"Hutt scrap," Raith sighed, sitting down at the work desk.
"Watch your language, Raith," Malgus hissed venomously from behind. "Unless you want to go flying out into space through the nearest airlock. Without a suit, of course."
"Sorry for touching a nerve, Darth Malgus," though there wasn't a hint of regret in Sienar's voice. "But the shipyards of Dromund Kalakar are hardly what I expected to receive as a gift from the Emperor."
"Be grateful for what you have," the giant stated warningly. "In their time, these slipways created the best weapons in the galaxy. And they will again."
"Yes, of course," the man said absently. "After considerable funds are invested in the restoration and modernization of this relic..."
"Do you think you have the right to count the money from the Empire's treasury?" Malgus unequivocally placed his hand on his lightsaber.
"I wasn't even thinking about that," the shipbuilder waved his hand. "It's just... This is... Never mind. I will carry out the Emperor's will."
"Glad to hear it, Sienar," Malgus snorted. "And now, to business. How quickly can you bring the remaining two rings online?"
"Are you serious?" Raith was taken aback. "You think that by patching up the holes and restoring power to the first ring, you've fixed it?"
"The droids have eliminated all existing mechanical damage to the main ring, on which the Harrowers were previously built," the Sith recalled. "Most of the automation is operational — the repair of the two dreadnoughts that that fool Vette nearly lost will be completed in the coming days."
"I'm not disputing the structural integrity of this ring," Raith corrected his interlocutor. "The safety margin is enormous — in your time, they knew how to build for millennia. But the equipment is morally obsolete by several thousand years. I don't think the Emperor will be satisfied with getting one Harrower a week for the fleet. A full-scale wave of upgrades is necessary — from automation and electricals to software. And that's billions of credits and weeks of work..."
"We cannot halt the shipyards' operations. The Empire needs to increase the size of its fleet..."
"Damn it to Hutt!" Raith exploded. "Then maybe we shouldn't have given the New Forge to the Rakata mind and handed over the construction of the Sovereign to it? The shipyard is down for two months — until that project is finished! In that time, I could have delivered a whole fleet to the Empire, fully equipped..."
"Your objections are noted, Sienar," Malgus remarked coldly. "But the creation of the Sovereign is not up for discussion."
"Naturally," the shipbuilder grumbled.
His irritation had been building for many weeks.
It started when, without much explanation, he was required to develop a new type of solar ionization generator, achieving maximum energy output. He had to postpone work on the new interceptor and, rolling up his sleeves, create something new.
After spending several weeks without sleep, he produced a new version of the reactor — larger and, at the same time, many times more powerful than the installations placed on the Harrowers. The Imperial Guards, acting as their master's personal messengers, simply took the developments without explaining anything.
Now he understood that he had been creating the power plant for the Emperor's new flagship — a Super Star Destroyer named Sovereign. Which would be built at the New Forge, paralyzing the latter's work for two months. And consequently, for the entire duration, the Imperial fleet would not receive a single war machine, which had previously been created only by this unique shipyard.
Even the Marauders, which were built for the Empire at Sienar's shipyards in the Republic, are now extremely dangerous to put into metal. Because the Santhe family – Raith's relatives – began zealously sticking their noses into his personal affairs. Surely they uncovered evidence of fraud – after all, officially the Marauders were built only for the Ghent System Army. But in reality, far more were produced – since it was necessary to supply the same ships to the Empire as well. Now, when Santhe's bloodhounds were sniffing the ground, pursuing the goal of finding kompromat on Raith, who had long since disappeared from the radar of the civilized galaxy, and removing him from the post of executive director that he had held since his father's death, playing a double game became very unprofitable. And dangerous – first and foremost, for himself. Because if the fraud comes to light, the Republic won't hesitate to seize the company's assets. The Santhes fear precisely that.
Raith, however... feared nothing.
First, because the conglomerate "Santhe/Sienar Technologies," which included all his companies, interested him less and less every day.
Operating from the shadows, Raith successfully managed to shut down all his subsidiary enterprises in the Republic – that was exactly what prompted the Santhe family's investigations. All the workers, all the assets of these companies simply vanished overnight from the view of their colleagues and the public. Where? No one knew.
Except Raith himself. Co-owner of the largest shipbuilding enterprise in the Eternal Empire of Zakuul – "Sienar Imperial Technologies."
The new company became the sole supplier of military equipment for the Empire's fleet. In large part, thanks to the Emperor's gift. Three enormous production rings – the shipyards of Dromund Kalakar. Having visited Kuat many times, Raith, upon arriving in this star system, gazed enthusiastically at the metal giants hidden in the depths of the gas giant. All three full rings now belonged to ITS. And it could be said that Kuat, with its production capabilities, including even Rothana, whose location was a secret, was losing its leading position...
In reality, however, the gift turned out to have a taste of shit.
First of all, Raith, like most of his workers, was bothered by the fact that the Dromund system, like all the worlds in the region called Sith Space, fell under the category of "Closed Territories." This meant that all possible routes beyond the Impenetrable Caldera were under the control of the Empire's fleet and army, and leaving without a special pass was impossible. Any violation of such a regime threatened immediate death. The same fate awaited anyone who thought to visit this beautiful corner of the galaxy without permission.
From the Emperor's point of view, such a situation for a number of star systems across the galaxy – and you don't need to be a Jedi to understand that there are far more "Closed Territories" than just Sith Space – was advantageous. The worlds inside the Impenetrable Caldera are self-sufficient – enormous resource deposits, their own shipyards for building all types of warships, agricultural worlds capable of supplying food for any number of civilians and armed personnel. A sort of self-sufficient empire within the Empire. Given that these worlds are actually located in the rear of the warring superpowers – the Republic and the Confederacy – such an attitude toward these territories is not surprising.
The only irritating fact was that the Space was barely settled by the Empire. Dromund Kaas, proudly called the pearl of the Space, was now a gloomy and ruined world, which was being hastily transformed into something coherent by huge armies of construction droids. Around the Emperor's Citadel, numerous skyscrapers were being raised from the ruins, infrastructure and communications were being laid. Thousands of stormtroopers were exterminating numerous predators, driving them from their established territories. Everything spoke in favor of the promise that life on Dromund Kaas would become almost paradisiacal. Of course, if constant cloud cover and soul-chilling storms don't disturb your peace of mind.
However, the corporation "Sienar Imperial Technologies" was state-owned, and employee salaries exceeded comparable earnings in Republic space. Quite sufficient motivation to live for a while without special comforts.
