"Well, then," the expression on the company head's face made it unclear whether he was pleased with what he was saying or disappointed. "I'm here to announce that Incom has officially ceased to be a private company."
"How am I supposed to understand that, Kad?" Zki, sitting across from him, frowned.
Lana, seated to her colleague's right, chose to remain silent. Dalliq was clearly about to tell his chief engineers something important — so why delay the inevitable with questions?
"The Empire acquired another ten percent of our shares through front men," the head of the corporation explained. "Now the controlling stake is in the government's hands."
"I don't see anything wrong with that," the female designer remarked. "From the moment the Emperor became the owner of forty-five percent of our shares, the company's affairs have only been looking up."
"And I didn't say it was bad," a slight smile appeared on the man's lips. "I prefer to view this latest injection of Imperial funds as a demonstration that they're satisfied with our products. Besides, as I understand it, for the Empire, a mixed public-private ownership structure for defense industry enterprises is standard practice. Sienar Imperial Technologies is in a similar situation. There, the Emperor owns, if memory serves, sixty percent of the shares. Manaan's Blue Lagoon is only a third owned by the selkath. The rest belongs to the state. It could be worse — Haor Chall Engineering is one hundred percent owned by the head of state. And they, mind you, are the only ones in their sector of the military-industrial complex — no other enterprise in the Empire produces ground combat vehicles anymore. Just as no one besides the selkath builds surface and underwater combat machines. So, in our case, compared to others, the state's share is minimal."
"Don't be so optimistic," Zki advised. All three sitting in the office were old friends and colleagues. So a certain liberty in confidential conversation between management and these particular subordinates was a tribute to years of productive work and friendship. "You're not the one who'll have to spend another week making changes to the X-wing design. Curse that Admiral Block! The Emperor was satisfied with the machine!? So what's this warrior got to complain about? Sure, we didn't put the tail rapid-fire cannon on the ship, as was agreed beforehand. Not a great loss! The T-65's deflector power and turning speed are such that it can not only shake anyone who gets on its tail with a maneuver, but also just ignore fire to the rear hemisphere for several minutes."
"Still, the machine should be perfected," Kad remarked. "The Expeditionary Fleet also sent a comment about the tail rapid-fire cannon. Saying, think it over, install it."
"Darth Malgus is satisfied with everything," Lana reasonably noted, recalling that no complaints had come from the warlord, who had been the first to request the new fighter for his armed forces in truly immodest quantities.
"Perhaps his fleet isn't conducting active combat operations," Kad suggested. "But we can't just tell the military to go to hell with a 'take what you're given.'"
"I'd tell them," Zki admitted. "The X-wing is good. Adding extra armament would only ruin it."
"Don't be a stick-in-the-mud," Lana asked. "They're demanding it — install it."
"Sienar doesn't put tail turrets on its interceptors," Roel insisted. Lana demonstratively rolled her eyes. Yes, sometimes she forgot how insufferable her ex-husband's friend was in his stubbornness. He'd argue to the last that he was right, even though the problem could be fixed in a couple of days. Reduce the fighter's cargo bay volume by sticking a rapid-fire laser cannon in there.
"Raith's machines are three times more maneuverable than ours," Kad reminded him. "And they're interceptors, not heavy air superiority fighters. Need me to remind you of the difference?"
"I don't need any reminders," the male designer said wearily. "It's just irritating. The Empire's head of state liked everything, and then the General Staff suddenly decided the machine wasn't finished! And then there's that 'Four super-heavy bombs — that's good. But we need a full-fledged bomber, not something cobbled together in a workshop.' I want to punch him in the face!"
"Well then, go to Odessen," Lana advised. "I'm sure a couple of days in the guardhouse will sober you up."
"Listen here..." Zki began, but Kad cut him off.
"Drop it," he advised. "I looked over the T-65 blueprints. Laying two meters of wiring, one and a half of power buses, a pump generator, and the mount itself — nothing complicated."
"I know that," Roel waved dismissively. "I was just planning to get back to the ARC-170 blueprints..."
"Still can't let it go?" Dalliq nodded understandingly. "You can't make it faster and more maneuverable — accept it as a given."
"It worked with the T-65," the designer countered. "So it's not all hopeless for the ARC-170 either. You didn't even want to buy the blueprints! If it weren't for me and my persistence on this matter, Subpro would be raking in the money for those fighters right now."
The remark was entirely fair. And everyone in the office knew it.
The ARC-170 was a development of Subpro Corporation, a long-time trading partner of Incom. However, over the last ten years, this alliance had cracked, turning shortly before the Clone Wars into a massive split and division of jointly acquired assets.
Incom's contribution — traditionally specializing in small craft, including bombers — to the creation of the ARC-170 was minimal. All employees of both companies knew this. However, Subpro's management believed the fighter wouldn't be in demand — at the time the prototypes and first production models appeared, the war hadn't started yet. But war was in the air.
Primarily, Subpro was convinced that the extremely expensive and difficult-to-handle ARC-170 was no competition for other fighter models in the galaxy. Hence, with such ease, for minimal commissions, they handed the project to Incom. Then the war began, and the Grand Army of the Republic started signing contracts with anyone capable of providing anything that could fly and shoot. Incom, with their now-owned fighter, found themselves in the right place at the right time. Republic command signed a contract for millions of ARC-170s without a second glance. And they weren't too particular about it, simultaneously purchasing a huge number of Headhunters.
However, even during a military crisis, the Republic remained the Republic. With all its unimaginable bureaucracy.
The contracts had a limited duration — a year or a year and a half. A clearly defined volume of machines needed by the Grand Army. It was assumed that the contracts would be renewed later — Republic pilot losses in ARC-170s and Headhunters, after active hostilities began, could amount to thousands of machines per day. It seemed the military would soon come running for new machines, and they did come running.
Just to Kuat.
Since the beginning of this year, Incom had not received a single order from the Republic for new machines. Everything came down only to purchases by three system armies — Grek, Heft, and Gent. Of course, this helped keep the company afloat — the volumes weren't small. Meanwhile, the other seven armies preferred to use the V-19 Torrent, Eta-2 Actis, Alpha-3 Nimbus, Delta-7... as small craft. It was a clear shift in high command priorities from "anything will do" to "maximum standardization."
In its fight against the Confederacy's nimble droid fighters, the Republic had bet on similar light starfighters.
As for the Emperor...
Lana, withdrawing from the men's argument, sank into her own thoughts.
Zakuul was something new, incomprehensible. A thing in itself.
A young but decidedly militarized state, whose ruler made it abundantly clear that the military-industrial complex was not an arena for squabbles, intrigue, or the dominance of private capital. The Emperor held controlling stakes in all enterprises supplying his army and fleet with the means of war. At the same time, eliminating backroom dealings for contracts, he had clearly defined each company's sphere of activity.
Xi Char Corporation was the sole supplier of military equipment for the army. Artillery, combat vehicles, tanks, assault droids — that was the essence of their production. Not that the insectoids were dissatisfied. Fanatically devoted to their work, they praised their master for every new order, which they fulfilled accurately and on time. They also did quite well with medium-tonnage transports, currently plying the Empire's worlds. However, there were rather few of them, which was logical, considering the Xi Char built their container ships on the ground, having no shipyards at all.
The selkath of Blue Lagoon had firmly established themselves in the niche of surface and underwater military equipment and diving gear. True, unlike other companies, the Manaan-based company also produced similar products for the civilian sector. However, this decision was understandable — there weren't that many applications for combat swimmers, so entering the civilian market guaranteed the selkath additional income. As if they didn't have enough of the billions earned from kolto purchases — popular in the Empire as a substitute for bacta.
