Chapter 90 - Chapter 30

Cad Bane was watching a holovid and picking his teeth with a small durasteel ice pick when a warning light flickered on the console in his ship's cockpit, and Billy, sitting beside him, announced:

"Arriving at the location, boss. Exiting hyperspace in three minutes."

"Good, kid," the Duros grunted. "You can rest. I'll take it from here."

The boy nodded silently and left the bridge, heading toward the cabins. His watch was over; the kid could use some downtime.

"And shave that crap off your face," the Duros called after him.

"This 'crap' is called a beard and mustache," Kidd shot back. "You'd know that if you could grow any yourself."

"Little shit," the Duros grumbled, then added louder: "I'll knock that nonsense out of you, partner!"

"I know where to get more!" his colleague retorted before disappearing into his cabin.

Still picking his teeth, Bane switched off the holovid. He'd been watching "Bounty Hunters Guild's Greatest Hits: Volume VIII", a collector's edition of kills recorded by holocameras. Rifles, blasters, slugthrowers, lasers, detonators, mines, catastrophes, reactor explosions, vibroblades, poisoned darts... The Guild regularly released these "compilations" showcasing the most interesting methods of killing. They were usually structured around a theme — by target type, method of killing, or style of covering tracks. This edition was dedicated to killing Jedi. And as usual, it only featured footage from hunters who'd paid up for the privilege.

Cad's kills had never made it into any compilation. First of all, he wasn't about to pay so that a pair of Trandoshans — Guild leader Cradossk and his son Bossk — could squeeze even more credits out of him. He already paid his dues to the Guild on every job, as required.

Secondly, those idiots who recorded their work on holocameras had a remarkably short lifespan. The compilations were uploaded to special sections of the HoloNet as promotional brochures for future clients. Or training materials for beginners willing to cough up a couple hundred credits for a few hours of boring holorecordings. Bane had never bought any of them; he always used pirated versions. And there wasn't really anything worth watching anyway. Just something to laugh at.

Because there was nothing worthwhile in these "hits" at all. Catch a Jedi with grenades. Take him by surprise. Disarm him.

Crap, not a video. Cad knew perfectly well how to kill, disarm, or neutralize most of the galaxy's species. Jedi were no exception. The fact that his current employer had once been his target — and had gotten quite a "beating" proved the Duros's competence and professionalism. Actually, the change in his status proved that many people needed Bane's services. And even though the start of his cooperation with the Empire hadn't been the most pleasant (the scars where they'd cut off his skin still itched), the new job and the salary suited him fine.

Faking his own death had been easy. A couple of rumors on Tatooine, some panic in Hutt Space, three witnesses who saw him board a ship that exploded...

And just like that, Cad Bane ceased to exist for the galaxy.

The Senate Investigative Committee had dropped his case, his enemies had calmed down, his friends had moved on... Though, by the Hutt, what friends could he possibly have?

Except maybe this kid, Billy.

But even he was more of a colleague, an apprentice, a trainee. Not a friend. An acquaintance, nothing more.

Like everyone else he'd ever dealt with — the kid would slit his throat without batting an eye if the job required it. Not without effort, of course, but he could definitely manage.

The kid might look like a jester and a clown, but on the job, he was pretty good. Shot accurately, ran fast, planned clearly. If only he wouldn't get distracted by his hanky-panky with that blue-faced senator of his — he'd be pure aurodium, not a man.

Either way, right now the Duros didn't want anyone else as his partner. The kid had some very specific qualities — he intuitively blended into his surroundings, which were, for the most part, full of idiots. So Billy easily melted into the crowd.

Plenty of time would pass before he passed his knowledge on to the boy.

Outside the cockpit, the superluminal dimension known as hyperspace bloomed in a radiant cascade streaming past the ship's stern. Bane swiveled his chair away from the turned-off holoprojector to run a quick check on the engines and navigation systems.

At first glance, all systems were working properly, but then he noticed minor fluctuations in the gravity field generator. Bane's ability to gather and systematize data — allowing him to control any situation — was as sharp as his skill at creating chaos. And he liked things running the way they should.

The ship was called... hell if he knew. An ordinary, unremarkable freighter, stolen on Coruscant, spotted on Rendili, and lost in an endless tangle of hyperspace jumps designed to cover its tracks. Even if someone had been looking for them, they'd lost the trail long ago. No one covered their tracks better than the Duros.

Bane clamped the knife between his teeth, freeing his hands to work at the engineering console. Satisfied that the fluctuations in the field generator had stabilized and were running optimally, he pulled the knife from his mouth and spun it playfully between his nimble blue fingers.

Standing up from his seat, he left the cockpit to check his cargo, taking the knife with him. Bane made his way to the relatively small hold, where he stopped beside a two-meter black plastoid crate resting on a grav-sled secured to the wall by magnetic clamps. A switch on the side of the crate, when pressed, slid the top lid aside, revealing a transparisteel coffin. Through the transparisteel, the unconscious, motionless body of a person was clearly visible.

"Well, hello there, Senator Organa," Bane chuckled.

The coffin was actually an exotic stasis pod. On one side were life-support monitors, around which a thin layer of ice had formed. With surgical precision, Bane struck with the knife, shattering the ice without damaging the screen. The hunter leaned toward the monitor to read the person's vital signs.

Organa's condition hadn't changed. He was as close to death as he'd been aboard his corvette, which had been dumped at coordinates pre-programmed into the senator's ship's hyperdrive. Yes, the "repair" had been done well. As had the subsequent "accidental" discovery of the drifting Tantive, naturally the boarding, and finally the senator's capture.

Yes, they could have taken him directly on Rendili without coming up with such an elaborate scheme. But then there might have been traces leading back to Bane and Kidd. And the Duros didn't like mistakes in his work.

Whether the senator lived or died depended entirely on the pod's settings. Bane would have gladly killed the man on the spot, but his mission wasn't to execute the senator. "Capture and deliver." Not "Find and destroy."

Back when he'd worked for the Guild, Bane could afford a loose interpretation of orders — rarely, but effectively. But when you worked for the Empire... disobeying an order wasn't worth it. It was easier to do things properly and collect your honestly earned credits than to report to your superiors later.

Bane closed the crate, sheathed his knife, and returned to the cockpit. As soon as he settled into his chair, the main engine automatically began to reduce power, settling into a pre-set orbit.

From the cockpit, Bane could see a large planet against a backdrop of stars, and he didn't need to check the sensor readings to confirm that this was their destination.

He hadn't been here before. In fact, neither had most of the sentients living in the Empire.

Cad checked the navigation display to make sure it was working properly, cross-referencing it with the coordinates in his head — the only place where those coordinates were stored. He did it out of habit, a routine that had become part of his current regimen, a guarantee that he would never, under any circumstances, fall victim to anyone or anything, including equipment malfunction.

The planet had no notable features. No orbital shipyards, no space stations, no moons, no ships buzzing through the system... A virgin world, covered in lush vegetation, unknown to the inhabited part of the galaxy.

The planet had no name, only a code designation — "Meeting Place." Nothing more, nothing less. No additional explanation.

The navigation panel beeped — Bane intercepted a unique transmission, a signal coming from a small artificial satellite in orbit around the planet. The satellite was spherical, about half a meter in diameter. The signal appeared as a blinking green dot on the monitor; a brief description stated that it was being transmitted on a secure frequency. According to the instructions, it was activated only during a rendezvous — not a minute earlier or later. If you were late, it was your own fault.

Bane knew the signal was meant for him and only for him. He turned the subspace receiver toward the signal and tapped out the code-password on the keys. If the wrong code had been entered, the satellite would have self-destructed. Since it was correct, the device transmitted a set of coordinates for the next destination to his ship. The coordinates pointed to a patch of land deep in the forest — a wide area of ground on the far side of the planet.

Bane adjusted the sensor controls, disabled the triangulation transmission from the satellite above the planet's horizon, and focused on the newly received coordinates. He calculated a roundabout course to the planet's surface, because he figured there was always a chance someone was watching you, and that was the reason he'd acquired another special skill that took precedence over all others. So until he was absolutely certain no one was watching or following him, he wouldn't come anywhere near his target waiting at the designated coordinates.

About two hours later, Bane circled above the landing zone, scanning the area, making sure the "safe house" was secure. When his paranoia subsided, he set the ship down on an inconspicuous clearing hidden by the tree canopy.

Then, lowering the boarding ramp from the cockpit, he headed for the exit.

Someone was already waiting for him at the ramp.

A lone human figure, clad in a strict military uniform. A blaster in a thigh holster. An unremarkable face, but with a tenacious, memorable gaze in cold, indifferent eyes.

"Enjoying the view?" the man inquired.

