the girl's eyes widened. Mifispi felt that something irreparable had happened.
Jedi and their Force—it's something he doesn't understand. But to see horror on a Padawan's face... You don't have to be a Jedi.
"Master..."
Following her, Mifispi raised his gaze in the direction where the Jedi had run off. Instead of a trio with lightsabers, he could only see a huge crater, in which lay pieces of torn soldier bodies and scraps of Jedi robes. Looking closer, he could see General Fort's body, part of whose skull had been torn off by shrapnel. He didn't see the bodies of the other two Jedi. Looking more closely, he found several limbs with pieces of Jedi clothing still attached. Sighing, the Marshal concluded that those two were also dead. You don't live long with torn-off arms and heads. And given the density of droid fire, getting to them, even if they were still alive, to save them from blood loss in time was simply impossible. Sacrificing his guys for a ghostly chance of rescue was the height of idiocy.
And the whitish trails of rockets rising from behind the sand dune separating the beach from the vast spaceport field.
"Firestorms!" a cry swept across the battlefield. And the next second, shell bursts rose before the advancing line of clones, instantly destroying up to half of the landed troopers.
"Well, shit," said the soldier holding his weapon. "Ambush!"
Without thinking long and without caring about the consequences, Mifispi retrieved his blasters and attached the grenade pouches to his armor. The fighter, realizing that something was going off-plan, just looked at him but didn't object.
"Climber, we have problems on the beach," without taking his eyes off the Togruta who had fallen to her knees, shaking with sobs, the Marshal gave the order to drag the Jedi away from the fire—Droidekas had appeared on the opposite edge of the beach. Deploying their shields, they began, like at a shooting range, to shoot the unwary. In an instant, more than two squads of clones, caught off guard, fell face-first into the sand. Never to rise again.
"I see, we're already working. You have a ten-minute breather—they've unloaded everything from their magazines. The cans are installing new ammunition," from the commando commander's voice, it was clear he was running somewhere.
"Got it," Mifispi turned off the comlink. Seeing that B-2s had come to reinforce the Droidekas, he raised his carbine and sent several bolts toward the enemy, covering the brothers dragging the Jedi girl behind the hull of the nearest downed assault transport.
As soon as they were in cover, he looked at the commander's face. Her cheeks glistened with tears, her lips trembled. It seemed that this war spared Jedi for completely different reasons than a clone could imagine.
"Inform the second wave," noticing that one of the soldiers had artillery spotter insignia, Mifispi had already formed a plan in his head. "Tell them to be ready. The Droidekas are causing a lot of trouble."
"Understood, sir."
"You," a clone lieutenant appeared nearby, whose unit had crawled over to them from another downed assault transport on half-bent legs. "Contact Admiral Tigellinus. Have him report to command that we have three dead Jedi. We're left without command."
"Sir, what about her?" the lieutenant nodded toward the Padawan.
The Marshal looked carefully at the Togruta. She sat with her arms wrapped around her legs and her head on them. Even through the sounds of the escalating battle, it was clear she was crying again.
"Not this time, Lieutenant," he sighed. "The girl is not in a state to command..."
"We'll see about that," the Togruta raised her head, looking defiantly at the face hidden under the Marshal's helmet. Getting to her feet, she activated her own comlink. "Attention all fighters of the 305th Corps. This is Jedi Commander Deran Naluan. I am taking command of the corps."
Her voice sounded firm, clear. Like a real commander who knows no mercy for the enemy. And is ready to do anything to accomplish the mission.
"Marshal," she addressed the clone. "Order your men not to take unnecessary risks. We will take this city regardless—but with minimal casualties."
"Uh..." The clone hesitated, not expecting such words from such a young girl. "As you command, Commander."
"Climber," the Padawan contacted the commando commander. "Destroy the CIS tanks."
"Already on it, Commander."
Literally the next second, a chain of explosions erupted behind the dune, illuminating the sky with the brightest flashes. The roar hit their ears. The shockwave tore chunks of permacrete from the monolithic fortifications, crushing several droids standing nearby.
"Done," Climber reported. "Five 'Firestorms' rendered unfit for further operation. Anything else?"
"Yes," the Togruta said coldly. "Find General Salmara and evacuate her. We'll distract the enemy."
"If she's alive, Commander, we'll find her," the commando assured her.
"I'll await your report, Captain."
Mifispi snorted softly. He definitely liked the girl's command style. Of course, this was just the beginning—we'll see how she handles things going forward. She certainly had potential. He'd have to keep an eye on her—not let her die before this war ended.
"Admiral Tigellinus," a figure of a fleet officer appeared on the holoprojector in the girl's hands. "I have taken command of the corps. The other Jedi are either dead or captured."
