The battle for Saleucami was boiling like a pot of water forgotten on the stove.
My X-wing raced along the hull of the Separatist flagship — a Providence-class carrier/destroyer — slamming concussion missiles into its turbolaser batteries, reducing the enemy's artillery. The ships of Oli and Ahsoka following my fighter operated on the same principle. Honestly, it could be said that the Separatist ship, its bridge blazing after the detonation, posed no threat — I don't know how much explosive the fighters from the Hurricane team had planted, but the "boom" was impressive.
As they say, you eat an elephant one bite at a time. The enemy droid commander — judging by the template nature of the tactics, it was definitely him — had left the main forces in the rear and sent a fairly strong detachment to meet us — about a hundred ships capable of grinding us into space dust. In theory.
Because by engaging the Separatist vanguard in battle, I was pursuing a completely different goal than beating both detachments until they were completely non-functional. For example, allowing the other two detachments under T'ra Saa and Tolm to flank the enemy.
And then the fun began.
As soon as our reinforcements arrived, the battle took on new colors.
The moment the squadrons of the two Jedi lovers emerged from hyperspace, the Separatist advance detachment "greeted" us with a dozen detonations — the disguised Fury-class commandos attacked, their proton and concussion missiles literally mowing down the enemy's forward detachment that had advanced to meet our fleet. Blazing with torn hulls and engines, they helplessly and without visible command fired back at the numerically superior enemy — we had the advantage in everything: from the number of guns to the squadrons of small craft, which for once had an advantage over the droid starfighters.
The Hammerheads, as before, bore the brunt of the enemy's fury, cutting off their ships from our ersatz carriers and supply train, which were in the rear, contributing what they could to the extermination of the Separatists by firing turbolasers from long range and rotating the air wing — a long-adopted tactic that removed the danger from the fleet's lead ships, engaged in battle, of having to drop shields on their own hangars for fighter landing and takeoff. In the first year of the war, it wasn't uncommon for a Republic ship to catch a torpedo in an unshielded hangar during this process, or for a suicidal droid starfighter to fly in for a lethal greeting.
One way or another, the battle was not yet going in our favor. Even though we had disabled or destroyed a dozen large enemy ships, they still had more than we did. And time and again, after raining energy, missile, and torpedo fire on the enemy starships, we had to withdraw several squadrons at once for refueling and minor repairs.
And so it went for a good fifteen hours.
Our fleet had already lost seven Hammerheads, brutally battered by the enemy to a state fit only for the grave. Losses in small craft numbered in the hundreds, but because we had far more in the hangars than standard, we had a certain margin of safety in that regard.
Disabling the Separatist flagship significantly eased our task — the absence of central command reduced the droids' tactics to independent actions against the coordinated attacks of our forces. So, little by little, we exterminated the droid starships — both the advance detachment, turned into a military equipment graveyard by the end of the first day of battle, and the small groups of enemy ships, or even single starships, that occasionally broke the blockade ring around Saleucami, exiting the firing sectors of the defensive platforms.
Even using the Force, I was incredibly tired. As were all those fighting in the Rogue Squadron. We all felt the desire to finish this quickly, but the enemy still had absolutely all the platforms intact, assaulting which in the current situation was pure suicide. The people needed rest.
And, in fact, we'd soon have to take a break. Even droids have a limit to their endurance — let alone clones. The Jedi were practically nodding off already. If we kept up the same pace, we'd start making fatal mistakes.
"Rogues," I opened the tactical comm channel, pulling my fighter aside after successfully destroying an enemy squadron. "Fall back to the Spirit of Fire. Time for a rest."
A chorus of a dozen approving shouts answered. The X-wings, banking and dumping the last of their kinetic ammunition into the nearest Kontos, formed up behind me.
"Admiral Declann," I contacted the fleet commander. "Pull the people and ships back to mark two. Organize patrols around the fleet's position and let the people rest."
"Yes, sir," Nial confirmed receipt of the order, barely moving his tongue. "Sir, an encrypted message from Admiral Zaarin has arrived on the Spirit of Fire. Marked for you personally. Relayed through Nar Shaddaa."
"Oh, is that so," I wasn't particularly surprised. "So the Hutts finally launched the first prototype. Route it to my fighter."
"As you command, sir."
The tiny holoprojector on the instrument panel came to life, displaying a miniature figure of Demetrius.
"Grand Moff." He inclined his head forward in greeting. "Your mission is complete."
"You stopped Grievous's advance deep into our territory?" I clarified.
"Absolutely," he confirmed. "The General's fleet is broken. We've captured two Lucrehulk-class battleships, boarding actions are underway on three more, but those ships definitely won't leave the battlefield. The Desolation, General Grievous's flagship, has fled — the ship is significantly damaged, including the destruction of all communication systems and the main hyperdrive, and most of its artillery has been silenced."
"So I take it the cyborg simply abandoned the rest of the fleet?"
"As soon as he realized that one of the Mandator IIs intended to deal with him personally," the man smirked. "We are currently engaged in destroying the remnants of his fleet — more than a dozen Providences and Recusants are still resisting, but their destruction is only a matter of time."
"Our losses?" In truth, this question interested me far more.
Despite the low quality of the hologram, the shadow that appeared on the officer's face was unmistakable.