"Looking for tails," Bane replied hoarsely.

"Useful skill," the man nodded approvingly. "Don't do it again."

"And why's that?" the Duros smirked.

"You're making the defense system operators nervous," the man said in the same tone.

"There's a defense system?" the mercenary asked, trying not to show surprise.

"There is," the man made it clear the alien wouldn't get any details. "Where's the cargo?"

"In the hold," Cad waved his hand.

"Your partner?"

"Asleep."

"Get him up. I need both of you," the man ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.

Bane was smart enough to know when he could argue with his superiors and when it was best to keep his mouth shut. They'd only met a couple of times (this conversation being the second), and he had no desire whatsoever to contradict the officer. Just thinking about it made his scars itch.

"Billy, get up," Cad said into his comlink. For a few seconds, he heard only static, then the kid's sluggish voice.

"Bane, I was having the best dream. Give me half an hour..."

"Keep your wet dreams to yourself," the Duros advised. "We're at the rendezvous. The boss wants to see you."

"Two minutes," any hint of sluggishness vanished from the kid's voice.

"And bring the cargo," the Duros added finally.

The man watched the scene impassively. When the alien disconnected his comlink, he inquired:

"How's the trainee?"

"Diligent," Bane admitted. "Got nonsense in his head — plenty of it — but I'll make a man out of him in time."

"Any problems with him?"

"None at all," the Duros lied without blinking. The boss was the boss, but no one should know that the kid was still carrying on with that Pantoran woman. She was an influence mission. She'd remain that way in the reports.

"Prospects?"

"Give me a year, and you won't recognize Billy at our next meeting," Bane assured him. He wasn't lying. He genuinely liked the kid — his directness, his ease in conversation. Sure, sometimes he pulled stunts crazier than most. But that's what youth was for — learning the hard way.

"Six months," the boss declared without appeal. "And preferably, I'd still recognize him."

A crash came from behind. Cad, grinding his teeth, turned toward the source of the noise. Billy, wearing his ridiculous fabric-armor cloak and wide-brimmed hat (Cad reflexively adjusted his own), was pushing the stasis pod ahead of him on an antigrav sled.

Earning a disapproving look from his senior partner, Billy slid the panel aside, letting the man look at the transparisteel coffin with the senator's motionless body. Pointing at the fresh layer of ice around the life-support monitors, Bane explained:

"Icing is normal for this device. It means everything's working as it should."

"It means you've got an ancient stasis pod," the man noted with justification.

Ignoring his fair comment, Bane continued:

"To look at the monitors and get access to the controls, you just break the ice. Like this." He pulled the ice pick from its sheath and drove it professionally into the ice; it cracked and fell away.

The man checked the controls, then leaned over the coffin and studied the senator's face. Not a trace of air movement through his nostrils. He was completely still. Satisfied, the man lifted his gaze to the Duros.

"I was told I'd receive further instructions," Cad Bane said.

"Follow me," the commander ordered.

Exchanging glances, the mercenaries followed the officer, not forgetting to push the transparisteel coffin ahead of them. Cad noticed the man's slight limp and allowed himself a quiet, satisfied grunt.

The walk wasn't long.

They went a couple dozen meters through the forest before arriving at a checkpoint camouflaged in the rocks.

Several people in similar uniforms and light body armor checked the access cards of all three, then watched the officer pass, paying absolutely no attention to his company.

"There's a base here, or what?" Billy asked quietly, craning his neck like a child at the Festival of Lights on Naboo.

"Exactly that," Cad replied softly. "Less talking. I'll ask the questions."

"Of course, boss," Billy assured him, but the Duros had no confidence the kid would keep his mouth shut. He knew his younger colleague too well.

As Cad had suspected, the base itself was built deep underground. Only guard posts leading to the entrances and some camouflaged equipment were on the surface. So he wasn't particularly surprised when, after passing three lines of security, the officer led them to a turbolift disguised as a pile of boulders, where the head of the guard was already waiting. Checking the documents, he ordered his subordinates, and the massive armored doors of the cabin opened.

"Could have set up landing pads within the security perimeter too," Cad remarked offhandedly.

The man ignored his comment.

Waiting for the cabin to reach the right level (the Duros mechanically noted the number "11" on the display), at the man's signal, the Duros and his partner handed the transparisteel coffin over to several base personnel. Then the cabin continued its descent, stopping at level "38."

"They dug deep," a thought flashed through Bane's head.

On the new floor, they were greeted by the spartan interior of numerous gray duracrète corridors and locked doors with no markings whatsoever.

The man stopped in front of one, swiped his access card, and stepped inside. Both mercenaries followed, finding themselves in a small, modestly furnished office: a desk, a few metal chairs, a holoprojector. Nothing that could give even the slightest hint about the office owner's preferences or personality.

Pointing the mercenaries to the chairs facing the desk, the man took his seat opposite and immediately started up the computer.

"Your new assignment, on Umbara," he began without preamble. "Senator Al Comlin will be on the planet for the next two weeks." An image of an Umbaran in rich clothing appeared above the desktop. "He has vital information regarding the state of affairs among the senators of the Separatist Congress that interests the leadership. According to our intelligence, the senator will participate in an upcoming session where key issues concerning the continuation of the war between the Republic and the Confederation will be discussed."

"What's that got to do with us?" Billy asked in surprise. "Let them beat each other up however they want."

"Wrong judgment, Agent Zero-43," the handler countered. "We are interested in everything that happens in the galaxy. Information is the key to prosperity. Extract the intelligence the senator will provide, then return here."

"When is the session scheduled?" Cad inquired.

"In a day."

"On our ship, it'll take about two days just to get to the Outer Rim," Cad objected. Catching his colleague's puzzled look, he showed him a fist under the table — out of the intelligence officer's sight.

"Your probationary period is over, Zero-9," the man noted. "The hangars are on level 6. Yours is number nine. You're receiving an X-70B Phantom. Experimental ship, but with state-of-the-art components. I suggest you study the ship's technical documentation before showing up in Republic territory."

"Oh, we've got a new ride?" Billy grinned with childlike directness. The man gave him a highly appraising look, then a slight smirk appeared on his lips, directed at Bane.

"Six months, you said, Zero-9?" he clarified. "Well, well..."

"What six months?" Kidd blinked in confusion, causing the Duros to grind his teeth again. "If I have to, I can do it in no time..."

"Billy, shut your mouth," Cad requested. Closing his eyes, he collected his thoughts and asked the man: "The senator's fate?"

"Extract the information covertly, protect the target at all costs without raising suspicion."

"And what about Senator Organa?" Billy inquired.

Despite the Duros's attempts to drown out his question with a pointed cough, the man sitting across heard him.

"Nothing bad," he assured them with a serious face. "We'll thaw him out, have a chat, give him some caf, a pack of pastries, and send him home."

"Really?" Billy broke into a smile. Cad shook his head ruefully.

"No," the uniformed man shook his head. "The senator's fate is none of your concern."

Cad, seeing that Billy was about to ask something else, hastily stood up.

"Assignment understood, sir. We're leaving."

"Good luck," the man nodded, losing all interest in them.

"I told you to keep your mouth shut!" the Duros hissed in the turbolift's transport cabin. "You don't make small talk with that kind of man!"

"What did I do?" Billy spread his hands. "A couple of stupid phrases, and maybe he'd have said more."

"You're not dealing with the right person," Cad chuckled. "Damon won't talk even under torture."

"Who?" Zero-43 didn't understand. "What Damon?"

The Duros sighed wearily. Sometimes he forgot that his charge had been moving in extremely low circles and had never worked on jobs on Coruscant.

"Colonel Damon, former deputy director of the Senate Bureau of Intelligence," he explained. "Armand Isard 'ate' his deputy when he started digging into a couple of senators. Remember the case about the senators involved in the slave trade?"

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that," the kid nodded.

"Damon supervised the SBI's Senate desk. He figured out those assholes and dragged all their dirty laundry into the light."

"But they got off," his partner recalled. "And defected to the Separatists."

"Once he was kicked out of the SBI, the senators got away with everything," Bane snorted. "And when they ousted him, they started firing all his people. His direct subordinates, colleagues he was friends with, and other principled ones. About five hundred, if I remember right."

"So that means, if he works for us now, then his people...?" Billy concluded.

"Kid," Bane sighed. "Damon is the Deputy Director of the ISB for External Intelligence. If you haven't noticed, he gives us tasks, not the other way around — which means we don't work for him, he works for us. Did you even read your contract before signing it?"

"Nope," Kidd admitted. "Main thing is we have carte blanche for any action for the good of the Empire. The rest doesn't matter."