Sienar Imperial Technologies produced capital ships — Harrower-class dreadnoughts, Terminus-class battle cruisers, Marauder-class frigates, Supremacy-type interceptors — the backbone of any combat starship's air wing. Recently, Raith also provided the army and navy with cargo and passenger shuttles, landing craft. Just last week, the heads of the two corporations had discussed the technical capabilities and composition of the air wing for a new type of starship — an aircraft carrier, on whose decks bombers developed by Sienar were also to appear.
Incom supplied the Empire's army and navy with the aforementioned ARC-170s as long-range reconnaissance fighters, which on the front line frequently performed the functions of bombers or attack craft. The X-wings had firmly established themselves in the position of heavy fighters for air superiority, and they had no foreseeable competitors in that field. Well, maybe the same ARC-170s. But comparing both projects revealed the pros and cons of each, so there was no winner in such a hypothetical confrontation. And what difference did it make? When you thought about it, both machines were purchased by the Empire in incredible quantities, so there was no need to worry about revenue. The Emperor gave the impression of a man confident in his actions. And such a man wouldn't spend trillions of credits buying shares in unprofitable enterprises, nor in those whose services he wouldn't need. And he certainly wouldn't commission the construction of state-of-the-art spy ships (Lana smiled, remembering how much time it had taken her to rework the ancient schematics of the X-70B Phantom to produce a ship with the same design but packed with modern equipment) for the needs of the Imperial Security Bureau. Consequently, the Emperor preached not market competition among a multitude of shipbuilders producing similar products, but the involvement of single manufacturers, specialists in specific fields, who could only collectively cover all the Empire's needs, binding them irrevocably to the Empire, in whose hands the controlling stakes of most of these enterprises were concentrated. This, in turn, allowed the head of state to easily nationalize companies and corporations if such a need arose.
The latter point was indirectly supported by rumors — whose source no one could identify — that the Rendili system would soon be joining the Empire. This would mean the appearance on Zakuul's markets of products from Rendili StarDrive, the most famous of which currently were the Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers and the Hammerhead-class cruisers. Unlike Kuat, Rendili didn't possess a concentrated shipbuilding industry, relying on many small shipyards in the Mid and Outer Rims.
Even though Lana, due to the specifics of her profession, was more interested in the project for their modified Aurek-class tactical strikefighter — another milestone from the past put on modern rails — it wasn't hard for her to figure out that Rendili StarDrive, with its products, was filling the niche of heavy cruisers — seemingly relics of the past, being too slow compared to the Empire's dreadnoughts and having a small air wing and low speed. However, the Clone Wars had proven that these starships could withstand attacks from higher-class opponents, and there were no better ships (except for destroyers) for conducting defensive orbital battles. Since you couldn't equip all systems with Harrowers, Hammerheads and Dreadnaughts were excellent defenders of remote star systems.
"Alright, this argument has no end," Kad waved his hand. "I gathered you to announce several pieces of news."
"Traditionally good and bad?" Zki snorted.
"Depends on which angle you look at it," the head of the corporation shook his head. "Incom is leaving Zakuul."
"What do you mean?" the engineers were taken aback.
"The Emperor is placing a planet under the corporation's administration — Vagar Praskat, recently conquered," Dalliq explained. "All production facilities for fighters and starships will now be located there. I've already ordered the closure of our production and offices on Fresia and Ranklige."
"That will attract a lot of attention," Roel remarked. "Thousands of personnel, millions of tons of equipment..."
"Yes, we've had to involve all our super-heavy transports," Kad agreed. "And buy another three dozen similar ones."
"And the Republic's intelligence just missed this?" Lana was surprised.
"The ISB is handling the cover," the man shrugged. "Creating a legend is their job. We just load onto ships, jump to a rendezvous point where the fleet meets us, and from there — to our new headquarters."
"Well..." Zki lamented. "That's going to cost billions in construction equipment — practically starting from scratch."
"The Empire is fully funding the move," Dalliq grinned. "So it won't cost us a single deci-credit."
"At least that's something," Lana lamented. "But I can't imagine how this can be done — I have twenty Phantoms in assembly right now. And now — drop everything and move?"
"You're staying on Zakuul," Katt said slowly. "I cleared a few things with the Emperor. Specifically, all our facilities here are being reclassified as high-security and will be guarded by army units around the clock. The assembly of stealth X-wings, Phantoms, and other exclusive equipment will take place here. Under your leadership."
"I'm the head of a branch?" Lana was surprised. She had absolutely no idea how to manage anything larger than a team of engineers. And she wasn't particularly eager to learn the science of management.
"More like the head of the experimental development department," Kad corrected. "The work is the same: create something stealthy, flying, fast, and dangerous."
"You say that as if there's something else," Lana squinted, leaning forward.
"Yes, there is," Dalliq admitted. "Admiral Block has ordered the creation of a small assault ship — something between the Phantom and the assault shuttles in service with the Republic. With high autonomy, high speed, armament, protection. Designed for the needs of a small military unit..."
"A specialized ship for army units?" Zki's eyes lit up.
"I suspect a starship for saboteurs or commandos," Kad shared his thoughts. "All the customer's wishes are on this holodisc," he handed a small disc to Lana. "And, most importantly — total secrecy. The ISB has developed a cover story that the ship is being built as a courier for the feldjäger corps."
"How interesting," Zki drawled. "And why did the order fall to Lana?"
"Because you're going to be busy developing a full-fledged bomber for the fleet," a new holodisc appeared in the head of the corporation's hands. Roel, after a moment's hesitation, took the data storage device, tossing it like a coin.
"That's Sienar's job," he reminded.
"A joint production," Dalliq sweetened the pill. "We have vast experience in creating bombers, he has problems with... well, it doesn't matter. He'll provide us with any assistance, but we'll have to develop it together."
"The Haor Chall story is repeating itself," Kad lamented.
"What difference does it make?" Lana snorted. "The main thing is that we're in business."
"Agreed," Dalliq smiled. "Although, I'm curious about one thing. If Sienar is willing to share the order, what's he so busy with?"
The engineers exchanged glances.
What could motivate a zealous shipbuilder to turn down a potential multimillion-credit order?
Apparently — something worth far more.
* * *
"And how long is this going to drag on?" Deezy Azmo asked impatiently, staring at the endless stream of beings filling most of the flagship's corridors. In groups of fifty, under the guard of a platoon of volunteers in gleaming armor, they moved toward the compartments where they were to be housed. "It's not an Imperial destroyer, it's some refugee barge."
"If it weren't for one particular Jedi in our lives," Spin Kotor, pressed against the wall nearby to let another keshiri with a pet pass, remarked reasonably, "it's quite possible that the inhabitants of Christophsis would be in a similar situation."
"I would even say," Matthew added quietly, "that this," he nodded toward the refugees, "is the most likely scenario."
"Well, it's good that things turned out differently then," Deezy snorted. "Oh, Hutt, how much more of this!"
Matthew Mantrell barely suppressed a smile, seeing a group of peasants appear at the far end of the corridor, leading animals unknown to him that looked like small banthas.
The resettlement of the people of Kesh had come as a surprise to everyone except the initiator of this order.
The Emperor had not let anyone in on the details of his plan. But no one had asked for explanations anyway. It had long been clear that necessary information would be communicated to those who needed it. And if something wasn't said — well, that was how it was meant to be.
