"Admiral Tigellinus!" Through the measured hum of the machinery, an officer's ear caught a shout from the comms compartment. "Urgent dispatch from army headquarters on Christophsis!"
Rufaan, deliberately ignoring the message that had rung out across the entire bridge, continued watching the flight control monitor without interruption. Leaning over the watch officer's shoulder, he observed as a red dot representing an enemy raider disappeared from the display. The Munificent, which had wandered into the Pantora system — whether out of stupidity or as a vanguard of an invasion force — was fleeing the Stiletto squadron's flagship at full throttle, blissfully unaware that what seemed like a perfect escape route through the upper layers of the moon's atmosphere had not caught the Republic commander off guard.
Squadrons of starfighters and Z-95 Headhunters, lying in ambush for the enemy, needed no further encouragement. A massive salvo of proton torpedoes — and the Separatist frigate broke apart. Too bad he couldn't see it with his own eyes and had to make do with telemetry data from the starfighters... Well, you can't always be in the thick of things.
"Inform Consul and Corvo that they performed admirably," he ordered.
"Sir, yes, sir," the operator replied, glancing at the commander. "The dispatch..."
"I have no issues with my hearing, Lieutenant," Rufaan said dryly. "You heard the order?"
"Yes, sir..."
"Then carry it out," the Admiral said, walking calmly toward the short ladder leading from the pit to the bridge's main level. The toes of his polished boots pointed toward the panoramic screen, behind which lay the already tiresome view of Pantora's snow-covered moon.
"Admiral?" The same voice sounded almost right at his ear — even his neck felt the hot breath. Interesting. So this character could run silently (there was no other way to cover the distance from the comms compartment to this part of the bridge in such a short time) but couldn't follow rank and the regulations? Fine. Just what kind of service personnel were under Declann's command? What were they even keeping such officers on the payroll for?
He could clearly hear the man — wearing a brand-new captain's uniform — breathing heavily as he walked beside him. The urgency was eating him alive, but nothing could justify such behavior. Behavior unbefitting a fleet officer.
And even if this freshly minted captain was one of the Christophsian volunteers trained by "private" contractors, that didn't earn him any leniency. The regulations were the same for everyone. After all, he wasn't one of those clones that arrived from Kamino, was he? The training level of the last clone generation provided to the Republic was, to put it mildly, limping on both legs. Soldiers were already telling jokes about it.
It seemed the Kaminoans had decided not to spend money on suitable instructors for the last batch, scraping together various mercenary riffraff through want ads. As a result, there wasn't a single commander in the entire Tenth Systems Army who had received clones from that generation into their unit or aboard their ship without cursing the long-necks up and down.
They knew everything a soldier was supposed to know. In peacetime. Otherwise, how else could you explain the fact that the new clones had been trained according to pre-war programs? Without accounting for the accumulated combat experience against specific CIS equipment models that were regularly sent from the fronts to Kamino so they could supplement the clone training programs, narrowing the gap in experience between veterans and rookies.
And the replacements acted as if they had never heard of the basic truths their older comrades had paid for in blood. Small wonder that one of the first units to arrive on Christophsis lost nearly half its personnel in its very first battle. Simply because the "replacements" didn't even know about the small-unit tactics, dispersed formations, and use of any available cover to prolong their mortal existence that had been implemented in the Gent (and throughout the GAR)... And that's just when talking about the infantry.
In the fleet, it was a complete... What, pray tell, can you expect from a new crew member who trained to operate the systems of an Acclamator? When he's going to serve on a completely different type of starship.
The only saving grace was that most systems on ships produced by Kuat Drive Yards weren't that different from each other. Fundamentally. But the minor refinements that came with each new series of Republic starships were enough to make rookies get lost at their battle stations. Which drastically reduced the effectiveness of such a crew member.
The strange, silent pair of officers reached the massive transparisteel "window." And only there, away from the ears of the crew, did Tigellinus, with his characteristic elegance and charismatic composure, turn on his heels to face his subordinate.
A moment ago, the young commander of his new Avatar (the previous flagship had met its end during the Battle of Exxarg) had looked resolute and proactive. Now he suddenly dropped his gaze.
"Sir..." his words hung in the air as he noticed the admiral examining his command plaques. "A dispatch..."
"You're not at a bazaar, Captain Lag," Rufaan said coldly. "This is the bridge of a warship. The flagship of a strike fleet. If you have information that, by duty, you need to convey to me, there's no need to shout across the entire compartment, sowing panic among the crew and displaying your ignorance of military etiquette. The regulations prescribe that you deliver this information to me in person. Might as well use loudspeakers — so that not a single sentient being on board misses it. I'm telling you this once and for all. Understood?"
"Perfectly, sir," the Christophsian said, embarrassed.
Tigellinus held the officer under his unblinking gaze for several more long seconds, wondering whether the man had truly absorbed the importance of the lesson, or whether a similar situation would follow in a couple of hours.
Then, with a sigh, he nodded: "I'm listening to your report."
"An encrypted order from the army headquarters on Christophsis..."
"Dimus," the Rear Admiral said calmly. "The Stiletto Fleet is a structural unit of the Gent System Army. I am aware of where our headquarters is located. As well as the fact that we cannot receive orders from any other headquarters or astronomical body. I advise you to remember that. I am a patient man, but if you intend to continue serving under my command, especially as the commander of a flagship — I suggest you avoid such blunders in the future."
"Yes, sir." Dimus swallowed noticeably, his Adam's apple twitching nervously. "Permission to continue?"
"Granted," Rufaan said. Unlike many of his colleagues from his previous post, he always had a fine sense of when to cross the invisible line between "trimming the fat" off subordinates and outright humiliation. In fact, that was why this conversation was happening between them in private, not becoming common knowledge for the entire bridge crew. Rumors spread fast. And undermining the authority of a young, inexperienced captain in front of his crew was too easy. But restoring it...
"Grand Moff Dougan failed to make contact at the scheduled time. All fleets are at readiness level two. Begin reconnaissance and search operations," Lag recited, as if reading from a card. Yes, eidetic memory in an officer was a rare asset. And a good one. "Signed by the Grand Moff's deputy, General Sekura."
"Relay to the fleet ships to deploy AIR units to all nearby sectors," the admiral ordered. "Report every hour. Upon detecting the Grand Moff's signal or enemy forces — immediate report."
"It will be done, sir." Dimus saluted and, with a brisk pace that didn't stand out from the general flow of activity on the bridge, headed for the communications compartment.
Meanwhile, Tigellinus, left alone with his thoughts, began to analyze. A habit that had appeared almost immediately after his transfer under Dougan's command.
So, regarding the fact that the Jedi had gone to confront the Separatist commander, practically everyone in the army knew. "Scuttlebutt" couldn't be silenced by any technical means.
Even though the Stiletto was based at the very edge of the Gent's area of responsibility, fresh news hadn't passed them by. The massacre on Hypori, Vreya, Baron Kirvan's ultimatum... All of it had arrived with a number of officers transferred by headquarters under Rufaan's command from the Blade Fleet. The very fleet that now existed only in headquarters records, its commander floating in a tank of bacta.
