Another sigh pressed a small puff of steam from Cronal's chest.
It took him several more seconds before he accepted the fact that he was lying in a room where the temperature was far from comfortable.
The Prophet felt his body begin to tremble finely. Controlling his body poorly, he rolled with a groan from his back onto his side. His arms and legs barely moved — they were numb from lying so long in an awkward position. But now, as he started to move, blood surged through his vessels, restoring his normal circulation.
Raising himself on his trembling, strained arms, in which weakness still lingered, the Prophet glanced around from under his brows to understand where he was.
The semidarkness concealed the size of the room, hiding most of the space from his eyes. But that was fixable… all he needed was…
Not feeling the familiar response of the Force, Cronal went cold.
Impossible! Unthinkable!
He was cut off from the Force? But how? Who dared?
What in all the Hutt hells was going on?!
Closing his eyes, the man tried to concentrate, recalling the events preceding his awakening.
A sudden attack on the Dark Temple — the main residence of the Prophets of the Dark Side on Dromund Kaas. Explosions, fierce resistance, the merciless killing of most of the servants — Force-null beings who catered to every whim of the Dark Side adepts. Figures in white heavy armor, their ruthless treatment of anyone who tried to offer any resistance… The last thing Cronal remembered was a paralyzer shot that caught him as he tried to flee the Temple. Pain, disorientation, and a blackout.
And now he was here… somewhere unknown, unable to use the most perfect weapon in the galaxy. The Force…
Finally, feeling his limbs beginning to obey him, the man rose to his feet. He was still wearing the Prophet's robe, with travel clothes underneath that he'd had on at the time of the attack. A quick search of his pockets and the folds of his clothing revealed that the unknown enemy had searched him. Everything was gone — the lightsaber, blaster, credit chip, several vibroblades, comlink… Even the thin metal spikes that reinforced his robe — those had been cut out, slashing the expensive fabric.
They'd worked thoroughly.
The man made another attempt to look around from his considerable height. However, this action yielded no answers. He was still in a locked room. Which, nevertheless, had lighting — high above his head, a single lamp glowed, its light so dim it couldn't even dispel the darkness around the light fixture itself. A pathetic sight. And an extremely unsuccessful attempt to break him using isolation tactics…
But that meant absolutely nothing right now. The much more interesting question was — who and how had managed to deprive him of his control over the Force?
And, as if in answer to that question, the light from the ceiling began to intensify. Its brightness grew stronger and stronger — until the darkness receded. Squinting from the change in color gamut, Cronal stood for several minutes, covering his eyes with his hands and trying to get used to the light.
Finally, after a couple of minutes, he managed.
Now he could see that the room he was in was shaped like a spacious pentagon. The walls, floor, ceiling — all were painted a pale blue with greenish tints. Cronal felt a sinking feeling in his stomach — his gaze landed on several more figures in the same clothing as him.
"Brothers!" He rushed to the unconscious bodies, shaking them, wincing with every touch of his overheated body to the freezing limbs of his comrades.
All the Prophets were here. Or rather — all who were in any way significant in their Order. Jedgar, half a dozen others…
All as one — alive, but hypothermic. As if, after capture, they'd all been placed in stasis pods — the kind used to transport food, cooling it to the limit so it wouldn't spoil or lose its flavor. If so, then whoever did this would pay dearly.
"Where… are we?" one of the brothers, coming to, whispered in a slurred voice.
"I don't know," the prophet admitted. "Some kind of room. Nothing visible from here."
"The door," Jedgar, lying nearby — Kadann's apprentice, leader of the Prophet of the Dark Side cult — raised himself and nodded toward the wall that was now behind the first one to wake up. "There… a door."
Cronal, frowning (and how had he missed it?), looked over his shoulder in the indicated direction, noting the correctness of the younger member of their order's words.
Indeed, there was a door. Massive, metal, and closed. Without any visible locking mechanisms. Which could only mean it was controlled by automation. If he had the Force, he could have smashed the dark glass above the door, which obviously led to the neighboring room. However, no matter how much he tried to summon his power, the Force remained inaccessible to his will. As if he'd fallen into a bubble where the laws of existence familiar to an adept of the Dark Side didn't apply. It was frightening and infuriating at the same time.
But what was truly remarkable about the now-lit room was something else entirely. A couple of meters from the door, on a monolithic pedestal, stood a device never seen before. An oblong transparisteel prism with nine medium-sized openings on one side. But deep inside the transparent box, opposite each opening, lay massive-looking, shiny circular saw blades on a mechanical drive. At the base of the prism was a tray that sloped down into the depths of the pedestal. Looking closely, Cronal noticed a measuring scale on it.
The entire appearance of the apparatus spoke eloquently that it was not here for benevolent purposes.
Their captor had clearly planned something. However, the Prophets still had time. And they should use it to bring their brothers to their senses. Perhaps together they could overcome whatever was blocking the Force and escape this trap.
"What happened?" Cronal asked one of his cult brothers.
"An attack," the man grimaced. "An army of droids led by a mighty Force-user…"
"The Confederacy?" the prophet asked in surprise. So that was why he couldn't sense the enemy — they were droids. And there was only one force in the galaxy that used soldiers like that. But if so, why hadn't Lord Sidious, their eternal master, warned the Prophets about this? And besides, how did they even learn the base's location?
"I don't think so," one of the brothers replied angrily. "Too advanced droids — the CIS would choke on itself trying to build machines like these — expensive and high-quality, little different in agility from humans. And their leader… no one I know is even fit to lick his boots. I only caught a glimpse of him when he fought Kadann, but I was in awe. Absolute immersion in the power of the Dark Side…"
"Do you have anything on you?" Cronal asked quickly. The Prophets, awkwardly managing their still-uncooperative hands, searched their robes. Each of them only confirmed what Cronal had suspected from the start — whoever captured the Prophets had made sure they were left with nothing.
"We need to get out," Jedgar groaned, forcing himself to his feet. He could only stand by leaning on one of his comrades, since his right shin had been broken during the capture. "We'll blast the door with the Force and—"
"Can you feel it?" Cronal asked mockingly. Looking at the bewildered expressions of his eight brethren, he felt a modicum of satisfaction at being the first to discover what had been hidden even from the leader of the Prophets until now.
"How is that possible?" Jedgar whispered, shaken. "The Force has always been with us!"
"It seems our captor made sure we wouldn't have the advantage," Cronal snorted. "This is a blunder on your teacher's part, Jedgar! Someone exposed us!"
"We've been hiding from the galaxy for decades!" the apprentice of the leader of the Prophets of the Dark Side retorted hotly. "The Teacher made sure we remained secret, influencing events! And you're saying our sudden capture is his fault? Where was Sariss when—"
Their attention was caught by a sharp sound coming from speakers embedded in the walls, high above the heads of the nine Prophets. A noise, the crackle of interference…
"Recording," Jedgar realized.
But literally the next second, the section of wall that Cronal had taken for a built-in darkened window came to life.
"A monitor?!" one of the brothers exclaimed in surprise. "What an antique!"
But Cronal wasn't listening to him. The attention of the greedy and power-hungry Prophet was riveted to the scene unfolding on the screen.
