"Matthew! I see him! The bastard's going down!"
The call broadcast directly into his ear from the comlink mounted in his helmet. The shiny "bucket" was frankly annoying — it was barely more comfortable than sticking your head in a toilet. Sure, the visor was fairly wide and didn't restrict vision, but the helmet's shape itself... Well, not the best.
Still, it was protection. Pretty serious protection at that.
Mantrell reflexively stroked the right side of the helmet, where a heavy sniper's blaster bolt had struck a couple of hours ago. Hmm, he'd still have to replace the helmet — he could feel numerous cracks by touch. But this piece of metal had done its job.
Deezy's heavy breathing, accompanied by the easily recognizable "brap, brap" of a blaster. Matthew cursed quietly. They'd hoped to capture the target, not kill him. Azmo knew that too — it had been discussed long before the operation to capture the governor of planet Kovak began.
"Don't kill him," he asked into the comlink. "We need this bastard alive."
"But not necessarily healthy," Spin chimed in. "I wouldn't mind if he had no legs..."
"Then you'll be the one carrying him back," Matthew noted, slowing his pace, descending further down the wooden stairs, straining to see anything in the darkness of the odor-filled basement. Now that the situation had devolved into a firefight, he regretted not going upstairs to cover the 2nd Corps commander. But it was his decision to split up and set up an ambush. This tactic had been drilled into him at the training corps on Christophsis, thanks to the strict Zabrak mercenary he still remembered with respect. Matthew hated to think that such a tactic might be wrong. No, he believed the tactic would work. "If it fails, it'll only be because I applied it wrong."
The assault on Kovak was coming to an end.
Nothing could be simpler: exit hyperspace aboard an enemy dreadnought, transmit Separatist identification codes, then, closing with the defense fleet of this planet — blow it to pieces.
On the planet itself, things weren't going as well as he'd hoped.
Kovak was a beautiful, blooming world, full of tropical warmth and pristine beauty. How a slaver diaspora could have formed on such a planet was hard to understand. Even harder to understand was the fact that the bastards hadn't trashed the world beyond recognition.
The slavers' structures — the capital — occupied the largest chunk of land on the planet. Some of the best Zygerrian builders had clearly had a hand in planning and constructing this city. Because such splendor — it was hard to deny — none of the volunteers had ever seen.
High stone walls with astonishingly precise geometric patterns. Wide streets and low but luxuriously finished buildings. A spacious and well-equipped spaceport.
And a luxurious palace, spanning dozens of kilometers, belonging to the local ruler.
There were four key points to capture.
First, landing barges and transports borrowed from the Separatists dropped the 3rd Volunteer Corps under Spin Kotor's command directly onto the spaceport's landing platforms and docks. Not even the thought could be allowed that someone might escape the planet. Aboard the Black Lord, there weren't many small craft — just two squadrons of Supremacy-class interceptors, which quickly received a rather notable nickname from the Christophsian militia pilots: "Big Eye." For their unusually interesting cockpit concept, where nearly half the cabin consisted of transparisteel panels for better visibility. Well, wasn't that an "eye"?
The battle for the spaceport had been raging since the start of the day and showed no signs of letting up. The enemy had considerable forces in that area — about fifty thousand soldiers. Of course, fighters made from former overseers were so-so, but there were a lot of them. And they weren't armed with child's toys.
The second point, handled directly by the 1st Volunteer Corps, was the slave barracks. Enormous — dozens of stories high — stone coffins, where behind barred windows and thick walls, millions of slaves of all possible races and ages languished. The security here was incomparably lighter — most of the overseers were already fighting at the spaceport, and the arrival of a new wave of troops, landing directly on the roofs of the slave barracks, came as a complete surprise to the Zygerrians. Thus, the 1st Corps managed to clear this entire part of the city of the enemy fairly quickly and reach the central area.
Everything was here — entertainment establishments, food industry facilities, hotels, gaming halls, trading platforms for selling slaves... everything necessary for any visiting slaver's life.
This district of the city was being stormed by the 2nd Corps under Deezy Azmo. And there were major problems here. Primarily related to the fact that by the time the Black Lord appeared at Kovak, thousands of slavers — both local and visiting — were feeling quite at ease. And they had a lot of security, which essentially turned them into a small army. One that fiercely fought back against both the 2nd Corps and the 1st Corps soldiers.
An additional headache was that the palace had its own private army. Heavily armed thugs struck the 1st Corps soldiers in the rear and forced them to abandon the occupied territories of the central city, entrenching in the slave barracks area.
And that was when this crazy plan was born.
From one of the prisoners of war, it became known that the palace actually didn't have much security — just over two companies of mercenaries. The greedy governor could afford more, but stinginess forced him to make do with the bare minimum. Most of those troops were on the battlefield, pushing the volunteers away from the Palace, where with only five guards, the governor was preparing to flee. All he needed for that was to haul out several dozen tons of jewelry and hundreds of tons of cash, which he was currently doing, loading the holds of his personal escort fleet — half a dozen Gozanti-class ships, ready to take him, his slaves, and all valuables to safety. And it would've been fine, but these ships had a separate landing strip — in the palace's backyard.
They had to act fast. The small crew left on the dreadnought and a couple of squadrons were just a paper shield that could scare the cowardly. And the governor seemed determined to escape.
Leaving the corps in the care of deputies, and taking Inferno Squad, Matthew, Deezy, and Spin, using jetpacks, managed at the cost of incredible effort to get to the right place. Just as the first Gozanti was about to take off.
A synchronized volley from Plex grenade launchers tore off the ship's side engines, depriving it of any ability to continue existing according to its creators' original plans.
