This compartment of the flagship Chimaera, which Grand Admiral Thrawn had chosen as his office, was located several levels below the bridge. Once, this room had been intended for the relaxation of the bridge's semi-watch, but after a minor refit on Nirauan, by the Chiss's personal order, the spacious room had been stripped of its numerous bunks.
Now it contained a desk, a stationary holoprojector, a couple of cabinets, and an impeccably made standard bed in the far corner from the entrance. On the walls were numerous monitors, their screens continuously streaming information duplicated from the bridge. The entire life of the ship, the squadron, the fleet, the ground contingent — laid out before his burning eyes.
The Grand Admiral spent all his time here, except when circumstances required his presence on the bridge. What exactly the Chiss did here was not reliably known. In fact, nothing was known about his personal life or free time at all. It was as if he lived only for the service, and nothing more.
It was rather... unusual. Such dedication to the cause was commendable. But the Twi'lek knew from experience that it was easy to burn out with that kind of approach. He himself had given ten years of his life to Republic Intelligence, rising to the position of department head in one of the Mid Rim worlds. And it had all ended quite prosaically — as soon as the smell of burning reached his nostrils, that is, the Clone Wars, Isard had begun ruthlessly eliminating anyone who could in any way prevent Palpatine from starting his usurpation of power. His behind-the-scenes games with senators, the unexplained disappearances right from the Senate building, vague hints to some, and blatant favoritism toward others — militarists and sentients with clearly authoritarian political views — all of this was alarming. Not for nothing had Deimos asked him to pay close attention to the Chancellor's connections. No one wanted a repeat of Finis Valorum's administration.
Though, back then, they had underestimated Isard himself. The head of intelligence had quickly gotten rid of all the undesirables, replacing them with his own appointees, who were loyal to the bone either to him personally or to Palpatine. With that approach, there was no longer any hope of productive work from Senate Intelligence.
After his dismissal, R'Lair had returned to his homeworld, taken an active part in the resistance against the Separatists, been wounded, captured, and sold to slavers... Essentially, the very fact of his rescue — along with thousands of his people — was one big stroke of luck. And a chance to settle scores with the Republic.
R'Lair approached the bulkhead behind which Thrawn's private quarters were located. He had been here several times before — never on trivial matters. And never before had the Chiss summoned him so suddenly. An urgent summons from the Grand Admiral was no laughing matter. Something out of the ordinary must have happened.
Stopping in front of the door, the Twi'lek instinctively thought to straighten his uniform, but as his hands automatically reached for the lapels, he belatedly realized that in his current field position, he didn't wear a uniform, preferring ordinary civilian clothes. Yes, the job was new, but he couldn't shake the reflexes drilled into him at a subconscious level.
The Twi'lek touched the button on the local intercom and reported his arrival.
The door slid open before he finished his sentence. Gathering himself mentally, R'Lair stepped inside, entering a small airlock. The inner door only opened after the outer one was securely sealed.
Inside, as always, reigned a dim twilight, hiding most of the room from view. The chief intelligence officer of the Expeditionary Force crossed the threshold...
Thrawn sat at his desk, his hands steepled on his chest. His head was tilted back, and he was studying holographic objects slowly circling under the ceiling of the quarters. Paintings, sculptures, tableware... all of it, without a doubt, had real prototypes — R'Lair recognized a few fairly well-known ones in a couple of the paintings. Something from Kuat, Alderaan, Malastare... But the vast majority he was seeing for the first time and couldn't even guess who they might belong to. Glancing at the monitors, he noticed they too were displaying images of art objects from alien races.
The Chiss's bluish-black hair was barely visible in the twilight, which made his blue skin seem to belong to a corpse. Only his open, rarely blinking red eyes indicated that the Grand Admiral was alive.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Thrawn inquired, not moving a millimeter. His calm, slightly vibrating voice had once startled the Twi'lek. But now, having fought side-by-side with this fleet commander on more than one campaign, he had learned not to react to the peculiarities of the Chiss's voice. "What do you think?"
"As always, I acknowledge your talent for understanding an enemy through the study of their art," the Twi'lek said. "But I prefer to operate using the methods available to me."
"That is commendable," Thrawn said, straightening up and looking directly at the intelligence officer. "I respect your point of view. But, as you understand, you are not here for that reason."
"Is that so," the Twi'lek grinned. Who would have thought Thrawn had called him in for something other than to look at holographic art.
"Our campaign against the Tofs is progressing quite successfully," Thrawn stated. "Though I won't hide that after General Helnior's successes on Tof and General Tann's on Naga, our rapid advance deep into their territories has slowed considerably."
"I never thought turning a planet into molten slag was a success," the Twi'lek admitted. "We lost an entire world."
"That planet held no value whatsoever for the Empire," Thrawn countered. "Its mineral resources were either exhausted or located too close to the core. And by every other parameter — ecology, biosphere, flora, fauna — Tof was on its last legs. We merely accelerated the process. And taught the Tofs and other civilizations in Wild Space a lesson. A small price. Especially since extracting deep resources would pose no problem for the Empire even under such circumstances. After all, the Base Delta Zero order against the Tofs was personally sanctioned by the Emperor."
"Be that as it may," the Twi'lek agreed. "But I'm not here to discuss already accomplished facts, am I?"
"Exactly," Thrawn confirmed. He touched the control panel on his desk, and the holographic art exhibition vanished instantly. Instead, the quarters were once again transformed into a compact tactical center. The screens filled with status reports from various posts on the Chimaera and other ships of the Expeditionary Force. The status of the base on Nirauan, reports from outposts, intelligence briefings... The open space above the Chiss's head turned into a tactical holographic map of the galaxy, divided into territories controlled by the conflicting parties. Republic territory was colored red, the blue-splashed systems of the Confederacy alternated with pale sectors that remained neutral.
Golden sparks of planets loyal to the Empire glittered across the galactic disk. Funnily enough, none of the known superpowers of the galaxy even suspected the existence of this young, growing competitor.
And Thrawn had already annexed vast territories to the Empire, comparable to the domains of the largest oversectors. And this was not the limit!
Now, even if the inhabited galaxy didn't suspect it, the Empire, having absorbed the Tof territory, would be drawing close to known space — the territories of the Republic's Ninth Systems Army. An interesting expansion.
