* * *
"What a dump," Sinilian remarked, kicking the debris of droids that abundantly covered the entire surrounding space as far as the eye could see. B-1s, B-2s, LM-432 crab droids, pieces of Droidekas, smoking hulls of AATs, NR-N99 tank droids, the awkward hulks of Octuptarra combat tri-droids... It seemed that over the past fourteen hours, the corps of the Gent System Army involved in the "mopping up" of the last CIS stronghold on Hypori — the 187th Reconnaissance, the 190th Assault, the 212th Reconnaissance — had faced the full assortment of the Confederacy's combat vehicles.
They were walking across the battlefield, hoping to scavenge something useful — information on technologies, intelligence data that could be extracted from the droid remains. None of the Jedi were here. Two clone officers stood knee-deep in droid wreckage, trying to fish anything out of them. You had to learn from your mistakes. Evolve with every battle. Hellagen imagined for a moment what a battlefield of this scale would have looked like if they had been fighting only living beings today. And in that instant, he felt sick. And afraid. War of sentients against sentients meant mountains of rotting corpses, innards smeared across the landscape, and pools of blood.
Though, he had enough to deal with just pulling his own people out from under the droid debris, removing their identification tags, and marking them as "killed in action" in the datapad. Rex hoped that maybe someone from the 804th Legion would turn out alive, but that hope was fading fast. The longer he turned over the bodies, checking their vital signs, the less he hoped for a miracle. Half a day of fighting, and the legion was gone, like a bantha licked it clean.
The territory of the Separatist base, and the area around it, had turned into a graveyard of military hardware, through which clone medics now prowled — the only ones who were optimistic about the possibility of finding wounded among the smoke-belching machines. Traumatized, maimed, shell-shocked — but alive.
They were joined by engineers — these were mostly interested in the machinery. The army command directives were harsh but clear: not a single combat vehicle should remain on the battlefield. It didn't matter if it was fit for further use or not — no one cared. Whatever could be repaired would be returned to service. What was already dead would go for spare parts. Parts that were impossible to restore would be sent for smelting. And this applied not only to the equipment of the Republic war machine. CIS droids were also subject to expropriation — anything that could be restored and reprogrammed would be used as training models for volunteers, militia, or the "shinies." True, no one really knew where the Separatists' blaster and other weapons disappeared to. But Hellagen would bet that the logisticians weren't just filing reports that all the droids' small arms and heavy weapons were "irreparable and disposed of." Obviously, the command had its own plans for these extremely inconvenient, but no less deadly, weapon models. And at the very top, at that. It was no coincidence that the disposal of "small arms" was handled by the Christophsians, who had earned the nickname "Grand Moff's personal servants" in the army.
"You should get a haircut," Hellagen's thoughts were interrupted by a phrase from Lodbrok, who suddenly appeared in his field of vision. The Marshal of the 178th Reconnaissance, as befitted the "silent ones," had crept up to both his colleagues completely silently. And this despite moving along the same path — through hull debris, mountains of broken transparisteel, and puddles of technical fluids.
The commander of the 190th Assault Corps smiled at his colleague, who had been perfectly "shaved" by the enemy. During one of the local battles for the Separatist stronghold, one of the Skakoan technicians had burned Lodbrok with a makeshift flamethrower. Those very Skakoans that the HoloNet was calling "non-combatants who pose no threat." Yeah, they should show those journalists what these "victims of the Techno Union leadership's ill-conceived policies" had done to one of the platoons. After a dip in a vat of molten metal, where the Skakoans had dumped the clones by blowing up the service bridge they were crossing over the reservoirs of red-hot raw material, even identifying the bodies had become a huge problem.
Sinilian, who, like Hellagen, was holding his helmet under his arm, sported a non-regulation haircut. He measured Lodbrok's burned face with a look and grinned.
"A well-done 'silent one' has arrived."
"Very funny," the Recon commander replied in a serious tone, but a smile appeared on his disfigured lips. As snow-white as the medium-sized flat scar on the right side of his head. Hellagen reflexively scratched his own. Yes, such "decorations" had appeared on all the clones who had ended up serving in the three system armies under the operational command of Grand Moff Dougan. The Christophsian scientists, after whose visit to the med center the clones acquired such scars, weren't very forthcoming about the reasons for this medical intervention, citing a secret command order. What that order was and the grounds for its application, few knew. Mostly, veteran soldiers of the 204th Legion. But they preferred not to talk much about it among the other brothers. Yes, Hellagen's former commander knew how to keep his secrets. Or maybe (and this was the majority opinion) the time to tell millions of clones they had been created as slaves just hadn't come yet. For a while, the "silent ones" had even organized a competition to find the text of the order. And they became a laughingstock when, after several months of searching, they still couldn't find anything.
The nickname "silent ones," which had stuck to GAR scouts, appeared at the height of the first year of the war. The commander of the enemy mercenaries, whose subordinates the scouts had quietly slit the throats of at night with vibroblades, had ranted about it on the HoloNet for quite a while, lamenting that after his squad was wiped out, he ended up on the scrap heap of fate because the CIS had terminated his contract and kicked him out without paying the due fee. The nickname caught on among the clones, who began calling almost all scouts "silent ones" indiscriminately. At first, this offensive nickname infuriated the latter, then someone clever explained to them that such a nickname actually demonstrated their professionalism and highlighted the uniqueness of their specialization. Unlike the other clones of Jango Fett. And especially distinguished the "old" clones, produced on Kamino, from the new ones the Republic was using now.
These "new guys," according to those who had had the "pleasure" of observing their work, were real madmen. Silent, gloomy, unindividual. Veritable "meat droids," carrying out orders without question. Several commando squads, arriving straight from Coruscant, over a mug of something stronger than water from standard canteens, told stories that the "new guys" were real killing machines, clad in Phase II armor, which had been developed based on the criticism of Phase I during the first year of the war. This new armor was supposed to become standard issue for the Kaminoan clones as well. But somehow, "there was too little of it in the warehouses." Just enough to outfit the "new ones." While the "old-timers," who had settled in the Outer Rim under the command of Grand Moff Dougan and the high Jedi Generals Unduli and Gallia, had to make do with the old armor. Which didn't even provide proper protection against small arms.
It was a good thing that, thanks to the Grand Moff, the Kaminoan clones were starting to receive the "Infiltrator" armor. Not the easiest to handle — according to the commandos, its degree of gadgetry and electronics was in no way inferior to the Katarn-class, and sometimes even surpassed it. But it was tough, reliable, comfortable. Fully sealed, with an excellent thermoregulation system and numerous additional ammunition elements, the "Infiltrator" was met with enthusiasm in the units. The armor was easy to repaint: applying camouflage according to the terrain where combat operations were expected was another mandatory directive of the "Gent." At first, most clones didn't understand the reason for such a strange order, but as practice showed, this kind of masking significantly reduced losses. It was surprising that the "new guys" still paraded around in snow-white armor. In the three system armies under the operational command of Grand Moff Dougan, only idiots, "shinies," and shock clones from the former Coruscant Guard didn't use camouflage. The latter kept to themselves, separate from the line units, performing military police duties on conquered planets. It wasn't that the clones in the three armies were causing brawls in the cantinas, but there was always a couple or three hard cases per corps who decided to settle scores with their fists.