"The fleets of Admirals Var and Shirano are completely destroyed," he said, his voice slightly trembling. Memory helpfully reminded me that Demetrius was a distant relative of Ilio Var.
"Accept my condolences," I genuinely felt sorry for these people. And not just because they died doing their duty — in the past day, I had lost three admirals who were privy to the intricacies of what was happening. If you thought about it, besides Declann, I had no fleet commanders left who knew about my double game. The most galling thing was that all three had died because of my miscalculations. Kreeves — due to a planning error. Var and Shirano — to plug the hole that had opened in our front. Essentially, I had sent the latter two to certain death with all their people, secretly hoping that Demetrius would reach them in time with the two mastodons. In vain. "Are there any survivors?"
"We are taking all survivors aboard the flagship Mandator II," Demetrius said. "Also, crew members from the second dreadnought are transferring to our ship."
"Is it that badly damaged?"
"Both ships took a heavy beating," the admiral admitted. "Grievous's flagship, even without the ion cannon, is a tough nut to crack. Even with the help of super-heavy turbolasers, we couldn't destroy it — and in the exchange of fire, it punched through our shields and disabled a significant portion of our artillery and engines. The second dreadnought... Its engines are gone — some Recusant rammed its stern. There's no hope for the hyperdrive now, the reactors are running wild. Radiation levels are rising. I've ordered repair work to stop and the crew to be evacuated from the ship. We'll send repair droids there, but I can't guarantee they'll manage to stop the reactors and prevent critical mass from building."
"You've done a great deal, Demetrius," I tried to sugarcoat the pill. "If you hadn't managed to bring those ships, Grievous would already be carving up worlds like a nexu in a bantha pen. When we're done here, we'll honor the memory of Admirals Var, Kreeves, and Shirano, and all who died this day."
"I would like to attend the ceremony," the officer hesitantly voiced his request. "I understand this goes against my current orders — to protect Rothana, but..."
"Permission granted, Demetrius," it was the least I could do for him right now. "Stay in the Lannik system for now, to prevent any further enemy breakthroughs. Rothana has enough defenses to hold out on its own if necessary. Colonel Romulus Ameron can manage without you for a while."
"Yes, he's a competent enough officer," the admiral confirmed. "For the most part, the fact that Rothana's board allocated us those dreadnoughts is his doing. He... found common ground with the director of Rothana Heavy Engineering, Nora Pifel."
"Does that mean the refitting of the shipyards and workshops for new weapon systems will be completed ahead of schedule?" I inquired.
"As far as I know, they're already finished," Zaarin cheered me. "The new starships are smaller, and though they're more expensive than the Venators and Predators, their production is much simpler. The modular assembly system for large ships, championed by all divisions of Kuat Drive Yards, has served us well — the first hundred ships of the Harrower class will come off the slips in a month. Going forward, Lady Pifel assures us that the assembly time can be reduced to three weeks. However, she still insists that withholding information about the navigation systems and the central computer, which are absent from the ships' blueprints and specifications, complicates the process. She considers using temporary systems to be unprofitable."
"Regrettable, but everything must proceed as it should," I said. Yeah, right, dream on. No, my dear — your only job is to assemble the little ships. Which will then, using those same infamous 'temporary systems' borrowed from Venator-class ships, be sent to the planet Darvanis, where production of GEMINI-class droids is set up — droids that are, in essence, the central computer for the Imperial fleet's ships. And they handle navigation quite admirably — Lord Kursk, assigned to Thrawn's Expeditionary Forces, has often noted the high effectiveness of ships controlled by these droids. And if something works, there's no point in interfering.
"I completely agree with you, sir," Zaarin said. "If you have no more tasks for me, I need to return to my duties..."
"I won't keep you, Vice Admiral," during our conversation, my X-wing had already approached the Spirit of Fire, and I directed the machine into the wide-open maw of the hangar.
"Forgive me, sir? I'm not sure I understood correctly," the officer frowned. "Perhaps the Huttese hyperspace transmitter has an error in its coding and encryption, but..."
"You heard me correctly, Vice Admiral Zaarin," I repeated. "Few can boast of having defeated General Grievous. You've joined the ranks of those rare lucky few. So your promotion is well-deserved. Congratulations. Admiral Ilio Var would be proud of you."
"Thank you for your trust, sir," the man's figure immediately seemed to snap to attention. "I won't let you down."
"I'm sure of that," I agreed, but who can give guarantees when it comes to pulling back the curtain? "Dougan, end transmission."
What does Palpatine feel, just casually sending some to their deaths and others to suffering? I felt terrible. Even Zaarin's promotion didn't soften the fact that I'd lost a huge number of loyal people in one day.
It was doubly depressing that Demetrius got his promotion because, having been used in the dark, he would never know that it was I who had condemned his relative and hundreds of thousands of beings to death on Daalang and Lannik. Sure, I could console myself with the fact that these were justified sacrifices — destroying thousands so that millions and billions could survive. I hope I never have to explain that. To Zaarin, one of the prominent fleet commanders I was betting on. Just as I will never tell anyone that the Mandators II, sent into battle with untested, and sometimes even uninstalled, systems, served not only to stop Grievous, but also to deprive Rothana of its greatest defense in the face of the upcoming takeover. Nor the fact that, thanks to the Hutt 'slicers' specialists in hacking and falsifying computer information — the head of Rothana Heavy Engineering received a notification that both of the Mandators II under construction were deemed by the Kuat Drive Yards leadership to be a waste of budget funds and of dubious value. In fact, it was precisely the young woman's desire to demonstrate combat effectiveness, and not at all the fact of a romantic relationship developing between her and Colonel Romulus Amer, that Zaarin — and I, too — owed the transfer of the ships to our fleet's disposal. Of course, when it all comes out, the girl will face a big investigation, but that will only push her toward the offer to join the Empire's side, which the Colonel will present to her at her darkest hour.