"Everything matters, Billy." The pair walked down a wide corridor and reached the doors of the designated hangar. Bane slipped his fingers into a hidden pocket on his belt and produced a thin information card — his ISB agent credentials. Pressing it to the reader, he waited for the massive hangar door to slide aside. "Only because I took you under my wing are you a 'Zero'-level agent — with a license to kill and everything. By the Hutt, if the mission required it, we could even call in a fleet and burn a planet to the ground! If you were on your own, they'd never have taken you. And your ten-thousand-credit monthly salary would be down the drain! And your girlfriend from Pantora — she's an expensive piece."

"This is love, Cad," Billy sighed. "Besides, I have to maintain my reputation as an industrialist."

Bane snorted irritably. The kid was head over heels in love. He definitely wouldn't listen to reason. So either he'd get burned, or everything would work out. There was no third option. All his senior partner could do was stick close and not let him screw up.

"What a beauty," Billy breathed admiringly as the view of an elegant ship, more like a luxury yacht, came into view. "Riyo's going to go crazy when she sees it!"

"What Riyo, kid?" Cad growled mockingly. "We've got a mission!"

"Oh, spare me the act," Billy snorted. "We flew here from the galactic center in ten hours on that bucket of bolts. On this bird, it'll be twice as fast. We can swing by Coruscant after the mission! Why are you grinding your teeth, Bane? Let's get on board! Dibs on the controls first!"

"Oversized lovesick idiot," the Duros commented quietly, watching his companion's retreating figure. "She'll break your heart, kid. And out of grief, you'll become the best bounty hunter in the galaxy."

After a pause, the Duros added, even more quietly:

"'Apprentices follow the path of their teachers'... By the Hutt, poor kid..."

* * *

Before the eyes of Deran and Myfispi, standing on a sheer cliff, the tall hospital building shuddered from the explosion of the generator hidden at its base. Clouds of smoke billowed toward the sky, and the structure swayed dangerously. Fortunately, despite Myfispi's fears, it didn't collapse, and none of the wide streets connecting the city center to the outskirts were damaged or buried under mountains of duracrète and broken transparisteel. Which meant nothing would stop the advance of the 305th Landing Corps' assault units toward the central part of the planet Enark's capital. The sabotage of the deflector field generator covering the Neimoidians and their mechanical army was meant to disorganize the organic enemy. And to instill confidence in a quick rescue among the Republic army soldiers dug in on the opposite side of the capital.

"The Breakthrough Squad guys did a good job," Commander Naluan said approvingly, referring to the sabotage. "No collateral damage. If we're lucky, we can take the city center without unnecessary losses."

"If you ask me, I'd rather have Climber and his Ion Team here," Myfispi said. "They'd have blown the whole center sky-high, and there'd be no hassle."

"You just want to blow everything up," the Togruta sighed. "There are actually living sentients there. Some of them are innocent."

"This planet is the Trade Federation's regional headquarters," the marshal recalled from the briefing. "There are no innocents here."

Ten kilometers to the east, the shimmering red energy dome that had covered a landing platform flickered and went out, leaving the giant hexagon where cargo ships had once landed vulnerable to invasion.

"That was fast," the girl assessed. "Second generator in five minutes. Can they teleport or something?"

"They probably just split up," Myfispi said, smiling at the Jedi's joke.

Not even a second had passed before a swarm of Republic V-19 Torrent and ARC-170 starfighters descended from the sky, raking the ground with cannon fire. In response, anti-aircraft batteries on the landing platform and from the rooftops of skyscrapers spoke up, piercing the sky with arrows of pure scarlet energy.

"Admiral Kreeves started off briskly," Declan commented, pointing at the swarm of starfighters nimbly weaving between buildings, burning out enemy firing points.

Further south, five hundred meters above the churning waters of the bay, the Acclamator-class assault cruiser Victorious — the permanent flagship of the rear admiral — hung motionless. Assault ships broke away from its hangar bays and, under unceasing return fire, raced at full speed toward the shore.

"Here we go," Mifispi muttered. "The 804th Legion has begun the landing. Our turn soon."

"I remember the plan, Mifispi," the girl smiled. "I'm kind of its author."

"Yes, ma'am," the marshal nodded. "I'm not old enough to forget that."

His joke earned him another open smile.

Taking a roundabout path through the city, the clone and the Padawan eventually turned south and set a course for the main force deployment zone of the corps. After passing a few more streets, dodging patrols and droid squads rushing to the front, they checked the city map, emerged onto a street parallel to the main thoroughfare, and sprinted with all their might toward the magistracy.

The plan was both simple and, in Mifispi's opinion, unnecessarily complicated.

Because the fleet's main strike force was stuck at Rindellia, having unexpectedly run into a powerful orbital cover group and a very extensive enemy base on the ground, the campaign to relieve the remnants of the troops — "And what troops," Mifispi thought, "barely a couple of regiments left out of two corps" of the "Grek" system army under High Jedi General Adi Gallia had once again undergone changes.

While Admiral Makati's Spear was grinding down the unexpectedly tough Separatist orbital group, and on the ground the fighters of the 217th Assault Corps, 156th Assault Corps, and 73rd Reconnaissance Corps under Marshals Riviriv, Ventor, and Micky — whom Mifispi knew personally and held in high regard for their professionalism, leaving him no doubt about the ground operation's success — were doing their work, headquarters, unwilling to lose the offensive's momentum and not wanting to give the CIS time to bring up reserves via their favorite secret hyperspace routes, threw Rear Admiral Aeon Kreeves's fleet at Enark.

The Anvil, living up to its name, hit the enemy with no ceremony whatsoever. A massive missile and torpedo attack by cruisers against Confederate starships in orbit — there they were, the good fellows, the Generous and the Rebels, "lost" at Rindellia — knocked out most of the enemy's light destroyers from the very first minutes of the battle. The enemy was taken aback — though hardly anyone expected that from droids — and yielded ground from orbit. The Hammerheads and Marauders seized the vacated orbital position in a dashing rush and were now holding the Separatists at bay while the Acclamators dropped the landing force.

The idea of landing directly on the Separatists' heads had to be abandoned as soon as they received a message from the surviving Republic units about the enemy having J-1 planetary defense cannons. Those proton monstrosities — a pair could easily knock any Republic ship out of the atmosphere and down to the ground — had to be taken seriously. That, in turn, pushed back the timing for relieving the besieged clones, whom the Separatists had driven to the northern part of the city — a patch of sparsely built-up rock rising above an abyss.

Using field deflector shields, the Separatists simultaneously protected their positions from orbital fire and, under that cover, hastily advanced on the dug-in "Grek soldiers," as the besieged units on the planet had come to be called. Whoever was commanding the Separatists on the ground clearly understood that, since the Republic Acclamators had set down fifty kilometers from the city, a general offensive against their positions would happen fairly soon. And the Separatists evidently did not want to fight on two fronts — against the advancing forces on the front line and against those dug in behind them. So, while there was still time, they were trying to crush the "Grek soldiers" so they could turn the full strength of their army against the landing force.

Headquarters' calculations showed that during a standard assault, the droids would have enough time to wipe out the defenders — who were already firing back from what were essentially ruins. Not a single intact building remained that could serve as cover.

That was why Commander Naluan proposed an extremely risky, but apparently the only correct, way to enter the city and free the besieged.

While three of the four legions belonging to the 305th Landing Corps were deploying from ships outside the enemy weapons' kill zone, a commando squad attached to the corps — the guys with the call sign "Breakthrough," who had distinguished themselves in the first year of the war — would infiltrate the city and, by the time the main forces arrived, destroy the shield generators, opening the city to air attack. Admiral Kreeves, with an air raid, would silence the anti-aircraft and PDC artillery. Simultaneously, three legions would attack head-on, and the LAATs would drop the 804th onto the largest landing platform, which adjoined the positions held by the "Greks."

In the end, reinforcements would reach the exhausted men, drawing most of the fire onto themselves, while the main body of the 305th Corps would steamroll the droid forward positions on the southern outskirts. Yes, it would cost casualties — and probably heavy ones. But when it came to saving brothers, the clones were united in their determination.

"We should have made a precision strike," Mifispi lamented, watching one of the cargo LAAT/cs, engulfed in flames from a heavy proton charge, plummet like a fireball onto the landing platform.

He and the commander had entered the city with the commandos. But while the commandos were dealing with the city's defensive systems, the Jedi and the marshal were moving straight toward the enemy headquarters.

Yes, that bright idea — to slip under the cover of the cannonade, leave the corps to the legion commanders, break through to the enemy command post together, and capture the Separatist commander — had occurred to Deran about an hour ago. If Mifispi hadn't noticed the Jedi girl swiping a speeder bike from one of the scouts with the clear intention of infiltrating the city alone, she would definitely have sped off toward the city center alone. And she would certainly have died. Because during the crossing of the droid positions, the marshal, who had tagged along, had saved her life at least five times.