"Sorry to hear that, Commander," the man said. "Can I help you with anything?"
"Of course. We're pinned down on the beach by enemy Droidekas, and anti-air artillery is preventing reinforcements from being delivered."
"Understood," the admiral nodded. "I'm sending fighters and bombers."
"My men will guide them to the targets," Mifispi interjected, mentally calculating what would happen on the beach if the bombers dropped their destructive payload even a hundred meters closer to the clone positions.
"Excellent, Marshal, Commander," Tigellinus saluted. Looking somewhere beyond the holoprojector, he returned his gaze to his interlocutors. "I'll allocate you two bomber squadrons and one fighter squadron. Sorry, but the rest are needed here—the cans have started a new attack."
"We'll try to free your people as quickly as possible, Admiral," the Togruta assured him, ending the communication session.
Glancing at Mifispi, she exhaled noisily and said:
"Stay with me, Marshal. I really don't want to screw this up."
"Never, Commander," the clone said seriously, inserting a new power cell into his carbine. "I'm always here."
* * *
A loud cry, like a roar, full of hatred and rage, made Oli shudder all over. At that very moment, the tip of her lightsaber neatly entered the right "eye" of the last MagnaGuard, ending its heavy existence in the service of the CIS.
Looking around, the girl noticed she was completely alone on the bridge. Before she could wonder where everyone had gone, the sounds of clashing lightsabers reached her ears. Moreover, the hissing of the blades was so frequent that it merged into a single sound, giving her a headache.
"Master?"
The mental question went unanswered.
At the same time, she felt that her mentor was alive. And moreover—enveloped in controlled anger, so strong that she felt uneasy just imagining the scene unfolding before the master's eyes.
The girl, without thinking long, looked around the battlefield once more and, making sure no functioning enemies remained, hurriedly ran outside.
And literally immediately, about fifty meters away, she saw IT.
The master was fighting... no, this was no longer Master Balk.
It was something that had put on his face, like actors in puppet theaters put heroes on their hands. Whatever had happened to the former Jedi—now he was just a vessel for the all-consuming power of the Dark Side, which hit the nerves and consciousness even at such a distance from the action.
And, against him, fought a similar monster.
Perhaps for the first time in all their acquaintance, she saw through the prism of the Force Bond the true form of her master.
His cloak billowed behind him, fluttering in the corridor flooded with unnatural light, and he himself held the sword with both hands. The energy emanating from him trembled in the air. It seemed that the air around these two was vibrating and the metal was about to start melting.
Her eye couldn't distinguish the lightsaber blades of either. Instead, even using the Force, Oli saw only blurry spots of gold and crimson. The spots moved so fast that sometimes they penetrated each other, turning into a completely disgusting shade.
Oli, mouth open, watched the duel.
The master parried a blow delivered by Balk with both hands from above. He counterattacked, surrounded by a cocoon of Force, so that as soon as he touched the wall, the metal exploded into hundreds of fragments, spraying in all directions like shrapnel. But it seemed the instructor didn't even notice such inconveniences. The Weequay advanced, parrying the master's strikes, counterattacking, and again going on the offensive.
For a second, Oli thought the battle at unimaginable speeds was over.
Spraying sparks, their lightsaber blades clashed, their eyes met.
Despite the distance between them, Oli could see that the former Jedi's eyes burned with piercing rage. The anger emanating from him was physically palpable, making the air slick and dirty. The girl felt a subconscious desire to wash herself. With the harshest sponge she could find.
The master was in no way inferior to his opponent. Now, striving to defeat each other with brute force, both seemed like wild beasts, each unable to yield the carcass of a killed herbivore to the other. But she felt something else in the master, something unexpected, a strange split of feelings.
"I knew you weren't a Jedi," Master Balk hissed. And his words seemed to the girl like the sound that accompanies metal sliding across transparisteel. Disgusting, irritating, penetrating to the depths of the soul.
"And no one claimed otherwise," Dougan growled.
He leaned into his sword, forcing his opponent to take a step back, and, amplifying the strike with the Force, kicked him in the stomach.
But Bulq was faster — a leap carried him over Dougan's head, landing several meters away from where the opponents had stood moments before. He landed in a crouch amidst a field of debris that had once been battle droids of the Trade Federation.
Dougan swung his left hand, and dozens of assorted pieces of durasteel rose into the air, only to transform an instant later into projectiles flying at insane speed, whose purpose was to shatter the former instructor's torso.