Moreover, among the first administrative buildings on the planet, huge complexes were being built, transferred to the ownership of ITS. Even the Senate District on Coruscant paled in comparison to the area and developments that went to the state corporation. Workers of the subsidiary corporations of "Sienar Imperial Technologies": "Sienar Design Systems," whose task was the development of the Empire's primary orders; "Sienar Advanced Projects Laboratory," whose employees were given full creative freedom in creating the latest developments; "Sienar Armament Systems," engaged in the development and integration of new types of weapons for combat starships; "Sienar Reactors," providing the corporation's creations with power plants; and many other enterprises could not get enough of the comfortable working conditions.
Malgus acquainted Raith with the Emperor's plans for the development of this region. Definitely, the plans were far-reaching. In the near future, numerous research and other centers, educational institutions, leisure and entertainment complexes would appear here. Raith was afraid even to imagine what funds the Empire was investing in the development of this region. However, he did not dare ask Darth Malgus, who, as the Emperor's viceroy in this region, knew this for certain.
The future workplace – the Dromund Kalakar shipyards – also disappointed Raith. Although over thousands of years since their construction, the rings' hulls had suffered little wear – even on Kuat there were sections in much worse condition – but the equipment... Everything was hopelessly outdated. Much was broken, and even armies of repair droids could not restore it. It was necessary to invest considerable funds to bring them up to modern standards. Moreover, as followed from the agreement imposed by the Empire, the latter would cover half of all costs – since the Emperor was one of the two largest shareholders of the enterprise.
But even setting aside the issue of financing this global project, the aspect of time needed to restore the shipyards naturally arose. With outdated technologies, Sienar's workers needed a full two weeks to restore those two damaged "Harrower III." While the New Forge solved such problems in at most a day.
The modernization plan proposed by Sienar's engineers called for up to forty weeks of meticulous, painstaking labor that would not stop for a second. And only after ten months of work could it be said that the production capabilities of Dromund Kalakar were truly in optimal condition. Only ten months separated Raith from his enterprise surpassing its main competitor – Kuat Drive Yards. However, he did not have that time.
The Empire needed ships – more and more every day. The expansion of living space in the Unknown Regions and Wild Space was proceeding at an active pace. "Skywalkers" were dying by the millions, but, thank providence, ground equipment – not his domain. But numerous losses among fighters, landing craft, damaged starships – all this fell as a heavy burden on the shoulders of ITS.
Therefore, Darth Malgus, in whose area of responsibility was currently the Empire's only shipyard capable of repairing damaged ships, was not brimming with satisfaction. And he personally flew in from the capital of Sith Space – Korriban, to properly chew out Raith.
"I have to give away my ships in exchange for those damaged dreadnoughts that come from Thrawn, Tann, Vette," Malgus said. "Already now, more than half of my ships need repairs, while you and your people are unable to provide adequate repair and return of these ships to those whose fleets they were originally assigned to!"
"Darth Malgus," Sienar felt himself getting even more irritated. "I need ten months for all three rings to reach full capacity – two for the first, where only the systems need updating, and four each for the remaining two. After that, you can demand any volume of production and repair from me. But until then..."
"Until then," Malgus said threateningly, glancing at his apprentice sitting in the room, who was doing her utmost to appear interested in examining the three-dimensional image of the "Sovereign" rather than listening to the conversation of the two men, "you are obliged to ensure simultaneous modernization and repair of damaged ships. Such is the Emperor's will. If an enemy descends upon us, I, like any other commander, do not intend to meet him with scrap metal under my command..."
"Perhaps then we should ask the Emperor to postpone the 'Sovereign' project?" Raith suggested. "Yes, it alone replaces an entire fleet, but quantity is more important now..."
"Don't you want to suggest that to him yourself?" Malgus almost snarled, jerking the shipwright's chair to face him.
"With pleasure," Sienar said in an even voice. "But I do not have the opportunity to personally communicate with His Majesty..."
The burly man's body assumed an unnaturally straight posture. The amber-burning irises faded, and now the man's face remained in the darkness cast by the fabric of the hood thrown over his head.
"Glad to see you, Raith," Malgus said in a low, almost sepulchral voice. However, judging by how the face of the Falleen half-breed paled, the shipwright understood that the man standing before him was not the one who had nearly torn him apart a minute earlier. "I see you have some minor disagreements with Viceroy Malgus."
"Your Majesty," the red-skinned girl instantly dropped to her knees before Malgus's figure, bowing her head before him.
"Apprentice Xiss," the burly man said in the same voice. He placed his hand on the girl's head, stroking her hair. Then, taking her chin with his fingers, he lifted her head, looking at her face. "Glad you're still alive. Which is surprising, given the sad statistics of those close to Malgus."
"I'm not so easy to get rid of, Emperor," the girl said.
"I see," he said dryly. "Lord Malgus is pleased with your progress in mastering the Dark Side. I can already foresee the day when you will be able to join the ranks of the Imperial Knights."
"Your will be done," the girl said humbly. The Emperor, releasing her face, shifted his gaze to the astonished Sienar.
"So, Darth Malgus has informed me of the snags in implementing your project, Raith," the Sith said, throwing back his hood, clasping his hands behind his back, and beginning to leisurely pace the room. "You'll agree, ten months is quite a long time."
"I understand that... Emperor," peering into the Sith's utterly black eyes, the shipwright felt trickles of sweat run down his back. How, by the Hutt, could he be talking to the ruler of the Empire when that... the Hutt's Force, no doubt! "But we simply cannot finish the modernization faster."
"And at the same time, Darth Malgus proposed a suitable compromise," the man noted. "Both building and repairing... Quite a simple solution, in my opinion."
"It will delay the shipyards' commissioning by another six months," the head of the corporation objected. "We'll have to spread our efforts across repairing ships and repairing the rings. I'm sorry, but the corporation's staff isn't the largest."
"Four million sentients – isn't the largest staff?" a chuckle came from beneath the Sith's respirator. "Six million work on Kuat, on Rothana – only three..."
"But even they delay deliveries," Raith reminded. "And they don't have to smuggle equipment to their assembly sites at triple the cost."
"Problems didn't concern you before, Raith," the Sith sighed. "Only the result. I've gotten used to believing you can handle any task set before you."
"But you gave the 'Sovereign' project to Lira Blisstex," Raith said so quietly that the Emperor wouldn't hear. But he wasn't lucky.
