Indeed.
Life is coming thick and fast. And it's all aiming for the head.
Reviewing the latest intelligence, particularly regarding the Republic's inconveniently appeared Predator, I rose from my desk.
The board meeting had dragged on into the evening. Lots of arguments, but fortunately, not too much beating around the bush. The prospects for further actions were outlined, personnel policy settled. I could attend to more pressing matters.
"So," I said, staring through the thick transparisteel at the lights of the sleeping Crystal City, addressing those present in my office. "I'd like to hear about our commando losses."
"Ion Team suffered casualties — one operative killed," Etain reported, who also served as Skirata's deputy in the Special Operations Division role. "Vevat... on Darthtil, everything went wrong. Only Dec survived from the whole group."
"Effectively," Sian Jeisel added, "the squad needs to be formed from scratch."
"However," Laran Tarak added, "the number of clone commandos in our army is limited."
True enough. I'd had to strain hard just to scrape these few off Coruscant. And despite the fact that Fett's clones, who formed the core of the Grand Army's commandos, were currently being 'decommissioned,' it was still far too early to talk about taking all commandos under my command with Master Zey. I needed to wait some time — until the new clones flooded the army as mass replacements. Then I could have a substantive discussion with my fellow Jedi.
In the history I knew, due to commando attrition, the GAR had organized training for the most outstanding clones from line units in this specialty, trying to fill the gaps. That very same Mandalorians who'd now joined Shea were handling this. And according to official Sector Command documents, with the mass resignation of instructors and the arrival of new clones, the initiative had fizzled out. Which made sense — why train commandos from Fett's clones if everyone wanted to get rid of them?
"Do we have any information on the background of these clones?" I inquired.
"Yes," the Sephi said quietly. I turned, glancing at Master Fay. The woman looked calm, but in the Force I could still sense... conflicting emotions tormenting her. Right, right. The same had happened with Luminara, and it seemed she'd never fully recovered from the consequences of my intrusion into her mind. Fay too. Well, nothing, dear elf. You'll get over it.
"I'd like to hear it."
"The genetic material source was a Mandalorian mercenary named Montross," Tur-Mukan reported. "They're more aggressive, incredibly resourceful. Effectively, they surpass our troopers. They know no pity, feel no empathy. Any order is law for them. Or a contract, if that's more convenient. Essentially, their logic and worldview were inherited from the donor. And he never backed down, always saw every contract through to the end. At any cost, regardless of casualties. Skirata said he'd clashed with Jango Fett over that in the past. But shortly before Fett started assembling the trainer cadre for the army, Montross disappeared. Rumor has it Jango had a hand in it."
"Does anyone in this galaxy ever see things through to the end?" I exhaled a rhetorical question. Seeing the gathered people didn't quite understand me, I waved my hand. "Continue, Etain."
"According to official documents, they're several times stronger and faster than Fett's clones. Given both donors are ordinary humans, this likely refers to genetic enhancements."
"Which certainly points to potential problems for us," Sian noted. "Genetically modified bastards compared to ordinary clones... It's not even funny."
"Yes," I agreed. "You're right... Lady Sian."
The Devaronian woman inclined her head with a restrained smile.
Turning my back to the assembled Jedi again, I fell into thought.
Of course, freezing them during transit from Coruscant to Christophsis, and from there to Zakuul, was wrong. From a purely human standpoint. Honestly, sometimes my conscience gnaws at me for abandoning my initial principle — earning my subordinates' loyalty through 'good deeds.' Instead, I drag them through a mind-blender without moral qualms.
What will come of it? An army of gifted zombies who will serve me without question? Or will, over time, all these convictions I've shown them, projecting my memories into their minds as I did with Luminara, Fay, Tarak, B'ink and her Padawan, or steering their own thoughts in the right direction of their internal conflict, as happened with Etain, Siri, or Sian — will that hold? There seems nothing dirty, vile, or disgusting about it. But... I still feel like shit inside.
Oh well. Vitiate's apprentice with a conscience. Ten out of ten depopulated Ziosts.
On Zakuul, besides official meetings and events, there was a lot of 'behind-the-scenes' work. Specifically — with the mentioned Jedi. The mythical reinforcements I'd had to bring with me to Christophsis.
Why did I subject these particular individuals one by one to special processing? And why does none of the Hands or my other companions know about it?
Because you don't put all your eggs in one basket. When you sit down at a pazzak table with more experienced players, it's handy to have a couple of 'Idiots' up your sleeve. Those who know the game will understand.
And a small group of seemingly unremarkable Jedi is just the thing. Conditionally, the Jedi under my command now fell into three groups. Those who'd fought with me from the very beginning and had, in various ways, already pledged themselves to me. Those I'd managed to win over through psychological manipulation. Another layer of the pie, increasing with every turn of history.
And, in fact, no one from the first and second groups knows about each other. As for the third... That's the fresh intake, some of whom I'd appointed to corps command positions just to 'throw a bone' to the Council, to show that even newcomers were being put to work. I'm not at all sure about them.
I seriously doubt I can win any of them over to my side, in one way or another. Breaking into other people's minds...
I'm tired of it. Enough.