"Don't blame yourself," the commander replied. "All the commanders agreed to this plan. We knew there would be casualties."

"I remember, ma'am," Mifispi admitted. "It's just that every time I ask myself — how many guys could we have saved if we'd fought a little better?"

"I'm afraid we'll never know that."

"What about your Jedi abilities?" Mifispi inquired. "I heard you can see the future…"

"Other Jedi, maybe," Naluan agreed. "That's not available to me. Hopefully not yet, rather than never."

"I heard Grand Moff Dougan can single-handedly wipe out an entire army of droids," Mifispi shared the rumor, casually checking his wrist datapad. Ah, friendly markers were already nearby.

"Maybe so," the Padawan said indifferently. "Master Windu destroyed a lot of droids on Dantooine practically bare-handed. But they are members of the Order's High Council, and I'm just a Padawan."

"Forgive my frankness, Commander, but what in the blazes do you Jedi need that Council for?"

"I don't understand the question," the Togruta admitted.

"I mean, what's it for?" Mifispi clarified.

"They command the Jedi," Deran said. "Assign us tasks, give orders. The Council is to the Jedi what high command is to you — it teaches and punishes."

"I've talked to other marshals who came from different armies. They say things aren't the same for them as for us. The Jedi themselves charge into attack on the front lines, assign tasks, ignoring the terrain and the enemy's disposition. Last year it was a total mess — they advanced on the droid 'boxes' in tight formation. It's gotten a little better now, but not much."

"Actually, if you haven't noticed," Deran smirked, "I'm a Jedi, and I'm also on the front lines. Even behind enemy lines."

"That's different," Mifispi grimaced. "We're acting as saboteurs now, and I admit your Jedi skills are very useful here. But from what other guys tell me, the tactical guidelines and generalizations that High Command disseminates in the army and fleet are meant only for us clones. Because only we carry them out. Or rather, try to carry them out — when they don't contradict the direct orders of a Jedi commander. So I'm asking myself — if, as you say, the High Council teaches the Jedi, then why aren't you taught warfare the way we are? We'd be even more effective than we are now."

"Jedi are keepers of peace," the girl said didactically. "We are not warriors…"

"Then why do you command us? If you're not qualified personnel?"

"Good question," the Togruta sighed. Noticing movement ahead, she gestured to the clone, and the pair ducked into the nearest alley, waiting while a squad of super battle droids marched past. "To be honest, I didn't want to command a corps at seventeen."

"Ma'am, you're almost twice my age," Mifispi observed.

"Older?" the Togruta frowned. "In what sense? You must be about thirty…"

"Eleven, ma'am," the clone corrected. "I just look older."

The Togruta's eyes widened. Mifispi looked at her, then remembered that despite their almost friendly relationship with the commander, they had never touched on this topic before.

"We have accelerated aging," he explained. "In ten years we reach adult maturity."

"You're not a specimen," the girl said crossly. "You're a human!"

"As you command, ma'am," the clone agreed. "If you say 'human,' I'll be a human. If you order me to become a bantha, I'll wrap myself in a thick-pile carpet and start growing horns."

"You know, you used to be less funny," the girl remarked, carefully peeking around the corner. No, the droids were still marching. "But after that check-up on Christophsis, you got talkative — enough to shut up a Hutt."

"Should I be quiet, ma'am?" Mifispi inquired with slight hurt. It would be a shame if so. He enjoyed talking to this girl. Her company felt easy and relaxed. Besides, she was beautiful and pleasant to talk to.

Sinilian, the commander of the 212th Reconnaissance Corps, once said that after the examination at the medical center on Christophsis, it seemed easier for clones to breathe. Mifispi felt that himself. If before he had just nodded his head and nothing beyond the war interested him, now… He'd even been dragged to a comedienne's performance during downtime on Christophsis. He hadn't understood much of her monologue, but the others — mostly Christophsians — laughed. Since then, he spent all his free time browsing the HoloNet, downloading and reading books — indiscriminately, everything. Some were about galactic history and wars. Others about romance and relationships.

It was after the latter that he began to view the Togruta differently. If before she had been just a commander to him, now…

"Absolutely not," the Togruta shook her head. "I like you better this way. Like you're enjoying life…"

"We give you life."

That's what the medics on Christophsis said to every single clone before the examination. And apparently, they hadn't lied. In a sense.

"To the fullest," Mifispi confirmed. "Ma'am, may I ask a question?"

"Go ahead."

"If we survive, would you allow me to invite you for a drink?"

"Uh…" The Togruta's mouth dropped open in surprise, her eyes blinking. "Yes… of course… just don't forget that we're both teetotalers."

"That never crossed my mind, ma'am!" the marshal frowned beneath his helmet. "I was going to offer juice."

"Yes," Deran nodded. "I wouldn't say no to that right now. My throat is as dry as Tatooine…"

Mifispi, smiling under his helmet, touched the magnetic catches of the plastoid backpack on his back and slid it onto the pavement. The droids continued to march rhythmically, keeping parallel to their hiding place. They couldn't spot the Jedi and the clone — the "cans" were marching in the opposite direction, and both of them were hidden behind a large trash container. So they needn't fear being caught off guard.

Opening the top flap of the backpack, the marshal pulled out a canteen and handed it to the girl.

"Berry juice, ma'am."

"You're full of surprises," the Togruta giggled quietly, accepting the container of cool liquid with gratitude. As she drank the juice in greedy gulps — okay, they couldn't teach Jedi tactical mastery, but couldn't they at least explain that on raids one should take food and drink? — the marshal transferred spare power cells into the pouches on his belt, putting the depleted ones in their place. He wasn't used to wasting state property. The logisticians often grumbled about lost equipment, so recently Mifispi had decided to be extremely thrifty. He'd read in one of the books that careless handling of entrusted property was a sign of one's own bad breeding. And he didn't want to be that. Clone or not, he was still a guy from a decent family. Of course, if an incubator counted as "mom" and "dad."

"Thanks," the Togruta said, quenching her thirst, and handed the canteen back. The clone screwed the cap on and put the container back in the backpack. "Don't you want a drink?"

"No, ma'am," he admitted. "My armor has a climate control system. I don't get hot or cold. So I get thirsty less often."

"Lucky you," the Togruta sighed. "I wish I had an 'Infiltrator' like that…"

"I don't think the logisticians have a helmet that would fit you, Commander," Mifispi noted.

"You're really on fire today," Deran said with a hint of admiration.

"Napalm is more the specialty of the commandos from the 'Inferno' squad," Mifispi recalled. "You just tell them something can be blown up or burned — they'll burn everything down to the planet's core."

"That was a figure of speech," the girl wrinkled her nose. "It means you're joking very accurately and often. And your jokes are understood."

"The thing about the helmet wasn't a joke, ma'am," Mifispi corrected. "There really aren't any helmets for Togruta in the stores."

A smile played on the girl's lips.

"But I think it's funny," she said. "If we survive, the juice comes with pastries on me."

"I'll decline, Commander," Mifispi warned. "I read that they make you fat. My armor is one size — if I don't fit into it, that'll be bad. But for you…"

The smile instantly vanished from the girl's face.

"Doesn't your book say that hinting to women — even Jedi — that they might get fat is wrong?" she inquired.

"No, ma'am. I read about pastries in the "Guide to Proper Nutrition for Men". There wasn't a word about women there…"

"When we're done on this planet, I'm going to go through your datapad and delete all that junk you're reading," the Togruta warned.

"Ma'am, that junk is precious to me as a memento," Mifispi admitted. "I need a lot of books — I read fast."

"I'll download you the entire Jedi Temple Archive if it'll make you stop reading trash like that Guide of yours," the girl assured him.

Mifispi nodded in agreement. You don't argue with your commander. You don't argue with women either. He'd read that too.

Meanwhile, the stream of droids seemed endless.

The marshal, setting aside the friendly conversation with the commander, brought up a city map on his wrist computer. If the droids kept coming and coming, that meant they were reserve forces, moving toward one of the three locations where Republic soldiers were. They needed to figure out which one and send a warning.

Checking the map, he bit his lip. The droids could only be moving along this street to one place — the southern outskirts, where three legions of his clones were about to engage in battle any minute now. Judging by the distant explosions and the noise of firefights — both the "Grek soldiers" and the 804th were putting up fierce resistance. So the droids hadn't been pulled from their directions. Reserves? Most likely.