"And are you ready to build a Star Super Destroyer for me?" surprise appeared on the face of the Sith, who turned to the shipwright. "I always thought your forte was main vessels and small aircraft."
"The latter are my passion, and battleships are my work," the man explained. "But I would have handled this task too..."
"You think?" the Emperor chuckled. Raith silently nodded in affirmation. The man was silent for a while, then inquired, "How are your other projects progressing, Raith?"
"Completed exactly on schedule," he shrugged. "I planned to start production when your guards appeared on Lehon, taking the New Forge away from me."
"It's necessary for the Empire," Malgus explained in not his own voice. "Especially since you have shipyards at your disposal that are many times larger than similar ones on Kuat."
That was the plain truth. Two of the three rings of Dromund Kalakar were equal in size to the main shipyards of the Republic, and the first – the one on which the "Harrower III" were produced – surpassed Kuat's by a factor of two. Only there were far fewer slipways on it. Four thousand years ago, assembling a single Star Destroyer required ten times more production space than now. The "excess" space could be freed from archaic technology during modernization, but building new slipways into the rings... that was a task for future years. No economy could handle such a large-scale modernization all at once. Because a single slipway for creating a starship over five hundred meters long costs one and a half billion. Currently, the first ring had a hundred slipways. After planned optimization and modernization, nine-tenths of that ring's space would be freed up, and another nine hundred could be placed. But to produce such a number of shipyards – essentially, automatic factories that assembled ships with minimal participation of living workers – Zakuul currently could not; it lacked the appropriate production base. And buying them in the Galactic Republic was expensive. Not to mention that creating one such slipway takes at least six months. Even Sienar's grandchildren would not be able to complete what was started if an order were placed right now.
Kuat had been building its shipyards for millennia, and the financial burden on its budget was spread evenly. Therefore, it never faced such difficulties. And still, it delivered just over a hundred ships of all classes per week for the Republic's needs. The lion's share of starship deliveries for the GAR came from smaller but numerous shipyards located outside the Kuat system. But it was "Kuat Drive Yards" that owned such production facilities.
"I am grateful for such a generous gift," Raith said. "But, as I already said, nearly a year is needed for all existing slipways on all three rings to operate at full capacity."
"So you're suggesting I wait ten months?" the Emperor asked. "In that time, Kuat alone could deliver thousands of ships to the Republic. Not to mention the CIS. The Empire already occupies a vast territory, and we need combat starships to cover that territory."
"I understand all that, but..."
"No 'buts', Raith," the man cut him off sharply. "Bring in more construction and labor droids – Malgus will allocate you additional funds. But I cannot allow my fleet to wait ten months for our main shipyard to operate at full strength."
"So I'll have to follow Darth Malgus's plan?" Raith clarified. "Both modernize the shipyards and build ships?"
"Not forgetting to repair the damaged ones," the Emperor noted. Seeing that the shipwright opened his mouth to object, he raised his hand in warning. "This is not negotiable, Raith."
"As you command, Emperor," Sienar said, suppressing irritation and vexation. Was it really so hard to understand that after modernization, the shipyards would produce a hundred line-class starships per week, while slowing down the process (instead of repairing all slipways simultaneously, efforts would have to be thrown first into modernizing one, then the next, and so on until the end) would yield much lower results?
"I understand your irritation, Sienar," the Emperor said peaceably, taking a step toward his interlocutor to approach the huge transparisteel window near which he himself stood. "But the situation in the galaxy is rapidly deteriorating. It's quite possible that we no longer have those two years I initially counted on."
"I heard something about that from my workers," the shipwright admitted. Casting a glance at Malgus's apprentice, he noted with surprise that she had long since risen from her knees and was now silently standing near the exit of the room, diligently pretending to be a statue. "That doesn't concern me, but perhaps it's worth striking Rothana to reduce ship production for the Republic?"
"Open confrontation is not advantageous for the Empire now," the Emperor objected. "We have too few ships. Even our superiority in droids will not ensure a full victory on the battlefield. Our starships are better than our enemies', but before we finish securing our rear in the Unknown Regions and Wild Space, we will not start a war against the known galaxy. If, of course, it depends on us."
"Forgive my persistence," Raith said in a tone that implied nothing of the sort. "But in that case, building the 'Sovereign' is irrational. We need more ships..."
"My consciousness is in Malgus's mind," the Emperor explained. "I know the gist of your conversation. However, have you considered what we can oppose to the dreadnoughts that guard Kuat? For just their 'Dominator', we would need an entire fleet. While the 'Sovereign' could take any of them apart without significant harm to itself."
"I understand your logic, but..."
"Tell me about your 'Raid' project," the Emperor asked, demonstrating that any further discussion of the previous topic was unwelcome.
Sienar took a deep breath. Yes, his objections were of no interest to anyone at all.
"'Raid'-class universal landing ship," he walked over to the table and called up the corresponding file on the holoprojector. "At first, I considered converting the 'Acclamator' into a large landing ship, but I had to abandon that idea."
"Design flaws?"
"Exactly. Sixteen thousand troops – that's the maximum that can fit inside a Republic 'Strike cruiser'," Raith explained. "No matter how you rebuild it, the design is doomed to failure."
"Your ship differs little externally from the 'Acclamator'," the Emperor noted.
"Only visually and at first glance," Sienar countered. "'Acclamators' are a mix of bantha and nun, a first attempt to create a universal combat ship – to carry troops, aviation, and participate in line battle. The Eternal Empire's fleet concept assumes narrow specialization of starships..."
"I know the requirements of my Empire's military very well," the Emperor cut him off, approaching the table. "What exactly do you propose?"
"The large landing ship 'Proclamator'," he pointed to the diagram currently being displayed. "Externally, as you noted, very similar to the 'Acclamator', but it is a completely new ship. It retains the arrowhead configuration, but the bridge is shifted to center and doubled in size compared to the Republic counterpart. It has the ability to land on a planet, like the 'Acclamator', but instead of one long, narrow landing ramp, which makes disembarking the entire personnel extremely slow, I placed four independent ramps along the sides – essentially, the disembarkation speed is quadrupled. Due to the less protruding lower part, the ship has a much less noticeable silhouette during landing, and the ramp angle is gentler – no need to fear equipment tumbling off."
"Did I understand correctly – the equipment is in the main hangar during flight?"
"Not exactly. The 'Proclamator' is equipped with four hangars, separated from each other by armored frames and bulkheads. Each such hangar holds all the heavy equipment assigned to one legion per its staffing table."
