It seemed like the rain on this planet would never end.
Ceaseless, rhythmic, constant.
Drops of water hit your face in slanting lines.
They poured straight down your collar.
They permanently flooded your helmet's visor.
They seeped into the armor's joints. And if you didn't dry it afterward — the electronics would short out and you'd have to go to Ma'ar-Shaddam to fix it.
Though he'd never been there, his father claimed the best gunsmiths in the galaxy lived on that planet. And while the Mandalorians were almost literally patching together the insides of their armor on their knees, smelting beskar plates to mount on under-armor suits, his father always said — "If you want something to work without a hitch — have it made on Ma'ar-Shaddam. But don't forget to learn how to fix it yourself."
He'd never been to Ma'ar-Shaddam. Not once in all the years of his life. And certainly not once since his father's death.
Boba wrapped himself tighter in his cloak, pulling the hood over his helmet. On this platform, located just a couple of passages from the dwelling where he and his father had spent his entire conscious life, little had changed since they'd left Tipoca City. Except the traces of battle were no longer visible — cleaning droids had always been famous for their diligence. And their masters for their ability to pull off their schemes right under the galaxy's nose. The very fact that his ship — one of the most wanted by the Jedi — could freely fly into a system that stank of Republic presence and land without issue spoke volumes.
"Sintas," he shouted into the ship's interior, "how much longer?"
"As long as it takes," the girl's grumbling reached him. "Hurry me, and you'll get a slap on the wrist."
Boba smiled. He definitely liked this girl.
He had met Sintas Vel, a native of the planet Kiffu, a little less than a year ago — while wandering the galaxy. Jango's death had essentially left little Fett without a purpose — Count Dooku and the other Separatist lackeys didn't want to deal with the Mandalorian clone's adolescent offspring. For a while, the kid worked for the Hutts, saving up a small amount of credits and looking for a crew to help him carry out his plan of revenge against Master Windu...
And then his life changed drastically.
The transparent doors separating the landing platform from the interior of Tipoca City slid aside with the characteristic quiet hissing sound of pneumatic mechanisms.
In another situation, he would have been wary at the sight of the long-necked figure with pale grey-blue skin. Especially considering the circumstances under which he had left this place.
But now the boy knew perfectly well who was standing on the other side of the landing platform. In all his life, the Kaminoans, despite this wet world being their homeworld, had never once dared to venture outside their dreary, almost sterile, dwellings. Which doubled as laboratories.
A pity — maybe the streams of rain would have washed away some of the arrogance from their faces.
Boba didn't like Kaminoans. Not hate — just didn't like them. Cold, like the fish in the depths of Kamino's endless ocean. And just as incapable of emotion.
Funny that the first race Jango had taught him to kill were Kaminoans.
"Good to see you, Boba," the Kaminoan woman sang, observing the boy and his companion, travel bags visible over their shoulders. Boba, glancing at the Slave I parked on the platform, used his wrist remote to seal the ship's only entrance, activating the security systems. He'd have to spend some time here. Nothing personal — just business. "We are glad for your return."
"I can't say the same, Taun We," the boy said, looking at her through his helmet's polarized visor. For the umpteenth time, grimacing in annoyance that this wasn't his father's helmet. Wastefully lost in a fit of desperate desire to kill the murderer. "I would've preferred never to return to Kamino."
"And yet — here you are," the Kaminoan slowly spread her hands.
"It won't be for long," he countered, nodding toward his companion. "This is Sintas Vel, my friend."
"Good to see you, Sintas," the native said, without the slightest hint of any emotion on her face or in her voice. Boba's girlfriend just snorted smugly. "You must be tired from the journey. Boba, go to the quarters you shared with your father. We will begin tomorrow..."
"We'll start now," the boy said sharply, trying to put hardness into his voice. "I don't plan on staying here longer than necessary."
"As you wish," Taun We inclined her head slightly. "But you know the rules, Boba. No weapons for guests of Tipoca City. And you will have to get rid of your clothes."
"That doesn't make me happy," the boy took off his helmet with both hands. Not because it was more dramatic or the gesture made him look more masculine from the outside. It was simply that beskar items weighed quite a lot. Even Jango hadn't been able to pull off this trick with one hand. "But I'll do it."
"Excellent," Taun We's eyes slowly closed over their lids. And just as slowly opened again. "You will be expected in Section Seven in half an hour."
Without saying goodbye, the boy put his helmet back on, picked up the travel bags, and headed unerringly toward the familiar living quarters.
"You didn't say you had a lot of friends here," Sintas noted.
"We have no friends here," Boba countered. "Not Taun We, not even Lama Su — the ruler of this world — no one. Not even the ones who look like me."
"And how many of those are there?" The girlfriend didn't know much. Only that Boba was the son of Jango Fett. That he'd spent his childhood on this planet. And that his father was the donor for the Republic's clone army (a foolish detail to hide when it was widely known in almost every backwater of the galaxy). Sintas also knew little about the reason for their presence here — only that there was work here. For which he would be paid enough credits to pay off his recent debts to the Hutts. And enough would remain to avoid jumping at the first available job for an extra couple of credits.
Sintas pleased him more every day. She asked few questions, didn't stick her nose into his business. She was quick-witted, eagerly engaging in arguments with him. But she didn't lecture him, limiting herself to a casual "I warned you" when things turned out exactly as the Kiffar had said. Being only a couple of years older than him, she wasn't above any kind of work, just like Boba himself. And she wasn't burdened by morals, either. An excellent combination of positive qualities in one female specimen. Maybe, someday, their close friendship would become something more. But all that was dreams of the distant future.
Right now, he had to focus on his work. Which he didn't particularly like. Memories of living with his father in this sterile place, which would make you sick after just a few years of conscious life, kept flooding back.
He found the apartment fairly quickly. The way there was hard to forget.
Opening the door, Boba entered first, scanning the room for hidden traps on the go. Nothing.