But the latter, with agility incomprehensible for a padawan, soared into the air and managed to dodge every single piece of deadly metal. But not the Push of immense destructive force, with which her teacher sent the Weequay flying, hurling him another few dozen meters deeper into the corridor.
As if feeling no pain, Sora was on his feet an instant later, charging at Dougan.
The Emperor roared, once again sending the girl into a stupor, and leaped straight at his opponent. He slid to the side, dodging a descending strike; the crimson blade left a deep furrow in the gleaming floor panels instead of depriving the commander of the Tenth System Army of his legs.
He answered with a sideways strike of his own lightsaber, which should have taken the Weequay's head off, had he not ducked under the blow. Following that, Bulq jumped, somersaulted in the air, and landed fifteen meters behind Dougan's back.
Oli, gripping the hilt of her own lightsaber tighter, prepared to fight back, but despite the fact that only a few dozen meters separated her and the Dark Servant — a mere trifle, as she had seen during this clash — he slid an indifferent glance over her, as if looking through the padawan, and returned to his confrontation with Dougan.
Grabbing a massive chunk of debris beside him with the Force — once part of a super battle droid — he hurled it at Dougan. Without moving from his spot, the latter simply sliced the projectile apart with his lightsaber in a few quick motions. Tiny pieces of dark-gray durasteel showered the floor.
Sora charged again, closing the distance between him and Dougan.
The fallen Jedi struck from below; Oli's mentor deflected the strike to the side and, continuing the motion, punched his opponent in the gut with all his strength. Evading the blow, the latter jumped, pulling his legs up, and upon landing, struck from above, holding his lightsaber hilt with both hands. Dougan parried with a horizontal block and delivered a Force-enhanced side kick aimed at his ribs. Bulq caught his leg, freed one hand from the grip, spun around his axis, and hurled Dougan several meters to the side. The latter flipped in the air and landed on the corridor floor. The metal plate beneath his boots instantly became covered in a web of cracks.
Suddenly, another lightsaber appeared in the former instructor's hands. The red blade was, at first glance, half the length of the one the Dark Servant held in his right hand. Tracing intricate pirouettes with both, Bulq charged at Dougan. The latter watched the enemy approach, and as soon as he was close enough, aimed his left hand at him, roared, and jagged bolts of Force lightning surged toward the rushing opponent.
Oli instinctively squeezed her eyes shut — the brightness of this attack exceeded that of a turbolaser blast. The light-flooded corridor turned into a blue-violet wall of light for an instant, in whose depths the Emperor's opponent was not meant to survive.
And yet, he broke through the barrage. In smoking and partially burning clothes, with a face as if pressed against a red-hot frying pan, Bulq, flooding everything around with the Dark Side, continued his assault.
As if foreseeing this, the teacher met the opponent's thrust by activating his own second lightsaber blade.
His power met the servant's fury. The blade of his sword cut, stabbed, spinning in a firm hand. Oli saw that the former instructor was trying to realize his advantage in knowledge of fencing styles, changing his own tactics time and again, switching from one style to another. And sometimes, organically combining sequences from several styles at once, he sought to force the teacher to back away without looking. Starstone understood that the Weequay had made the teacher's coordination his very target, forcing him to retreat thoughtlessly, to lose balance, to stumble. To seize the opportunity in such circumstances costs nothing. A short bloody execution after such an impressive battle.
But to his strength, the teacher responded with speed, dodging, leaping over, parrying strikes, and unleashing a barrage of his own in return. The hum of their blades, the hiss of clashing edges merged into a single song of speed and power.
The opponents crossed blades again.
"I'm beyond your reach, Dougan," Bulq growled through the crackle of sparking lightsabers.
"Your teacher thought so too," Rick replied with the same fury in his voice. "And his teacher as well. But you all miscalculated! I will come for every single one of you!"
He struck the Weequay with the Force with such power that the latter flew backward and crashed into the corridor wall, crumpling a huge decorative section with his body like foil. The teacher, continuing his maneuver, rushed forward, delivering two diagonal slashing strikes, which, unfortunately, only sliced through metal — Sora Bulq was faster.
He rolled to the side, rose to his feet, charged at his enemy, struck backhanded from the left, aiming for the throat. Dougan managed to place the blade of one of his swords vertically to parry the blow, but the opponent tried to counterattack with his shoto.
The teacher must have sensed the danger at the last moment, for he managed to lean aside slightly. Still, the crimson beam of the fencing master's sword slashed his robe, cutting a piece from it, and also grazing his armor. The Weequay, roaring at the top of his lungs, closed in, raising his sword for a final strike.
And he ended up close enough to Dougan. The latter needed but a single instant to drop one of his swords to the floor and grab his opponent's face with his fingers.