I have a sufficient number who are, one way or another, on the Empire's side. Missing out on a dozen or two Jedi — even good fighters — won't keep me up at night.
Back to basics — convincing supporters through my actions and reasoning. That gives a better chance of obtaining full-fledged companions who will be loyal of their own true will, rather than as a result of straining their brains through a fine sieve.
Especially since among the Jedi I have, there are many who, for one reason or another, have gone against the Order's official doctrine. Let's see what can be made of that.
"What are we going to do?" Etain asked quietly.
A good question. And extremely timely.
"For now — nothing," I decided. "Keep gathering information on the new clones. Are your agents above suspicion?"
"For now — yes," Darman's future wife replied. "But the more we show interest in the new army, the more we put Besani in an awkward position. Intelligence is already looking into her, and though we've managed to cover our tracks, we can't be sure it'll stay that way."
"Besani has done good work."
The girl, working at the Grand Army of the Republic's Supply Center and also the beloved of Ordo Skirata, one of the Nulls, had rendered us an invaluable service. Because she hadn't just been able to confirm my existing information that the new clones were being produced on Centax-2, Coruscant's moon, as in canon. Besani had managed to provide detailed leads on specific sectors of the enormous technological complex the moon had become, where the cloning laboratories were located. And thanks to her, we also learned that this base was far from the only one. And that the officially announced clone procurement figures were nothing more than a public façade.
Even with a couple billion clones, Palpatine couldn't hold the galaxy. The CIS produced its metal dummies by the tens of billions. Meanwhile, propaganda talked about quadrillions. A simple and easy way to cause quiet panic among the public. Thanks to Delta, Omega, and the Nulls for their detailed analysis of the droid factories' production capacities at the sites they'd visited.
So, hundreds of thousands of Arkanian cloning cylinders, modified according to Spaarti technology (where did our 'partners' get such technology if all the ready-made cylinders are with me?), stationed on Centax-2 — were far from the only ones. A small logistics company, handling cargo shipments to that moon for the Army's needs, had also made deliveries elsewhere.
Specifically — to the moon Hesperidium, also in the Coruscant system. The resort there was famous throughout the galaxy — and plenty of wealthy individuals and senators sunbathed on its sandy beaches. Palpatine even had his own residence there.
News channels had somewhat restrainedly covered the construction of another complex on the moon. Dozens of times larger than the previous one, though modest in its finishing. Officially, it was called a medical boarding house for soldiers and officers of the Grand Army of the Republic. A colossal facility, built in less than a month right under the Senate's nose. Closed to outsiders, securely guarded by the revamped Coruscant Guard. I suspect that's where Palpatine's main cloning facilities are located. Convenient — who counts the number of clones arriving there for rehabilitation or treatment? When they all look the same, even Yoda himself couldn't tell who's there recovering a perforated liver and who just came out of a test tube yesterday.
But what I least expected was activity on the moons Centax-1 and Centax-3. In the expanded universe, they just existed. And nobody gave a damn about them.
But in my reality, according to the same Besani, a no-fly zone had been declared there. And understanding what was happening there, without risking being spotted by Coruscant's covering fleet patrols, was impossible. Kira, whom I'd sent there on Fury right after the trip to Yavin 4, reported a large number of patrol ships — from pickets and duty fighters to ultra-modern Predators.
Well, another reason to think about what game Palpatine was playing. And with whose money. Because the Senate hadn't discussed any bills for building military installations in the Coruscant system.
Oh, my soul is uneasy. Darth Sidious is up to something. It seems your humble servant hasn't particularly interfered with the canonical events. And yet, everything is going sideways.
"Let the Nulls take care of her extraction and safety."
Despite the official story of operating on border planets, the ARCs were active in the capital. For now, there was still a chance to disguise their identities as local soldiers.
"Risk everything for one agent?" Larent protested. "Unjustified expenditure of time and resources."
Feeling the nascent protest in Etain, I raised my hand to draw attention.
"Events are moving faster than I expected. So we should concern ourselves with wrapping up all current operations outside the army. And even more so — pull our agents out of harm's way. This," I warned, noticing displeasure on the 'gray Padawan's' face, shaking my head, "is not up for discussion. I'd be no better than the Council or Palpatine if I let things slide and left my people in danger."
"As you wish," Sian shrugged. "But I agree with Tarak."
Who doubted it.
The Devaronian was one of the few Jedi I'd had to struggle with. Besides her contemptuous attitude toward the war itself and the use of Jedi as commanders, she also had a nasty, caustic, and stubborn character. This... made her notable among the general mass of Jedi under my command. Largely for this reason, I'd assigned her specifically to work with the commandos. You didn't want to mess with them either — they'd bite your hand off at the elbow, beat your face in, and then shove a thermal detonator somewhere it wasn't supposed to be according to the general principles of humanoid physiology in a galaxy far, far away.
"Etain," I addressed the girl. "We won't disband the Vevat squad. Let the commandos rest after their assignments. Soon the fun will start — and I'll need these guys like air. Ideally, I'd like each corps to have a commando squad attached — or better yet, each legion. Of course, this isn't a quick process — but you'd better talk to Zey in advance, tell him we're ready to take them all. The more soldiers we save from a grim fate, the longer they'll live."