Dimus Lag, the former second officer on the flagship Telos, which had been shot down from orbit onto the planet's surface, turned out to be almost the only survivor from that ship. Command had promoted him to the next rank in view of his merits — first and foremost, he had been a deck officer on the cruiser, and his subordinates — the pilots — had performed admirably. Second, he had managed to fight his way with a squad of clones to the nearly captured central computer and destroy all the data. And this while the ship was swarming with enemy hordes. If that hadn't happened, who knows what harm the staff documents, plans, and dispositions of the entire system army, fallen into Separatist hands, could have caused?
So, the promotion to captain's rank was a completely justified reward. The other question was why, instead of an experienced officer, command had sent yesterday's assistant to Tigellinus's new flagship. Without any experience in independently commanding a starship larger than a patrol craft.
Disra, a friend and ally, continuing his ascent to the heights of a fleet career, had casually hinted to him that, for reasons unknown to the officer corps of Coruscant, the Chancellor's office had cooled toward Grand Moff Dougan. Everything seemed proper on the surface — they had transferred vast forces and resources to his disposal. But the transfers and appointments of command personnel — from simple midshipmen to ship commanders — for some "technical reasons" were not being coordinated. The "Reflex Amendment," passed by the Senate, which allowed the Chancellor to personally oversee military matters, had changed the procedure for moving officers between different armies. And now you couldn't just poach a talented officer for yourself so easily...
Rufaan was used to trusting his friend. He was cunning and resourceful enough to have access to the real state of affairs. After all, it wasn't for nothing that he had been urging Tigellinus to file a transfer request to any other system army. That meant something... strange was happening at the top.
The Rear Admiral couldn't say, hand on heart, that he found Jedi Dougan personally sympathetic. Primarily because Rufaan himself held extremely conservative views and didn't strive to conform to modern fashion for tolerant worldviews. But that was just a crude joke for gatherings with other fleet commanders.
In truth, Tigellinus had no intention of leaving the Gent for a completely different reason.
He liked serving under Dougan's command.
In the Gent, everything was measured, planned, calculated in advance. Even the loss of an entire fleet hadn't been a major problem — the army had hundreds of ships in reserve. Ships weren't thrown into suicidal attacks at the Jedi's command. Ground units worked closely with the fleet — not just within the framework of "hey, drop us off at the next planet." A battle brotherhood had formed between the two branches of the military. Where the army respected the fleet, and the fleet reciprocated.
There was no fuss, no needless sacrifices, no mindless throwing of bucket-heads at the enemy... Well, it did happen — through the fault of individual Jedi. Who almost immediately after that left the army.
This attitude toward service suited Rufaan just fine. Competent command allowed him not to worry about his career advancement. The proper bonuses for serving in remote regions of the galaxy came from the army budget regularly. The hardware was steadily updated.
Take, for example, Tigellinus's current flagship — a carrier destroyer of the Valiant-class. Traditionally named the Avatar. Its predecessor, after the Battle of Exxarg, was supposed to be scrapped — repairing it was pointless, cheaper to build a new one. The former flagship had met its glorious end in orbit over Hypori during the well-known operation.
And to replace the lost ship, the Gent had purchased from Cube Drives corporation — one of the Republic's long-standing partners and suppliers of military and civilian starships — the pilot series of Valiant-class carrier destroyers.
Externally, they resembled the Venators produced by Kuat Drive Yards. In fact, the Valiant had been patterned after that project. But, unlike its prototype, the latter wasn't intended for use as a universal ship. All its internal space had been converted into a hangar, protected by thick armor rivaling that of the Venator. The engineers at Cube Drives had significantly reworked the ship's weapon placement and power output schemes, resulting in not just a vessel capable of carrying more small craft (20 squadrons versus the Venator's 16), but also one with a greater number of turbolaser turret mounts and reliable anti-air coverage — the common weakness of Kuat's designs.
It seemed like a wonderful vessel, capable of at least partially compensating for the enemy's superiority in small craft over Republic ships. However, it turned out not to be so simple.
The manufacturing company had come under investigation by a Senate commission that uncovered evidence of developing and selling military equipment to the CIS. The corporation was mired in endless legal proceedings. Meanwhile, sanctions imposed by the Senate forbade Cube Drives from continuing the production of military equipment until the investigation concluded. The result was that the first batch of Valiants turned out to be the last. The Gent received two dozen carriers in varying degrees of readiness. Only two of them were completed and assigned to the fleets commanded by Tigellinus and Makati. The company delivered the remaining vessels to the orbit of Christophsis's moon, where locals were diligently building space docks and shipyards. Rumor had it that the corporation, in lieu of the customer pressing charges, had handed over all the technical documentation to the Grand Moff, and a significant portion of the company's personnel had changed jobs, settling in the Crystal City.
Whether that was actually the case or not, Rufaan didn't know. He could only state the fact that he now had a full-fledged strike carrier in his fleet. And he used every day of the lull for endless training drills.
Fortunately, today he had managed to apply that knowledge in practice without much risk.
The crew was barely meeting the standards set by command — despite the core crew being battle-hardened veterans, the "dilution" of the crew numbers with rookies was affecting overall effectiveness.
So, it could be said that the directive from headquarters had given him a freer hand in expanding the scope for maneuvers. After all, you could always go search for your commander in a carrier star destroyer supported by several Hammerheads.
And yet, one question kept bothering Rufaan.
Where are you, Grand Moff Dougan?
* * *
Almost all members of the assault groups that had landed on the dreadnought were gathered on the bridge of the Overlord. Commando squads: Omega, Delta, Ion Team, Aiwha, Yayax, Hurricane, Laskovyi Mai, Inferno... Yes, every single commando squad loyal to me personally had taken part in this operation. They had moved out in advance to the rendezvous point in disguised Furies, scouted the approaches and entry points aboard the dreadnought. All in all, considering we had captured one of the four largest CIS ships without suffering significant losses (at such thoughts, Kylie's young, smiling face rose before my eyes...), it could be considered that the idea of using only trusted and experienced commandos for this operation had paid off.
Only the truly green youngsters, like Vevat, or those whose trust had yet to be earned, remained at their deployment points. The same Muunilinst 10 squad, which had once distinguished itself with valiant actions on the eponymous planet. Even though they were brave guys, no less professional than the rest — after all, they had been trained by Mandalorians. Not by some wretches who had taken their place after the war began.
A stark confirmation of the decline in training quality was the Veshok commando squad. Third-generation clones, they had completed their training at the beginning of the second year of the war. And on every mission (of which they now had a grand total of five under their belts), the guys took casualties. Which infuriated the other commandos, who weren't used to, like sport bike enthusiasts, noting significant changes in their composition at every meeting. Therefore, a significant portion of the replacements ended up languishing on training bases, where veterans mercilessly drilled the "youngsters," by hook or by crook hammering into their heads not just the basics of combat (that, God bless them, the current instructors on Kamino had already managed to do), but also the experience gained throughout the entire past period.
This same experience, oddly enough at first glance, also had to be absorbed by clones arriving from the "reserves" of sector command. Despite being mostly fighters from the first two generations, they had hardly participated in battles, burdened only with guard duty.
That's how simply and elegantly the plan to acquire a multi-million army of professional soldiers turned into yet another uphill struggle. Well, that's a tenth and routine matter.