And there was something to see.
Before the Prophets appeared a room filled with various mechanisms. Cronal's experienced eye identified them as construction equipment for tunneling through rock. Not the most modern, rather at a price-to-quality level.
However, almost immediately, the focus of the recording device shifted.
Now in the frame was a puppet, sitting on a strange three-wheeled contraption of red color, resembling ancient swoop analogs, only working on a mechanical drive. It was dressed in gray-brown armor, with a black cloak and hood draped over its miniature shoulders. And from under the hood, a mask stared at the Prophets… a solid piece of metal curved to fit facial features with a single horizontal visor.
"What is that?!" Jenghar cried out. "A puppet of Revan?! What's going on?!"
"Hello, Prophets," a rich, low voice with hints of hoarseness flooded from the speakers. Cronal's ears clearly discerned signs of computer processing. The author of this whole farce had clearly made sure no one could identify his voice. "I would like to play an interesting game with you…"
"Screw you!" Jedgar said, his voice full of malice. "We are the Prophets of the Dark Side! We will destroy you!"
"Shut up!" Cronal hissed at him, simultaneously driving his elbow between his ribs. "Don't you get it yet? We're cut off from the Force, we have nothing! We're at his mercy!"
"I'll kill him!" Jedgar promised, his voice dripping with venom. "As soon as I get out—"
"… for hundreds of years you lived in secret, manipulating the galaxy and killing innocents, helping your own prophecies come true," the puppet continued in its artificial voice. "You waited for your pawn — Darth Sidious — to reach the heights of power. And with him, you would gain immense wealth and power. And for this, you committed monstrous crimes, drowning beings who displeased you in their own blood. Killed, enslaved, raped your own children and initiates…"
"Ha," Jedgar chuckled. "He knows a lot about you, Cronal!"
"And now I offer you a choice," the puppet continued to intone. "Before you is a mechanism. Its saws are sharp and capable of cutting through heavy armor. But its role right now is completely different. You are deprived of the Force, and you have no one to rely on but yourselves. Are you ready to inflict unbearable pain upon yourselves, to shed your own blood in order to escape? Will it be one of you, or will you all make the sacrifice? Are you ready to make a sacrifice in the name of your salvation? We shall see."
The frame changed, showing a similar room where, to the Prophet's surprise, he saw the cult leader — Kadann — surrounded by several more brothers. And they also, heads raised, were now looking at their own monitor.
"In the second room are your friends and cult associates. They face the same dilemma — sacrifice themselves, or die. Whichever group fills the reservoir, capacity sixteen liters, located under the floor, with their own blood, will be able to safely leave the room. Those who fail to do so within the allotted one hundred eighty seconds will die. Nerve-paralytic gas will fill the room and kill everyone inside within seconds after the allotted time. Keep in mind that you should hurry — for your brothers are in the same conditions, and at any moment, from stress and internal disagreements, they might lose their minds. Oh, and one last thing. Having heard all these conditions, I wouldn't rush to open the door — even though it is unlocked. Play by the rules set for you, and then you will have a chance at true salvation."
With these words, the image of the puppet disappeared. And in its place, a timer appeared on the monitor. Two minutes fifty-nine seconds, two minutes fifty-eight…
Simultaneously, with a monstrous screech, the circular saws began to move.
"The bastard is playing with us!" Jedgar roared in fury. "All of you, help me open the door!"
"He said not to touch it!" Cronal objected. "There are rules—"
"To hell with the rules! We are the Prophets of the Dark Side! If we don't like the rules — we change them!" Jedgar said ominously, nodding to the brothers who, like obedient banthas, followed him to the massive door.
Shaking his head, Cronal chose a different path. Everything he'd heard was some kind of puzzle. The last part — those were veiled hints. And Cronal could swear on his life that it was done on purpose so that those who tried to cheat would suffer even more.
No. He had to be cleverer. Follow the rules. If they wanted them dead, they'd have done it on Dromund Kaas. But they were all brought here. To participate in this game. And in every game, you can win if you follow the rules.
Cronal, ignoring the other brothers' efforts, approached the pedestal, examining it. The sight of the ceaselessly moving circular saws was both mesmerizing and terrifying. And, though time was running out, he allowed himself to examine the device in detail.
Opposite each opening were three massive circular blades, arranged in a staggered pattern. All designed to quickly sever a limb thrust into the opening. But the slots in the transparisteel coffin — and how else to call a box two meters long and wide enough to fit even the tallest of the Prophets? — were nine. And in the room, there were only eight beings. So, someone had to put in two limbs.
Honestly, Cronal had no desire to injure himself by voluntarily shoving his arms in and letting the saws cut them to pieces. If he had the Force, he could escape from here with the slightest effort — since anyone would understand that the exit was connected to the flask, which, in turn, served as a container to be filled with blood. So, judging by the mark at the top of the measuring scale, the mechanism was linked to a pressure sensor. If he had the Force, he could pressurize the sensor… and wouldn't have to think about how to fill a flask that could easily hold the blood of three or four people.
"Come on! It's giving way!" Jedgar shouted excitedly, standing near the doorway, while six other Prophets, having shoved their hands under the bottom edge of the door panel located right opposite the stand with the mechanism, were straining with all their might to lift the massive slab and get out. "A little more! Push!"
With their combined efforts, the Prophets managed to lift the slab from the floor a good twenty centimeters. Meeting Jedgar's gaze — whose face was triumphant with madness — Cronal just shook his head. This was wrong. There was some trick…
With an almost imperceptible motion, a crimson stripe flashed in the lower part of the door panel. And the next moment, the slab slammed back into place with a crash, while the room filled with the howls of six Prophets. Rushing to them, Cronal saw with detached horror that all of them had had their feet neatly severed.
The stumps were cauterized, sealing the damaged arteries and vessels — definitely the work of a lightsaber. So, on the other side of the door was a trap designed to punish those who intended to circumvent the rules. The creator of this "game" had an extremely sophisticated imagination.
"Hutt!" Jedgar cursed, hopping on his good leg toward the fallen cult brothers who were writhing in hysterical screams. "That bastard crippled them!"
"You are the only one to blame for this!" Cronal snarled, leaning over one of the Prophets rolling on the floor in the ephemeral hope of easing the pain. But it was all futile. If only they had the Force… "You can't try to bypass the rules! We've done it many times before, and it brought all of us here!"
"Shut up, you scum!" Jedgar howled, rushing at his elder comrade with his fists. But Cronal twisted away, avoiding the blow to his face, and with all his might shoved the insolent apprentice toward the infernal mechanism that continued its screeching howl in the locked room.
And instead of a stream of abuse from the young man, Cronal's ears only reached the intensified whine of the saws biting into something dense, and the screams of pain from Jedgar himself. Rising to his feet, Cronal saw with surprise that Jedgar, trying to stay on his feet, had leaned on the lid of the glass sarcophagus, sliding it aside. His hands, losing their support point, fell inside the machine, instantly turning into a bloody pulp fountaining sprays of blood.
""Will it be one of you, or will you all make the sacrifice? Are you ready to make a sacrifice in the name of your salvation?"" the phrase he'd heard from the speakers just a minute ago flashed through the Prophet's mind.
