"We're here," Walon announced, pointing at the ruins of what had once been a luxurious residential building, located in the very center of what was once a bustling residential quarter.
Now, like every other dwelling for kilometers around, only rubble lay before Shea's eyes.
Shea found a certain symbolism in this. Like the planet itself, the former capital was now only a shadow of its former self. A rotting corpse, veiled in the stench of what had once smelled like victory and pride.
"Excellent," Shea forced out, though something entirely different was on her mind. "Perimeter?"
"We're holding the entire area within three blocks of this spot," Kal Skirata reported from beside her. "If unexpected guests do show up, we'll know first."
"Then let's get to work," the girl said, rolling her neck side to side, cracking her vertebrae. The Mandalorians behind her quietly readied their weapons. Yes, the negotiations were supposed to be peaceful, but... only a fool comes to negotiations unprepared.
The boys from Clan Beroya had done an excellent job. Despite her initial skepticism, they had managed to arrange a meeting with representatives of the most influential clans — those who adhered to ancient traditions, but didn't seek to resolve the question of the pacifists' political course through terror and violence like the Death Watch, led by the governor of the moon Concordia, Pre Vizsla.
The other side hadn't burdened themselves with guards — just two people from each clan. No external patrols, no defense systems. Shea's people hadn't even found droids that could cover their masters in case something went wrong.
Her people... how long had it been since she'd last said those words. Clan Vizsla had ceased to exist almost four thousand years ago — right after she accepted the Emperor's offer. The Mandalorians had chosen a new path — and she was now seeing its results with her own eyes. A ravaged planet, broken inhabitants, corruption, lawlessness, terror, arbitrary rule...
No patriot would wish such a fate on their countrymen.
That's why, inside those ruins, those who — she hoped — also cared about the fate of their world and the Mandalorian legacy were waiting for her.
She, accompanied by her two closest aides — Kal Skirata and Walon Vau — approached the entrance door. Despite the dilapidation of most of the structure, signs of repair work were clearly visible here. At least the door had been installed recently.
A symbolic knock served as the signal to enter. In the spacious hallway, several fighters in Mandalorian armor met them, sizing them up from head to toe before silently pointing toward the living room.
"Clan Farr," Skirata whispered quietly, identifying the fighters' affiliation. "They're providing security for the meeting. As far as I know, their representative is currently neutral on the matter that concerns us."
"Milksops," Walon snorted contemptuously. "Hiding out somewhere on the sidelines while this mess was going on here."
"As were you," Shea reminded both former instructors of the obvious. In reality, they — like the rest of her clan's current members — had spent the last few years training a clone army, not solving the problems of their home world. And none of them could blame Clan Farr, which had split off from everyone else centuries ago and settled on Onderon's moon, Dxun. Especially considering that these "neutrals" were already Vizsla supporters. Not that anyone else needed to know that.
Or how much she'd had to intimidate that blue-skinned bitch Vette before she deigned to return Mandalore's loyal warriors.
The path led through wide corridors, in places so dilapidated that you could make out the decor of the neighboring room through the walls. Convenient when you don't plan to walk into an ambush. Most likely, this building had been used for such meetings more than once. And judging by the fact that the pacifists were still in power — the gatherings had been useless.
Seeing a pair of massive wooden doors blocking her path, Shea unceremoniously kicked them open, making an effect-laden entrance into the living room.
They were already waiting for her. In the small hall, around a long oval table placed in the center, sat several beings, every single one of them wearing beskar'gam. The rather uniform appearance of the armor on each of those present forced Shea to exert considerable effort to keep from bursting into a tirade of profanity.
Standardization of Mandalorian armor — a relic of the Neo-Crusader era and the Mandalorian Wars. Even in her time, every clan had striven to create a unique look for their own armor. And those sitting before her — they were like clones. Every single one wore armor barely different from that worn by the last Mandalore — Jango Fett. The coloring varied, that was all. Just like those who'd joined her after the memorable meeting in that Coruscant dive.
As agreed, each clan that deigned to attend the meeting was represented by only two people — the leader and his aide. Shea had brought two as well. But not to insult those present. A Mandalore always had two closest lieutenants with equal authority. And according to tradition, they accompanied their leader wherever the Path might lead.
One glance at the insignia of each of those seated across from her was enough to understand who was before her.
Sigal Beroya. The kid was the only one not wearing armor. And in the air, you could practically feel the contempt toward him from the others.
Clan Jendri — descendants of those who had tried to find the Mask of Mandalore alongside Revan and Canderous Ordo. The legend of their greatness had cooled just like the surface of the world they hadn't dragged their backsides out of for millennia. But unlike the others, they had managed to avoid repression and preserve much of the true Mandalorian legacy. Including the now-outdated Basilisk war droids, whose place was already in a museum.
Clan Kadera. Excellent warriors. In the past. Once upon a time, representatives of this glorious clan had served under her command. And they would be ashamed of what their descendants were doing now. Torian, if he knew the current state of affairs, would be spinning in his grave like a hyperdrive motivator.
Clan Kelborn. Unmatched drilling masters. In her time, it was this very clan that served as the "source" of focus masters among the united Mandalorian forces. Thanks to them, under her rule, the Mandalorians had once again become a force to be reckoned with.
Clan Vevut. Superb fighters. There were no better snipers among the Mandalorians than the children or adoptees of this ancient lineage. As far as she knew, it was currently led by a certain Caleb Daark. Cautious, cunning, calculating. He'd been the first to agree to this meeting. Considering that according to intelligence, he might have up to a thousand fighters under his command — she needed to keep her ears pricked.
At the sight of the next pair's insignia, Shea felt a desire to pump several shots into them. Clan Lok. Her predecessor as Mandalore had been from the Loks. After the Eternal Empire's invasion, he had fiercely resisted and died honorably at the hands of enemy soldiers. But his clan-brothers turned out to be not such worthy continuers of the great Mandalore the Proven's legacy. When Shea had gathered the disparate clans under her banner with an iron fist and launched an attack on the Eternal Empire's weapons factory, the new clan leader, Mirli Lok, had chickened out, in her ignorance pulling away a lion's share of the forces ready for the offensive. The result — massive losses. Despite outside support. Later, the Loks and their hangers-on — those who'd survived the vengeance for their betrayal — were forbidden from returning here. So, she needed to set things straight.
