Adjusting his lekku, Naulo Shikra nodded to his people. Feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, the former slave looked anxiously from around the corner, scanning the vile slave markets packed to capacity with prisoners of many different races.
Every representative of the galaxy was here. Among the rarest specimens, Naulo spotted a couple of Hutts, beaten and humiliated. Now these vile slugs were no longer so important and proud; quite the opposite—to an ignorant person, they might have evoked pity.
Emaciated, broken, with their arms twisted backward, shackled in chains to the very top of their heads, with blades and blasters constantly pointed at them.
"A dog's death for dogs."
Spitting on the ground, Naulo continued to survey the square, patiently waiting for the best moment when the bidding on the neighboring street would end and the entire crowd from there would rush here, filling the narrow streets and circular squares, making it difficult for the local law enforcement guards to track suspicious beings.
Looking closely at one of the patrols, it took all of Shikra's restraint and experience to stay in place.
"Commander?"
Noticing his tense back, the Shackle Breakers fighters grew nervous, expecting the worst, but the Twi'lek, having composed himself, gave a non-verbal sign that everything was fine. And to truly convince his guys and girls, he said a single word that many slaves know firsthand.
"Tsurrs..."
The sound of teeth grinding came from behind him. Many, far too many of the former slaves were familiar with these beasts guarding the largest slave markets in the galaxy. Blue-skinned giants, over two and a half meters tall with huge protruding bones on their heads, torsos, and arms, which gave them excellent natural protection and weapons in one package.
Barbarians from a distant planet, but magnificent trackers, warriors... and torturers.
They know how to break the will, how to destroy their victims, how to force them to their knees so that the slave never rises again. Only rare specimens after meeting them were able to remain in their right minds and maintain a normal attitude toward the world.
Toward the world, but not toward them. Unfortunately for the blue-skinned freaks, there were many in Naulo's squad who had managed to cope with the pain and humiliation brought by the Tsurrs.
"And soon you will see it for yourselves."
Turning his gaze away from the suspicious and attentive "guardians of order" of Orvax, the Twi'lek began to examine the square itself, marveling at how such a developed and beautiful city could be a citadel of shit and blood.
The endless streets of Orvax were one continuous bazaar, where every corner traded in everything related to the slave trade so repulsive to the Twi'lek's heart.
Clothing for slaves. Weapons. Collars. Tattoos. Special preparations. Food. Hypno-programs. Pheromones. Catalogs with specimens for special breeding to obtain a specific representative of one species or another, and sometimes a hybrid.
But the multi-thousand-strong line of stalls was only the foundation, the lowlands, so to speak. Down here, on the dirty streets where the light of the local sun only reaches in rare hours, they sold consumer goods for the poor, the merchandise that everyone could afford, even the slaves themselves. And thousands of them scurried here... many thousands of disenfranchised beings, most of whom had resigned themselves to their fate...
"Resigned for now," clenching his fist until it hurt, the man painfully raised his eyes higher, scanning the vile cage-towers where the rulers of this city lived—scum whose idle life would soon be cut short, "soon everything will change. Let's go."
He spoke the final command-word to his people, who were huddled together and ready to burst onto the cursed squares right now. In the eyes of some of his comrades, flashbacks flickered—terrible memories of when they themselves were held in cages and electric cells.
Sales on the neighboring street ended, and buyers ready to spend money on live merchandise flooded in, hoping to be the first to snatch up the best "toys." A standard trick that always works on simpletons and the wealthy who try to appear much more influential and successful than they are.
But Naulo could no longer delay, so he led his group through the crowd, while his assistants and commanders emerged from other alleys, followed at a quick pace by the Gray Paladins.
"Eerie guys. A bit harsh, not like the Jedi... But they are exactly what we need, not the softies from the Core Worlds."
Shikra liked his new allies. All of them, even the cunning investigator who planned to ride their coat-tails and earn influence on their blood. But he would get it by participating in a righteous cause... which meant Naulo could forgive him this whim.
The Gray Paladins. The Freedom Warriors. The Judicial Forces...
And the Helldivers.
The moment Sam Altman sent him a proposal for a talk, the Twi'lek thought it was just another hunter of escaped slaves trying to earn fame the easy way.
And look how it turned out. Long months of negotiations, meetings of trusted representatives, evidence... And here they are, in the place he hoped he would never return to.
