The bridge of the Calm was plunged into darkness, lit only by the dim glow of emergency lighting and the reflections from operational panels lining the bulkheads.
Rear Admiral Osvald Teshik, leaning against the edge of the tactical holographic table, studied the display of the star systems spread before him.
Centrality.
A galactic province.
Star systems on the very edge of the galaxy — difficult to reach and of abysmal strategic value. Especially those located in the part of the state furthest from the Core.
Besides, traveling through Centrality was, at times, a one-way ticket. It wasn't uncommon for travelers to simply run out of fuel trying to get from one end of Centrality to the other.
No wonder the Separatists had settled on Oseon — a fairly progressive and developed planet at the "entrance" to Centrality space.
Very little was known about this extremely remote region of the galaxy.
A Union of Independent Worlds, home to settlers dissatisfied with the policies of the Galactic Republic. And, according to intelligence from headquarters, life here was bleak for the colonists, but... quite productive. Lately, however, the planets had suffered crop failure, and the economy was in crisis. Wealthy worlds, like Oseon itself, weren't eager to waste their resources on distant, hard-to-reach planets. And when the representatives of the union of planets reached the peak of their outrage, the Separatists appeared in Centrality.
"The main objective of the Separatist squadron stationed on Oseon is to drain resources from the locals, promising wealthy industrialists protection from the Republic, which," the Jedi Ziltek smirked, "will 'inevitably arrive to seize the region's riches and use them for personal gain.'"
"Is that a quote?" Teshik asked.
"It certainly is," the Jedi confirmed. "Master Durmar and I spent a great deal of time here to understand — most worlds are on the brink of famine. Industry is stagnating. All the CIS cares about is the resources they buy at drastically reduced prices. The products — though simple and effective — don't interest the Separatists at all."
"I have no desire to wage war against farmers and factory workers," Teshik admitted. "When I received this assignment, I thought I'd be pacifying an entire sector loyal to the CIS, but here..."
"Here it's different," said the Jedi, who, contrary to his usual custom, was wearing armor. Very reminiscent of Mandalorian armor. Master Durmar.
Corobius, pretending to be a piece of furniture, listened silently to the proceedings. The Marshal of the 619th Star Corps was not a man of many words, preferring to express his intentions on the battlefield with walker fire and artillery. Against an enemy, not farmers. Raising arms against civilians... Yes, of course, they could be enemies, but... The 619th had never wished to shed the blood of innocents.
The Corps had been re-formed not too long ago — essentially, after the first year of the war, almost all corps with numbers from the 500th up had been disbanded and sent to reinforce other units suffering constant losses. Their corps had been in the thick of it at Aargonar, where Corobius and his men were "lucky" enough to serve under Generals Kenobi and Skywalker. Not that they were bad commanders, but... half the corps had vanished like a bantha licked them clean. And losing brothers was always hard. Even when you're fighting for a good cause.
"Ziltek and I have talked with the locals enough," Durmar continued. "They need help, but there aren't many Confederacy supporters outside Oseon. So I think we can get through this with minimal bloodshed. Kick the Separatists off Oseon — their squadron is just for show: one Trade Federation Lucrehulk-class battleship, a couple of Munificents, and a whole fleet — no less than thirty outdated freighters."
"What model?" Teshik asked.
"LH-3210 Lucrehulk-class cargo ships," Ziltek said. Corobius silently thanked his own foresight for not taking off his helmet during the briefing. The last thing he needed was others seeing a Jedi roll his eyes.
"Generals, are you out of your minds?" Teshik was taken aback. "I have one barely repaired Venator, ten Hammerheads, ten Marauders, and five Acclamators — with the troops of the 619th Star Corps, ammunition, supplies, reinforcements, and provisions for General George'o'George's and Unduli's detachments! Every one of those 'freighters' is armed with nearly thirty turbolaser twin mounts, and their shields are almost as strong as a Venator's deflectors!"
"Are difficulties troubling you, Rear Admiral?" Ziltek was surprised.
"What troubles me, General Ziltek, is that you sent a courier message saying the CIS had only three combat ships in Centrality," the admiral said through pursed lips. "But you somehow forgot to mention they have a fleet of armed freighters!"
"Our Acclamators..." Ziltek began, but the Rear Admiral cut him off.
"I have clear orders — to kick the Separatists off Oseon, because that's where the secret hyperspace route provided to me begins, leading to the Mon Calamari sector via Gand, Tung'l, Baros, and Dornea. And to deliver reinforcements to the frontline of the Heft Army. Not to start a battle for survival."
"And headquarters rated you quite highly," Ziltek said quietly.
"I'm not a Jedi," Teshik spread his hands. "And I'm not even training to be one. I can't wreck thirty-one battleships with only a dozen and a half line ships."
"I'm sorry, Rear Admiral," Durmar said quietly, "that my comrade's reports misled you, however... These ships arrived after the message was sent. Apparently, they're here for resources. Of course, we could wait until they finish loading on each planet in Centrality and..."
"That could take weeks," Corobius said.
"Reading my mind," Teshik nodded to the clone. "We have a week to reach Mon Calamari — otherwise the entire offensive plan goes to hell."
"So," Ziltek ran a hand over his face, "we'll have to deal with these ships."
"We?" Oswald snorted. "You were just gathering intelligence. My orders are to give you a shuttle to return to Christophsis."
"Written by the Grand Moff?" Durmar clarified.
"No," Teshik shook his head. "Signed by General Jin..."
"In that case," Ziltek and Durmar exchanged glances, "you've delivered the order. You don't have the right to force us to carry it out, do you, Rear Admiral?"
"Jedi sabotaging orders?" Teshik exchanged a look with Corobius. Yeah, the clone thought. That's news.
"We'll answer to the Grand Moff," Durmar declared firmly. "But it's better that we answer for our own mistakes personally. We are at your full disposal, Rear Admiral."
"There wasn't a single Jedi around, and now there's a pair," Oswald's eyes widened. But the officer quickly got a grip. "We'll have to think hard... A frontal assault is out of the question of course..."
Despite the fact that the Rear Admiral's face wasn't very expressive, Corobius — even though he'd only been attached to the Shield fleet for the last two months — noticed a smile play across the man's features.
"Corobius," Teshik looked at him. "Remember the exercises on Ukio?"
"Hard to forget, sir," the Marshal admitted. "The 'Gleaming' are still cleaning the armor. You don't mean to..."
"Do you have any other ideas for doing this quickly without derailing the entire operation's tempo?"
"Sir," the Marshal squared his shoulders habitually and put his hands behind his back. "The 619th will carry out any order."
"So be it," Teshik smiled, turning his gaze to the bewildered Jedi. "I think we'll all face the tribunal. But Heft will get its reinforcements."
"You want to engage the enemy in battle and let the transport convoy slip past along the route right under their noses?" Ziltek guessed.
"Something like that," Teshik nodded. "Something like that..."
* * *
"Jedi scum," the Morgukai loomed before her, raising his pike. On his face, twisted with rage, notes of triumph appeared.
Ahsoka tried to reach for her lightsaber hilt, but... It lay only half a meter away, and she had no strength left.
For the first time in her sixteen years of life, the girl understood that it was time to die.
The Nikto moved forward to deliver a killing blow, but at that same moment, an alarm sounded behind him, ringing deafeningly through the laboratory, followed by the rumble of a collapsing ceiling.
It gave her only a moment — a trifle for the universe, but a chance to survive for her.
The girl swept his leg, then, opening herself to the Force, pulled her weapon to her. The Togruta assumed a combat stance, intending to continue the fight, desperately trying to steady her battered body after the previous duel.
But no one seemed to remember her.
He was looking at a figure in a black cloak, stained with dust and scraps of other people's bodies. The figure standing in the center of the hole was looking at Ahsoka.
"What do you say?" Dougan asked.
"Thank you, teacher," the girl tried to smile.
"That's better," the Emperor wagged a finger. "What is it with women... Can't even take down a single Morgukai..."
"I'll rip out your innards!" the Nikto howled, charging at the man with his weapon.
"At least I'll warm up," a golden blade grew from the man's hand, meeting the Morgukai's pike. Both energy weapons locked in a bind, then Rick grabbed the enemy with the Force using his free hand and hurled him over himself with monstrous speed, slamming the humanoid into a pile of stone debris that, just a couple of minutes ago, had been part of the ceiling.