Hellagen looked at the broken computer display built into his gauntlet. A commando droid had damaged it with a vibroblade slash. The strike had been a glancing blow, which saved him from needing a prosthetic. But the device would definitely have to be replaced — the blade had even reached the memory chip, which was beyond repair. And that was a shame — it held the contacts of a beautiful girl from Christophsis with whom Hellagen spent time during his leave. Eh, too bad he didn't know where she lived — considering the upcoming deployment to the rear for refit and rest, free time was expected. Now he would have to spend many hours trying to find his acquaintance.
"Admiring the scenery?" Lodbrok asked. "Or looking for a razor to tidy up your appearance?"
"What's your problem?" Sinilian asked wearily.
"You look like a slob," the "silent one" explained.
Hellagen ran his hand over the lower part of his face, then moved to his head. And he was right. Since the last time he'd shaved, short stubble had grown on his head. And on his chin, there was a prickly thicket. It wasn't so noticeable in armor. And who really cared when your life could end at any minute?
"That's true," Sinilian, tugging at the hairs sticking out of his formerly neat sideburns, spread his hands. "We'll get back to base, then I'll take care of it. Otherwise, I'll be tripping over my own mane soon."
"And don't forget your men," Lodbrok chuckled. "I saw a couple in the infirmary — true Wookiees."
"Not like yours," Hellagen snorted. "You guys always find time before bed to read the Charter."
Lodbrok's zealous adherence to the demands of the GAR Charter had become an inside joke on Hypori. Through the dust, the mud, the horrors of death and the unceasing meat grinder, the soldiers of the 178th Reconnaissance always looked in strict accordance with the Republic command's requirements for their soldiers' appearance. The regulation haircut, frankly loathed by everyone, was considered almost the height of fashion in this corps of "silent ones." And the only correct way to deal with hair.
"If we keep fighting like this, we won't have any people left," Lodbrok darkened.
"Yeah," Hellagen grinned mirthlessly. His corps, which had borne the brunt of finishing off the enemy, had lost a quarter of its soldiers. Irretrievably. The scouts had gotten off with much lighter losses — after all, their job wasn't a head-on clash with the enemy, but a mobile, "quiet" war.
"This isn't the first legion we've lost, and it won't be the last," Sinilian stated the well-known statistic. "No one knew Grievous had stockpiled so much of this junk here!"
He kicked another piece of a droid. The B-1 head, caught under the clone's heavy boot, flew up into the air, landing with a clatter several meters from its previous location.
"I hope he wasn't trying to say there's no blame here," Hallagen thought. "I know that myself."
"I have this one — the first one," he said quietly.
"Better not to think about it, brother," Lodbrok said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Looking up, the former scout of the 204th Legion met the sympathetic gazes of both his colleagues. "They know the value of their words," flashed through his mind. The near-total destruction of the 212th Reconnaissance Corps in pursuit of a CIS listening station was often cited in clone conversations as a prime example of the Jedi's ability to waste their subordinates' lives in a spectacular and senseless manner.
"I'll try," Hallagen said. "But if we stop thinking, what'll be the difference between us and droids?"
"Is this urge to philosophize something that came before or after your corps was assigned General Util and Commander Omani?" Sinilian asked with a smile.
"Not funny," Hallagen muttered darkly, roughly shoving Lodbrok's hand off his shoulder. He sprang to his feet, put on his helmet, and strode away from his two comrades.
Unlike most Jedi, the ones he was currently working with were distinguished by a complete lack of snobbery. The arrogance that almost all Jedi possessed — clones transferred from other armies into the "Gent" had spoken of this many times — the aura of mystery — none of that was present in General Util and her young, blue-haired Padawan.
Neither considered it shameful to sit with the soldiers during breaks, eat the same food, answer questions that most beings in the galaxy would find insulting or tactless. Even Lodbrok and Sinilian sometimes spoke of their generals — Sitra and Amersu — as young, shy, and lacking broad horizons.
Hallagen's Jedi were different. Without hesitation, they explained to the soldiers the causes of the war, talked about the infantilism of Republic citizens who didn't particularly want to fight. About the obscurantism reigning in the Senate. About victories and defeats. About corruption in the highest echelons of power and the lobbying of others' interests instead of direct work for the benefit of the population. This partly aligned with the stories of volunteers who told how the appearance of the current Grand Moff Dougan, back when he was a simple general, had radically changed the lives of the locals on their planet for the better. And while concepts like "prosperity for all," "work for all," and the like were new to the clones, things they hadn't yet figured out, deep down the soldiers understood that under their Grand Moff, they were fighting for a just cause. Even if their minds were being blown by the notion of how magnificent the Republic actually was, the one they were dying for.
When Hallagen pointed out this injustice — fighting for a state plagued by unfavorable factors — General Util, seeing the same unspoken question in the eyes of the rest of the corps' clones, smiled sadly and advised the clones to look at it from a different angle. They weren't fighting for the benefit of corrupt and vile people, but for the happiness of the defenseless and the oppressed. For their own future lives.
This openness reminded Hallagen of his former commander — Dougan. To a slightly lesser degree — of High Jedi General Unduli, who had commanded the 204th for a time. Among the soldiers of "Dougan's Fist," there was even a joke that anyone who led this unit would soon get a promotion. Marshal Nyx could confirm that.
But, returning to the Jedi, Hallagen mentally found their openness attractive. From soldiers arriving from other system armies, the fighters had heard stories about despotic, negligent, shortsighted Jedi. Yes, there were those it was genuinely pleasant to serve with. For example, Master Even Piell, who not only demonstrated personal courage but also, unlike many others, excellently commanded his subordinates, striving to minimize their losses. Among the fighters of the 7th Air Corps, Obi-Wan Kenobi had almost unquestionable authority — thoughtful, judicious, and cautious, masterfully using ambush and trap tactics. The soldiers of the 501st Legion spoke quite favorably of Anakin Skywalker — their former direct commander. Although, in Hallagen's opinion (and he wasn't alone in this judgment), neither was a particularly outstanding commander. The first was a pedant and a law unto himself. His plans were always "brilliant," though sometimes they resulted in the total loss of the personnel of this or that unit participating in the battle. Skywalker, on the other hand, was a typical Jedi, although he fancied himself "different." Daring, ambitious, always eager to be first on the battlefield and destroy as many droids as possible. Yes, he occasionally had sensible ideas — but for the most part, they were a reflection of Kenobi's tactics, in Skywalker's straightforward style.