Using a comlink in close proximity to the enemy army was dangerous — if they detected the signal source, neither of them would leave alive. But a warning needed to be sent. Too bad he didn't have encrypted communications like the commandos on their Katarn armor…

Exactly! Mifispi nearly slapped his forehead. The "Breakthrough" squad was still in the city. And according to the markers on the map, they were already at the rendezvous point. If he could reach them, they could make it. It would take the droids at least another hour to march to the southern outskirts. The rendezvous point was half an hour away.

They had to hurry.

Mifispi looked at the map again. They needed a roundabout route. After a few tries, he found one.

"Ma'am, there seem to be a lot of droids," he said. "We're just wasting time here. I found a detour."

The girl silently got to her feet, and they ran again. This time — away from the droids.

Again — alleys, streets, intersections, arches… Mifispi was fully absorbed in the operation, and the thought of starting another conversation with the Togruta didn't even cross his mind. She seemed to pick up on his mood and didn't rush to break the silence.

After fifteen minutes of weaving through the district, they reached the required building.

"A shopping center?" Deran frowned.

"Doesn't matter," Mifispi parried. "The important thing is that it has a walkway over the street where the droids are marching."

The building turned out to be empty. Logical — during the assault on the capital, few people wanted to browse the stores. Mifispi, followed by the Padawan, took the stairs up to the necessary floor like a whirlwind. Yes, there was a walkway. But…

"The starfighters did a number on it," the Togruta concluded, pointing to a huge hole in the center of the walkway — big enough for an ARC-170 to fly through. Though, Mifispi would swear that was probably what happened — one of the pilots had made a run on a target and cut a path below the Separatist guns' field of fire.

"Dead end," the girl commented. "That's about twenty meters of open space. I might be able to jump across, but you…"

"Don't worry about me," Mifispi snorted, approaching the gap. As he moved, he attached a grapple with a thin but strong cable to his rifle. "The ceiling height here is about twenty meters. I'll shoot the grapple into the ceiling on the other side and fly over the gap, hanging onto the rifle. I'll turn on the winch to reel in the cable — that way I'll cross safely, without the risk of falling on the droids' heads if I miscalculate the cable length."

"Clever," the girl admitted. "Do you have a second cable? The longer I look at this gap, the less I want to fall on the droids' heads if it doesn't work."

"I have a spare cable," Mifispi admitted. "But only one grapple. We can cross together, though — the cable can handle up to two hundred kilos, so we could even bring a soda machine with us."

"And how…"

"I'll hold the rifle and turn on the winch; you'll have to hold onto me," he anticipated the girl's question. She thought for a moment, then nodded.

With practiced movements — oh, how many times he had cursed this element in the final exercise of his training; that "Citadel," blast it — he secured the grapple and tested its hold. The anchor dug firmly into the ceiling slab; they weren't at risk of it collapsing.

Stepping to the edge, he waited until the Togruta was clinging to him, then pushed off from the edge of the gap.

Before his eyes, the dura-steel bodies of B-1s flashed by for just a moment, and then they were on the other side.

"The battle is in full swing," Deran said, peering into the cityscape while the marshal retrieved his equipment. Glancing in the direction the girl indicated, Mifispi silently nodded. Yes, the fight on the landing platform was growing fiercer by the minute. Republic starfighters and flying droids, gliding at altitudes far lower than normal, dissolved into clouds of flame. Crimson and blue streaks flashed constantly; green fire from ARC-170s tore the sky… his guys were fighting desperately. Even without macrobinoculars, he could see that the 804th had broken through to the surrounded brothers and was now carefully extracting them from the danger zone: on the platform, unlike the northern outskirts, there was still something to use as cover.

As soon as he finished dealing with the hook, they dashed toward their goal again.

Two hundred meters from the rendezvous point with the commandos, Mifispi suddenly realized that he hadn't told the commander he had altered her orders for the "Breakthrough" squad. In her plan, the commandos were supposed to withdraw from the city after the sabotage. Mifispi, however, had ordered them to arrive at a meeting point near the Separatist headquarters.

Straight ahead, at the intersection of two crooked streets, the commandos should be waiting for them in a small eatery.

Storming the enemy headquarters with six men was much better than with two.

The commander would understand.

Seeing a commando in matte-black Katarn armor emerge from a building right in front of them, Deran merely shot the marshal a squinting look. Yes, she understood. And at least she wouldn't chew him out in front of the commandos.

Like shadows, the special forces soldiers fell in behind them, moving toward an ordinary-looking skyscraper. If you didn't count the sign of the Trade Federation regional center on it.

And, oddly enough, there weren't too many droids around. Just a few sentries, useless as they were.

"They sent out a huge crowd of droids from here a little over an hour ago," the squad leader reported. "We notified the Victorious. The admiral promised to cover them with ship artillery from the air — as soon as the starfighters suppress the last J-1s."

"Yes, we saw them too," Mifispi admitted. "I was just about to ask you to report them to headquarters."

"Already done," the commando chuckled. "Not many 'cans' left. No communications come into the building — it's completely autonomous. No entry points except the main entrance. Fight our way in?"

"And inside?" the Togruta asked.

"Unknown, Commander," the commando admitted. "Our equipment can't handle that thickness of the building. Looks like the traders built a bomb shelter here, not an office building. Duracrete walls about ten meters thick."

"Then we storm," Deran sighed. "Since there's no other way."

They crossed the wide street leading to the building's main entrance in a couple of seconds. They ran swiftly, simultaneously eliminating the complacent B-1s. It felt like they were at a shooting gallery.

In the lobby, there was an entire platoon of B-1s. They had to break a sweat, but there were no casualties among the Republic soldiers.

The turbolift leading to the floor occupied by the trade representative took them to the required level without any complications. As soon as they slipped out of the cramped — for six people — cabin, they found themselves in the sights of a dozen CIS droid carbines.

The sabotage droids, their yellow optical sensors gleaming, held the brave six at gunpoint like a firing squad. And behind them stood at least a dozen B-2 super battle droids, aiming their rapid-fire built-in blasters at the Republic soldiers.

"You didn't think I'd cover my tracks?" a Customs vizier of the Trade Federation, flaunting a luxurious robe, appeared behind the battle droids and asked triumphantly. "Droids, kill them!"

What happened next happened very quickly.

Mifispi instinctively took a step forward and to the left, shielding the fragile girl with his armored body. The Infiltrator could take a couple of blaster shots. A Jedi robe could not.

Deran gasped as two droids with blasters took aim at him and opened fire. Two short bursts slammed into the marshal's chestplate, hurling him backward like a doll.

Mifispi felt pain across his entire torso. Crashing onto his back, he felt hands grab him under the arms and drag him sideways, like a sack of vegetables, behind a massive colonnade.

"Hang in there, brother!" shouted one of the commandos in black, trying to be heard over the roar of battle. He pulled off Mifispi's helmet, used a vibroknife to cut the fasteners on his chestplate, and tossed aside the armor, pierced in several places. Quick slashes with the cold blade — and the under-suit followed.

Mifispi felt his body grow heavy. His vision blurred, and as if in a dream, the marshal watched what was happening in the room, distantly understanding that bacta patches were being applied to his chest.

And in the room, a true hell had broken loose. At its center stood the Padawan Deran Naluan, beautiful in her deadly splendor.

The Togruta stood under concentrated fire from the droids, spinning her lightsaber so fast she seemed to wield a circle of light, reflecting the energy bolts back at the droids. The "cans" hulls shuddered under their own blaster fire, but not one was knocked off its feet.

She dodged the next shot, quickly calculating its trajectory — it would slam into the bulkhead without hitting any of the soldiers — and leaped forward, aiming her blade at the nearest droid's neck.

Deran's lightsaber passed through the first target and severed the built-in weapon arm of the next one. Twisting her wrist, she sliced the nearest droid from bottom to top, splitting its head in half. The first pair of felled sabotage droids hadn't even hit the floor when a second pair raised massive vibro-swords. But they didn't manage to do anything — surgically precise shots from the clone commandos blew out their electronic brains.

The Padawan was about to attack the remaining droids when Mifispi suddenly noticed the girl was no longer in her previous spot. He felt an icy needle embed itself in his body and a stimulant race through his veins. Adrenaline pounded in his temples, and the marshal felt better. The fog cleared, the dizziness faded. His hand instinctively reached for the blaster pistol on his hip.

"Easy," the commando said, pressing him firmly against the pillar with his back. "The stim lasts three minutes. After that, you'll be spread out like polish paste on armor."

"Commander..." Mifispi tried to explain, but the clone, grabbing his rifle, fired a burst into a B-2 that had approached them, knocking it onto its back.

"She's fine," he shouted, pouring fire into the next one. "By the other pillar."

Mifispi turned his head and smiled when he saw the Padawan, surrounded by three commandos, completely safe and sound. She'd even stopped her sword performance and borrowed a blaster from one of the clones, shooting droids.