"The ship is capable of transporting an entire corps?"
"Exactly. It is half again as large as the 'Acclamator', and the internal spaces are used significantly more efficiently. With all the heavy weaponry, ground vehicles, assault droids, speeders, and so on. Accommodation is also provided for a contingent of 'Skywalkers' up to ten thousand, as the first wave of assault, if necessary to land in a combat zone."
"Not bad... Armament?"
"The ship's anti-air artillery is tripled – there are simply no 'blind spots'. Absolutely all space around the ship is covered – from nose to stern, from bridge to keel. The main armament consists of six twin turbolaser turrets located on the sides of the superstructure. In the aft section, ten rapid-fire laser cannons are placed in the upper half-plane, and the same number in the lower. However, first of all, I must note that the 'Proclamator' was not conceived as an independent combat unit – its armor is thinner than that used on the 'Acclamator'. It can withstand short-term fire, but won't last long against super-heavy turbolasers. It was assumed that this ship would operate as part of a fleet, supporting the landing with its guns, but not carving its way through an enemy ship formation..."
"I see. A very sensible concept. Reducing offensive weaponry in favor of defensive..."
"Exactly. That's why I placed only one squadron of 'Supremacy' interceptors in each hangar – forty-eight ships are enough to protect the ship from enemy bombers. In conjunction with the 'Proclamator's own artillery, of course."
"What is the aft hangar in the superstructure for?"
"The main hangars house landing transport – shuttles, my designed landing shuttles – in the aft, you can place a squadron of AIRs or X-wings and transports for the ship's crew needs – so as not to use the main hangars unnecessarily, as they have a much larger area vulnerable to enemy fire."
"Well... I like this ship. It alone can deliver a whole heap of trouble to the battlefield, while currently this is only possible using three or four 'Acclamators'," the Emperor said thoughtfully.
"Still, I don't think that with the heavy field artillery of both the Republic and the CIS, using the 'Proclamator' as a reinforcement transport directly to the front line is advisable," Sienar said thoughtfully. "The armor is a bit thin..."
"And is that its only drawback?" the Emperor chuckled.
"Not the greatest speed, both in realspace and hyperspace," Sienar stated without batting an eye. "In my recommendations for the project, I advised using it precisely as a second-wave ship and applying it only after our fleet has captured a sufficient part of orbit..."
"So, big but fragile?"
"In a sense, yes..."
"Hmm, so we have our own analogue of the 'Acclamator'," the Emperor said irritably. "Frankly, I thought better of your genius, Raith..."
"The 'Proclamator' is not my only development," Sienar said coldly, calling up another file on the panel. "The 'Vindicator'-class large landing ship."
The Emperor turned his head. He was now observing a three-dimensional schematic of a ship whose main hull was an isosceles triangle. A flat bridge, shifted to the stern, numerous gun turrets along the hull... The ship looked more like a full-fledged warship than what it actually was.
"The design... impressive. I await details," the Emperor stared back at the screen, examining the gas clouds beyond the ring.
"The 'Vindicator' is designed as a full-fledged military transport, whose armament and armor allow it to participate in battle with enemy combat ships. High speed, excellent maneuverability combined with heavy composite armor allow it to break into the thick of battle without sacrificing its valuable cargo – soldiers, equipment, ammunition, ordnance – everything that needs to be delivered to the front. With its guns, it can provide not only anti-air cover for the landing but also support the offensive, or, if necessary, carry out a bombardment or orbital barrage of enemy positions using cannons or cluster bombs. As in the previous case, the ship's full anti-air cover provides sufficient protection from enemy aircraft. For the same purposes, the ship has an air wing – six squadrons of interceptors, two of bombers."
"And do we have a full class of bombers?" the Emperor clarified.
"I am in the process of solving that problem, Your Majesty," Raith parried.
"Tell me about the drawbacks of this type of starship," Dougan asked through Malgus's lips.
"The ship isn't designed for landing on surfaces. For ground deployment, numerous Lambda-class transport shuttles are used, capable of delivering a platoon of stormtroopers to the surface." A hologram of a transport ship appeared above the table, vaguely resembling the Nu-class shuttles adopted by the GAR. "For transporting vehicles, a Sentinel-class shuttle is intended." Another ship hologram appeared, vaguely similar to its predecessor but with a longer passenger section, enhanced weaponry, and heavy hull armor. "It can carry a company of stormtroopers, and in its lower hemisphere, any ground vehicles..."
"What is the troop capacity of this ship?"
"One full legion with all standard armament and attached heavy equipment. Alternatively, it can carry up to ten thousand tons of cargo."
"The Sentinel doesn't look like a transport capable of delivering even one Juggernaut to a combat zone," Dougan remarked. "And they've proven themselves quite effective..."
"For that purpose, the Kappa super-heavy transport is suitable," Wright displayed an image of a transport ship that looked like an overfed Lambda, and about ten times its size. "Two Juggernauts fit quite comfortably in the cargo hold without any issues. Or alternatively, a larger quantity of smaller heavy vehicles."
"Foresightful," the Emperor praised. "More than worthy starship designs that the Empire needs now. How soon can you begin assembly?"
"Well, if you return New Forge to my control..."
"Wright," the Emperor said warningly.
"Can't blame a man for trying," Wright sighed. Falling silent for several minutes, he calculated in his head how much time and effort it would take to get even one or two slipways on the second ring operational — where support-class ships had previously been built. "In a month, we can provide the Empire with the first batch of ships of both types — two of each."
"Does that include the accompanying small vessels — shuttles and dropships?" the Emperor clarified.
"Then two months. After that, production volume will increase with each slipway brought online. Exponentially, of course."
"Excellent," the Emperor declared. "Consider yourself contracted for a hundred ships of each type — the Vindicator and Proclamator in full configuration."
"It will be done."
"That's not all, Wright," Dougan warned. "I need bombers."
"Certain developments exist in that regard..."
"They need to be turned into metal as soon as possible," the Emperor cut him off. "As well as a full-fledged assault carrier."
"Forgive me, but why? The line ships carry enough small craft..."
"To handle Republic ships — yes. But to defeat CIS starships, we need a multiple advantage in interceptors and fighters."
"I will... personally oversee the development of such a ship," Sienar frowned. "Perhaps Lira Blisstex could expedite the work..."