Captain Boroda — the commander of Torrent Company from the 501st — had spoken especially negatively about the latter. While Rex, the legion's commander, was always restrained in his judgments, Boroda said what he thought. In particular, when he learned that Commander Tano had been assigned to his legion, he... well, he didn't have a high opinion of the Togruta's command talents.
This was before the start of the battle on Hypori. However, by his own admission, before the evacuation of "Dougan's Fist" (oh, he recalled with nostalgia the time when that name referred only to the 204th Legion, not an operational group of four corps), Boroda acknowledged that the Togruta had transformed from a petty, impulsive, sharp-tongued little Jedi brat into a promising commander. Hearing this, Hallagen just smiled. The 7th Air Corps had been tasked with clearing a space mine production complex. There were droids everywhere, as far as the eye could see. The 501st attacked the production workshop, while the other three legions captured resource depots, administrative buildings, and the finished product storage itself. Despite the droids' desperate resistance, the 501st suffered the fewest losses of all the legions in the 7th Corps. This was despite having more enemies against them than all the others combined. Cody and Rex had then murmured something embarrassed about never expecting Commander Tano to have so much drive and a tactical streak.
Yes. Under the Grand Moff's command, slowly but surely, the clones' worldview was changing. For better or worse — it was hard to say. Just the fact that Dougan was a staunch opponent of pointless assaults, mass frontal attacks, and other favorite tactics of most Jedi made the clones listen to his words. Yes, he didn't appear on the front lines that often. But where he was — there was always victory. Christophsis, Ukio, Melida/Daan... It was rumored that Dougan had been the one to reduce the level of discontent with the Republic on Ryloth. And the operational base on Pantor hadn't appeared for nothing.
Much could be said in favor of the positive opinion of the Grand Moff.
But not by the clones.
For them — this particular Jedi — was ideal. Well, almost.
The little things he did for them were enough to set him apart from the rest.
Improved ammunition.
Introduction of unit flags and mottos.
Improved rations with products from Ukio.
Implementation of new tactics for line infantry (artillery preparation before an offensive, small-unit tactics, adaptive camouflage...).
Hallagen remembered the universal astonishment of the clones who came under Dougan's command when they found out that the Grand Moff did not recognize the ID numbers by which the clones were listed, as products coming out of Kamino's incubation tanks. Instead, the Jedi demanded that every clone acquire his own name, reflecting his inner individuality.
It was under the Grand Moff that disabled clones got a chance at a future life. Yes, with prosthetics and implants. But — in the ranks. Busy. Performing the tasks set before them at birth.
And no longer as a gray mass of obedient "meat droids."
But as individuals.
The Marshal, whose eye had caught a sabotage droid killed by a precise headshot, sighed heavily.
"Yeah, buddy," he said softly. "We were all made from the same mold."
The difference between a clone and a droid wasn't that great. Both had serial numbers. Both were programmed to follow orders. Both were cannon fodder.
Back then, on Kamino, standing with his brothers, looking at the newly appointed legion commander, he couldn't have known that he would come to respect this man in armor with a lightsaber on his belt. And yet... he did.
When did it happen? On Kamino, when Dougan gave his rousing speech?
Or on Christophsis, when he risked dying surrounded alongside them, but did everything to ensure as many clones as possible survived?
Or was it during the first funeral? When the fallen brothers were laid to rest in the ground for the first time, instead of being sent back to Kamino or to medical centers as organ donors for others lucky enough to survive?
No use guessing. He wouldn't find the answer to that question now anyway. The main thing was that the Kaminoan clones' faith in their commander was strong and unshakeable. Yes, the "shinies" might not understand that yet. But in time, after experiencing one or two bloody battles, they would realize how incredibly lucky they were to have ended up in the "Gent." And those who lived to see the end of the war would follow their leader anywhere.
Hearing hurried footsteps behind him, Hallagen turned around. Sinilian and Lodbrok were moving briskly towards him. Through their helmets, he couldn't see the expressions on their faces.
"Sorry, brother," Sinilian said dryly.
"It was a clumsy joke to relieve the tension after the battle," Lodbrok added. "No one meant to hurt your feelings or insult the Jedi."
"Forget it," Hallagen waved it off. "Better get back to the assembly area — evac is soon."
"Yeah..." Sinilian drawled heavily. "Honestly, I don't want to leave until the job is done."
"They say a large contingent of volunteers and commandos will be sent here to comb through the underground," Lodbrok said. "Maybe they'll find Grievous."
"Would be better if we did it," Sinilian remarked.
"It's not our job to dig through the rubble looking for pieces of one cyborg," Lodbrok noted reasonably. "Maybe he didn't even survive the orbital bombardment."
"Don't count on it," Hallagen said coldly. "We spent half a day blasting his base from orbit, and how many droids survived?"
He kicked the chassis of a nearby B-2 lying on the ground with disgust.
"Can't be helped," Lodbrok shrugged. "The Supreme Chancellor's order overrides even the tasks set by the Grand Moff. We were told to return all line units to their bases — we obey."
"If Dougan were here, this kind of Hutt-spawned mess wouldn't have happened," Sinilian said confidently. "Give us a day or two to sweep the catacombs, and we'd definitely have found that bastard — whole or in pieces."
"Something strange is happening at the top," Hallagen said gloomily. "Maybe our Jedi," he stressed the word "our," emphasizing that he meant those representatives of the Order assigned to the "Gent" army, "are right."
"About what?" Sinilian clarified.
"The Republic isn't the state we should be fighting for."
None of the "quiet ones" found anything to say in response.
The three marshals walked the rest of the way to the evacuation zone in complete silence.
* * *
The holoterminal seemed to freeze. It hummed faintly, its operation indicator blinking. But it still couldn't establish a connection with the desired subscriber.
This... was starting to get annoying.
"Sir," a clone's voice sounded behind him.
"Not now, Marshal Salvo," George'o'George answered angrily. "I have a communication session with headquarters."
"I understand, sir," the clone expressed absolutely nothing in the Force. That was just how they were made. That was annoying too. Like fighting side by side with droids. "But we have good news."
"What good news could there be in this godforsaken place?" the Nikto scoffed. "This is Taral V!"
The planet — a wild mix of lush vegetation with outright hostile fauna, almost continuously drenched by rain — was annoying too.
Not only was there absolutely nothing here that could be of interest as a military infrastructure target, but he also had to dig through all sorts of crap.
George called upon the Force with an effort of will, clearing his mind of emotions. This was not the Jedi way. This wasn't how one should act. But, damn it all! This Code was a relic of the past! They were living beings! Why should they deny emotions?