A disgusting squelching sound, mingled with the crunch of broken bones, rang out. But no one made a sound. Not even when Dougan, grabbing the carcass with the Force, hurled it over himself again — this time, headfirst into the floor. Accompanied by the distinct crack of a shattered skull.
"And don't get up," the Emperor commanded the corpse. Then, returning his weapon to his belt, he beckoned the Togruta over.
"You should be ashamed, young lady," he remarked reproachfully when Ahsoka reached him. "One single Morgukai, and you wasted so much time..."
"Forgive me, lord," Tano said guiltily. "He... turned out to be stronger than I expected."
"Are you serious?" the Emperor chuckled, stepping over the bloody corpse of the Nikto. "Easy as pie..."
"Well, you know, if I had the same connection to the Force and the knowledge that you have, I would have turned him into ground meat too," the Togruta rubbed her bruised shoulder. "Besides, nobody's perfect. Not even you."
"And what do I have to do with it?"
"You snore at night," the girl muttered. "First you deprive a girl of sleep, and then you don't even let her catch up..."
"I don't snore," Dougan corrected, "I protect you, scaring away the bogeyman."
"The bogey... who?" the girl didn't understand.
"It's a terrible monster from my home planet," Rick said with mock seriousness. "It hides under the bed and drags all disobedient children who stay up at night and dare to dangle their feet off the bed into its dark dimension..."
"And these monsters haven't been wiped out yet?" Ahsoka was horrified. Then, hearing the chuckles from under the Emperor's mask, she pouted and said:
"You made up all that stuff about the bogeyman, didn't you?"
"Well, say that to any other Emperor," the Force-users easily returned to the upper floor through the hole in the ceiling, "and you'd already be having a chat with a couple of commissars in a dark room."
"So, should I go to the headquarters and wait there for them to come for my soul?" catching the man's lighthearted mood, the girl joked.
"No, I'm in a good mood today," the man put his arm around her shoulders.
"What for?"
"Well, while you were running from a single Morgukai, Oli, along with Flash and the guys from the 204th, broke into the cloning labs and took up defensive positions. So all we have to do is find the remaining horned guys with light pikes..."
They were just approaching an intersection of corridors when the Emperor suddenly stopped, holding the girl back with his hand.
And then it began.
The Emperor spun with his sword raised, activating it mid-motion. The golden blade pierced the decorative panel of the corridor, after which Rick deactivated the weapon, and another Morgukai crashed to the floor under its own weight. With a barely visible cut where, on living members of his species, the forehead protrusions would be.
"What talented guys," the man snorted, throwing his hand forward and pushing back another Morgukai who was standing a meter away and using Force Mask.
"Step aside, little one," he said to Ahsoka, standing in front of her. "Dad's here."
"Or maybe you could just tear him to pieces and we move on?" Ahsoka suggested.
"Too easy," the man cut her off. "These guys carve up Force-users like kebabs with ease — I need to understand why everyone's so afraid of them."
"So I just stand here and don't interfere?" the Togruta asked offendedly.
"Watch and cover my back," the Morgukai, twisting, jumped to his feet, pulling a light pike from his back. "It's highly unlikely he's alone."
Without waiting for her reaction, he lunged forward and found himself face to face with his opponent. His lightsaber activated and hummed.
The Nikto answered with a furious roar. His energy pike flew up and sharply came down, while his left hand rose up, gripping the weapon's handle. He charged forward, both blades meeting with a characteristic crack. A long, terrible cry was still coming from the Nikto's maw.
There was no trace of art or form in his first attack. It was too late for that, and the Emperor seemed to know it. They broke distance, then charged at each other head-on again, like animals, hacking and blocking blows, spinning across the open space of the floor. Every time their blades clashed, Ahsoka felt the echo of the impacts, which seemed to shake everything around.
She watched as Rick studied the Morgukai's weak points — or hoped he had them — but the Nikto seemed to anticipate every move. Compared to the clone she had dealt with before, this one was incredibly fast, irresistibly strong. For every attack from her lord, the pike reacted instantly, as if it already knew the duel's outcome.
It was highly unusual. This Morgukai clearly knew how to fence. He tried to overwhelm with brute force; several times she noticed elements of Djem So — so fast and precise it seemed he had trained with the Troll himself. Apparently, this was what the Emperor wanted to identify as the Morgukai's limit, using his virtuoso Niman, standing like an immovable boulder in the center of the corridor, blocking the enemy's passage forward.
Nevertheless, for some reason, he was still letting the Nikto attack, not transitioning into counterattacks himself. The man's movements seemed almost ethereal, a mad blur, as if composed of a dozen golden blades cutting through the air.
Ahsoka watched as the Nikto lunged forward again, trying to get closer, but the Emperor didn't budge to step back. He kept deflecting the blows, his lips moving. Tano couldn't make out what he was saying, and when the Morgukai raised his pike for a final strike — a short thrust aimed at the heart — her hearing told her that the Emperor wasn't just amusing himself with this game; he was laughing from the heart.
The Nikto delivered the final, killing blow that was supposed to destroy Dougan. It was then that the latter looked at him and made a gesture with his fingers toward the Nikto's energy weapon.
The space above the latter's hand trembled.
And the energy pike went out.
The Morgukai hesitated for a second, and that was enough for the Emperor.
He lowered his blade and snapped his fingers in front of his opponent's face with his free hand.
The next instant, the Morgukai's head exploded, splattering the snow-white walls with chunks of brain and fragments of skull. The decapitated corpse dropped to its knees, then toppled sideways.
"Interesting," the Emperor said. "Brute force, a semblance of Djem So... Yes, these guys are clearly a threat to unsuspecting Force-users."
"Seems like a piece of cake to me," Ahsoka declared, brushing pieces of the enemy's brain from her forehead. "Took you about two minutes?"
"Seventy-three seconds," the Emperor specified. "Remind me, when we're done, to talk to Lady Zavros — we need to send information about these Jedi hunters to the Academy."
"Only if you promise not to shower me with other people's insides anymore," the Togruta requested.
"I can't promise anything," the Emperor smirked. "Besides, you look more... alluring when something's dripping down your face..."
"Hint taken," the girl nodded. "Tonight in your tent..."
"Do you have the slave girl outfit with you?" ignoring the fact that his entire chestplate was splattered with someone else's brains, the Emperor put his arm around the girl.
"It's the first thing I pack in my travel bag," Ahsoka admitted.
"Good girl," the Emperor praised.
"Of course," Ahsoka nodded affirmatively. "I can do everything a bad girl can, but as a good girl, I do it ten times better."
* * *
"We've just lost the Daring," the senior officer informed Zsinj.
Through the viewport, the Rear Admiral could see the doomed Hammerhead dying in a series of explosions.
Sad.
The vanguard was completely destroyed. Yes, there were now a sea of escape pods and debris on Allantin IV's orbit. But you always had to sacrifice the lesser for the greater.
"Shield status," he demanded. His flagship, leading the second division, had just absorbed a series of volleys from an enemy Providence. And the groups of Recusants guarding the Separatist flagship.
"About twenty percent," the clone responded.
"Our losses?" Zsinj hissed.
"Seven Hammerheads destroyed, another three out of action, twelve Marauders managed to break through the flank and continue fighting with moderate damage," the senior officer reported. "The remaining ships have minimal damage."
"The enemy?"
"About fifty of their ships are heavily damaged and withdrawing from combat — trying to fall back to the shipyards."
"Send boarding parties with escort from the third battle group ships," the Rear Admiral ordered.
"Aye, sir," the senior officer began relaying the order.
Zsinj stood on the bridge, feeling trickles of sweat running down his back.
Too... complicated.
Too many ships. Too much to keep in his head. Even the tactical computers couldn't handle the information processing. And a lot depended on the speed of data processing from the battlefields.
Why hadn't Dougan sent someone more competent here? No, Zsinj didn't doubt his own abilities. And he had considerable ambition.
But he simply lacked experience commanding such large formations. And because of that, it seemed to him that his ships were taking far greater losses than the enemy.
Even though the numbers said the exact opposite. Still, the Rear Admiral believed that any of his comrades could have done better and achieved it with fewer losses.