The one who had organized this bacchanalia, even within all the rules, had left them a loophole. Sacrifice someone to save the others… That was why the massive lid of the sarcophagus slid open, even though it hadn't been visible from the start. The device's dimensions spoke for themselves…
"Help me, Cronal!" Jedgar screamed. "Tie off my arms, or I'll bleed to death!"
"Oh, don't even think about it," the Prophet said darkly. "I still need your blood…"
The tone in which it was said momentarily interrupted the apprentice of Kadann's lamentations. With eyes full of terror, he looked at his cult comrade… only to receive a punch in the face, into which Cronal put all his strength.
Injured, already standing on only one leg, leaning his back against the side of the sarcophagus, he was disoriented. That was enough for Cronal. Throwing himself at the man's legs, he grabbed them with both hands, then, straightening up, pushed Jedgar bodily back-first onto the shrieking saws.
The air filled with his agonizing screams and the gurgling sounds of the saws chewing into unprotected flesh. Stepping back a few paces, Cronal watched with grim satisfaction as the large saws sagged slightly under the weight of the human body. But at the same time, dozens of smaller saws extended from the base of the mechanism, which, alongside their larger "brethren," proceeded to hack Jedgar's body into dozens of pieces that fountained blood and other fluids, which, in turn, flowed in an abundant stream down the chute into the measuring vessel.
Glancing at the latter, Cronal noted with displeasure that it contained only a fifth of the required volume. Meanwhile, the timer left him with just under two minutes.
He had to hurry.
Shifting his gaze to his comrades, groveling at his feet and begging for help, the Prophet smiled contentedly.
"Of course, I will help you," he promised. "Your mortal path ends here, you pathetic lackeys of Kadann."
Grabbing the leg-stumps of the Prophet nearest to him, he knocked him unconscious with strong blows to the face, then, hoisting him onto his back, carried him to the sarcophagus and dumped the body inside. The monstrous pain of dismemberment awakened his former comrade, but only so that he might fall into an eternal sleep when two saws simultaneously severed his neck, biting into the bones of his skull and skeleton. With a grating sound, smaller pieces of flesh fell under the blades of the lower saws, turning into bloody mincemeat from which dozens of thin streams of precious liquid flowed into the coveted flask.
Seven liters. A little more.
Cronal knocked the next Prophet unconscious with a kick to the back of the head, smashing his face into the floor. Dragging the lifeless — and, judging by the cracking of his skull bones at the moment of impact, already dead — body to the machine, the Prophet thought with displeasure that too much blood had ended up on the floor.
The third prophet followed the first two. Cronal, now acting mechanically, tried not to look at how the men he'd lived side-by-side with for decades were being turned into finely chopped slices of bone and meat, and without ceremony, broke the jaw of the frail-looking man with a kick, then dragged him to the machine with practiced movements. This time, lifting the body to a sufficient height to dump it onto the saws proved more difficult. Age was taking its toll, after all. If only he had the Force…
But, yet again, the man reminded himself that his most powerful weapon was not with him. And he cursed to high heaven the one who had taken from him the greatest gift fate had ever bestowed.
Just as he dragged the fifth body to the machine — a rather pretty girl who had recently joined the Prophets — a pang of regret stung him. She was sweet, slender, with big… Under other circumstances, something might have developed between them, but…
"Please, no," she begged, seeing him lift her over the sarcophagus. "Please, my lord, there are others — two whole ones! I will serve you! Every night I will spend with you!"
"And you will serve," Cronal placed the squirming body on the edge of the sarcophagus, catching his breath. "And I like younger females…"
One push, and the room filled with wild screams, gurgling sounds, and the satisfied screech of the saw tearing through the Prophetess's flesh and bones. Cronal watched the measuring scale of the vessel fill with each second.
There were barely fifteen seconds left on the clock, and the "slider" of the indicator had barely risen past the fifteen-and-a-half-liter mark. Of course, when the smaller pieces released their "juice," the level would rise, but how much time would that take?
And he no longer had the strength to reach the other two Prophets who had crawled into the far corner of the room. Bending down, the man scooped up a handful of severed feet and dumped them into the machine, which had already finished processing the previous victim's pieces.
Only one division remained until the coveted volume, and five seconds on the timer.
Cronal felt a terror that filled him like a sticky substance… Was this how it would all end? Would he die one step away from freedom?!
Exhausted, he collapsed to his knees, covering his face with his hands.
And he had been so close.
And now, the end...
But it seemed Fate had decided to give him a chance at redemption.
From the depths of hidden speakers came a mocking cheerful chime, and the movement of the saws ceased. The massive door slab began to crawl upward. Barely half a meter — but that was enough for the Prophet, who was about a meter away, to dive like a fish, sliding under the door, and ending up on the other side.
Literally the same second, the door slammed down, cutting him off from the two remaining brothers in his group. Rising to his feet, he heard through the door panel the gas hissing into the room with an irritating sound. And the screams of his doomed brethren, who had been much less fortunate.
Even if they hadn't played their role in his liberation, giving their bodies to fuel the ominous machine, their fate was no less mournful. Losing limbs and dying from gas fumes — some pleasure that was.
However, the fate of the victims necessary for attaining his own freedom did not interest him.
Cronal, catching his breath, looked at the scene that had opened up behind him. A shabby corridor carved into the rock, with dim lighting, stretched into the distance, ending at a small fork. It seemed he still had more than one trial ahead.
Recalling the circumstances under which the six Prophets had been maimed, Cronal looked down at his feet. There was a simple device — a mechanical actuator that spun an activated lightsaber with a red blade, currently pointed away from the door.
Judging the length of the blade, Cronal just shook his head. Ingenious. Placing a meter-long blade half a meter from the entrance, connected to a light-sensitive element on the outside of the door. As soon as that element disappeared from the field of view of the reading device — a primitive and harmless laser designator on the actuator, connected to it by a few simple attachments — the actuator activated, performing a rapid rotation. The very one that had cost the Prophets their limbs when they tried to cheat the rules.
"Not bad at all," Cronal said, shaking his head as he examined the locking mechanism that prevented the blade from turning now. Obviously, it was wirelessly connected to a pressure sensor in the flask, because it had the same measuring scale — but in a digital electronic version and a smaller scale. Nearly seventeen liters… had flowed from the pieces of his comrades.
Well, survival goes to those who know how to get rid of competitors in time.
Cronal spent a few more minutes examining the construction in detail. Then, with considerable effort, he loosened the mountings of the lightsaber hilt and took the weapon for himself. Jedgar — and this was indeed his blade — would have no use for it anymore. But it could become a suitable aid in the future.
Feeling the familiar weight of the traditional weapon of Force-users in his hand, the Prophet allowed himself a smile. Whoever the author of this trap — this "game," as he proudly called this whole amateur production — he would have a very hard time when they met. Even without the Force, which was still inaccessible to him, Cronal remained an excellent swordsman.