Standing apart in the captured dreadnought's control room were the Nulls with their permanent leader, Kal Skirata. They had joined us quite recently — they had delivered Kylie's body aboard the Fury we had arrived on. A little further off, lined up in a row facing the view screen, stood the fair half of the task force: Lady Carsen, Lady Grell, Lady Atroxa, Lady Hexid, Lady Simi, Lady Morne with her apprentice Sariss. A pair of Dashades, returned with dissatisfied faces, were gloomily whispering behind my back — the assassins had managed to escape from them, using a miraculously surviving CIS transport. Little brother, tirelessly repairing the bridge equipment that had been destroyed to smithereens. He was helped by several clones from among the commandos — don't put your finger in an engineer's mouth, just give them something to repair.
However, now — when the four-kilometer dreadnought was drifting in the cloudless sky of a peaceful-looking little planet enclosed within the massive Monolith of Mortis — my thoughts were not at all about Sidious's trap.
But about what the coming day held for me.
"You know something about what's going on, don't you?" asked Adi, sitting next to me.
"What makes you think that?"
"You were the least surprised by what happened," she explained. "Especially when that structure effortlessly pulled the Overlord inside."
"Let's start with the fact that in this galaxy, there can only be one super-destroyer with that name," I remarked, not taking my eyes off my task — wiping blood spatters and smears from my mask and armor with the edge of my mantle. "And this creation of a gloomy Separatist genius is clearly smaller in size. From now on, this dreadnought is called the Black Lord."
"Suppose that has something to do with the fact that practically the entire hull of the ship is covered in scorch marks," Gallia nodded. "But you're dodging the question..."
"I'm trying my best to postpone the moment when I'll have to start talking about just what kind of mess we've gotten ourselves into," I had to admit.
"However, it's inevitable," Adi countered.
"I know."
"Maybe it's worth telling us then? If we're in danger, we should prepare."
"I'm not sure we can," another unpleasant admission.
"Are there any enemies left in the galaxy that you couldn't defeat or fuck?" the Tholothian inquired without humor.
"You have no idea how many there are..."
"And yet?" Adi persisted.
"You'd even get a dead man to talk," I sighed, getting to my feet. "Everyone, attention!"
Those gathered, looking up from their activities, silently stared at me. The clones formed up sharply, the way soldiers do — in separate, tidy groups with a leader at the front. The Force-sensitives regarded what was happening with coldly polite, deferential interest. And every single one of them was devouring me with their eyes.
Brrr... an interesting sensation. After the Battle of Christophsis, I'd felt something similar when the fighters of the 204th Legion, along with the local population, were devouring me with their eyes. Now, the feeling was... only slightly weaker. Just the audience was thousands of times smaller. Funny... maybe it's related to the fact that the Force wasn't penetrating through the monolith, closing in on itself inside? Hmm... I'd wager the Force can't reach us from outside either. Unpleasant, but not fatal.
Still — unexpected again. Because if the Monolith was blocking the spread of the Force beyond its boundaries (and knowing what kind of inhabitants traversed the vast expanses of the Far, Far Away inside it, it wasn't hard to conclude that such technical solutions weren't accidental, but solely to hide the aura of the Family's power from the rest of the galaxy), then questions might arise in the Empire. Because I was connected to my Hands, Guardsmen, and Wrath through Force Bonds. I can't imagine what's going on in the heads of Ashara (the only one of the Hands who didn't take part in the glorious event of seizing movable property from the rich and expropriating it for the even richer), the Guardsmen, Voss... It's high time I seriously got down to stabilizing the political situation in the Empire, otherwise, if the Emperor disappears from view for a bit, who knows what it might lead to. Ah, if only I had my own Dark Council... And a competent governor for Zakuul, otherwise I'm afraid the Guard, whose shoulders have shouldered the responsibility for the core Imperial planets, will soon turn from an elite Force-user unit into a jack-of-all-trades...
Well, these are worthwhile thoughts, but untimely. Damn comedown from the Dark Side... Completely the wrong things are crowding into my head.
"The place we are currently in is the Monolith of Mortis," I said. "An extremely nasty place, given the nature and obsession of its inhabitants."
"Who are we going to be dealing with, Emperor?" asked Kal Skirata. The old man, behind whom, like a blocking detachment, stood six Nulls, looked outwardly extremely calm, almost relaxed. Although the Force told me the Mandalorian was extremely focused, tense, ready to absorb information. He strongly disliked the situation we were all in. And the same reaction was present in his "children" Ordo, Prudii, A'den, Meerel, Jaing, and Kom'rk, adopted by the elderly warrior back on Kamino. The other clones — both Alphas and regular commandos — were treating the situation quite reservedly. Though, not all of them...
"Whoever it is," one of the clones said acidly, but with a hint of anticipation, "we will commit him to the fire in the Empire's name."
"Sinner," the already familiar, gloomy, and unsmiling Necromancer said quietly, elbowing his comrade in the ribs. "Shut up, for goodness' sake."
Scattered chuckles and smiles broke out among those gathered. Yes, this commando, named Sinner, had managed to lighten the mood. Judging by the color scheme of his armor — matte black with red flame patterns on the shoulders (I needed to give a good talking-to to whoever came up with the nickname "Infiltrator" for this replica of the Desolation squad's armor from the Galactic Wars era), which was worn by the clones of only one squad among all — this guy was clearly from Inferno. Led by Captain Korr, these guys — like the aforementioned Necromancer — specialized in total extermination of their targets, bringing light, goodness, and democracy to their enemies by burning everything flammable and blowing up everything fireproof. In short — nice, friendly guys. There were only three of them, for several reasons. First, Kamino no longer had the capacity to churn out commandos. The embryos were gone. And on the planet itself, after the contract with the Republic for clone production had been terminated, a total overhaul of the production base was underway — the cloning facilities were being upgraded fiercely and rapidly. Naturally, they would only get Spaarti cylinders over my dead body — it wouldn't do for a planet to have the ability to produce millions of clones in two weeks. We all remember the Clone Revolution seven years after the proclamation of the New Order in the events I know of. Given that the Kaminoans had "stashed away" a "little bit" of ARCs and reactive clone soldiers, which they turned against the Empire, I wouldn't be surprised if Lama Su was currently trying a similar scenario with me. At least, he'd try to hold back some of the cloned soldiers "just in case." Especially in the current situation.
Second, the Gent's directives allowed independent units, i.e., commando squads, to fill their ranks at the commander's discretion. And, by all appearances, Korr had only found one fighter since our meeting. Oh well. They'd manage, they weren't boys, after all.
"Despite all the jokes and laughter, the matter isn't as simple as it seems at first glance," I said, pointing a hand at the view screen. "The Family lives on this planet."
Seeing the lack of understanding on the faces of those present, I clarified: "Everyone knows about the Celestials? Also known as the Ones. Also known as the Architects." Catching a glimmer of understanding from most of the Force-sensitives, I added, "There's a hypothesis that the Family are the last of them."
"Well, shit," Lady Simi said.
"Um... is it that bad?" Balda asked, scratching his head.