Sharrat. Technical sciences, particularly cybernetics, weren't very popular among the Mandalorians. Still, this clan had managed to distinguish itself precisely through its technical achievements. The combat simulator they'd created and tested on Nar Shaddaa alone was something else. Ah, if only she had it now. For training the youth — the best tool there was.
Clan Evod. It was led by a woman — you could tell from the characteristic decorative elements of her armor. Besides, intelligence had reported that the leader of this least-glorious clan was a Beroya native. Interesting. And these two didn't even exchange glances. Seemed like close relatives with extremely strained relations. Skirata had said the Evods had settled on the planet Vlemot Port and practically never poked their noses out.
Clan Chorn. Loyal and brave warriors. A true standard for any boy from Mandalore.
Ordo. Was there a single member of Mandalorian society unfamiliar with this name? If so, Shea wasn't acquainted with such ignoramuses.
Her eyes slid over the pair bearing Clan Farr's insignia without bothering to examine them. She already knew who was at this gathering.
Only a few figures remained. Two of them were barely adolescents — by galactic standards. To a Mandalorian — young warriors. And judging by how casually both behaved toward more experienced warriors — the kids clearly knew their worth. From the coloring of one's armor, and from the tensed-up escorts, she realized she hadn't been mistaken in guessing who was hiding under that helmet — clearly too big for him — and the blue paint.
But the last pair — the only ones possessing armor even slightly different from the others — drew Shea's attention thoroughly. And it wasn't even about the fact that, while examining her opponents in complete silence, she was allowing them to examine her.
She had seen this armor before. Only then, it had borne a completely different insignia.
"I greet those assembled," she said, sitting down across from them. The clan leaders followed suit. And their aides, along with Vau and Skirata, took positions behind their chieftains.
"Your request for a meeting caught us off guard, Kal," said the leader of Clan Lok.
The conversation was conducted exclusively in Mando'a. Using other languages to speak with tribesmen was a grave insult to anyone who followed the Way.
"The circumstances require a Gathering of Clan Leaders," her lieutenant spoke. "The fate of Mandalore and every Mando is being decided right now."
"Your words are a good decade out of date," Caleb Daark lamented.
"Far from it," Kal shook his head. "We now face a far more terrible fate than living under the thumb of pacifism."
"Could it get any worse?" the leader of Clan Evod snorted. "You've even dragged to this Gathering those who left the Way long ago, hiding like womp gerbils on..."
"Enough," Shea drew attention to herself. They looked at her with surprise. Well, of course. Officially, Beroya had summoned the clans at Skirata's request — one of the respected Mandos. "Snarling at each other like the lowest jackals over scraps of rotten carrion."
"This is going to be fun," Daark leaned back in his chair, meaningfully toying with his vibroblade. Unlike many other races, Mandalorian leaders — at least those who didn't disdain wearing beskar'gam — didn't disarm at meetings. Because, according to good old tradition, peace talks could easily devolve into abundant bloodletting. She remembered that after the death of her predecessor — Mandalore the Proven — it was exactly how she'd managed to subjugate most of the clans. Too bad not all of them.
"You wear our armor, but we don't know you," the leader of Clan Kadera added. "By what right are you present here?"
"By the right of first among equals," Shea snorted. Without bothering with further explanations, she removed her helmet. Ancient tradition obligated the others present to follow her example — as a sign of respect. Unsurprisingly, only Skirata, Vau, and Farr removed that part of their armor.
"It's been a long time since I've heard anything like that," the Mando from Reckkiard snorted.
"As have all present," his colleague from Clan Lok supported him. "That is the right of a Mandalore — to be first among all leaders. But not some..."
"I wouldn't advise tarnishing your clan's already damaged reputation," Shea snorted. Seeing that those present still didn't understand, she added, "Apparently, modern Mandalorians have short memories. Otherwise, I simply can't imagine why Aruetii would show up at this gathering."
The representative of Clan Lok instantly jumped up from his seat. A huge vibroblade appeared in his hand with an imperceptible motion, and he leaned across the table to strike...
But instead, Vizsla herself rose to meet her opponent, twisted his weapon-clenching hand, yanked the man toward her, and sent him sprawling across the table. Ignoring his enraged shouts, using the table's edge as leverage, she broke the man's arm at the elbow, then, grabbing the fallen blade, delivered one precise but powerful strike to the Lok clan leader's armpit. The fabric armor couldn't withstand the abuse and opened the weapon to the tender viscera of the man. A moment — and a fountain of blood gushed from the severed aorta, instantly staining the table and several participants. Including generously splattering blood across the face and gray-blue armor of Shea.
"I should have done this back on Onderon myself," she commented on her action, ignoring the blasters of the other Mandalorians aimed at her face. Still, the tension that had arisen in the room didn't escape her notice.
"What's the matter?" she asked with slight surprise on her face.
"He was our friend," Caleb Daark said, clear threat in his voice.
"If the Aruetii are your friends," she shrugged, "then I'll kill every one of them."
"You have gravely insulted Clan Lok," the last representative of that part of Mandalorian society spoke up. "After the clan learns..."
."..I'll kill every one of you," Shea finished for her. "Over three and a half thousand years ago, I summoned all Mandalorians under my banner to strike at an enemy strategic target. Clan Lok refused to obey me, and for that, the brand was forever fixed upon them and all their descendants. Aruetii — someone else. Not a Mandalorian. Traitors. Too bad that clumsy-handed fool I tasked with finishing off your ancestors didn't do his job completely."
"That couldn't have been you!" the second Lok shrieked. "Over three thousand years have passed!"
"Interrupt me again," Shea demonstratively pulled the vibroblade from the fatal wound, flicked the blood drops from the blade toward her opponent with a light motion, "and I'll carve your heart out while you're still alive. Understood?"
Satisfied by the silence, Vizsla twirled the trophy in her hand, returned it to its place with displeasure, muttering, "Still haven't learned to pick decent equipment."