The commando sitting beside him pulled out a couple of EMP grenades and rolled them across the floor. Half a dozen droids that had survived the firefight dropped like puppets with cut strings the moment the blue lightning touched them. Immediately after, a pair of commandos leaped over the remains of the "cans" and rushed toward the Neimoidian, who had tried to hide behind a work table. Beating him over the head with their blasters, the clones twisted his arms at the shoulder joints and slammed his face into the floor.

"Order the droids to surrender, you scum!" demanded the commando with captain's insignia. "Squad leader, looks like," Mifispi thought, feeling exhaustion washing over him.

The Neimoidian began babbling something in Galactic Basic with his characteristic accent. But the marshal could no longer make out the words.

The Togruta's face appeared right in front of him.

"Don't worry, Commander," came the voice of the clone who had given him medical aid. "He'll live. I've called for an evac transport."

"Is he badly hit?" the girl asked worriedly. Her voice betrayed her concern.

"Right lung pierced, liver too," he listed. "I've filled everything with foam and applied a bandage. That'll hold for a couple of hours."

"You sure?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The girl ran her palm over the clone's cheek, looking into his eyes.

"Why did you do that?"

"I was protecting you," Mifispi answered in a slurred voice.

The girl shook her head.

"I'm a Jedi. I can handle myself."

"Couldn't... risk it... Commander," his eyelids grew heavy as lead. Mifispi heard the rumble of the LAAT, but he was steadily being pulled into sleep.

"Deran," the Togruta said. "Call me Deran."

* * *

If you want to cease existing, there's no better way than to throw yourself straight into the enemy's teeth at four-to-one odds.

Who would have thought the Kaminoans and their hired staff could turn out to be the best teachers the Republic could buy with its money. And the endless clashes with droid starfighters, bombers, and other small flying Separatist junk had polished what was already coded in his genes.

And now, the CIS forces would have to learn the hard way the basic rules that had been established in Blade Squadron.

First: any target, any time of day. Second: attack is the best defense.

Only a few days had passed since the Scimitar Squadron had driven the Separatists out of the Gizer system — an important world located at the crossroads of several hyperspace routes. Bloodied but unbroken, Commodore Sagoro Autem's squadron had clamped onto the recaptured planet. The wags even joked that the formation commander would never leave this place as long as a single drop of the famous Gizer ale remained on the planet.

He might not leave, but the Separatists could certainly "request" that they leave.

Everyone understood that. And they all knew that the sooner the formation learned about the enemy's ship concentrations, the better.

And since all ships were occupied either with repairs or patrol duty, who would get the honor?

That's right. The boys from Blade.

That's why twelve ARCs had jumped into an unremarkable, uninhabited star system half a parsec from Gizer. Standard reconnaissance: get to the target, shut down the reactor, sit tight and don't stick your head out — let the sensors work. Their starfighters were built to be so stealthy against various types of scanners that with the main power plant turned off, the Separatists would never find them.

Of course, that's if they didn't get there before you.

There was only one enemy — a Munificent-class frigate, in a modification that the GAR really, really didn't like.

A Hutt ECM ship. Propaganda was broadcast non-stop from those bastards' decks, and CIS slicers tried to interfere with Republic communication systems. The guys on Hypori fell for that — the outcome was well known. Despite the fact that the Separatists had lost huge orbital and ground forces there, General Grievous had managed to escape.

Alright, that was all just lyricism. Time to get down to business.

First, Fakir, piloting his ARC-170, surprised his opponent — a Ginivex-class starfighter pilot — with a somewhat crooked corkscrew maneuver. The ARC was a heavy reconnaissance starfighter, and the key word among those three was "heavy." The brainchild of Incom's gloomy genius possessed enormous firepower — the best in its class. The machine was convenient to operate. Expensive to maintain, but let the brass worry about that, not the pilots.

However, its sluggishness in turns... That was perhaps the biggest drawback of the ARCs. But even that could be exploited by skilled pilots.

Fakir was an extremely experienced pilot. For some time, he and most of his squadron — which had been considerably thinned by enemy action — had been attached to the Jedi Aces. However, several joint raids had proven that such a squadron couldn't function as a single organism. So — clones separately, Jedi separately.

In his view, the command's decision was correct. No point creating mixed units where the crews couldn't feel each other. The Jedi relied on their infamous Force, while normal pilots relied on instrument readings and the accuracy of their calibration.

The first enemy exploded into a million fragments the moment the heavy laser cannons of Fakir's ship — Blade-Leader — converged on it with green beams. Done with that one. Bring on the next.

"Looks like the Separatists are running out of droids," noted his wingman, Jaig, Blade-Two. This pilot had once taken part as a test pilot for the first ARCs, thanks to which a huge share of the "teething" problems had been identified much earlier than through direct combat use of the starfighter. "Sending something as ancient as a Ginivex into space."

"Less trouble for us," Fakir remarked. "The Munificent has about four squadrons of enemy light craft. And I'd rather wipe my boots on mercenaries than on soulless droids."

He didn't like droids. Not all of them, of course. He recognized and respected that cheerful bucket of bolts that was part of his ARC's crew.

But the droids that tried to kill him — no. And he took full responsibility when it came to the existence of the CIS's war machines, which kept trying to end his already short life.

So, executing a simple turn, he met another Ginivex head-on. He opened fire on approach, then stopped spinning — in such chaos, the chance of accurate shooting was no better than the chance of setting the snowdrifts of Hoth on fire. Fakir targeted the nearest pair of enemy fighters, finished off his latest victim, and warmed up on the new combatants with all four cannons. One "bandit," as the pilots called enemy light craft, exploded. The mercenaries, having lost most of one squadron, closed ranks again. A "herd," as Fakir called this formation.

In such a formation — a whole squadron attacking the target — there was neither logic nor effect when it came to fighters. Bombers — or as they were affectionately called in Gent, after the Grand Moff's suggestion, "beavers" could fend off an attacking enemy in a closed formation. But for fighters, no matter how outdated, this was just a burden.

Well, if the Separatists wanted it that way, the answer would be appropriate.

"Blade-Leader to squadron, pair hunting," he ordered, pulling his ship — followed by his wingman — into another intermediate aerobatic maneuver.

His victim was the outermost Ginivex in the formation. Jaig, who had limited his participation in the fight to repeating his leader's maneuvers, suddenly chased after him. Fakir prepared to cover his wingman. That was the whole point of this kind of hunting — attacking a chosen enemy in turns. The ARCs, which now had rapid-fire guns instead of laser cannons on their tails, didn't have much need to guard their rear — if necessary, the gunner could treat anyone to a burst of excellent accuracy and precision.

The future candidate for scrap metal turned his climb into a split-S, intending to shoot at the enemy's tail. Two of Jaig's lasers shredded the right side of the Ginivex's fuselage, sending it spinning around its axis. Timing it right, Fakir added fire from his own guns, tearing the target apart.

The ARCs circled the clumped-together enemy light craft like nahtahs around grazing fields. From time to time, someone would dive in and treat the enemy to fire. Hitting each other was difficult, and if a "gift" did arrive from a colleague, the equipped deflectors of the Republic starfighters couldn't care less. But a half-accurate shot could seriously cripple any enemy fighter or even blow it up.

Fakir checked the tactical monitor and smiled contentedly.

While his pair was finishing off the beleaguered enemy squadron, three other pairs were nibbling pieces off the remaining squadrons. The last four ARCs continuously raked them with cannon fire, occasionally launching one or two proton torpedoes at the long-suffering Munificent, which had been stripped of its hyperdrive during the simultaneous raid by the entire squadron at their first "meeting." The effect was minimal — the Banking Clan frigate's anti-air guns handled four to eight torpedoes.

The main thing for the Republic pilots was to buy time. A Hammerhead-class cruiser was already on its way, which would flatten the Banking Clan's handiwork across the interstellar void.

The clone fired his laser cannons at random into the mass of Ginivexes, hit one enemy fighter, and was watching the fire consume the Ginivex when the astromech droid's worried bleating drew his attention to a specific patch of space.

Where, in all its glory, gleaming with a black-and-silver hull, sleek body lines, and the strict geometry of its vertical bow, a Hammerhead dropped out of hyperspace.

"Now the fun begins," someone whistled among the pilots.

And indeed — having launched a couple of squadrons of the same ARC-170s from its hangar, the Republic cruiser, emitting radiation from its massive engines, began to close in on its opponent slowly, almost leisurely.

"Blade-Leader to squadron," Fakir opened the comm channel. "We have a couple of minutes before the 'competitors' arrive. We need to harvest as much as we can."

Fakir didn't like sharing his legitimate prey with anyone. Had it not been for this blasted frigate, they'd have dealt with the Ginivexes themselves. But Commodore Autem wouldn't pat him on the head if he found out that Blade had let a more important target slip in the chase for personal scores.