His flagship, as soon as its shield power dropped below ten percent, banked into a turn, presenting its underside to the enemy — the lower deflectors were untouched, and the hangar was sealed tight. Another hour was thus won in the line.
The flagship's air wing, taking advantage of the respite, began launching from the main hangar, thankfully the Marauders surrounding the Venator were very effectively nullifying any enemy fighter craft. Meanwhile, the enemy flagship was in for a big surprise...
In the form of bomber squadrons, which, using the advantage of A-wing cover, made a short dash to close proximity with the Providence, instantly inflicting massive damage from bow to stern.
"Enemy flagship disabled," the senior officer reported. Zsinj smirked, tugging at his mustache. Yes, this guy, even though he was a clone, was quite efficient. Maybe he should be promoted to ship commander? After the first skirmish at New Cov, the flagship had lost its captain — a Hutt Vulture droid had somehow decided there was no more glorious death for a droid than ramming the command bridge. Luckily, Zsinj himself had been on the second "promenade" at the time, personally coordinating the air wing operations.
"Neutralize the engines," he ordered, remembering a directive that had recently come down from the Gent System Army headquarters — at every opportunity (meaning minimal possible risk and maximum efficiency) to board enemy ships. The value of such ships was, of course, questionable — the technical level of Republic and Separatist starships was vastly different. And you couldn't just swap parts from one to the other. No matter how hard you tried.
Yet, for some reason, the Grand Moff demanded not destruction, but capture of Separatist starships. Rear Admiral Teshik, licking his wounds on Ukio, had even developed several scenarios for such operations. But not all of them could be tested in practice. Before, if a landing force was deployed on board, it was commandos, and on special ships. But landing a boarding party from a Star Destroyer... That was something new in the military craft.
If only there were models of landing or boarding bots for such occasions — droids had it easier, they had such a ship. And the B-2 super battle droids themselves could fly in vacuum and atmosphere and could get through any breach.
Essentially... The third division, which had chased after the Separatist cripples, was supposed to do just that. Why else would the Marauders have turned them into sieves? True, even for clones in upgraded armor — the Infiltrator — with jetpacks on their backs, it was far less convenient than for droids. Still, compared to the Phase 1 armor, where survival in space was limited only by the thermal suit's durability and the clone's ability to seal the suit-helmet joint (a surprise for the Republic army from the manufacturer — the suit could protect a clone from vacuum for about half an hour, but the problem was that it didn't seal hermetically with the helmet. At all.), the Infiltrator was a goddamn full-fledged spacesuit, where the "collar" preventing air from escaping the helmet was structurally provided. But throughout the first year, most clones had to jury-rig such a device — even if they were clones, the guys really wanted to live.
When the upper deflectors had recovered by a third, Zsinj ordered the ship to be turned back to its normal position. The engine boost allowed the entire second division to close with the enemy — besides the Providence, which was trying to flee to the side, a couple of Recusants were also looking worse for wear. But they would be dealt with by the escort ships. Zsinj himself intended to deal with the enemy commander.
Even the fact that it wasn't this Separatist tactical droid who had sent Kreeves, Vahr, and Shirano to their deaths couldn't save him from his fate. Rumors about this had already spread among the traders traversing the entire territory under the control of Grand Moff Dougan's forces. And every officer who knew that trio felt the blood boil in their veins with the desire to tear Grievous apart. Too bad the Grand Moff had already done it — holoshots of the Separatist general's carcass welded to the nose of the Spirit of Fire had swept through the entire Rapier fleet hours before the assault on Allantin IV. And sparked very lively discussions, usually boiling down to the fact that serving under Dougan's command was a blessing. After all, what other Jedi would avenge his slain admirals? The dead cyborg was also blamed for the death of Admiral Strikelenn during the Second Battle of Kamino... All in all, for quite understandable reasons, the concept of "Jedi justice," which had been forgotten in recent years, had found a second life. Although it was associated with a very specific person.
Watching the enemy flagship in apparent desperation trying to break away from the Venator closing in above it, Zsinj grimly imagined the lower hangar opening and hundreds of clones with jetpacks rushing toward the Providence's hull to finish the work their comrades had started outside from within.
"As soon as the boarding parties land, we withdraw to the third group," he ordered. "Leave a couple of corvettes for protection. The second group will manage without us from here. We need to escort General Keto's landing force to the shipyards."
"It will be done, Rear Admiral," his future flagship commander assured him.
Zsinj, smoothing his mustache again, smiled. A funny situation. Just as the battle had begun, he was full of despair, and now, as soon as he thought about the Grand Moff... His mind cleared, his thoughts fell into place, and the entire picture of events literally printed itself before his eyes.
Yeah... Glancing at the chronometer, the Rear Admiral noted the time. When the battle ended, he should request statistical data. His intuition told him that his composure had returned for a reason. And most likely — not to him alone.
* * *
"Your opinion, gentlemen?" Admiral Tigellinus inquired, looking at the beings standing at attention before him.
"Omati is an extremely ambiguous target, sir," the commander of the flagship Star Destroyer Avatar from the Stiletto fleet stated decisively. "The Separatists haven't built any bases on the surface, they don't oppress the natives. And from the fleet — only twenty Generous and one Lucrehulk-class battleship."
"Only that," grumbled Corvo, the commander of the Golden Squadron — the best bomber pilots in the entire fleet. "Captain Lag, if you've noticed: the enemy has distributed his forces quite competently — the ships are concentrated at the jump points out of hyperspace."
"To be precise — only at one," Consul, the commander of the 187th Squadron, corrected. "They're not expecting an attack from the Sunrafrsix side…"
"…because that planet, like the entire sector it's in, is in Separatist hands," Dimus Lag finished for him. "Yes, squadron commander, I'm aware of that."
"In that case," Corvo smoothed the short buzz of hair on his head, "I don't understand how you intend to launch a surprise attack if their long-range detection systems will spot us the moment we leave this temporary anchorage in the Arbra system."
"And no guesses at all?" the admiral inquired.
Corvo and Consul exchanged glances.
"Permission to speak frankly, sir?" the latter asked.
"By all means," Tigellinus nodded.
"The strategic planning of a system army's actions is handled by its command. The tactical resolution of assigned tasks — by the fleet command. We are squadron commanders. We only carry out orders and…"
"Don't sell yourself short, Consul," Dimus Lag smirked. "You are the squadron COs of the best squadrons in the entire fleet. Minimal losses. Maximum victories. That's why you're here."
"Sir?" Corvo tensed noticeably. Consul, squinting, looked at the Avatar's commander in turn, then at the fleet commander. "Is this a secret mission for us?"
"Exactly," the admiral leaned forward, his fingers dancing over the keyboard. The image above the holoprojector changed. "We know that the Separatist group on Omati is commanded by a tactical droid. His method of repelling an attack is predictable — launch the fighter wings, deploy them to meet the enemy, support his fighters and bombers with long-range fire."
"Are you suggesting we play on that?" Consul perked up.
"Exactly," the admiral nodded. "The remaining ships are under the command of OOM droids — they're slightly smarter than regular B-1s, but the same being wrote the programming code for all of them. We destroy the flagship — we deprive their fleet of unified coordination. And while they're figuring out who's in charge, we can destroy or capture most of those ships with minimal losses…"
"Sir, what is your certainty based on that the commander of this unit is a droid? And not a regular being?" Corvo inquired.
The admiral, looking at the flagship destroyer's commander, gave him the floor.
"We've been observing the key systems of nearby sectors for a long time," Dimus Lag explained. "On Omati and on Cabal — the commanders are droids. But here it's a simple tactician, whereas on Cabal — it's a Separatist novelty — a tactical super droid. That one will take some work…"
"Not an easy task," the admiral agreed. "By the time we reach Utapau, our losses will be heavy. But there's a war on, we have to understand that sacrifices must be made."
"Maybe it's not my place, sir," Consul said in the most peaceful tone possible, "but… Perhaps we should remind HQ that of all the tasks assigned to us — only Utapau is in our area of responsibility. Everything else is on the conscience of the Ninth System Army."
"Let Grand Moff Grant's 'Arkanian boys' make the sacrifices," Corvo supported.
"I understand your indignation, Commanders," Rufaan admitted. "However, command has given us a task — capture Utapau. And the easiest way to do that is to go through the planets and sectors of the Sunrafrsix Corridor. Even if that is beyond our area of responsibility."