* * *
"Isn't it excellent merchandise?" The administrator of the slave auction, beaming a radiant smile, leaned over Vette's ear, pointing to the enormous square in the very center of the capital of Orvax IV. "Wookiees, Twi'leks, Bith, Togruta, Gands, Humans, Zeltron, Zabrak, Nautolans, Duros... for every taste. For any kind of activity — workers, servants, craftsmen, engineers, musicians, pilots, and even soldiers."
"I've noticed," the girl said coldly. "And the last ones — for what purposes do you need them?"
She sat, leaning back against a luxurious sofa in a private box. She, along with thousands of others, surrounded the amphitheater-like space where thousands of slaves were located — small groups of 10-20 beings each. So to speak, a product presentation, by which future buyers were supposed to get an idea of all the slaves in this batch.
Vette had flown here with a small guard — two squads, one from each corps, assigned to her for such operations. But she could only bring two into the box — the corps commanders. A larger number was allowed only to prominent and regular "wholesale buyers" mostly Hutts, of whom there were about fifty here.
The legend was simple and at the same time effective — buying a large batch of slaves. Of course, for this she had to pay a "loyalty fee" one hundred thousand credits, which was supposed to be a guarantee of the potential buyer's solvency. No one wanted to let paupers into such auctions. After all, the "merchandise" at stake was worth millions of credits. And the size of the "batches" sometimes reached hundreds of thousands of beings.
Her own past as a slave, though far away in the millennia, still unpleasantly disturbed her peace of mind. Even though she was now only playing the role of a "wholesale buyer," she still didn't like it. The indignation came from within — bitterness for the fate of billions of beings who had so unjustly fallen into the power of bastards clouded her eyes, making her repeatedly stroke the vibroblade hidden under her long dress, strapped to her thigh. How many times in the last hour had she wanted to sink her weapon into the eye of this insolent Arkanian. But the show must go on.
"Mistress Vette" the Twi'lek girl felt a shiver run down her spine at such an address. "There's a war in the galaxy. Many planetary governments and companies wouldn't mind acquiring contracted workers to have their own armed force that would be obedient and never rebel."
"And how do you achieve such results?"
"Our proprietary methodology," the pale-haired man smiled. "Sorry, but I can't tell you — trade secret. Especially in light of the fact that not long ago, unknowns struck at Zygerria, Karazak, Thalassia..."
"Well, unknowns to some, but to others — the strike squadron of the Eternal Empire," Vette automatically corrected the speaker in her mind.
"I haven't heard about that," she lied. Memories surfaced of how she had spent a wonderful time with the corps of Christophsian militiamen, conducting a local genocide on three planets — pillars of the slave trade in the Outer Rim. Of course, losses were considerable — the defense of these outwardly peaceful planets was actually a tough nut to crack. Even though at the beginning of the year the Republic had severely mauled Zygerria, destroying their "labor camp" on one of the planets and freeing an entire colony of Togruta, the homeworld had by no means lost its defensive capability. And it cost Vette two seriously damaged "Harrowers" that had to go for repairs to Dromund Kalakar. But from Zygerria alone, the Eternal Empire of Zakuul gained over a hundred million potential citizens. After the raids on Karazak and Thalassia, their number increased to six billion.
What especially warmed Vette's soul was the fact that the history of life and prosperous slave trade and piracy in the Thalassian system had finally ended. The bastards who mercilessly attacked any passenger ships, killing everyone except young and able-bodied beings, had finally gotten their comeuppance. Although, in her opinion, a journey through open airlocks into the hospitable vacuum was too easy a death for such scum. If she hadn't been in a hurry, she would have...
Alas, history has no subjunctive mood.
But here, on Orvax IV, which was famous throughout the galaxy as the worst place for slaves — who spent all their time in dirty pits deep within the planet, until the surface deemed it necessary to hold another "wholesale" auction — she could vent her soul.
A fleet consisting of ten "Harrower-2"-class dreadnoughts awaited a signal — the activation of a transponder built into the wrist bracelet adorning the girl's graceful limb. And as soon as Vette confirmed, thanks to the administrator's talkativeness, that all the slaves these scumbags had here — on this planet... the fun would begin.
"Oh, our agents report that there was a veritable bacchanalia there," the man whispered confidentially. A strange Arkanian. A fawning sycophant. Meanwhile, his people were outright racists, not at all tolerant of the rest of the galaxy's inhabitants who differed from them in any way. "An armed raid."
"For what purpose?" Looking at how a small group appeared on the square, consisting of representatives of various races, but all of them — shackled in shock collars and handcuffs — the girl squinted. The security measures applied were too specific.
"As we suspect, the capture of slaves," the Arkanian shrugged. "Our people report that unknown ships completely destroyed the native population of those planets engaged in the slave trade or the training of merchandise. They evacuated the rest, then ground the infrastructure to dust. Zygerria is now a scorched world, not a single soul living on it. Yes... their queen was foolish to break ties with Count Dooku back then."
"Judging by the three Confederate frigates in orbit of your world, you didn't act so rashly," the girl remarked.
"Oh, no, not at all," the man smiled. "We try not to get involved in galactic politics. It was convenient for Zygerria to do business — they were close to Confederate territory. But we have a Republic military base right next door on Ryloth. Not worth the risk of making shortsighted agreements."
"Then who arrived on those ships?" Vette tensed.
"Count Dooku's trusted representative," the Arkanian said, leaning even closer to her head. "Sha'ala Donita."
"Never heard of her," the girl admitted.
"She's... not a particularly media personality. And her interests are specific in our slave market."
"And you, of course, know which ones?" Vette smiled slyly, meeting the eyes of the marshals standing nearby — Matthew Mantrell and Deezy Azmo. It was their corps that were now awaiting the signal to raze another slave empire to the ground. Both, despite their expressionless faces, nodded almost imperceptibly.
It seemed that on this planet they would have to work even more thoroughly. Because if even a tiny bit of information leaked into the HoloNet that Christophsian volunteers — whose armor was widely known in this sector of the galaxy — had been here... the Emperor could have big problems.
And that was unacceptable.
So, the CIS ships, as well as their people on the surface — were not destined to leave this hospitable world.
"Of course I know," the Arkanian smiled charmingly, hinting at another bribe. Vette unceremoniously pressed a credit chip for a thousand datari — Republic currency — into his hand. In worlds like this, any money was accepted — the owners of this slave market managed to "launder" it anyway.
"They're interested in this group of slaves," he nodded toward the beings that had caught the girl's attention.
"Why?"
"They are Force-sensitive."
"Jedi?"
"Not at all," the administrator smiled. "Simple beings who have manifested certain abilities inherent to Jedi. Such merchandise commands a high price. And unfortunately, there are rather few of them."
"And what is the price?"
"Oh, are you interested too?" A glint of profit shone in the Arkanian's eyes.
"If only you knew," Vette thought. Trying to put on a bored expression, she answered in the affirmative.
"Two million credits."
"For the entire batch?"
"Of course not," he laughed. "Per unit."
"Convenient," the girl replied in a neutral tone.
Why did the CIS need Force-sensitives? The answer was simple. Dooku needed new servants. The Emperor had done a great deal to deprive him of several. Sev'rance and Asajj now served the Empire as Hands. Savage Opress was living out his days as a "battery" on the New Forge. Sora Bulq had turned into a piece of expired meat... Yes, the ruler of the Confederacy needed new adepts of his blasphemous teachings.