But all that will come later.
My X-wing was already taxiing on its anti-grav cushion into the bay assigned to my squadron when I opened a comm channel with Declann again.
"Admiral, how are things with pulling the ships back to a safe point?"
"The capital ships have already broken fire contact," the admiral reported. "They're picking up small craft and will be at the calculated position in half an hour."
"Excellent, Nial," I praised, opening the cockpit canopy. "We'll have guests soon — General Grievous will definitely want payback for the humiliation he just suffered."
"Should I set up an ambush at the likely system entry points?" the man tensed.
"That won't be necessary," I sighed. "Let the Subjugator make it to the defense stations of Saleucami without any trouble."
* * *
A world scarred by nuclear bombardment is not the best scenery. Especially when your radiation sensor is literally going crazy and crackling incessantly in your helmet, just begging you to rip it off.
And at the same time, the knowledge you possess tells you: don't you dare do that, Ordo. Not unless you want to turn into a well-done piece of meat.
"Kal'buir," Ordo said quietly, so the other brothers wouldn't hear, addressing Kal Skirata. "Are you sure anyone even survived here?"
"No, Ordo," Kal Skirata sighed. "It's like death itself passed through here... But we have to follow orders."
"'Find and recruit the Mistryl,'" Prudii, known for his pragmatic cynicism, quoted as he surveyed the lifeless surroundings through his monocular. "To find anyone alive here..."
"What could be better than searching for and rescuing beautiful ladies?" Mereel's chuckle sounded in the helmet's speakers, another of the brothers, the infamous womanizer.
"How about an answer to why we even have to do this?" Jaing proposed a topic for conversation, sitting on a rock and lovingly wiping down his WESTAR-5M blaster rifle.
"That's a good question, actually," A'den supported his brother. "We already got the cure for aging. And we've run more than one mission for this 'Emperor'. I don't know about the others, but I think we've more than paid back this Jedi."
"Kal'buir," Kom'rk approached Skirata from the other side. "Should we know something else?"
Ordo felt that the Mandalorian would rather not answer that question. If it had been asked by anyone else, not one of the six elite Null-class Republic commandos that Sergeant Skirata had long ago saved from disposal on Kamino. And whom he hadn't left since, effectively leading a squad of 'uncontrollable clones,' as Republic military personnel often called them, due to the Nulls' refusal to obey anyone's orders but those given by Kal Skirata.
The ensuing silence attracted the attention of every single Null, even making Jaing look up from his favorite pastime — caring for his weapons. In general, unlike, say, Ordo, who had started a romantic relationship with Besany Vennen, a worker in the Republic Treasury, Jaing had only two loves in life — the WESTAR-5M and his Verpine shotgun.
"It looks like our tab with the 'Emperor' isn't settled yet," Jaing said, commenting on Skirata's silence. "Kal'buir, what do we owe this man that we have to dive headfirst into a radioactive desert?"
"Our freedom," the sergeant replied quietly, turning to face the six Nulls. "And all your other brothers' freedom."
"Not much of a favor," Prudii smirked. "We could have ditched the GAR any time. Gotten lost in a crowd of soldiers just like us..."
"After Centax-2, the only places we can get lost," Ordo reminded him, "are the Heft, Grek, and Ghent System Armies."
"What about Mand'alor?" Kom'rk asked, referring to the homeworld of the race whose traditions Skirata had raised them in. "Father, you said the new ruler — Mandalore the Avenger — is pretty decent."
"Walon Vau rated her highly too," Jaing agreed, ignoring the fact that none of the Nulls except him had any positive opinion of the Mandalorian in question. Or even a neutral one.
"So what's the problem?" A'den tensed.
"Shea Vizla is an ally of the Emperor," Kal Skirata explained. "And, from what I could find out on the planet while I was there, they are tied very, very tightly."
"How bad is it?" Mereel asked without preamble.
"Effectively, the whole sector depends solely on the Emperor's will," Skirata sighed. "The credits rebuilding our cities and creating production facilities, the purchase of machines and food. Even the companies that handle export and import in the sector — they all belong to the Empire. Or to the Emperor personally."
"Are you saying some Jedi has the Mandalorians by the balls?" A'den ground his teeth.
"Put bluntly, yes," Kal nodded.
"How can this hurt us?" Ordo clarified.
"As long as we do what we're told — not at all," Skirata shrugged. "But, I suspect, the moment we try to kick back — either the same scenario a certain Jedi named Revan once carried out will repeat itself, or Mand'alor will become something like this world."
"Cheerful prospects," Kom'rk said.
Ordo silently agreed. Kal had told them the history of Mand'alor in great detail for a very long time. No wonder the Nulls, gifted with photographic memories, retained the smallest details of everything Kal'buir had ever said.
"So what do we do?" Mereel asked. "We can't just leave it all like this?"