But now, the Emperor had summoned all three of them to the bridge. Right after the three commanders of the Christophsis volunteer corps had returned from the surface, where part of the personnel of their assigned units had been carefully — using technical means — combing through the empty settlements, occasionally finding locals in huts who had wished to hide from the mass relocation. The soldiers brought such individuals aboard the dreadnoughts, comfortably housing them in the guardrooms. It seemed that upon arrival at their new place of residence, these negligent loyal subjects of the Empire would face trial. Under Imperial law. Harsh, but fair.
The Emperor had ordered everything transportable taken from the planet. Livestock, food supplies, equipment, artifacts. Even the remains of the ancient dreadnought Omen would leave this world. Engineering teams were already working on that relic, patching its holes and restoring its badly damaged ancient hyperdrive. To be fair, the locals had repaired the Sith dreadnought's hull and numerous internal damages on their own — and quite competently, too. Only one small thing remained — to bring the ship to life and lift it into orbit.
Truth be told, the dreadnought's value as a warship next to the Harrowers or the Black Overlord was negligible. Still, its size... On board, if you threw out the enormous quantity of completely unnecessary things, you could fit up to two hundred thousand settlers. Given the extremely limited number of ships suitable for such an operation, restoring the relic made sense.
Matthew briefly imagined himself in the place of the ship droid — GEMINI, watching everything through hundreds of systems. The droid was probably in a computer-analog of shock — she could hardly have imagined that warships could be used this way.
And yet — it turned out they could. Moreover, if you tried, you could bring a significant number of beings aboard these ships. Tens of times that many. If you placed them in every corridor, passageway, every workshop and hangar — then about thirty thousand would fit. Along with all their belongings and pets.
Still, there was no other way — no ships of this kind existed that could carry millions of settlers on board. Among them were many who were ready to leave the boundaries of their home world, which had sheltered them from all cares for millennia.
The walk from the officer quarters to the bridge took considerable time. Constantly weaving through the living current, the trio reached the required compartment.
"By the Emperor's summons," Matthew informed the pair of monsters standing at the entrance. Dashades, sizing up his comrades with a contemptuous gaze, lingered their eyes on him for a moment. Mantrell didn't feel intimidated looking into the Shadow Assassins' eyes. He knew they fed on Force adepts, but rightly reckoned that on a ship with several hundred Force-users, his not-so-powerful gift wouldn't attract much attention. Compared to ordinary people, he was luckier. But among fully trained adepts — nothing more than a light snack.
The brutes silently let the trio pass inside.
The bridge was overcrowded with beings.
Crew members — clones and Christophsians — scurried between control panels like an awakened swarm of insects. The air was filled with the working noise of numerous beings conversing among themselves.
And at the far end of the command room, in the company of the commanders' already familiar Lady Vette, stood the Emperor.
He had his back to the newcomers, and the blue-skinned Twi'lek was telling him something, pointing at the datapad. The Emperor was immovable. He was gazing at the bulk of the Separatist dreadnought hanging several hundred kilometers off the bow of the flagship Harrower. It seemed the events didn't concern him in the least.
"Your Majesty," Matthew announced his presence. Of the three, he was the only one to have received a promotion, becoming, essentially, the first volunteer to reach the rank of General.
"You took your time, General," the ruler noted. However, without giving any chance for an explanation, he continued. "Marshals Azmo, Kotor, glad to see you. I have a task for you. For all three."
"Whatever you wish, my lord," Mantrell answered for his friends without a trace of servility or fawning. Though he didn't interact with the Empire's leader often, he knew the man openly hated groveling. He respected strong people — even if they were his enemies. And he preferred to keep strong allies close. As close as possible.
"You did good work, destroying the slaver organizations in the Outer Rim," he announced. The Emperor turned to face his subordinates. Or rather, his face mask. Matthew automatically noted that the ruler's armor bore traces of a recent battle. A rather fierce one, at that. "Vette claims you showed extraordinary energy in exterminating that sort of bio-trash. Why?"
"I hate slavery, sir," Matthew reported. "My late wife grew up in Zygerrian slavery. If I could, I would continue exterminating them until the end of my days."
"Marshal Azmo?" he asked, giving the general a barely perceptible nod.
"My brother died at the hands of slavers," the Rodian explained. "My father died trying to save him."
"Marshal Kotor?"
"I was a slave," the man confessed, stunning his colleagues. Matthew exchanged a surprised look with the Rodian. They hadn't known such details about their comrade. Despite knowing each other for over ten years. "I was born into a family of slaves, grew up, and escaped. As punishment for my escape, the Zygerrians destroyed my entire family. And a dozen others. But you already knew that, didn't you, sir?"
"Undoubtedly," the Emperor agreed. "You were assigned this task because you were more motivated than others. And I'd like you to carry out one more. To drive the final nail into the coffin of Zygerrian slave trading."
"We'll do it gladly, sir," Mantrell answered for the others. Still, even his rudimentary Force abilities were enough to sense the grim anticipation radiating from Deezy and Spin.
"After the ravaging of Zygerria, some quite interesting information fell into our intelligence's hands. Have you heard anything about the planet Kovak, General?"
"No, sir," Matthew admitted.
"The others, I assume, haven't either..." the Emperor said. He took the datapad from Vette and handed it to Matthew. "Here's all the necessary information. The planet belongs to the Zygerrians. Spies tracked several ships heading there, including some with Zeltron slaves on board. The planet's coordinates have been pinpointed. They're just waiting for you to arrive and rain fiery hell down on their heads. Standard mission — destroy the defenses, eliminate all slavers, free the slaves. It won't be easy — there are nearly half a million of them on the planet. On-site, conduct recruitment work. Our spy will contact you, General. Though I think you know him."
"Sir?"
"Won't spoil the surprise. I'm placing the Black Overlord at your disposal," the Christophsian barely kept from exclaiming in surprise. "I think among your nearly hundred thousand subordinates, there will be enough beings capable of at least partially replacing the destroyed crew. On the lower decks, you'll find plenty of damaged Confederacy equipment that can be restored — AAT tanks in particular. Use them to the fullest. But with minimal casualties among those you intend to free."
"We'll relay that to the personnel," Matthew said, casting a brief glance at his two comrades. Considering that during the occupation of Christophsis, the Separatists had repeatedly and often enslaved entire settlements and shipped them off in unknown directions, the fighters would be extremely encouraged by another opportunity to repay the Separatist collaborators.
"You have a week, General," the Emperor warned. "Officially, the Black Overlord will be at the other end of our oversector for all that time. Not a single living soul must witness that it was Christophsian volunteers who destroyed the slavers."
"Sir?"
"The CIS has too many minions among all kinds of scum — including slave traders. It will be extremely difficult for them to explain to such hangers-on why their newest ship is destroying their own allies."
"Devilishly clever, sir," Deezy assessed.
"Psychology, Marshal," the Emperor countered. "The more wedges we drive into the unstable relations between our enemies' allies, the easier it will be to destroy them one by one later."
"Yes, my lord," Matthew agreed. "We'll meet the deadline."
"Report the operation's results to Lady Vette," the Emperor ordered. "She'll provide the necessary transport by then."
"The former slaves will be sent to Zakuul?" Deezy clarified. Matthew recalled that was what had been done with previous freedmen. First, they were filtered, weeding out the unreliable, then transferred via a transport company to Imperial territory, where the security service, more skilled at exposing various types of beings, continued working with them. No one intended to keep enemy spies, dissidents, or any other infantile scum in the young state.
"There are other Imperial territories that need population," the head of state replied meaningfully. "Perhaps one day you'll visit them. Lady Vette can share her impressions — she was there for quite some time."
"A paradise," the Twi'lek said with a smile. Matthew listened to his intuition. He knew the Twi'lek fairly well and could confidently say she was telling the truth.
"We're ready to depart immediately, my lord," the Christophsian assured his ruler.