The young Jedi Knight couldn't understand this. Or rather — didn't want to.
He had only recently passed the Trials, leaving his years of apprenticeship behind. It hadn't been easy — while most of his peers had already been full-fledged Jedi for five to seven years, some had even reached the rank of master, he had only just become a knight at the age of thirty. Wasn't it because his mentors considered the young man overly emotional? And they did everything they could to slow down his personal growth, forcing him to diligently and diligently study Jedi science.
Annoying.
"We stumbled upon some ruins," the scout said cautiously. "Just as High General Unduli said — some kind of abandoned and heavily destroyed complex. Clearly military. In the past."
"Interesting," the negativity vanished instantly. And he was about to pester command for a transfer out of this godforsaken place. The Jedi deactivated the comm console. "How bad is it?"
"We'll have to work hard to clear the rubble and get everything to at least minimal functionality," the clone took off his helmet, smoothing down his short hair with his hand. "Hutt-forsaken planet! Even your hair grows faster from all this rain!"
George smiled. He liked the joke.
"Is the find far from here?" the Nikto asked the clone.
"I wouldn't say so," the clone admitted. "About half an hour's walk."
"I want to see it personally," George decided.
"Yes, sir," the Marshal-Commander nodded. "That's why I reported it. The LAAT is on the landing pad."
"Then let's go."
Stepping out of the command tent, the Jedi, shivering from the raindrops, pulled up his hood and wrapped himself tighter in his brown cloak. Salvo, following him, felt much more comfortable in his set of "Infiltrator" armor, painted in various shades of green. Sometimes George even envied the clones. And he thought once again about replacing his Jedi robes with at least soldier's armor.
The gunship was "hot" at the far end of the camp. A huge area, once covered in lush vegetation and giant trees, had been ruthlessly burned and cleared by the scouts and engineers who had arrived here to set up the corps' operational base. The Nikto ducked into the troop compartment. And as soon as Salvo came aboard, the ship shot into the air, heading off into the distance, skimming the treetops almost with its belly — it was too dangerous to go higher, risking an electric discharge during a storm.
The campaign against the Separatist group in the Mon Calamari sector was progressing extremely slowly. The entire System Army "Gren" was marking time. Master Luminara Unduli and the 41st Elite Corps of Marshal Gree were thoroughly bogged down in the ceaseless slaughter in the Camdon system. The Separatist base on the planet Thalas — a tough nut to crack, preventing Republic forces from breaking deeper into the sector. Especially considering that, unlike the Republic, the Separatists and Quarren were literally sitting on well-equipped shipyards, continuously providing them with reinforcements.
Padawan Offee was busy setting up a rear medical base on the planet Drongar, in the rear of the main forces fighting the Separatists in this sector. Practice had already proven that not many wounded made it to Lantilles, where the main medical base was established. And "Heft" was categorically unwilling to squander its resources.
Especially since there weren't that many of them. On the contrary, they had to ask for help from their neighbors.
The Tenth Systems Army had already "shared" the 91st Reconnaissance Corps, led by Stass Allie and Marshal Neyo. Now the scouts were stuck on Dornea, pinned down on the ground and in space, having switched to defense, awaiting new help. And again — from the "Gent," which had already sent the 32nd Landing Corps of Master Ma'kis'shaalas to them.
Another six line corps: the 45th Infantry Corps of Master Durmar, the 46th Infantry Corps of Master Zeltek, the 47th Infantry Corps of Knight Osar Oset, the 50th Infantry Corps of Saras Lurn, the 61st Infantry Corps of J'upi She, and the 62nd Infantry Corps of T'Bolton were soon to arrive on Lantilles to become the operational reserve of "Heft." The battles on the Outer Rim had already drained all the strength from Master Unduli's system army.
The unceasing battles for Lantilles had already "ground up" most of the fleet. The headquarters was holding on only thanks to the planet's own fleet. It was a good thing that Vice Admiral Pellaeon and Commodores Autem and Parck (again, from the "Gent"!) had arrived in time, repelling the enemy's last offensive, effectively destroying it. This made it possible to push the Separatists back from Faziire, and then towards Uiter, where Pellaeon was currently fighting for a strategically important planet. Which the Separatists, naturally, had no intention of giving up.
Commodore Autem's "Scimitar" squadron, after a hot battle, drove the enemy off the planet Gizer, capturing the planet and the star system located at the intersection of several hyperspace routes. The CIS, which had seized Gizer so quickly in the past, found itself just as quickly outside its borders.
The "Sledgehammer" squadron under the command of Vos Parck finally defeated the Separatist forces on Roche, bypassed the stone-mite-infested Ord Tidell, and relieved Aargonar, freeing up units of the 41st Elite Corps, which were transferred to Camdon without a break. The commodore's bloodied formation reached Abhean, almost on its last dregs of tibanna, driving the Separatists out of that system with its massive shipyards. However, there was virtually nothing left to exploit the success. The ships urgently needed repairs, crew replenishment, and replacement fighters. Although the Separatists were trying to drive Parck out of the occupied territory, he had dug into the system, perfectly understanding that if he retreated with damaged ships, the pursuers would simply grind him to dust. Headquarters understood this too, sending him two dozen "Dreadnoughts" for support. The situation, overall, had stabilized. And it didn't seem likely to change one way or the other. Master Unduli would have to continue fighting the Separatists while surrounded — droids were firmly entrenched both ahead and behind her. However, the Mirialan had enough resources to hold out for a few more weeks.
For now, the successes of "Heft" ended there. Another wave of reinforcements — ships and clones — was expected, but apparently, they would be sent to relieve Unduli's group. To do this, they would have to deliver a series of swift strikes against enemy-occupied systems in Centares, Desevro, Makem Te, Quermia, Tula, not to mention finding a way to overcome neutral systems like Columex, the "Wheel" station, and others.
When he first received the order to go to the planet Taral V, which hardly anyone in the galaxy had ever heard of, it provoked a storm of indignation in him. Sending a trained Jedi, along with an entire corps of scouts and all their attached equipment, into the backwoods while soldiers were needed at literally every turn, seemed like the height of idiocy. Only Master Kai Hudorra, who was himself heading to lead the 83rd Landing Corps on Damendin — to attack another Separatist outpost on the borders of the Mon Calamari sector — was able to shed some light on the matter. Specifically, that the unremarkable world of Taral V was a straight, and unknown to the Separatists, road to Minntuin — one of the most modern shipyards of the Quarren supporting the Separatists in the Mon Calamari sector. An unexpected attack on Minntuin, or at least the creation of a center of tension practically in the Separatists' rear, would force the enemy to divert forces that were holding back Unduli. And, as a result, even if they couldn't destroy the CIS shipyards tirelessly churning out "Recusants," by drawing attention to themselves, George would allow the Republic to break into the sector itself, gain operational space, and force the Separatists themselves onto the defensive.