"Worse than if a Death Star were hanging outside the hull, or if we'd dropped in on the Yuuzhan Vong," I lamented. "The Celestials, in case anyone didn't know, are behind the creation of the Corellian star system. Centerpoint Station was their flight of fancy. Of course, the construction was made possible thanks to millions of slaves, for which they used most of the races populating the galaxy known during their time."
"Sir, are they that ancient?" Alpha asked grimly.
"Older than a terentatek's shit," Celeste commented. "In its time, the Covenant believed that the Maw Cluster was a creation of the Celestials, but no evidence for that was ever found. Only pseudo-scientific hypotheses from mad scientists, based on extremely rare finds from their period of dominance in the galaxy."
"So maybe it'll blow over?" suggested one of the Alpha fighters. "We touch them, and they'll just fall apart..."
"Who said that?" The aforementioned ARC trooper spun sharply to face the fighters behind him. "Private Joker?" Drawing his thumb across his throat, looking straight at his joker of a soldier, Alpha-17 turned toward me. "Sorry, sir, it won't happen again."
"Granted," I shrugged, casting a sad glance at the serene sky of Mortis. "I forgive everything to dead men..."
The pause that hung in the air betrayed the tension that had appeared in the Force among my grateful audience. Ah, it's hard to joke in the company of clones. Especially in my status. Not everyone gets sarcasm yet.
"Alright, live, Joker," I allowed. "And yes, you're wrong. The Family are perhaps the most outstanding users of the Force that have ever existed in the galaxy. And I'd bet a couple of my clones that we ended up here not because of a restart of the dreadnought's systems."
"You think it's a trap, sir?" the commander of Omega squad darkened.
"Rather, the opposite. A polite invitation to visit. Only, I'm afraid, it might not end quite the way we want."
"Not entirely clear," Nadia said. "Are they friends or..."
"Can friends be those who enslaved everyone they encountered on their path?" I clarified. "The same ones who've lived for millennia but done nothing to quell the shit-stirring in the galaxy? As far as I remember, after encountering the Celestials, civilizations had two paths — become slaves or burrow underground waiting for the day the whole nightmare would pass them by. I'm surprised you haven't heard of them before..."
"Only the general points," Kira spoke up in defense of the other Hands. "It wasn't the time to study galactic history."
"Then it's worth getting to know each other better," came a saccharinely sweet voice from behind me, nearly launching me to the ceiling from the shock. I spun around, activating both my blades before I even realized it. The other Force-sensitives did the same. And the clones trained their weapons on the Daughter, who had appeared behind me from who knows where, simultaneously moving around the bridge to take up suitable cover in case of a brawl.
It was funny to watch the faces of both Dashades. Judging by the expressions on their muzzles, they were no less surprised than I was at such a sudden appearance. Which meant the sweetheart had materialized right in the bridge. Powerful kung-fu. Stronger than mine. And a subtle hint of superiority along with it.
Adi, alone among everyone, had chosen to diplomatically refrain from displaying a warlike temperament. Oh, these Jedi formalities.
But it was on the Tolothian that the celestial being focused her gaze. She studied her as if she intended to eat her for lunch. And only after that did she turn her visage, gleaming with the Light Side, in my direction.
"There's no need to show aggression, Emperor Dougan," she said with a slight smile. "There are no enemies for you here."
"Do you know her?" Gallia asked.
"I wouldn't say personally," I admitted. "But if I'm not mistaken, you are the Daughter."
"You know you're not mistaken," she said, her cutesy smile starting to annoy me. "Father would like to see you at our humble abode for an upcoming meal. He can't wait to speak with you in person."
"We graciously accept your invitation," the Tolothian said, stepping forward. "I am Adi Gallia, Master of the Jedi Order..."
"I know who you really are, Master Gallia," the Daughter said coldly. "And I'm not in the habit of conversing with servants when their masters are present."
"What a pretentious brat," Kira's voice reached me. The Daughter twitched an eyebrow, and the next moment, a piece of mangled terminal painfully smacked the former Jedi Knight on the head. "Ow!"
"Tell Father that I have other matters and plans for today," I said peacefully, while simultaneously instructing all the Force-sensitives through our bond in the battle meld to take a waiting position in the dialogue. "So I would appreciate it if he..."
"This is not a request," the Daughter stated. "I don't advise making him wait."
With those words, the airy — and, truth be told, eye-catching — girl dissolved into the air. Ah, despite everything, her appearance was cute. Ah, Anikey Skywalkered, you called the wrong lady an angel.
The air filled with the sounds of deactivated lightsabers. As if someone had entered an airlock.
"What was all that about?" Adi frowned. "Quite a chaotic first meeting..."
"They made it very clear who's in charge here," Skirata said.
"And they hinted quite transparently that our appearance here is by no means accidental," I said grimly. Yes, it seemed my guess about the suddenly malfunctioning hyperdrive was correct. And I didn't like that one bit. "And they made it almost explicitly clear what the possible unfavorable consequences would be."
"What are we going to do?" Adi frowned. She, like the other Force-sensitives, now fit the term "perplexed" better. Though... if I remembered what had happened between us, "concerned" was also fitting.
"Take the ship out of the atmosphere," I said. Skirata, on whom I stopped my gaze, nodded in agreement. "We need to repair all possible defense and attack systems."
"Is a battle expected?" the commander of Delta Squad, Boss, asked grimly.
"In this galaxy, even peaceful negotiations can turn into a bloody slaughter," I said, forced to show off my knowledge of the Expanded Universe.
"Balda," I said, looking at the commander of the Laskovyi May squad. "Scour the ship — I need a shuttle for descent to the surface."
"It will be done," the ARC trooper nodded silently to his men, and the commandos disappeared from sight, almost sprinting toward the turbolift.
"Wouldn't it be better to use one of the Furies?" Atroxa asked.
I shook my head negatively.
"I really don't want some bloodthirsty creature to get its hands on a ship with a hyperdrive. And also. Kira, Nadia, Celeste — I have a very special task for you."
* * *
A'Sharad knew the terrain no worse than the clones, but he let them move ahead of him. After all, the soldiers of the 95th Reconnaissance Corps had shown themselves in the best light. Stubborn, almost meticulous, competent, agile — these clones had elevated his perception of the soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic to a new level. The mere fact that, despite the corps' specialization in reconnaissance and sabotage, they smashed the enemy with equal skill using both ambushes and the routine skirmishes with enemy forces that had become typical on New Cov, spoke volumes about these guys' professionalism.
However, now they needed to act stealthily. Being detected behind enemy lines, at a considerable distance from the main clone forces, was not the best way to spend the evening. Force forbid the Confederates suspected something and moved their headquarters. Then they'd have to search for their commander all over the planet. While today he would definitely be in a specific place at a specific time.
Why a tactical super droid — as the GAR called the new type of CIS command droid — would personally be present at one of the second-line defense outposts, no one knew. But missing such an opportunity would be extremely foolish. A single strike to decapitate the enemy command meant winning half the battles. Because no matter how obedient the Separatist soldiers were, the lack of a clear chain of command always left them at a loss. Xiaan Amersu — his... close friend and, concurrently, a Jedi familiar with the headquarters strategists — had once said that a study of CIS droid software showed that identifying their commander was programmed as one of their top priorities. But the mandatory destruction of the enemy was lower in significance. Therefore, by depriving them of command, one could always count on having a few minutes' head start in the upcoming Republic offensive. And minutes in battle sometimes decide everything.