"As soon as the last Keshiri are loaded onto the transports, bring your people back from the surface and set off," the Emperor instructed. "Oh, and commandos will go with you. Inferno Squad. Just three men — they won't crowd your units."
"May I ask why clones are being sent with us on such a mission?" Matthew tensed. No, he respected the fighters of the Grand Army of the Republic. If it were a routine mission within the Republic's military campaign, he wouldn't have asked a single question. But now... the mission was clearly for the Empire's benefit. So why were GAR units participating?
"Don't worry, General," a satisfied chuckle came from beneath the mask. "Korr, Necromancer, and Sinner are loyal to the Empire. And they're coming with you because I promised them I'd let them burn an entire planet. Kovak will do as well as any other."
"We'll arrange it in the best possible way, sir," Mantrell assured him, noticing the predatory grins that appeared on his comrades' faces out of the corner of his eye. Oh yes, burning slavers in their own homes — the First, Second, and Third Volunteer Corps of Christophsis could, knew how, and practiced that.
* * *
Despite the absence of sound in the vacuum of space, the consequences of endless turbolaser battery salvos were felt as a distinctly perceptible rumble through the deck.
Helnior felt the work of the Nemesis's turbolaser batteries even through the fairly thick polymer soles of his boots. The metal under his feet hummed, unambiguously reminding him that thousands of systems and mechanisms designed to bring death were working within its depths.
And they were delivering it to the surface of a small planet, lost within the boundaries of an unexplored region of the galaxy. Faithfully, time after time, the turbolaser towers of his flagship, pointed nose-first at the planet's surface at a slight angle, sent a sea of coherent green fire.
It was impossible to miss in this situation. Even if a green rookie were at the weapon control panel, missing a planet was truly impossible. For there was no specific target on the surface of the planet Tof. The planet itself was the target.
There were no valuable resources here, nor any significant industrial facilities. Even the ships sitting at the ground airfields and spaceports were outdated junk, fit only for pirates in such a remote region.
No innocents remained in the Tof capital. They no longer kept slaves or prisoners here — the capital of the pirate empire was a world for the elite — the most influential and wealthy Tofs, served by servants of their own race. Plundered riches and valuables were no longer stored here. This barren, vegetationless little world held no economic value whatsoever.
Instead, what was happening now had a completely different purpose.
As soon as the squadron led by the Nemesis invaded the Tof system, destroying in a short and merciless battle all the orbital forces of the brigands, which could pose no threat to the Star Destroyers accompanied by the dreadnoughts, Helnior explained the reason for the Eternal Empire squadron's appearance in the local star system, outlined the further course of events, and, like a decent representative of a near-human race, offered the Tof leaders the chance to evacuate women and children from the planet destined to become a battlefield. He silently ignored the stream of curses in a mix of Galactic Basic and some local dialect. And he ordered the first target destroyed.
A pair of dreadnoughts settled into orbit above a massive rock. At its foot lay one of the Tof bases, preparing fighters for attack, which vanished in fire as streams of green energy rained down from the sky.
Turbolaser bolts, capable of incinerating buildings, burned the base down to the rock foundation. Fences, buildings, warehouses, equipment, personnel — all of it turned into charred slag, dust, and ash, swept away by winds from the surface of the cracked and crumbling stone.
Only after that did the enemy deign to accept the ultimatum.
A huge caravan, consisting of battle-worn transport ships, among which even a Trade Federation freighter had snuck in — the basis on which the Neimoidians later began creating warships. A heavily dented, objectively old, but still serviceable spaceship.
And this entire procession, taking off from the opposite side of the planet, hoped to escape. Too bad they had to be disappointed by the Marauders lying in ambush, which stopped the caravan with missile and turbolaser fire.
Helnior did not lead the landing personally. For that, he had excellent subordinates — Mandalorians who had arrived at the disposal of Grand Admiral Thrawn's Expeditionary Forces, led directly by their own war chief — Mandalore the Avenger.
Young sprouts, barely trained in handling weapons but already having some experience in liberating their sector from criminals and murderers. And the participation of three divisions of young Mandalorians in the campaign against the Tofs — that merciless practice necessary for all warlike peoples. And where else to undergo it if not against a race of bastards?
As he had assumed, the Tofs didn't care about the offer to save their people. The comprehensive information Thrawn had provided about this race indicated that Tofs became ruthless and bloodthirsty from birth. A child might not yet walk, but would already be killing its first victim — a slave, of which these creatures had an abundance.
No wonder the Tofs preferred to evacuate their plundered wealth and slaves to their distant base-worlds rather than women and children. Every Tof was a killer and a brute. Every Tof was a fighter capable of killing an invasion army soldier. And the more of them on the planet, the more soldiers the enemy would lose during the ground operation.
That's exactly what Helnior thought, putting himself in the place of the Tof leader.
That's exactly what Vizsla's people later told him, interrogating the few surviving crew members. Battle was a Tof's life. They would never leave a slave beside them to put him under blaster fire instead of themselves. Simply because they knew — if they let their guard down, any slave would sink their fangs into their throat. Undoubtedly, the slave would die, but they would kill their tormentor too. The last justice for those who didn't even dream of winning freedom.
Over two million slaves. Of all possible races. Mostly — former smugglers, crew members of scout ships, careless traders... Those whose relatives and loved ones in the Republic hadn't heard from for years. Those who no longer cared about the homes and families they'd left behind. Those who just needed to be warmed and fed, then offered citizenship in a country that hadn't abandoned them in their time of need. Nine out of ten beings would agree. And the tenth... his fate was in the ISB's hands.
Helnior didn't care about the fate of idiots who wouldn't want to trade the rotten Republic, with its bureaucracy, infantilism, and unemployment, for a rapidly developing Empire that advanced by seven-parsec leaps, where there was always a shortage of jobs and qualified personnel. Because you'd have to be a complete degenerate to reject the hand offering you bread and shelter. Returning to the Republic after captivity — a Republic that never even remembered its missing citizens, let alone mounted rescue expeditions... yes, such unreasonable biomass existed. And there was plenty of it.
Yes, in the Empire you had to work. Everyone. If you didn't want to find work yourself, the competent authorities would find it for you. And willingly or not, you would still labor for the benefit of society, receive your due wages, and pay a specific percentage of your earnings as taxes.
In the Republic, you could lose a limb while drunk, get disability status, and live on benefits until the end of your days. That wouldn't fly in the Empire. Here, qualified specialists would examine you, select a quality prosthetic, teach you to use it, and send you to a competent employment service that would find you a job sufficient to feed yourself and your family, and pay for housing. And yes, don't forget to pay off the prosthetic in installments — the Empire's budget, though enormous, beyond the Republic's wildest dreams, wasn't made of rubber. Everything in this galaxy has its price — even kindness.
But all that was lyrics.
His job was war. Questions related to expanding the number of state citizens fell under the purview of entirely different bodies.
Right now, though, he was more interested in the scene unfolding before him.
Endless streams of turbolaser energy, like deadly rain, poured down on the Tof planet.
Monstrous charges of green death spewed from hundreds of gun barrels, crossing the cold vacuum separating the planet's sphere from the Empire's deadly ships in seconds.
The Tofs had no planetary shields. For them — brigands and killers — such technology was unnecessary. Few in this sector of the galaxy would dare attack them. Except the Empire.
Bursting into the Tof's atmosphere, the sea of green fire ruthlessly tore the sparse cloud cover to pieces, literally evaporating weather phenomena. Walls of colorful death rained uniformly onto the planet's surface, sweeping away everything in their path.