He figured out the rest on his own. And Luminara's instruction — to find the ruins of an ancient base and use it as a foundation to create a full-fledged location for major forces and a fleet. And the Mirialan's plan — to hold the enemy until an opportunity for a surprise strike arose.
But no one had said that even finding these ruins would be a problem.
"Landing!" the pilot's voice reached him.
The Nikto ran his hand over his face, trying to relieve the tension. It didn't help.
From his altitude, he could barely make out the scurrying figures of clones below. But he immediately recognized the construction and military vehicles. And, frankly, he was quite surprised at how easily the clones were working, since the soldiers had been sent to this part of the planet just over five hours ago. But they had already managed to uproot a considerable number of trees and even clear a landing pad.
Jumping onto the permacrete, the Nikto looked at the numerous cracks and chips in the material. Yes, this had been built a very long time ago. But skillfully and with very high quality.
"This way, sir," Salvo pointed towards a huge hill, around which LAAT/is were bustling, tearing up centuries-old trees by the roots and dragging them to the side where an impressive pile of similar building material had already accumulated.
"That's a piece of rock," he remarked, peering at the grayish fragments flashing among the green palette of vegetation covering the entire formation.
"We thought so too, at first," the clone agreed. "But then scanners indicated that this 'hill' is made of durasteel and is hollow inside."
"A structure?" George asked, stunned, looking at the discovery with fresh eyes. "It's huge!"
"We broke through inside," the Marshal continued. "It's some kind of command center. Judging by everything, there was a fight — a hot one, at that. Lots of dead soldiers, destroyed equipment, vehicles. And something else..."
"What exactly?" the Jedi tensed.
"You'd better see for yourself, sir," the Marshal was the first to duck into the enormous maw of a doorway, hidden from view by the massive hull of an AT-TE. The Nikto, placing his hand on his lightsaber, followed him.
Inside, semi-darkness reigned, only partially dispelled by the helmet lights of scurrying clones and portable lamps.
George, his eyes adjusting to the dimness, began to make out the interior — several levels of technical floors, numerous outdated terminals and monitors, the hulks of clearly combat droids frozen like silent idols...
And dozens of corpses. Most of them were dressed in dark gray armor with bucket-shaped helmets. However, there were also skeletons of those whose clothing stood out — spacious robes, decayed over the centuries. The place felt more like a crypt. Images of pain and suffering, echoes of an ancient battle, flickered in the Force...
"I don't like this place," he said quietly.
"Neither do we, General," Salvo admitted. "But orders are orders. Here," he approached one of the clones fussing near the remains of a humanoid being. Taking some object from him, he handed it to the Jedi. "This is what I wanted to show you. And there are quite a few like this here..."
The Nikto took the cylindrical object in his hands, not believing his eyes, and brought it to the nearest light source to get a better look.
"A lightsaber..." he said, perplexed. "But... where did it come from here?"
"We've already found half a dozen of these," Salvo admitted. "Was this some kind of Jedi outpost?"
George, touching the activation button with his finger, literally bored his eyes into the crimson blade, which, after working for only a few moments, flickered and disappeared.
"I'm not sure it was Jedi, Marshal," the Nikto said dryly, hanging the found weapon on his belt. "I'm liking this assignment less and less..."
* * *
"Leaving us so soon?" I heard a melodic voice just as I approached the gangplank of the expropriated Separatist sloop I had arrived on.
"Yes, the political chat didn't go well," I said, turning to face the Daughter, who had, as usual, crept up behind me. Was that a subtle hint, or did she think it was funny — appearing out of nowhere behind my back? I had literally just passed the spot where she was standing now. And, naturally, there was neither a radiant, towering woman with green hair and a décolleté down to her navel, nor a griffon — her alternative form — there. "Want to continue your Father's work — talk me to death?"
"Absolutely not," she smiled coldly, drawing level with me. Because the Celestial was standing almost right next to me, I had to tilt my head back to look her in the eyes. Yes, not the most comfortable posture for a dialogue — how did others put up with it when talking to me? "But, don't you enjoy talking to a beautiful girl?"
"If the girl weren't as cold as a fish, with an expression that would make Kristen Stewart never close her mouth again — then, most likely, I'd even invite you to my cabin for a romantic dinner," a broad grin and an unambiguous turn towards the ship were meant to make it clear to this obscurantist hag that I didn't really want to talk to her.
"After you've lived millennia, you'll understand that showing emotions on your face is a waste of time," the girl said, following me unwaveringly at my heels.
"You sound like the teachers at the modern acting schools back in my homeland," I parried. "And besides, judging by your Father's words, if I didn't agree with your worldview and plans for the galaxy, I wouldn't even live long enough to have children."
"That sounds like sarcasm."
"No. Those people also think that facial expressions and emotions are for others."
"I meant your phrase about the length of your own life," the girl said calmly, following me into the cockpit and smoothly settling into the co-pilot's seat. "Do you think it will be that short?"
"I suspect that in Father's plans, the duration of my existence will be significantly shortened. And that's despite the length of my lifeline." I started the engines, sealed the compartments, and lifted the shuttle into the air.
"And I thought fatalism wasn't your philosophy," the Daughter smirked.
"Valor is my creed," I recalled a line from an old French comedy about... time travelers. "No offense, but what the hell do you want from me?"
"I thought Father already stated his point of view?"
"Correct — 'his' point of view," I noted. "And I sense with my gut that your appearance before my eyes right now isn't coordinated with dear old dad. So I'll repeat the question: what the hell?"
"Well, I can't deny your perceptiveness," she said. Despite the smile on her lips, her eyes remained cold as ice. It made me shiver. "I wanted to talk to... someone besides my family members."
"So I'm an obstacle for Father and entertainment for you... I'm afraid to think what proposal the Son will come at me with."
"Are you sure my brother will want to meet you?" the Daughter asked mockingly, switching to the informal 'you' as well.
"Well, he did have a conversation with Skywalker. Or is he still going to?"
"The future is not predetermined," the girl declared. "But you're right. The Chosen One hasn't visited Mortis yet. I think if you accept Father's offer, our meeting with Anakin Skywalker might not happen. Even we find it difficult to predict our Father's actions."
"Mmm... so that's how it is. Let's make a deal. Since you've missed conversation and have latched onto me, then please, don't find it too much trouble to answer my questions about the Family."
"Why do you need these questions?"
"Better to hear you," I replied. I thought to myself that this lady had probably never read the fairy tale about Little Red Riding Hood. "You lure me here, demand a meeting, and gently hint that only your point of view in the galaxy is the one true and racially correct one."