And then it began... Engaging in a firefight with the governor's guards, Matthew, Deezy, and Spin allowed the three commandos to do what they loved most — destroy.
Thermite rockets and thermal detonators became a real scourge for the Gozanti crews. Engines and weapons didn't even have time to start their cycles before the deadly stream of thermal explosives caught up with them.
Remaining invulnerable to the heavy cannons of the cruisers, the clones, using rocket packs, always stayed out of the kill zone. Within ten minutes, all the ships were incapable of even taking off.
The Zygerrian governor understood this first. Leaving with him only a Zeltron slave girl, dressed in a revealing outfit that covered her pink body with less than two pieces of bacta patch — her face Matthew saw only for a moment, but it seemed vaguely familiar — he dashed back into the palace.
Matthew and Deezy, the only ones close enough for the pursuit to have any chance of success, rushed after him. Spin and the commandos had no choice but to deal with the remaining mercenaries and ship crews, who suddenly turned out to be less than pleased that their chance to escape the planet had been so barbarically destroyed.
Searching for a Zygerrian in an enormous palace was no easy task.
However, in this regard, Matthew had a small trump card. His weak Force sensitivity sharpened when adrenaline raged in his blood. So the enemy simply couldn't escape. All that remained was to drive him somewhere from which he couldn't flee.
The palace plan, downloaded by both commanders onto their wrist computers, identified the governor's target — a small underground hangar. Where there was sure to be a means of escape. And two roads led there. Deezy raced through the palace corridors, feigning pursuit.
Matthew, meanwhile, descended to the underground levels, aiming to reach the enemy through the service corridors. And he'd regretted it a hundred times already. Because here, some shortsighted being had considered wood the ideal flooring and wall paneling for conditions of dampness and semidarkness. That had been a very long time ago, since now it all looked more like dilapidated ruins threatening to collapse on his head.
Matthew's boots touched the stairs softly. He'd reached the hangar first. A small ship of unknown design sat here. Planting a portable mine on the engine nozzles, the commander moved toward the main entrance, intending to catch the enemy by surprise.
The other commanders were also silent on the comm — and there was hardly time for conversation anyway. The armor plates creaked as they brushed against each other when he brought his DC-model blaster to the ready position. The higher he climbed the steps, the more ominous the silence became. He thought about contacting Deezy but didn't want to lose the advantage silence might give him.
A crash came from above, the noise of blaster fire, and a loud whisper in his earpiece:
"Matthew, he's coming, he's coming."
"I'm ready," Mantrell replied calmly.
He had no particular reason to take the governor alive. Except perhaps a tradition established by Lady Vette after the raid on Zygerria — handing the leaders of the slave trade business over to the courts.
Matthew aimed his blaster at the door from the basement at the top of the stairs. His index finger hovered over the trigger of the blaster, set to fire paralyzing rounds.
The utterly savage destruction of the carved door astonished him. With a terrifying crash, the door flew off its hinges. Matthew ducked, moving down a couple of steps, holding his weapon near his head as the door fell toward him from above. A body of crushing weight landed on the door, then unexpectedly jumped back. The Christophsian grunted in pain from the door pinning him and shoved it off the stairs. He crouched, reducing his silhouette against the light coming through the empty doorway onto the floor, blaster pistol in hand. The door clanged against the basement floor.
There was no trace of the pursued. The palace basement was dark despite the many spotlights on the walls, with numerous hidden corners among the upper shelves stacked with technical devices.
Matthew stepped off the stairs, moving away from the treacherous light. Holding the blaster in both hands, he quickly hid behind the massive body of a generator.
Then the sound of engine activation reached his ears, and daylight began to push back the darkness in the hangar — the hangar doors were rising. With a smile, the Christophsian activated the mine.
The explosion would have deafened him if his helmet hadn't protected his eardrums. Peeking out from his cover, he noted with a smile that the escape vehicle had lost half its engines and was now good for nothing but the scrap heap.
But its entry hatch was open.
He was halfway to the starship when he was attacked. He'd barely passed a niche formed by three intersecting shelves, where something could have been mistaken for a pile of rags on the stone floor, when a long metal hand with crooked fingers unexpectedly emerged from it. Leaping from a fetal position, a two-meter droid appeared directly in front of him.
A MagnaGuard. Or rather, a droid very similar to one. But even in the semidarkness, it was clear this machine was very old. A bastard version of a bastard combat machine, meeting which in this situation he didn't want at all.
Matthew aimed his blaster at it while switching it to lethal mode, but the droid grabbed his wrist before he could ready the weapon to fire. The blaster fell from his hand. The droid struck him in the chest plate with its free manipulator — even despite his attempt to block the blow against his breastplate.
"Hutt-forsaken Republicans," the Zygerrian appeared before his eyes. "I'll choke you all..."
Gasping from the lack of air in his lungs, Matthew, held by the arm by the droid, looked up at the governor. A typical representative of his race, standing next to him was...
"Finish him," the governor ordered, stepping aside and tugging the leash around the neck of an attractive Zeltron, pulling her along with him. Meeting eyes with the pink-skinned girl, practically a girl, with long bluish-black hair, Matthew realized he hadn't been mistaken. He knew her. Knew her very closely...
"You!?" He rasped. A flicker of annoyance crossed the Zeltron's face. The Zygerrian seemed not to notice. "What are you...?"
That was the last thing he managed to say before the MagnaGuard's blaster barrel stared him in the face... One moment needed to pull the trigger and...
A snow-white-blue blaster bolt entered the droid's head precisely between its photoreceptors, sending the two-meter mechanical body staggering back.