"Half a klick to the target, sir," a clone with the markings of a Marshal Commander appeared nearby. Iv'an, it seemed, was his name.
"Excellent," Hett smiled. "So, very soon."
"Yes, sir, a voice came from under the helmet. The clone, whose armor was covered in various shades of green, slowed slightly, joining the trailing group of the squad following close behind.
Yes, a strange fellow. A corps commander, and he wades into the thick of it. Strange behavior for clones in command positions. Or did he want to prove that the plan Hett had proposed was unfeasible without his involvement?
The Tusken-raised man just smirked.
Yeah, right. Found a smart guy here.
"Sir! I am categorically against this operation! We cannot be sure of the veracity of the prisoner of war's words!" that was roughly what Iv'an had said when Hett laid out his plan.
The idea — to destroy the enemy commander and use the droid's confusion for a subsequent offensive — was not new in essence. They'd pulled it off more than ten times in the Gent system alone. So what? Simple and effective.
The bloody battle on New Cov had already cost considerable casualties. Commodore Zsinj's Rapier Fleet had been thoroughly mauled in an exhausting multi-day battle with the Separatists. The latter were commanded by some Muun from among the former servicemen of the Banking Clan. You'd think, where would a former banker get a talent for maneuvering large space formations?
But no. He had one. And not just — overwhelming the Republic forces with mass — but a very skillful tactic. So elegant that the not-so-numerous fleet defending New Cov had already broken the teeth of the Blade and Shield fleets under Admirals Syn and Teshik, who had each left over half their ships in orbit of this otherwise unremarkable world, and were now licking their wounds in orbit of the planet Linuri, located south along the Corellian Trade Route.
In fairness, it must be said that Zsinj was really lucky. His fleet was little different from the previous two — both in quantity and quality. A single Venator as a flagship, outdated Hammerheads as the main strike force, and Marauders serving as light support ships. Zsinj, full of strength and suffering no losses in ships or men, simply finished off the Muun, most of whose fleet had already been brutally shredded by previous attacks. What was so elegant and clever about sending his flagship and troop ships ahead of the main force, luring most of the undamaged Munificents to such a tempting target, and then bringing the main part of the fleet into the system behind their backs, first wiping them out with massed missile salvos from the Marauders, and then methodically "chewing up" the remaining cripples in orbit of the planet? Hett saw nothing unusual in it.
Did it sting that Zsinj — an ordinary man, albeit a high-ranking one — had rejected Hett's advice for a crude and violent all-out invasion? Yes. Because it was insulting when the army command harshly suppressed Jedi interference in fleet affairs. "You command a corps, right? Then command it. On the ground. And don't meddle in strategic matters."
Perhaps that was why Hett was eager to quickly conclude the ground operation that had barely begun.
The Separatists fought desperately. In the two days since the battle, they had thrown wave after wave at the bridgehead held by Republic forces, but each time they fell back with massive losses. Even the mercenaries — organics fighting for the CIS — didn't help them.
But they did help the Jedi.
In the sense that several captured Aqualish mercenaries told the Jedi, whose face was covered in tattoos, that they had once been the personal guard of the CIS ground commander — a combat tactical super droid. And they honestly told him about its habit of being at a relatively safe distance from the front lines — for a better understanding of the situation at the front. The most valuable informant turned out to be a commander of one of the mercenary squads, who reported when and at which exact outpost the notorious Aut-O would appear.
Yes, as it turned out, super droids, like clones, had a habit of taking unique names for themselves.
Anyway, one way or another, today this tin can's time was up.
No matter how much the corps commander objected to Hett's plan. Nor Knight Keto, whose 63rd Assault Corps had arrived as reinforcements. "To consolidate and develop the success," that was how the commander of the 63rd Corps, LeshKa, quoted Aayla Secura's order, who was temporarily substituting for the Grand Moff.
The smiling face of this battle-hardened clone had started to irritate Hett almost from the first moments. He hadn't been fighting for just a day, but his jokes and relatively easygoing nature — an obvious defect in the clone's program of obedience and compliance — he just wouldn't let go of. Especially, this marshal "blossomed" in the presence of his commander — the pretty, fragile, but nevertheless deadly Sera Keto. A former student of Drallig — a true monster on the battlefield. Her skill with two blades was simply mesmerizing. A'Sharad had picked up some elements from sparring with her, improving his own style. After all, a second sword could always come in handy.
One way or another, Hett perceived this raid behind enemy lines as a kind of vacation — an opportunity to rest from the daily routine of a frontline military unit. To clear his head.
And also — to grab a small piece of glory for himself.
The jungle he and the company of soldiers had been pushing through for the last two hours suddenly ended, giving way to a spacious clearing, in the center of which lay the buildings of the outpost. Nothing remarkable — a massive headquarters building in the very center, topped with a satellite dish. A couple of smaller structures, an improvised landing pad for transport ships. Several droid patrols. No searchlights, no heightened combat readiness...
Perfect circumstances for a small, daring feat.
Crouching behind lush bushes, along with the members of his squad, Hett smiled, thinking how romantic it would be when he presented the tactical super droid's head as a gift to Xiaan. The Rutian Twi'lek had always been an impressionable girl, but she also knew how to enjoy the little things. It was this simplicity and directness that attracted the Tusken-raised man to this lovely Twi'lek.
Yes, it might seem that his promise — to unconditionally follow Jedi traditions and customs — had been broken. For Jedi were not allowed to love. And Xiaan constantly reminded him of that. Hett listened and agreed, burying his feelings deeper. Acknowledging the need to follow the Order's ideals. For the sake of victory in the war.
Everything changed after the Council assigned them to the Tenth Systems Army. Here, Xiaan had many acquaintances and friends she hadn't seen for a long time. Aayla Secura was the most prominent figure in Amersu's current circle. At her request, the Rutian didn't hesitate to put her corps on alert and set off to rescue Dougan — who had fallen (through his own shortsightedness!) into an ambush! The same Dougan they whispered about in the Temple. Talked about on the HoloNet. Even in the moments they spent alone, Xiaan often remembered this Jedi Master. In a completely innocent context — oh, what a fine fellow he was, he liberated an entire system, saved an army from starvation by capturing Ukio, exposed slave traders, got rid of more than one Dark Acolyte of Count Dooku, entered the Council at such a young age...
Jealousy drove Hett to this step. The desire to regain the attention of his close girl. A'Sharad, who would single-handedly capture New Cov (immediately after destroying the Separatist commander, Iv'an would transmit a coded signal, and Republic forces would begin their offensive, sweeping droids from their path), would instantly become the topic of discussion. And would regain Xiaan's attention.
Pressing the macrobinoculars to his visor, Iv'an studied the terrain.
"I count twelve sentries," he reported to Hett. "All B-1 models."
"Three sentient technicians are hiding on the far side of the outpost," the Jedi added, listening to the Force.