Seeing that she wasn't going to attack, the present Mandalorians lowered their weapons and took their seats. Apparently, they figured one corpse would satisfy her.
Then, scanning the remaining faces, she grinned.
"If anyone still hasn't understood, I am Shae Vizsla. The last of Clan Vizsla. Called the Torch. Mandalore the Avenger."
"That can't be!" the leader of Clan Kadera leaped from his seat.
"If so, then you're almost four thousand years old," Caleb Daark said. "No one lives that long. Especially Mandalorian leaders."
"Think whatever you like," Shea nodded to Skirata. The aging clone trainer approached the table and laid out an armor piece that had until now been in his backpack.
"In case any of you have forgotten, this is the Mask of Mandalore. The helmet of the first chieftain of all Mandalorians," she explained, pointing at the relevant item, well known to every native of Mandalore. In her time. "And its possessor is the true leader of our people."
"That trinket," one of the two hitherto-silent Mandalorians spoke up, "means nothing. Only the bearer of the legendary Dark Saber can lay claim to the right to lead Mandalore."
"What a coincidence," Shea grinned, "that you have it. Isn't that right, Pre Vizsla?"
For a time, silence reigned in the living room. Exactly until the named Mandalorian bared his head.
"You can call yourself whatever you want," he hissed through his teeth. "But Mandalore won't follow a self-proclaimed leader."
"Just as it didn't follow Mandalore the Resurrector?" Shea clarified. Noticing the clan leaders exchanging glances among themselves, she explained. "Jango Fett died at the Petranaki Arena over a year ago. And now someone pretending to be him is recruiting our youth under the banner of the Mandalorian Supercommandos — only to secure the Confederacy's support with their help and seize Mandalore by force. If you didn't know that, you're even stupider than I thought."
"You came here to insult us?" the governor of Concordia snorted. "Aren't you taking too much upon yourself, impostor?"
"You're testing my patience, renegade," Shea said wearily. "The fact that I didn't blow your head off and make your friend — the former owner of MandalMotors — use his brains doesn't mean I'm turning a blind eye to you and your Death Watch's schemes."
"Is that true, Pre?" the leader of Clan Jendri asked suspiciously. "Are you connected to Death Watch?"
But Shea wasn't about to let this bastard get a single word in his defense.
"You're as blind as nunas," she shook her head. "The man whose ancestors, in their ignorance, tried to claim my clan's name isn't just connected to the 'Watchers.' He — along with his rotting-in-the-ground father — is their leader."
"Pre," the air grew thick with the approach of a storm. The Mandalorians, who already disliked the Death Watch for carrying out terrorist attacks and keeping the population in fear, were now for the first time this close not just to an ordinary member of the group, but to their very leader, with whom scores could be settled. "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
If the governor of Concordia had said anything sensible right then, Shea's efforts to undermine his authority wouldn't have succeeded. But the leader of the "Watchers" was too stupid to fight for power against someone he clearly wasn't fit to hold a candle to.
"You will all serve me," Vizsla said darkly, drawing the hilt of a lightsaber from the scabbard behind his back. With a sound uncharacteristic of that weapon, a black blade with a white edge burst from Pre's hand. "I am the wielder of the Dark Saber!"
"Not for long," Shea assured him. Taking advantage of his focus on her, the red-haired beauty didn't delay.
Kicking the corpse of the Lok clan leader toward her new opponent with all her might, she bought herself a few seconds, which Pre spent halving the torso and tossing one of the parts aside.
A pair of scarlet blaster bolts, fired from her favorite weapon — modernized to meet current technical standards — pierced the fabric armor around his shoulder joints, forcing Vizsla to drop his precious blade.
His aide rushed to pick up the symbol of authority, but Shea was faster. A powerful armored knee strike to Bo-Katan's face sent the latter flying to the side, while Shea simultaneously closed in on Pre.
The governor of Mandalore's moon tried to counter her onslaught, but defending without arms... In his place, Shea definitely could have. But this pathetic imitation of a Mandalorian...
It ended quickly, and no less bloodily than with the previous opponent. Blocking the leg the enemy had tried to kick her in the face with, Shea drew a sharply honed blade of beskar and drove it up to the hilt into the man's pubic area. No need to aim — just know your anatomy. The razor-thin dagger pierced the armor lining, slicing through flesh and the man's loins.
Pre barely managed to squeal as the cold weapon turned his circulatory system in that region into a formless, bleeding mass.
Yanking the dagger out, Shea delivered a control strike with practiced ease, driving the weapon under Vizsla's lower jaw, piercing his tongue, palate, and plunging into the tissues of his brain.
Only then, wiping the weapon on the dandyish cloak of the enemy drowning in his own blood, did Mandalore the Avenger return to those assembled.
Tossing the Dark Saber's hilt onto the table, she looked in turn at the faces unreadable behind their helmets, pausing on each for no more than a few seconds. Finally, the leaders, shaken by the massacre, bared their heads one by one.
"That's how it should have been done from the start," Shea said. "So, before you are the ancient symbol of authority on Mandalore, and this stupid trinket of yours. They both belong to me. Does anyone wish to challenge me and dispute my lawful right to call myself Mandalore the Avenger?"
Deprived of their helmets, they could no longer avoid meeting her eyes. So they just exchanged bewildered glances amongst themselves.
"My clan supports Shae Vizsla, Mandalore the Avenger," the boy from Clan Beroya said loudly and clearly.
"Clan Farr stands with Mandalore the Avenger," Atin rose.
"Clan Skirata is at my Mandalore's service." Kal bowed respectfully. Though he wasn't supposed to. He had already proven his loyalty.
"Clan Vau joins."
"Clan Ordo will follow their Mandalore..."
"Jendri would be honored..."
"Kadera gladly..."
"Clan Sharrat bows..."
"Clan Evod will be pleased..."
"Clan Chorn triumphs..."
Only three remained silent.
"Clan Lok," Shea looked at the slain leader's aide. Formally, he now represented his people. "I, who declared you Aruetii, am giving you a chance to return to our society. Do you agree to kneel before me?"
"Never, you miserable bitch," the last of the Loks hissed.