Through Thrawn's hands, the Empire had effectively eliminated any threats to its borders from three of the four directions. The only fully-fledged and heavily militarized state in the Unknown Regions now was the Chiss Dominion — the Grand Admiral's homeland.
The Twi'lek didn't know the Emperor's or Thrawn's plans regarding the blue-skinned state, but he suspected that a former Syndic couldn't have achieved such a high position at the Imperial Court if he were prone to easily changing his loyalties. Consequently, it was logical to assume that the Dominion's fate would be different from a typical conquest. An alliance? Possibly. Even — most likely.
If there were even a couple more people like Thrawn there, conquering them would cause more problems than it was worth. On the other hand, strong allies would certainly not hurt the Empire.
"Our target is here," Thrawn, pulling the intelligence officer from his thoughts, pointed to an empty patch of Wild Space. Not colored in any way, it was located quite far from the Expeditionary Force's current position. A completely different part of the galaxy.
"And what is located there?" R'Lair inquired.
"What the Emperor needs," an unexpectedly low voice sounded from the darkness of the Admiral's quarters, making the intelligence officer reach for his blaster. As he frantically tried to accept the fact that he had left his weapon in his own cabin, a tall humanoid emerged from the twilight of the artificial light, clad in matte-black heavy armor. The Twi'lek mechanically noted a lightsaber hanging from his belt.
A heavy aura of fear emanated from the stranger. His mere presence made the intelligence officer feel extremely uncomfortable. Not to mention that he, encased in armor from head to toe, wearing a mask that hid his face and any clue to his race, made it practically immediately clear who was in charge here. Even Thrawn, despite his imperturbable expression, seemed to fade in comparison to this...
"Who are you?"
"I am the Emperor's Messenger," the stranger cut him off. "His faithful and devoted servant, as are you all."
"Of course," the Twi'lek nodded. "How can we be of service?"
"This sector of the galaxy," the giant walked up to the holographic map and pointed to the area Thrawn had highlighted, "is of particular interest. A mission of utmost importance and secrecy. Select your most competent agents — preferably of your own species — and send them here. Seven star systems — at least two agents per system."
"What are they to find out?" R'Lair swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
"First and foremost, blend in with the locals, with the slaves," the giant explained. "The Emperor wishes to know everything about this system: defense systems, troop numbers, their armaments, the mood of the oppressed. The exposure of our agents is unacceptable. Failure is unacceptable."
"I understand, but..." The Twi'lek met Thrawn's eyes and, seeing his slight head shake, refrained from asking his question. "I will see to it immediately. How much time is allocated for infiltration and intelligence gathering?"
"As much as is needed to obtain a detailed picture of what is happening there," the armored giant said, as if cutting him off. "I will await your report aboard the Chimaera."
"Of course," the intelligence officer nodded. "With your permission, I will go prepare my people for the mission."
"You will go with them," Thrawn added, pointing to one of the dots. "This system is the most important of them all. As is this one," another of the seven dots blinked. "The Emperor wishes for the best officers to be sent to these.
The Twi'lek shifted his gaze from the giant to the Grand Admiral for a moment, trying to understand if this was a joke. But a sixth sense told him it wasn't.
Sighing, R'Lair said:
"It will be done."
* * *
It felt so good to be back.
The moment the door to my quarters closed behind me, I allowed myself to relax.
The events of the last few days had completely drained me.
Losing Kylie, the battle with Kirvan, the multi-layered scheme with the Family.
And then Darman had to add to it at the end...
It seemed like in this galaxy far, far away, contraceptives were invented for idiots. No, okay, the clones — they'd probably never been told that male fluid deposited in a female body would demand to see the light of day in nine months.
But, for crying out loud, the Jedi though... Then again, remembering the story of the Skywalker twins' birth, it was hardly surprising. If even the Chosen One didn't know any other way to relieve a woman of her monthly bloody adventures, then I just don't know what to say.
No, the fact of Mukan's pregnancy itself didn't bother me per se. It was expected that this was exactly how it would happen.
What the hell possessed me to ask Cross to prepare information on similar incidents throughout the entire army...
Over two thousand madams — volunteers — had been suspended from active duty by headquarters. Guess why?
That's right! Maternity leave. And no — not the kind about peace, land, and all that stuff grandpa Lenin used to proclaim. Oh, you human females! There's a war on, and they decided to take care of demographics!
A bad business, of course, isn't complicated. And this exchange of seminal fluid for pleasure happened mainly in those units performing guard duty on planets in the rear. But the fact remains. Why did they join the army? To find a better spot for a side cap? And who's going to defend the homeland?
Yes, I'm not innocent myself in this matter (oh, so not innocent), but holy crap! But I don't act like in that joke about pregnancy — you know, a pregnant woman is a person with a poor sense of humor. Someone joked with her, and she puffed up.
At first, I wanted to react to this outrage somehow, but then... Ban sentients from swimming the breaststroke on each other? No way, you couldn't even dream that up in a nightmare.
So, after thinking it over, I just waved it off. The pregnant ladies' expenses came out of Christophsis's budget, so I foresaw no particular problems for my own plans.
Although... maybe, just to be safe, I should send all my madams for a check-up with a gynecologist? Because I know one rich and influential senator who, while her beloved was cruising the galaxy on spaceships, didn't even bother to figure out how many little ones had taken root inside her. And then, before you know it, heirs will be crawling out of every crack. I'll be the Immortal Emperor Big Nest.
Dropping my cloak, I moved slowly toward the bed, unfastening the armor elements from the undersuit one by one and tossing them onto the soft carpet. To hell with it, I'll get some sleep, deal with the armor later. Clean it, adjust it...
Maybe get myself an orderly?
Nah, that's stupid.
The moment my head hit the pillow, still in my undersuit and boots, I fell into a deathlike sleep.
Outside the window, over Christophsis, dawn was breaking...
* * *
The entire Gold Squadron, twelve heavy assault fighter-bombers, BTL-B Y-wings, was out of the Avatar's hangar decks in less than two standard minutes from when the first battle alarm buzzers sounded. The best result from the destroyer's air wing since it was commissioned.