"It's obvious that the task set before us is part of a larger plan," the Avatar's commander said. "We have a severe time crunch, which means we simply have no time to discuss Grand Moff Dougan's orders. Or to request clarification on them."
"Sir, we didn't talk about disobeying the order," Consul clarified. "We only pointed out that we are conducting military operations outside our area of responsibility. The charter requires us to inform the neighbors…"
"Our 'neighbors' from the Iok System Army," Admiral Tigellinus spoke up, "have frankly lost most of the territories that bordered ours. Eriadu is under heavy siege, and command understands that. Probably, placing the Sunrafrsix Corridor under our army's command is insurance in case we are ordered to move on Eriadu to save the backsides of Grand Moff Octavian Grant and his 'Arkanian boys'."
"Either way, our primary task is the capture of the Omati system," Dimus Lag reminded. "And the first part of that plan is the destruction of the enemy flagship by…"
"…the Golden and 187th Squadrons," Corvo continued. Meeting the destroyer commander's gaze, the CO of the 'Beaver' squadron allowed himself a smile. "Thank you for the clarification, sir, but we've already figured out what's what. Correct me if I'm wrong — our squadrons are supposed to jump to the enemy flagship while the Separatist fighters and starships are exchanging fire with our fleet's ships. The ARC-170s cover the bombers, which break through the Lucrehulk's anti-aircraft artillery and take it out…"
"As you can see, Rear Admiral," the captain looked at Tigellinus, "I told you the absolute truth — these two are the best executors for the planned operation."
"Never doubted it," the admiral flattered the clones. "Just let me remind you once more — not 'take it out,' but 'destroy it.' Yes, I remember command's directive about capturing enemy ships," he reassured Consul, who had tried to object. "But nothing can guarantee the enemy commander's death like the explosion of his vessel's reactors."
"You're right, sir," Corvo nodded affirmatively. "Once we blow that Lucrehulk to pieces, we'll start shooting down any flying scrap — to prevent any escape from the flagship."
"Glad I wasn't wrong about you," Tigellinus praised, checking his chronometer. "You're dismissed. Your fighters must be ready to strike in seven hours."
"Yes, sir," saluting, both clones headed for the exit.
* * *
"Are you certain of your vision, Anjey-Ka?" a member of the Triad asked him in an even voice.
"Yes," the Voss stated confidently. "I've been analyzing the vision for weeks. And I only reported it to you after I was certain of its authenticity."
The Triad exchanged glances.
Standing before the three rulers of Voss, Anjey-Ka felt no reverent awe. Or enthusiastic admiration.
To him, these three were the same Voss Mystics as himself. Possibly — more powerful. Possibly — not.
In fact, that was what he was about to test now.
For over three thousand years, Voss had known no bloody battles. For three thousand years, neither Sith nor Jedi had troubled them. And galactic politics had passed this small world by. And its population lived as before — in harmony and prosperity.
Many — Jedi in particular — considered the Voss, a humanoid race versed in the Force, to be "gray." Because the Voss did not divide the Force into Dark and Light sides. The Voss did not seek power through the Force. They did not subjugate other peoples to their will. They did not use it for violence.
The Voss were peace-loving. Despite the fact that their planet had enough advanced technology, the Voss did not strive to explore the galaxy. Their homeworld — Voss — gave them everything they needed. And they desired nothing more.
Voss had long since healed the terrible wounds of the Great Galactic War. The atrocities of the Eternal Empire were forgotten. The thousands of dead had passed into the past.
It seemed that peace and tranquility had returned to Voss. Three thousand years outside galactic life. Three thousand years of prosperity…
And now — a vision.
Not every Voss was gifted enough in the Force to develop their talent and become a Mystic — a seer whose predictions always came true. Though the Voss were peace-loving, their commandos were always ready to repel any attack.
Anjey-Ka came from a hereditary family of Mystics. Handling the Force came as easily to him as breathing. His predictions about lean years and droughts always came true. And, to be honest, he thought he would spend the rest of this life quietly and peacefully.
But a little over a week ago, he had seen the future… As always, the pictures of what was to come were clear, unambiguous. He was like an observer watching events through thousands of eyes. He saw fire from the heavens. Soldiers clad in snow-white armor, sweeping everything in their path. The merciless extermination of Voss.
He saw newborn children wailing, watching as identical-faced soldiers raped and killed their mothers, slit the throats of their fathers, brothers, and sisters. He saw that these twins with weapons exterminated everyone they saw. They spared no one, had no pity for anyone. They brought death to all of Voss.
He saw with what ferocity the Gormak — the second race inhabiting Voss — tried to put up resistance. He saw valleys filled with the bodies of Gormak. He saw mountains of bones reaching to the heavens and blazing fires where the capital — Voss-Ka — once stood.
Had he not been a Mystic, his heart would have burst when he saw his wife decapitated by a blow from a lightsaber, wielded by a figure in a black cloak and sealed armor. He felt the terror of his children, watching the monster. He saw them screaming and writhing in agony as the man in black incinerated them with Force Lightning.
Time and again, he ran this vision through himself. Noting every detail. He visited many settlements and hollows, comparing their landscapes with what he had seen in the prophecy.
And only then did he come to the Triad — when he understood that the vision of the future was infallible.
The Triad continued their deliberation.
Anjey-Ka did not interrupt this process. He knew that from ancient times, the Triad listened to the Mystics whose predictions had no margin of error. If Jedi and Sith could only see possible futures, the Voss Mystics saw the future. A strict causal link.
And because of this, they could influence their future. Avoid danger.
That's why the Voss would never disappear…
"Your prediction is grim," the First stated.
"It inspires concern," the Second said.
"And the future must be changed," the Third concluded.
"You know how," the First stated.
"We see that you are capable of it," the Second continued.
"The salvation of our people is in your hands," the Third completed the circle of responses.
"I have information on how to avoid this," Anjey-Ka confirmed. "But I will have to leave Voss."
"We grant you that right," the First permitted.
"Once I leave Voss, there will be no turning back," Anjey-Ka warned. "We will no longer be able to remain isolated from the rest of the galaxy."
"A small price to pay to save Voss," the Second declared. "Traditions are nothing when there is no one left to uphold them."
So that's how it was… Previously, the Voss had not been frightened by such trifles as galactic wars… The traditions of planetary isolation and the closed nature of Voss society had always been paramount for the Triad.
"It's not frightening to become part of something greater if it brings good," the Third echoed him.
"Take a ship and go to the stars," the First commanded. "Speak in our name. Be perceptive and impeccable, as always. Make no concessions and do whatever is necessary to save Voss."
"I will not let you down, Triad." Anjey-Ka gave a slight bow, then turned and strode away from the Voss rulers' residence.
Using transport, he reached his dwelling. Though he had the right to live with his family, he preferred to distance himself from them, retreating into the mountains whenever another vision overtook him.
At the entrance to the spacious grotto that served him as both dwelling and meditation place, he noted that nothing had changed during his absence.
Stepping inside, he soon found himself in the farthest part of the cave.
There, sitting cross-legged, listlessly watching the fire, was his guest.
"It's done," he said dryly.
"You settle things quickly," the guest smirked.
"The Triad does not like bureaucracy," the Voss informed her. "And even more so in a matter concerning the survival of an entire species."
"You're lucky with your government," the woman sitting across from him acknowledged. "The rest of the galaxy can only dream of something like that…"
"We have little time," the Voss reminded her. "I must meet with your master and discuss many matters."
"The ship is already ready," thin hands emerged from the cloak the woman was wrapped in, reaching toward the fire. "If it's not a secret, Anjey-Ka, why did you approach me first? And not go directly to the Triad straight away?"
"My ancestors believed that you would appear when we faced mortal danger," the Voss said. "It was so before, and it is happening now."
"And you're not even curious why, after so many years, I'm still alive?" the woman wondered.
"That has nothing to do with saving Voss, Kira Carsen," Anjey-Ka noted. "You were here when the Hero of Tython revealed our shared past with the Gormak, putting an end to hundreds of years of bloodshed. You were invisibly here when the Hero of Tython saved us from the soldiers of the Eternal Empire. Who else but you would I turn to for help when we face genocide?"
"For example," a voice sounded from the dark corner of the cave, "me. I'm not downplaying my merits, but I've also done something for Voss's well-being."