"Rick," Fay addressed me quietly. At first, I was a bit taken aback by such an address. But then, realizing the Sephi was indeed several hundred years old, I decided such familiarity was forgivable. "Do you really think it's a sound idea to stop the clones' aging? Even without a guarantee they'll join us?"
"The very fact they won't die within a few years after service," Tur-Mukan interjected heatedly, "already makes joining the Empire a far more advantageous option. You simply don't interact much with the soldiers, Master Fay. And you won't understand how much they fear being unwanted and facing a rapid death from aging."
"And I fully agree with that viewpoint," I added myself. "Clones were created for war. If they see no other life and are ready to serve us — let it be so. For its part, the Empire guarantees them citizenship rights and appropriate legalization. Something the Republic never bothered to do."
"And how is your approach different from what the Republic does?" Sian asked with anger in her voice. "Here they're rightless slaves. There — slaves with rights."
"Fundamentally wrong. In the Empire, they're citizens. Even if they came from an incubator."
"I'd argue," Tarak said, clearly intending to pursue her point. But that wasn't the time.
"Let's move on to business," I returned to the desk. "How is our Honoghr project progressing?"
"Our people have prepared the captured Lucrehulk," the Devaronian reported, clearly displeased with the topic change. But, my little house demon — who at my side of the table cares about your opinion?.. "Chemicals and everything else on the list — on board. We had to work hard to find the world's coordinates, but thanks to Jabba — he enlightened us. So, even though Admiral Declann is unhappy we're taking his ship — 'for a top-secret mission behind enemy lines' the battleship is ready to crash into the planet."
"Excellent," I smiled.
Yes, perhaps it was base by human moral standards — to destroy another world just so its population, trampled into the mud and despair, would gratefully kiss the helping hand I extended. And, choking with tears of happiness and vying to sing songs of eternal love for their savior, who would arrive some time later. Offer a full plate of food, promise to relocate them to another planetoid in exchange for this one (doomed by the efforts of Lady Jenna Zan Arbor). And ask only one thing in return — to serve until the end of their days. In faith and truth.
Sparing no effort. Using their skills as spies, saboteurs, and assassins for the glory of the Empire.
A perfectly fair price for saving an entire people.
More precisely, two. But that's not the point. The schema's the same. Only the actors are different.
"When does the operation start?" I asked Etain.
"Tomorrow the Lucrehulk-class moves out to Geonosis for droid loading," she reported. She clearly wasn't checking anything — keeping records of this sort of... event, let's call it that, was fraught with possible consequences. Lose a datapad, someone loyal to the Republic finds it, and that's it — time to order a wooden overcoat. "After that, the ship moves to Honoghr and..."
We were interrupted by the sound of my personal holocommunicator coming from my wrist comm.
"You're all free for today," I ordered. After watching the girls disappear behind the doors, accompanied by the displeased and grumbling litanies of both dasheids, I gestured for both monsters to leave the office. As soon as the door panel clicked into place, I sealed the room.
Connecting the comlink to a ciphering device, I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the connection to establish.
Finally, after a few minutes, a miniature figure of a Zabrak appeared before my eyes.
"Master," the red-faced one looked at me with adoration, bowing low as a sign of boundless loyalty.
"Maul," the exchange of pleasantries could be considered over. "Do you want to please me with good news?"
"Exactly so, my lord," a predatory smile appeared on the face of the former apprentice of Darth Sidious.
* * *
"Duchess Satine is in our power," Darth Maul said. "Mandalore's armed forces are completely annihilated. The planet, and indeed the entire sector as a whole, is in our power. Losses..."
"How much of your scum died doesn't concern me," the Emperor declared. "How strong is the terror you've instigated?"
"Total destruction in Sundari, on Concordia," Maul began listing. "Multiple hostage takings, looting, murders of civilians throughout the sector."
"And how did 'Death Watch' react to this?"
"As you ordered — I threatened to kill the duchess if they didn't join us."
"So the 'Watchmen' are openly helping you?"
"Not all of them," Maul shook his horned head. "Most of them joined the militia in Keldabe, which we still haven't been able to take. All our efforts — both ground assaults and airstrikes — are met by their heavy equipment — Canderous-class assault tanks. Though there aren't many of them, any attempt to storm the city costs us thousands of deaths."
"Bo-Katan?"
"She's on the militia's side. But spies report that the duchess's sister is at odds with the underground leader and is ready to leave them with a small group of her supporters."
"Don't be fooled by the apparent schism in their ranks," the Emperor advised. "The militia shouldn't concern you — your task is of a completely different nature. Bo-Katan is expecting help from a Jedi you know well."
Maul felt rage boil inside him.
"Kenobi," the Zabrak said, spitting out the ill-fated name like a curse.
"Exactly so, Maul," the master smiled. "You have a chance to settle the score with him. Seize the opportunity."
"Most certainly, my lord," the being, seething with rage, said with a promising snarl. "Kenobi will die."
"His fate doesn't concern me," the man shook his head. "You must kill the duchess right before his eyes. Absolutely."