"So be it," she shrugged. In that same instant, the young Mandalorian, dressed in armor clearly from someone else's shoulder, sunk his vibroblade into the Lok representative's neck with an imperceptible motion. The blade slipped under the helmet with surgical precision, cutting through the fabric armor of the undersuit, slicing skin and muscle, shattering the cervical vertebrae, and ending its swift journey in the opponent's skull.
"Clan Fett," he pulled off his helmet, revealing his face to those present, "joins Mandalore the Avenger."
"You're even recruiting children," Bo-Katan said in a tone dripping with venom, removing her helmet with its shattered visor lenses. "This pup shouldn't have been here at all."
"And yet," Walon noted, "he is the last of his clan. And the fact that he's only eleven doesn't deprive him of the right to lead his people."
"A clan of one person?" Kryze laughed, wiping the blood seeping from her forehead, split in several places.
"Of two," another figure rose beside Boba — just as small, could even be called tiny. If the armor had looked ridiculous on Fett, on her it was downright comical. Meanwhile, the girl, darting her eyes, took her... well, let's call him a friend, by the hand, looking defiantly at the new leader of the Death Watch.
"That leaves only you, Bo-Katan," Skirata concluded.
"I'm not my clan's leader," she smirked. "Ask Satine that question."
"You're the head of Death Watch now," Shea reminded her, nodding at the corpse of her former boss. "Don't thank me, by the way."
"You killed Pre just for being a Death Watch member," she snorted. "And now you're suggesting I make it my own clan?"
"I want you to tell your people," Vizsla said in an even voice. "Your patron's plan won't succeed. The CIS won't lead you to power. Only under my command will Mandalore return to its roots and restore its former greatness and glory. All who join me will be pardoned for their past sins against the Mandalorian people."
"And those who don't want to?" the duchess's sister asked with a squint.
"Like Clan Lok, they'll be declared Aruetii. And a hunt will be declared on you," Shea shrugged.
"Meaning you're letting me go?" there was immense skepticism in the Watcher's voice.
"If you haven't learned telepathic communication in the Watch besides that atrocious lightsaber fencing," Shea grinned, "then you'll have to deliver my words in person. I await an answer by noon tomorrow."
"Then I'd better hurry," Bo-Katan declared, bending down to retrieve her dead commander's corpse.
"Leave him here," Shea commanded. "Tomorrow morning, the people of Mandalore will see his body impaled on a stake."
"Barbarism," Bo-Katan shot back.
"An ancient tradition," Shea Vizla countered. "Get out of my sight. And I'll wait until tomorrow noon. If no answer comes, you will all be my personal enemies. And as you can see," she nodded toward the two bloodless corpses, "I deal with such trifles very quickly."
"The answer will come on time," Kryze said confidently, sidling past Walon Vau's figure toward the exit.
The moment the door closed behind her, Shea glanced around at those gathered once more and gave a crooked smile.
"Now, let's move to the details," she said, unceremoniously returning to the table, looking at the slightly bewildered clan leaders. Whether it was the presence of two corpses in the room or the abundance of blood that unsettled them, none seemed eager to speak first. She would have to take the initiative. "What forces can I count on when I unite your clans?"
Those gathered exchanged glances. The number of fighters under each of their command was not particularly publicized. Precisely because, in the event of a feud, every one of them wanted to keep an ace up their sleeve.
"We can field up to three thousand fighters," Daark began. Bold guy. She'd have to remember that. The others, clearly disconcerted by his initiative, also gave approximate numbers, ranging from five hundred to two thousand Mando each. Total — about fifteen thousand soldiers. Not bad.
"The Duchess has over thirty thousand soldiers in various units at her disposal," Sigal said quietly.
"And they're armed with relatively new weapons," the leader of the Jendri clan noted.
"That's not a problem," Shea shook her head. "My ally can supply us with the necessary number of blasters and heavy weapons. The only question is delivery time."
"It will be difficult to smuggle weapons into the sector, even as contraband," a representative of the Chorn clan said, stroking his chin. "Even if the customs officials dream of getting paid for cargo under the table, weapons... No, they'll never go for that."
None of them had deigned to introduce themselves. Fine. She'd have to beat some respect for Mandalore into them by force. For now, Shea decided for convenience to refer to them by their clan names.
"Don't forget that the majority of the population supports the Kryze government," Kadera added. "Even though Mandalore is in crisis, the Duchess is still popular and can find a large number of supporters among the citizens."
"Only until the people become disillusioned with her ability to effectively handle crises," Shea declared. The clan leaders looked at her questioningly. "Crime across the entire galaxy is gaining strength. It won't be long before they realize what a tasty morsel our sector is. And then we'll strike. The devastation and panic during an armed criminal invasion will make it easier to smuggle in the equipment and ammunition we need."
"But if we allow that, how can we look our citizens in the eye when they're under occupation by criminals?" Evod protested.
"Did I say I'd allow an occupation?" Shea asked in surprise. "No. We'll use her failures in the face of a scoundrel invasion to arm our supporters. And once that's done, we'll strike at them. No criminal bastard can match the sons of Mandalore in combat effectiveness."
"So, Mandalore, you're proposing we take a waiting position, allow criminal scum to overthrow the Duchess, and then seize power?"
"Exactly," Shea said impassively. She understood their feelings perfectly. Sacrificing, even a little, to gain everything... Risky and extremely... not in the spirit of modern Mandalorians.
"The Jedi and the Republic will intervene," Boba Fett said disapprovingly.
"I agree," Caleb Daark supported him. "Even if Satine is maintaining neutrality now, faced with the threat of losing power, she'll do anything to stay afloat. It's no coincidence that after the 'Death Watch' attempt to capture her, she fled to Coruscant. My people report that she's seeking support among the senators..."
"My ally will not allow the Order and the Republic to interfere," Shea categorically objected. "All Kryze will be able to count on is the support of individual members of the Order. But definitely not a full-scale invasion. And dealing with a couple of Jedi won't be a problem for us at all."
"You're so sure of that..."
"More than sure," Shea smirked. If there was one thing she never doubted for a moment, it was an attack on Mandalore. All that remained was to wait for the Duchess's return...