"She has her own tasks, you have yours," Dougan snapped. "You complained that you didn't get a sweet piece of the pie — now you have it."
"As you command," Wright bowed, hiding a smile.
Honestly, a fully developed carrier design had long been sitting in his archives — it had come together almost immediately after he gained access to the Harrower schematics. It only needed minor adjustments for the latest power plant and an upgrade to the anti-aircraft defense systems using the schematics from his developed landing ships...
"And one more thing, Wright," the Emperor's voice jolted him from his thoughts. "Send the technical documentation for your Harrower model to my office on Christophsis."
"Why...?" the shipwright asked mechanically, but meeting the glassy stare of the black eyes, he shuddered throughout his body. "I will do so immediately. Forgive my insolence..."
"We are partners, Sienar," the Emperor said. "But don't forget your place in the Empire."
"It will never happen again, my lord," the shipbuilder said without raising his head, cursing his tongue for its excessive familiarity.
"Of course. Just as you will never again dare to argue with one who speaks on my behalf." Wright felt a heavy hand — Malgus's body — land on his head, and then his body was pierced by hellish pain.
Crashing to the floor, he convulsed from involuntary contractions of every single muscle in his body.
Unable to utter a word, he stared with tear-filled eyes into the blackness of the Sith body's eye sockets until it dissipated, taking on its familiar form.
Immediately after, Sienar felt control over his body returning. Leaning on unsteady hands, spitting streams of saliva mixed with blood onto the floor (he'd managed to bite his tongue during the convulsions), he looked at Malgus.
The massive Sith stood, leaning on his apprentice, who had somehow appeared beside him. His face looked exhausted, and his scalp glistened with beads of sweat...
"Next time, bastard," Malgus hissed, "think ten times before you wish to speak with the Emperor personally."
"To hell with all these arguments, Malgus," Wright said, leaning on the table as he struggled to drop into his chair. "Let him tell me everything I need to do through you. As if I'd dare to talk back again... Health is more important."
"I was in your place once," Malgus spat angrily. Wright glanced at his face, twisted in anger, and understood that no details would follow.
Though he had no doubt that the Emperor's viceroy had gone through something similar in his time.
* * *
"Sir," the commando glanced at his commander. "I think we're in for a world of trouble in this corps."
"You're a real optimist," Dec muttered gloomily, staring at the scene unfolding before him.
The military town — if one could call the vast territory where countless barracks and other administrative and military buildings were tightly packed, located outside Crystal City but connected to it by a wide hover-boulevard — covered an area of hundreds of square kilometers.
Recently, practically all line infantry units of the Ghent System Army that were not currently involved in combat operations had been stationed here. Or, as in the case of the 611th Landing Corps, licking their wounds after another bloody battle. Dec didn't know the details, but according to rumors, the guys had been through a local hell on the planet Vreya. At the start of the war, a local Republic outpost had been established there, which General Grievous's forces had steamrolled on their march to Hypori. Simultaneously with the operation on the latter, command had deployed the 611th Corps to Vreya to retake the planet. But, as with Hypori, the Separatist forces had been far larger than expected.
The corps had fought bloody battles for a week, fiercely contesting every settlement. In the end, the planet remained with the Republic, and nearly a hundred thousand droids were left there waiting for scavengers to haul them off for smelting. Victory on Vreye paled in comparison to the slaughter on Hypori, but not for the 611th, which had lost more than two-thirds of its personnel.
The clone captain, the last survivor of the Vevat commando squad — now its leader — glanced again at his datapad screen. No, it was correct. Command had assigned their unit to this corps. There could be no mistake.
Still, watching what was happening made Dec's stomach churn. He didn't know how the other fighters in his squad were doing — former infantrymen hastily trained in the commando program on Ord Pardron to fill the losses in his unit. But he guessed their thoughts were just as grim.
The commandos, as prescribed in the accompanying documents, had arrived at the corps' position at reveille. But to their surprise, they found the entire corps already assembled on the parade ground. In full battle gear.
The corps was divided into two parts. The first wore black-and-silver armor and stood behind the commander. The second — the majority — gleamed in snow-white armor. The clones called these "shinies" those who hadn't yet lost the factory luster of their uniforms. Fresh reinforcements, yet to see combat.
And it was precisely in front of the formation of recruits — at least three full legions of them — that a clone in the traditional Ghent armor was pacing, his booming voice, amplified by technology, carrying over the ranks.
"I am Clone Marshal Commander Nomad, your corps commander," the man intoned, marching crisply before the formation. His straight back, tilted-back head, confident gaze, and hands clasped behind his back made Dec shudder. This was exactly how the person clones hated most used to behave. Walon Vau. A Mandalorian mercenary, one of many who trained clones on Kamino. The cruelest son of a bitch Dec had ever known. "For the shinies, I'll say a few words right now. So you don't think you've landed at a party. From this moment on, your asses belong to me. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," came the chorus of recruits' voices.
"Bullshit, I can't hear you!" Nomad roared. Dec felt his fingers instinctively clench into fists. He'd heard these words many times. With virtually the same intonation. And usually, after them, the clones faced brutal trials bordering on sadism.
"YES, SIR!"
"If you milk-sops who haven't even smelled tibanna survive your first battle, stay alive, and even manage to kill at least a hundred droids," the marshal continued his stream of hatred, "then I'll consider you equal to those standing behind me. Real soldiers, weapons forged to fight the enemy. For now, you're all just yellow-beaked dickheads who, given free rein, would blow yourselves and your comrades up with your own detonators. You are the lowest form of life in the galaxy! You're nihata not even people! And until you prove otherwise to me, I, and every veteran in this corps, will wipe our boots on you. Is that clear?"
"YES, SIR!"
"Any objections?" Nomad asked, slightly lowering his tone. Dec rolled his eyes and silently thanked his habit of approaching his goal by roundabout paths. Otherwise, if he and his men weren't standing in the shadow of the administration building, which was on higher ground than the parade ground where the soldiers stood at attention, all this stream of humiliation... The captain felt his palms sweating. No, he definitely would not have held back.
After all, they were all brothers. And no brother should belittle others like this. It was unacceptable.
"You are all nothing but an unorganized herd of animals," the clone continued. "You're a worthless mass of feces that someone trusted with a weapon and showed which way to point the blaster. It's all bullshit! I'll beat the shit of humanity out of you and teach you to fight! I'll teach you the way I was taught, and the way those behind me were taught," he pointed at the corps veterans. "Don't complain about the lot you've drawn. I won't tolerate crybabies or rats in my unit. If I find out that any of you vomit-merchants has been running to our Jedi, I'll tear your asses to shreds and hang them over the barracks instead of the corps flag."