"Matt, you alive?" Deezy roared, like some huge beast from Hoth, bursting inside. He was beside the human in a moment, helping him to his feet.
"What took you so long?" Matthew rasped, tearing off the armor plate on his chest that had become a hindrance.
"You think this is the only MagnaGuard this... guy has? They're placed all through the corridors. Dumb ones, sure, but there are a lot of them. By the way, where is he?"
"He was here," Mantrell said, bending to pick up his blaster from the floor. "Hid somewhere..."
"He's right here," a melodious voice came from behind some piece of machinery a couple of meters away. A moment later, a young Zeltron appeared before both commanders' eyes, holding the Zygerrian's arm twisted behind his back as he snorted and swore in his own language.
"Nice work with him, girl," Deezy admired, approaching the governor while keeping him covered.
"Nothing less from her," Matthew said, looking into the young Zeltron's eyes. "And don't take your eyes off your credit chip."
"You haven't changed," the girl sighed. "I haven't been in that game for a long time..."
"You know each other?" Deezy asked, taking the Zygerrian and neatly dropping him to his knees with a blow to the back of his leg, slapping shock cuffs on his wrists.
"Wish we'd never met," the girl muttered, starting toward the exit.
"This is Dani," Matthew introduced her, suppressing a cough in his chest. "A seventeen-year-old thief and swindler."
"That's all?" the Rodian chuckled.
"And the sister of my late wife," Matthew said coldly.
"Family, then?" Azmo stated the obvious.
"So it seems," the human agreed. And added to himself: "And it seems she's working for the Emperor too. Since he knew I'd meet this little squirt here."
"We need to get back," he noted, activating his comlink. "Spin, Korr, Necromancer, Sinner — how are you?"
"Everything's absolutely freaking awesome!" Sinner replied, shouting over the sound of blaster fire. "Hot as Tatooine! Don't you want to come get a tan with us!?"
"Get your stupid head behind that container!" that was Necromancer. "They've got two snipers!"
With a dull thud, two clearly large-caliber blaster bolts slammed into something solid near the speaker.
"Well, what did I say?"
"Time to move," Deezy declared decisively, lifting the Zygerrian to his feet like a sack of vegetables. The latter burst into obscenities, earning a rifle butt to the teeth.
"Watch your language!" the Rodian grinned mockingly.
"Stop talking already!" Spin bellowed. "I called for reinforcements from the 1st Corps — two companies will break through to us in ten minutes, but we probably won't hold out that long! Hutt! They're flanking left! Sinner, just blow those techs to the hutt already!"
"Too early! Let more of them gather!"
"They're going to surround us!" Necromancer declared. "Hutt, the bacta's gone. Korr, quit moaning — you were ugly before, half your face is still there!"
Exchanging a glance, both Christophsians, prodding the prisoner with their rifle barrels, broke into a run. To Matthew's surprise, Dani's figure seemed to dissolve into the endless stream of corridors.
They hadn't even covered half the distance to their friends when a roar of deafening thunder reached them, one the helmet systems couldn't fully suppress.
"What's happening over there?" Deezy asked, worried.
"Sinner!" Spin evidently had damaged eardrums, since he was screaming as if being boiled alive. "Bitch! What did you put in there!?"
"Some baradium, a little nergon-14, a drop of fighter fuel drained, and half a field ration," the clone commando replied just as loudly.
"You put nerf meat in the bomb?" Necromancer shouted. "Are you completely insane?"
"I'm in your squad!" Sinner replied. "Of course I'm shell-shocked! But look — peace and quiet..."
It took the Christophsians a couple of minutes to get out of the palace onto the landing pad.
And what he saw sent a chill down Matthew's spine.
Emitting streams of stench from burned meat, several dozen enemy fighters were running across the pad, engulfed in flames. They dashed around, screaming in agony, trying to beat out the flames, rolling on the permacrete — but it was all hopeless. Some died from pain shock, and their bodies, like bonfires, continued blazing with tongues of red-yellow fire, burning flesh down to the bone.
"Wh-what is this...?" the Zygerrian murmured in Galactic Basic, his face a picture of indescribable horror.
No one had time to answer him. Like devils from the underworld, three clones in black armor appeared before them. Necromancer, carrying the wounded and unconscious Korr over his arm — his face slashed with scars and deep gouges, clearly from contact with a shrapnel shell. Spin, sporting blaster burns all over his armor, carefully supporting his left arm, which hung limp.
Only Sinner, helmetless, his face sooty, grinning a brilliant white smile, said with evident pleasure:
"Inferno Squad has completed the assigned objective. Enemy neutralized."
As if to confirm his words, in the background, another mercenary screamed, fell, and lay still on the permacrete. Shrugging, the commando added with a chuckle:
"Well, a couple are still alive, but they're definitely not our problem right now. The boys are getting a tan."
* * *
The battle was coming to an end.
The 187th and 313th Legions had successfully reached our surrounded comrades. Two hundred clones with varying degrees of injury, but still alive. A drop in the ocean of our losses. And a small reason for joy — at least we saved some.
The 204th and 501st were advancing, linking up with the remaining clones, forcing the droids to yield ground at the generator station. Of course, there was still fighting to be done for the station itself — which is precisely what we're doing now, breaking through squads of "tin cans" on every floor with the apprentices and clones left and right. Each room holds three to ten droids. B-1s, B-2s, a couple of commandos thrown in. A MagnaGuard showed up from who knows where, but it didn't live long — an enraged Oli simply threw it outside, smashing it through a wall. The anthropomorphic robot shattered upon contact with the hard permacrete. Good riddance.
Nyx was leading the overall ground assault. The legion commanders, of course, stayed with him. So my company consisted of only the commandos.