"That is Father's position," the Daughter noted dryly. 'Right. But apparently, you don't fully agree with him. Otherwise, you wouldn't have shown up on my ship, so don't give me that crap. I don't buy all this talk about a communication deficit.' "Only he sees the full picture of what's happening in the galaxy. So it's no wonder that everything happening is the result of his will."
"I'm sure that whatever my answer is, the Chosen One will appear here anyway," I snorted, banking the shuttle between floating rocks. The Daughter clearly wanted something more than just 'to talk.' Which meant there was a chance to get new crumbs of information from her about what was going on. Because Father's revelations hadn't pleased me. Not one bit.
"What gives you that idea?" The Daughter radiated a mixture of surprise and irritation, raising a thin eyebrow. She seemed like a grown woman, but she still preached the principle of 'pluck first, draw later.'
"According to Father, Anakin was created by him," I revealed. "And, from what I know, it was so that after your parent's death, he could continue controlling you and your brother in maintaining the Force's Balance on Mortis."
"Is that so," the Daughter said meaningfully. "I didn't know that..."
"Is that so?" I repeated her words. "I thought everything the Family does is a collective decision."
"It's not that simple," the girl objected. "Father is the patriarch. The last of our race. The oldest. The wisest. He gave life to me and my brother. It's logical to assume that Father doesn't share all the information with us. After all, compared to him, we are too young."
"Right, so how old are you exactly?"
"I thought one didn't ask young ladies such tactless questions," the Daughter narrowed her eyes. "At least, during the dawn of our culture, that's how it was."
"Is that so? I thought you and the Son were born in this galaxy..."
"A common misconception," the Daughter shrugged. "Here we merely attained our second form... In our culture, that marks a period of maturity. But the less developed peoples we've contacted don't understand the nuances of Celestial development. So it's no wonder that opinion exists. We're not going to correct every underdeveloped civilization mired in its own delusions just to lead them to enlightenment and truth, are we?"
"Why not? I don't mind repeatedly explaining the reasons for my actions to sentients. Explaining, drilling it into their heads..."
"We tried that in the beginning," the Daughter said quietly. "The sentients didn't believe our words. They demanded proof. We provided it."
"And what happened?"
"Have you ever heard of a race known in the galaxy as the Creators of the Guardian?"
"Uh... no."
"And soon, no one in the galaxy will hear of them again," the Daughter said sadly. "We made contact with them. We tried to share our knowledge and philosophy. But they didn't believe us, demanded proof..."
"You killed them?"
"Yes... and no," the Daughter said slowly. "When we revealed the truth about ourselves, it caused irreversible consequences. Almost the entire race was destroyed, and their planet was turned into a wasteland. Actually, we thought it was all of them. But, as it turned out, some survived. They fled in terror beyond this galaxy. Sentients are incapable of accepting either our worldview or comprehending our essence."
"Yeah, Abeloth can confirm that from personal experience," I chuckled.
"Who?" the Daughter frowned. I sensed anxiety and agitation coming from her. And the girl seemed transformed. A furrowed brow, a slightly bitten lower lip...
"Oh right, you called her the Servant," I said, as if catching myself, pretending not to notice the changes in the girl. "It was only later that she became your Mother. Well, after she plunged into the Pool of Knowledge and drank from the Font of Power..."
"Everything was in a different sequence," the Daughter noted, regaining her composure. "And we only started calling her Mother quite recently, as a mark of her merits during the time she spent with us millennia ago."
"Is that so? Does it even matter? You created a monster yourselves, the complete antithesis of Father, a creature that feeds on fear and destruction, striving for disharmony and total Exterminatus of everything around."
"You don't need to describe to me what I already know," the Daughter shook her head. "The Son and I have fought her hundreds of times when she left her prison. Over and over we imprisoned her again. This cycle is endless. It brings pain to each of us — except for Father, whose heart has hardened over the millennia. He is old, so only my brother and I participate in the battles with Mother. Mother seeks to kill him, and only the two of us can stop her. You have no idea what torment it is — to hurt, time and again, the one who loved and protected you for centuries. To watch her suffering as you return her to the trap. Wishing her peace, but unable to end her torment..."
"But is she suffering? I always thought Abeloth enjoyed what was happening."
"You wouldn't understand. In the past, she was an ordinary mortal who suddenly acquired great knowledge and immense power. It intoxicates. The minds of mortals cannot resist temptation, which leads to her breakdowns. Unfortunately, she is so powerful that her will to destruction projects into the galaxy, bringing death to billions."
"Wait a minute," a bright idea struck me. "So all the conflicts in the galaxy are Abeloth's doing?"
"It's not that simple," the girl lamented. "Conflicts are the nature of sentients. There's no escaping that. But with the appearance of Mother... Wars became... more aggressive. Bloodier. Larger scale. And more frequent. Like a fire in a forest."
"If I remember correctly, after a fire, a stronger forest grows..."
"You sound just like Father," the Daughter said with the same cold smile. Right, sure, sure. Daddy's a real genius of phrasing and logic.
"Then why not kill her?" I asked. "That would relieve you and the Son of the duty of regularly shoving her back into prison. And your hearts wouldn't bleed every time..."
"It's... hard to explain," the Daughter said. "We feel guilty towards her."
"For not protecting her from all those temptations?"
"Yes. After all, we all lived on the same planet. In a secluded corner of the galaxy, where not everyone could venture. But... we underestimated her thirst for our love. She, the last of her kind, was terrified by the thought that one day she would die, while we continued to live without her care." The girl smiled genuinely for the first time during the entire conversation. It seemed that thoughts of those distant times brought her joy. "Despite the obvious, she simply couldn't grasp that we are a higher race. Not children, and capable of taking care of ourselves. But maternal care is always... pleasant."
"Hmm..." I rounded another floating piece of rock, thinking over what the Daughter had said. "The last of her kind... Wait, so she...?"
"Yes, the sole survivor of all the representatives of that civilization that so insistently demanded proof of our origin and power."
"Oh, so that's it," I drawled. "You destroyed her race, and then forced her to serve you?"
"No," the Celestial shook her head negatively. "It was mercy on Father's part — to preserve the life of the last representative of her race remaining in the galaxy."
"To make a servant on a planet with sources of unprecedented power out of the last representative of the race you accidentally destroyed. And force her to serve you..." I summed up. "A plan as reliable as a Swiss watch."
"No one expected things to turn out this way," the Daughter sighed. "If there were a way to fix this situation, to overcome the enmity between Mother and Father, to reunite the Family..."
"Wait," I brought the shuttle out of the danger zone and made it hover in the air. "I'm curious about something regarding Abeloth. One generally becomes a Mother after giving birth to children..."
The shuttle just hung in the air for a few minutes. I admired the views, the Daughter remained silent with an impassive face. Ah, what a wonderful woman. Doesn't mess with your head, always looks great. Too bad she's over two meters tall and about as emotional as a fish. But otherwise — not bad, there's something to appreciate. However, I was gnawed by insurmountable doubts.