He didn't need macrobinoculars to determine that there were sentients at the facility: not just technicians, but also heavily armed mercenary languishing in the nearest buildings. Fifty — a trivial matter, even considering there was no less than a battalion of B-1s at the facility. For the recon scouts attached to him, it was a trivial matter.
Letting go of thoughts and emotions, Hett opened himself up more to the Force. He believed the Force would guide him as long as he was firm in his decisions and didn't succumb to anger. The Dark Side had already been in his life. Not the brightest memories were associated with it. Therefore, he carefully avoided uncontrolled emotions, reciting the Jedi Code to himself.
So, all that remained was to determine the style of attack.
Eliminating the guards was merely a pressing necessity.
Aut-O was definitely in the main building. If he wanted, he could run to the building in five seconds. The clones — a few seconds longer. Basically, everything suited him — when he burst into the administrative building and destroyed everyone there, including their commander, only a small task remained — covering the retreating Jedi.
Briefly outlining his plan to the marshal, he listened to another lecture on the theme of "Sir, there's clearly something wrong here! Too little security for the defense of such an important figure in the CIS world!" Oh, not this tedious conversation again!
"We'll do as I said," Hett said sternly. "No freelancing! Strictly and according to plan!"
"As you command," Iv'an said with feigned indifference. He exchanged glances with the nearest clones, but they remained silent. They only raised their weapons, taking aim at pre-selected targets.
At the marshal's command, they carefully picked off the nearest sentries with aimed shots, and then, taking cover from return fire, began a methodical elimination of the remaining living mercenaries and droids. At the same time, the Republic sabotage squad surged forward rapidly.
Despite his sometimes weakened connection with the Light Side due to strong indulgence in rage in the past, Hett was still a master of martial arts; nearly thirty years of intense training had honed his reflexes and turned his body into a true machine, full of speed and power. The Force pointed out sources of potential threat, the green blade cut through the thick air, deflecting shots, severing limbs. Time slowed down, allowing him to feel every energy bolt, every swing of the vibroknives the mercenaries wielded. His unerring sense of purpose warned him of every threat and allowed him to neutralize it in the best possible way.
One by one, the opponents fell victim to his strikes. One droid collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut; steam rose from its melted circuits. One mercenary staggered back with a groan: his chest smoked from a deep gash, and blood didn't seep from the vessels seared by the blade, baked by contact with the energy weapon.
Another, who jumped out right in front of him with a heavy repeater, the Jedi beheaded.
He felt the presence of the clones, lagging a few dozen meters behind him, confronting the enemy with equal success; the hiss of their laser shots interspersed with the steady hum of the outpost's generator.
One of the droids burst into flames, spraying a fountain of shrapnel.
Hett managed to dodge as a hail of molten metal fragments splashed across the face and shoulders of one of the technician-mercenaries, who had appeared out of nowhere in his path. The Neimoidian's face was a mask of terror, his mouth open in a silent scream. The Jedi, without slowing his pace, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and impaled him on the energy blade.
Dodging a crimson burst fired by someone, he noticed two more technicians running away, saving their Separatist lives. He wouldn't have minded letting them go, but Iv'an showed no such mercy, dropping them mid-run just a few meters from the saving entrance to the main building.
The tension of the battle was waning.
Hett looked around with a smile. The clearing was a battlefield, strewn with the corpses of mercenaries and pieces of destroyed droids. In several places, the bodies of clones were visible, but they were negligible. Compared to the losses among the soldiers at the beginning of the war, what they had now was insignificant.
"Cover me," he said to Iv'an, who had come up. "I'm going after the droid."
"Yes, sir, General," the clone replied, immediately relaying orders to his subordinates to take the most suitable positions for possible defense. Excellent. The rear was securely covered.
The Jedi smirked at the situation. So simple.
Hett's breathing and pulse were rapid, but there was nothing wrong with that. However, for a second, his concentration wavered, and his vigilance was lost.
The trembling blade of a knife belonging to one of the mercenaries, lurking in the darkness of the doorway leading into the main bunker, missed his body by centimeters. The Jedi spun on his heels and knocked the opponent down, simultaneously depriving him of his left foot. The mercenary howled, his eyes wide with terror, and in an involuntary swing of both arms, he grazed the lightsaber blade. Severed fingers fell to the floor with a barely audible sound.
A short swing — and the beheaded, crippled mercenary merged with the Force.
Hett, swift as a starfighter, charged down the corridors, multiplying any droids he encountered by zero. He paid no attention to the locked doors lining the main passage on either side — his target was in the farthest room straight down the hall.
Finally, when the target was reached, A'Sharad unlocked the door with a smirk and stepped into the semi-darkness of the command center.
"Aut-O, I've come for you!" he said with a barely noticeable grin.
There weren't many droids inside — just a couple of B-1 units and a tall, significantly more massive tactical super droid. It stood at a holoterminal, not looking away from a conversation with a holographic figure in a cloak with an uncovered head.
"As I understand it, Knight A'Sharad Hett?" Count Dooku inquired lazily.
"Confirmed, my Lord," Aut-O droned, activating some device on his forearm. "Right on schedule."
Hett felt something was wrong. The sound of several doors opening simultaneously reached his ears from behind. Turning around, the Jedi saw numerous droids beginning to pour out of the previously blocked passages — B-2s, droidekas... And they all moved in the direction he had come from. Only a few, from the very nearest room, headed towards him. And while there were only five of them, every single one was a MagnaGuard.
The man tried to calm his rebellious mind. Turning to the droid with the clear intention of finishing it off, he distantly noticed that numerous lights were starting to turn on under the ceiling, pulling from the darkness the bodies of other droids, designed specifically for fighting Jedi.
"Welcome to the trap, Knight Hett," Dooku said in a matter-of-fact tone. A'Sharad took a sliding step to the side, but almost instantly, a brilliant white light flared under his feet and above his head, and electric currents pierced his body, robbing him of consciousness.
* * *
The massive structure atop the cliff, with a huge, glowing crystal casting reflections through the impenetrable darkness for many kilometers around — the place where Anakin Skywalker had once first met the Father — made the impression of a monumental mausoleum. And inside, this feeling only intensified — thanks to the icy, tomb-like lighting.
Leaving the shuttle on the landing pad before the entrance, I slowly ascended the steps, stepping under the arches of the Father's abode.
Everything here was saturated with the Force. Mighty, inexhaustible. It felt like you could breathe it in, or scoop it up in handfuls.
Like a young stellar giant, at the far end of the platform leading from the entrance to the central area, sat the Father in a meditation pose. Even sitting, he towered over me by a couple of heads. A sort of Hyperborean from the super-fantastical theories on the Ren-TV channel.
The old man silently meditated, his eyes closed. I stood before him, peering into his serene face. He seemed completely unafraid of what was happening. And this — despite the fact that he obviously had a very accurate idea of who I was. It wasn't for nothing that the Daughter had called me Emperor.
"Greetings, my friend," his black eyes with green pupils carefully examined me from head to toe.
"We are not friends, Father," I shook my head.
"Is that so?" Even though it was a question, it was uttered without the slightest intonation. A voice that seemed to be expelled by thousands of mouths. I shuddered at the resemblance to Vitiate. He spoke exactly the same way. "I thought we were working towards the same goal."