Then, having dumped their things in the storage room, he and Sintas, carefully locking the door behind them, used several illegal and a couple of outright unlawful tools and devices to sweep the room from top to bottom for listening devices and holocameras. A practice that had become a habit for them.
"Clean," the girl announced the results of their labor. "I'm disappointed."
"No reason to let our guard down," Boba noted, removing his outer clothing.
"Agreed," his girlfriend cast an interested glance at his naked body, quite muscular for a teenager, but said nothing more. Surveying the empty shelves for belongings, she began unpacking their bags.
Jango's son himself, having shed his soaking wet clothes, shoved them into the washing machine. Then, opening the wardrobe where his work clothes were usually stored, he pulled out a blue-and-red jumpsuit packed in transparent polymer material.
"Looks disgusting," his girlfriend shared her opinion. Boba completely agreed. But there was no other choice.
He hated the clone cadet uniform. Not a single positive moment in his life was associated with it. Neither when his father was alive, nor after his death.
And now he had to behold thousands of copies resembling himself. For quite some time.
Finishing changing, Boba, catching a moment when the girl wasn't watching, slipped a small holoprojector into the jumpsuit's pocket. Not that he was hiding the device from Sintas, but the less she knew about the true purpose of their stay here — the better. His father had always said that excessive closeness to someone could eventually cost you your life. And Boba wasn't planning on repeating Jango's mistakes.
"I'll be back for dinner," he grunted, stepping out of the apartment.
He knew the way to Section Seven by heart. And, if he wanted, he could get there with his eyes closed. His father had often taken him along for the procedures, explaining what the Kaminoans wanted from him and why.
Ironically, just two years ago, Boba had sworn to himself that this would never happen to him. Never in his life. And here he was. Doing exactly what he had intended to avoid.
The Kaminoan who met him in Section Seven was unfamiliar to Boba. From her appearance, he immediately determined that she belonged to one of the lower categories of the planet's population hierarchy. The Kaminoans used such individuals as cheap labor. They were treated like furniture. And if so, then Boba himself shouldn't treat her any better.
Without a word, he took a seat in the anatomical chair. Waited for the lab assistant to set up the equipment. A small prick — the Kaminoan woman took a sample. Leaning back in the chair, the boy pretended to close his eyes.
In reality, he watched the servant's actions through the slit of his eyelids, carefully memorizing their sequence. Jango had said there was no such thing as useless information — only idiots who couldn't use it to their advantage.
The servant manipulated the obtained sample. From what the boy could see on the monitor — she was comparing genetic sequences with data available in Tipoca City's database. And, judging by the green inscription that appeared as a result of her actions, confirming the samples' identity and the absence of genetic manipulations with the DNA, he had passed the check.
Silently, the Kaminoan connected a device with many flasks to his arm. Some were empty, others filled with multi-colored liquid. He had seen this device before — when his father had sat in his place.
Satisfied that everything was working as it should, the servant left the section, leaving him alone. Boba, as soon as the door closed behind the long-necked woman, reached his free hand into his pocket, pulling out the holoprojector. Recalling the contact frequency of his employer, he dialed it and activated the outgoing call.
He had to wait quite a while.
During that time, the apparatus had managed to fill several reservoirs — simultaneously injecting special reagents into his body, necessary for the rapid restoration of his metabolism.
"Good to see you, Boba," a miniature figure of a blue-skinned Twi'lek appeared before his eyes.
"That phrase is already starting to get on my nerves," the kid ground his teeth. "I'm in position."
"Yes, I already know," she nodded. "The Prime Minister has already informed me. Good boy."
"Me or Lama Su?" Jango's son snorted.
"You, of course," the Twi'lek smiled. "I would never say that to that freak. But let's get down to business. Consider that your debt for getting you out of the Coruscant prison is already starting to shrink."
"As agreed — ten thousand credits per liter?" Boba clarified.
"As agreed," that lighthearted smile again. "Ten thousand Republic credits for every liter of your precious blood."
The boy took a deep breath.
He'd made a huge mistake getting involved with that crazy bitch — Aurra Sing. It was because of her that the entire plan to eliminate Master Mace Windu had gone to hell. And why hadn't he listened to Sintas and gone after Windu's head from Mandalore? The moment Vizla had only flown off — and the thirst for revenge had again flooded the mind of the last Fett in the galaxy. The real Fett.
Yes, of course, he had blundered, allowing a clone trooper, not a Jedi, to die from a tripwire. And it was he, Boba Fett, and no one else, who was to blame for the sabotage of the reactor on the Jedi Star Destroyer Endurance, which then crashed on Vancore.
But everything that happened afterward — the execution of prisoners and other atrocities — was on Sing's account. She stopped at nothing to kill a Jedi. Watching her madness, Boba doubted that he really wanted to continue what he had started.
The grand plan to assassinate Windu had ended disastrously. The mine placed in Jango's helmet, though it had attracted Windu's attention, hadn't killed him — only seriously wounded him and prevented him from continuing his hunt for Fett. Instead of the Korun, Anakin Skywalker and his Padawan girlfriend had come after the boy. Aubrie Wyn.
A vile, cold, merciless bitch who reminded the boy of the Kaminoans. No emotions, nothing human. Just like her teacher — human on the outside, but inside — ruthless butcher droids.
It was to this pair that Boba owed his capture, trial, and subsequent placement in the Republic Central Detention Center on Coruscant. And, in fact — it was because of them that he found himself on Kamino again. And he owed a very large sum to his benefactors, who had pulled him out of there by faking Boba's death during some staged prison riot incited by the crime lord Moralo Ival, who had drowned in the blood of the inmates.
At first, Jango's son had wanted to ask where the pair of battle-crazy droid maniacs and the Twi'lek, who had led him — officially listed as dead — out of the prison a few days earlier, had gotten a clone cadet's corpse, which was now recorded in all reports as the "deceased Boba Fett." Fortunately, corpses in Republic prisons were subject to cremation. And the truth about the substitution was unlikely to ever be known.