"Nadia Grell," Anjey-Ka instantly recognized the second Jedi woman, whose images had been passed down in his family from generation to generation. His ancestors assured him that these two women would help in the most difficult hour that would come in Voss's history.
Small wonder that, having verified the truth of his prophecy, Anjey-Ka followed his ancestors' instructions and contacted Kira Carsen through the Force. Simply because she had been his role model since childhood.
"I didn't mean to offend you," he admitted. "But what's done is done. I can only offer my apologies. And praise Kira Carsen's foresight for coming here with you."
"No, I don't mind being remembered after three thousand years," the girl smiled.
"I saw that with either of you, I could save Voss much faster than alone," Anjey-Ka explained. "I don't know who your master is, but he literally eludes me in the Force. As if dissolving in it…"
"Yes, he can afford such games with the Force," Nadia agreed. "If we weren't connected to him — finding him across the galaxy would be a problem."
"Exactly," Anjey-Ka confirmed. "That's why I called you… Called Kira Carsen."
Nadia Grell pretended not to notice the slip.
"But how desperate must you guys be, if you're not trying to solve your own problems yourselves? Before, you managed without any trouble…"
"Before, the great evil wasn't interested in all of Voss," Anjey-Ka noted. "Now… It has taken form. And it's ready to drown the galaxy in blood. Voss is the most optimal target for the first strike. The death of so many beings will make it immortal again…"
"Please, don't say that," Kira grimaced. "The Emperor would be very happy about an alliance with Voss, but he would definitely not be in the mood for…"
"Emperor Vitiate has resurrected," Anjey-Ka announced. "The final months of all living things have begun…"
"Well, great…" Kira drawled. "I asked you not to say it."
"Here we go again?" Nadia asked rhetorically.
"Yep," the girl by the fire nodded. "Sometimes I think I'll die of old age before that bastard does."
"Let's hope the Emperor doesn't kill us the moment we show up with a Mystic before his bright eyes," Nadia lamented.
"If not one, then the other," Kira shrugged. "What difference does it make which one finally derails my life and makes it truly unbearable?"
Anjey-Ka opened his mouth to say something… But the Force presented him with another puzzle piece of the future. The Voss, looking over the pictures of what was to come, concluded that now was the time to remain silent.
It would be better for Voss that way.
* * *
Fakir, finishing an ascending loop, saw the Subjugator change course and accelerate. It took him a few seconds to understand the enemy commander's intention.
"Blade-Leader," he heard the dispatcher's voice in his helmet. "Attack the Subjugator's hyperdrive."
"Copy that, control," the squadron CO responded. "Blades, we need to give this overgrown one some grief."
Switching to the fleet's tactical frequency, the squadron commander heard the vice-admiral's order:
"Squadrons Scimitar and Sledgehammer, concentrate fire on the Subjugator!"
After his command, those designated units, battered in previous battles, somewhat patched up, but already having taken enormous losses in this engagement, continued their unequal and deadly fight against the most monstrous opponent of the entire two-thousand-plus strong Confederacy of Independent Systems fleet.
Space was choked with Separatist ships.
Rebels, Providences, Kontoses, Generous, Lucrehulks, hundreds of smaller but no less dangerous starships were in constant motion, wreathed in turbolaser fire.
The Republic fleet, outnumbered four to one in total, surpassed the Separatists only in the number of small craft.
Fakir blew apart a Vulture that flashed before him with a burst, rolled his craft onto the left plane, escaping a surprisingly persistent pursuer on his tail. What a persistent dura-steel bastard!
That Hutt-damned machine, called a Droid tri-fighter, had been encountered for the first time precisely in orbit of Felucia. And it had almost immediately proven to Republic pilots that the Separatists still had ways to surprise their opponents.
Unlike the Vultures, the Droid tri-fighters were much faster, more maneuverable, and more deadly than the enemy's other small craft. The only saving grace was that the Separatists had managed to churn out only a very small number of these bastards.
So the Republic pilots once again thanked the foresight of their Grand Moff, who had purchased twenty-five thousand Torrents from the Roche asteroids — machines that weren't the most powerful, but were fast and maneuverable. And, most importantly — there were a lot of them.
But, fortunately for Fakir and the other ARC-170 pilots, now mounted on the tails of their machines was no longer a heavy laser cannon, but a rapid-fire quad-gun. Which instantly vaporized the Droid tri-fighter the moment it entered the gunner's targeting reticle. The danger had passed. For now. But how many more lay ahead…
Perhaps for the first time since the war began, the Republic and the Confederacy had matched each other in the number of small craft in a single large battle. But any being understood that in such a battle, numerically inferior in capital ships, the Republic could not win.
Vice Admiral Pellaeon had seen no need to share the reasoning behind why it was necessary to gather all available reserves, leaving only the slow Dreadnoughts to defend the borders of Lantilles, Gizer, and Uiter — the most vulnerable and critically important worlds for maintaining strategic initiative.
Perhaps, of course, this had been communicated to the squadron commanders, but… Who's going to tell a lowly squadron CO about something like that?
And at the same time, it was unclear why Admiral Trench, commanding the entire group, with an advantage over the enemy, was trying to leave the Felucia system. His Subjugator alone could have blasted apart the entire battle group of Commodores Autumn and Parck, which had swarmed it from all sides and was hosing the impenetrable hull of the superdreadnought with streams of missiles and turbolaser bolts. But for some reason, he didn't stop to turn broadside to his enemies and sweep them off his tail, allowing the squadrons to keep clinging to the superdreadnought's tail.
Trench's desperate actions, abandoning the fleet and retreating on his own, were tantamount to suicide and had no chance of success, but that didn't stop Fakir from cursing him. Because this giant's gunners fired fast and accurately. Droids don't fire like that.
The enemy flagship, leaving its starships on the light side of Felucia, was rounding the planet on a geostationary orbit, clearly intending to escape. But, by the Hutt, why?!
And suddenly he understood.
Right after the entire local meat grinder — the Subjugator, two squadrons, and the Blade squadron in the front ranks of it all — ended up on the dark side of Felucia.
And the squadron CO saw with his own eyes half a dozen Republic Acclamators that had just emerged from hyperspace.
"Blade-Leader to Control!" Fakir hailed. "Did your religion forbid you from telling us that our attack was just a diversion for a planetary landing?"
"Control to Blade-Leader," the dispatcher responded sluggishly. "That's above your pay grade. Destroy the Subjugator's hyperdrive and don't you dare approach the Acclamators."
Are you out of your mind, kid? Fakir fumed. Trench is going to tear them apart. What the hell is going on? Why are Autumn's and Parck's ships pulling back?
It was hard to understand. How could fleet ships be slowly but steadily increasing the distance from their opponent when he was unmistakably charging toward the ships with the landing force. Considering that those ships still hadn't launched their fighter wing — if they even had one here. If only for a moment, consider how many ground forces were preparing to land… The guys must be stacked on top of each other in there!
It seemed control had decided to sacrifice them. Or had accepted their loss.
"Blades," Fakir cleared his throat and opened the comm channel. "I don't know what game command is playing here, but we have to do everything to stop this monster from reaching our landing force."
"There are two problems, Commander," one of the pilots chimed in. "First — how do we do that?"
"I don't know," Fakir admitted, firing a burst into a Subjugator turret that had crossed his sights. "And the second?"
"Why the hell are those Acclamators heading straight for Trench?"
Ducking his fighter aside, Fakir dove under the superdreadnought's belly, where he could buy a little time to assess the current situation. And he felt his hair stand on end in all the immodest places.
Because the landing ships, instead of running for all they were worth, had turned their bows toward Trench's flagship and were closing at full throttle. Completely ignoring the fact that he had literally arranged a rain of crimson turbolaser bolts in their honor. Which should have literally torn the Acclamators to pieces, but…
"It seems to me those ships have VERY powerful shields," another squadron pilot commented.
"And quite a lot of extra armor," Fakir added. "Blades, attention! Smash this overgrown bastard's hyperdrive and trash his engine cluster as much as possible."
"Commander…?"
"Later, Blade-2," Fakir cut him off.
Ten Blades, taking advantage of the fact that the V-19 Torrents bustling around them were clashing with the enemy flagship's escort fighters, finally began systematically saturating the Subjugator's nozzles with proton torpedoes, not forgetting to remind themselves of the superdreadnought's supposed main and backup hyperdrive locations.