The practice of attaching commandos to legions and corps had proven itself. At first, the decision was made from the thought: what else to do with them, there are thousands!
And the very first battles showed: five squads per corps — one under each legion commander and a commando squad at the corps commander's disposal — was awesome. In the 8th Infantry Corps, these were Aiwha, Omega, Desolation, and Breakthrough. They were clearing the lower floors of the station. Quite briskly and successfully, I must say. Not a single wounded or killed, while droids were being destroyed on practically an industrial scale.
And my favorites — Hurricane Team — together with a five-man squad of whom I, Oli, and Ahsoka were fighting our way to the roof.
Well, "fighting our way."..
Using the Force, I blasted a massive durasteel door blocking the exit to the roof.
We made it.
We were met by withering fire from commando droids, a dozen of them, stubbornly keeping us from approaching a massive reflector shield projector. Beside which a huge and clearly unfriendly figure was bustling, from whom emanated literal waves of hatred and rage. So pure and naked, unbridled and untamable, that for a moment I even respected him. You'd have to hate that much...
Our group, returning blaster fire, took cover behind a mass of technical pipes, which covered the roof as far as the eye could see.
"Master!" Oli's eyes went wide when she felt it too. "There..."
"I know," no time for analysis. The generator was clearly being mined. And something told me that the explosion of such a powerful device wouldn't please any of us. If we even survived the detonation to feel pleasure.
"Alpha, Oli, Ahsoka," the words flew from my mouth at machine-gun speed. "Get out of here as soon as I run for the generator. That bastard is clearly mining it while the saboteurs hold us off. If the installation and the generator station blow — there'll be nothing left but rubble. Pull the other squads back too."
"Will do, Lord," Alpha-17 nodded, checking the charge in both his blasters. His four men synchronously repeated the action. Smooth. The guys worked well together.
"Emperor, you'll need our help," the Togruta said with a pleading voice.
"Handle your own tasks," I said coldly, gripping my lightsabers tighter. "There is no being left in this galaxy that represents a problem for me."
"But..."
"Relax, little Saber," I smiled, stroking Oli's cheek. "No witnesses, no cameras around. No need to play to the audience, holding myself back. We play at full power."
Closing my eyes, I let both streams of the Force wash over me. Rage, piercing like a molten stream. Calm, subduing the uncontrollable urge to destroy. Bare, unstoppable power...
I felt the face mask slide off my face as thin, nimble fingers unlatched it from its fastenings. My eyes opened exactly as Starstone's lips pressed madly against mine, with the passion of youth. Returning the kiss, I stroked the girl's head, firmly but gently taking her by the hair and pulling her back.
"Save that for this evening," I asked. "I don't plan on dying today."
"Then," the Togruta, lightly pushing the student away from me, gave me an even more passionate kiss. "For luck."
"If only you'd done that earlier," I lamented. "I'd have wrecked the whole forest."
The girls exchanged puzzled glances. But I had no time to explain the old joke about the subtleties of pronouncing the word "pine" to them. I felt time slipping away.
So...
Vaulting over the pipes, I sliced the nearest commando droid in half, pulled another onto my blade while simultaneously parrying a vibroblade thrust from a third. Twisting its head off with the Force, I used a Repulse Wave to throw a couple more off the roof, noting that my people were rapidly retreating from it.
The remaining commando droids that rushed at me, I simply crushed with the Force into nine hideous chunks of metal, which I launched like cannonballs at the figure looming near the shield projector.
Was I surprised that the giant casually disposed of the projectiles on the move, turning them into smaller pieces of mangled metal, melted where the giant's weapon had contacted the improvised "cannonballs"? No. I'd sensed him almost as soon as we'd reached the roof. His concealment was impressive but far from masterful. But sufficient for Oli to take several seconds to identify him — Ahsoka hadn't understood at all who I was dealing with.
"General Krell, I presume?" I inquired innocently, igniting my own blades, watching the four-armed Besalisk show off, spinning his two light pikes into elegant figure-eights.
"Grand Moff Dougan," the former Jedi hissed, his eyes glittering like molten aurodium even from several meters away. "Count Dooku said you would come here as soon as we gave your meat droids a good roasting. It seems I succeeded. I will carry out my master's orders — I will kill you. I'll tear you apart with my own hands!"
The Besalisk shook his enormous hands, as if already clutching some part or other torn from my precious body — parts I had no intention of parting with.
"How much time do we have for all this dancing?" I asked, pointing one of my blades at the shield generator.
"Seven minutes," the Besalisk smiled predatorily. "You're perceptive, Jedi. I will either kill you on this roof, or blow up the entire building and scatter your dust to the wind."
Tell me — is he an idiot? Or just pretending?
"If the generator goes," I noted, "you'll die along with me. Not the most triumphant way to kill a Jedi. It seems to me. But I don't claim first-instance truth."
"Stalling for time, Jedi?" the Besalisk laughed. "I know your worthless apprentices and those pieces of meat in armor are fleeing the building right now. So caring of you... Wasting your effort. When the generator and station blow — nothing alive will remain within a radius of fifty kilometers."
"And you," I reminded him.
"The dark side has given me such power you can't even dream of!" Pong Krell declared proudly. "I alone will survive this explosion."
"Is that what Dooku told you?"
"The Master spared no effort in making me the perfect weapon!"
"Just like Sev'rance Tann, Asajj Ventress, Savage Opress, Baron Nax Kirvan, Sora Bulq," I noted, smiling, putting my mask back in place. The magnetic locks clicked it into place with a barely perceptible snap, sealing my armor into a closed system. "If you didn't know — I took them all apart like a god does a turtle."