However, later, after hearing the Twi'lek's offer, and mostly — seeing the Slave I she had bought out, albeit in a sorry state, but still — not in the hands of the Republic, Boba changed his mind about asking the questions that had interested him at the time. It was possible to do business with these beings.
"I would like half the payment in peggats," Boba said, licking his lips surreptitiously. Hutt currency carried more weight in the Outer Rim Territories. And it was worth four times more than Republic dataries. Still, a smart hunter never asked for payment in a currency that wasn't accepted where he'd be going.
"That's not a problem," Vette replied. "Once you're finished, you'll receive the full amount in person at an agreed-upon location."
"And where is that?" Boba inquired casually.
"Where it ought to be," the Twi'lek assured him. "You'll find out in due time."
"I hate being used in the dark," the boy grumbled.
"No one likes that," his interlocutor noted. "But you agreed to the deal yourself..."
"Like I had a choice," the boy snorted. "You freed me from prison, bought me out, and fixed my ship. And I suspect that cost a pretty penny..."
"You have no idea how much money was spent, kid," Vette grinned. "But it'll all be repaid tenfold by your loyalty."
"By donating blood for you?" He clarified. "As long as you pay — I'm ready to stay here my whole life."
"Won't need that long," the employer assured him. "You'll spend a few months on Kamino, lay low in peace. Earn some decent money."
"I know what the Kaminoans are capable of," the boy said as the puzzle clicked together in his head. "They drained hundreds of liters of blood from my father during his time here. And used it all to create a clone army for the Republic. Are you planning to do the same?"
"Quick on the uptake," the blue-skinned woman praised. "Only took a few days. Yes, unfortunately, your father's DNA has run out — without replenishing the blood bank, the Kaminoans can't keep producing soldiers."
"That should have been said from the start," Boba flared, placing his hand on the apparatus draining his blood with clear intent to stop the process. "I have no intention of helping strengthen the Republic..."
"It's not about the Republic," Vette countered, concern showing in her eyes. "Boba, leave the device alone and listen, you impulsive piece of poodoo!"
"We have nothing more to discuss!" The boy ground out through clenched teeth. "I hate the Republic, I despise the Jedi, and especially..."
."..Master Mace Windu," the Twi'lek finished for him. "Yes, adiik (child), I'm aware. That's why you were chosen for this."
"Explain," the boy's eyes flashed. "She speaks Mando'a — the Mandalorian language — quite fluently. Barely any accent to grate on the ears."
"The blood you're donating, Boba, will indeed go toward creating a clone army. You see, you're the only person in the galaxy with the same DNA as Jango — unaltered, unmodified, without any of the Kaminoans' tinkering. Only that kind of blood is suitable for creating the soldiers we need."
"Why do you need clones like me and my father specifically?"
"Logistics, kid," she explained. "For the past eleven years, the Kaminoans have only worked with your father's genome and have become quite adept at it. My lord liked the soldiers made from your father's blood. They're excellent fighters and perform their task admirably."
"Get to the point."
"We already control most of the clones created here. But too few remain. The Republic has an order for several billion clones, while barely more than fifteen million of Jango Fett's clones are left — thanks to the Jedi for that. Our army must not be outnumbered by the Grand Army of the Republic if we intend to win."
"The Confederacy," Boba hissed. "That doesn't work for me either..."
"And not the CIS," the girl said with a sigh. "Boba, what would you say if you learned that a third power is being created in the galaxy right now — one that hates the Republic and Jedi just as much as it hates the Confederacy and its ways?"
"I know a lot of people on a lot of planets in this part of the galaxy," Fett declared. "And I haven't heard anything like that..."
"We're far beyond the borders of Republic space or the Outer Rim," Vette explained. "And we're stronger than any current superpower. Your blood will allow us to create an army large enough to crush both the Republic and the Confederacy. As a bonus, my master asked me to tell you that you'll be given a chance to settle scores with Master Windu."
"That still doesn't explain why you need clones that look like me," Boba reminded her.
"As I said — it's all about logistics. We can supply a uniform army with everything it needs — where all soldiers are the same height, weight, build. And we'd like to keep the strain on our logistics as low as possible — adapting to different types of clones in the army is quite taxing from an economic standpoint. This way — one standard of equipment, one set of weapons, unified parameters for many things..."
"Now I understand," Boba nodded. "It makes sense, really. If they really have taken control of Jango's remaining clones, they need far more soldiers for war than even twenty million. And the red liquid flowing through his veins is the only source of replenishment." "Too bad I didn't know this sooner."
"Would you have refused?"
"I'd have asked for more money," he admitted. "Jango got a credit for every combat-ready clone back in the day."
"Then you should have a lot of credits already," Vette noted.
"There's never enough," Boba observed reasonably. "I have a new condition for our agreement."
"Trust me, you won't want to change it," the employer assured the boy. "My master... doesn't like renegotiating deals."
"Then he'll have to make an exception," Boba shook the arm from which blood was being drained. "If he really wants his army."
"The only reason your spine isn't sticking out through your skull from ear to ear is that my lord isn't hearing what you're saying right now," the Twi'lek declared. "You know, for your health, it's better if you tell me about your 'wants' first."
"Simple," Boba squinted. "I want you to help me kill Mace Windu. And Count Dooku."
"Well, I can understand the urge to kill a Korunnai," the girl said, stroking her chin with slender fingers. "But what did the Separatist leader do to you?"
"That's my personal business," Boba cut him off. "Help me — and you'll have enough of my blood to make ten armies. At a reasonable price, of course."
"You have no idea about our appetites, kid," the girl smiled. "I'll pass your words on to the Emperor. I'll let you know the decision later. He's... a bit busy right now."
"I'll wait," Boba assured her. "But not long. I don't make a habit of wasting time."
"Neither do any of us," Vette replied, ending the call.
Having hidden the holocommunicator, Fett leaned back in the chair, letting the equipment do its work. Fine, he could wait. Especially when the goal was worth it.
The deaths of Mace Windu and Count Dooku — definitely on that list.