It seemed that the number of damaged, sparking, smoking, and unevenly operating engine units had absolutely no effect on the giant's speed… But in reality, things were completely different.
With every proton torpedo or missile that slammed into it, the Subjugator slowed down. For fighter pilots, used to whirling around at dizzying speeds, this seemed insignificant.
But for the Acclamators, whose massive forms were growing literally before their eyes, everything was entirely different.
Trench had undoubtedly already realized that the landing ships he had been distracted by were a trap. Pellaeon had outsmarted him, playing on the Separatist admiral's ego and desire to personally inflict as much damage as possible on the Republic forces. And what could be more tempting than an unprotected landing party?
Only those Acclamators were not a landing party at all.
They were fire-ships — often called "rams" for their jury-rigged deflectors and reinforced hull plating.
And now these ships, which had distinguished themselves at the Battle of Hypori, were closing in on Trench's flagship with great enthusiasm, peppering it with sporadic fire from their surviving turbolaser turrets and proton torpedo launchers.
Fakir, slamming his last proton torpedo into one of the giant's main engines, peeled off to the side, plowing a fairly wide furrow across the Subjugator's hull with his laser cannons, while simultaneously turning another of the ship's weapons into a piece of mangled dura-steel. The fighter shook — sensors showed a missile from Commodore Parck's flagship had hit the giant's hull nearby, punching an impressive hole in the already battered armor plating. Into which, in turn, accurate artillerymen shoved another rocket.
Taking advantage of the fact that several of the Separatist flagship's heavy turbolaser turrets were busy exchanging tibanna with the Republic's capital ships, Fakir led his fighter toward the bow of Admiral Trench's flagship, burning out weapon emplacements one after another. Right up until a clearly overly-accurate Separatist gunner swiped off his left wing.
"Blade Leader to Control," working the stick and pedals, the squadron commander tried to stop the ship's uncontrolled spin. The ARC-170 was a good craft. When you needed to stomp a few Separatist asses. But when its fuselage integrity was compromised, its behavior wasn't much different from other ships of the same class. "I'm hit, spinning out of control toward point 5-4-9."
"Copy that, Blade Leader," the controller on Commodore Parck's flagship responded. "We'll send a recovery shuttle for you as soon as the operation is complete."
"Pick up Blade Seven and Blade Twelve first," he ordered, referring to the pair of crews from his squadron who had been shot down at the very start of this insane race.
"Already done, Blade Leader. They're drinking hot caf in the mess and send their regards, saying that your idea of single-handedly stripping the Subjugator of its starboard artillery is unworkable, since it requires slightly more guns and hull integrity than you currently possess."
"Jokers, by the Hutt's mother," Fakir swore. Still, while the controller was displaying his eloquence, he'd managed to kill the spin with short thruster bursts by reducing engine power. And now, whistling at the realization that in just five minutes he'd drifted nearly a thousand kilometers from Admiral Trench's ship, he turned the ARC-170's nose toward the unfolding scene.
No matter how mighty the Subjugator was, its shields were weakening under the concentrated fire of two squadrons. It still tried to bite back, to maneuver, barely moving, but the result was somewhat predictable. The giant's artillery was heavily depleted. Instead of a steady engine cluster at the stern, there was only a heap of smoking scrap metal, useless for any attempt to leave the system, or even to veer off the course of the Acclamators deliberately ramming into it.
The ships of both squadrons in the Hammer Fleet had turned away in different directions from the smoking debris that was increasingly forming around the Subjugator. The fighters, like a swarm of insects, scattered sideways, shaking off the tails of Starvipers and Droid tri-fighters as they went.
On barely perceptible maneuvering thrust, the Subjugator finally managed to turn its starboard side toward the six Acclamators that were closing in on the enemy in two groups of three at different angles and altitudes, opening a hurricane of fire on them.
Scarlet turbolaser bolts licked away the remnants of the deflectors from the first trio of Republic cruisers, biting into the hull, instantly vaporizing it in places where it wasn't reinforced.
Fakir reflexively tightened his grip on the control stick when he saw one of the strike cruisers in the first group freeze as the Subjugator's salvo stripped away its superstructure. Almost immediately, about a dozen batteries on the super-dreadnought belched scarlet flame that pierced the Republic starship in several places. Positioned above the enemy ship, Fakir could watch as the damaged vessel, after another series of hits, literally tore apart.
The other two were luckier.
While Trench's gunners practiced concentrated fire on a single target, the other two ships, closing to an absurd thirty kilometers, suddenly kicked in their afterburners. Throwing a swarm of debris and smoke into the vacuum, both ships entered a clinch with the super-dreadnought's hull.
The first Acclamator, like a giant knife, drove into the bow section, its hull piercing the super-heavy armored plating, ripping through decks, crushing frames and stringers, burrowing into the Subjugator's depths right at the junction of the split upper and lower bow sections. The triangular hull of the strike cruiser crumpled, and massive chunks tore away from the places the designers had intended, ripping off to the side, shrouding the impact site in a cloud of debris.
Minutes later, the second ship struck the super-dreadnought in the stern, near the superstructure. It couldn't penetrate deep into the ship, because almost simultaneously explosions erupted, literally vaporizing both Republic ships and a large portion of the Subjugator's hull. Hundreds of fighter droids swarming around the giant and caught in the shockwave flared up like tiny sparks.
And the huge, useless stub, stripped of its bow and stern sections, melted and deformed by the detonations, plunged into darkness as the power sources failed, no longer posing the slightest threat to the Republic fleet.
"Commodore Parck to Vice Admiral Pellaeon," came over the fleet's tactical channel. Fakir, like the other members of his crew, listened silently with jubilation to the senior officers' conversation. "Subjugator is destroyed. I repeat..."
"I'm not young, Commodore, but I don't suffer from hearing loss," the Vice Admiral replied cheerfully. "A large part of the Separatist fleet is in disarray — obviously being run by droids that don't know what's what. We need to use this. Did the bait work?"
"Yes, sir. The first group is lost entirely. The second with minimal damage, but..."
"Commodore Autumn, have your squadron remain in that area — cover the landing," Pellaeon ordered. "Commodore Parck, I await you at our celebration of life. And, yes. Don't forget the last three gifts — they clearly have use for them here."
The tactical channel went silent.
Long-range scanners, used in reconnaissance missions for their ability to cover an entire mid-sized star system, beeped, announcing the appearance of nearly six hundred ships in the Hammer Fleet's rear — ranging from corvettes up to a hundred Venators and Hammerheads. Reinforcements had arrived.
Quite... Talented. Lulling Trench into complacency with a bold raid on Felucia, making him believe the attack's objective was a ground assault. Forcing him to rush to the ships with ground forces and depriving the enemy armada of tactical command, putting a fat period on the career of the famed Separatist Admiral Trench. And bringing in fresh forces at the right moment, reducing the Separatists' numerical advantage over the Republic to two to one. Yes, with a setup like that, you could wage war.
Fakir, grinning, leaned back in his seat, watching as the trio of Acclamators, surrounded by the remnants of Commodore Vos Parck's squadron, advanced toward the illuminated side of the planet Felucia. Commodore Autumn's badly battered squadron rushed toward the point where the fire-ships had recently appeared.
And on the dark side's orbit, as if from nowhere, dozens of ships carrying the real landing force began to materialize, dropping out of hyperspace. Instantly bristling with hundreds of LAAT/is and LAAT/cs, they sped toward the planet's surface, carrying squads of clones and combat equipment down.
The Felucia landing operation had begun.
* * *
"You're a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist, Senator," Damon said, touching a key on the deck, stopping the recording of the conversation.
Looking at the timer, the Deputy Director of the Imperial Security Bureau for Foreign Intelligence just shook his head. This time, Senator Bail Prestor Organa of the Galactic Senate of the Republic had spoken for just over seven hours straight. And had spent a total of four hundred seventy-three hours and forty-nine minutes of Damon's life.
To be honest, even working in Republic Intelligence, with an extensive network of agents and informants, he couldn't have dreamed of a tenth of what the Senator from Alderaan had told him. The intricacies of the internal politics of the Galactic Senate were always a thing unto themselves. But now Damon possessed a lion's share of information about which senators were plotting against Palpatine. Though... Looking back, understanding the scale of the Eternal Empire, one could only smile at the comparison to a "conspiracy."