"Have no doubt," Maul said in anticipation of triumphing over his vengeance.
"After that, you will leave your most odious followers on Mandalore. All the rot, all those who hinder you or cause problems."
"As you say," Maul hesitated. "But why?"
"Mandalore is just a stepping stone on your path to the top of the criminal underworld," the Emperor said. "There you will satisfy your revenge — break Kenobi's heart by killing his beloved right before his eyes. You have nothing more to do there."
"I thought Mandalore would become the center of my criminal empire..."
"Your Empire?" the man asked with a chuckle.
"Forgive me, my lord," the Zabrak pressed his lips and bowed low. "I forgot myself... Your criminal empire."
"Remember your place, Maul," the Emperor advised. "You are merely a figurehead in this complex arrangement. The true master of all this rabble is me."
"Yes, my lord. But why must I leave this planet?"
"Not just the planet. The sector."
"But..."
"Try to object to me once more," the Emperor said threateningly, "and all that will be left of you will be collected into a medicine vial by a cleaning droid."
"Forgive me..."
"That's the second 'strike,' Maul. The third will mean the end of your worthless life. So," the man folded his hands in front of him. "After you finish with Kenobi, you and your people must head to the planet Emberlene."
"Of course, my lord. But why?"
"You will land on the surface. And no matter how many lives it costs you — capture the planet. There's a vast amount of wealth there. It will all go to your organization."
"Thank you."
"That's not all," the Emperor raised his index finger. "You must personally eliminate all the rulers of the planet, all the top leadership of the armed forces, sparing, say, just... No, spare no one. They'll be angrier and more compliant. And one last thing. After the looting, you will burn all the cities on the planet."
Hmm... Maul felt a hidden craving as he imagined destroying the civilian population. An ideal assignment. After all, if on Mandalore the master had asked him not to overdo the atrocities, here he was directly asking for it. Even ordering it.
"It will be done, my lord."
"And yes," the man said, as if remembering something. "This planet has a fairly strong army and well-trained... special forces units. If I were you, I wouldn't skimp on committing a limited number of forces."
"Without a doubt, my lord," Maul smirked. "I will follow all your instructions. There will be no wounded."
Without saying goodbye, the Emperor terminated the connection.
Sighing — just like with Darth Sidious, communicating with the new master was not easy for him — Maul switched off the holocommunicator.
Surveying the empty throne room, where just a few days ago a bloody battle with the duchess's guards had raged, the Zabrak smiled, remembering how many Mandalorians he had killed since the invasion of this planet.
Dozens? Hundreds?
Who was counting, anyway.
But everything had fallen into place perfectly.
Xizor had fulfilled his part of the agreement — the Pyke Syndicate served the Shadow Collective faithfully, pouring in their not-insignificant financial resources and mercenary regiments. All of this came in handy, since the conquest of Mandalore was costing the young criminal organization a very, very pretty penny.
The conquest of the sector began as a simple smuggling operation. Dozens of hardened underground traders flooded the sector's market with tens of thousands of relatively cheap and completely low-quality goods. Thousands of cases of poisoning, fatal outcomes, among both adults and children, of all possible races living in the sector — that was the real reason Duchess Satine returned to her homeland.
And before she could even give orders to combat the smugglers, a huge, motley fleet of criminals appeared in the sector.
The planet's defenses were crushed within days. Granted, the Mandalorian fleet wasn't as large as the Republic's, but they fought bravely. And, which was an even bigger surprise — skillfully. Maul lost dozens of ships before his forces could call themselves masters of Mandalore's orbit. Notably, almost immediately after the start of the ground military operation, technicians managed to track a distress signal coming from the palace's communications center. And the addressee was none other than the headquarters of the Republic forces on Ord Mantell. Where, as his spies informed him, Kenobi was located.
Only fear of his new master prevented Maul from throwing all his forces into storming the Republic base. Vengeance demanded bloodshed. And, frankly, he was ready to sacrifice all his followers, all the military forces at the disposal of Black Sun and the Pykes, just to break the not-so-strong defenses of that system. Only to cross blades with Kenobi. Once more.
However, he acknowledged that the master's plan was far more in line with the Empire's long-term goals. In which Maul's revenge was but a crumb, so insignificant it was impossible to see.
The true plan, and the Zabrak had already accepted this, was known only to the master alone. Maul's role in it was not so great, but it was significant.
Seizing power over the criminal underbelly of the Republic — that was an inexhaustible source of power, wealth, and manpower. There will always be those ready to become victims of racketeers, drug dealers, and other scum. Not to mention beings who dream of themselves as tiny cogs in the millstones of a vast criminal machine.
Realizing this, Maul postponed his revenge for a better time. Kenobi would come into his hands on his own. He just needed to wait.
And he knew how to wait. Like no one else.
But he still couldn't understand why the master had forbidden him from spreading his influence into Hutt Space.
After all, by subjugating the third most significant force among the galaxy's criminal clans, he could easily compete with any army — Separatist or Republic. The Hutts owned an army and fleet only slightly inferior to those provided by the Pykes and Black Sun. With such strength, he would be invincible.
But the master had a completely different view of the situation.
And Maul had to obey.