Even the 187th Squadron of ARC-170s, commanded by Consul, was more than a minute behind them. And they were the elite.
Corvo grinned as he banked into another dizzying turn.
"Boss, I'll give you back your regulator," the gunner's voice came over the internal comm. "Stop trying to throw me out the window!"
"Less talk, more shooting," the squadron commander noted didactically. "And aim better — I don't want to spend the next two days patching holes in this machine."
"I'm telling you, there were two of them! I took one out, and the second..."
Corvo allowed himself a crooked grin. He enjoyed teasing the young Pantoran, who'd only joined the squadron commander's crew two weeks ago. The kid — twenty years old at most — was cheerful, one of thousands of volunteers who'd signed up for service in the "Gent." This one was "lucky" to take the place of his fallen brother.
The kid admitted himself that he'd actually wanted to be a fighter pilot and didn't particularly like sitting in the gunner's seat in a bomber. But he hadn't logged enough simulator hours to be trusted with a fighter. So, as he put it, he was "tagging along as dead weight."
But even so, the young would-be pilot was getting some real combat experience. And even if today's operation was just a routine mopping up of enemy outposts, it was a hundred times better than a boring simulator.
At least, that's what Corvo thought.
"No enemy small craft cover observed," a voice sounded in his helmet's earpiece. "Too bad."
"Don't get gloomy, Consul, everyone's got their own job," Gold Leader requested, flicking switches to arm the bombs for release. "We'll shake them up now. So keep your wings in combat mode — you might have to cover our exhaust ports."
"Copy that, Gold Leader," Consul replied dryly. "Good luck down there. Drop a couple of bombs for us."
"With pleasure," Corvo promised, steering his craft into the upper atmosphere.
Why the Separatists had taken such a liking to this small, backwater moon was hard to say. An uninhabited system a couple of hundred light-years from Pantora. No resource deposits, no convenient location near hyperspace routes... Yet it was from here that enemy raiders tirelessly harassed Admiral Tigellinus's fleet group with their endless attacks.
Eventually, command got tired of it. Another enemy raid ended with the Confederacy's ships being traditionally turned into scrap metal. All except one. The badly battered Rebel barely escaped. Command calculated its possible exit vectors from hyperspace, and so the Avatar, accompanied by two Marauders, paid a return visit of courtesy.
And the fun began.
Locating the enemy base on the surface was a piece of cake. And while the carrier-destroyer, with the help of two corvettes, was zealously and with obvious enthusiasm proving to the Rebel skulking in orbit just how glad the Stiletto Fleet command was to see it, bomber squadrons, with distant cover from the ARC-170s, were visiting the Separatists' ground fortifications.
As his BTL-B broke through unexpectedly thick cloud cover, Corvo noted that since his transfer from Admiral Pellaeon's Hammer Fleet, there had never been a dull day. Reconnaissance, bombing enemy raiders, teaching at the Pantoran Pilot Academy — a hastily organized training institution for locals who'd expressed a desire to serve in the Grand Army of the Republic. In short, life was bustling even when he wasn't behind the controls of his fighter-bomber.
Directly ahead, the cloud cover parted sharply, revealing a rather interesting picture of events on the ground.
"Avatar Control, this is Gold Leader," he contacted the controller on the destroyer. "Updated information. This isn't an outpost. It's a full-fledged base. About ten square kilometers in area."
"Copy, Gold Leader," the clone controller responded. "Dispatching 187th Squadron to you."
"Copy," Corvo confirmed. "Boys, maximum attention. We've got 'Heavies' coming down."
"What for?" one of the pilots asked. "We've got enough work here for three or four runs..."
"Stop cluttering the channel, Gold Seven," the squadron commander requested. "Get ready, entering the Anti-Air Defense zone."
During the briefing, they had been drilled that a base in this backwater for an elite "Beaver" squadron — which the Golds were considered to be — was peanuts: just spit, wipe, and forget. Because it was believed to be a simple outpost — thanks to those infamous Bothan "slicers," who had determined that from the HoloNet traffic.
But it turned out there wasn't just a well-entrenched enemy here, but also a considerable number of Vultures, already lifting their droid asses off the surface, eager to greet the Republic bombers. Not to mention the base bristling with fire from rapid-fire anti-aircraft guns.
After the inactivity of hyperspace and the easy start to the operation after takeoff, the flight through the atmosphere was a real ordeal — the craft was shaking and rocking. But Corvo himself was having a grand time in a titanic struggle with the controls, dodging a sea of crimson fire in his unwieldy machine. At times like this, he really hated the day he'd switched from ARC-170s to the BTL-B. These bombers, which had gained fame after the destruction of a Separatist super-dreadnought, had become firmly entrenched in the GAR. And they'd quickly earned the rather offensive nickname "wishbones" for their characteristic fuselage: a narrow central section and two large main engines spread out on either side of the cockpit. No sentient in the galaxy in their right mind would call the BTL-B an elegant beauty, and its flight characteristics, both in atmosphere and out of it, were worse than the infamous ARC-170s and V-19 Torrents, and only slightly better than a boulder in free flight.
Also, they were as slow as Tatooine banthas. But they were reasonably well-armed: two forward laser cannons, two proton torpedo launchers, and an ion twin mount for the gunner. It seemed the designer of this hellish machine had a great fondness for the number "two," but couldn't stand the crew of this flying coffin being comfortable — about ten minutes had passed since launch, and his back and legs were already cramped. It was terrifying to think — the brooding genius at the manufacturer's plant had even installed a hyperdrive, implying that "Beavers" could reach their targets on their own. Obviously, the clones didn't complain about such conditions, but former civilians absolutely loathed the machine. And the clone pilots secretly agreed with them. A big, slow, unmanageable coffin for two people and an astromech droid.
Through simple modifications — removing a few panels from the engines — pilots gained slightly more maneuverability. It wasn't exactly approved by command, but it was still better than being a flying slab of permacrete.
Meanwhile, the ARC-170s, descending clearly on afterburner, flashed past the bombers without touching a single machine.
"Show-offs," Corvo said without any real malice.
"No hard feelings, Gold Leader," Consul replied with a hint of sarcasm. "Everyone's got their own job."