* * *
Walking knee-deep in water was the most unremarkable thing I'd done on this planet.
In complete darkness, broken only by the helmet lights, surrounded by thousands of clones stubbornly marching each step. And while Ahsoka, Oli, and I were fine — we fueled our bodies with the Force — the clones had had enough of this hour underground. It had worn them out — I could feel the general fatigue. Yeah, if we'd known part of the tunnel was flooded, we'd have brought boats.
Opening the debris-covered entrance to the underground transport system was no problem. Especially when you weren't alone, and a couple of quiet but certainly not the last Force users were nearby. Covering our tracks by dropping smoke screen barrels around the perimeter was a piece of cake. And getting everyone down quickly was the easiest part.
I love clones — disciplined folk. Got the order, assembled at the designated spot, went underground. No arguments, no pompous exclamations about the dangers awaiting us...
We moved in four squads at a short distance from each other. At the vanguard was the 204th Legion, followed by the 187th. In the center were Kaymaker, Titus, and I. Both girls — Ahsoka and Oli — walked silently a couple of meters behind us. Flash moved with his unit; Rex, whose boys had drawn the rearguard duty, stuck with the 501st at the tail of our column. Good thing the tunnel was half a kilometer wide — otherwise our procession would have stretched out for ages.
"Nyx," I addressed the corps commander walking beside me. After it became clear there was a chance to kick the Separatists' ass, the marshal couldn't resist, left Cody in charge of the forces outside the city, and rushed to the entry point. He patiently endured my chewing-out. Promised to serve as much time in the guardhouse as I deemed necessary. And took command of our motley army. "What does recon say — how much longer do we have to trudge like this?"
"Another kilometer, sir," he replied after contacting the commando squads sent ahead. "Alpha and Boss found the cause of the flooding."
"Make my day — tell me we can pump it out and walk on solid ground," I asked.
"Sorry, sir," the marshal shook his head. "The local drainage systems are who knows how old. Nothing works. And according to Alpha's estimates, the Separatist bombardments cracked the vaults in places, and groundwater is flooding the tunnel."
"Great," though my tone made it clear it was anything but. "How are the boys? I feel they're exhausted."
"Can't deny that, sir," the clone didn't dispute the obvious. "We're holding on. The faster we get there, the more boys we save."
"If we save anyone at all," Titus, walking to my right, remarked darkly. "I don't like that the rumbling overhead has stopped. Did they finish off all ours?"
"No," I said confidently. "At least two large groups are still intact — I can sense their life signals. And about half a dozen smaller squads. Looks like they took shelter in some sturdy buildings. The droids pounded them, realized they couldn't bomb them out, and stopped. They're probably preparing a ground assault."
"Hope we make it in time for the start," Kaymaker said dreamily. "We'd give those tin cans a taste of fire..."
"Only a thousand meters left," I encouraged him. "If you want, you can start the countdown."
"I'll save my strength," the senior clone commander declined. "And you, sir, aren't you tired?"
"No. Ahsoka, Oli, and I can reinforce our bodies with the Force. It helps us stay alert for a long time. Though afterward, when it's all over, I'll sleep for a day. But that's later."
"Sounds like a good thing, this Force of yours," Titus said. "Everywhere you look, only advantages..."
"Yeah, if you only knew how awesome it is. Just keep dodging flashes from left and right. Then your own hunt you, thinking you're dark, then Sith shit in your boots, throw crap into the fan..."
"There are always downsides," I answered diplomatically. "In everything. The Force is no exception."
"You know best, sir," Nyx replied neutrally. "Speaking of foresight, sir. Do you have a candidate for the commander of the 716th Legion?"
"Another new one," I sighed. The 716th Legion, part of the 8th Corps under my command, had become something of a meme within "Dougan's Fist" (and, reportedly, beyond it). Commanders didn't last long there — in the first year of the war, about two dozen had come and gone. And, strangely enough, the Jedi had nothing to do with it.
There's a trait in clone consciousness that you can't drill out. Commanders of all units, without exception, lead the charge. With sergeants, lieutenants, and even company commanders, it's understandable — they're frontline units. But the logic of battalion, regiment, legion, and corps commanders, I swear, I'll never get. I remember struggling endlessly with Nyx — at the slightest thing, he'd be in the front lines, blaster raised, charging toward fate. But, thank the Force, I managed to reason with him, proved we had enough soldiers. If something happened, finding a new corps commander would be a pain.
And the 716th had no luck on Daalang. Fatally. The commander appointed under my authority didn't last long — a sniper got him. His replacement, one of the regimental commanders, bought it even faster. And if my memory serves, only one officer with a rank higher than "captain" remained.
"What about Dsuu?" I asked. Nyx nearly tripped, almost falling into the water, but I managed to catch him with the Force.
"Sorry, sir, bad idea," the marshal said.
"Why?" Titus joined the conversation. "We were in the same training squad. He's a skilled fighter and a competent commander."
"Also twice demoted by General Fisto," Kaymaker noted. "I studied his file when I was looking for a replacement for the battalion commander who got torn apart by a mine on Melida/Daan."
"And there are the facts," I smirked. "Spill — what interesting stuff is in his file?"
"He made a name for himself on Geonosis — took his regiment to board a Trade Federation core ship," Kaymaker reported. "Then he ended up under General Fisto's command in the rear army, where he constantly filed transfer requests to active duty. Around the time you, General, distinguished yourself on Christophsis, Dsuu was demoted for the first time — to lieutenant. He was nearly sent back to Kamino for reconditioning, but General Fisto himself vouched for him. Sent him as a platoon leader to the front."
"Cubes don't fall off the chestplate for exemplary service," Nyx noted, referring to the colored cubes that in the Grand Army of the Republic served as a kind of rank insignia for officers. The system was intricate and interesting, but boring to explain.