"Come on, let's leave the square and scatter through the alleys. If you can, get to the second and third floors. It's the middle of the day now, and the shop owners living there are all on the streets, so the houses are mostly empty."
A new command, and the sentients following him like shadows scatter to the sides, breaking into pairs where one former slave leads a user of mystical power.
There was very little left; they had already covered most of the most dangerous path, so now only the smallest part remained.
"Just penetrate the slave collar control center. Don't raise the alarm. Kill the guards. And reconfigure the chips and collars... Piece of cake."
****
It's always a pleasure to watch professionals at work. And professionalism can be found in any environment, even in a secret infiltration of a slave trader planet.
That's what Shabaul, the Head of the Order of Gray Paladins, thought, nodding with satisfaction at every step of the former prisoners. Their skills, habits, mannerisms, and caution. Given all of the above, they could have made excellent warriors for the order; it was just a pity that Shabaul didn't feel the movement of the Force in a single one of them.
And the proud Shackle Breakers certainly wouldn't settle for less, so the head of the order could only click his tongue in dissatisfaction, drawing the attention of his people, but a soft wave filled with benevolence calmed them, returning their focus and composure.
Surveying his subordinates with pride, Shabaul slowly exhaled through his nostrils with satisfaction. Perhaps someone would have praised or encouraged, or maybe even rewarded... But not him. Why words and gifts when only through the Force can you convey your mood and emotions.
Why unnecessary questions when you can express the full depth of your bewilderment and doubt with a single raised eyebrow, seasoned with a mental message.
And now, as soon as his people felt his satisfaction, their backs straightened and their chins tilted up, for which the entire team immediately received a reprimand from the former slaves.
"Guests and buyers on the lower levels don't behave like that. Slaves even less so."
A good answer. Simple and logical. Clear, without unnecessary questions, which made everyone return to their roles, carefully monitoring the surroundings.
Stepping through the shadows, bypassing all obstacles, Shabaul reached the third floor in one leap, following the former prisoner who had become his guide in this disgusting place.
And Orvax was... vile. Especially for a user of the Great Force. All the emotions of despair, pain, death, separation... and much more. They mixed together, forming a real knot of the dark side. Twisting in scarlet-black miasmas that the head of the order imagined, entwining the entire planet, penetrating every corner—eradicating the last sources of light...
"It's no wonder the Jedi try not to be in such places. Their weak will and fragile foundation of postulates are not ready to feel everything that is happening here."
Allowing himself a modicum of pride, Shabaul instantly washed this mind-corroding feeling out of himself. The knot of the dark side was ready to penetrate and decompose anyone who opened a crack in their soul to it.
Folding his hands, bowing his head for a few seconds, Shabaul decided to perform a quick meditative ritual to help him focus. They had a couple of minutes while his nimble guide chose the next path and waited for another patrol to leave from under the windows.
Reciting words familiar from birth, the head of the Gray Paladins recreated images in his head—helping him fight passions and temptations:
"An open mind is like a fortress whose gates are flung wide, and the guards are mired in debauchery...".
"Almost there, we can take a shortcut through the fourth floor..."
Interrupting the prayer, the former prisoner slipped upstairs, to where Shabaul felt sparks of life. Extremely active sparks. Without hesitation, the Paladin rushed after him and arrived just as a large alien, looking like a humanoid cat, tried to halve his guide with a power cleaver. Ducking under the blow, with one movement of his hand he pushed the frightened Twi'lek away, and with the other hand sent the slave trader into the wall. A Force wave blew the Zygerrian away, and the remaining cracks and blood trail on the wall guaranteed that the criminal would not rise again.
The huge cat's slave girl was now cowering on the bed, pulling the blanket over her chest and flashing frightened eyes in which triumph and disappointment splashed, with a gradually increasing fear.
A wave of the hand, and the girl, closing her eyes, lies down on the bed, cutely twitching her nose as she sinks into pleasant dreams.
"Deft..."
Shabaul had already forgotten about his guide. The former slave wasted no time and with one sure blow made sure the Zygerrian was dead, then took the huge cleaver for himself. Tidying himself up and catching his breath, the Twi'lek nodded to the Paladin and without a word they went further—to the neighboring building, separated from the others by a large fence and a dozen towers on all sides.
Frozen by the window, carefully looking out from around the corner, Shabaul was appraising how difficult and dangerous the assault would be. And the longer he looked at the small fortress, the more dissatisfaction radiated from him—disturbing his subordinates in neighboring rooms and houses.
"Too many."