The pilots of the 187th slammed into the formation of Vultures, immediately starting to hose them down with all available weapons: laser cannons drenched the space ahead of the bombers in green fire. The lights of proton torpedoes began to flash.
Wasteful, spending such valuable ordnance on some...
Corvo pressed the trigger, shredding a Vulture that flashed past. He swore softly.
"What's the matter, boss?" the trainee's voice came.
"Everything's fine," the squadron commander assured him grimly. "Watch the rear. We're going in for a bombing run."
Although, in reality, all they had left to do was burn what hadn't been set ablaze yet. The Consular's pilots had just dropped proton torpedoes on the base, giving the Vultures a good mauling, and then proudly peeled off to the side. To their credit, though, they'd aimed for the base's perimeter, leaving the juiciest targets — the structures — to the Beavers.
Gold Squadron formed up into a battle formation designed for maximum protection and area of effect. The moment plumes of black, sooty smoke appeared above the belly of Corvo's craft, he began dropping his "packages."
Burning droid debris and rocks flew silently into the air. The mountainside where the Separatist base sat became choked with thick, greasy smoke and sand kicked up from the ground, as the door gunner reported.
Corvo barrel-rolled his craft out of the base's firing sector, banked hard enough to keep the ship intact, then dove toward the surface, nearly skimming it with his belly as he set a new attack run.
"Going in again," he ordered his subordinates.
And a dozen wishbones began to pound the base, turning everything that couldn't hide into heaps of smoking rubble of varying sizes.
Half an hour later, it was all over.
* * *
A comlink call yanked me out of unconsciousness.
Sleepy, barely oriented in space, I looked around. Right, still in my own bedroom. That was already good.
Still dressed, too. Even better.
My head was pounding — that was worse. And this annoying itch, coming from somewhere...
Oh right, the comlink.
"Sir," I heard the redhead's voice as soon as I turned on the comm device. "The meeting is at ten in the morning..."
"I'll be on time," I promised the Alderaanian innocently oppressed princess with a yawn.
"It's already noon, sir."
"Oh." I wanted to slam my palm into my face.
The meeting with most of the commanders under me had been scheduled for ten in the morning. I was supposed to start planning operations against two of the three planets of the "Evil Triad." And it would've been good to get the latest intel too...
And I'd slept through all of it.
"Don't tell me everyone was waiting for me all this time, and you just didn't dare disturb my sleep."
"I called you eight times," Mara said impatiently. "I dismissed everyone an hour ago and told all the generals to stand by."
"You're my smart one." The yawn into the mic was clearly unnecessary. But hey, what's natural isn't ugly. Ha, look at that — the sleep did me good. I was even cracking jokes again. "Don't you want to become Empress of a young but developing state?"
"Just like that?" the Alderaanian snorted. "And which sectors does this 'state' of yours border?"
"The Empire — so far a small but very proud state," I warned. "It borders whoever it wants."
"Very witty," the girl said without a hint of irony. "But if you're not in the tactical center in half an hour and I have to deal with Master Piell from the Jedi Council myself, I won't care about anything — I'll come and drag you out of bed by your leg."
"Deal," I agreed, flopping back onto the bed. "Just — promise me you'll wear red underwear. I think it would suit you..."
With those words, I shut off the comlink, ignoring the girl's indignant protests. Yeah, I was letting my subordinates get away with too much — especially the ones I occasionally warmed my reproductive organ with. Even though Mara and I had a purely business relationship — both in service and regarding Alderaan — the little thing was clearly overstepping her bounds. Maybe I should zap her with lightning? Nah, not worth it. I was too unrestrained in my desire to use the Dark Side. Palpatine paid the price for a similar mistake in his own office back in the day. And I really didn't want to see my adjutant with a face like a baked apple.
I'd have to talk to her, apply some appropriate suggestion. Like, hang her headfirst off the balcony — I'm no Jedi, I don't get squeamish about such methods, simple but effective.
STOP!
The full meaning of the girl's words finally hit me, driving away the last remnants of sleep. I opened my eyes wide and sat up in bed.
What the hell did she mean, Master Piell was here? Yes, he was planning to fly to my sector. But there was a blockade in place — we were surrounded. Did he teleport here or something?
Yeah, some sleep I got.
I spent about five minutes getting myself in order — Mobile Meditation, which I'd gotten along with Muur's knowledge, combined with a contrast shower — just what the doctor ordered.
Without overthinking it, I pulled on my old Sith warrior armor and headed to the indicated room in the Citadel.
To my surprise, it was crowded inside — practically all the officers and Jedi I was supposed to have met with over two hours ago were present.
The Chief of Staff — General Locus Geen; my deputy — Aayla Secura; the head of personnel and logistics, Colonel Dialo; the army's chief intelligence officer, Major Feb Darill; Rear Admiral Nial Declann (ah, so he'd come to his senses, the old smoker); and the corps commanders — Master, Ded, Cody, and Nyx, representing the Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Corps respectively. And the redhead. Master Piell, standing next to an unfamiliar clone. You could say it was almost a friendly, family-like atmosphere. And Sergeant Skirata, today without his 'Null' boys as an escort for some reason.
Looked like Cross had put out the call and gathered everyone again. The cunning mademoiselle, just look at her — standing there smirking, shooting glances at me.
"Glad to see you all, gentlemen," I greeted those assembled, approaching the tactical holoprojector. "My apologies for the delay. Master Piell, glad to see you. Did you manage to get through the blockade after all?"
"Likewise, Master Dougan," the Lannik replied with a slight smile on his lips. "Yes, it took some effort." He nodded toward the clone standing beside him in black Phase II armor. "Allow me to introduce Captain Teplyak, a shadow clone from Ghost Squad. Thanks to him and his men, I was fortunate enough to reach you in one piece."
Giving the clone an appraising look, I nodded silently. The guy was calm, unflappable, but at the same time, I couldn't help noticing that he was constantly scanning the room with his eyes, as if memorizing the environment and the faces of those around him. A spy, perhaps?
"Don't mind Teplyak," Evan said good-naturedly. "He's become a bit paranoid after three months on Saleucami."
"And what were you doing there, Captain?" I inquired.
"Gathering reconnaissance on the enemy, sir," the clone replied. "Anything that could be useful for taking the planet."