"It'll never be as simple as it is now again," Kal countered. "I spoke to the Emperor personally. He offered me, and I'm offering you — instructor positions in the Imperial Army are ready for us."
"Teach the 'shinies'?" Prudii asked with distrust and a hint of contempt. "No thanks, count me out..."
"In exchange, they're offering us a very solid salary, housing in the Empire, and any assistance in evacuating our relatives and loved ones from Republic worlds," Skirata continued. "I don't know how he knows about the last part, but... he knows."
"Really?" Mereel chuckled. "Someone's going to pay us for once? And how much?"
"Enough to buy yourself a continent on some tropical planet by the end of your long life," Skirata replied vaguely, which, in general, met with universal approval.
Unlike most brothers, the Nulls had a concept of the value of credits. Because they'd earned them to obtain information for overcoming the clones' rapid aging. It stung a little, of course, when it turned out they didn't have to work that hard at it and could just get the cure on Christophsis. They only had to join the Empire.
The latter wasn't a problem for the Nulls — in almost a year and a half of war, they'd dug up so much dirt on the Republic and the Confederacy that they had little desire to stay in the GAR anyway.
"You think we, the best of Fett's clones, will only be 'teaching'?" Prudii asked with a smirk. "I bet my future monthly salary that in a little while, they'll come to us and say: 'You're the best of the best, boys. Fancy a job as killers? Double rate for a Jedi. Triple for Master Yoda's head.'"
"I think that option is possible," Kal agreed.
"We can't agree to that, Kal'buir," A'den spoke up. "We're soldiers, not assassins. As I see it, we need to get out. Lay low — it's unlikely anyone will come looking for us. We can take care of ourselves."
"We can, sure," Ordo nodded. "But what about the others?"
"Worried about Besany?" Jaing's sarcasm was palpable even through his helmet.
"You'd worry too, if you had feelings for anything besides your weapons," Kal remarked. "Besany helped many of us. Because she found out the exact amounts spent on purchasing new clones from the Arkanians, we were able to trade that information and everyone got the cure for accelerated aging. Consider that she saved our lives."
Ordo mechanically nodded. No one questioned why Kal said 'we' instead of 'you,' since he wasn't a clone of Jango Fett and wasn't subject to accelerated aging. Kal'buir never separated himself from the Nulls, seeing himself as one with them.
"Doing dirty work for this guy," A'den said, "is too expensive a pleasure. I didn't sign up for that."
"None of us did," Ordo voiced the general opinion. "Teaching recruits doesn't appeal to me either..."
"Speak for yourselves," Mereel rechecked the charge in his Z-6, his favorite weapon. "Salary, housing, a normal life... I'm all for it. What could be simpler — teaching rookies?"
"'Crazy daredevil'," Kor'mk reminded everyone of Mereel's nickname. Yes, the latter loved doing everything better than everyone else. Fitting into life outside Kamino. Having fun. Being the first to charge into battle. Kal'buir once said he did it just to step out of the shadow of Ordo himself — the leader of the Nulls. And now he was going against the current. Just to prove something to someone.
"Mereel," Prudii addressed him as calmly as possible. "There's no point working for this guy. We can get Besany off Coruscant in a snap by blending into the crowd. Sell this bird," he nodded towards the Fury parked nearby, "get a nice pile of credits, and disappear on Mand'alor. The planet's big — they'll never find us there."
"Yeah, right," Mereel laughed. "It's so simple for you. 'Blend into the crowd.' Those days are gone when our faces on Coruscant wouldn't surprise anyone. Different guys are running the show there now — different from us in height, weight, build. We can't even disguise ourselves. You, Ordo, should be thinking about this first. It's your woman in danger!"
"You got something to say?" Ordo clenched his fists. "Then let's talk..."
"Stop it," Skirata said quietly, but authoritatively. His demand immediately cooled the hotheaded clones down. "I've already given my answer to the Emperor."
"What was it?" Ordo was taken aback.
"Don't you get it?" Mereel smirked. "If Buir had said 'no', we wouldn't be here."
"You have to understand me correctly," Kalo said. "You call me Kal'buir, 'Papa Kal'. I treat you like sons because you are my family. And I won't have another. I agreed to the deal only because it's a fair deal. To secure your future. Far from the slaughter that's about to happen here."
"Protect us?" Prudii exchanged glances with Jaing. Truly — there are none better in the entire GAR.
"And what slaughter are you talking about, Kal'buir?" Kor'mk asked.
"The Emperor made it very clear that it won't be long before he steps out of the shadows," Skirata explained. "And few will welcome the Empire's appearance on the galactic stage. Both in the Republic and the Confederacy. The Emperor has worked hard to bring all our brothers under his command. Done everything for them to earn their loyalty. I confess, when I found out he held funerals after every battle, I almost cried like a child. He's a Jedi, there's no taking that away. But there's something Mandalorian about him. His toughness, his ruthlessness. And his cunning. He knows not all our brothers will follow him. And I understand that. But I don't want you to fight against your own brothers if they end up on the Republic's side."
"Worry for nothing, Father," said Jaing, whom Kal called 'the master of informants' for his ability to gather intelligence in conditions where no one else could. "As far as I know, there isn't a single one of our brothers in the Ghent who feels worse about Dougan than about the Republic. And very many are already privy to the details of the conspiracy."