"You're not to blame, Aubrie," Anakin said, placing a hand on his Padawan's shoulder. A small gesture of encouragement from him. Even if he thought it wasn't necessary... But the Force told him it was the right thing to do.
The girl sat on the edge of a hospital bed in the Republic forces' medical center, silently staring at the dead body. Pierced by a good dozen blaster bolts and rocket fragments, it had fallen still in its suffering only recently, like many before it. But this situation was entirely different. For the first time in the entire battle for Agamar, they had managed to cheat death. To tear a young consciousness from the Force's grasp at the very last moment, returning it to a fragile body.
A victory, no matter how you looked at it. But there was no guarantee that Hanna would ever come out of the coma. And if she did recover, how would she live? A disfigured face, an arm torn off at the shoulder, a shattered spine. The Force was capable of many things, but performing a miracle...
Anakin shuddered at the thought that it would have been better if Aubrie had failed. She had saved Obi-Wan's new student's life... and at the same time condemned her to an existence trapped in medical machines. A dubious victory over death. If he were in her place, he would give anything to die. That wasn't life, just a mortal existence...
It would have been more merciful to let her die.
Wyn had been lucky with her previous teacher — Master Cirrus had done a lot to develop her healing talent. Even though he wasn't skilled in it himself, he strived for Aubrie to become better than him. He made every possible effort — even found a way to Master Windu, persuading him to train his protégé. But then Jabiim appeared on Padawan Wyn's life path, making its own corrections to both the plans and the girl's fate.
And now her fate was in his hands. War, battles, attacks, and defenses — that was her life now. Instead of healing knowledge, she was absorbing the skill of wielding a lightsaber. The fate of a single Jedi had been rewritten, changing its course to the complete opposite. Instead of saving others' lives, she was forced to take them. And she did it successfully. Though she hadn't forgotten what she had learned before. Anakin silently thanked the late Master Simms for that — a healer's skills were needed no less often than the art of the lightsaber.
It was a terrible pity that now they weren't enough to fully save another being's life.
Aubrie sighed heavily.
Everything with this girl was... quite ambiguous. She was sensitive, attentive, caring. She knew her limits — and didn't strive to be the best. At least not now. Not after Jabiim, which had clearly shown her that there was no honor in personal greatness when your brothers and sisters were dying around you, and the echo of deaths in the Force never fell silent for a second. She had withdrawn, stewing alone in her own emotions and feelings. No one in the Temple had wanted to help her. No one had talked to her, drawn out her anxieties, or dispelled her grief for her fallen comrades.
No one except him. Who else but Anakin — one of the three Jedi survivors of Jabiim — could understand her experiences? It was no wonder that, having become his student, the girl had become... a little more emotional. The veil of composure and detachment she had wrapped around herself had cracked. And all the pain, all the suffering she had bottled up inside was now spilling out. It wasn't the Dark Side — anyone who said otherwise would get a broken face from Anakin. She had become close to him over this time. And for the first time, he felt that he wasn't indifferent to someone in this Order. Not as the "Chosen One," whom everyone, without exception, looked up to and tried to forge into a weapon of the Light. No. As an ordinary being who, despite all the Order's teachings, still had a right to feelings and emotions. The main thing was not to give those around him any reason to realize it. Not to let the Jedi break through the mask he put on every time he had to talk to Obi-Wan, or anyone from the Order. Only in Aubrie and the clones' company did Anakin feel... alive. And he cherished every one in this small circle of trust. Especially Aubrie, his Padawan. His... true Padawan. Chosen on a friend's advice and by his own initiative, not imposed by the Council — those old senile fools for whom the death or maiming of another Jedi was merely "the Will of the Force."
The young girl sat in silence, motionless as a statue. Not a single muscle on her face twitched, but her clenched fists with whitened knuckles betrayed the passions boiling inside her. Not to mention that one only had to reach out to the Force to feel the emotions overwhelming this fragile creature.
Emotions that, like twins, mirrored Skywalker's own mood. This was... something new for both of them. As if their emotions and feelings had become one. He could always sense her thoughts and mood, and she his. Yes, it wasn't full telepathy — only fragments could be discerned... But even that was a huge step forward. Even a leap — considering how rarely such a bond formed between Jedi.
Aubrie controlled herself. She didn't fall into hysterics, scandals, or make scenes. She radiated sadness caused by the less-than-successful outcome of her healing. She felt shame and anger at herself for not being able to do more. She resented herself for not being near this child and for using her healing abilities only when Hanna had practically merged with the Force. Yet all of this remained deep inside, barely breaking through to the surface. Her will, which could rival durasteel in strength, kept her emotions in check. Seeing such control, Anakin could only express his admiration.
The Order said that student and teacher unconsciously influence each other, and the learning process goes both ways. He shared with the girl everything he knew himself. And at the same time, infected by her example, bit by bit, he strengthened the cage in which his own dragon of rage slumbered.
From a certain point of view, Anakin considered Aubrie an exemplary Jedi. One of those who don't walk around with an impassive pazzak-face, as if they knew all the secrets of the universe. She was fully aware of her level of knowledge and strived to learn, to grasp new things. But not with the greed with which a traveler in the sands of Tatooine quenches his thirst after a long trek. Rather, with the composure of an aristocrat savoring a new dish without forgetting his manners.
And right now Skywalker felt that the girl was on the edge. The failure had undermined her confidence in her abilities. And she seemed to be standing on the edge of a cliff — one wrong move, and Wyn would fall into the abyss.
And Anakin couldn't allow that. He had no right.
He was her teacher. And her friend. The former slave couldn't reject the only one in whom he saw a kindred soul.
"Indeed," Obi-Wan, who was also present, added, stroking his beard. "You're not to blame here. Perhaps in the Temple they can help her better..."
"Yes, there is no blame on me here," Aubrie said in a quiet but hatred-filled tone, turning her gaze to the Master. "But there is on you."
"On me?" Kenobi was surprised. The same reaction he always had when Anakin, as his student, pointed out his unforgivable mistakes. And... today had produced one of the most disheartening.