"Is that so?" I chuckled. "So the decision to strike at the 'Evil Triad' was made long before it was announced. Well then, we'll take that as a given. I hope you have something to share with us, Captain?"
"All data has been transmitted to Republic Intelligence by my squad, sir," the clone stated.
"Teplyak, don't be coy," the Lannik asked. "You still remember everything that was on those chips."
"That's correct, sir," the shadow clone agreed. "That's why you brought me along."
"I keep telling you, the kid's sharp," the Lannik chuckled.
"Well, we still have to discuss the plan for taking Saleucami anyway, so why not do it now?" I suggested. "Major Darill, does our intelligence have anything to cheer us up with?"
"I'm not sure it'll cheer you up, sir," the officer replied gloomily. "We know Saleucami is a tough nut. And the CIS command has decided to make it truly impregnable. The enemy fleet group — twenty Lucrehulks, two hundred Recusants, almost three hundred Munificents. And, as if that weren't enough, General Grievous will be arriving in the system soon."
"Each piece of news just keeps getting better and better," General Geen sighed.
"Don't be in a hurry to get upset," the intelligence officer said wearily. "The latest news promises even more sorrow. Grievous's new flagship — one of the heavy super-dreadnoughts of the Subjugator class."
"Well, shit," Admiral Declann voiced the general sentiment of those present. "Sir, we're going to need something very, very big — and preferably a lot of it — to break through a defense like that. More than five hundred Confederacy capital ships!"
"That's rather unusual for the Separatists," General Geen said thoughtfully. "To keep such an armada... considering that for the last six months the Separatists have been using a tactic of small squadrons — four to twelve ships. But here... keeping such a massive force idle..."
"I wouldn't say idle," I said after a moment's thought. "More likely, all this hardware has been gathered specifically for us."
"To cut our communication with General Unduli's army via the Triellus Trade Route?" Dialo suggested. "If so, we're in a bad spot — we only have a few outposts in that direction."
"Yes, a few screening and patrol squadrons, mostly Marauders," Aayla added. "Rear Admiral Osvald Teshik's Shield Fleet is currently pulled back to Ukio — recovering after the battle at New Cov. Rear Admiral Syn and his Dagger are relieving Grunger on Kamino for the same reasons. That's all we have in that region: damaged and understrength squadrons."
"What about Admiral Vahr's Ord Pardron Defense Fleet?" Skirata asked. "A Venator and a dozen Hammerheads — that's still a force."
"Completely insufficient against a swarm of ships like that," Darill lamented. "Even if we consolidate them all into one fist — we'd still lose to the Separatists by a factor of almost two."
"Sir, maybe we should pull ships from other directions?" the commander of the 5th Assault Corps, Marshal Master, asked cautiously.
"That would just leave other directions exposed," Syn shook his head. "Tigellinus and his Stiletto are guarding Pantora and the nearby sectors. Makati's Spear got pretty badly beaten up at Rindellia — it's dangerous for them to even leave the system while enemy raiders are still buzzing around that area. We could pull Kreeves's ships away from Enark — the Anvil has completed its assigned task and restored our communication with General Gallia's army."
"Judging by the fact that she's not here, has the Master already returned to her post?" Evan Piell inquired, receiving an affirmative nod from me.
"Zaarin is protecting Rothana, and I'd suggest we leave his forces alone," Geen continued. "Admiral Shirano's Christophsis Defense Fleet was already heavily damaged during the Hypori operation — they're barely covering the Christoph and Ryloth systems, and patrolling our section of the Corellian Route. Vice Admiral Pellaeon, Commodores Autem and Parck are currently assigned to Master Unduli's Heft System Army — if we pull them into our operations, everything there will collapse like a house of cards. Rear Admiral Zsinj and his Rapier Fleet are regrouping to continue the offensive along the Corellian Route. Grunger is moving toward Vogel — a rather sizable group of Munificents has turned up there, hunting our transports and damaged ships."
"That leaves the Sickle Fleet of Rear Admiral Batch and Takel's Catapult," I recalled. "And Dodonna, Rogriss, Teradoc, and Tallon's squadrons."
"Negative, sir," Geen objected. "As soon as they broke through to Enark, their formations were sent to the Grek System Army under High Jedi General Gallia. Same as in Heft — they're critically short on ships there..."
"So, all we have at our disposal is a very small number of ships," Declann summed up. "Just my Blade and Kreeves's Anvil."
"I think we might be able to squeeze a few ships out of the rear-echelon units," Geen added cautiously. "But that's, at best, twenty or thirty starships."
"Reserves?" I asked Dialo. The colonel, whose very appearance made it clear how things stood with ships not involved in active operations, raised the datapad he seemed to never part with to his eyes.
"It's bad, sir," he said. "In active reserve, we have two hundred Hammerheads and about the same number of Marauders. Additionally, we could bring up to twenty Acclamators, forty Arquitens-class light cruisers, and the same number of Consular-class corvettes to the operation..."
"Sounds good," said the commander of the 6th Landing Corps, Marshal Ded.
"That's only on paper," Dialo noted coldly. "All the ships are among those that have already seen battle and are currently undergoing repairs. Due to the blockade, turbolaser batteries and other spare parts are literally worth their weight in aurodium — the warehouses are stuffed to the brim, they made an effort before we realized what was coming at us. Not to mention that our small craft fleet has virtually no reserves. Right now, every ARC-170, every Torrent, every wishbone, even the Delta-7s — everything is accounted for. We need to understand that if we can't take Saleucami with minimal losses, we'll have to send ships into battle with half-empty flight decks."
"No one said it would be easy," I explained with a sigh. "I'll get in touch with the Incom leadership — maybe we can arrange to have new fighters delivered somehow. And as for minimizing losses at Saleucami... Maybe Captain Teplyak's information can help us somehow?"
The clone, after exchanging a glance with Master Piell, walked over to the holoterminal, where my quick-thinking adjutant had already pulled up a hologram of the planet.