"Many will join after they realize the Republic is basically keeping us here to be slaughtered," Mereel nodded.
"Still," Kor'mk said, "why would the Emperor offer us Nulls jobs as instructors in the army? Isn't there anyone else? Kal'buir, wouldn't you have taken on the job of training another army yourself?"
"We're the best at what we do," Skirata agreed. "But I can't do it alone. And the other Cuy'val Dar have finally returned to Mandalore's banner. Whatever this new army is — if its combat readiness is maintained by anyone other than those connected to current GAR units — I wouldn't give a broken datari for their effectiveness. And that's a direct quote from the Emperor."
"The more we talk about the Emperor, the stronger my feeling that you just want to die for this guy," Prudii declared, and the joke landed well.
"So, to be blunt," Kal returned to the conversation, "the offer is truly tempting. By completing the Mistryl mission, we can present ourselves in the best possible light."
"And possibly negotiate a higher salary?" Mereel joked.
"Decided to buy a planet?" Ordo asked incredulously.
"And fill it all with sweets," A'den joked at his sweet tooth.
The clones' short laughs were cut short by an alarm signal caught by the glitching, but still functioning, electronics of the Infiltrator armor.
"Movement in the western sector," Jaing whispered. "Seven targets."
"Twenty contacts each on the east and north," Mereel responded.
"South — forty," Ordo finished the position report. "We're surrounded."
"We can attack in any direction," Mereel offered, drawing chuckles from the brothers.
Meanwhile, a small procession appeared in view from the south — about half a dozen relatively young, somewhat haggard-looking women. Each had an anti-radiation shield generator on their belt — a good piece of kit, but... In these conditions, it only slows down radiation sickness, doesn't cure it.
Stopping about fifty paces away, hidden by dust clouds kicked up by strong gusts of wind, two ladies separated from the procession — one quite elderly, and the other, fairly pleasant-looking, middle-aged.
"Who are you?" one of the women asked the soldiers.
"I am Kal Skirata," the Mandalorian introduced himself. "These are my sons," he indicated the clones, poised for battle. "We are here on behalf of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul."
"Never heard of it," admitted the woman, who seemed to be the leader. "I am the last of the Eleven, ruler of Emberlene. What do you want?"
"The Emperor offers you his help and protection," Kal pointed towards the Fury. "Onboard that ship, as a gesture of goodwill, are radioprotectors and medicine for radiation sickness. If you agree to join the Empire, your people and your nation will be saved from the fate to which those who did this condemned you!"
For a while, the last of the Eleven was silent. It almost seemed she had suddenly gone mute.
"Kal'buir," Jaing called. "Maybe repeat the offer?"
"I heard that radiation can make your ears and tongue stop working for some people," Mereel chuckled, but immediately stopped.
Ordo, noticing a shadow right next to him at the last moment, spun on his heels, but only to have a young woman in a tight black suit disarm him. He couldn't see her face, hidden behind her helmet, but he sincerely hoped she couldn't see the surprise on his face either.
"Easy, easy, cutie," Mereel raised his hands placatingly, leaving his weapon on the ground. Ordo saw another woman in a similar suit standing behind him, touching the part of his jumpsuit under which the carotid artery lay with a long, thin dagger. "I already invited you to dinner, didn't I?"
As far as Ordo could see, the same situation happened to every one of the Nulls. They had all been disarmed like children by girls who looked at most barely twenty. Biologically, the clones were about the same age, but by the Hutts! They'd been trained by the best mercenary in the galaxy — and who the hell were these ones?!
"Nice trick," Kal praised, who, unlike the clones, wasn't touched by any of the Mistryl girls. Instead, the Mandalorian in gold-ash armor had one of the girls pinned with his knee — she had tried to take down the veteran mercenary. Shameful. The Father was already over sixty, and he'd managed better than them...
"Your ship and everything on it stays with us," declared the last of the Eleven.
"No deal," Skirata shook his head, showing the detonator clenched in his hand. "I let go of this button, the reactors will blow so hard nothing alive will be left around here. Unless you and your girls can run two or three kilometers per second, I'd advise against any sudden moves."
"You're the same kind of scum as the ones who did this to our world," the Last one shot back defiantly.
"Lady," Mereel intervened. "If you haven't noticed, we just arrived. Personally, I wouldn't mind a dance with the beautiful ladies," he lulled his captors' vigilance with talk, then struck with the back of his helmeted head into the glass visor of his Mistryl captor's helmet. Then, twisting her arm, he snatched her weapon and pressed it to the base of her skull. The moment's hesitation allowed the other five Nulls to do the same with remarkable efficiency.
"We don't want a fight," Skirata assured her. "Only to help."
"We've been offered help before," the Last one snorted. "Count Dooku promised to help us solve our neighbors' problems. And the result is our world was burned..."
"So why not trade it for a new one?" Skirata asked. "The Emperor offers you a planet where your people can rebuild their civilization and take revenge on your enemies for this humiliation. And besides, your seven girls breathing radioactive air right now will survive. As will everyone who gets the medicine and leaves the planet."
"In exchange for what?" the Last one asked.
"Serve the Emperor," Kal said. "Faithfully."
"The Mistryl serve no one from now on!" the Last one shot back, turning her back to the clones. "Finish them."
"And the students?" the woman standing next to her asked, pointing at the seven failed captors.