And where was the easiest place to get them? On the slave market. Redeemed from inhuman conditions, they would be grateful to their savior for that. And it didn't take great skill to turn them against the Republic and the Jedi, who had made no effort to free the slaves.
Was it appropriate to interfere in such an auction? Vette had access to several accounts, and the amount of money in them definitely exceeded anything either side could offer for the Force-sensitives. But the problem was that in this place, auctions were designed by financial perverts. And no matter what bid you made for your "lot," regardless of whether a higher bid was made, you had to kindly hand over your money to the auction organizers.
Simply put, if you successively place bids on the merchandise you like — one million, then two, then three million credits — after each such statement, you must transfer the amount to the organizers' accounts. That is, in the end, you could spend six million and still not acquire the much-needed batch of a thousand Wookiees. And considering you are clearly not alone in the bidding, for one lot with an initial price of just one million, the slave market organizers could get hundreds of millions. A classic case where criminals make a completely legal (by their standards) profit from bastards who are buyers. Not for nothing did they say about this little planet that if you go to buy slaves, you might end up taking their place.
"As I understand it, this group," she pointed to the beings in shock collars, "is all you have?"
"Unfortunately, yes, mistress," disappointment appeared on the administrator's face.
"Too bad," Vette stated. "I wouldn't have minded a large batch."
"I'm sorry," the administrator remarked. "But we can't offer more. Perhaps in a few months..."
"And the ordinary slaves," she indicated the rest of the slaves, "is everything you have here?"
"Here are only display batches," the Arkanian frowned. Apparently, clients had never had such conversations with him before. "The rest are in the pits until they are bought."
"It's reckless to keep all the slaves on the planet," the girl remarked. "As far as I know, the Zygerrians had a labor camp away from their homeworld for training merchandise."
"Everyone runs their business differently," the administrator noted. "We don't waste time transporting slaves, training them right here. We have no other training or indoctrination camps."
"I see," Vette said indifferently, as if casually touching a large precious stone on her bracelet. The signal was sent. It would take only a few minutes for a short hyperspace jump. "You are most kind, administrator."
She rose from her seat, her fingertips tracing along the left side of the man's face, as if flirting.
"Glad I could please you," he smiled.
"Exactly," the smile disappeared from the Twi'lek's face. At the same time, feeling a slight vibration from the bracelet — a signal confirming the fleet's entry into normal space in orbit of Orvax IV — she grabbed the man firmly by the back of the neck with the same hand, pulled him toward her, and with her left hand, which held a knife that had left its hidden sheath near the slit in her dress, drove the vibroblade into the Arkanian's chest. With one blow she severed his solar plexus, slightly continued the movement of the blade, cutting through flesh like hot metal through frozen butter, slashing his larynx and vocal cords, and then severed his spinal cord.
The man crumpled to the floor like a sack.
"You got dirty," Deezy Azmo said, pointing out to the girl the few drops of blood that had landed on the front of her dress.
"Hutt," the girl cursed. "That was my favorite."
"You're better off without it," the Rodian smiled. The girl gave him an icy stare but remained silent. This guy was not very talkative himself — during all the time they had been carrying out attacks on slaver planets, he had uttered only a few — ten, if she had kept count correctly — phrases in her presence. Including these two.
Without saying a word, Vette approached the open part of the box, peering at what was happening. The auction had barely begun, which meant it would be a few minutes before the buyers started receiving messages about the events.
"Watch your tongue," she heard Matthew's voice behind her. "She is the Emperor's trusted representative. People like us are not birds of her feather."
"A pity," Deezy sighed.
"Indeed, a pity," Vette thought, but her mind was on something else entirely.
* * *
"Heard the latest news?" Opposite Siun Tarr, the manager of a nondescript dive on the lower levels of Coruscant, on the other side of the bar counter, having pushed a tipsy but peacefully dozing customer to the floor, the Nautolan Shido settled down.
"Did you get promoted in Black Sun?" the Toydarian inquired without stopping his polishing of glasses.
Shido was a low-level thug for the syndicate. And he had never distinguished himself with anything except a couple of solo robberies that ended with sentences on Kessel. But like millions of other idiots, he regularly helped Black Sun build its bad reputation.
"No, but it won't be long now," the Nautolan waved dismissively. Siun sighed discreetly — he had heard this mantra for the last three months since Shido had once again returned to the world. Now the "low-level thug" was literally glowing with happiness, laying a datapad on the counter in front of the Toydarian. On its screen flashed the logo of a well-known news site.
"What's that?"
Despite the fact that it was well past midnight, and there were no customers in the establishment except for that Bith snoring on the floor, the alien was in no mood to fill his head with details. He had enough on his mind already — the new owners of the place, the Mandalorians, had informed him that the establishment would need to close to all customers in a week. Supposedly for a sanitary day. But in reality, as Tarr understood, another meeting was going to take place here — one of those where he would have to sit for a couple of hours in the vegetable storage. Preferably, without even letting on that he was sentient and capable of hearing.
"Preview of the next story from Elin Tyrell," Shido smiled. "She's on Hypori."
"Where?" the manager was taken aback. "That's the ass-end of the world. And I thought the Separatists are in charge there. I remember the Jedi got a good thrashing there last year."
"The Separatists are going to have a hard time now," Shido grinned. "Dougan is there. And judging by the preview description, he is very displeased."
The Toydarian shook his head.
The young Jedi, who at his age had become one of the highest-ranking officials in the complex and extremely convoluted system of military command and political structure of the Republic, was liked by most of Tarr's customers. The latter, having lived a long and not entirely peaceful life, preferred not to follow fashionable trends and not to create idols for himself.
Especially among Jedi.
"And what of it?" Siun shrugged. "To be honest, I don't get more credits from the fact that he's in a bad mood, or that this Jedi scratched his ass with his left hand this morning. I'm a small being, and I don't get involved in politics..."
"And again you're sticking your head in permacrete," the Nautolan shook his head disappointedly. "Just look," he quickly performed several manipulations on the datapad. "Dougan is one of the most discussed Jedi on the HoloNet. Alongside Skywalker, Kenobi, and a few others. Honestly, I don't remember who else was trending. But this one," he tapped his finger on the screen, "is good."
"Shido," Siun said irritably. "If you start pushing merch with this Jedi's image on it, like you did with those T-shirts with Master Windu's picture after Geonosis — I swear by my fat-assed mother, I'll blast you with a blaster."
"No, no, no!" the Nautolan waved his hands. "That's not what I mean. I just thought, why don't we set up a broadcast of Tyrell's reports about Dougan in your cantina? He's popular, and beings want to see what's happening in the galaxy..."
"Do you take me for a fool, Shido?" Tarr fumed. "Who gives a damn about that Jedi? And why the Hutt would people come to watch him give some interviews?"
"Are you kidding?!" The "thug's" iris-less eyes widened to decidedly inhuman proportions. "I'm telling you, it's a HoloNet broadcast. Exclusive! How many beings do you know who are willing to pay fifty credits a month for a subscription to Tyrell's channel, just to watch her reports on Dougan and the Tenth System Army?"