"Saleucami does not have its own orbital defense capabilities," the captain began. "As you rightly noted, they possess a very substantial fleet. Trade Federation Lucrehulk-class ships are positioned in geostationary orbit over the planet's equator, as well as above its poles. Constant patrols by droid starfighters. Additionally, all critical ground installations are protected by deflector shields with a redundant generator system — the latter innovation appeared shortly before the battle at Hypori. Also, very strong anti-air and anti-orbital defenses. On the planet, we managed to locate up to seventy J-1 cannons in strategically important areas for the enemy." The clone pointed them out on the map. "Also, the Separatists have over three hundred fighters on ground airfields — on top of what the starships can launch."
"Ground contingent?" Master asked quietly.
"Up to three million B-1 and B-2 battle droids, AAT tanks, Octuptarra combat droids — we counted over one and a half thousand; NR-N99 Persuader-class droid tanks — about five hundred; Droidekas in incalculable numbers — after two thousand we stopped counting; IG-227 Hailfire-class droid tanks — about six hundred of those; OG-9 homing spider droids — just over a thousand; LM-432 crab droids — my squad counted around two thousand; DSD1 dwarf spider droids — these are mostly occupied with anti-fighter and patrol duties, about a thousand at most..."
"So," Ded asked impatiently, "we're up against three million droids and about ten thousand units of heavy armored vehicles?"
"Exactly so, Marshal," the captain confirmed. "However, I should note that this information is already over a month old, and in reality, things could be completely different."
"Wonderful prospects," I said, chewing my lip — fortunately, nobody could see it under my mask. "Colonel, what's our situation with ground vehicles?"
"Sir, we have no problem with those," the logistics officer admitted. "But I just can't imagine how many we'll need to fight the enemy on equal terms... We don't have forward supply bases near Saleucami, so we'll have to bring everything from the rear — from Ord Pardron, Christophsis..."
"And that takes time," I realized where he was going. "Either we set up a base right under the Separatists' noses and deliver everything we need for the assault on Saleucami ahead of time — preferably with a surplus — or we bring it all on transport ships along with the landing force..."
"The latter is too dangerous, sir," Secura noted. "Enemy raiders could seriously mess up the entire operation if they take out even a few ships."
"So we need to think about a forward base," I concluded. "I really don't want to organize long hyperspace runs for transports with regular deliveries of reinforcements and materiel. General Geen, Major Darill, Sergeant Skirata — you're in charge of scouting planets along the entire Triellus Trade Route. We need a spot that's fairly inconspicuous but close enough to Saleucami so we can deliver the landing force faster than once every twenty hours, which is what it would be if we started shipping equipment from Christophsis... find something suitable."
"Will do," the Chief of Staff assured me. "Give us two days."
"Well, it's not like we're in a hurry," I grinned. "But in the meantime, besides Saleucami, we still have to visit Felucia. So we need to think about invasion plans for that too. What we've discussed about Saleucami is nothing more than rough estimates. What I'd like is to have a full plan — Command is already rushing us to take these planets, so soon they'll be eating my brain with their usual vigor. And I'd really rather avoid that."
"Understood, sir," Darill replied.
"And what ground forces will we use to attack Saleucami and Felucia?" Aayla Secura inquired. "Most of the experienced units are already at the front, and pulling them out will be difficult..."
"I'll personally lead the assault on Saleucami," I said. "Along with the 5th Assault, 6th Landing, 7th Air, and 8th Infantry Corps." I indicated the reason for the four clone marshals' presence at the meeting. "We'll also take four volunteer corps — that should be enough for the first wave. Felucia... we did send several corps to Heft, right?"
"Yes," Dornell agreed, checking his notes. "The 32nd Landing Corps under General Ma'kis'shaalas, the 45th Infantry Corps under General Durmar, the 46th Infantry Corps under General Zeltek, the 47th Infantry Corps under General Osar Oset, the 50th Infantry Corps under General Saras Lurn, the 61st Infantry Corps under General Dj'upi She, the 62nd Infantry Corps under General T'Bolton, and the 91st Reconnaissance Corps under High Jedi General Stass Allie."
"Eight corps," I sighed. Though, you'd think there was nothing to despair about — I had about two hundred of those in reserve, not counting volunteers. "I think they'll figure out on their own what to throw at Felucia from that..."
"I doubt it, sir," Geen said quietly. "The situation in Heft and Grek is almost desperate. Out of the original eight corps that formed when the sector armies merged, High General Unduli only has three left — the 41st Elite and 70th Reconnaissance are bogged down in fighting in the Mon Calamari sector, and the 620th Infantry has been split into detachments to hold the captured territory. The corps we sent are needed to develop the general offensive..."
"Send them another five volunteer corps," I ordered, looking at Mara. After all, she was the one to prepare the relocation orders. "And ten clone corps — as a reserve for the capture of Felucia. That should be enough to both hold territory and develop the offensive."
"Yes, sir," the adjutant replied.
"How many clones did we send to Master Gallia?" It was time to inquire about another part of my area of responsibility.
"Twenty-four, sir," Darill reported. "The military contingent there... it was practically wiped out, sir. Only two or three legions in total remained combat-effective. The Separatists weren't particularly gentle with them there."
"That's a lot," I mused. Then, estimating the total number of clones I had left, I ordered: "We should consider sending an additional twenty clone corps and the same number of volunteers to Grek and Heft."
"Sir, that's practically all the combat-effective and fully equipped units at our disposal," the intelligence officer warned. "Send them, and we'll be left defending the largest territory in the entire Outer Rim with only the clones already engaged in battle and green reinforcements."
"What can you do?" I sighed. "It's war, Major."
"If necessary," Piell interjected, "I am ready to lead the units slated to be sent to either of the two system armies."
"Thank you for your help, Master Piell," I bowed to the Lannik. "I think Adi will be glad for your company — she's not exactly swimming in Jedi."
"Sir," Cody, who had been silent until now, reminded me of his presence. "We also have practically all our Jedi committed. Will you be leading the assault on Saleucami alone?"
"Naturally," I chuckled. "Though, regarding the Jedi... yes, we're short on them. But we still have some uncommitted Jedi younglings — it's time to see what they're made of."
The comlink built into my wrist comm beeped.
"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," I apologized. "I need to be elsewhere urgently."
* * *
"Hutt damn it," Han Solo muttered through clenched teeth, examining the burnt-out component.