"They're already dead. Get the medicine and the ship to the camp; I want to get rid of this radiation as fast as possible and get off this planet..."
"And the others?" Ordo watched the two women's conversation with interest, noting that the one who hadn't introduced herself seemed extremely concerned for the fate of the Mistryl students captured by the clones.
"I'll take everyone I can with me," the Last one promised. "The Mistryl cause will live on, even if all the Mistryl die..."
"They won't die," the second woman, with a motion of her hand as if shaking off drops of water, pierced the Last one's throat with a throwing knife. "The Eleven have outlived their usefulness. You," she looked at Kal Skirata. "You, Mandalorian. Swear that everything you said is true. And I haven't just killed my ruler for nothing."
"What's wrong with their cause and effect?" Prudii was taken aback. Ordo shrugged. It would have been more logical to get confirmation of the words first, and then stage a coup. But...
"What do you want, women," Mereel smirked. Then, quietly kneeing the ribs of one of the Mistryl students who tried to resist, he added, "I like that you're a girl with spirit, but hold on a little — until our guys sort things out."
"I feel sick," the girl's voice came from behind her broken mask. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"
"You will," Mereel assured her, pulling a backpack off his back. With a deft movement, he took out a radioprotector and administered a full dose into her neck, slightly pulling down her collar. "But in about a hundred years, most likely surrounded by great-grandchildren, in a caring and loving family."
Only then did the Null notice that everyone around was staring just at the two of them. Turning his head, he delicately apologized, got off the girl, and handed her the dagger hilt-first. The girl took her weapon back without fear. Exchanging glances, the other Nulls released their captives. But no one matched Mereel's gallantry — they could inject their own radioprotectors, and knives were no toys for women.
"As you can see," Kal stated, "we have the cure for radiation sickness. About ten million doses. Everything else is also the pure truth. I swear."
"Good," said the unnamed Mistryl woman. "I'll sort everything out with the others. You — deliver the medicine to our camp as fast as possible. The students will show you where it is."
With that, the woman turned and walked back to her people, leaving the clones bewildered. Shrugging, Kal waved his hand towards the ship, signaling for the clones and the Mistryl students to follow him on board.
"Er... that's it?" A'den clarified, once the hatch was sealed and the system began forced decontamination. "Just like that — easy?"
"Nothing is decided yet," said the girl who had been Mereel's test subject. "You've only bought yourselves the opportunity to demonstrate a gesture of goodwill. The Mistryl do not negotiate with representatives of a client. Only face-to-face with him."
"Isn't that a bit too much attitude for people living on a radioactive chunk of rock?" Prudii asked.
"Enough to understand that you're willing to go to great lengths to use our services," the same girl snorted.
"You're talkative, I see," Kal remarked. "Your friends haven't said a single word."
"I am Karoly D'ulin," she introduced herself. "And I am the commander of this training group. It's only logical that I'm the one speaking with you."
"Not a Hutta of logic," the Nulls replied in unison, drawing a smile on the faces of the Mistryl apprentices. Ordo briefly caught Karoly's appraising glance directed at Mereel, who was telling anecdotes. Hmm, interesting.
* * *
It's hard to say who was more surprised — the Republicans or the Separatists.
But the appearance of a heavy cruiser of the Subjugator-class, emerging from hyperspace just a few hundred kilometers away — practically right next to — from the orbit of the defensive stations at Saleucami, left no one indifferent.
"Fleet to battle stations," I ordered.
"Sir?" Declann looked at me in surprise.
"Begin moving toward orbit," I continued. "Weapons to maximum, shields as well."
"We're going after Grievous?" Oli, standing nearby, clarified.
"We're going after Saleucami," I explained.
Onboard the Subjugator — the twin of the Malevolent — there were no visible signs of serious damage. But the ship wasn't seeking a line engagement with us, even though it had every chance to simply tear our fleet apart.
The Separatists, however, 'greeted' it for us.
Several direct salvos struck the Subjugator before its shields were activated, giving it a brief respite. Then, apparently, the droids figured out who was friend and who wasn't, and stopped sandblasting the Separatist ship's hull. The battered giant, its engine nozzles flaring, raced behind the defensive line, intending to reach a geostationary orbit. Yes, that was its optimal position for engaging targets. Practically shooting-range conditions — you fire, and no turbolaser 'suitcases' come flying back at you.
"Master," Oli whispered. "I sense something strange on Grievous's ship…"
"You're not the only one," Omani supported her. "It feels like…"
"Girls," I asked, "quiet for a moment."
For now.
"Are we really going to attack Grievous's flagship in this disposition?" Utri asked distrustfully, rightly judging that orders to padawans didn't apply to her.
"We are," I agreed. "But by that point, the situation will have changed drastically."
Point 'two,' where the fleet had withdrawn to regroup, was only two station gun ranges away. So practically a stone's throw. No wonder our guns soon opened fire.
The stations responded, launching droid starfighters from their hangars, met by our own small craft. The remainder of the Separatist fleet, converging on the Subjugator, formed up between it and the stations, rapidly deploying their ships into the void to join the general festivities. Only the Subjugator remained silent, its hangars sealed, its weapons merely trained on us.
Interesting… The Banking Clan's defensive platforms — the stations — were positioned beyond Saleucami's geostationary orbit. That is, beyond the planet's gravitational pull, and therefore not rotating with it. The Subjugator and the other starships preferred to stay on the edge of gravity's reach, meaning if their systems were knocked out, crashing into the planet would be a simple matter.