The final assault on the droid fortifications. With fresh forces — advanced batches of the new clone line that had come under their command to replace the battered units Obi-Wan had sent to the Outer Rim — the four Jedi: two teachers, two Padawans, surged forward. And they achieved victory.
But at what cost...
More than half of the replacement clones — a full-strength corps replacing the pitiful remnants of the 7th Air Corps — were dead or mortally wounded. In the fierce battle, the Jedi had managed to destroy the CIS command — a new model of tactical droid. Hanna had managed to capture it, cutting off the machine's arms and legs. It wasn't her fault that, swept up in the joy of victory, she didn't see the B2 super battle droids that had arrived to rescue their master.
"You let her get ahead," Aubrie said reproachfully. "She stormed their headquarters alone, with just a squad of clones!"
"She disobeyed orders," Kenobi noted sternly. "I made it very clear that her place was in the rearguard. No one could have known she would take a reserve unit and try to break in..."
"You should have guessed!" Aubrie's voice cracked. "She's just a child... a child in a terrible war. And Hanna wanted to impress you, to earn respect in your eyes..."
"I'm not Anakin, to approve of such stunts," Kenobi cut her off. The former slave looked at his former master in surprise, saying nothing. "We're done here. Padawan Wyn, prepare Padawan Ding's body for transport to the medical frigate."
With these words, the commander of the Third System Army left the hospital grounds, leaving the two Jedi in extremely conflicted feelings.
"I just can't believe it," Aubrie's voice trembled. Given everything she had been through, Anakin couldn't imagine how deep a wound what had happened to Kenobi's Padawan had inflicted on her, for her to have let her feelings loose like this. "He's so... cold. Master, does he really not care at all that his Padawan will be disabled for life?"
"Aubrie..." Skywalker wanted to say something, but faltered, feeling that denying the obvious would cost him not only his student's trust but also distort his own worldview. It would make him one of those Jedi who casually accepted the deaths of their friends and comrades. He wanted to say that Kenobi wasn't really a cold-hearted stickler who didn't care about his own Padawan. That he too felt the bitterness of losing Hanna. That he would mourn her injuries and would never turn away, would visit her at every opportunity...
But he couldn't lie. Not after those ten years he had spent side by side with this Jedi. Not after all those losses that Kenobi had faced stoically, with unruffled Jedi composure. Not after the High Council had thanked him for his "excellent work." Anakin, who had been present during that communication session, couldn't help but be amazed at the hypocrisy and detachment of the Council, who had decided that the loss of nearly an entire corps and the disability of a very young Padawan was a "high but acceptable price." The price of peace and order on Agamar.
An ordinary planet, of which there were billions in the galaxy. Even if all the Jedi, Padawans, and Younglings gave their lives to return planets to the Republic, more than one generation would have to fight. To fight in order to sacrifice themselves.
Anakin shook his head, shaking off the obsession.
Ritual sacrifices were not his path. He had already made plenty of offerings to the Order to get what he wanted. And in return, all he felt was a bitter aftertaste.
"Kenobi," he felt his throat go raw. "He's a complicated person. Neither you nor I can fully understand him. Not in this life."
"Why, Master?"
Indeed, why? Why was Kenobi like that? Why did talking to him leave the impression that he was an organic droid, incapable of feelings and emotions? No...
Great Force! The answer had been right on the surface. Anakin had just been blind enough not to see it.
"Because, Aubrie, Obi-Wan is a hypocrite," as he said it, Anakin felt, to his surprise, a little lighter. As if the lump of indignation and irritation that had been building inside him since Qui-Gon's death had finally found an outlet. Like then — on Tatooine, when he had killed the entire tribe of Tusken Raiders who had tormented his mother.
Seeing the confusion and surprise on his student's face, Anakin added with more confidence:
"They're all hypocrites," he said, meaning the High Council of the Order. "Every Magister, every Master... They preach that a Jedi must renounce emotions because it leads to the Dark Side. They say there are no attachments because that's not the Jedi way. And yet, every single one of them considers it their duty to break these prohibitions."
"Even Obi-Wan?" Aubrie was surprised.
"Especially him," Anakin's voice turned venomous. "He taught me that Jedi cannot love, because it breeds jealousy, which leads to the Dark Side. And yet, he himself has broken this rule more than once. Just like most of the Jedi I know. Aayla Secura. Kit Fisto. Quinlan Vos. Master Tholme. Magister Mundi has countless wives..."
"I heard the Council allowed him that because..."
"Because they have double standards," Anakin interrupted her. With every word of accusation against the Jedi, he felt lighter. And he had no intention of stopping. "If they allowed one Magister to start a family because of a reproduction problem on his planet, then why is it forbidden for other Jedi? Isn't it because the Council rewrites the rules to suit themselves and those they favor? They forbade Obi-Wan's teacher from training me — because he held views different from their own. Kenobi himself, in his youth, was involved with his friend — Siri Tachi. And he broke off the relationship with her because it jeopardized his further advancement within the Order..."
"How do you know this?" Even though she radiated surprise in the Force, Anakin could feel that his Padawan believed him. And this question wasn't doubt in his rightness. Just a desire to learn more about the one who was sending them into battle.
"No romance in the Temple goes without rumors," he explained. "Kenobi once told me that my desire to shield Senator Amidala from the influence of the current head of the InterGalactic Banking Clan was based on plain jealousy — because I had known her for a long time, practically since childhood, and I... believed him. And I never doubted his wisdom until I found out that he had had a romance with Master Tachi. People in the Temple were whispering about it when she transferred to the Tenth System Army. I just kept my ears open."
"But perhaps Kenobi was warning you about something he himself overcame in his youth?" Aubrie suggested. Although her emotions insisted she was just trying to find an answer that wouldn't shatter her image of the High Council. The very Council whose path she had been promised almost from birth.
"And I thought the same thing," Skywalker admitted. "Until the moment Obi-Wan went against the Council's will and went to Mandalore to prevent an assassination attempt on Duchess Kryze. He brought her to Coruscant, saved her from several attempts on her life, and made considerable efforts to exonerate her before the Senate and prevent the Grand Army of the Republic from invading Mandalore."
"That's normal business for a Jedi Master..."