"My triumphant face will be the last thing you see when our fight ends, Dougan!" the Besalisk declared triumphantly, slowly advancing on me.
"More like your death mask," I corrected, ready to engage.
* * *
A lonely hangar in a huge snow-covered cliff was the most dreary place Evgum had ever seen in his life. Nothing but snow, ice, drifts, a few tauntauns. A blizzard, regular reports from the troops setting up the sensor perimeter.
And more snow.
A sea of snow.
Oceans of snow.
Even Mustafar hadn't irritated him with its dreary landscape as much as Hoth.
What could the Emperor possibly want in this godforsaken place, that it required turning two corps of stormtroopers into archaeologists? Searching ancient archives for even more ancient Imperial and Republic bases and outposts, digging passages to them through layers of snow and ice, where a whole Star Destroyer could easily be hidden... With each passing day, his suspicion that this wasn't why he'd joined the Imperial Knights grew stronger.
Sighing, Evgum stared resignedly at the endless snowy desert before him.
"Enjoying the view, Knight Evgum?" he heard the voice of a man whose presence he'd sensed long before.
"I didn't know you had so much free time, Admiral Modus, to come down to the planet," the gifted one replied.
"I carved out a couple of hours while the defense platforms are being installed," the man chuckled. "I wanted to see with my own eyes what made the Emperor pull the personal fleet away from guarding Tython."
"It seems we're guarding the galaxy's snow reserves," Evgum joked glumly. "But honestly, Admiral, I don't understand what we're doing here."
"Preparing a forward post from which the Empire can strike at the worlds of the Republic and the Confederacy along the entire Corellian Trade Route in this region of the galaxy," the fleet commander stated the official version.
"Command could have picked a more hospitable planet," Evgum shivered from the cold.
"I see you're not strong in astrography," the admiral smiled.
"I prefer to use astromech navigation databases," the knight admitted. "But it seems you have something to tell me."
"Actually, yes," the officer stroked his chin. "But if you don't mind, I'd rather talk somewhere outside the open hangar bay."
"And I thought fleet personnel were used to negative temperatures," Evgum smirked, referring to the extremely low temperatures of interstellar space.
"We prefer as many ship bulkheads as possible between us and those temperatures," the admiral took the joke. "Vacuum and the normal functioning of humanoid organisms are mutually exclusive paragraphs."
"I believe the command center should already be connected to the solar reactor systems," Evgum recalled. "It should be fairly tolerable in there."
With a parting glance at the wastes of Hoth, the knight glanced at a pair of stormtroopers who, despite their gear designed for service in unfavorable temperature conditions, were shifting from foot to foot, clearly freezing. Poor devils. He'd have to tell someone to rotate them more often — the last thing they needed was to open an infirmary for frostbite here.
The Empire had established itself in an ancient complex built by the Republic during the period of galactic wars. But despite the three thousand years that had passed since then, the structures looked as if they'd been left only yesterday. They sure knew how to build to last. The engineers, upon reactivating this bunker, had told Evgum that the material used in the depths of the frozen-through rock was tens of times better than what was currently supplied to the construction materials market. Either quality had degraded over time, or some special consumables had been used here... Impossible to tell now.
The corridors in the base's depths were so wide that a pair of Republic walkers could pass each other. Most were simply carved from the rock; others could be distinguished by decorative cladding of the aforementioned super-strong material. Either way, the electrical and electronic systems left here hadn't survived the test of time. For this reason, engineers and technicians spent days and nights laying kilometers of various cables throughout the outpost. But first and foremost, everyone on the base without exception was concerned with the question of heat. Numerous heating stations inside the outpost — a sight so common it had ceased to surprise anyone. Over time, they would be replaced by stationary heating units — the solar generator delivered directly from Zakuul produced enough energy to power not only this base but also all the facilities yet to be discovered.
Atmospheric shields also needed to be installed on the hangars and exits from the outpost, so the premises wouldn't freeze every time speeders designed for service in such conditions were sent on reconnaissance or patrol. But first, it was necessary to start up all the base systems and settle in properly — so the stormtroopers wouldn't have to sleep on the frozen hangar floor in field tents anymore.
Finally, they arrived. A spacious room — no less than a hundred meters long and almost as wide. Here, the engineers competed in wit while connecting numerous pieces of equipment. An everyday affair — everyone knew it had to be done. Such was the order. And orders had to be carried out.
"Admiral," two apparently ordinary stormtroopers saluted the officer.
"Marshals Smoke, Anton," Modus formally greeted the officers. "I thought one of you was overseeing the restoration of the former Imperial bases..."
"That's right," Smoke confirmed. "The 12th Stormtrooper Corps is handling that now. I arrived with a small contingent of soldiers to resupply and collect equipment. We've cleared the main outpost and are ready for its full activation."
"Ah, so it was for you I had to send the Tsesarevich to Zakuul," the admiral nodded understandingly. "The solar generator, the ion cannons..."
"Yes, that's all ours," the stormtrooper agreed. "Those systems are already deployed at this base..."
"You're ahead of schedule," Evgum praised, approaching the large tactical holoprojector in the center of the room with the fleet commander.
"Well, we should be," Anton, the commander of the 11th Stormtrooper Corps, smirked. "We spent a week here day and night digging out the outpost, and they just blew up a mountain."
"What can you do," Smoke noted. "The coordinates of the Imperial outposts were more precise. We didn't have to spend a lot of time scanning to avoid collapsing the structures."
"You wanted to show me something," Evgum recalled, addressing the admiral.
"Yes, of course," the man's hands rested on the holoterminal keyboard. "Hoth, in fact, isn't as useless as you think."