Vau's "educational measures" flashed through Dec's memory — after them, many clones spent weeks in the medbay. Why, out of all the units in the army, did he have to end up in the one commanded by a man trained by Walon Vau — the most hated man among most clones of the Grand Army of the Republic?
Meanwhile, he involuntarily noticed the unit's banner.
It was the traditional Ghent system army flag: a black, vertically elongated five-pointed field with silver patterns of lines and circles. In one of the circles — the middle of three — was the number "611." The upper circle bore the number "10," indicating its belonging to this system army. And the lower circle was for the legions to indicate their own sequential numbers. On the corps banner, the lower circle always remained empty.
"As you've already figured out, I'm ruthless, so you won't like me," Nomad continued. "I don't give two shits about your opinion of me. I demand obedience, and I will get it. The more you hate me, the more of you will come back from battle alive. I am strict, but fair. None of you will ever be punished for something you didn't do. And none of you will ever face a court-martial for following my orders. But if any of you test-tube bastards tries to do something to harm me or your brothers-in-arms, I will personally shoot you as an example to the rest."
Dec heard his knuckles crack — he was clenching his fists so hard. Yes, these were Vau's words, with a little improvisation. And the captain would bet that, like the Mandalorian, the marshal kept his word. No one could count how many clones had died at Walon's hands. Some claimed you could field an entire regiment with the dead.
And now his team was going to serve under one of Walon's protégés?!
"Remember this, you runts," Nomad was saying. "What you called 'combat training' on Kamino is complete bullshit compared to what you're going to learn here soon. I'm reminding those who knew but, by the Hutt, forgot. You are not just clones who are supposed to live and fight for those clean-hands assholes called 'citizens of the Republic.' Forget all that propaganda crap! You, damn your incubators, are weapons entrusted to Grand Moff Dougan. And if he tells you not to shit for three days, you'll bear it, you'll fart, but you won't let the army commander know you've got a weak sphincter. Am I making myself clear, you rejects?"
"YES, SIR!" the roar of throats spread across the parade ground once more.
"Excellent, animals!" Nomad praised. "I hear your bleating, you scum, so there's progress already. The army will make men out of you, you rejects, whether you want it or spend your whole life dreaming only of screwing banthas. Remember — you are rightless calves in the hands of the Republic. And I never want to hear that any of you has dared to get under the skirt of some painted whore. Anyone who does, I will personally cut off his dick and balls down to his tonsils and hang them in the barracks instead of a lamp! You are fighters of the Grand Army of the Republic, which means creatures like you are not allowed to breed. I'd even say it's categorically contraindicated by local therapists to prevent an increase in the number of weak-chinned brats like the ones standing before me now. You'll earn that right only on your discharge, and even then, only those who live to see it. Ask your more experienced comrades — the Republic's desire for us to live as long as possible diminishes every day. Because the citizens of the Republic look at the scum you are now and wonder — why should rightless bastards be allowed to corrupt local girls when that job can be done by morons who don't even know how to aim a carbine?"
Dec shook his head. Yes, there had been incidents in the Grand Army where, after capturing a planet, local girls would give birth to the offspring of amorous clones a few months later. Given that the clones' own genes were programmed for rapid growth and development, it was no wonder the public was unhappy with such a rapid correction of the galaxy's demographic policy.
"That's all, you slugs," Nomad roared, snapping to attention before the formation. "If you bastards survive what the corps veterans have prepared for you, then I'll allow it — I'll shove my pride up my ass, wipe my tears with my undershirt, and let you serve in my beloved 611th Corps..."
Dec shook his head... In his time, many of the clones assigned to Walon had been protected by other Mandalorians. Skirata, in particular. But now the greenhorns had fallen into the hands of Walon's ideological successor, and there was no one to stand up for them.
Still...
"Marshal, sir," pushing through the line of veterans, Dec and his squad emerged onto the parade ground, right next to Nomad.
Up close, he looked even more... adverse. His head was covered with numerous scars from wounds that could only have been inflicted by a bladed weapon. His face was no less pockmarked with the consequences of injuries. It looked like a thermal detonator had gone off in front of Nomad's face.
"Who told you, you test-tube miscarriage, that you had the right to interrupt my briefing?" Nomad was beside him in an instant. Dec felt the aura of negativity radiating from him. But the strange thing was, unlike Vau, the marshal kept his emotions under control. Not a single movement or facial expression showed that he actually felt any of the negativity that poured from his mouth.
"You are humiliating your brothers, marshal," Dec began, but his opponent, without ceremony, tore off his helmet, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled him close.
"Are you stupid, commando, or deaf?" he roared so loudly that Dec's ears rang. "I asked you a question, soldier."
"With all due respect," the captain twisted, breaking free from the hold. "I am a commando squad leader, and I won't allow..."
"I know who you are, you burping bantha!" Nomad roared. Pointing at the captain, he addressed the recruits. "Meet you scumbags. This is Captain Dec, commander of the Vevat commando squad. Two months ago, he and three other simpletons whom someone in a fever dream called 'commandos' were sent to Dactil. To some fucking farmers. Tell us, Captain, what's it like to lose your entire squad except for your precious self?"
Dec lunged forward to punch the insolent man in the face, but the squad fighters behind him held back their impulsive commander from an inevitable court-martial.
"There were more of them!"
"They were fucking farmers, Captain!" Nomad screamed in his face. "You got impaled on pitchforks by people so stupid they don't even own blasters at home. Where did you grow your balls, you runt, to criticize my actions?!"
"You lost two-thirds of your men..."
"Four-fifths, you Hutt of a mathematician," the marshal corrected him. "My men died, grinding ninety-seven thousand six hundred and three Separatist droids into dust! Correct me if my memory fails me, you piece of shit — how many enemies did you kill on Dactil? Zero? Less than zero?"
"It was a reconnaissance mission," Dax tried to justify himself.
"Bullshit! Your comrades-in-arms were skewered by sharpened bits of metal used to mix dry grass with shit, and you couldn't even burn down a single miserable barn in retaliation."
"But..."
"Shut your mouth, Captain, before I shove my boot so far up your ass it comes out your mouth and teaches you to stop talking crap. All of you," he swept his hand across the recruits standing before him, "remember these losers and don't let them within a cannon shot of the front line. Otherwise, like on Geonosis, half of them will die, and we won't even have time to ask which imbecile decided to give their commander a name."