He didn't want to feel the weight of the Emperor's wrath.
Not again.
The Sith Lords of the past could only dream of such influence — for now it was no less than that possessed by his former teacher. Mandalore, under his complete subjugation, could become the weapon Maul wanted to turn against his previous teacher.
And therefore he was frankly disappointed that among this once proud and warlike people, only a pathetic few thousand had wanted to join him. But, at least, Death Watch could whip them into suitable shape for the next actions.
Considering Mandalore as the capital of his future criminal empire, Maul was perfectly aware that this dreary planet could give him far more than just deposits of beskar.
Since the beginning of the duchess's reign, the planet had turned into a political center for all those systems that, after the war started, had taken a position of neutrality, not joining either of the warring sides. And that meant hundreds of worlds beyond the Mandalorian Sector.
And this was done not because Satine Kryze's pacifist ideas had found a response in the minds of the local rulers. Not at all. It was simply because these systems were... weak.
Their armies were so pathetic that conquering the planets didn't require much force or time. Some were conquered in a few days, others in hours. Only Mandalore continued to defend itself.
The center of resistance became the ancient capital — Keldabe. There, all those who, as before, represented the flower of the Mandalorian people had gathered. Ruthless and superbly trained warriors, whose destiny was to bring death to all around. And with professional ease, they bathed in blood everyone the Zabrak sent to take the city.
Leading them into battle was Mandalore the Avenger — someone who had taken on the ancient title of this people's leader. She managed to reach the hearts of even those Mandalorians who had long since left their homeland. And despite a well-organized patrol service in the system, entire convoys of ammunition and armament kept breaking through to the planet's surface. Several were shot down and boarded.
And then, for the first time in the entire campaign, Maul's soldiers knew true fear. Because the captured ships weren't just delivering weapons to the planet. They also carried former bounty hunters who had once left this inhospitable world. For decades, they had perfected their art of killing beings, carrying out thousands of diverse assassinations across the Unknown Regions. And now all their skill poured out as a bloody lesson for the Shadow Collective.
Yes, none of the captured ships reached the surface. And none of their crew members survived. But they took thousands of Maul's men and dozens of ships with them to their graves. Blowing up the ammunition-filled holds of light Corellian XS-class freighters seemed to be the highest value for those who remained on board until the last.
One way or another, but now Mandalore would submit to him. To Maul. And consequently, to his master, the Emperor. He just needed to concentrate more force to crush the resistance.
An orbital strike on Keldabe would do. But the Hutt-damned Mandalorians, without any scruples, kept destroying all the line ships of the Shadow Collective fleet whenever they moved into position. How they knew about it remained a mystery.
As did the reason why the master ordered him to leave the worst scum on the planet after avenging Kenobi. The bloodiest criminals under his command. And move to the other side of the galaxy...
Without a second's delay, Maul immersed himself in the information space of the HoloNet using a portable datapad. As Darth Sidious's apprentice, he had acted on someone else's orders. The Emperor, too, wasn't particularly eager to clarify his plans for him. As was to be expected in the relationship between a master... and his attack dog.
Scrolling through search pages, the Zabrak caught himself thinking that in the past he would have been insulted by the role allotted to him. A being for errands. A beast unleashed from a chain.
Insulting for one who had once called himself a Sith Lord.
But...
Those times were far behind. Now, he was nothing more than someone's submissive servant, who...
Reading the page with the information he was looking for, Maul felt a chill run down his spine.
Emberlene. Arrive, loot, burn...
This... wouldn't be so easy.
More precisely, not easy at all. Possibly much harder than anything Maul had ever done.
Because Emberlene was the birthplace of the Mistryl Shadow Guard.
During his training under Darth Sidious, Maul had absorbed a lot of information about the galaxy. To act from the shadows successfully, every Sith had to understand the true state of affairs in the galaxy. To know who could be bought, who could be intimidated, and who could be broken.
Emberlene, since ancient times ruled by a government called the Eleven Elders, was a rich and prosperous world. In its darkest corners, intrigues were woven no less intricate than those in the Galactic Senate. And for the most optimal elimination of political competitors, the planet had the Mistryl.
An order of female warriors, excellent spies, saboteurs, assassins, bodyguards. Unlike the Sun Guard, which served the Sith, the Mistryl were a less well-known faction. Few knew about them, for their services were far from cheap. Maul wouldn't have remembered what was so notable about Emberlene if he hadn't latched onto a mention of the Sun Guard as the eternal enemies of the Mistryl.
He had to strain his memory to recall that, besides the rather modest contingent of Mistryl, the Guard also included a storm corps — less qualified, but no less deadly fighters, primarily used for guarding strategic sites or as a strike force.
The question remained — for what purpose did the Emperor need this world destroyed? After all, he had decreed — spare no one.
The answer came after several hours of painstaking searching through the galactic information network.
It turned out that with the start of the war, Emberlene had supported the CIS. And, without much cunning, had launched raids on its neighbors' planets. Some were conquered, but most were completely looted, and their populations sold on slave markets.
The Mistryl's tactics deserved attention. First and foremost, before the main forces invaded, they would send in their spies and assassins to eliminate the central government and the enemy's armed forces command. And only then, while the enemy was demoralized and disorganized, would the main forces enter the fray.