For the first time in the last thousand years, sentient beings had implemented the infamous "Base Delta Zero" order. Developed in ancient times, when the Republic still had the will and the capability, this order allowed any world to be reduced to an atomic state.
It was even funny that this order had come to the Imperial fleet directly from Republic departmental documents. And unlike its creator, "Base Delta Zero" couldn't be considered something bloodthirsty or amoral. A standard order, requiring, admittedly, a few more ships and firepower.
But even what he had was enough to instantly carry out the plan.
Yes, they'd have to linger, but he wanted to see it all with his own eyes.
And there was plenty to see.
Positioned along the planet's equator at the most advantageous angle, the ships of his squadron kept up continuous fire on the planet.
The total power of the salvos was enough for the total devastation of the planet.
The turbolasers glowed red-hot, spewing charge after charge. To avoid system failures, the gunners had to take their towers out of the general barrage one by one — allowing the icy vacuum and built-in cooling systems to chill the barrel metal.
But the silence of one tower out of an entire battery — of which the Nemesis alone had sixteen — brought no salvation whatsoever to the Tofs.
The energy rain evaporated the oceans, seas, and rivers befouled by their careless masters. The sparse cloud cover, scattered by the fire at the very beginning of the bombardment, obeying the universal law of the water cycle in nature, turned into flying vapor, rising to the upper layers of the atmosphere, where they became filthy clouds of impossible colors. Such cloud cover, which had been natural reservoirs only hours earlier, interfered with aimed fire. If, of course, it had been aimed.
But no one here was engaged in picking off natives from the side of a Star Destroyer.
The squadron's crew had taken upon themselves the mission of completely destroying the planet. Turning it into a lifeless desert that would remain so for dozens of generations. Fire from orbit burned the remnants of the forests, mixing vomit-colored clouds with smoke from conflagrations raging across all continents of the planet. Flames incinerated ancient trees, reducing them to flying black dust in fractions of a second. Shrubs evaporated, leaving no trace on the charred, utterly barren soil.
But who could call this piece of hot slag, shimmering through the mist with a crimson glow, soil? Only a very optimistic specialist. For not a single grain of earth remained on the planet. Not a grain of sand, not a piece of silt or turf. It had all burned in the celestial punishment. Never again would a single blade of grass grow on this planet — for all the plants, which had been few to begin with, had burned — if not during the bombardment, then certainly from the raging fires.
All the useful minerals the local earth might have been rich in had been turned into billions of atomic chains that would never come together again. Any seeds had burned in the hellfire.
Never again would the slightest patch of green appear on the planet Tof.
Just as there would be no more steep cliffs or sheer precipices. No gentle hills, or plateaus flat as a thought, used as landing strips. The stone sculptures of nature were gone, shattered into pieces, turned into hot streams of rubble. Toppled by precise strikes, they flooded the plains with avalanches of rockfall that crashed onto the heads of Tofs panicking, maiming and killing them. But perhaps that was too quick and even merciful a death — dying from having your vital organs crushed by a giant boulder.
Because those who survived faced far greater suffering.
The biosphere fought for itself to the last. Mother Nature sought to protect her wayward children, revealing previously hidden grottoes and caves beneath the ocean's surface where one could wait out the storm.
If the storm had a time limit.
But the streams of green turbolaser messengers of death continued raining from the sky around the clock. The strongest rock formations crumbled, unable to withstand the high temperatures, splitting apart, revealing to the orbital gunners the shortest paths to the planet's depths.
Where there had once been no breeze at all, now fire tornadoes raged, destroying the truly precious oxygen reserves across the entire planet. They swept across the planet in random cataclysms, inevitably seizing in their deadly embrace the rapidly shrinking population. Tofs burned to ashes — those who managed to understand how unfair life was. Such "lucky ones" evaporated in fractions of a second.
But the unfortunate ones got to feel it firsthand — what it was like when an irresistible force, from proximity to the open flame that had already engulfed everything around, turned your hair, which covered almost the entire Tof body, into a smoking, sooty mass, the stench of which ate into your nostrils, cut your throat, and made your eyes water. How it flared up, unable to withstand the struggle with the physical laws of the universe. How you and your clothes turned in an instant into a struggling bonfire that only grew stronger because there was simply nothing to put it out with. Any moisture on the planet — even your own sweat — had long since evaporated. Everything under your feet was heated to the limit.
And finally, your skin began to dry and crack, like the handiwork of a primitive shaman who had stretched the untanned skin of a killed stranger over a drum. At first, it was just an annoying, itchy sensation, echoes of dehydration. Then it grew stronger. And when your organism simply screamed for a little moisture, the thought came to your mind that there was moisture inside you. Running through your veins. In a fit of madness, you tried to get at least that, at least as hot, but liquid...
But it was all in vain... The heat became so unbearable that your desiccated skin, if you were lucky enough not to have been caught in one of the fire tornadoes by now, simply ignited. Because by now it was so dry that it flared up at any nearby source of fire.
And you burned. You suffered and howled like an animal while your muscles and tendons experienced unbearable pain, contacting the open flame. If you were lucky, you would die of shock.
But that's what would happen to an ordinary humanoid.
Tofs were far more resilient than other humanoid races. Therefore, charred and burned, with a body stripped of flesh, with white bones flashing through the gaps in the blackened meat, they still hoped to survive. To reach any cave, to take cover...
But they didn't make it. Even if the cave was only a meter away, at arm's length — it wouldn't help.
Because your burned lungs, partially scorched from inhaling red-hot air, would bring along with the next portion of heat flakes of ash into your insides. That same ash that would fill your chest, that you would try to spit out, hoping to get rid of the omnipresent light companion of the catastrophe.
But you wouldn't be able to.
Because back when the rocks were crumbling, sand turned to glass and evaporated the next second, when the rubble rolling down the splitting mountains turned into a viscous, red-hot basaltic wave, those bombarding your planet put the final stop. They triggered volcanic eruptions that spew millions of tons of ash and red-hot lava every second from the planet's core, heated by the bombardment — lava that will never cool, but will keep flooding the surface, burned to a cinder, until the incandescent core material seeps into every crack and crevice, burning the corpses of the dead.
It will continue until a crimson light from the red-hot surface below breaks through the dusty clouds of smoke and stench.
And only then will the fire from the heavens cease. Because the besiegers got what they wanted — never again on Tof, or any other world where such a thing is repeated, will life arise — neither organic nor artificial. From now on, the landscape of this world is a lifeless desert, where for several centuries only bacteria, accidentally brought to the surface by a meteor, will survive.
Such is the order "Base Delta Zero."
Helneor stood on the bridge of the Nemesis, watching as the planet, where billions of Tofs once lived, covered by a veil of volcanic ash, began to take on a crimson hue — so massive and bright that there could be no doubt.
"GEMINI-56," the half-blood addressed the droid. "Send an encrypted message to Grand Admiral Thrawn."
"Ready to receive the message," stated the hologram of the droid, hidden in the ship's depths behind thousands of bulkheads.
"'Base Delta Zero' order executed successfully. Many trophies captured. Report rendezvous point," he dictated.
"Message received," the hologram reported. "Encrypted and sent. Can I be of any further assistance?"
"Yes, GEMINI-56, confidentially inform Mandalore the Avenger that I wish to see her in the Nemesis salon in one hour. It's time to hear what new things the Tofs might have to say, after watching their planet's destruction."
"Executed, General Helneor."
"Dismissed," the half-blood nodded. Turning to the deck crew, he ordered the battle stations stand down.
The job was done. Time to rest.
* * *
"Am I disturbing you, sir?" A very familiar voice sounded behind him.