"I am fighting against the mutual extermination of sentients in this galaxy. You, on the other hand..."
"Both you and I act in the name of the Balance," the Father said didactically. "Each with our own methods."
"Your method is to watch year after year as the galaxy sinks deeper into the chaos of civil war?" I clarified. "Because, based on what I know about you — Celestials are real assholes."
"Yes, you know a lot," the old man rose to his feet. "That's obvious, given your origins. Yes, I know that you came from another universe. Through the efforts of a certain extremely ambitious and vile creature."
"That's all sophistry," I cut him off. "Unlike you, Vitiate is at least doing something to stop the bloodshed."
"His methods are crude," the Father said. "To absorb the life in the galaxy in order to reshape it according to his will. To conquer the galaxy and impose his own order. Both previous attempts ended in failure. Why should I believe his current plan is any different from the previous ones? All he does is merely seize power over the galaxy. The creation of my kin and ancestors. To satisfy his own egoism."
"Hmm. So the theories that the Celestial River was created entirely by your hands are true?"
"Your desire to obtain even more information, even in a situation like this, is commendable," the smirk on the Father's face chilled me to the bone. "But that hypothesis is incorrect. The galaxy formed without the intervention of the Architects. We only... tweaked it a little."
"Centerpoint Station and the Maw installation," I nodded. "The Corellian system and the Maw cluster."
"And not only those," the Celestial said meaningfully. "But you're right, those objects are the fruits of our labor."
"More precisely, the fruits of your slaves' labor," I corrected. "Let's not forget that you conquered civilizations, turning them into your slaves."
"And don't you do the same?" the Father asked, pacing slowly around me. "You recruit allies, you dig into the minds of those who doubt, pushing them towards a decision favorable to you. You openly subjugate some."
"All of this is for the good of the ultimate goal."
"And yet, you condemn actions in others that are analogous to yours, just on a larger scale," the Father jabbed. "Double standards? Frankly, I expected you to be happy to meet me. After all, you already know much about my children and the role we play in the galaxy."
"Well yes, I do know. The family — the last of the Celestials. The Son — the embodiment of the Dark Side, the Daughter — the Light. And you maintain the balance between them. A miniature embodiment of what happens in the galaxy," I recounted what I knew languidly.
"Precisely. This system has been flawless for hundreds of tens of thousands of years. But now you appear in it — an unknown variable."
"So that's why my ship ended up here. You wanted to see the new creature in your zoo for yourself. Ah, and my clones were worried it was their fault. Well, I'll go cheer them up, shall I?"
"The comparison is crude, but accurate," my interlocutor nodded. "The Son has twice already sent you clear signals and hints about meeting with us, but you chose to ignore them."
"Your Son chose an extremely extravagant method for transmitting information," I shrugged. "A Sith meditation sphere as a relay...""
"Our powers are great. No sentient can survive direct communication with us, even across parsecs. That's why this particular method was chosen. Fortunately, this primitive device has been floating around this remote system for millennia."
"Oh, so we're in the Kesh system, then?" I said in surprise. Seeing the Father's impassive gaze, I explained: "I only know two places where such spheres existed. Ziost — but the spheres there are already... in use. And Kesh, of course."
"You think logically," the Father praised. "And yes, you're right. The Monolith is in the Kesh system. A little whim of my Son's."
"Maybe we could stop beating around the bush?" I asked impatiently. I hadn't liked this conversation from the start. And with every new sentence from the Father, I liked it even less. "Tell me what you wanted to say, and I'll be on my way with my friends. I've got a mountain of things to do, you know."
"Impatience is a sin of youth," the Father sighed. "Having lived several thousand years, you begin to understand that rushing leads to nothing good. Your teacher could have imparted this wisdom to you. Instead, he prefers you to learn the hard way yourself."
"Valkorion demonstrates his loyalty to my decisions, allows me to gain life experience in this galaxy on my own."
"Not everything is as you wish to see it, young Egor." The Father clasped his hands behind his back, stopping and looking at the single doorway, beyond which streaks of snow-white lightning flashed across the gloomy sky. "He could have passed on his wisdom to you in a less extravagant manner. Vitiate is capable of remaining in the real world for extended periods, slipping out of the Void. But he's afraid."
"Of whom? Palpatine? The Jedi?"
"Of us," the Father said confidently. "Of me and my children. He knows that his past misdeeds nearly destroyed the system, and so — if we catch him, we will easily return his spirit to where it belongs."
"So what's the problem?" I asked. "He visits my head. Every now and then."
"He doesn't stay long. He knows that his energy is like a magnet for us. And the moment the Monolith heads toward where he appears, the Emperor runs. Hides. Doesn't want to face responsibility for his crimes."
"That was almost four thousand years ago. Hasn't the statute of limitations run out?"
"Crimes against the system we created have no statute of limitations," the Father said harshly. "There is no forgiveness for him. He knows this, which is why his third attempt to reshape the existing order is taking so long. He recruits supporters. Lays the bricks of his future triumph. Piece by piece, he builds his Plan. Millennia of preparation, so that you could appear. A beautiful and powerful tool in his hands. And despite his obvious cheating, the main conditions have been met. Only slightly manipulated by him."
"Can you be even more cryptic?" I said, a pleading look in my eyes. "It's just so mind-blowingly incomprehensible and meaningful that I'm about to burst into tears, and my brains are going to liquefy and dribble out of my ears."
"I see your thoughts, Egor," the Father reminded me. "Why bother with explanations? I know your hypotheses and guesses about us. And I can't help but say they're false. Perhaps this is exactly why Vitiate chose your consciousness for his plans."
"To be honest, I'm completely lost," I had to admit the obvious. "My head is about to explode from all this 'I know that you know' stuff. Could you try, just once in your life, to answer normally? Say, just go ahead and explain how things actually are. Who knows, maybe I'll get on board with your ideas, and we can take out Vitiate together. And continue the glorious work of the Architects. Whatever nonsense you're up to here."
"Raking up the past will lead nowhere," the Father countered. "What's done is done. The past, unlike the future, cannot be changed. We must act together to unravel your Teacher's schemes and return the system to its natural state."
"The system, the system, the system," I grumbled. "You talk as if the galaxy is for you..."
The Father gave me a long, penetrating look.
"Correct thought. I believe it is precisely the accuracy of your reasoning that made Vitiate use you. You are clever enough to act independently."
"Don't try to sweet-talk me, old man!" I snapped. "The entire galaxy is just an experiment to you? That's the thought you saw in my head, and you confirmed it?!"
"Not an experiment. A system. An experience. A test. Call it what you will," the Father said impassively. "I can see your indignation. Let me clarify everything."
"Well, try, if you want me on your side."
"Many years ago, my race arrived in this galaxy with one single purpose," the Father said. "To observe the development of life. Our own past has long since faded into oblivion, and our own age is coming to an end. My children and I are the last representatives of the Architects. And we must bear responsibility for the stability of this system."
"In simple terms, the Celestial River is an ant farm to you. Where you can, with a clear conscience, watch how life develops..."
"And find our ideological successors," the Father agreed. "Those who, after our death, will continue to maintain the Balance. Who will not allow the Force to overwhelm the galaxy to the point where everything goes to hell."