"My fighters have names too," Dec frowned.
"Rest assured, I don't give a flying fuck about them, just as much as I don't give a fuck about you," Nomad assured him. Then, checking his wrist chrono, he added, "You were ten minutes late for formation. In one minute, I want your four amateur asses jogging around the parade ground perimeter — two hundred laps in full gear."
"Sir, I don't think..."
"MOVE IT!"
Shaking his head, Dec bent down, picked up his helmet, and put it back on. Nodding to his squad to follow, the captain broke into a run.
This was going to be an extremely difficult collaboration between line infantry and commandos.
* * *
"I suppose our session can be considered open," Red Roberts commented as the last of the Temple Masters entered the Council's chambers.
Matukai Shegren shot him an indifferent glance and silently lowered himself into his designated seat — to the right of the Academy's head, Ashara Zavros. The Togruta surveyed everyone present and signaled the Imperial Guards. The faceless warriors in gleaming white armor silently locked the room.
Recently, the presence of the Emperor's faceless servants on Tython had become an integral part of life. They guarded the approaches to the Temples, periodically conducting local massacres with flashrider gangs from among those who didn't submit to the will of the gifted who had settled on Tython. It had also become completely routine for the silent butchers to observe all the students' training sessions. Sometimes, after such "open lessons," some acolytes would disappear. Where — no one knew except Zavros. But she was in no hurry to share information, stating that everything happening was the Emperor's will.
There were many guesses about this — from the most primitive to the most outrageous. In reality, the explanation was quite simple. The Guards were replenishing their ranks by selecting the most capable students.
Ferus Olin had let this slip as he was completing his training on Tython. Red had argued for the gifted former Jedi to stay at the Academy, joining the Qigong Kesh temple headed by Roberts. But the young man politely refused, explaining that his destiny was to serve the Emperor personally. And in time, a number of students would follow him. Literally a few days later, the students Urai Fen and Aysaru Omin disappeared. The first — a representative of an unknown race who could infiltrate anywhere and acquire anything. The second — a former Senate Guard, whose motives none of the instructors had ever fully understood.
What exactly the Guards' function was, no one knew for certain. They themselves, for obvious reasons, didn't discuss their goals and tasks. It was useless to question Asharu about this — exhausted by her lessons with the little ones in the Great Temple, she usually told curious people to go to hell at length in response to any questions not directly related to the Tython Academy's activities. And would add angrily that if nosy people had free time, they should devote it to teaching young minds.
"Today's agenda is the early graduation of three students," the Academy Head announced. "You know their identities: BoShek, Tasi Gree, and Evgum. You also know their achievements. For my part, I can say that despite their pasts, they have proven themselves worthy as adepts of the Unified Force and are ready to begin serving the Empire. What are the opinions of the other Order Council members?"
Red inwardly smirked.
The Council of the Order of Imperial Knights, just as tens of thousands of years ago, consisted of a group of high-ranking Force adepts who each headed one of the nine Great Temples on Tython. With one single exception.
The Head of the Order — for life — was not one of the masters of the nine temples built by the Jedi. It was the head of the Empire — the Immortal Emperor. Even though he didn't lead any of the Great Temples.
Yes, by now all nine ancient abodes of knowledge had been discovered and, to one degree or another, restored. Only Padawan Kesh had lost its relevance as a training center for young adepts. Instead, the complex, located a hundred kilometers from the Great Temple — once built by the Jedi during the Cold War and restored for the needs of the current masters — had turned into a mass dormitory for newly arrived adepts and younglings — the name given to younger students who did their learning in the Great Temple under the supervision of Ashara herself and several other instructors: former Jensaarai. Some of the very first adepts of the Unified Force.
Honestly, based on his years of experience, Red thought the Tython training system was excessively... permissive, perhaps. In Zeison Sha society, it was hard to imagine young warriors learning from different masters. One needed only to pass the test — and there was always a zeison who would help you perfect your skills.
On Tython, everything was different.
Students learned in each of the nine Great Temples. Well, officially, no one actually called them that grandly — except maybe the bookworms from Kaleth. For everyone else, there was only one Great Temple — the one where the Council headquarters was located. This was also where young gifted were received — recently, the Guards had started bringing very young children and teenagers to the planet. Where they got them remained a mystery. However, among the former Jedi — and there were some here too — rumors circulated that some of the children were the very ones whose names were listed in the holocron stolen, along with other relics, from the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. And that holocron listed the most gifted children in the galaxy. But again — these were just rumors.
So, upon arriving on Tython, the children entered the Great Temple. Here, they received general education classes, lessons in history, and the philosophy of the Force. Ashara and her protégés laid a general foundation in their students, seeking to identify each child's individual abilities. Some could move objects at a young age; one human boy read minds so deftly that they had to work with him to explain why he couldn't do that to everyone. The kid seemed to understand and learned his lesson. At least, there were no more scandals about him telling some classmates other people's innermost thoughts.
After the children learned the basic truths, they were sent to Akar Kesh, also called the Temple of Equilibrium. Here, loquacious masters instilled into their malleable minds the key idea of the new Order: the infallible maintenance of balance between all aspects of the Force. At the head of this temple was one of the former Jensaarai, which was logical — they were among the first to accept the new ideology.
The mentors of the appointed temple silently agreed that the specified students (if one could call the trio that, whose ages ranged from twenty to… the Hutt knew how old the oldest of them was) had indeed mastered the program at those institutions. That is to say, at least two agreed that this trio should join the Empire as full-fledged warlords.
The Temple of Healing, officially called Mahara Kesh, was led by a young Mirialan, rumored to be a former Jedi. Then again, with their species, it was never clear how old they were from birth. But the guy was a pretty excellent healer. And mentor, too. No wonder the skills of self-healing and healing others were taught to students before those practices where they could learn — and successfully put into practice — how to maim each other.
"I'm in favor of promoting all three to the rank of Imperial Knights," he said, short and to the point.
The next stop on the path of the future Imperial Knight was Bodhi. Once upon a time, this had been a temple of the arts, but now they taught piloting and technical skills here. For the most part, at this stage, the mentors selected those who, after completing the full course of training, would be sent to Fortress Ro on the planet Shikaakwa in this star system. Long ago, a base of extremely unpleasant individuals had been located there, but that was over thirty thousand years ago. Now, the headquarters of the fleet guarding Tython was located there. And rumor had it they greatly welcomed those who were sensitive to the Force and loved to fly. They even had a special unit for them. Though only a couple of pilots were listed in it.