Like millions of others I had heard, it belonged to a clone. But despite looking the same and having no external differences, each of them has a certain individual trait. Something barely noticeable, but which sets one clone apart from the ranks of others.
"No, Darman, come in," I was sitting in the mess hall of the Fury, which Omega Squad used. The remnants of my conscience wouldn't allow me to return to Christophsis on one of my Cleavers. Well, I had sent the Black Overlord on a delicate mission.
So now our entire motley crew — commandos, Hands, Dasheides, Adi — had to return on the commando squad ships. Me, Atroxa, Vette, both Shadow Assassins, and Adi Gallia got the honor of flying on the ship of the legendary, I'm not afraid to say it, Omega Squad. In terms of the number of "good deeds" they've done, probably only Delta Squad can outdo these guys.
"I've always wondered how you tell us apart," the commando said sheepishly, closing the door behind him and sitting down across from me. "Is it all your Jedi abilities?"
"Partly, yes," I agreed. "You can talk all you want about being 'one face, one blood,' but in the Force you're always different from each other. Well, and besides, you're the only one in all of Omega who still has the standard haircut."
"Oh," the commando grinned. "Completely forgot about that, sir."
In the Force, he seemed relaxed and cheerful, but I could see something was bothering him. Hence these inappropriate jokes — an attempt to defuse the situation.
Darman wanted to ask me for something. Something very important to him. And for some reason, he was beating around the bush.
"Is that a lightsaber?" he asked, nodding at the hilt of one of two identical blades I had, laid out in front of me.
"The very same," I nodded, returning to my work. I could, of course, just ask the commando point-blank, but I didn't particularly want to take away his initiative in the conversation. If what he came for is so important to him, he'll speak up. When he's "ready."
I was practically sure I knew the reason he'd started talking to me. Yes, it seemed like it all happened this year. But, truth be told, I thought it would happen a bit later. But one way or another, if I'm right, this conversation is extremely important for Darman. And it would be better if he spoke up himself. I wasn't going to drag the information out of him with pliers.
"It once belonged to a very interesting and contradictory person," I explained, taking a slightly clouded crystal out of the hilt. "Emperor Arcann, to be precise. Oh, you bastard! And I was just wondering why I stopped feeling it."
"Feeling it, sir?"
"A lightsaber is a very non-standard weapon," I drew his attention to the details. "To assemble one, your hands need to grow from the right place, which, unfortunately, doesn't happen for everyone. Every detail must be perfectly fitted to the others. See," I pointed to a small melted spot near the focusing lens, "there was a short circuit here. Either from old age, or something happened in combat. But one way or another, the system became unstable. The energy levels fluctuated, which ultimately resulted in the crystals used to focus the blade losing their integrity under the influence of a large amount of energy." I used the Force slightly, and, before the astonished clone's eyes, the crystal crumbled into dust in my fingers.
"Sir? It won't work anymore."
"It will, Darman," I assured him. "This crystal isn't the only one in the galaxy."
With these words, I took out a couple of miniature transparent boxes from a pocket on my belt, containing crystals pre-cut for use in my paired blades. Honestly, I kept all the necessary spare parts on my belt to repair both swords. Practice in a galaxy far, far away shows that you should be ready for any surprises. Including the failure of the traditional weapon of the gifted.
"So, it's about half an hour's work," I explained. "Replace the damaged components and put it back together."
"Understood, sir," the clone nodded. "I guess I came at a bad time."
"I didn't say that," I had to remind him. "This must be important, since you came to me in person. So, I'm all ears."
Darman was silent for a few seconds, then said:
"Sir, I have served you faithfully and truly since the moment of my transfer. I support you in everything, as do many other clones. And I have never asked for anything for myself. But now... I ask you to remove General Mukan from field missions."
"Is that so," as soon as the first commando and line infantry units began arriving in the army, I, without much cunning, decided that since I currently had more Jedi under my command than line units, why not assign the "free" Jedi to the commando squads? Etain Tur-Mukan continued working with Omega, whose fighters had known her for over a year and treated her quite amiably. And, I confess, if I hadn't known some of the nuances of the relationship between Darman and Etain (thank you again, Force, for my memories of the Star Wars universe), this request from the commando would have been extremely unexpected for me. "And the reason?"
"She's not feeling well, sir," the clone admitted. "When we were preparing for the mission on the Separatist dreadnought, she was very tired, she often felt sick. I think she's ill and should rest until everything gets back to normal."
"I think Etain, with her character, definitely won't rest on the base for nine months," I snorted.
"Nine months, sir?"
"Darman, she's not sick. She's pregnant," I explained. "But it's temporary."
The commando, staring at me, frantically processed my answer.
"You mean there's a child living inside her, sir?" he clarified.
"Yes, Darman. A small one. But it will grow and become big," I said with a smile. "So, congratulations, future father."
"But how, sir?" The clone spread his hands. "How did this happen?"
"Do you want me to tell you the whole process in detail?" I inquired. "Children — that's what happens when a man and a woman partake in the sacrament of making love... In short, Darman, I'm not the best example of morality in this regard, so I won't tell you with pretty words."
"Sir... but the child... it will get part of my genes, right? Including the accelerated growth gene," Darman panicked.
"It won't," I assured him. "All those clones who came over to my side, besides having their inhibitor chips removed, also receive a vaccine against accelerated growth. But even without that, according to the Kaminoans, the gene that accelerates your growth and development is not passed on to subsequent generations. So, either way, you can rest easy."
"Thank you for the information, sir," the clone thanked me. "But what about my request?"
"I'm not a villain. Etain will be pulled back — I'll come up with a reason. However, I must admit, the rear of an army fighting surrounded is not the best place to carry and give birth to a child. Maybe you should go to Mandalore? I think Skirata wouldn't mind hiding her there."
"It's dangerous there, sir. Constant war," Darman explained. "I don't want them to come under fire. Maybe you could transfer Etain to Zakuul?"
"A sensible suggestion," I assessed. "Does the mother of your child even know about Zakuul?"
"No, sir, I didn't spread it around."
"I think she definitely wouldn't appreciate such a surprise," I snorted. "But I think I can help you."
"Really, sir?"
"Of course, Darman. Am I the Emperor, or did I just step out for a walk?"
* * *
Pressing his back against the wall of something vaguely resembling a sentient's dwelling, looking like one, but after a bombing, being eaten by a sarlacc, and also thoroughly dilapidated, Iv'an sadly thought it would have been more merciful to raze all the buildings on this lousy planet down to the level of the tectonic plates. However, the command, for some reason, was against it.
And completely in vain.
There was nothing on this planet that could in any way justify the bloody slaughter that was happening here.
After the ambush at the Separatist outpost, he and only five clones out of all those who followed General Hett managed to return to the base. The enemy, as if on cue, jammed all means of communication, and Iv'an could only report the Jedi's capture in person.
However, as soon as he showed up at the base, it turned out everything was even worse than he thought.
The enemy had begun an offensive. Judging by everything, they believed General Hett was the only Jedi on the planet, and planned to pull the same trick on the clones that they intended to do to the enemy commander.
But it didn't work.
The positions of the 95th Reconnaissance Corps and the 63rd Assault Corps were located in a populated area — if this abundance of garbage dumps and rotting ruins could be called that. Overall — an extremely idiotic place for a base.
If not for one thing. What the assault troopers and scouts couldn't be denied was their resourcefulness and brute force, respectively.
Therefore, minefields appeared on the approaches to the city, and any access to the settlement was covered by heavy weapons, the cherry on top of which were AV-7 cannons located in the central part of the city, now unhesitatingly pouring a sea of tibanna onto the advancing droid columns.