"Well, he wasn't exactly serving exemplarily under General Fisto," Kaymaker grinned. "He drilled his boys every single day — training alerts, live-fire exercises, physical conditioning. He kept thinking they'd be sent to the front. And when Master Fisto refused his transfer request for the umpteenth time, Dsuu punched him in the teeth."
"Wait, that was allowed?" Titus blinked.
"What are you unhappy about?" Nyx asked, turning his head toward the clone.
"My boys and I served with Master Windu," the clone said. Seeing their incomprehension, he clarified. "The Dantooine campaign — that was our thing."
"Oh," Nyx nodded understandingly. "That explains it."
The Battle of Dantooine was one of the little-known but bloody stories of the first year of the Clone Wars. It happened about four months after the First Battle of Geonosis. The Separatists invaded the planet hoping to plunder ancient relics. And, while they were at it, test their seismic tank — the name speaks for itself. The local natives and the Order's AgriCorps branch, naturally, didn't want that kind of neighbor and quickly requested help from Coruscant. Mace Windu arrived, along with the 187th legion. Essentially, a massacre ensued, during which four-fifths of the legion fell. But Windu gained fame — he nobly lost his lightsaber and crushed droids by the dozen with his bare hands.
"That's usually a death sentence," I remarked. Catching the clones' looks, I corrected myself. "Not that I'd execute anyone for that, just remembered a line from the regulations."
The clones nodded knowingly.
"He would have been executed," Kaymaker continued. "But first, they decided to check him for deviations — we're an expensive product, after all, and not disposed of without cause..."
"Why are you whining?" I grimaced. "You have Imperial citizenship, a salary, and housing. I wouldn't be surprised if you found yourself a girl on Christophsis to dive under her skirt. And now you're complaining about your hard fate."
"Sir, honestly, I'm grateful for everything," the clone spoke heatedly. "And satisfied with everything. I'm just reading notes from Dsuu's file."
"Get to the point," Titus advised.
"During the check, it turned out he had some kind of inhibitor chip malfunction. The incident was hushed up, he was demoted, his health fixed, and then he was kicked to the front."
"I doubt the command cylinder had records of a chip," Titus voiced his doubt. "The Emperor told us about them — it's classified information for the rest of the galaxy."
"I got that from the Tipoca City archives," Kaymaker said without batting an eye.
"I won't even ask how and when you did that," I sighed. What else to expect from a man with that name? Certainly not that he'd be a goody-two-shoes and never try to hack a government comm system that was barely holding together anyway.
"And what's known about the second time?" Nyx inquired.
"He executed prisoners of war in a hospital," the commander said quietly.
"Well, that's something," Titus exhaled, clearly not expecting to hear that.
"Looks like Dsuu was saving on medical supplies and reducing the number of enemy incapacitated prisoners before it became mainstream," I concluded. "Where did he distinguish himself like that?"
"On Jabiim, sir. He managed to get promoted again there, rose to regimental commander. Then they ran into some minefield set by local nationalists — everyone except him and a couple of companies was torn to pieces. And those the mines didn't kill, the 'Nimbus Commandos' finished off. When they were found and brought to the infirmary at Shelter Base, he found out they were treating prisoners there. That night, he killed them all with a spoon from an MRE."
"It's plastic and not sharp," Titus objected. "How...?"
"Ask him," Kaymaker suggested. "Anyway, he didn't hide much — when the Jedi started an investigation, Dsuu confessed to everything. They wanted to execute him again, but the locals decided to put on a fireworks show — and everyone suddenly had bigger problems. Then evacuation, abandoned loyalists, a shameful retreat to Coruscant. Long story short, he was demoted to sergeant. As you can see, six months later, he's a regimental commander again."
"Yeah, if he keeps serving without incidents, he'll soon be gunning for my job," I chuckled. The clones walking nearby laughed softly. "Nyx, so the 716th is effectively under him now?"
"I temporarily transferred the 716th to Cody's command," Nyx clarified. "After all, you took his 501st..."
"Hmm, that's an idea. Maybe we can swap permanently? Rex seems like a decent guy, and his boys aren't bad either," I suggested.
"Not advisable, sir," Nyx replied. "The 501st in the 7th Airborne is like our 204th — only the cliffs are tougher than them. They're truly worthy fighters, but service under General Skywalker's command didn't lead to anything good. Rex is a clear example. Diligent and competent, but in our corps they'd be like a white bantha in a herd. Too straight-laced. Better keep the 716th with us and let Dsuu command it."
"If you only knew what they'd pull in two years — you wouldn't have that opinion."
"If I have to choose between two evils, I'm for Dsuu," Titus said. "He'll do anything for victory. I can't say the same about Rex."
"Then it's settled," I sighed. "Once we're done topside, I'll tell him it's the first time his command won't demote him."
"I second that," Kaymaker sided with the majority. "They've picked up too much from the Jedi. Their approach, not just in the legion but in the corps, is the same: when it's quiet, they're regular guys. As soon as things go sideways — 'bring the flamethrowers.'"
"The latter — what's that about?" I didn't understand.
"Well, I talked once with Sergeant Barlex — commander of the 'Parjai' squad from the 2nd Airborne Company of the 212th Assault Battalion, part of the 7th Airborne," Kaymaker hesitated slightly. "He told me that during the Second Battle of Geonosis, their tactical group ended up in the Geonosian catacombs. The locals swarmed them. So, to save time, their Jedi ordered them to use flamethrowers and burn the locals like firewood."
"Charming," I noted. "I think in a similar situation, I'd have given the same order."
"Well, that's you, sir," Titus said. "For you and us, the end justifies the means if the goal is worthy. But this talk is about Jedi — they're keepers of the peace, right? So, what kind of 'bring the flamethrowers' is that? Words and actions don't quite match."
"That's for sure," Nyx noted. "That's why the soldiers respect you, sir. You say what you think, and your words don't contradict your actions."
Titus and Kaymaker nodded to confirm the marshal's words.
"Well, thanks for the compliment," I said seriously. "Nice to hear that. I hope when the big fight starts, all the other soldiers will support me."