A map of the galaxy appeared before those present.
"Located on the edge of the Unknown Regions, Hoth is part of the Greater Javin sector on the western borders of the Outer Rim. The system isn't marked on most galactic charts, which gives us even more reason to believe that no Republic or Separatist ship will stumble upon it by accident. And at the same time, despite its remoteness, this sector is a busy part of the galaxy, effectively a local trade hub."
"I don't think wampas or tauntauns are widely valued on the galactic market," Evgum noted.
"And do you think the Empire is involved in selling tauntaun skins? I don't think so," the admiral shook his head. "If you look at the hyperspace routes that cross this sector..." The map zoomed in on the sector. "The sector is located at the intersection of two major trade arteries — the Hydian Way and the Corellian Trade Route. Not the busiest, but they do exist. And in this region, they intersect precisely at the Hoth system. That's why it has such strategic value. Our fleet at Hoth controls the only means of transporting goods between these routes. Which creates a unique situation: we don't need to blockade entire sectors to disrupt Republic and Confederacy supply chains. Blockading one base effectively stops all trade and military transport in this part of the galaxy."
"And how many ships pass through this system?" Evgum asked, considering the strategic advantage.
"Based on intelligence from our agents, up to half the military supplies from the Core Worlds pass through this corridor," the admiral replied. "The Republic uses these routes to supply its forces in the Outer Rim, and the Confederacy... The Confederacy uses them for supplies to their allies. Blockading Hoth would force them to take a long detour through the Rimma Trade Route, which is currently under Separatist control. Which means... they'd have to pay taxes to their own allies. That would hit their economy, plus the transit time would double."
"So this is an economic blockade point," the knight nodded in understanding.
"Precisely. And if we also gain total control over the Rimma route... the Republic and Separatists will find themselves in a fuel, food, and weapons crisis. And then the war will be a matter of time. All that's left is to wait."
"And what do they think about our activity here?" Evgum pointed at the planet map.
"The Republic is trying to organize a counteroffensive, but it's too far from their main supply bases. And the Separatists... they have too many problems with their own droids. The last thing they want in this situation is trouble with the Empire. So we're acting almost without resistance."
"But there have been attempts?"
"Oh yes. Reconnaissance probes, single scout ships. They all ended up at the bottom of the Hoth ice ocean. Our patrols are doing their job."
"Then why do we need those archaeologists?" Evgum inquired, nodding in the direction from which they'd come.
"The ancient complexes are our main trump card," the admiral smiled mysteriously. "Inside them, there may be technologies that will give us an advantage. That's why the Emperor ordered the search. And that's also why I asked you to come here."
"I'm listening," the knight tensed.
"Knight Evgum, you've been assigned to lead an archaeological expedition to the depths of the base. I'm not an expert, but I have a feeling we're on the verge of a discovery that could decide the outcome of this war."
The snowstorm outside the hangar howled, rattling the old doors, but inside the command center, a special atmosphere reigned — the atmosphere of a new beginning. Knight Evgum looked at the admiral and realized that they really were on the threshold of something great.
"My squad is ready to begin," he said firmly. "I'll need the best engineers and specialists."
"Done. Admiral Kitomer's fleet will provide you with everything you need. Good luck."
"Thank you, Admiral."
"Don't thank me yet. Fate still has to show us what's hidden in this frozen tomb."
"Unlikely anyone's even heard of such beasts," the admiral agreed. "Command hasn't been particularly forthcoming with strategic considerations with me either, but I suspect there are two reasons we're stationed in this system."
The clones exchanged glances.
"We're guarding strategic reserves of fresh water in solid aggregate state?" Smoke suggested. Evgum hid a smirk. It was the most popular joke among the troops.
"You jest in vain," a smile appeared on the Modu's face. "The inhabitants of Tatooine or Geonosis would gladly haul a couple of bulk freighters loaded with snow out of here. But in truth, only two things make Hoth noteworthy. Besides the snow, of course. First — during the Great Galactic War between the Republic and the Sith Empire, a major space battle took place in Hoth's orbit, during which both sides lost a great many truly unique starships..."
"They're not going to make us dig them up, are they?" Anton grimaced.
"I doubt they hold any value as combat units after more than three and a half thousand years," Modu agreed. "But, if the old Sith Empire archives are to be believed, those ships were transporting a great deal of valuable and unique equipment, like Gree navigation computers, or artifacts of interest mainly to the Force-sensitive."
Evgum, sensing the other three's attention focus on him, spread his hands.
"If anything like that was here, it's either been looted already, or I can't sense it. And what's the second reason?"
"Bespin," a holographic image of a colossal gas giant appeared above the holoprojector. "Most of the tibanna gas in the entire Outer Rim sector of Heaven's River is mined there. It's currently under Separatist control, but I doubt any fleet could withstand the main caliber of the Retvizan. However, I wouldn't forget about the planet Gerrentium either, located north of Bespin at the intersection of the Corellian Trade Route, the Lutrillian Cross, and the Nothoiin Corridor. By capturing Gerrentium and establishing a foothold there, the Empire could control all trade routes in the western part of the galaxy. Which, given the location of the Eternal Empire's core worlds in the Unknown Regions and Wild Space, would effectively make us monopolists in local markets."
"So what?" Smoke shrugged.
"Economics, esteemed Marshal, is the engine of any state," Modu noted instructively. "The more the Empire trades and earns from selling its goods — the more resources we'll have to strengthen the welfare of our citizens..."
."..and produce new types of weapons," Marshal Anton finished. "Bespin is a tempting target, but isn't Endor already being developed for the same purposes?"