Droids were dying by the hundreds, perhaps even by the thousands. However, that hardly bothered anyone. The Separatists — because they had more. The Republicans — for the same reason. The Separatists have more. Of any type and in any quantity.
Iv'an ducked out of cover, firing suppressive fire at a group of B-1s that appeared on the far side of the street. The droids had breached the engineering barriers and minefields on one side, and since then had been trying in a continuous stream to overwhelm the Republicans with numbers. The clones, for their part, fought back fiercely.
Ducking under the supports of an AT-TE that had emerged from behind the ruins, Iv'an pressed his back against one of them, ejecting an empty cartridge on the fly and slotting a new one in its place.
The tank was firing continuously at the pressing droids, like a scythe of death, reaping its harvest. The laser cannons didn't fall silent, the main gun barked loudly... A single tank, kicking up clouds of dust, was sweeping a huge number of enemy combatants from its path.
"Rocket launchers!" A shout came from behind. Iv'an aimed his carbine at the source of the sound, but lowered it with relief, noticing Republic troopers in the characteristic sand coloring of the 63rd.
Marshal LeshKa, whom Iv'an recognized by his red pauldron with the legion emblem, waved his hand to someone behind him, and a squad of clones with rocket launchers on their shoulders appeared under the belly of the AT-TE. An instant, and dozens of rockets sped into the distance, crashing down on an AAT that had appeared among the Separatists. Which, nevertheless, managed to fire from its turret.
An energy bolt sped towards the Republic tank, with the clear intention of tearing open the driver's cockpit. However, literally a couple of meters from the transparisteel cockpit, the energy bolt broke apart, spreading across the surface of a translucent energy field that had suddenly surrounded the cockpit on the enemy's side. A second such dome deployed at the position of the main gun gunner, protecting him from several stray blaster bolts.
"What is that," Iv'an asked, pulling up alongside LeshKa. "Shield generators from droidekas?"
"Yeah," the assault trooper commander snorted. "I covered all the equipment with them. No point letting good stuff go to waste."
"Cheap and cheerful," the recon trooper approved. "If we survive, I'll install the same on our AT-RTs."
"Yeah..." the assault trooper drawled. "Nobody gives a damn about clones' lives. Good thing we have adequate command. Under other Jedi, the losses were just huge."
"Yeah, we weren't so lucky with our general," Iv'an agreed. "He went into the enemy's lair and stayed there. Barely made it back ourselves."
"Dead?" LeshKa clarified, waving his hand to the rocket troopers towards the newly appeared droids.
"Unknown," Iv'an admitted. "Either that, or dead."
"That's bad," LeshKa nodded towards an improvised shelter — a miraculously surviving corner of some permanent structure. Agreeing that having a conversation on the firing line wasn't the best idea, Iv'an changed his position. "If he breaks under torture, it'll be bad. Jedi know a lot. So, hope he was killed."
"For thoughts like that, they could send you to Kamino," Iv'an said with a grim smile, referring to the memory wipe procedure used on clones the command deemed "incorrect."
"Not scary," LeshKa remarked. "I've long dreamed of becoming a sanitation worker or, like 99, a gofer."
"Haven't you heard?" Iv'an was surprised, instinctively ducking his head. It seemed the enemy had brought up wheeled tanks and was now inundating the Republic positions with waves of missiles. A good dozen of them literally tore apart the AT-TE that had so effectively been smashing Separatist droids just a short while ago. The shockwave and hundreds of caliber-sized fragments literally scattered the rocket troopers in all directions. Not one of them got up. "99 died during the Second Battle of Kamino."
"I know," LeshKa waved it off with slight anger. "Pity the brother."
"That's for sure," Iv'an agreed, peeking out from behind cover. "Looks like they brought in tanks."
"This is bad," LeshKa declared. "We need to call for reinforcements — this section of the front is exposed."
"What, you only had one tank?" Iv'an was surprised. "You're supposed to have several hundred on paper..."
"And you think they're only breaking through here?" LeshKa inquired, pulling a flare gun from his plastic backpack. "They attacked just one section of the defense as a diversion. And when they realized it wouldn't work, they broke through along the entire perimeter."
"Crap," if it were possible, Iv'an would have spat. But taking off his helmet for that didn't seem worth it. "I need to get back to the corps base. I haven't been there since I got back from the raid. I don't even know where my men are. The comms are jammed..."
"Yours are on the western and southern sectors," LeshKa recalled, firing a red flare into the air. "The droids there have no armor, your guys are having fun on the AT-RTs. Speaking of which — very effective. Soon you'll be able to build a wall out of 'tin cans' there."
"And who's commanding them?" Iv'an became alert. Yes, the idea of going with the general into the enemy's rear seemed less and less optimal with every passing moment. Damn this Hett to hell!
"General Keto," LeshKa replied. Taking a couple of thermal detonators from his pouch, he swung and tossed them in turn towards the advancing droid columns. They were about thirty meters away, so two explosions that followed one after another, literally scattering the leading rank of droids, created a decent barricade. "This will hold them up for a couple of minutes. Pulling back."
Iv'an, crouching to avoid being too conspicuous among the ruins, moved after his fellow marshal. Units from the assault corps began to appear towards them more and more often. Laden with heavy weapons — rocket launchers, heavy repeaters — they set up firing positions without any orders from officers, using the terrain and the relief of the destroyed settlement extremely effectively to ensure suitable protection.
It took them about ten minutes, weaving between soldiers and equipment heading to the front line, to reach the field headquarters.
"General Keto," the recon trooper greeted the female Jedi, entering under the canopy of the command tent. The clone removed his helmet, looking at the Jedi and several clones inside.
"Iv'an?" The girl was surprised. "Glad you made it back alive. Where's Hett, where are your men?"
"The entire squad is dead, ma'am," the clone reported. "We walked into an ambush. I managed to break out with a few soldiers, but General Hett decided to capture the enemy commander single-handedly. His fate is unknown to me."
"Well, it's known to me," the Jedi stated sadly. "The CIS Shadow Broadcast has been blaring for hours that he's been captured."
"Ma'am, I'll assemble a team, and we'll free him," Iv'an volunteered readily. Yes. Hett might be a screwed-up Jedi, but he was still the commander of his corps. And it's the duty of every clone to do everything to save the life of a superior officer.
"He's already been taken off New Cov," the girl shook her head, making her braids bounce comically on her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Marshal, General Hett is no longer our concern."
"As you say, ma'am," the clone nodded. "I want to return to my soldiers."
"Yes, speaking of that," the girl's face twisted in annoyance as she lightly tapped her forehead. "Pull your boys back to the second line of defense."
"I thought everything was fine on that front," the clone frowned. "Why do we need to abandon our positions?"
"Not just you, Marshal," Sera admitted. "I'm pulling all units back to the second line. Commodore Zsinj is going to support us with orbital fire and air strikes. We're facing seven million droids — enemy ships managed to drop landing forces. So, orbital bombardment is the only thing that can save us from complete annihilation."
"I understand, ma'am," the clone nodded, putting his helmet back on. Now it was clear why everyone was pulling back to secondary positions. When the front line is scattered and it's not entirely clear where your own troops are and where the enemy is, there's always a risk of "friendly fire" when instead of hitting enemy battle droids, the gunners land their turbolaser shells on the positions of their own forces. That was practically non-existent now — but in the first year of the war, when Separatist electronic warfare assets literally lived day and night on Republic communication channels, getting a couple of bomber runs or a turbolaser salvo as a "greeting" from orbit was common practice.
Now, everything had changed. The encryption got better, and the diverse units learned to work with each other.
So, there wasn't much danger that Commodore Zsinj's flagship would now open fire and level the Republicans themselves.