"All veterans are with you, sir," Titus noted. "With the 'shinies,' it's harder, but trusted brothers are working on them too. Usually, the standard story about chips and a demonstration after extraction is enough. I remember from myself — clears the head better than a couple of liters of luma."
"Don't overdo the luma," Nyx advised. "I don't need alcoholic commanders in the corps. Otherwise, you'll tell stories later about how you defeated a million B-2s, but in reality, you just beat up eight Jawas while drunk."
With conversations like these, we reached the end of our journey. The commandos sent ahead earlier joined the main body of the corps in their squads. And fifty meters before the planned exit behind enemy lines, Alpha finally returned with his "Hurricane" team.
"The exit is guarded by a mercenary company," he reported. "Apparently, they've moved everything they need out of here. Or at least most of it — the tunnel was recently used for its intended purpose — lots of footprints in the far part. We found evidence of mined surface exits, but the passage is now clear."
"They wanted to bury us here?" Nyx bristled.
"I don't think so," Alpha countered. "At least, there are no major enemy military forces here."
"So," I concluded. "Let's start the starting... By the way, do we have flamethrowers?"
* * *
Even sheltered from the wind under the vaults of the majestic structure, she felt the temperature drop sharply. Inside, it was so dark that at first she had to orient mainly by the pale blue light emanating from wall lamps embedded in the stone blocks that made up the building.
After a few seconds, her eyes began to adjust, and she could make out the contours of the rooms through which she was being led. Two silent figures in sealed black armor, their faces hidden under helmets. She felt a clinging Darkness emanating from them, diluted with Light. And while the proportions of this diffusion were equal, the sensation was... foul.
There were only two of them. Yet, she had no doubt they could handle her if necessary. Her body still obeyed poorly, and access to the Force... it was certainly there, but... somehow distant. As if she were trying to make out something in murky water. And every attempt to do so was met with a headache that literally split her skull into pieces.
So she tried to avoid contact with the Force. Until her body fully recovered, until it obeyed every command from her brain. It was a... complex and lengthy process; quick results weren't to be expected.
However, since she'd opened her eyes and taken her first breath, this journey was the first she'd made beyond her room. Which successfully played the role of a prison as well — depending on one's point of view.
Judging by the fact that her escorts stopped in unison, she understood she had arrived where she needed to be. Glancing at the massive gate, a good ten meters high, made of a refractory material, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the darkness on either side of the door stirred. Straining her vision, she could make out another pair of black warriors who, upon seeing her, began to pull the door leaves open.
Without words, she understood what was required of her.
She stepped inside.
The doors closed behind her with a rumble.
She was in a vast circular chamber — several hundred meters in diameter — whose vaults were supported by massive columns and equally monumental stone arches.
It was equally dark here, but her eyes had already adapted to the situation.
She could make out an enormous number of machines of all shapes and sizes situated inside. One look at them told her that this entire collection of technology was familiar. She had seen something similar before, but... it had looked less threatening. And it hadn't been so... primitive. Moreover, before, it had all been part of one large system. Now... it seemed these machines had been dismantled somewhere and brought here. And judging by the bustle around them of the same black-armored beings, they intended to recreate the mechanism.
"I see you already recognize the machine," said a young woman in the same black armor, though her face was uncovered. Young, attractive. But as if devoid of all emotion. She felt as though she were standing next to a completely soulless creature wrapped in human flesh. Yet that was only at first glance. The crumbs of Force available to her stubbornly insisted that before her was a living person. Whose consciousness had been altered beyond recognition.
"Yes, it's familiar to me," the words came with great effort, but she spoke this strange language of her interlocutor excellently. She simply had to think over each phrase for a long time. "More precisely, I once worked with the original of this device. This is a crude copy."
"Yet it works," the interlocutor noted. "At least, it did before it was dismantled and transported here."
"Where is 'here'?" She inquired.
"To this laboratory," the interlocutor answered evasively.
"This is a very old building," she said, realizing she wouldn't get more out of her companion. "It's several thousand years old...""
"Your abilities are returning to you," her companion noted.
"Not as quickly as I'd like," she shook her head. "My memory's fine, but contact with the Force... it's very hard."
"Everything in its time," the woman said philosophically. "Perhaps working to recreate this mechanism will help you."
"Planning to boost my progress through moving meditation?" she smiled. Yes, that should help. In theory.
"And not only that," came the vague answers again. "There's a lot of work here. And your help will be useful."
"Aren't you afraid of me?" she asked in surprise. "Letting me near such complex machines that, as I understand, you can't recreate yourselves — otherwise you wouldn't be using this junk."
"We are the Black Guard," her companion replied without bravado or pathos, but with pride and reverence. "We fear nothing."
"Then you don't know who I really am," she concluded.
"We know exactly as much about you as the Emperor allows," the woman cut her off. "We don't ask questions. We follow orders. We carry out his will."
"Oh..." was all she could say. So that was it — what had been done to this woman's mind, and all the others'. They'd been altered, turned into obedient executors of another's will. Yes, the comparison to a biorobot was entirely accurate. It was... disgusting. And inhumane. "Then I understand. I'm surrounded by the Emperor's slaves."
"There is no slavery in the Empire," the woman objected. "There are different categories of devotion to the Emperor's will. I and my people made our choice, agreeing to the transformation. And we don't regret it."
"When there's no choice, there's nothing to regret," she said with a sigh. "Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I've experienced something similar firsthand."
"That doesn't concern me," the woman in black cut her off. "The Emperor suggested bringing you in to solve this problem — the correct assembly of the unit. If you don't agree to cooperate, you'll return to your cell. We have schematics and blueprints — we'll manage on our own. It'll just take a bit longer..."
The air smelled of dampness and dirt, and there was also an unpleasant musty smell of medical equipment. And characteristic chemicals. But it was elusive — like the breeze brushing against her legs.
"I'll help," she agreed. "It'll help me. And it'll save you from mistakes. Incorrect operation of this mechanism could lead to truly horrifying consequences."