"Fathers receive their social role after a similar procedure," the Daughter finally broke the silence. "But in our case, my brother and I came into being without conception."
"Right," I snorted, admiring the scenery outside the viewport, "I readily believe that."
"What are we waiting for?" she suddenly asked. "Is everything all right?"
"Absolutely. It's just that in such a unique situation as yours, in my homeland in the East, a star blazes brightly, and three wise men descend from the mountain. So I'm watching, waiting..."
The girl fell silent for a moment, then, snorting into her fist, smiled.
"Yes, I got the meaning of your joke..."
"Did you dig through my brain again?" I asked.
"Is that forbidden?" she seemed surprised.
"It's not particularly welcome."
"You should have told me earlier, I didn't know," the Celestial said without a hint of regret. Yes, a simple statement of fact. "And besides, my mental abilities aren't as strong as Father's. He can read all thoughts at once; I can only... what's connected to the latest images in the mind. You told a joke, I saw images of a religion in your memory... Anyway, don't worry, your secrets remain with you. Most of them."
"Oh, thank you so much," I snorted. "So Father told you most of the information about me?"
"Precisely," she agreed. "Only he has access to the midi-chlorians. They only communicate with him, as the keeper of harmony and the Balance of the Force. Neither the Son nor I can use this tool — like many others. Simply because it's forbidden by our laws..."
"I bet the laws were written by Father."
"Of course," the Daughter said as if it were self-evident. "He is the patriarch..."
"But the Son breaks them, doesn't he?"
"My brother allows himself a lot," she answered somewhat too harshly. "Father keeps him under control, and that displeases him more and more. I fear that one day this could lead to the death of one of them."
I almost choked on my saliva. No way!
"Tell me, Daughter, can you see the future?" Oh, how much effort it took to make the question sound completely innocent.
"It is always in motion," really? Do you and Yoda share the same manual? "Any variable can lead to one future being realized and another being forgotten. I thought you understood that when we talked about Father's meeting with Skywalker."
"How could I, a simple human, understand such things," I smirked, diligently thinking about pleasant things. "Well, what about your own future? Is that in constant motion too?"
"Like any other," her tone changed just slightly. But it was already possible to conclude that talking about the Family was weighing on her. Well, never mind, my wax beauty, bear with it a little longer. I'll only wade in shallow with my questions. Especially since all the answers are practically on the surface. "Seeing our own future is difficult for us. Not to mention that it's forbidden by Father."
"I'm not sure I understand..."
"The Force is an extremely complex tool," the Daughter sighed. "I am the true embodiment of the Light Side. My brother — of the Dark. Each side of the Force has its own properties, techniques, possibilities. We can see the future, but only in the context of the ideal embodiment of the sides of the Force under our control. Whereas for an objective picture, one needs at least a little of the opposite side. For you biological species, it's simpler. No matter how much you try to reject emotions, they are still with you — it's an organic process, the chemistry of the brain, fluids, and so on..."
"So you're saying that no matter how much the Jedi boast 'There is no emotion, there is peace' they can't escape it?"
"Even I know that the path of total denial of emotions is stagnation and death," the girl noted. "The Jedi path was strong when they didn't deny emotions but controlled them. Now — their teaching is perverted and will only lead to destruction."
"And at the same time, the Sith draw power from emotions, but they don't live by them constantly."
"Those who exist solely to feed on emotions, to gain more Power, which in turn generates even more emotions — are just ruthless beasts. My brother is a vivid confirmation of that. He revels in his energy and emotions endlessly. Just as I revel in my self-denial. But even we are subject to the practice of adopting each other's dogmas — it's an inevitable process of our evolution. The true Sith, however, control themselves, not allowing themselves to slip into the vortex of rage and the Force. As you can see, their teaching, if you look closely, also has a Jedi seed."
"Naturally, considering that as a religious movement, the Sith appeared precisely because of the Jedi," I snorted. "But it's easier for you with this. You're not physical objects after all..."
A slight smile appeared on the Daughter's lips. Smoothly, like a veil in the wind, she rose from her seat, running her hand along my cheek. Her touch felt like an electric shock. The hair on my skin stood on end, shocked by contact with an entity whose level of Force strength could hardly be described.
She was magnificent. Warm as the spring sun, gentle as a light breeze. Fragile as porcelain. The physical contact lasted only a moment, but...
"Could a non-physical being do that?" she asked.
"That's... indescribable," blood pounded in my temples, boiling from the surge of adrenaline. Yes, I take back my words. She doesn't need emotions at all — all her feelings, or their semblance, poured out onto me in that moment of contact. Boundless devotion and love for Father. Emphasized cold neutrality towards the Son. A wrenching pain, bordering on self-destruction, at the mere thought of Abeloth...
"Yes, this form can do many things," the Daughter agreed, sitting back down. "Throughout our lives, we undergo many metamorphoses — from an essence of the Force to forms like these... My brother and I each have only one alternative form — no matter how much power we possess, metamorphoses require incredibly enormous expenditures of Force."
"Uh... why?"
"An alternative form is not an illusion," the girl smiled. "It is a direct restructuring of one's body on a molecular level. It requires immense concentration and millennia of training to master this art perfectly. Moreover, with each new time, we exhaust our internal reserves more and more. And, if you don't have a constant supply of the Force — in an instant you can lose control over the Force and turn into a rotting, decomposing corpse, simply by making a mistake in the sequence of restructuring your own genes. According to Father's stories, our ancestors changed their appearance so often that it began to affect the natural, original form — like mine. And by the twilight of our civilization, the ancestors looked no better than Abeloth in her natural form."
"I take back my comparison to Kristen Stewart... Your stories could scare the shit out of anyone."
"No offense taken," the girl smiled. "You are a rather interesting instance. For the first time in millennia, there is a sentient in my vicinity who is not only capable of listening, or rallying me to great deeds, but also... truly alive. I confess, it's extremely curious to talk to such an extraordinary person who doesn't stand in awe at the mere sight of me. And who is capable not only of listening but also of asking questions... That hasn't happened for a long time."
"Since the Servant appeared?" I teased the girl.
"Yes, roughly that long," she noted sadly. "But even that communication lasted much less than this with you."
"Speaking of time. I'm probably missed by now..."
"Outside of Mortis, time flows... differently. You could live here for millennia while only seconds pass in the outer world..."
"Uh... Your daddy is strict," I said cautiously. "Mortis is almost like a prison. I wouldn't dare to live in such a house."
"We had no other choice," the girl sighed. "Abeloth is too strong for any of us alone — due to our inclinations towards one or the other side of the Force. Father could restrain her, but he is weak. He fears he cannot win — and then chaos will engulf the galaxy."