"You've completely confused me," the Toydarian frowned. For a few seconds, looking at the Nautolan's bewildered face, he thought, comparing and composing into a whole everything he had just said. "So, you're suggesting I turn the cantina into a place for watching broadcasts of interviews with that red-faced woman?"
"Exactly..."
"The one who's going to do reports from combat zones?"
"Well," Shido hesitated, "at least that's what it says in her preview..."
"Where the central character will be a Jedi?"
"Well... probably... Although, maybe not just him..."
"Shido, are you stupid?" the Toydarian asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Hey, what's all this about?" the old acquaintance took offense. "The subscription doesn't cost that much..."
"Which is precisely the point," Tarr sighed. "That Tyrell's channel is one of the most commercial on the HoloNet. And if for an ordinary being the subscription costs only fifty datari, for organizations broadcasting information from it, it's ten times more expensive!"
"Why is that?" the member of Black Sun didn't understand.
"Because I'm an entrepreneur! And my activity involves making a profit! And everything I buy for resale — including video — is subject to taxes! Not to mention that under the Information Activity Law, the subscription price is ten times higher than for ordinary people. In short, you're talking nonsense. Spending so much money just so a few drunks can discuss how the fighting is going — no, I'm not signing up for that!"
"Well, not just a few," the Nautolan said innocently. "I know at least a thousand guys from the lower levels who will come here in an hour to watch the first interview. We can charge them a couple of credits each for watching the broadcast and split the profit fifty-fifty..."
"Did you tell your friends that I have such a subscription?" the Toydarian asked menacingly.
"I didn't tell them... I just wrote a post on GalactaGram. And a bunch of people have already replied that they'd like to come and watch..."
"Hutt! You idiot!"
"But why? You can get a subscription through the HoloNet..."
"Yes, and who's going to pay me for it? I don't have such a service in my price list!"
Shido visibly wilted. Tarr, thinking feverishly, came to the conclusion that his comrade's proposal was indeed worth considering. But... if only he had come earlier, at least a week earlier. So that all the paperwork could be sorted out, the proper permission obtained...
Now, with the rampant illegal connection to the CIS Shadow Broadcast, and total censorship of news and other channels, the last thing he needed was to get caught up in a situation involving illegal broadcasting of Republic HoloNet channels. Lately, only channels approved by the Commission for the Protection of the Republic were allowed for broadcast.
And providing consumers with paid services that were not listed in the establishment documents for the right to engage in business activity was severely punished. This annoyed many entrepreneurs, as it required additional expenses — and for nothing. And accordingly, it reduced total revenue... And since it wasn't allowed to make a profit from a client under a new income and expense item, it wasn't worth the expense.
"Listen, I checked," Shido said. "Her channel has a mark of passing the COMPOR check. So a subscription can be purchased..."
"What a blockhead you are," Siur sighed. After briefly explaining the essence of the problem with providing visitors with services for which money could not be collected, the Toydarian just threw up his hands.
"You've set me up, Shido! So your friends are going to come here to watch a broadcast that I don't have..."
"But you can buy it..."
.".. and spend another five hundred credits, just so they can sit, drink, eat, and gawk at exclusive content that they'll never have enough money to subscribe to on their own! I had a relative who went bankrupt on Tatooine that way — dabbled in pod race bets, got so carried away that he put his best mechanic on the line. And he lost everything! And where is my cousin Watto now? No one has even heard of him in years! And yet, he had a wonderful workshop and a shop for starship parts! Do you want to send me to the poorhouse with such adventures?!"
"I wanted to do the right thing!"
"Oh yeah? Then why didn't you bring five hundred datari with you so I wouldn't have to go broke?"
"I just don't have them... Our branch has recently reduced its operations in the Core Worlds..."
"Yeah, I heard," Siur waved his hand. "You went and messed with some Hutt on Mandalore."
"And conquered him!"
"And you'll get a kick in the pants," the Toydarian said meaningfully. "Trust me, kid, no matter what crap is in the heads of your leaders, the Mandalorians will knock it out like a dusty bag."
"Ah, Siur, you Hutt over-cautious one! We have everything under control," Shido waved his hand.
"Yeah, right. Who's going to tell you, a small fry, what's really going on," the Toydarian thought.
However, he wouldn't be a son of his people if he didn't want to profit from anything that could bring money. The new owners had paid a tidy sum for his cantina, using it for their shady dealings. On all the documents, the establishment belonged to completely different beings, and Suir, out of old habit, merely managed its operation and kept an eye on everything — just to avoid arousing suspicion. He stored what he was told to store. Gave it to whomever he was told. Asked no questions. And received a decent commission for it.
And yet he could have easily turned his new owners in to the patrol — especially after the uproar over the Jedi Temple robbery. He could have gotten a huge reward by showing the clones a holographic recording from the establishment's surveillance camera, which had captured everyone wanted for the attack on the Temple. He could even have helped set up a raid — every now and then, one of those Mandalorians showed up at the cantina, but only to leave or pick up another package.
Suir decided not to take the risk. He kept the recording — in his little secret hiding spot. Insurance for a rainy day, just in case his masters decided to change the terms of his work.
For now, everything suited him fine. All the profit from the cantina's trade went into his pocket and toward maintaining the stock of goods. And the nice bonus from all this secrecy didn't burn his hand either.
But for the first time in a long while, Suir realized that money wasn't enough for him. After all, being the cantina owner, he spent most of his income on rent, various taxes and fees, bribes to officials of all stripes... Now all of that was covered by the Mandalorians' money. And Tarre's own income was growing.
Of course, he could easily start a broadcast in his bar — he'd even been thinking about it. But given his complete ignorance of HoloNet trends, he didn't know what to choose.
Now Shido was offering a truly profitable idea.
The manager had heard of this Dougan — a few times, even in his cantina, amidst the traditionally bland war news that was sparse on current events, this name had appeared. But he never thought that amid the general disillusionment with the Jedi as bad and incapable commanders, one of them could actually be popular.
Turns out he was wrong.
Agreeing to Shido's proposal meant splitting the profit with him. And for what? For the Nautolan suggesting what content should be on his cantina's screens? Honestly, such ideas were worth a couple of credits. Nothing more.
Shido, meanwhile, was reaching for half of all the profit. And even if he charged just two credits per visit for watching the broadcasts (which, according to the initiator himself, there should be plenty of), the establishment could easily hold up to half a thousand people just at the tables — they'd just have to squeeze in. And with a big influx of customers, they could always open the second hall, which had been boarded up for a good five years... And on top of all that — slightly raise the prices on drinks and food...
Suir could already smell the money. And he had no intention of sharing it. The only thing he needed was to get rid of Shido. Who clearly had no intention of leaving on his own.
And he was leaving the Toydarian less and less time to prepare for the influx of customers. The manager had no doubt they would come.
After all, someone from those this guy had hooked with his message was bound to show up. Even if it was just ten or a hundred sentients — that's extra credits to warm his pocket.