"Good," the woman responded. "Begin immediately. The guards will monitor your actions. If you need anything — just say it out loud, and it will appear."
"How convenient," a smile appeared on her face for the first time. A genuine one. "But first, I'd like an answer."
"To what question?"
"This is a special mechanism," she explained, pointing at the enormous cylinder that several guards and droids were currently mounting on a central pedestal. "More precisely, it has many functions, but one area of application. What do you plan to do with it?"
"What it was created for."
"And still?" she insisted. "I don't want to participate in creating a weapon of mass destruction..."
Her companion seemed not to hear her. She stood motionless as a pillar. Even in the dim light, it was visible that her eyes were black as night. Though just a second ago they had been completely normal.
"Truly convenient," she repeated. "Communication across thousands of parsecs. In real time..."
This continued for several more minutes. During that time, she watched the guards' activity. They were swiftly and skillfully connecting dozens of small components to various already-assembled parts of the mechanism. Yes, it really wasn't quick work — they were clearly dealing with such a unit for the first time. But they were doing everything with terrifying correctness in the sequence of actions.
"Follow me," her companion said, ceasing to imitate a pillar of salt. Her black hand pointed somewhere to the side — toward where the smell of medical chemicals was coming from.
In complete silence, they proceeded to the wall, where a turbolift shaft was embedded. Both entered it, maintaining silence.
The turbolift shot upward fast enough to be felt. A tingle of unease ran down her spine. And the lift kept rising.
Finally, it stopped and the doors opened.
Silence. It was a large, circular room that looked like a laboratory, set up by someone with great caution.
Tall arched windows, through which she saw a gray sky that only evoked revulsion, stretched along the walls hung with spotlights, alongside pulsing panels and blinking blocks. The machines that filled the entire room hummed low and unevenly, and the very air seemed to vibrate in her nose and throat. And numerous ancient artifacts, mostly intended for working with mental matters, glowed with an inner crimson or bluish fire. An unnatural mixture of mechanisms and religious attributes. All of it evoked both a shudder of horror... and admiration. To create something like this, to connect disparate objects into a single system, required extensive knowledge and an extravagant imagination.
But unlike the previous hall, the equipment here was relatively new. Some was even in transparent packaging. She, following her companion, walked past shelves and tables with scientific equipment. A smell hung in the air — acrid and familiar, but indescribable... chemicals? No, it was sweeter, almost cloying, like something... She couldn't find the right description.
She approached one of the windows and looked outside. Grayness, inspiring boredom. It seemed the creator of this world had completely forgotten about the existence of other colors.
And around the massive complex she was in, there were some structures. From here they looked like ruins, abandoned and forgotten. Random weak glimmers of light burning in the windows of one of the buildings — something resembling a dormitory, she concluded — only emphasized its lifelessness; a place abandoned to ghosts.
"Come here."
She moved away from the window, finding her companion with her eyes.
She stood by the wall farthest from the turbolift entrance, where under a massive black covering were some enormous objects. And it was from there that this wonderful sweetish taste emanated.
Approaching, she noticed that in the darkness of this room, her movements were tracked by several automated weapons. And about half a dozen guards, literally appearing out of thin air, completed the picture of strict security.
"The Emperor favors you, allowing you to see this," her companion carefully pulled off the covering, revealing to her gaze two massive transparent tanks, filled to the brim with liquid.
The containers were sealed, but she still sensed the sweetish taste. Apparently, when the workers filled the cylinders, some of the solution was spilled. It had certainly evaporated long ago, and all she sensed were residual smells. Phantom perception, to be precise.
Inside, floating freely in the solution, were two bodies. Hairless, unequivocally male, both with closed eyes. Transparent masks, forcibly attached to their faces, descended from above. Apparently, that was how oxygen and all necessary life-supporting elements reached the bodies.
"What is this?" she inquired, though she had some guesses.
"The Emperor's insurance," the woman in black explained. "He ordered me to remind you that he has, and will always have, enemies — some of them more powerful than others."
"I think I understand who he meant," she approached one of the tanks, placing her hand on the glass. Calling upon the Force, she tried to reach the body's consciousness, but found only emptiness there. It wasn't a living person. Just an empty shell.
"A rather non-trivial solution to the problem," she noted. "And, as I understand, the machine I'm supposed to help assemble is intended for these bodies?"
"Yes," her companion replied simply, using the Force to return the covering to its place. "The Emperor simply must have a backup plan to the main one. And a couple more backups to the backups. Just in case."
Rubbing her throat and chin, she smiled:
"He covered himself well. That's... commendable. Is the mechanism necessary for these bodies?"
"Exactly," her companion agreed. "They must match the original. But this must be done in the deepest secrecy."
"So he entrusted it to his loyal servants?" she smiled. It was logical — when you want to keep your secrets, you should entrust their safekeeping to those who are unconditionally loyal to you. "To preserve his most important secret..."
"Here on Naatheme, the Emperor keeps not only his cloned bodies," the woman objected. "The Black Guard guards thousands of secrets and artifacts of the past, created by adepts of the Light or Dark Side. No one, ever, without the Emperor's own permission, will touch them."
"I'll have to keep that in mind," she nodded. "As I understand, my existence is also his big secret?"
"One of the biggest," her companion admitted. "If you weren't so important, you'd be under Imperial Guard protection somewhere on Zakuul or in the Gordian Reach. Well, the tour is over, you should get to work."
"Yes, of course," she followed the woman back to the turbolift. "Only... I wanted to ask. How should I address you? I don't know your name..."
"Commander of the Black Guard, Captain Ralinai," the woman introduced herself as the cabin doors opened.
"Nice to meet you. And I..."
"That interests me least of all," the captain said coldly, directing the cabin downward.
* * *
The droids and mercenaries positioned near the cave network exit didn't stand a chance. A flood of clones, like a geyser, surged from the depths of Daalang, sweeping everything in its path.
Short flashes of flamethrowers, smoky missile trails, an endless stream of blaster fire...