"Very… strange behavior for Grievous," Xiann said, hinting at the holo-recording we'd watched not long ago.
"Perhaps," I agreed. "But entirely explainable — the droids were following orders and considered themselves safe under the protection of the defensive platforms and the Subjugator."
Finally, our ships made contact with the enemy. Fire was exchanged.
Spewing a torrent of tibanna and missiles, the Blade Fleet, at medium speed, ignoring dozens of hits to their hulls and the local novas of destroyed small craft, closed with the enemy. On one hand, it looked like mass suicide.
On the other… A tight formation, with the sole purpose of overlapping shields to increase overall defense, provided us with the most optimal protection against enemy fire.
So, in our sector, the enemy had just over thirty Recusants, a couple of Providences, and… the Subjugator. Added to all that — half a dozen stations, which, while not Golans, could still bite back ferociously. One of the Hammerheads exploded when a lucky salvo from the enemy ships finally broke through its shields, tearing the bow section apart. The ship, veering out of formation to the right, began ejecting escape pods and shuttles into space, after which the hyperdrive nuclear reactor core detonated. But the rest of the fleet's ships — destroyers, cruisers, and corvettes — managed to avoid significant damage in the opening clash.
Then, when the enemy ships were fully engaged in the battle and the droids cared about nothing else except stuffing us full of turbolaser bolts up to our absolute limit, the Subjugator opened its hangars and its guns came alive.
The first to be stunned by what was happening were the Jedi on the bridge.
"But that's…"
Like nuclear blossoms, all six defensive stations swelled and turned into glowing spheres. The nuclear flashes consumed a significant portion of the droid starfighters swarming nearby, the ones unlucky enough to be close.
But even less fortunate were the Separatist ships. Thousands of tons of debris, a shockwave, and hundreds of guns that depleted deflector shields in the blink of an eye. And all of it — from the side and from the stern. Where the Subjugator was positioned.
"Admiral Declann," I addressed the officer, who was so stunned that only memories remained of his battle meditation. "Order your gunners to shift fire from the Black Overlord to the Separatist ships. Matthew Mantrell, Deezy Azmo, and Spin Kotor, whose hulls are currently aboard that Subjugator, won't be very happy if their own comrades shoot them down."
"T-there are our people there?" Xiann Amersu gasped.
"Yes, ladies and gentlemen," I said with a cheerless grin. "Before you is the former flagship of Count Dooku's Dark Acolyte, Baron Nax Kirvan — the Sovereign — captured by me and commando squads during the operation to rescue Master Gallia. Our Trojan horse."
"You passed it off as General Grievous's ship!" Esterhazy guessed, earning a brief smile and an approving nod from me.
"But how did they fool the droids?" Zett Jukassa asked.
"How much skill does it take to assemble the right message from hundreds of holograms of General Grievous?" I shrugged. "Yes, Admiral, give the order to disable the Providence-class ships rather than destroy them. We've had quite a few losses lately — trophies won't hurt. Specifically, carrier destroyers."
"In that case, we should capture as many ships as possible," Padawan Bene suggested. I shrugged (in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king) and adjusted the order.
Concentrated fleet fire is terrifying. Especially when the turbolaser and missile strike of nearly a hundred ships literally strips away your shields, while the very angry ARC-170 fighters that left the Black Overlord's hangars carve vital parts of the enemy starships to pieces, sweeping guns, targeting systems, bridges… from their path.
Like a hot knife through butter, the Blade Fleet cut through the enemy's defensive formations. Dismembered Separatist starships, upon which thousands of clones rained down like peas from a shelf, swarming the ships like locusts.
Only, unlike the latter, the clones, chewing their way through emergency hatches and airlocks in the hulls of the Separatist starships, cared little about the ship owners' opinions. And they clearly weren't afraid of being swatted.
A few hours later, the remnants of the Separatist fleet and the personnel of the remaining Banking Clan orbital platforms ceased their resistance, turning into raw material for the smelter. The few organics who decided to surrender to the victors' mercy were sent on their final journey — through an open airlock.
A new rule now applied.
My forces take no prisoners.
And then the Blade Fleet, followed by the captured ships that couldn't move on their own, left the Saleucami system, leaving behind millions of pieces of debris — all that remained as a reminder of the Confederacy of Independent Systems fleet that had once been here.
* * *
General Grievous savored the moments of the upcoming operation in his mind as he led his flagship into battle. The victory he had won at Daalang was glorious, but it would be a pale shadow of what he intended to achieve by delivering a crushing blow against Dougan's fleet. Even the defeat at Lannik didn't particularly bother him.
As in the previous attack against the unsuspecting Republic fleet, this time he intended — even on a seriously damaged ship — to drop out of hyperspace and start sowing chaos in the enemy's ranks, relying on the power of his guns and the strength of his armor.
Yes, last time he had an entire fleet at his back; now, just one ship. But by the time he arrived at Saleucami, he would make use of the ships remaining in the system. In any case, there was nothing the Republic could oppose his Desolation with. Even the Kuat-built dreadnoughts, the Mandator IIs, wouldn't dare pursue him. Even if they knew exactly which routes he was taking to his target.