On Odessen, the sun was already rolling toward the horizon, which meant, according to the Academy schedule, the cadets and trainees had free time. Usually, that meant the future flower of the Imperial Navy would be diligently preparing for the next day's classes. But the boy from Corellia preferred to spend his time productively. Studying came fairly easily to him — he could pilot and loved it, and theory was too boring to waste his time on.
So, Cadet Solo preferred to spend his time alone with his ship.
The first in his life, but certainly not the last. Sure, he was young, but in ten or twenty years he would definitely be standing on the bridge of his own Star Destroyer, in a freshly tailored officer's uniform of the senior command echelon of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul. He knew himself. And his famous Corellian stubbornness was a leftover from the project.
Yes, his life had changed drastically since the Sarkhai girl who introduced herself as Lady Grell had found him on Corellia. Sweet, charming.
And deadly. Han remembered how she, wielding a lightsaber with ease, had wiped out Shrike's entire gang when he refused her offer — a VERY large amount of credits in exchange for the boy's freedom. Even though Han wasn't Shrike's slave, he still owed him a lot. But the greedy thug decided he could make a lot more money using the cunning kid.
Big mistake.
From the whole gang, only Han himself and Dewlanna survived — the Wookiee woman, the only one in Shrike's gang who treated him with care and warmth, taught him math and sciences. And in general — she was an extremely caring representative of her kind. Thanks to her, Han learned to understand the Wookiee language. And he was proud of it.
Right now, his co-pilot (though, to be fair, Dewlanna was actually the primary pilot — Han's legs couldn't even reach the pedals yet) had gone to the quartermasters to beg for a new quad-laser cannon to replace the one they'd had to smear across an enemy ship's hull to get away from Mandalore. It had to be done at any cost — after all, he was carrying out a personal assignment from the Emperor himself — the very man who, through Lady Grell's hands, had pulled him out of Shrike's outfit.
Simple enough — pick up a Jedi, deliver him to Coruscant, and listen to everything he said. Of course, simultaneously worming his way into the man's trust, suggesting to this Kenobi that he should get in touch if he ever needed to get somewhere discreetly or make an escape. Not too much, considering that for the success of this mission, he'd received this very freighter, named the Millennium Falcon, for his unlimited use. The name was funny, ridiculous, but... it had something catchy about it.
"Don't nod off, cadet," someone else's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Or you won't notice a bantha taking up residence in your mouth for the night."
Solo, pushing all extraneous thoughts aside, looked at the disturber of his peace.
It was another kid — about five years older than Han himself. He was wearing the same cadet uniform, though from the stripes on his sleeve, the Corellian identified him as being from a different department.
"What do you want?" Solo grunted. He didn't like unexpected visitors. Especially ones who could crack the access codes to the dock assigned to his ship.
"Oh, nothing much, just walking around, looking around..." the second cadet said in an overly casual tone. Han felt that this white-haired kid was definitely here for a reason. Trying to steal his Falcon? "Listen, you're Han Solo, right?"
The kid from Corellia tensed up noticeably.
The blond was clearly looking for him specifically. And Han was starting to really dislike that.
"Maybe," the Corellian replied. Along with general naval training, he also had an extremely nasty temperament. Coupled with suspiciousness and the beginnings of paranoia. At least, that's what Dewlanna complained about, criticizing his habit of sleeping with a small blaster under his pillow — a habit he'd developed during his time working for Shrike. "What do you want in my dock?"
"I've got a proposition," the kid said, stepping closer and giving him a conspiratorial wink. "I've heard they let you take this beauty out for a spin sometimes." He walked over to the Falcon's boarding ramp and leaned against the strut.
"There's no telling what people blabber about," Han snorted indifferently. Thank you, Shrike, for the lesson on how to get a conversation going with someone who needs something from you but isn't in a hurry to share information.
"Still, word has it you do fly. I think, if that's the case, we've both got a good way to make some money."
"Oh, really?" Han was surprised. "Don't they feed you enough in the mess hall?"
"They feed me enough," the kid nodded. "It's just that I'm used to living large. Even the invitation to the Academy is nothing more than a chance to learn how to earn more than usual."
"I have to smuggle something off-planet?" the young Corellian realized. His head always worked the way it should.
"Yeah, a certain cargo," the blond said mysteriously.
"What kind?" Han asked stubbornly.
"Does it make a difference?" the kid shrugged. "I know people in the Core Worlds who'll pay top cred for a lot of the things we've got here..."
"Stealing from your own?" Han tried to hide his own contempt. Even in Shrike's gang, there was nothing like that. And here, at Imperial Fleet Headquarters...
He needed to find out more.
"What do you mean, our own?" the blond boy snorted. "They showed up, promised mountains of gold, then moved us from a known galaxy to this ass-end of the universe. Great deal."
"We're being trained as fleet officers," Han said, squinting. Yeah, this kid was definitely not here for glory or knowledge.
"Let's just say I don't see my future on the bridge of a dreadnought," the older boy chuckled. "I only agreed because it promised to be interesting. Where there are secrets, there's always something to profit from."
"And you didn't miss your chance, did you?" Han's tone was even, but completely different emotions were boiling inside the boy.
"And I'm offering you a chance to split a pretty sizable pile of credits with me," the boy grinned, extending his hand to Solo for a handshake. "So, what do you say? Agreed?"
Han thought for only a couple of seconds. Then he shook the boy's extended hand.
"Agreed. You can never have too many credits," he said. "But I don't want to work with someone I don't know."
"Don't sweat it, kid," the white-haired boy's face twisted into a nasty grin. "We'll be friends yet. I'm Tyber Zann."
* * *
"Strike!" demanded the rage boiling through her veins, white-hot as a supernova.
And she struck.
Every time her inner demon demanded it. The Bloodthirst and master of destruction. The monster that demanded more and more victims. More deaths. More destruction.
The monster persistently ordered her to snuff out the life of the stubborn opponent who, despite his apparent age and weariness, turned out to be an excellent adversary. Experienced, skilled.
And every movement of her blade that he parried, delaying the inevitable, only awakened more rage within her. It infuriated her that this bastard didn't want to die.
Didn't want it all to end.
She wanted it. More than anything else.