"Yeah, and the system would break to hell," I continued the thought.
"What system?" the Daughter asked.
Damn... oh, Daddy, how many secrets do you have...
"Oh, just something I said," I had to lie. And immediately started thinking about something completely opposite to the thread of our conversation. "Just a saying..."
"Your thoughts about the system are curious," a smile appeared on the girl's lips. "Quite... interesting... One woman and two female Zabrak..."
"Daughter," I cut her off grimly. "I thought we discussed this!"
"Guilty as charged on all counts," the girl didn't even deny it. "But you have to understand — for me, this is as natural as any physiological process is for you."
"Yes, I love processes," a heavy sigh escaped my chest. "But not all the participants in what you saw are alive... Wait! You can resurrect the dead!"
"Don't mind, but..." The girl looked at me intently, then her gaze dimmed. "Sorry, Egor. The natural order of things can be deceived when it's not too far gone. Her brain is dead. And even if I breathe life into her body — she will never be the same. An empty vessel, in which only life flickers, but no thoughts, no reactions. Only physiological processes."
"Too bad," I sighed. "She was a good friend."
"Judging by your thoughts — more than a friend," the Celestial noted correctly.
"Which makes her death twice as bitter," I declared. "In the prime of her life..."
"Death is the natural course of life, Egor," the girl said sympathetically. "One can live forever, but what is the price? Your teacher absorbed the Force and the life essence of billions — and not just once. His life was measured in centuries. But is such a life worth the destroyed fates?"
"We talked about something similar with your Father," I recalled.
"Right now, you are not with my Father," the girl noted. "You asked me to lift the veil of secrecy from my Family. But are you sure you know what you have actually become?"
"Oh, so many options?" I scoffed. "The richest man in the galaxy, philanthropist, Emperor. An exhaustive list of characteristics."
"And at the same time," the Daughter persisted, "you are a guest from another universe. The customs of this galaxy are foreign to you. You don't accept the established order of things; you strive to do everything your own way."
"It seems to me, if things weren't my way, but just the way they are, the galaxy would be in a bad way," I objected. "After all, against my enemies, the only applicable ancient Sith principle is: 'Fuck thy neighbor, for if thou dost not fuck him, he will fuck thee and rejoice.' As far as I'm concerned, better others suffer than me and my subjects."
"Is there a difference between these 'others' and your subjects?" the Celestial clarified. "The latter were once the former. And your crusade against Palpatine only proves that your unscrupulousness, stemming from your Teacher's vision of things, is nothing more than a selfish worldview."
"And here I realized that I didn't understand anything; I had to confess openly. I admit, I'm guilty. I'm not that strong in all these political manuals for brainwashing the population."
"Are you sure your point of view is right?" she asked. "That Zakuul is the state that is necessary in the galaxy. And the Unifying Force is a panacea for conflicts that have lasted tens of thousands of years?"
"Of course," I protested. "How could a state that denies the cancerous tumor of its predecessors — democracy — be unnecessary? To exclude from its political system the weakest element — an unfriendly gathering of sentients seeking only to line their own pockets?"
"While depriving yourself of the possibility of a broad view of the problem?" the girl clarified. "As well as imposing the only correct point of view on the fate of the Force?"
"The Imperial Knights absorb all knowledge about the Force available in the galaxy. And they assimilate that knowledge for the good..."
"Why did you decide that your approach is correct?" the Daughter specified.
"I... held the same point of view when I was Egor," I had to admit. "Strong centralized power, an order of the gifted as a reliable support..."
"And it didn't surprise you that Vitiate chose you as his herald?" the Daughter doubted. "The one whose worldview coincides so precisely with his own?"
"Why do you all keep going on about this Vitiate," I got angry. "He found the one closest to him in spirit. The one who wants the same thing himself, who doesn't need constant supervision, or having his task execution checked by looking over his shoulder..."
"Strange that among billions of sentients on your planet, only you were found who adheres to these seemingly obvious views on things," the girl dropped as if casually. And that tone of hers completely ruined my mood.
"What are you trying to say?"
"In all the time we've been watching Vitiate, I can't recall a case where anything in his plans happened by chance..."
"I don't think he dreamed of dying more than once at the hands of a Jedi," I chuckled.
"He is cunning and inventive enough to have backup plans for each of his main plans," she reminded me. "The Sith Empire as a way to seize the galaxy and sacrifice it to his immortality. The Eternal Empire as insurance for the first plan, and at the same time — a self-sufficient plan for another conquest of the galaxy, but this time by bringing to his side his most outstanding opponent — the Hero of Tython. And now the current incarnation of the Empire... What guarantee is there that after completing the task set before you, Vitiate won't sweep you off the board like a piece that only hinders the game?"
"I have a backup plan for that," I shrugged.
"Yes, Father mentioned it," the girl smirked. "Quite simple and inventive."
"If he wants to build a new Empire with my hands and then throw me over, taking over my body," the girl looked at me with great interest, "a big surprise awaits him. Two, even. And don't look at me with such surprised eyes — I wasn't born yesterday. I managed to read the brochure 'How to Work with Vitiate and When to Expect a Backstab.' And the Hands managed to tell me a thing or two — Battle Meditation is truly an interesting thing. So you don't need to work me over again in the style of your Daddy, like, your Teacher is a son of a bitch, but we won't betray you. You will betray me, just like Valkorion. Possibly even worse than him. So, until I get a better offer, I'll continue to play my role — build MY Empire and wait for the dead Emperor to make his move."
"Quite... commendable," the Daughter smiled with satisfaction. "Sensible, prudent, cautious. I'm... impressed. But have you thought about what inevitable outcome you will arrive at?"
"Of course," I snorted. "I'll build an efficient state where the majority will be satisfied with life, and all sorts of dissident scumbags will either be flushed down the toilets, or in about forty-some-odd years will meet the Yuuzhan Vong, get their asses royally kicked, and crawl back on their knees with tears in their eyes, begging to be protected from extragalactic zealots who sacrifice entire planetary populations to their gods."
"You said — Yuuzhan Vong?" A shadow passed across the Daughter's face.
"The very same, dearie," I smiled. "Or did Daddy not tell you about that either?"
The Celestial gifted me with an expressionless stare from her beautiful but empty eyes. Her face resembled a porcelain figurine. Lifeless, as if artificial. This went on for several minutes. Then a slight, almost shy smile appeared on her lips.
"Is the invitation to a romantic candlelit dinner still valid?" she inquired innocently. "If so, I wouldn't mind trying human food again."
Snorting, I grinned at the girl and set the ship in motion. The former Separatist shuttle moved slowly toward the former Separatist dreadnought.
And in its pilot's head, only one thought beat: "Don't you dare, Rick! Don't even think about it!"