"General Grievous, two minutes until Saleucami," reported the droid navigator on the other side of the bridge.
"Prepare for it, weapons and defense systems to maximum," the cyborg commanded, impatiently awaiting the moment his ship would emerge from hyperspace so he could sink his teeth into the Republic ships. And then, tear out Dougan's throat, adding his lightsabers to his collection.
"Understood-understood."
If the general had been in his former body, he surely would have smiled, anticipating another slaughter. And even the sour face of the Acolyte Quinlan Vos couldn't spoil his moment of triumph.
He felt the familiar vibration of deceleration beginning, and the image in the viewport outside the battle bridge transformed from the whitish haze of hyperspace into the real darkness of space. They had arrived at the outer reaches of the Saleucami system, where solar gravity's effect was minimal, but only minutes of flight from the planet itself. To see the namesake world, surrounded by a network of orbital platforms. And not a single Separatist starship.
He thought: "This is impossible!"
How could he have lost over two hundred ships he'd left here in a day and a half? It was simply impossible!
"Contact the control center," he ordered. "And take us to high orbit over Saleucami, under the protection of the orbital platforms."
"Sir," the droid acknowledged. "But we have no communications systems…"
"Damn it," the general raged, punching the monitor of the nearest control terminal. "Then close with them like this — they won't mistake us for any other ship. Especially a Republic one."
Casting a glance at the Kiffar standing at the bridge entrance, who seemed asleep, frozen in one pose with his head bowed, Grievous snorted contemptuously. Never mind. He would contact command, conduct emergency repairs, pull reinforcements from nearby systems, and organize a search for Dougan's fleet — he couldn't have gotten far.
The Desolation moved unhurriedly toward geostationary orbit, easily entering the weapons range of the Banking Clan's orbital platforms. But, as was proper, they remained silent.
Instead, that same annoying droid opened its vocoder.
"Sir, from hyperspace…"
Grievous was momentarily stunned by what he saw before him: a Republic fleet that, having exited hyperspace, was pouring fire onto his ship from all guns, reinforcing its intent to destroy the Desolation with salvos of missiles that quite accurately turned everything that had once been the engines of the heavy Subjugator-class cruiser into scrap.
No more than a few seconds passed before the general realized — his flagship was dead in space. And the enemy was quite precisely burning out the last turbolaser towers.
"Sir, we are taking fire," the OOM droid demonstrated miraculous logic.
"I can see that, you fool!" Grievous roared. "Destroy the Republic ships."
"Uh… sir… the Banking Clan orbital platforms are also firing on us," the droid reported after a pause.
The cyborg howled with rage. A trap!
"Prepare the ship for battle and fight to the last," he ordered, heading for the bridge exit. The pair of MagnaGuards that accompanied him everywhere fell in behind the cyborg. However, to his considerable surprise, instead of Quinlan Vos, Grievous found the accursed Rick Dougan standing in the doorway. In the flesh.
"Grand Moff!" the cyborg exclaimed joyfully, shrugging off the folds of his cloak and arming himself with the lightsabers of the Jedi he had killed. The general had no time to figure out exactly how the Jedi had boarded his flagship. He had to fight his way to the hangar, where his Belbullab-24 assault starfighter awaited him, in which he intended to escape the trap. "You showed up!"
"General Grievous," Dougan said calmly, looking at the lightsaber in his hand. Then, as if weighing the pros and cons, to the cyborg's surprise, the man secured the weapon on his belt. "In a hurry?"
"As usual, getting ready to run," said the Kiffar, appearing on the bridge accompanied by a whole crowd of Jedi — mostly Twi'leks of various colors, but there were also human padawans among them. Another time, the general would have gladly cut them all down, but…
"Vos," he addressed him. "You've betrayed your masters again!"
"Not at all," Dougan countered. "My Wrath has never betrayed me. On the contrary — it facilitated our meeting, showing me the shortest route from the emergency hatch in the superstructure, where my invisible ship is docked, to the bridge itself. And I even brought an audience."
"You will all die here," Grievous promised darkly. Yes, Dougan wouldn't destroy the ship he was on himself. Which meant he could kill them all and then escape…
"No, General," Dougan shook his head. "Playtime is over. You killed my people — and that, I do not forgive. Unlike Hypori, there are no outside observers here. Everyone behind me is either already on my side, or will become so when I'm finished with you."
"Count Dooku taught me the intricacies of Jedi mastery, of lightsaber fencing," Grievous reminded, assuming the traditional Makashi stance.
This only drew a smile on Dougan's lips.
"Both Sith and Jedi are nothing compared to the might of the Unified Force," he said, but Grievous understood these words were meant more for the Jedi standing behind Dougan than for him. "And, to your misfortune, General, I don't have time for dancing with lightsabers."
"That's not very Jedi-like," Grievous laughed, spinning his lightsabers and taking a step toward Dougan.
"I'm not a Jedi," the man shrugged, thrusting his right hand out toward the general.
Expecting a discharge of electricity, the general positioned his weapons across the presumed trajectory of Force Lightning, but instantly realized he was mistaken when he sensed something invisible gripping his insides.
A split second before his organic parts were torn apart from within, he saw Dougan erect a transparent sphere of energy in front of himself, shielding himself and the Jedi behind him from the spray of finely atomized remains of the Supreme Commander of the Confederacy of Independent Systems' internal organs.