"Sometimes," Evgum sighed, "you don't have to exploit every available mineral deposit to win. By depriving the Republic and the Confederacy of Bespin's tibanna, as was already done with Taloraan, the Empire will simultaneously reduce their ability to produce and replenish their own weapons — the less tibanna they have, the less their blasters and turbolasers can fire at us."
"I don't know about you," Admiral Modus clapped his hands, "but if my guesses are correct, I'm fine with a scenario where my ships and crews get shot at as little as possible. I hate sitting in dry docks."
* * *
Pong Krell raced across the rooftop like a maddened wild beast. He reveled in his own malice, constantly trying either to batter through my defenses with furious pressure, or to catch me with Force Lightning, which this zealot could unleash from any of his four arms.
But he wasn't having much luck. I either absorbed the lightning with my Force-charged blades or soaked it up using Tutaminis, which caused me no harm whatsoever.
I had to admit, this being was thoroughly prepared. He effortlessly neutralized my Force techniques, like Grip or Push, preventing me from shattering his bones or simply crushing him into a fist-sized ball. The Besalisk was exceptionally agile. Some of my Force attacks he managed to dodge; others he intercepted with his own weapons, rejoicing triumphantly when I first used Force Lightning on him. I couldn't go all out and incinerate him with a Force Storm. That thing is extremely unpredictable and easily slips out of control. I recall the resurrected Palpatine destroyed his own fleet that way. And even though some fans argue until they're blue in the face that it was because he was wounded at the time — the Sith and Jedi chronicles, even the Qua Holocron, insisted that the Storm is an absolute doomsday weapon. The principle: activate it and run like hell. Because this thing, once created, could not be stopped by its creator's death. The Storm subsided on its own — when the Dark Side had harvested enough corpses. So, despite being able to create one, doing so now would be reckless. Primarily because it requires colossal concentration. Secondly — there's a makeshift bomb nearby, with just over five minutes until detonation. And I didn't feel like going to the eternal hunting grounds. At least not so a meme about the Immortal Emperor offing himself could pop up on the HoloNet. A disgrace to my white hairs.
I could feel Krell's anxiety. I sensed his irritation — he hadn't managed to kill me in the first couple of minutes as he'd planned. If one light pike was a very unconventional weapon for a Force-user, one that had confused many Jedi and cost them their lives, then two at once was an obvious advantage. From his point of view.
For me, avoiding death at the hands of his two green and blue blades was very simple. The memories of Exar Kun and Darth Marr, settled in my head, insisted on one thing — knowing where one blade is, you can always predict where the other end of that sword is aimed. A bit more mental work and calculation than usual.
Pong was trained no worse than Ventress or Kirvan, perhaps even better, but right now he was no closer to victory than at the very start.
Oddly enough, Jar'Kai for countering this perverted Shien that Krell practiced was just what the doctor ordered. Initially relying on a mix of Niman and Soresu, I recognized my choice was poor within seconds. And I switched to Ventress's preferred style.
The battle's pattern shifted instantly: with short, fast strikes, I chased this Sith-imitator across the entire roof — that is, from one edge to the other — but I couldn't break through him to disarm the detonators, preventing him from using the advantage of his double blades — speed of attack. Pong, like a robot, kept delivering crude, powerful blows, intending to breach my physical defense, as if he didn't understand that the proper way to counter his swords was exactly the third form. I naturally wasn't going to tell him.
I just noted that he was tiring more and more with each second. In the glow of the reflector field projector's beam, I could see rivulets of sweat rolling down his face. And I also began to sense his fear.
The Besalisk's arrogance gave way to desperation. He and I were literally counting every second, knowing that within the next four minutes, one of us would make a mistake — it couldn't be otherwise. And in his reptilian skull, Pong already suspected who would be left after this battle with a hole in their chest.
The Unifying Force helped me endure. My muscles ached from the Besalisk's blows, but the Light Side brought them peace and tranquility, restoring their function.
The climate control system in my armor could no longer cope with my profuse sweating — I felt trickles of salty water running down my body into my boots. An inopportune childhood rhyme came to mind:
"A little boy bought a kimono,
Saw lots of moves in the show,
With a cry of 'Kiya!' and a kick to the knee,
Daddy's eggs slid down to his boots, you see,
Daddy replied with a kick just the same,
The boy's eggs under the sofa found fame."
A funny joke it was, especially when you're five years old, surrounded by other little brats, and you're reciting this work of poetry upon hearing which Pushkin would probably have shot himself without waiting for a quarrel over his wife with Dantes. No, if I ever find out my descendants are reciting such poetry with inspiration — I'll come back from the Void to tear their ears off.
For now, I'd better make sure my genitals stay with me. Not that they're the most valuable thing in the galaxy. But ruling the Eternal Empire without them would be somehow uncomfortable. Though, nothing would stop me from dancing.
Blocking my lateral thrust with my left sword using both his blades, Pong realized too late that I had a second one. The Besalisk's lower left limb crashed to the roof with a clatter. He instinctively struck with his upper arm gripping the light pike — I managed to dodge, saving my throat, but my blade in my right hand lost its functionality, its emitter destroyed.
"You'll pay, Jedi," Krell snarled, pressing the stump against his belly with his right lower arm. "You've already lost one sword — and I still have two."
"You've also lost one arm," I smirked. "And I still have two."
Stowing the damaged hilt in my belt, I transferred the blade that once belonged to Arcann to my right hand. I wasn't about to show my preparedness for this turn of events yet. Surprising means winning. Something like that.