"Evgum showed exceptionally high results in piloting," said the mentor of this temple. "I would recommend sending him to the Ace Corps."
"Your wish will be noted," Ashara remarked, shifting her gaze to Shegren.
The former leader of the Matukai headed Stav Kesh, the temple of martial arts. Here, he and several other mentors firmly (sometimes even literally) drilled into the heads of pupils and students the skills of hand-to-hand combat. Teras Kasi was very popular among those who instructed future knights in using their own bodies as the center of Force power. And, it had to be admitted, they did it with intelligence and spirit. Red had gotten to see a few of their training sessions — quiet, calm young men and women, boys and girls entered the temple, but they left as walking killing machines.
"Don't look at me so intently, I might just agree," Shegren said cheerfully. "Evgum and BoShek — definitely yes, especially the first. Tasi, though… he's sluggish. He knows, he understands, but he's too lazy to use it. He keeps falling back into his Jedi habits, losing concentration. I'm in favor of him staying behind."
"Noted," Ashara said. That meant the Nautolan's candidacy was "cut off" this wasn't the Jedi, where you only needed to pass a couple of trials to prove your "worthiness." In the Order of Imperial Knights, obtaining the coveted rank required securing the approval of every single master of the temples. However, glancing sideways at Master Kaleth sitting nearby, Roberts thought that he would surely exploit a loophole in the rules. But why speculate when he himself had to answer for his own part now?
"As the Master of Qigong Kesh, I support the candidacies of BoShek and Evgum," and there wasn't a hint of falsehood in that. The first — a former smuggler — immersed himself with delight in studying the subtleties of Force skills and techniques, grasping the new and reinforcing what had already been learned with burning eyes. Evgum… a former Berserker — a warrior to the bone. He wasn't interested in any complex Force combinations or intricate moves. With him, it was simple — Push, Charge, Wave. Barrier, Lightning, Ionization, and a handful of concentration techniques. Could he need more in the thick of battle? Hardly. But the guy knew his potential. And what he did possess, he had honed to perfection. Too bad he couldn't be issued a warning for future opponents. Maybe some of them would survive then.
The Forge Master — of the Vur Tepe temple, where the seekers studied Force Forging in practice, learning to create their own armor and weapons — wasn't particularly talkative. He waved his hand, as if to say, agreed. Well, that was his business.
But what came next was even a little interesting.
It was Ikeru's turn.
A former student of the leader of the Black Guard — a Sith cult that preached understanding the surrounding world through the Force. Traditionally, through the Dark Side. Like most survivors of the "aggressive recruitment" process among the leaders of various Force cults, Ikeru had walked an infinitely long and painstaking path toward embracing the Unified Force, absorbing the knowledge of the Light Side like a sponge. Even former Jedi, when they ended up at his temple, were amazed at how subtly he sensed the Force. And with what mastery he applied it in the field of alchemy.
Sith alchemy was simultaneously terrible and beautiful. This knowledge had been forgotten for millennia, but the Black Guard had gathered it bit by bit. Ikeru didn't make much of an impression as a guru of the Force's subtleties. But in practice, he made his students itch in all sorts of immodest places from sheer admiration. Because he performed real magic, altering the properties of physical objects, metals, and liquids. It was said he was the only one among all the temple masters, not counting Ashara herself, of course, who had found a way to approach the Guardsmen. And they, every now and then, would drag still-living specimens for experiments to his underground laboratories in Anil Kesh, the temple of natural science and alchemy. What happened to them next — no one knew. But it was unlikely to be anything good.
Red himself knew perfectly well what the young temple master was doing. He was turning bloodthirsty flashriders into bloodthirsty monsters. Which the Guardsmen then hunted. And the most promising students also took part in confronting an enemy that was significantly different from themselves.
True, the price of this knowledge had proven too high. One of the promising students, whom Red had planned to keep as a mentor in his Temple, had, at his request, wormed his way into Ikeru's confidence. And managed to find out what he needed the prisoners for. He honestly reported this to the former Zeison Sha, after which he said goodbye to him and began teaching at Anil Kesh.
Finally, it was Master Kaleth's turn. The only temple where absolutely all knowledge at the Order's disposal was gathered. And it was even rumored that Kaleth, unlike the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, could truly say, "If something isn't in my archives, then it doesn't exist in the world." Because, unlike the Jedi, the servants of Kaleth protected their information by every available means. Even the archive terminals were shielded from overwriting or erasure. So one had to think several times before entering any information into Kaleth's databanks.
"Your word is the last, Master." Of course, every one of those present had a name. Red just didn't bother remembering them since there was no need. Not that he had grown colder towards sentient beings after his son's death in the trials. No, everything was fair — Lady Tano had won according to Zeison Sha rules. Such things had happened more than once, and not in just one family. It was foolish to mourn someone you couldn't bring back. All that remained was to carry their memory until the end of your days.
"Yes, I understand," said the master of the Kaleth temple fussily. "I have no objection to the consecration of BoShek and Evgum as Imperial Knights. They have repeatedly proven their careful attitude toward the legacy and knowledge of the Order. But, exercising my right as a Temple Master, I would like to ask the Council to transfer Tasi Gree to Kaleth for the position of archive keeper. He is not a warrior; he is quiet and calm. His calling is not to fight, but to preserve and increase."
"Any objections?" Ashara inquired. There were none. Because the former Jedi truly had no future as a warrior or commander — he knew it himself. His talents lay in a completely different dimension. And that was to be respected.
"Then it's settled." Ashara rose, indicating that the meeting was over. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both Imperial Guardsmen flare with rage and pain in the Force. Without exchanging a word, they took the hilts of their lightsabers in their hands. One of them immediately began working on the door panel, removing the lock. Red noticed that despite her coloring and skin tone, the Togruta's face had darkened. And her breathing seemed to become ragged. "At dawn tomorrow, BoShek and Evgum will undergo the final trial, and the final decision will be made. Master of the Kaleth temple — the student Tasi Gree is placed at your disposal."
Then, without saying goodbye, Zavros quickly headed for the exit of the Council Hall, demanding the Guardsmen establish a connection with the Emperor.
"Looks like something's happened," Roberts thought. "And it looks like it has something to do with the permanent leader of the Order of Imperial Knights."
Something very unpleasant.