So, let the cruiser have its moment of glory too.

It was within Fakir's and his men's power to reduce the number of marks on other squadrons' fuselages. And, naturally, they would make full use of that chance.

* * *

The Capitol building of Tahv's capital, on the planet Kesh, was stunning in its grandeur. A minimum of metal, a maximum of wood, glass, and stone.

In this magnificent structure, one could feel the Force — mighty, bright, polished by thousands of skilled architects as a jeweler polishes a rough diamond, turning it into a brilliant.

And this splendor conflicted with my first impressions in the Jedi Temple, where only a luxurious shell remained of the former grandeur, its core rotted away over millennia.

I moved up the wide paved steps of the main entrance, feeling through the Force the hundreds of eyes fixed on me. Keshiri and humans, Force-sensitive and ordinary beings — they all whispered among themselves, trying to find the answer to a question none of them dared to ask.

I didn't want to indulge in particular sentiment. The galaxy was waiting for my return; every minute there, the Sith conspiracy against me continued to bloom and fester. And the bud of my own Plan was blossoming.

I couldn't let things take their course.

But I couldn't just fly away from here, leaving thousands of Force-sensitives on the planet.

The Son was right — there was an incalculable number of potential recruits here. The Force told me that there were virtually no weaklings among them. Each had a pretty solid average potential in the Force, enough to stand against a horde of Jedi. Yes, we needed people like that.

I climbed the wide steps, accompanied by the rhythmic tap of my own shoes on the stone. A ringing silence hung in the air, unbroken even by Vette following in my footsteps. The Twi'lek, dressed in a sexy, tight-fitting jumpsuit with a pair of blasters on her hips, moved silently behind me, step for step, ready to cover my back at any moment.

Ahead of me, the massive gates of the main entrance were already visible. And several Keshiri guards, armed with pointed pikes. They tried to block my way, to bar my path, but who were they against me? I had business inside, and they were an annoying hindrance.

All around me rose numerous beautiful buildings, connected by hanging walkways, even streets paved with cobblestones... All of this was maddeningly beautiful, and proved once again how hardworking the Keshiri were.

But that wasn't why I had come here.

Like Darth Malgus before the assault on the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, I, illuminated by the Light Side, had come here to pay a "courtesy call" to comrades who were definitely no longer my comrades.

No government would voluntarily kneel before someone they saw for the first time. That was the plan.

They honored the covenants of their ancestors — that was good.

And they desperately wanted to break free from this rock — which was also good. The residents of Kesh simply couldn't miss the Black Lord hovering in the stratosphere, nor the Ravagers in the atmosphere, busily dropping three corps of volunteers ready to wipe out any settlement at a single word from me. They weren't blind.

The guards watched Vette's and my approach with great wariness, whispering quietly among themselves. Their postures betrayed extreme tension, and the pikes pointed in our direction showed their readiness to oppose a man in sealed armor, a faceplate with a horizontal visor, draped over the protection with a black and silver robe of the finest, most expensive fabric.

They didn't know what to do. One of the guards broke away and disappeared under the Temple's arches. The rest formed a semicircle around us, holding their pikes level, clearly implying that passage further was forbidden.

"Who are you?" asked one of the Keshiri, apparently the senior among those present.

"Make way for the immortal Emperor of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul!" Vette shouted clearly and loudly. However, this made little impression on the guards.

But in the Force...

I turned around and noted with satisfaction that a huge crowd had gathered in the main square of the capital, which I had crossed not long ago. Keshiri, humans, Force-sensitive, non-sensitive... There were hundreds, no, even thousands of them. And every single one of them watched me with unflagging interest.

"Passage beyond this point is closed," the guard warned. "Only by permission of the High Lord!"

"Then let him haul his old ass out here and kneel," Vette said with feigned pathos.

The guards exchanged surprised glances. Yes, they hadn't heard that one before. It happens.

The returning guard was not alone. With him, several Force-sensitives came out into the street — encased from head to toe in armor of some very ancient design. Even a slugthrower shot wouldn't stop that.

"The High Lord summons you for an audience," said one of the newcomers. Probably internal security. Or something like an honor guard company. Though, what difference did it make to me?

"Won't he burst from all those demands?" Vette inquired in a tone that made everyone present tense up at once.

"Easy, dear," I asked. "No need to make them open a brick factory before their time."

At the entrance, one of the Force-sensitives demanded my lightsaber. Shrugging, I handed over all three, which clearly confused him.

"Don't worry about it, son," I chuckled. "The Force isn't in the swords. The Force is in the truth. Whoever is right is the stronger."

Leaving the slowly-dawning-into-Keshiri-terror Sith behind, I walked unhurriedly down the corridor.

Yes, the locals had clearly tried hard to create such beauty under conditions of limited resources. Bas-reliefs, statues, intricate carved panels... there was no end to what these guys had amused themselves with over the last five thousand years or so.

The corridor led me and my two escorts to massive wooden doors, which swung open as I approached. Stepping inside without fear, I noticed the door panels immediately closed behind me. Looks like the Lords didn't trust their security much.

The main hall was enormous. Probably about the same area as my Throne Room on Zakuul. Though it was furnished rather spartanly.

Thirteen simple chairs, occupied by beings, stood at equal distances from each other along the circumference of the hall. In the center were seven richer seats, occupied by more influential Force-sensitives — this was easy to tell from the aura emanating from them, many times stronger than that surrounding the outer thirteen. And in the center of all this obscurantism — a luxurious throne, on which sat a middle-aged man with gray hair and an overflowing aura of the Dark Side. A substantial fellow. Probably the only one among all present who could pose any threat to me. However, the seven Sith closest to him were clearly no pushovers either. Yeah, quite a crew had assembled — one tough guy, seven wannabes, and thirteen outright losers that even Vette could beat with piss-soaked rags.

"I welcome you, traveler," said the one who had seemed the most dangerous to me. "Why are you here?"

"There's something I need on this planet," I shrugged. "So I dropped by."

"With an entire fleet of ships?" came a snicker.

"Kesh isn't the richest planet," the leader confirmed. "But we are ready to share whatever you need, in exchange for a few of your ships."

"I'm afraid I've been misunderstood," I shook my head. "I'm not going to share anything with anyone. I came to take everything." A wave of surprise rolled through those present. The Force clearly filled with building anger. "And, naturally, I'm not giving anything in return."

"Your words are extraordinarily insolent for someone who came unarmed to meet the rulers of the planet Kesh," the leader said with poorly concealed rage. "But that will make things even simpler. We will kill you and seize your ships. And we will return to the stars!"

With these words, the Sith closest to me leaped from his seat. Blue-violet lightning ripped from his hands, arcing toward me.

Without even looking toward the attacker, I extended a hand toward the lightning, absorbing the deadly discharges. Then, still not taking my eyes off the other opponents, I clenched my fingers into a fist, using the Force in Darth Vader's method to snap the neck of the failed attacker.

"I'm on a tight schedule," I explained. "Anyone else want to step up? Last chance."

"Get him!" the leader ordered.

Unlike me, the opponents had their weapons on them. A dozen and a half crimson lightsabers flared in the semi-darkness of the hall. Ah, so not everyone had decided to join the party.

Well, let them stand and watch.

Without ceremony, I used a Force Push to blow out the massive doors, calculating the force so that the guards standing on the other side were buried under the panels.

The first Sith to rush at me, swinging a lightsaber in some ridiculous style — a mix of Makashi and Shii-Cho — I simply sent flying with a powerful Force Push that shattered his bones and turned his insides into bloody mush.

The second and third tried to attack simultaneously. Dodging one, I grabbed his saber-wielding arm, drove my knee into his solar plexus, twisted his wrist, and plunged his own lightsaber (god, what a piece of junk!?) into the third's throat. Then, overcoming the second's pathetic struggles to free himself, I tore out his throat, leaving him to bleed out on the floor.

The fourth tried to throw his lightsaber at my legs, hoping to trip me, but instead, using the same telekinesis, I redirected the weapon, beheading three opponents at once. The saber's owner, stunned for a moment, fell victim to Force Lightning, which turned him into a medium-rare steak in an instant. A subsequent telekinetic push splattered his charred body against the wall.

The eighth opponent, armed now with two lightsabers, decided to team up with the ninth and tenth, who began hosing me with weak lightning, hoping that my distracted attention would allow the eleventh and twelfth, boosted by Force Speed, to strike me in the back. Nice try. Throwing the trio of losers back with a Force Wave, I immobilized one of the back-attackers with Stasis and instantly drained the life from the other using Force Drain. Ah, that invigorates.