A fine enemy. One that could become an ally, under certain circumstances.
But... the Master demanded total destruction on the planet. Eliminating a potential threat? Most likely. Or perhaps...
Crushing the datapad in his hand, Maul tossed it away from himself in irritation.
To the Hutt with it. Such reasoning would only lead to trouble.
He was a loyal attack dog. And he was bound to serve his master.
"Xizor," he activated his comlink. "How are things in the prison block?"
"You're definitely not a Jedi, are you?" the Falleen chuckled. "I was just about to call you. We have a guest in Block C. Dressed like a Mandalorian, but I'd bet my own pheromone gland that he's a Jedi."
Maul felt molten metal flow through his veins.
"Don't interfere with him freeing the duchess," he ordered. "Surround the prison, the spaceport, and all possible escape routes. When they reach the exit — detain everyone and bring them to me. Take them alive. I'll deal with this problem myself."
"Whatever you say, boss," Xizor said indifferently. "You wanted something?"
"Yes," a bloody haze from his previous encounter with Kenobi clouded Maul's vision. "Have Ziton Modj prepare his most hardened thugs — they're staying on Mandalore. The rest — prepare for departure."
"Where are we off to, chief?"
"For riches," the Zabrak all but snarled. "And glory."
* * *
If there is a center to this galaxy — and judging by the latest astronavigation charts, there is — then Tatooine is the farthest point from it.
At least, that's what the locals say, who in their entire lives have never ventured beyond the Dune Sea, and whose entire lives consist of endless work with moisture-farming equipment. Yes, sometimes watching the Boonta Eve Classic races.
Unlike most of the native inhabitants of this place, forgotten by every deity of every possible religion, Billy knew for certain that the Unknown Regions had places far more distant than Tatooine. And, under certain circumstances, worse.
However, nowhere prepared food as lousy and disgusting as the local Mos-Espa eatery that proudly called itself "Akima's Inn."
A small, stuffy room, completely devoid of air conditioning systems, looking so dilapidated it seemed like the first colonists had built it. Some... well, a long time ago.
Billy — a twenty-year-old kid who had left his father's house in the Kidd family more than five years ago on a ship belonging to a bounty hunter of the Gand species — wasn't strong on history. Or grammar, a sense of style, personal hygiene, and many other things.
Everything that revolved around Billy's interests was the setup of the pair of blasters in his thigh holsters. And the simple math of how many credits he'd earn for this or that assignment from the Bounty Hunters' Guild.
However, now, sitting under the awning of this public catering establishment, the young bounty hunter, who already had several serious contracts under his belt and a small but nonetheless reputation in the Guild, was occupying his gray brain matter with a much more pressing problem.
"Who the hell is this Akiim, anyway?" the kid muttered, biting his lower lip.
His mind, toughened by years of wandering across various planets, helpfully supplied options for the possible ethnicity of the mythical "Akima." However, the flight of fancy, where "Akim" was already being enrolled in the ranks of the bastards of a proud and warlike Tusken tribe chief, who had fallen in love with a beautiful girl from a moisture farm and, on a dark night, kidnapped his beloved in the name of the high, bright, and pure love of which a bandit's hardened heart was capable, was mercilessly shattered by the crude and far-from-literary speeches of a local farmer who had crawled out of the establishment on his last legs.
Sizing up the young hunter with a bleary look, the native listened for quite a while to Billy's thoughts spoken aloud. Noticing the wary interest in his person, Kidd, smiling his trademark charming smile of teeth rapidly yellowing and being eaten by cavities, decided to get information from someone who was clearly no stranger to the place.
"Hey there, shepherd boy," he winked at the moisture farmer. Despite the fact that the latter was at least two heads taller than the hunter himself and more than a hundred kilos heavier, the young bounty hunter didn't even consider that his trademark greeting might not appeal to this representative of Mos-Espa's local alcohol elite. "Can you tell me who the joint is named after?"
"What did you call me?" the native doused the kid with the smell of alcohol fumes mixed with the taste of recent vomit, clearly not in the mood for a highly intellectual conversation. In favor of this extremely obvious fact for any being endowed with the ability to think, the local's sullen look and his clenched fists. Even a spit that almost landed on Kidd's greasy pants could have told the young man that a substantial gentlemanly conversation wouldn't be happening with this particular representative of the human race. For the next couple of days, at least.
If Billy had been a little older and had more experience, he would undoubtedly have understood this. And perhaps the subsequent events could have been avoided.
But at twenty years old, in the backwater of every Tatooine boy, an unquenchable war horn of adventure itches, along with a desire to get involved in an unforgivably huge story that will lead to a fundamental reassessment of his life's values, a romantic subplot with possible incest, and beating the crap out of his elderly invalid father, who can only breathe with a respirator anyway. But who can still dish out some magical beatings. He's his own father, after all.
Billy was no exception.
"Shepherd boy," the young hunter said, giving his interlocutor another smile. "That's because you herd..."
In five years of traveling the galaxy, Billy had never managed to finish his joke. It was insanely funny, but for a number of reasons, none of those who heard its beginning from the lips of a kid still wet behind the ears had the patience.