"Listen to the Force, Aubrie," Anakin grimaced. Yes, how could he have forgotten. She was also stubborn. Just like him. Truly, two peas in a pod. "Can't you feel that it's all just a facade to hide the obvious? Obi-Wan still loves the Duchess — ever since the moment he saved her life as a Padawan."
"Oh," was all his Padawan managed to squeeze out, clearly disconcerted by such a statement. "The Council couldn't possibly not know..."
"They knew, they know, and they continue to hide it," Anakin said with a hint of anger. "They hide a lot from us — ordinary Jedi. They hid the creation of the clone army. The construction of the fleet and combat equipment for them. They protect the Republic, which is rotting before our eyes. All those squabbles in the Senate, where every representative tries to grab as much as possible for themselves, caring nothing for the lives being lost on the battlefields."
"The Senate is using us," Wyn concluded, remarkably accurately echoing Anakin's own thoughts. "They've isolated themselves from the galaxy with the Order and the Grand Army because... they're afraid. But of what?"
"Not 'what,'" Anakin corrected her. "'Who.' The Chancellor."
"What?!"
"I know him," Skywalker explained. "We're old friends. And over all these years, he has never asked for anything in return for the advice and wisdom he has shared with me. He supported me in every situation — even when the Order condemned my actions. You remember how much outrage my decision to evacuate from Jabiim caused, leaving those useless loyalists behind? Only the Chancellor was able to stop that gossip. He is a force that both the Order and the entire Republic must reckon with."
"They won't," Aubrie declared. "The Chancellor is gaining more and more power in the context of the war. Most don't see that this is a return of the office's original responsibilities. The kind it had a thousand years ago."
"Yes, they only see the increase in power," Anakin confirmed. "And... they're afraid of it. They're terrified, shaking in their boots, that one day he will become more powerful than all of them and be able to put an end to these squabbles. Neither the Senate nor the Order wants the order that Chancellor Palpatine is currently establishing."
"If they welcomed it, the Republic wouldn't have met this war in such a lamentable state."
"That's what I think too," Anakin agreed. "It's no coincidence that the Order created a clone army to protect the Republic. The Council clearly knew something, so they decided to play it safe."
"If the Masters saw the future, this war," Oli frowned, "then why did they order so few clones? All last year we were literally bleeding from a lack of soldiers..."
"Unlike now," Anakin smiled. "When the Chancellor took it under his control. Can anyone say that the modern clones are inferior to the ones we fought with at the beginning? No. They are many times superior. But then why did the Order, which possesses the most extensive database in the galaxy, not order an army on Arkania? Instead, they sent their representative to Kamino?"
"I... don't know," Aubrie admitted.
Skywalker took a deep breath. The thoughts that had been tormenting him lately had finally taken the shape of a logical chain. Where everything was interconnected. And the answer was extremely simple.
"What if the Order was preparing not for a war with the Separatists," he said, lowering his voice. "What if they saw not an approaching war, but a weakening of their own influence in the galaxy?"
"No!" Aubrie declared decisively, jumping up from her seat. "Master... are you talking about a rebellion?!"
"Exactly," Anakin sighed with relief. Palpatine's words had long been gnawing at his conscience. And his thoughts, like a working nuclear reactor, had reached critical mass. He simply had to share all this with someone.
He couldn't talk to Rex or any other clone from the 501st. Simply because they wouldn't understand him — clones were created only for service, not for conducting discussions. He couldn't talk to Obi-Wan either, for obvious reasons.
Only Aubrie remained.
"I'm only speculating," he explained. "That nothing is as it seems. I feel that the Jedi are involved in some kind of clever political game. And I'm not sure that any of us — ordinary Jedi — will ever be brought up to speed by the Council..."
"Twenty-four hours ago, your claims wouldn't have found any resonance with me," she admitted. "But after what Master Kenobi said..."
An awkward silence fell. Each was thinking about their own things, but the general emotional background remained one.
Just as the Chancellor, at their last meeting, had helped him remove the blinders from his eyes, so now Anakin was helping his student free herself from the Order's feigned righteousness. Helping her break free from the dogmas, rules, and double standards that clouded her vision.
Like him, Aubrie had to understand that the Jedi were not as simple as they wanted to appear. Behind the ostentatious benevolence and desire to help one's neighbor lay much more...
The Council, and perhaps the entire Order, was not interested in a swift resolution to the conflict. Everything suited them — the battles, the deaths of millions of beings, the deaths of thousands of Jedi... Anything, as long as it prevented a change of regime under which the Order had risen from the darkness of ages and won untold wealth, glory, and honor among politicians.
The resources poured into fueling the war were the fuel that kept the flame of confrontation with the Separatists alive. No, Anakin didn't think they should surrender to the mercy of that bunch of corrupt merchants. He didn't even consider the option of peace negotiations. The war could only end one way — with a Republic victory. Under the leadership of a strong and independent Chancellor Palpatine. Only he would have the strength to bring order to this chaos.
The war had exposed the Republic's pitfalls. It had opened deep abscesses that were poisoning its body. And now it was the purifying flame of war that should rid the state to which Anakin had sworn allegiance of its vices.
Could the Jedi and the army created on their orders handle this? Perhaps. Rex and his guys were fine men who always had your back. But they were property, created by the Order's decision. Disenfranchised slaves, destined to fight for others' ideals.
A flame of dormant rage ignited inside him.
Slaves.
His soldiers were slaves of the Order, the Republic... all those who hid behind the clones' backs, sitting in cozy homes, sipping caf and discussing exactly how the enemy would be defeated. Even the CIS hadn't stooped so low — to wage war with the hands of slaves. Only the Hutts allowed that — those vile creatures under whose rule was Tatooine, the planet where he had lived for a long time. The place where his mother had died...
"I believe our cause is just," said Anakin. "Though I don't trust the High Council, we must continue fighting for the Republic. For the Chancellor. For peace and order in the galaxy..."
"And you're willing to keep obeying the Council's orders, commanding soldiers created for an unclear purpose at its behest?" Obri wondered. "The clones will carry out the commands of their command. Are you sure that one day, if the Council learns you know too much, they won't order them to turn against you? Just as they declared a hunt for Quinlan Vos and all those who went against their will?"