Lightsaber blades met at unprecedented speeds, bouncing off each other only to begin new deadly pirouettes. It seemed the opponents were fighting with two energy discs — so fast were they moving.
But despite the difference in age, physical strength, and the Force, they were evenly matched. On his side — experience, knowledge of the Dark Side. On hers — youth, energy, and unpredictability. And far more than the pathetic scraps of the Dark Side.
In her hands was the Unified Force.
With which she could easily splatter this Sith champion. But that wasn't the point of the exercise at all.
Finally, when she felt the blind rage sweep her up like a raging torrent sweeps a drowning man during a storm, when the Dark Side was clearly screaming that she had won and triumphed, the moment of true trial came.
Ride the wave. Tame the element. Control it.
That was the meaning of the task.
Oli stared with a smirk at the opponent standing before her, who was clearly baffled by how elegantly she had overcome the Dark Side within herself, reining it in and putting it on a leash like a misbehaving dog. In his eyes swam disbelief mixed with madness.
"Wh-what is this?" Lord Cronal, Prophet of the Dark Side, said in a slurred voice. "I expected such power to tear you apart and put an end to my torment..."
Oli just gave a sly smile.
Fool. He had spent a week on the moon of Christophsis in an abandoned mining complex, converted for what the teacher called "The Game." A Prophet cut off from the Force, for seven days he had fought through traps, avoiding death. He had shown an enviable will to live. But unfortunately, the longer he went through the trials, the less he wanted to follow the set rules.
And now his final trial — defeat the Emperor's apprentice and gain freedom. Or else... Well, the second option was obvious anyway.
"I am Oli Starstone," the girl introduced herself. Yes, after half an hour of fighting, it was about time. "Apprentice of the Immortal Emperor."
"That means nothing to me, girl," Cronal snarled. "I am the Prophet of the Dark Side," and to prove his words, he raised his hands to the ceiling, clearly intending to create a Force Storm, or something similar. Oli was well-versed in Dark Side rituals. "And you will die! Here and now!"
"Sorry, man," the girl sighed, turning off her weapon and hooking it onto her belt. "But compared to me, you are nothing."
Struck by the coldness and indifference of her words, Cronal watched in amazement as the girl held out both her palms, the inner sides facing the Prophet. Surely he could feel the streams of the Force pierce the girl's body and surge toward him through her limbs.
The next moment, spreading her palms in opposite directions, Oli watched as the lanky figure of the Prophet of the Dark Side was torn to pieces with a disgusting squelch. Blood splattered everything around like a tsunami...
"Oh, damn it!" She almost stomped her foot in anger, the way she used to as a youngling. Spitting the enemy's blood that was running down her face from her lips, she wiped her eyes with her hand, regaining her sight. "Now I get why Dougan wears a mask. Easier to wash off all the blood and enemy gunk..."
The girl pulled her opponent's miraculously preserved blade toward herself, disgustedly unclenching the fingers of the dead hand, and hung the weapon on her belt. Yeah, her clothes were definitely going in the trash. But refuse a trophy just because it was covered in enemy blood? No way.
The teacher was whacking Dark Siders by the dozen — it was time to organize her own wall of fame. Thankfully, she had passed her last trial under Master Fay's supervision with flying colors, having summoned both the Light and Dark sides simultaneously, in equal proportions. Not to mention that during the trial, she had to first push herself almost to merging with the Force, opening herself up to first the Light, then the Dark side...
Since the trials were over, she could return in peace. And no one would side-eye her, wondering if Dougan's apprentice would rip their hearts out for drooling over her teacher or not.
She wouldn't. Emotions were under control.
At the exit of the mining tunnel, she was met by the Sefi.
Despite her thousand years of life, Master Fay was still beautiful. Sweet and modest. In the Force, she radiated such a strong Light Side that it seemed utterly unbelievable that a Jedi could teach her Dark Side techniques. As for control over the latter, which Fay also taught, that was clear enough — over millennia, you could learn any tricks.
"I've finished," Oli bowed to her mentor. "Just as you said."
"Yes," the Sefi confirmed in a melodic voice. "I felt it."
"So, our lessons are over?" the girl realized with sadness.
"I'm afraid so, Oli." Fay ran her hand, without the slightest disgust, over the girl's blood-soaked hair. The Padawan sighed heavily, hearing muttered under her breath, "And what's this tangled in your hair? An ear? Oh, you careless girl." "But you can always come to me for advice at any time of day or night."
"Thank you, Master Fay," Oli said. "A-and... will you stay here with us? Or fly off to wander the galaxy again?"
"It's too early to talk about that yet," Fay said seriously. "Planning too far ahead is a bad omen anyway. One should live in the present, but remember..."
."..that our actions now will echo in the future," Oli finished with a sigh. "Yes, I remember. I just don't want you to leave. What if I have another breakdown..."
"I'm afraid if that happens, even I won't be able to help," Fay smiled. "But before you start rampaging, at least send me a warning on the comlink, so I know which sector of the galaxy to avoid for ten thousand parsecs."
"Very funny," the girl grumbled. Though she objectively acknowledged the ancient master's point. Her power had increased significantly — studying the Jedi and Sith holocrons left for her by Dougan allowed her to surpass the level of most known Jedi. But still, she was far from matching her teacher.
"It seems we have a welcoming committee," Fay said warmly, pointing at the Defender coming in for a landing. Oli, reaching into the Force, touched the single living being on board.
"Hello, Saber," she heard the teacher's voice in her head with a certain tenderness.
"Glad to see you," she responded. After a pause, she added, "Glad it's you."
"Sorry I missed your duel with Cronal," the teacher radiated sincere regret.
"The whole arena is covered in guts and brains, you can look to your heart's content," Oli snorted, though without arrogance. "I, by the way, am also covered head to toe in Cronal."
"Oh... I'd better call a decontamination ship to pick you up, or you'll get my whole ship dirty..."
Oli smiled inwardly. How she had missed all this — emotional control, the ease of communicating with her teacher and everyone around. Yes, as if not a couple of days had passed, but an entire eternity...
"I'm glad you're back too, little one," a warm thought sounded in the girl's head.
Oli smiled, continuing her walk toward the corvette, distracted by her inner thoughts. There was so much still to do...
And she would have to start, first of all, with Ahsoka Tano.