And Billy, to his shame, didn't have the reaction speed befitting a hunter. His colleagues occasionally told him that this was the reason he'd fathered seventeen offspring at such a young age. But Billy believed in his lucky star, thinking that one day it would lead him to big money and fame.
For now, life's path led him to an endless stream of child support payments and refined attempts by each of the seventeen "beloved and only ones" to find and marry this particularly sharp shooter.
This time, Kidd's reaction failed him, failing to respond to the huge fist that knocked him off his feet, sending him flying to the opposite side of the narrow street. A pair of brand-new blasters, falling from their designated holsters on the young mercenary's hips, followed their owner, sent on a short flight by a careless kick from the farmer's foot, whose size was proportional to the rest of his moisture-farmer body.
Watching the twenty-year-old human projectile hit its target perfectly, smashing a small table on the outskirts of a neighboring eatery into spare parts, splattering a customer with pieces of half-eaten roast, the prospector, satisfied with his accuracy and the strength that hadn't faded with age or under the burden of alcohol intoxication, slowly walked down the street, whistling a cheerful tune. It was usually sung by farmers who had organized raids on Tusken bandits in case of victory, which could only end in the complete annihilation of the next Tusken enclave. However, Mos-Espa hadn't heard anything like that in the last ten years — the last time the farmers decided to "give it to the Tuskens," severed moisture-farmer limbs were found around the area for a long time.
But this particular farmer decided that performing such a hit was more than appropriate in the current situation. After all, it isn't every day you give another being enough acceleration to overcome gravity in a local time span.
"And who are you supposed to be?" the owner of the table asked Billy, who was rubbing a bump on the back of his head, with a slight accent.
Sizing him up — a mild concussion briefly brought the kid back to the real world — the young man decided that a Duros in a wide-brimmed hat with a toothpick in his teeth didn't pose a particular threat. Despite the fact that his breakfast hadn't been fully utilized.
"Incidentally, that was tasty," Billy thought to himself, wiping a piece of gravy with his finger and immediately putting it into his mouth, simultaneously wiping it from his collar.
Getting to his feet, he shook the dust off himself, then, picking up his blasters, twirled them theatrically, inserting his index fingers into the trigger guards. This went on for about three seconds, after which, with movements rehearsed in hours of practice before a mirror, the young man returned both weapons to their designated places.
"I'm Billy Kidd," he introduced himself politely. "Bounty Hunter..."
"Oh, really?" the Duros said imperturbably, taking a sip of a cool drink from his glass. "I never would have guessed."
"Looks can be deceiving," the kid smirked. "Incidentally, I've got the fastest, most trained hand in the entire Outer Rim."
"One doesn't talk about such things in polite male company, kid," the Duros remarked, taking a big gulp. "Trouble, you know..."
"Oh, come on, old-timer," Billy grinned. "How would you know how bounty hunters behave? You're just a shepherd boy."
His new acquaintance, shifting the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, imperturbably continued sipping his drink.
An awkward silence fell.
Chewing his lip, Billy finally risked asking a question:
"You're a shepherd boy because you..."
."..pasture, as you're joking," the Duros finished imperturbably, showing no interest in the young man whatsoever.
"You've already heard that joke?"
"It had a beard on it before I could even stand up to pee," the alien shared details from his personal life. At the same time, he never took his eyes off a certain section of the street behind the young bounty hunter. "And yeah, it hasn't been funny for the last twenty years or so."
"Hm," Billy chewed his lip again. He didn't know what to do next — continue the conversation, pay for the wrecked table and interrupted meal, or just leave in silence. So, after another round of brain-racking, Billy made the most optimal decision.
"Do you know who Akim is?" he asked the Duros, who gave him the impression of being the most competent conversational partner of everyone he'd had the chance to talk to in the last few minutes.
"Not Akim — Akima," the Duros corrected him.
"Is that so," Billy drawled. "I thought the establishment across the street was called 'Akima's Inn.'"
"It's been called 'Akima's Inn' since it opened," the Duros enlightened him. "The owner just isn't very strong on grammar."
"And what's so famous about this Akima that they named an inn after her?" the young bounty hunter asked curiously.
The Duros looked at him with an unblinking gaze.
"She spent over thirty years servicing the pilots of starships that landed here," the Duros explained with a slight smile, draining his glass. "So they named it after her good deeds."
"I didn't know that," Billy admitted. "Five years ago, there wasn't a diner on this spot named after a waitress who worked here for thirty years..."
"She wasn't any waitress," the Duros chuckled. "And the name 'Inn' wasn't chosen for nothing."
"Now I'm completely confused," Billy admitted, frowning. "Not a waitress, but she serviced pilots... A mechanic, or what?"
"You're a real genius of deduction," the Duros laughed. After chuckling for a couple of minutes, he spat out his toothpick and looked at the young man with interest.
"Any more guesses?"
"A dispatcher at the spaceport?" Billy tried his luck again.