Iv'an, leaving the tent, spotted a speeder bike assigned to his corps. Commandering it from a trooper, he sped off towards the second line of fortifications.
The journey took only a couple of minutes. Leaving the vehicle in the care of the nearest scout, the marshal stepped under the canopy of a massive fortification — a duracrete "pancake" built by engineers as a permanent firing point. Dozens of heavy repeater barrels stared out from narrow embrasures towards the enemy, ready to unleash a torrent of blaster bolts at the enemy as soon as they appeared on the horizon.
"Marshal," greeted him the commander of the legion responsible for this section of the front. "Didn't think you'd make it back."
"All that later," Iv'an waved it off. "Are we ready for the start of the orbital strike?"
"Yes, sir," the commander nodded. "Troops in cover, the forward line is cleared. The strike will be delivered in two minutes."
"Distance between our current positions and the firestorm?" Iv'an inquired, examining the ranks of battle droids advancing on the first line of defense abandoned by the clones through a macrobinocular.
"Two hundred meters, sir," a clone engineer hurried up. "We left minefields in case any droids break through."
"Excellent," Iv'an nodded. "Well, now we just have to wait for the start..."
The rest of his phrase was lost in the roar as blue streaks of turbolaser energy began to slam into the ground, tearing huge chunks out of it. The perfectly even ranks of droids disappeared into a series of explosions, shattering any Separatist plan to destroy the Republic ground contingent.
* * *
From his position next to the cargo containers, he heard the rumble of a freighter in the landing dock.
The Tofs were preparing to retreat.
Taking the most valuable things and loading them onto the freighter, they planned to make a quick escape, leaving behind a planet clearly captured by the stormtroopers.
Hermit, hiding a smile, lovingly stroked his sniper rifle — his favorite long-range weapon.
The enemy thought that in this part of Nagi — occupied by the Tofs almost three hundred years ago, where no battles had rung out — they were safe. No wonder — this landing pad was in the most remote corner of the Nagi capital. There were no Imperial stormtrooper units here; the locals, suddenly realizing that the attack by an unknown ally was a real chance to throw off the enemy yoke, had crawled out of their shelters, harassing the former occupiers in every way. Sometimes with sabotage, sometimes with a razor-sharp blade finding a vulnerable spot on their bodies.
The Jabiimite assessed the locals' abilities quite adequately — in close combat, they had no equal. Though they seemed incredibly emaciated, in reality, it was just their body constitution. The Nagai are naturally lean but wiry. And as swift as a nexu. And just as deadly dangerous.
It was no surprise that Grand Admiral Thrawn used stormtroopers under the command of General Sev'rance Tann to eliminate the Tofs on this planet. A total purge using "Skywalkers" would have cost the Empire thousands of casualties among the locals — simply because the droids didn't particularly stand on ceremony with targets, preferring to shoot first and ask questions later — whether they killed a friend or an enemy. The only exception was the soldiers of the Empire itself, entered into the "Skywalker" database with the tag "friendly target." Everything else was just a target to them.
It would have been ugly — they came to destroy the Tofs, and in the process accidentally killed the Nagai as well. That would have been an unpleasant incident.
Judging by everything, the Grand Admiral had clear instructions regarding the fate of this race — do not harm. Hermit would bet his pay and go through the extremely painful and unpleasant mind-wiping procedure a second time that Thrawn was not planning to annex this people to the Empire.
Which, in general, was logical. These guys were extremely capable fighters. True, they were a bit crazy with their cold weapons. But if the appropriate skills were applied, they could make good soldiers for the Empire. A little over forty million new citizens — a trifle, of course, but nice. Sometimes it's not quantity that matters, but quality. And these guys were quality masters of close combat.
Hermit rubbed the barely healed scar on the right side of his face — a memento of his encounter with a Nagai who hadn't figured out who was his friend and who was his enemy. The fight was intense but short.
"They're about to take off," whispered the author of the scar on the special forces squad commander's face. Hermit, try as he might, couldn't pronounce his impossibly long name. The young Nagai was the guide for the "Heralds of Hell," thanks to whom they were able to get this far into the Tofs' rear without trouble. "These are the last containers..."
"Be quiet," Hermit asked. Before, he would have explained to the kid in no uncertain terms that his special forces troopers were already deployed around the landing pad. All ten Tofs were in their sights. But it was way too early to start a fight. "That's not all. They're clearly waiting for someone."
Hermit was used to trusting his intuition. And now it told him he should wait.
The Tofs, despite being representatives of a race that had long since ventured into space and mastered hyperspace travel, remained barbarians dressed in skins. They had no uniform or insignia.
But looking at those Tofs loading containers onto the ship, he could swear they were all ordinary soldiers. No officer would bother himself with carrying heavy loads. Especially if they weren't his.
It was therefore entirely logical to assume that the squad of Tofs in this part of Kotokai — the Nagai capital — were clearly busy packing up someone else's stolen goods.
"Boss, we have three targets approaching from the south," a clone's voice whispered through the earpiece. Yes, as much as Hermit wished he had ordinary sentients under his command, there was a problem with that. There simply weren't any.
And the Empire hadn't yet had time to train its own cadre of saboteurs.
"Wait," Hermit ordered. The young Nagai stirred restlessly beside him — without making a single sound. The Imperial made a mental note to submit a report to command about recruiting at least this boy into service.
He'd hardly refuse — the planet was poor, with barely any food or technology.
But it did have extremely advanced martial arts and skills in covert movement. Although... three hundred years of enemy occupation could do even stranger things to sentients.
The trio of Tofs arrived right on schedule — two minutes after the lookout had reported them. Hermit sized up the new arrivals and shot the Nagai a mocking glance, as if to say, see what I told you?
The local, staring intently at one of the Tofs — the largest one, whose shaggy mass was adorned with aurodium trinkets — blurted out in a single breath:
"That's their field commander. He must be detained!"
"The Punisher?" Hermit clarified.
"The Butcher," the Nagai added grimly. The commando nodded silently, raising the comlink to his lips.
"Take them all down except the biggest one. We take him alive." Honestly, Hermit didn't care whether the bastard was executed or taken prisoner. But his intuition told him that the people who could have their former punisher handed over to them would be a little more grateful than they would be for simply putting a hole in the bastard's head.
"Targets assigned?" Hermit asked, raising his rifle. Through the scope of the targeting computer, he caught the chieftain's knee. The comlink filled with clicks of confirmation. "Go!"
With the quiet whine of blaster fire, twelve hairy bastards collapsed onto the landing pad, never to rise again. The last part was absolutely certain in their case — precise hits of tibanna to the head had made them scatter their brains.
But the leader, whose knee had been turned to pulp, lay at the ramp, cursing furiously as he tried in vain to climb it and escape. The Nagai, like a pale shadow with a shock of black hair, rushed forward. Hermit barely caught a glimpse of a short blade flashing in his hand...
With elusive movements, the Nagai sliced through the tendons of the Tof's arms and legs, leaving him lying motionless on the ramp like a sack of meat.
Hermit approached, watching the Nagai glare at his fallen enemy with eyes blazing with rage.
"You can slit his throat," Hermit offered. Though, on the other hand, what good was one punisher? He probably hadn't made that deep an impression on the whole population. But the boy clearly had an extremely hostile attitude toward him. Maybe he shouldn't set his sights on the whole nation, but at least recruit this one kid? "No one will judge you for it, kid..."
"There is no honor in killing the weak," the young Nagai shook his head. "And I am not a kid. My name is Ozrei N'takkilomandraife!"
"Whatever you say, kid," Hermit shrugged.