While the remaining ones tried to form some semblance of an attacking formation, I delightedly finished off the Stasis-bound Sith, turning his insides into mush with a Force Rupture.

Yes, definitely a successful entry. Five minutes had passed, and I'd already refreshed a quarter of my Force abilities in my memory. Ah, I should have gone out to wipe out enemy sects myself.

The alien suffering floating in the Force stoked the Dark Side within me more and more. It grew with every second, so I dropped my Force Mask, appearing before my enemies in all my glory for the first time. The absolute weapon of destruction.

And through the waves of fear and horror, I clearly caught the surprise emanating from the lead Sith. He wasn't taking part in the ongoing slaughter, wisely choosing the role of observer. The bastard was sacrificing his minions, trying to learn as much about me as possible. A familiar tactic — I'd used it myself more than once.

A Sith who appeared out of nowhere very close to me swung his saber, missed, and didn't have time to do anything else. Touching him with the Force, I instantly put him into hibernation using Morichro. Frankly, I'd first thought of a different technique, but watching the stiffened man fall to the floor, I lightly stepped on his throat, ending his mortal path.

The eleventh opponent charged at me, producing two lightsabers at once. Seeing my motionless figure, he rushed forward with a furious roar, dragging two more along with him.

Their collective killing method didn't work. The phantom obediently dissipated the moment several lightsabers pierced it. Meanwhile, standing a meter from the nearest bastard, I dropped my Force Cloak. I snapped the nearest one's neck with my bare hands, distracted the one next to him with a Mind Trick while I tore one of the sabers from his grasp, used it to decapitate the third, and then, without looking, relying on the Force, I stuck the captured saber into its owner's back with Ahsoka's favorite reverse grip.

"Your lords run out fast," I complained, looking at the thirteen corpses scattered in the poses death had caught them in. Pointing my lightsaber at the seven High Lords, the leader's minions, I asked:

"Will you guys last five minutes too?"

The answer was a guttural cry of hatred as the pack of lords charged at me. Figuring I had a couple of seconds, out of boredom I turned to a rather extravagant Force technique...

Caught up in the Force Maelstrom, the bodies, their pieces, the lightsabers — instantly reaching the speed of jet projectiles — began to spin around me.

For the first time since I started using the Force, I felt a slight fatigue... Yes, it seemed testing my arsenal had confirmed an obvious fact — you can't do what others can't do without consequence. During the past fight, I'd spent so much Force using techniques that most living beings in the galaxy couldn't even access, it was no wonder my internal reserves were beginning to deplete.

Time to wrap up this test drive of acquired knowledge. Especially since the enemies were already within the Maelstrom's area of effect...

With an effort of will, I activated every single lightsaber without exception, instantly turning the seven High Lords into finely chopped abstract art pieces.

Yawning tiredly, I let the Maelstrom dissipate, simultaneously pulling one of the lightsabers into my hand. Glancing at it briefly, I mechanically noted the construction was crap. Well, it would do for one use.

"You handle the Force excellently," the leader rose from his seat. "But the one who emerges victorious from this battle will be the one who wields the lightsaber better!"

"A trite phrase," I yawned again. "Besides, I've seen something similar somewhere before."

The man lunged, boosting himself with Force Speed on the go.

Wrong opponent to try that on. His lightning-fast attack shattered against my Force Barrier. The opponent retreated.

Tightening his grip on the lightsaber's hilt, the Sith took a step left, forcing me to adjust my angle of approach. I delivered several provoking strikes from the Soresu arsenal, which my opponent deflected with ease and even contempt.

"You're noticeably worse with a blade than you are with the Force," he said mockingly.

"Don't nag," I asked.

The fencing match was to my advantage. While we exchanged blows with minimal use of the Force, my internal reserves were recovering. And as for him... touching my enemy with the Force, I just smirked.

He was stockpiling the Force. A lot. Very much.

The Sith kept moving to the side.

"You are a powerful Sith," he acknowledged. "Why did you come to Kesh?"

"As I already said — I have an interest here. And again you're mistaken. I am neither Jedi nor Sith. Something far more balanced. Your friends," a short nod toward the pieces of bodies, "learned that firsthand."

"What could someone like you possibly want in our world? There are no resources, no wealth here..."

"And what does any Emperor need?" I grinned, watching his eyes widen in realization. "Exactly. I'm taking all your people for myself. A dead man doesn't need them anymore. How many are there, by the way? A million, a million and a half?"

"Ten times that many," he said. "But they won't follow you. You reek of the Light Side, no matter how you mask it. We Sith know the value of the Dark Side..."

"Everyone who doesn't come with me will die," I grinned. "Never seen a planet burned by an orbital strike?"

Gripping the hilt of my sword with both hands, I stepped forward and with one swift, sweeping blow nearly knocked the weapon from my opponent's grip. He barely managed to keep his balance; the next second he lunged forward, making a false diagonal thrust from the left, then arced his blade to the right and attacked. A scarlet streak of energy should have pierced my defense, but it turned out differently: the blade bounced off my raised left arm, and the Sith's weapon stopped functioning.

I immediately aimed a strike at his neck, but the Sith spun sharply to the right, and his second lightsaber, thrust forward, nearly cut me in two. I had to retreat.

The ruler of this world knew a thing or two about perversions. His fencing style was an absolutely wild mix of every style I knew, plus ridiculous combinations clearly of his own invention. Unpredictability was a terrible force — I nearly learned that firsthand.

Bending slightly at the waist, the Sith began to retreat, parrying a swift series of sharp but incredibly powerful blows. With one quick leap, he was out of reach of my blade; the next second, he tilted his body sideways, raised his sword over his right shoulder, and charged. I calmly parried the thrust, not changing my stance or taking a single step back, but my lower torso and legs were left exposed. The limited mobility of Niman, which I was using for the fight, was showing. Juyo was my trump card, and even then, not fully mastered. But it seemed I'd have to stop my lessons in absorbing Muur's knowledge and focus on what Marr could have given me. Juyo was definitely there.

In the blink of an eye, the Sith dropped to the ground and, extending his sword in front of him, rolled over his shoulder.

For a second, it seemed his blade would make a neat cut through my knee joints, but I had already calculated that strike in advance, jumping a moment before contact, performing a half-turn in the air, and landing behind the Sith, leaving a diagonal gash across his back. Too bad only the light armor took the blow. The opponent rolled, and the next moment my scarlet blade plunged into the floor where he had just been lying. The man sprang to his feet and immediately launched a swift attack, leaving a gouge on my right pauldron. Annoying. I liked the cortosis coating on Revan's armor. Too bad the antique was coming to an end. Oh well, I'd make another, improved version later.

In a split second, I closed the distance between us and with a series of sharp vertical strikes suppressed my opponent's defense, missing each time by mere millimeters; meanwhile, the blade shattered everything in its path. No more frills or elegance, no more fencing techniques: just sheer size and raw power became my weapon. This was that interesting Skywalker style — Djem So, the direct opposite of the jerky style my opponent was using — and he had nothing to offer in response.

The Sith was ready to parry another attack when I suddenly stopped, and the crimson blade retracted into the emitter.

Before he could figure out what was happening, I spread my arms wide, opening myself to the Dark Side.

A translucent sphere of the Force surrounded me — a warding against dozens of Lightning bolts striking vertically downward. Violet discharges of electricity pierced him from head to toe, causing the man to howl like a wild animal. But the opponent proved experienced enough. Burned, but not critically, he surrounded himself with his own Force Barrier, powerful enough to hold back the Lightning (ah, so that's what he was stockpiling the Force for) and charged at me. What exactly were you trying to achieve with that?

When the Sith was close enough, I dispelled the elegantly created Force Storm, then, like a billiard ball, hurled the High Lord with a Force Push to the other end of the hall. The leader of the Lost Tribe, crashing his own throne with his body, turned in midair and landed on his feet, simultaneously dodging a series of swift Niman thrusts.

With a roll, he moved to the side, trying to break the distance between us, but, catching him with a Force Grip, I yanked my opponent toward me at breakneck speed.

The trophy blade struck precisely into the man's cervical vertebrae. A light flick of the wrist, and the decapitated torso fell to the floor.

Holding the head of the former ruler of Kesh by the hair with my armored fingers, I turned his face toward me.

"Awkward," I admitted. "I beheaded him and didn't even ask his name."

Glancing at the destruction in the hall one last time, I sighed wearily.

Then, tossing the Sith blade aside, I slowly walked toward the exit from the Circle of Lords' residence.

Time to show my new subjects that change was coming. I think the head of the previous ruler would be enough as proof.

Though... orbital bombardments had never left anyone unpersuaded.

Either way, Kesh and the Lost Tribe of Sith now belonged to me.