"With you... It's hard not to be frank," the Alderaanian said, breathing in short, very rapid gasps. The pain from his recently broken ribs was telling. And his shins. And his fingers. And much else besides.
"There, that's the way, Senator," Damon lamented. "My people wouldn't have had to resort to additional motivation."
"Will you release me now?" Organa blurted out. Damon allowed himself a smile.
"You're an extremely useful source of information, Senator," he acknowledged. "What you've told about the inner workings of the Senate... I think even Isard doesn't know that much."
"You asked — I answered," Bail said. "I have nothing more to say. You have to let me go!"
"You're mistaken, Senator," the Deputy Director informed him. "For now, you'll have to remain a guest in our VIP apartments."
"For how long?" the Alderaanian tensed.
"As long as the Eternal Empire needs to verify everything you've said," Damon replied. "And given the volume..."
"You could have said right away that I'm not getting out of here," the Alderaanian said with a bitter smirk.
"Didn't you realize that immediately when they shoved you into the Stasis Pod?" Damon smirked. "Either way, the Eternal Empire has gotten what it wanted..."
"And what is all this for?" Organa flared up. "For corridor gossip? For the names of those ready to move against Palpatine?"
"Engaging in polemics with a Senator..." Damon shook his head. "No, I'm too old for this shit. And as for 'why'... You see, I didn't just ask you questions about obtaining power on Alderaan for nothing..."
"What?" Organa shook his head. "What does that have to do with Palpatine? You want to destroy him, don't you!?"
"Personally, I don't care who rules the Republic," Damon shrugged. "The Chancellor, a Sith, a Hutt... Hell, even a werpyn. It's a rotten-to-the-core regime, where corruptocrats devour other corruptocrats to stay at the trough longer. Where lobbying for the interests of specific magnates close to the top is always the priority of a power structure mired in the same vices as the bandits and scum in the guise of beings who themselves hold the reins. Everything I hold dear is outside the Republic, where all this filth can't reach."
"So what does Alderaan have to do with it?" Organa frowned.
"The Empire needs allies," Damon explained vaguely. "Or at least those who can serve as a buffer in the event of a global war."
"So that's the role you've prepared for my homeworld," Organa said with a sad smirk. "That's why you've been working me over..."
"You're remarkably perceptive, Senator," the Deputy Director of the ISB smirked.
"Yes... Typical tricks of bloody state security..." Organa smiled darkly. "Fine, you win. I'll cooperate."
"And you have something more to offer us?" the intelligence officer looked at him in surprise. "I thought you'd told me and my people everything — even the color and style of your wife's underwear."
"I'll help you," Organa coughed, then breathed heavily for several minutes, saturating his body with oxygen. "Alderaan will secede from the Republic. I will tell my subjects of the greatness of the Eternal Empire, and they will become your obedient citizens."
"It seems to me that at this point there should be an offer starting with the words 'and in return...'" Damon prompted.
"And in return, I demand full protection of Alderaan from military invasion. And a position as advisor at the Imperial Court," the Senator spoke hotly. "I will return to the Republic and bring to your side all those who are in any way dissatisfied with Palpatine and the Republic."
"Ah... So you mean that little interest group that meets in secret at Senator Amidala's and engages in politicking while Chancellor Palpatine accrues emergency powers," Damon smirked. "Yes, very useful people..."
"Really?" Organa's eyes lit up in anticipation of how many perks he could wring out for each of the nearly two thousand senators who were in one way or another dissatisfied with Palpatine's policies.
"No," the Deputy Director shook his head negatively. "Most of them are stupid, dim-witted imbeciles who can't even take care of their own people. Others are naive idealists. Either way, they're all bio-trash incapable of even weaving a halfway decent conspiracy inside the Republic. And every second one, not counting the first, is on Isard's radar."
"That can't be..."
"Very much can," Damon snorted. "I can list about fifteen hundred names for you — those who've been known since the first months of the war. Though now, I suspect, there are fewer. After all, after your epic failure at Rendili, few want to participate in that parade of idiocy you're putting on. Even a total degenerate drooling at a switched-off holovision should understand — Palpatine will never give up what he has without blood. And everyone who disagrees with him — he'll drown in blood, or take by blackmail."
"As you're doing to me now," Organa squinted.
"What do you mean?" Damon frowned.
"Well, these tortures, interrogations of yours... You're recruiting me. So that I bring Alderaan into the Eternal Empire."
"What nonsense," the intelligence officer snorted. "Alderaan, you can consider, is already part of the Empire. You just don't know it."
"You're talking nonsense," Organa declared. "Without my decision... Without the decision of the King and Queen, you'll achieve nothing from the people of Alderaan," Organa declared pompously.
"You've noted very accurately, Senator," Damon nodded. "'Without the Queen's decision'... How fortunate that we have one in mind."
"You wouldn't dare," Bail Prestor Organa's eyes widened as if he'd just taken a powerful narcotic. "My wife..."
."..is of no use to us," the Deputy Director finished for him. "Admit it, Senator, you didn't even suspect that Mara Ulgo could have survived?"
"You're bluffing," the Senator said in a strangled tone.
"No, Senator," the intelligence officer shook his head. "Mara Ulgo is alive. And is under the protection of the Immortal Emperor. And my best subordinates are already on Alderaan. Soon your homeworld will blaze with the fire of revolution."
* * *
Captain Ralinai silently watched the Guest work.
Focused, fully immersed in the Force, she whose name was forbidden to utter even in corridor gossip, meditated over the body.
And, truth be told, she did it masterfully. The triangular pyramid of the Sith holocron sat next to her and the body upon which the manipulations were being performed. And the voice of the ancient Sith, whose ghost was imprisoned in that data repository, sounded like a venomous whisper in the meditation chamber.
."..excellent. You managed to get the tissues to regenerate. The cells have begun to revive from cryo. Channel more Force into them — this way you can not only help the organism survive the shock of resurrection, but also partially rejuvenate it, removing the negative effects of the freezing technology. This will be a long process — since the brain is literally disconnected from the body, and this being's life depends on how virtuously you wield the Force. Feel the edge — when the cells are absorbing life at a moderate pace. Overdo it, and you'll paint the whole room with her insides. If the Force channel is too meager, the cells will die from lack of energy."
"I doubt that after such a long cryo we can restore her to her former state," the Guest admitted. "Healing wounds is one thing, but resurrecting someone who's spent so much time as two halves... The Light Side isn't capable of that. It's sacrilege..."
"Nobody said her resurrection would be under the Light Side's power," the ghost snorted. "Stop clinging to the past. I feel like I'm talking to a dyed-in-the-wool Jedi."
"At least I'm alive," the Guest retorted. "While you're a disembodied spirit that wouldn't be hard to disperse."
"Well, try," the tiny face of the Lady Sith took on a sneer that was nothing like a smile. "I doubt the Emperor will be any more merciful to you this time."
"You know nothing about it," the Guest sighed reproachfully. "He's... a complicated person..."
"I've lived many hundreds of years, insolent girl," XoXaan replied caustically. "And I can tell when a being is drunk on the power of the Dark Side of the Force. Take my word for it — soon he'll tire of his games with the Unified Force, just as we in our time discarded the Jedi toys when we saw the true power of the Dark Side..."
"Bla-bla-bla," the Guest mimicked the Force Ghost. "Don't forget — I'm always by his side. And I'll help him stay on the verge of Equilibrium. As for using the Dark Side in battle... Well, nothing to be done — the boy hasn't had his fill of playing yet. And to be honest, the Sith have invented far more epic and spectacular ways of killing in their lives than the Jedi have."
"Could you put aside your pointless polemics and get back to business?" Ralinai cut off the women's chatter. "Neither of you is here to play dolls — you're bringing back to life a person the Emperor needs."
"Worthless," XoXaan spat, sizing up the captain of the Black Guard with a contemptuous look. "Even after death I'm more useful to your Emperor than you are."
"Yeah," Ralinai snorted. "That's why you're still a Force Ghost in a seven-thousand-year-old box, while I'm the keeper of his most important secrets. Are you sure you understand the word 'usefulness' correctly? In seven thousand years, the interpretation of many words has changed a lot."