"And for this purpose, you enslaved other races?" I clarified.
"Any project requires labor to build," the Father parried indifferently. "A small price to pay for achieving the final goals."
"Well, of course," my sarcasm was barely masked. "Because watching other races develop is incredibly interesting. But for me personally, there's a difference between watching football and playing it. The latter is much more interesting."
"In the end, some of our kin decided the same. To stop interfering and let the galaxy develop on its own. Others were against it. A civil war broke out, in which members of both factions died."
"Hmm... sounds kind of familiar," I admitted. "But if all your people died, how did you survive?"
"My children and I did not seek to take part in the conflicts. We became innocent witnesses to the mutual annihilation of the last representatives of my race. We mourned them. And for millennia, we watched as civilization descended into the abyss of chaos. The uncontrollable mutual destruction of races that none of our contemporaries had even heard of opened our eyes to what was happening. This galaxy is corrupt without external control. I realized that one day, sentients would venture beyond the galaxy. But what would they bring to the universe if they can't even agree among themselves? Destruction and chaos. The same scenario threatened if we simply revealed all the secrets of the Force to the races inhabiting the galaxy. In their selfishness, they would turn into grotesque creatures, obsessed only with their petty desires."
"Let me guess. This conclusion is based on what happened to Abeloth?"
"Yes. An extremely eloquent example of gaining the Force without a proper understanding of the laws of the universe. We imprisoned her where she could harm no one. Created a perfect system that would not allow her to escape. This allowed us to reduce the tension in the galaxy. But the problem was far from solved. There were too many Force-sensitive races in the galaxy who would simply destroy it on their path of development. And then, my Son, my Daughter, and I did what we had to. We immersed ourselves in the Force, striving to see the future. Once the future became clear to us, all that remained was to isolate the most promising races from the rest of the galaxy, allowing them to develop and comprehend the Force in isolation. Isolating the galaxy from the rest of the universe was an additional guarantee that sentients would not break beyond its boundaries until they reached a level of Force knowledge sufficient to maintain the Balance and continue our work."
"And here I was wondering why all three situations are so similar. The anomaly that prevents leaving the galaxy. The impenetrable caldera that hid the Sith from the rest of the galaxy. And of course, Tython, where you brought all the Force-sensitives to achieve Balance. This is all your work!"
"Exactly," the Father agreed. "I put a lot of effort into creating suitable conditions for the development of the Je'daii Order."
"Right. The moons Ashla and Bogan, a planet where the Force is in balance..."
"All of this was supposed to help Force-sensitive sentients understand the vital necessity of Balance in the Force. But unfortunately, it didn't have the desired effect."
"Well, color me surprised," I grinned. "Never happened before, and here it is again. Let me guess — the Rakata threw a wrench in your plans?"
"I didn't account for them getting their hands on a lot of our technology. And they were clever enough to master it, pervert it, and turn it into weapons," the Father lamented. "Even you bear the mark of their technology."
"Yeah, that happened. And you know what? I feel great."
"That's good to hear. Because you have a lot of work ahead of you."
"No, no, no," I protested. "Don't you start foisting your mantle of Balance Keeper on me now. That existential crap doesn't concern me. Look, go offer it to Skywalker."
"We did not create him for that."
And here, I admit, I was a little... well, a little. Completely. FLIPPING OUT!
"Wait, wait, what? YOU created Skywalker?"
"Yes," the Father answered simply. "He is the rarest example of our lineage's power. Our greatest invention. The strongest of the Force-sensitive. The one who will restore the Balance."
"I thought he was conceived by the midi-chlorians..."
"Ah, our little spies," for the first time, a genuine emotion appeared on the Father's face. "No, they serve a completely different purpose. Anakin is my personal creation."
"Would I be way off if I guessed that this is how you control life in the galaxy?" I was practically certain of the answer. And so, my rage was building.
"Yes. They don't harm anyone. But I always know how many gifted individuals of this or that faction there are in the galaxy," the Father answered, without any shame.
"And what do you need such information for?"
"To understand how well the system is working," the Father explained. "Without revealing ourselves to the galaxy, we can observe the development of the gifted. And, if necessary, correct it."
"In favor of the Balance?"
"Exactly."
"An equivalent to what the Chosen One is supposed to bring?"
"Yes."
"And you don't give a flying damn how many sentients die in the process?" I seethed. "That's billions in every sector of the galaxy. Thousands of Jedi and other Force-sensitives!"
"The system is unstable," the Father explained. "The number of Jedi exceeds the number of Sith and other followers of the Dark Side. This must be corrected to begin a new cycle of the galaxy's evolution."
"So that's the essence of your system? Evolution through conflict?"
"Yes. Because when one side gains an advantage, the system goes haywire," the Father explained. "We have observed this for millennia. As long as there were enough Sith, the Balance was unshakeable. Over the last thousand years, the scales have been tipping in favor of the Light Side."
"But the dead...!"
"Acceptable losses," the Father waved it off. "You don't think your idea of the Unified Force will be bloodless for the galaxy, do you?"
"Of course not!" I agreed. "But this will be the final confrontation! After which, the only significant force left will be those who can wield both sides of the Force! No radical faction will gain the upper hand!"
"Except your own," the Father countered. "And where is the Balance in that?"
"In an Order of individuals who will control all aspects of the Force! Not just the Dark and Light sides, but everything available! I aim to incorporate all known knowledge about the Force into the learning process, without rejecting any single school of thought!"
"And by doing so, you introduce an imbalance into a system that has worked for tens of thousands of years!" the Father said sternly. "Your efforts, whispered by a Sith, will only lead to the creation of three opposing camps! Your Knights, the Jedi, and the Sith! This will cause even greater disasters than those you fear so much!"
"I won't allow it! Zakuul will eventually absorb all the Force-users of the galaxy! Like it was with the Je'daii!"
"That point of view is already obsolete," the Father sighed. "Progress is only possible through the conflict of two opposing sides. What you have in mind is a worthy conclusion to our ideas. But you want to get the result here and now, without a long evolution of viewpoints. You're imposing your point of view where sentients should reach everything with their own minds!"
"Even if it takes long years and mass bloodshed? Crises of political systems?"
"A worldview imposed by force will never last long! My approach will allow the Force to be cleansed of many weaker adepts, letting only the strongest, most adaptable survive!"
"Darwin must be spinning in his grave from your speeches!" I shouted. "The Force will be cleansed... that's the ravings of a senile old man!"
"You are too young to understand what is predetermined," the Father shook his head. "It's unpleasant to realize, but you are too narrow-minded. However, I am not asking you to make a decision immediately. You and your people will be guests on Mortis for a while. I hope that interacting with my children and meditating in the most powerful place of the Force will, at last, allow you to make the right decision."
I wanted to say "Go to hell," but...
The conversation with the Father made me look at many things from a new angle.
On one point, the Architect was right — I needed to do a lot of thinking.
"I gladly accept this invitation," but I couldn't suppress the bitterness in my voice. "We'll admire the sights, converse with interesting beings..."
"I am confident I was not mistaken about you, Egor," the Father smiled, looking me straight in the eye. And for the umpteenth time during this conversation, a chill ran down my spine.