But kicking Shido out outright was also risky. He was a guy with stupid ambitions. He could easily bring his buddies here to rough up Tarre. Which he really didn't want. Of course, he could inform the "protection" about something like that, and a dozen fighters clad in beskar would handle any trouble. But that would draw unwanted attention from the local patrols, whose numbers had tripled lately. And it would drive away customers. Who wanted to visit a cantina where a firefight could break out at any moment?
Right — nobody.
"You should go, Shido," the Toydarian advised. "You're just scaring off the customers."
"Maybe you'll think it over one more time?" the Nautolan asked hopefully. But again, he met the manager's skeptical gaze, and then, with drooping shoulders and without saying goodbye, left the establishment.
Tarre dashed to the computer terminal and started processing the appropriate electronic documents.
Finally, after about ten minutes, he finished all the procedures, mechanically noting that there was very little time left before the guests' arrival. So, turning on the screen, he selected the right channel...
"Greetings to everyone watching my broadcast," a young Zeltron woman appeared on screen, dazzlingly smiling at the camera. She stood against a backdrop of a massive pile of wreckage that was still blazing and smoking. "I'm starting a series of reports titled 'Frontline News.' As my sources in the Republic's military command have informed me, the Tenth Systems Army 'Gent,' led by Master Jedi, member of the Jedi High Council, Rick Dougan, who also holds the position of Grand Moff..." a client who had woken up stirred behind the bar, but the Toydarian chose to ignore it — "is preparing for a full-scale offensive. I want to note that this is the only case in the Republic where a Jedi has received such a position. Does this prove that this particular Jedi differs from his comrades-in-arms, who over the past year of war have already admitted their complete command impotence? In the military sphere, of course."
The Zeltron smiled mysteriously at the camera, building suspense.
"But is Master Dougan really as good as the Republic's news channels have presented him to be? You be the judge. I'm just reporting the bare facts... Incidentally, the wreckage behind me is the flagship cruiser of one of the Tenth System Army's fleets. The very one that, just a few hours ago, was easily destroyed by CIS General Grievous..."
Catching the change in the correspondent's tone, Suir stroked his bald head with a clawed hand. Looks like it was going to be interesting — the cantina doors swung open, letting in a huge crowd of visitors...
* * *
.".. CIS General Grievous," Eline chattered without a pause. A small spherical droid hovered right in front of her — the operator and, at the same time, a small signal relay. It was thanks to this little one that the possibility of a live broadcast was even feasible.
From the very first minutes of her verbal diarrhea, it was clear that objectivity from this propaganda whore was not to be expected. People who want to bring the truth to the masses don't rush headlong into danger so brazenly. And this one even enjoyed support from the Chancellor's office. How cute.
"Sir, maybe we should... you know...?" Alpha made an innocent gesture across his throat.
"Too early for that," I said wearily. "This game can be played by two."
"Not sure I follow..."
"And you don't need to. Go get some rest with the guys — you've earned it after blowing up the jammer."
"As you say, sir," the clone put his helmet back on and, without unnecessary fuss, disappeared from sight, leaving me alone with the chattering Zeltron on the spacious balcony overlooking the buildings of the industrial district held by the corps under Nyx's command.
The descent to the planet went relatively smoothly. The Vultures did try to hunt our pods, but a couple of X-wings escorted us all the way to the ground. At least the girls proved useful here. I'll remember that for the future.
As I suspected, things on Hypori's surface were hardly any better.
The initial landing plan assumed that four corps under my command would land in key industrial zones to immediately halt the production of new droids and seize strategically important points on the planet. Even though I have no love for the CIS, just like on Geonosis, these complexes aren't needed by the Republic once local resistance is crushed. So what if they can produce new droids capable of killing Jedi and clones? No big deal — the cloning cylinders will make new ones. Why destroy the enemy's economy at the root? Let it live. Tyber Zann approves.
The Republic's reckless attitude toward consequences was most clearly demonstrated after the First Battle of Geonosis, when, after giving the CIS a strategic beating, the Jedi and command couldn't care less that the Geonosian factories were merely deactivated, not destroyed. Which, in turn, led to their reactivation and the Second Battle of Geonosis. Now there, considering the total purge and the creation of concentration camps for the few Geonosians who survived the fierce onslaught of my troops, the droid production lines were being repurposed. Because you can never have too many skybies. And a strategic reserve in your own rear, given the speed of events in the galaxy, never hurts.
For the most part, that's why Hypori became the first victim of the "Gent" offensive. An industrial planet geared toward droid production... what could be better for gaining another world capable of taking the strain off producing skybies and military equipment for the Empire from the New Forge? In the plans, the latter was to be used exclusively for fleet construction.
As for the assessment of enemy forces, it was reassuring that at least the commandos hadn't messed up too much here. So what if there were just a million or two more droids. Not a problem, considering that an additional two hundred thousand clones were now landing on the planet to reinforce the four corps that had been staunchly holding back the machines while the "Blade" was getting its "face beaten in" by Grievous.
In total, the first wave of clones had lost up to a tenth of their personnel in battle. Of those, more than a third were KIA — irrecoverable losses. The rest were now receiving long-awaited medical aid.
The "Telos" crashed, destroying several industrial quarters in the CIS's relative rear upon impact. Our pods landed not too far from each other, so it wasn't hard to assemble into one unit, load Declann, who was seriously wounded during the carnage on the bridge, onto repulsor stretchers, and make our way to the positions of our forces.
Now, the four corps, surrounded by enemy units, having received reinforcements and thanks to air support, were rapidly reestablishing communications with each other, building a single front line around their positions, occupying a considerable area of the industrial districts. While the capture of Hypori wouldn't go smoothly, it was nonetheless predetermined. When Grievous lost his fleet and, as usual, fled to lead the ground defense of Hypori, the conquest of the planet became a matter of time. Prolonged, but inevitable.
But thanks to the capture of the centers controlling the minefields around the planet, reshuffling them to close the gaps, there was no need to fear another "second coming." And we could fully focus on the siege, methodically burning out any significant enemy defensive nodes with air support. Luckily, the enemy had nothing to oppose our assault crafts and AIRs — the ground aviation was eliminated in the first minutes of the orbital capture. And everything Grievous could assemble at the factories was shot down almost daily by our regular squadrons, whose purpose was to silence the assembly lines completely. The last thing we needed was for the cyborg to be able to replenish his losses en masse.
All that remained was a swift but methodical advance. The destruction of the "Blade" had already proven that one shouldn't rashly trust the situation. Slow and steady wins the race.
Only two headaches remained. One of them was currently in the headquarters location, holed up in one of the spacious administrative buildings of the district. The Naboo woman was having a hard time dealing with everything that had happened to her lately. But most of all — the destruction of her own ship along with the "Telos." I don't know what could have been so important there. But I mustn't forget that, to preserve my personal information and those holocrons I'd taken with me on the "Telos," I had sent my strike team of Zabrak and Dashades to guard the "Defender." They did an excellent job, and the ship, under the command of the Gella Sisters, with mechanics, wounded, and other sentients on board, was now heading to Christophsis. Officially — to get the seriously wounded clones to the med center faster. Actually... for a few other reasons I'll talk about in time.