An avalanche of death swept over the Separatist camp. Without the slightest remorse, the clones exterminated the enemy, crushing them with point-blank shots, missile and thermal detonator explosions, vibroblades. Sometimes it came to hand-to-hand combat: I saw Flash, finding himself nose to nose with a B-1 droid, send the latter's head spinning counterclockwise with a powerful hook. An instant — and the droid's head, with a crunch lost in the roar of battle, separated from its shoulders.
An LM-432 crab droid caught my eye. The Techno Union walker, rising onto its hind "legs," came down on a clone squad firing at it from all sides, driving its front limbs into the ground. The shockwave hurled the soldiers several meters. Some were unlucky — the droid's blaster cannon caught them in midair. Those guys wouldn't be getting up again.
There was no need to give orders now. The 204th and 501st moved like an avalanche toward the center of the enemy positions — to take out that Hutt generator. As soon as it was disabled (specifically — turned off, not destroyed — the technology was valuable, we'd need it), Cody, notified in advance, would send us reinforcements on LAAT/is. And Declann's ships would finally stop lighting up the night sky with streams of turbolaser energy spreading across the shield.
The 187th and 313th legions of Titus and Kaymaker were breaking through to the remnants of our units. They had enough heavy weapons to punch a corridor to the surrounded guys and give the enemy droids and soldiers a good thrashing. Particularly impressive were the soldiers with jetpacks, flying over the battlefield and causing the droids no end of trouble with fire from heights unreachable by enemy infantry.
Me, Nyx, Flash, Rex, Oli, and Ahsoka moved surrounded by clone assassins — the inner ring of security, who, it must be said, were excellent at slicing both organics and droids into thin strips. With us also moved Torrent Company of the 501st Legion, under Beard's command, sowing death with astonishingly precise rifle and blaster shots.
"The crab's mine," accelerating with the Force, I broke out of the security ring, pulling Arcann's blade from my belt on the move. Both swords simultaneously split the Gand mercenary who got in my way into three parts. Sliding under the legs of a B-2 exoskeleton standing slightly behind the dead one, I thrust my swords upward, cutting the Separatist machine apart.
A dead zone formed around the crab. The soldiers were pouring fire on it from a safe distance, constantly circling and waiting for the moment they could jump on its back and shoot the processor mounted there. To hell with tenderness. Time was everything now.
Within ten meters of the crab droid, I sent two spinning blades straight toward it, which severed its front limbs, forcing the walker to bury its face in the dirt. Jumping onto its back, I tore off a sheet of armor with the Force, exposing its tender insides, and gave the mechanism a local electrical holocaust. With a howl, the crab crashed to the ground, never to rise again.
Another crab droid appeared nearby. The moment I touched the ground, it fired its blaster cannon at me, only to catch its own shots back in the face. Making displeased sounds, the walker began to rise onto its hind legs, intending to send me flying with the repulsors built into its front limbs. Yeah, right.
Using the Force, I parried shots from encroaching B-1s with one hand while clenching the other into a fist, crushing the war machine into a pile of scrap metal, which immediately flew into the thick of the enemy battle droids, reaping its harvest. That's right — gravity's a mean bitch.
Clones from my guard appeared nearby, cutting into the enemy formation. Oli and Ahsoka, taking positions to my left and right, descended on the droids like punishing swords of justice. Two snow-white and three golden blades flawlessly tore through the hulls of Separatist war machines and shredded the bodies of mercenaries.
Behind us, around us, and in some places ahead of us, the clones moved. An unbridled mass of rage and hatred crashing down on the Separatists' heads. It seemed Vikings in my universe called them "Berserkers." Very similar.
"Two hundred meters to the generator!" Nyx appeared beside me, shouting terrain data into my ear.
But that was obvious even without words.
A structure loomed ahead — a cube-shaped building, several stories high, from whose roof a snow-white, bluish light streamed into the sky. Not the most elegant construction I'd seen. Clearly built long ago, and probably by locals. So the Separatists were simply using energy from the local generator station to power their superweapon.
There were droids around it like candy wrappers around a fool — meaning, a whole lot and unclear why this piece of art was even needed here. Some "Octaptarras" were visible here and there, about half a dozen AAT tanks. And very, very many droids.
"Forward!" I commanded, fully aware that a battle against an enemy with heavy armor on nearly flat terrain, without any cover, meant enormous losses. A sacrifice that would have to be made.
A massive volley from "Plex" grenade launchers mowed down several front lines of droids. A few tanks caught in the crossfire nosedived into the ground. But all that was just a drop in the ocean.
Scattering the droids in my path, I ran up the hull of an AAT, severing its cannon barrel along the way, kicked the head off an OOM droid that stuck out of a hatch, then, sensing in the Force that my girls were keeping up, waited for the moment when the distance between the tank and my target was optimal, and jumped onto one of the limbs of a nearby "Octaptarra."
Ducking to avoid the turning spherical droid head, studded with weapon barrels, from knocking me to the ground, I severed the nearest barrel, then, plunging one of my blades into the side of the "head," parrying random shots aimed my way with the second, let the upper part of the droid make a full rotation around its axis. The droid froze for a moment, then wobbled in place. The optical sensors flickered several times, after which the giant machine crashed down, crushing an entire "box" of B-1s with its body.
"Nice," Ahsoka appeared beside me, intercepting a blaster bolt fired by a B-1 in my direction. "Will you teach me that?"
"And me," Oli asked with a feignedly plaintive tone, shamelessly copying the cat eyes from "Shrek" as she appeared on my other side.
"I'll teach you," I grunted dryly, using telekinesis to intercept a rocket flying our way, fired by some clever B-2. Hurling the projectile into the thick of the enemy, I noted with satisfaction that the blast cleared a huge space ahead. "I am, after all, your teacher."
Feeling Ahsoka sadden for a moment, I hastily added:
"And yours too, kid. So, heads up, 'padawans,' great deeds await us. Ten meters to the generator station."