"Rex... wouldn't betray me."
"Of course he wouldn't," Obri pursed her lips. "He'd simply carry out the order..."
And yet, he was lucky with his Padawan. Strong and capable, she saw to the heart of the problem, mercilessly dragging facts to the surface. Even though Anakin himself was afraid to even think about it. To imagine that the 501st Legion could turn against him... No, he didn't even want to think that one day he might raise his blade against those he trusted. Against... friends.
"We can't... I can't distrust them," his voice lost its strength.
"You're willing to risk everything on the assumption that someone will be loyal to you, just because you are loyal to them?" exclaimed Obri, unintentionally reopening a barely healed wound.
His mind fought his feelings. Just like when he and Padmé were joined in marriage on Naboo...
A little over a year ago, he didn't understand how wrong it was. A former slave, become the husband of one of the most influential women in the Senate. A youthful infatuation, jealousy, attachment, puppy-like delight.
Now all of that was just an ephemeral substance, so elusive that all one could do was throw up one's hands. Cross out the page of a past life and move on.
As a slave, he dreamed of breaking free from Tatooine. To explore space, to learn new things. But meeting the Jedi, Padmé... changed everything.
He wanted more.
He wanted to become stronger, to earn recognition and approval from those around him. He wanted to be a hero who could shatter mountains and restore justice in Force-forsaken places like Tatooine.
And he also wanted love. Mutual, passionate.
Youth told him that Padmé was the radiant angel he'd seen in Watto's shop at that very pivotal moment of his life, after which fate took a sharp turn. So sharp that no boy on Tatooine could have imagined.
And then, ten years after their first meeting, he saw her again. His queen from his damp teenage fantasies. Every day of their separation he thought of her, imagining their reunion.
Padmé...
Until recently, memories of her filled all his thoughts. He lived to become her equal. To achieve more. To be better. To be the best of all. He wanted her to be proud of him — not as she usually was, with a polite, cold little smile and pseudo-maternal approval.
He wanted passion and feelings in return. But Padmé remained deaf to him. Sometimes Anakin thought that if she were Force-sensitive, she could have become a worthy apprentice for Obi-Wan. Two equally cold, emotionally impoverished beings. Unable to break the rules and do what they wanted.
The former queen had already shown him what her love was worth.
The secret marriage — her momentary weakness. Even though she'd never spoken of it before — until Rush Clovis reappeared in her life. And from that moment, everything went completely wrong. More and more often she spoke of how the marriage weighed on her, because it had to be hidden, concealed from others.
She was ashamed of him. Because he was a Jedi? That's what she said. That's what she lied about. There's nothing shameful about your husband being a Jedi. The strongest of all. That's something to be proud of. To admire. To look upon one's spouse with blind adoration.
She was repulsed by the fact that he was a former slave. This thought struck Anakin quite recently. Here, on Agamar, when he first noticed that he and Obri thought alike. The apprentice didn't despise his past. Wasn't ashamed to call him her teacher. Denying who you were before entering the Temple — perhaps the only good thing about the entire Order.
No one cares about what came before. But who you are now...
And now... Now he saw no future for them.
Not after the "break" Padmé had asked for. Not after weeks of silence on her part and ignoring his calls.
And then, reluctantly, subduing his anger, which scorched his soul, burning the last bridges connecting him to his carefree youth, he finally admitted: he and Padmé were not made for each other. Their marriage was a mistake. A youthful infatuation that hadn't even lasted a year. He was a bright fire, a flame that moved forward and destroyed any resistance to his plans.
She was a cold icicle, beautiful from the outside, but prickly and freezing if you took it in your hands.
Too many differences and contradictions to keep trying to resuscitate this marriage, which was rapidly plummeting into the abyss. Even now, when the pain of separation had subsided somewhat, and his maximalist views had partly retreated, he couldn't admit to himself that he even partly met Padmé's expectations. She was an aristocrat, living in luxury, with her voice alone in the Senate deciding the fates of trillions of sentients. He was a simple, modest boy from Tatooine, by the will of the Force become a general in service to the Republic. Nothing would equalize them in society — even if they came out in the open. Even if he fought all his life, he could never provide her with the polish and luxury she lived in now. Anakin felt the cage of his dragon loosen slightly.
Luxury... By the most modest estimates, the cost of Padmé's residence would be enough to buy an entire fleet of Venators. But. She hadn't done that. And wasn't even planning to.
They were not parts of a whole, as Anakin had once believed. To complement one's spouse, you needed shared interests, views on life. A shared worldview. And what did a pacifist senator and a Jedi Knight, who fought on battlefields, in blood, mud, and the entrails of his soldiers, have in common?
Nothing. Padmé would never understand what he had to do to end this war.
And he would never accept her desire to negotiate with the Separatists and appease the bankers.
So happiness with Padmé was an impossible dream. Obri was right — you couldn't rely on someone being loyal to you just because you were loyal to them. Padmé remained loyal to the Republic — as she understood it.
He...
He was loyal to the Chancellor. His only friend among politicians.
"You're right," he said. "The clones... are not ones to be trusted. At least — not these."
"Does that mean..."
For the first time, Anakin paid attention to Obri not just as his apprentice, but as a girl... Slender, pretty, alive...
Thinking like him, supporting him. And, judging by the fact that she hadn't run to report his musings to Obi-Wan — loyal.
Under other circumstances...
On the other hand, who would forbid them? Two, perhaps the only Jedi in the entire galaxy who thought for themselves?
"Yes," he said firmly. "I'll talk to Kenobi. We'll replace the 501st Legion with clones loyal to the Chancellor. Only in them can we be sure."
Hearing a heavy sigh from his Padawan, Anakin felt emotions of joy, relief emanating from her. As if a mountain had been lifted from her shoulders. And she would never have to shoulder that burden again.
"Whatever happens," he said. "Whatever the Council, the Jedi, or the Senate might plan. We — you and I — will remain loyal to the Chancellor. Always."
"Yes, teacher."
"Call me Anakin," Skywalker smiled. "We are all each other has."