No matter how much Amidala begged me to give her a ship and send her to Raxus Secundus, I refused. First and foremost, because such a stunt was inappropriate right now. The last thing I needed was for the Sith, who already had it in for me, to think I was in cahoots with this crazy woman over the peace negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy. No thanks. I have enough of my own shit to deal with.
My second headache was now broadcasting on the HoloNet, telling everyone how the "Blade" fleet had "ingloriously" perished in its entirety. And Grievous was still at large, despite being opposed by "one of the undeservedly glorified Jedi generals, inexplicably appointed to one of the highest command positions in the Grand Army of the Republic." A quote.
"What can you say in your defense, Master Dougan?" Tyrell appeared next to me, her drone literally shoving its lens in my face.
What a bitch. There was no talk of an interview — at least not until Hypori was captured. But what did I expect from a pro-government journalist? Given my suspicions about Sidious's involvement in all this chaos swirling around me.
"Defense? What are you talking about?"
"Well, come now. Tell my subscribers how it happened that your vaunted Tenth Systems Army found itself in a trap that ended in the total destruction of the 'Blade' fleet, along with your far from cheap flagship, the 'Telos'? Especially since General Grievous escaped from you. And he's just a simple cyborg, not even close to those Dark servants of Count Dooku who have already fallen to your blade. Sev'rance Tann, Asajj Ventress, Savage Opress... Even Baron Kirvan, whom everyone calls the strongest Dark Jedi in the CIS's service — even he didn't flee from you with such ease as Grievous. What is this — a pre-planned defeat, or have you lost your skills and are no longer capable of productively commanding units of the Grand Army?"
"More questions than logic contained within them," I lamented. "And, although they are born of a brain inflamed by natural idiocy, I will still answer. Though I don't consider myself obligated to do so. Regarding the destruction of the 'Blade' fleet. Yes, we lost ships — only a couple of 'Marauders' will be able to return to service; the rest are damaged to the point where it's simpler and cheaper to send them for scrap. However, a significant portion of the fleet's personnel was saved. And I dare remind you," I sighed, "an army, like a fleet, is first and foremost strong because of its fighters. And no matter how hard you try to distort what happened, twisting the facts to suit your angle — the 'Blade' is still alive. We'll build new ships. But if all their crews had been lost — that would have been a major setback."
"But you can't deny the fact that the 'Hammerheads,' which you so diligently equip your fleets with, are no match for CIS ships in battle?"
"What makes you say that?"
"The destruction of the fleet speaks for itself."
"Even if you were a seven-time galactic champion in bodybuilding. If you alone are attacked by ten or more thugs at once — chances are, you'll get a thorough beating. The same happened to us. The enemy caught us when we had expended our ammunition and suffered losses in the battle with the fleet blocking Hypori, whose siege we are now conducting." Noticing that the Zeltron wanted to say something, I made a warning gesture. It's not good to interrupt the interviewee. Good journalists don't do that. "Without going into details, I'll say that we had to fight an enemy with a threefold superiority in line ships, and tenfold, if not hundredfold, in air power. Losing fifty ships, we destroyed all the starfighters of Hypori's defense and the fleet — that's over a hundred and sixty ships. Perhaps, from your purely journalistic point of view, this is a defeat; but strategically, it's a victory. Because the system army's reserve numbers several thousand ships. A small price to pay for ridding the galaxy of a butcher named General Grievous."
"But in the battle on the bridge of the 'Telos,' you lost to him," the reporter sneered. "And the general has killed many Jedi. You could say you got off easy..."
Yeah... what made me think that the media of a galaxy far, far away were any different from our own sensationalist "yellow" press? Same shit, different day.
"Yes, the general has killed many beings across the galaxy," I agreed. "As well as civilians — just think of the total destruction of the inhabitants of Himbarin, the genocide of an entire sector's population, and the rest. And you're absolutely right — I couldn't kill the general on the bridge of my flagship..."
"There you have it, dear viewers," the journalist rattled on, beaming. "Another Jedi admits his military worthlessness. One must ask — why are these beings placed at the head of our army, bringing us only defeats and the bitterness of countless casualties... on that note, I bid you farewell..."
"Hold on a second," I said, figuring that the drone's lens was only filming me from the waist up, so I used the Force to hold the reporter's hand from turning off the broadcast from the droid's control panel. "You painted such an effective picture. You set me up nicely, saying I couldn't handle some cyborg. So why aren't you telling your viewers the real reasons that made me let Grievous go?"
"Attempts to whitewash yourself are certainly worthy of attention," Tyrell chattered, throwing angry glances at me. "I'll give you the floor in one of my next reports. Our broadcast time is running out..."
"Judging by your 'professionalism,'" I smirked at the last word, "it's no wonder you have the most scandalous show on the HoloNet. To lead your own audience around by the nose like that... you have to be good at it. But, as you noted at the beginning of your piece, I'm not quite an ordinary Jedi."
"Master Dougan," the Zeltron hissed. "I can't move. Are Jedi now using their vaunted Force against those who try to expose your hypocrisy to the public?"
"What do I have to do with you not moving?" I put on a surprised face. Thank the Force I took off my mask at the start of the conversation. "Here are my hands," I showed my limbs, which for most galaxy inhabitants were associated with Jedi "magic." I was still holding Tyrell in a telekinetic grip. "Another attempt to portray the Jedi, through me, as disgusting incompetent beings? Not with me. But I digress. Dear viewers, I hope you're still with us and are curious why the man who rid the galaxy of three powerful adepts of Count Dooku couldn't defeat some cyborg? The answer is simple," walking up to the drone, I inserted a small data card with information extracted from the 'Telos' black box. And, naturally, after the necessary editing that removed the fragments of the recording using Force Lightning and Wave. "This small holo-recording you see is proof of how I had to save Senator Padmé Amidala and your favorite — the journalist, and may her colleagues forgive me for mentioning that word in her context, Eline Tyrell — from being taken hostage by that very General Grievous. As you can see, the general skillfully shielded himself from my attacks with his victims, which, in general, prevented me from finishing him off. A particularly piquant detail is that both — the senator and the journalist..."
"You are crossing all boundaries, Master Dougan!" the Zeltron squealed, boiling with rage.
."..arrived on board my flagship just before the battle, without any proper authorization. And I, as a Jedi and a commander who swore an oath to the Republic, had to, first and foremost, ensure the safety of Republic citizens — including an official of the Galactic Senate. Which slightly hinders the work of liberating the galaxy from bloodthirsty murderers like General Grievous. I think this is where we should end this broadcast..." I reached out to the drone, touching its front panel, which had a control interface. Including a big red "Active Broadcast" button...
"You bastard!" as soon as she felt free from my restraints, the journalist lunged at me, pounding her fists on my chest plate. "You ruined the whole story! Do you know how many subscribers I lost because of this 'unveiling' of yours? I was going to give you the floor in the next episode, you could have said all this there! This is mass media, everything is built on scandals..."
"I think," I carefully took the girl by the shoulders and turned her face, twisted with rage, toward the lens of the still-functioning drone. "You have no more subscribers left."
"Damn Hutt!" the girl cursed, rolling her eyes as she realized how easily she'd been played.
"You said it, Tyrell," I smirked. "Karma's a bitch."