"I'm surprised you haven't been killed yet," the Duros shook his head. "With that kind of brainpower, you should have been shot in your first firefight. Akima was a whore! And so indiscriminate and cheap that by the end of her career she'd collected every kind of venereal disease, which is how she died. She passed that 'bouquet' on to the future owner of the joint. To avoid kicking the bucket himself, he had to sell his freighter with a cargo of spice. With the money left over from treatment by the local quack, he opened this place. And the name," the Duros leered obscenely, "There isn't a man in Mos Espa who hasn't been with Akima. Out of old habit, they still go to 'Akima's.'"
"That's complicated," Billy scratched the back of his head. "How do you know all this?"
"The more you know, the longer you live," the Duros puzzled the mercenary as he rose from his chair. "Well, buddy, I've got business. But you're amusing. Want some advice?"
"Yes, of course," Kidd said, chewing his lip as usual.
"If you feel a job is going off plan, shoot first," the Duros's voice was serious.
"Well, I don't have a problem with shooting," the Tatooinian demurred. "I've got the fastest, most trained hand..."
"An intriguing remark," a mechanical voice sounded practically right next to Billy's ear. It came so unexpectedly and sharply that he cried out and jumped aside. "This bag of meat is suggesting you engage in sodomy, Bane?"
"My poor optical sensor," said the second droid, standing next to the first. "If that's the case, I'm not sitting on the chair after you, Bane. I don't need venereal corrosion on top of everything else."
Giving them a thorough look, Billy noticed that the pair of droids that had arrived looked... colorful.
The first was a tall protocol droid of a model Billy didn't know, painted a faded crimson-sand color. Its yellow optical sensors carefully examined the young bounty hunter from head to toe, as if trying to memorize him in the smallest detail. In its hands, it held a massive blaster rifle, which puzzled Kidd even more.
The second was undoubtedly an assault droid. Its sand coloring literally blended into the landscapes of Tatooine. And if not for its glowing, vertical rectangular optical sensor, Billy could have sworn he would never have spotted it in this planet's conditions outside the city. Its shoulder-mounted weapon unambiguously indicated that the mechanical soldier was clearly not designed for a joint tea party.
"You've got a nasty company there," he lamented to the Duros. "And the droids are kind of weird..."
"A treacherous offer," the first one replied. "Do you want me to show you, bag of meat, how sentients hydrosubmit and roll over?"
Billy understood little of it, but from the droid's tone, he guessed he shouldn't agree to such a demonstration. Despite the last one's posture, which with its whole being was begging Kidd to do the opposite.
"Stop scaring the kid, NK," the Duros's voice, however, seemed calm. "He's just a local... bounty hunter."
"Really?" the second robot perked up. "I could shoot him from the other end of this star system."
"Defective hunks of junk," Billy muttered. Seeing the barrel of the first droid's blaster rifle under his nose, he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry, shepherd boy, I didn't think you were so touchy..."
"Logical analysis," the droid replied. "You're so dim-witted, bag of meat, it's a wonder you've grown to this age. I strongly condemn whoever managed to keep you alive."
"Leave the kid alone," the Duros said peaceably, putting his hand on the droid's weapon and guiding it away from the line of fire, thereby saving the young man from the fate of having his brains splattered. "He'd already shit his pants at your first appearance anyway."
"Not true," Billy scowled, immediately trying to defend himself. "I'm an experienced bounty hunter. I know when to let them close and when to..."
"Enough," the Duros remarked peaceably. "No time to flap our gums. We figured out what's what, that's fine. Any problems?"
"There were," the second droid admitted. "Not everyone wanted to join us."
"A joyful observation. But now all the dissenters have joined their forefathers. Personally, that pleases me most of all."
"Right," the Duros sniffled with laughter. "Good thing you didn't kill them all..."
The next minute, a blast of monstrous force sounded, and the spacious building at the far end of Mos Espa ceased to exist; the roofs of the nearest houses were instantly torn off, and shards of transparisteel screeched and scattered across the surroundings with their characteristic sound.
"What was that?" the Duros's voice held a mixture of surprise and irritation.
"A patient reminder," the artificial voice held mockery. "I told you not all of them agreed to work for us."
"We had to minimize information leakage," the other voice chimed in.
"You almost leveled Mos Espa," the Duros grumbled. "Now not a single decent, reputation-respecting bounty hunter will agree to work with us."
"A mocking remark," the first of the two droids seemed to be having the time of its life. "You seem to have already found one. An excellent target. Hey, bag of meat, there's an offer to earn some money."
"I'm in," Billy agreed without hesitation. "Credits won't hurt."
The Duros just smiled meaningfully.
"Well, how could I refuse such a master of his craft," the Duros chuckled, extending his right hand. "Cad Bane."
"Billy Kidd," the young bounty hunter returned the greeting. "I have the fastest, most trained hand in the entire Outer Rim."
"A dubious asset," the second droid remarked. Then, looking around at those present, Bane commanded:
"Let's go! And God forbid we have to blow up another building because of your 'screwing up.'"
"A statement of fact," the first droid noted. "We will have to, Bane. How else can we live without the fun of flying pieces of bags of meat?"
Feeling the chill down his spine intensify, Billy understood for the first time in his life that he'd better not have explained the ill-fated "shepherd boy" joke.