The fallen Jedi charged at me with a roar, delivering a vertical downward strike with both blades. For an instant, I tried to use the Force on him... It didn't work. What the hell?! Was he a disguised Yuuzhan Vong, immune to the Force?
Holding my weapon crosswise, I blocked both of Pong's swords. The Force suggested his next move, but instead of dodging the thrust from his last lower arm, I slammed my armored knee with full force into the bones of his fingers.
A blood-curdling crunch of broken phalanges echoed.
The Besalisk screamed, stumbling back several steps.
I glanced at the chronometer.
Three minutes.
Damn, I needed to end this dance.
However, the pain seemed to give my opponent strength. Like a hurricane of blue-green energy, he rushed at me, in the best traditions of General Grievous, plowing up the surface he walked on with his lightsabers.
For a moment, a thought flickered through my head...
How much did this fat lump of a bad Jedi weigh? About two hundred kilos...
The height of the top floor — about ten meters — that's where the cooling circuits were...
And what's the strength of the permacrete this building was made of? Plus a correction for the amortization and wear over the years since its construction...
There was no time for further deliberation.
Having driven the Besalisk to become a mere rampaging animal, I saluted him mockingly in the Makashi style, casually slashing across the roof surface... What a shame his rage-twisted face couldn't see my smug grin.
What was it Obi-Wan said? "It's over, Anakin. I have the high ground!"
Golden words. They should be cast in durasteel and hung around Kenobi's neck. In addition to the Order of Ebukentiy III Degree.
The Force told me that behind me, about half a meter above the roof surface, ran pipes through which coolant circulated from the generators to the radiators on the roof — in the part opposite the reflector field projector. And if my technical knowledge didn't fail me — then for heat dissipation in a galaxy far, far away, gases were used... Luminara Unduli from the episode of the series where Ventress kidnapped Ganray wouldn't lie.
When barely over a meter remained to the Besalisk, I easily jumped onto the pipes, then, waiting for the right moment, reinforced my jump with the Force, leaping clear over Pong Krell, distancing myself a good meter from his ever-descending blades...
Landing behind my opponent, I heard the lightsabers plunge into the pipes containing the coolant. A small explosion rang out — the equipment couldn't withstand such abuse; the pipes burst and the cooling gas roared out, drenching the Besalisk from head to toe, making him scream heart-rendingly like that blonde in the video with the group of black guys.
Hearing the crackling under my feet, I drove my blade into the roof surface, wholeheartedly reinforcing the structural breach with a powerful Force Push, causing a huge slab of permacrete, including the section where the Besalisk stood, to crash down with a thunderous roar.
Ninety seconds.
Reaching the generator, I assessed the mining method. Thank the Force these were simple adhesive detonators. Brushing them off the generator's surface with a touch of the Force, I cut the power.
The energy column ascending to the sky dissipated as if it had never existed. Almost simultaneously, the colorful streaks from turbolaser bolts fired from orbit ceased. The field began to contract, slowly but surely.
The distinctive sound of a squadron of LAAT/i screaming by at low altitude reached my ears.
Right, we're done here.
Like a jack-in-the-box, Pong Krell burst out of the hole in the roof, landing masterfully on its edge. His face looked like a baked apple, his right eye had burst. The upper part of his torso was burned. And his remaining eye...
It blazed like an incandescent lamp.
The Besalisk descended upon me with such fury that I had to retreat. He forgot everything, even the need to defend himself occasionally. He felt no pain when my blade occasionally left furrows on his body.
And as before, he dodged my Force attacks masterfully, while something — I realized from the impenetrability of his defense that the mental protection was artificial, not the fallen Jedi's own doing — continued to block him from my mental attacks.
For him, everything drowned in a bloody haze of grief and rage.
He couldn't keep it up for long.
Within a couple of minutes of fierce fighting, I realized the Besalisk had simply burned himself out from within with the Dark Side.
One of my strikes landed right in the middle of the hilt of the half-baked Sith's unusual weapon. For a moment, he stared in shock at the broken hilt, then threw one of the fragments aside to continue the fight with a single blade. He struck again, backhanded, aiming for my head and...
He missed.
He moved forward — just one step. But the step was enough.
I elegantly broke the distance, holding up a chain with some kind of medallion in my left hand. Judging by the imagery and script — definitely of Sith manufacture. Perhaps even the work of the True Sith.
The Besalisk stared stupidly at his chest — at the spot where it had been — and the next moment, looking up, saw an open palm in a black armored gauntlet before him.
The Force Push wasn't strong — just enough to shove him back a couple of meters. Krell found himself at the edge of the abyss, staggered, waving his blades comically, and then the brink crumbled under his bulk.
Pong lost his balance and fell. In a desperate attempt to hold on, he let go of the swords in his upper hands, hooking his powerful limbs onto the edge.
Walking up to my fallen foe, I squatted down, showing him the amulet.
"Where did you get this?"
"Master Dooku said it would protect me from the explosion and your mental attacks," Pong blurted in panic, the roof crumbling under his fingers.
So that's how it was. I'd have to have a serious word with my Wrath — lately he's been about as useful as a goat's milk. Even Maul had put in more effort.
"Save me," the Besalisk's right arm slipped, leaving him dangling by only his left. "I will serve you."
His panic was understandable — below him lay the ruins of a technical room, turned by the collapsing roof into a thicket of rebar, metal, and other delights that could puncture any hide in an instant. And not just in one place.
"Why the hell would I need you, Master Flip-Flopper?" I shrugged, getting to my feet and reaching out to the Force.
The roar of an approaching LAAT/i, adorned with the image of a seductive Twi'lek in a transparently suggestive pose, drowned out the crunch of the Besalisk's vertebrae being snapped by the Force.