He clearly hadn't expected that. He faltered, which allowed Dougan to execute a sweep, knocking him off his feet. With a distinct crunch, the Weequay's head hit the floor — along with the rest of him. Lying on the metal plate, he tried to sneak a strike with his weapon at Dougan's chest, but couldn't — the latter simply dropped his knees onto his chest, freed his second hand, and now, with its help, under a deafening crunch, broke the Weequay's wrist, turning the limb into mincemeat mixed with bone fragments.
The latter, howling as parts of his body turned to pulp, tried to reach Dougan with his shoto, delivering a strike with his free hand somewhere at Oli's mentor's back. The girl, seeing this, squealed, sensing deadly consequences. But she could no longer prevent it.
The short crimson blade, tracing a small arc, descended onto the man's back. As if in slow motion, Starstone saw how, upon contact of the energy weapon with the thinnest fabric, the latter instantly vaporized, turning into a wisp of smoke. An instant — and the crimson streak would disappear between the teacher's shoulder blades.
But instead, the blade flickered, wavered, and broke. The Dark Servant's backup weapon deactivated.
Simultaneously, the hand that was pressing the Weequay's head into the floor ceased its work. Grabbing the enemy's forearm, Dougan unceremoniously twisted it, then, overcoming the former Jedi's resistance, broke the limb over his knee like a matchstick, using the captured arm as a lever.
The corridor filled with a terrible howl. The Weequay, unable to utter anything articulate, wailed, roared, having completely lost the semblance of a sentient being.
"Thank the Force, he's no longer dangerous!" Oli exhaled. No humanoid creature can continue a lightsaber duel when the functionality of both limbs is destroyed.
Slowly, as if savoring his own victory, the teacher rose, towering over the defeated opponent. Oli, taking a few quick steps toward him, smiled, intending to congratulate him on his victory. Barely five meters remained...
However, feeling the Force tighten around the teacher, she stopped, wondering what would happen next.
Meanwhile, in the mentor's hands, clasped between his two palms, a sphere of pure Force energy was forming. It was so concentrated that for the first time in all her years, Oli could see the Force. And the sphere was beautiful.
Then the teacher, aiming it at the body of the still-squealing Weequay, fired the gathered energy at the opponent as if from a turbolaser.
Sora Bulq's body, meeting the Force, exploded like an overripe fruit. Oli felt herself splashed with a wave of warm liquid with a salty taste. The air smelled of metal.
Peeling open her instinctively closed eyes, the girl felt streams of someone else's blood running down her face. Glancing down, she felt a wave of nausea.
The spot where the Weequay had lain an instant ago was now pressed a good meter deep into the deck. In the resulting crater lay torn chunks of meat mixed with small whitish bone fragments and parts of internal organs.
Feeling the salty taste in her mouth, Oli spat out someone else's blood onto the floor in disgust, wiping her face with the inner surface of her robe — the outer one was anyway covered with pieces of meat and brains mixed with bloodstains and splatters, visible even against the black fabric.
"Hutt," the girl whispered, looking at the teacher's unruffled figure. Unlike her, he, protected by the Force, stood in the middle of the bloody carnage as if nothing had happened, gazing curiously at Bulq's remains. "What have you done, teacher?"
"Solved a problem, apprentice," he said coldly, smoothing his hair with his hand. When he took it away from his head, Starstone noticed his fingers trembling. Looking closer, she noted that the teacher's face looked gaunt, as if he hadn't slept for weeks.
Noticing that not only his hand but he himself was shaking slightly, Oli opened her mouth to ask the appropriate question.
But before she could, the teacher stared intently straight into her eyes. The girl barely managed to keep herself from screaming, clenching her hands into fists until it hurt.
"That is none of your concern," he said in an icy tone. Pulling his own weapon and the fallen one's blades toward him with the Force, pulling the hood of his robe over his head, the mentor set off slowly down the corridor, noticeably staggering as he walked, leaving bloody imprints of his boot soles on the floor.
Oli stood indecisively, processing what had happened.
Looking into her teacher's eyes, she saw nothing human there. Black as the vast cosmos, they could not belong to a human — even a powerful Force user. Whatever the cause, it had irrevocably changed her mentor.
"Commander Starstone," the comlink came alive with a clone's voice. "We've landed in the hangar. General Dougan said we're to be at your disposal. What are your orders?"
"Send cleaners to the bridge," Oli said, swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat. Feeling her lower jaw begin to tremble, the girl spun sharply and walked in the opposite direction.
Dougan had killed Sora Bulq, who had ceased to be a sentient being, having turned into a wild beast.
To defeat monsters, you must become one yourself.