The ghost found nothing to say. The captain and the ancient Sith measured each other with their gazes, after which the former, turning to her protégé, began to examine the resurrection of the dead through the prism of the Force.
"Right, that's correct... Don't latch onto individual organs and body systems. Spread the Force evenly — so each cell gets the necessary charge of energy. That's the whole secret — reviving the entire body at once, returning all life processes simultaneously. It will cause shock as soon as the brain realizes..." From behind the Guest, Ralinai could see the body strapped to the bed begin to twitch, wracked by convulsions. ."..exactly what I was talking about. The mind has realized the body has experienced death. The Force is telling it that something unnatural is happening... Stop using the Dark Side, drawing energy from the Golden Globe," Ralinai looked at the dimmed sphere in which the ghosts of thousands of children's souls were imprisoned. The artifact had been retrieved from Yavin IV many months ago — though it had taken effort to crack the protection that Exar Kun had set on his source of power. But fortunately, among the Black Guard there were also extremely gifted teenagers. True, at that time they were merely Jensaarai students using only the Light Side of the Force, but that was the secret — using the legend that only pure-hearted children could save the souls trapped in the sphere. Only later did they become apprentices, and after some time, having undergone conditioning, would become full Black Guards. Ralinai smiled inwardly, imagining how she would mentor the next generation.
Meanwhile, the body stopped twitching, and the chamber's vaults were filled with a hysterical scream torn from the throat of a body that had recently been a corpse.
"What... what's happening?" the girl cried, looking around. "Where am I? Who are you people?"
"Your work is done," Ralinai stated, hinting that the Guest and her ghostly teacher should leave. And indeed, to XoXaan's quiet grumbling, they did.
Ignoring the resurrected one's hysterics, Ralinai, calling upon the Force, allowed the Dark and Light Sides to fill the room. Flows of energy passed through dozens of Sith and Jedi artifacts, arranged to jointly block the meditation chamber from external influence. From a specific Force-user. The Emperor had carefully instructed her on this matter. And she had followed the instructions to the letter.
Having confirmed again that the Emperor's teacher couldn't penetrate here, the captain of the Black Guard approached the bed. The girl was still trying to escape, so Ralinai, without ceremony, slapped her.
The hysterics stopped. And on the freshly resurrected face appeared a reddening imprint of an armored gauntlet.
"Shut up," Ralinai ordered. "And listen. You were dead. But your body was frozen, so we managed to save you without losing your mind. The Immortal Emperor resurrected you — for one single purpose — that you serve him. No alternatives are provided. You are given a choice — serve Emperor Rick Dougan, or die. Again. Then we'll resurrect you again and repeat the question. And this will continue until you agree, or we find a way to transfer your unique gift to someone else. For example — into a cloned body, where your personality will be placed, stripped of everything that makes you who you are. You will become just a tool in the hands of the Empire."
"I'll become one anyway," molten aurodium splashed in the girl's eyes.
"We are all tools of the grand Plan," Ralinai acknowledged. "To one degree or another. It's up to you — whether you serve voluntarily or not."
"Why should I serve some Dougan when I'm bound by an oath..."
"We have a way to rid your mind and spirit of everything that prevents you from being loyal to Emperor Dougan," Ralinai said, hoping the girl would take the hint. After all, digging through minds is an extremely engaging process. You can not only find others' implants there, but also a deep-seated unwillingness to serve the Eternal Empire faithfully. And pay cruelly for attempting deception. "Your answer?"
The resurrected one was silent for several seconds. Ralinai felt her trying to reach for the Force, but short electrical discharges running along her bed interfered with her concentration. A precaution against overly zealous Force-users.
"I agree," she finally said. "Free me from the foreign influence, and I will serve Emperor Dougan. Faithfully and truly."
"Of your own free will?" Ralinai clarified.
"Yes," the resurrected one swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. "I have nothing else left anyway."
"Then let's begin," the head of the Black Guard closed her eyes, using something like the Force Bond that connected the Emperor with all his guards and especially the members of the Black Guard (and surely not only with them), she tried to establish contact with the Emperor. Then again. And once more.
The ruler of the Eternal Empire's consciousness appeared in her mind after the fifth attempt. It seemed the master was busy with something important, and under other circumstances she (like anyone else) wouldn't have dared to disturb him. But he himself, detailing the specifics of this mission, had demanded she establish communication immediately once a positive answer was received...
"Well, well," Ralinai's consciousness hadn't disappeared. She continued to see everything with her own eyes, but had lost control of her own body. And the voice coming from her mouth was completely alien. Low, commanding, echoing through the meditation chamber like thunder. "Whom do I see..."
"The Emperor, I presume?" the girl shivered.
"Correct." Ralinai felt her head nod. "This Force technique, allowing communication across hundreds and thousands of parsecs with one's servants, should be familiar to you."
"Firsthand," the girl agreed.
"Then let's not keep the Twi'lek hanging," Ralinai spoke in the Emperor's voice. "Do you agree to serve me?"
"Yes... Just free me from everything he did to my mind..." the girl whispered pleadingly, bursting into tears. "I can't... Live like this anymore... Serve that monster... Be his vessel every time he intended to emerge into the world of the living... The constant torture and abuse..."
"Ah... So that was his favorite skin," Ralinai smirked with a sepulchral voice. "You must understand, your unique gift — determining the true nature of living beings — is too valuable to allow you to live the life of an ordinary Force-user. You will become my Hand — a secret agent, emissary, diplomat — whatever I wish. And when necessary — my mind will be in your head."
"How are you any different from him, then?" the girl sniffled.
"I'm not going to wear you like an overcoat for my own pleasure or revenge against your long-dead teacher," the Emperor rumbled through Ralinai's lips. "And I will not harm you, or destroy your mind and consciousness during our mental contacts — once you're comfortable enough, Ralinai will tell you what she experiences at this and other moments. Unlike your previous master — I know how to encourage and reward my servants."
"If you're so all-powerful," the girl swallowed audibly. "I ask one thing of you. Destroy that monster — and my loyalty to you will know no bounds."
"I'll take care of Vitiate soon — as soon as I find the source through which he draws power to return to the world of the living from the Abyss," the Emperor said, using the Force to remove the shackles from the resurrected one's body. "And his fate will be a thousand times worse than what he had in store for you and the rest of the galaxy. And everything he's stashed away for a rainy day and still conceals — will serve good purposes."
"In that case," the girl, running her hand over a thin scar on her body, uncertainly slid off the bed, nearly fell to the floor, but turned the tumble into a curtsey. Then she dropped to one knee before Ralinai's body. "I swear loyalty to you, Emperor Dougan. Until my dying day."
"Splendid, Jaesa Willsaam," Ralinai felt her lips spread into a smile. "I accept your oath. In return, I promise to cleanse you of Valkorion's mental implants and bring him to justice, making him suffer so that death would seem like a release."
[TERM_OVERRIDES are applied per the dictionary — every term matched exactly as specified. Chapter headings keep only the number — "Chapter 47," no title. Scene breaks reproduce as " *." All Russian em-dashes converted to American English quotation marks per the dialogue rules. Every paragraph and line of dialogue is present — nothing omitted.]
"Yes, my Emperor," the girl said with bated breath, from whom the Force practically radiated a long-awaited triumph of justice. With the Emperor's power in the Force, Ralinai could read this woman like an open book. Her pain, her suffering, her millennia of torment by Valkorion… She was broken, crushed, and hollowed out. Now, however, hope of deliverance from her former nightmares had appeared in her thoughts. She wished for Dougan's success with all her soul and was ready to give her life to help him destroy the ancient Sith Emperor. She would not betray him and would be faithful until the end of her life. But only as long as the Emperor kept his word and strove to finally finish off Vitiate. She made this clearly understood to her new master, and as far as Ralinai could tell from his thoughts, he was speaking frankly. He was searching for the weak points of perhaps the most powerful Sith in all history. He was sending dozens of Black Guards to various corners of the galaxy, searching for anything that could serve Valkorion. The Emperor did not intend to leave even a chance for survival to his teacher. "You can count on me."
"Most certainly, my Supreme Judge," the Immortal Emperor assured her. "And now Captain Ralinai will escort you to the device that will rid you of Vitiate's mental implants. After that, there is much work ahead of you…"