"Agreed... Far more than in the reports."
The red-skinned leader of the Shackle Breakers bit his lip, pacing anxiously away from the windows. Sometimes waving his hands actively, he seemed to be arguing with himself... This strange conversation lasted a couple of minutes before the Twi'lek was finally able to convince himself of something and reach an agreement with his own conscience.
"I have an idea." Exhaling heavily, Naulo was clearly having a hard time. His eyes darted from side to side, sweat broke out on his forehead, and his breathing became labored and heavy. The man was experiencing quite serious problems, and even to someone not using the Force, it would have been clear that the decision was very difficult for him. "We can release the creatures from the menagerie nearby. They don't have collars, at least most of them don't... And..."
Swallowing thick saliva, the Twi'lek hung his head, clenching his fists.
"They are much more expensive than most slaves... So they won't be killed immediately; at the very least, they'll try to catch them before blowing them up or..." Wincing painfully, Naulo pursed his lips. "Releasing them onto the streets will definitely distract the garrison and nearby patrols. Maybe they'll send someone from here if there's someone... large among the animals."
"Many sentients will die. Including slaves." The heavy words hung in the air, causing several listeners of this conversation to tense up. Everyone looked at Shikra with tension; even his own people didn't know how to feel about it... unlike the Paladins. "If you agree to this, then we will do it."
"Thank you... Yes... Yes, I agree."
Closing his eyes one last time, Naulo banished his final doubts, and the confident and strong leader who had gathered runaway slaves around him returned to the light. Straightening his back, squaring his slumped shoulders, he slowly inhaled the air of Orvax, as if accepting the burden he was about to take upon himself along with it.
"Let's do it. Together."
"A good professional, what a pity...".
***
Blaze Varne...
A good name his father had given him. But he liked the way the pirates had dubbed him better. Winding fishing line onto the handle of a knife, the Nautolan watched dispassionately as his Freedom Warriors methodically finished off the captured slave traders and buyers they had caught in one of the bars.
It was a pity to waste tibanna gas on them, so each was simply driven a knife into the back of the head or temple. A vibroblade made of excellent steel pierced fragile bones without problem, regardless of race.
While the others crept and hid, he and his kids simply raided one of the small bars, where they put everyone face down on the floor and then thoroughly interrogated them. Then they did the same with a couple of small-time dealers in the alleys. From them, a bit higher and further, until they finally reached this group of "merchandise importers" living in a prestigious district in the center of the city.
Perhaps someone might have considered this a folly or a whim born of bloodlust...
But no.
The Dog understood perfectly how such worlds work. How everything is arranged here, how Orvax breathes, what it lives on... and most importantly, who lives here.
A couple of dozen, hundreds of extra corpses would only make the local guards laugh. And the more terrible they looked when discovered, the better, because they would think that just another slave had killed a negligent master or a couple of fool guests hadn't shared a pretty girl, which is why they started shooting.
Well, that's not important.
Rising from his chair, stepping around puddles of blood and pieces of bodies—cut off during the interrogation—the leader of the Freedom Warriors crouched down in front of a huge Tsurr.
The blue-skinned giant had suffered the most, losing all his nails and an eye... Then his fingers, hands, and cartilage. Many of his bones had been broken, and in some places, his skin had been flayed. Only after a powerful narcotic managed to break through the pain, weakness, and exhaustion did the Tsurr begin to speak...
Languidly, forcing the words out, he told them much—far more than all the others combined. It wasn't that the information from the slave traders and pirates was useless... but catching them was many times easier than snagging one of the local "lawmen."
Snorting under his breath, the Nautolan ran the tip of a knife across the Tsurr's face, causing the latter to flinch more out of terror than pain, for he could barely feel such minor stings anymore.
"Last words?"
A foolish habit, hammered into him by the previous head of the organization. A last word, a wish... or a curse, whatever it might be—something a sentient leaves behind. It helped one not to forget why they did such terrible things. Usually, the pirate scum cursed him... but sometimes it was the opposite; if the last words were sincere repentance, it helped keep one from becoming completely hardened.
"Forgive me, Chieftain... I embark on the journey before you," the Tsurr muttered under his breath, choosing to remember duty and religion before death. Not the worst words, which meant his death would be swift.
Nodding to his men, who had also heard the giant's dying words, Blaze Varne stood to his full height and walked quickly to the window, staring out at the massive "plantation," as the Tsurr had called it.
Hundreds of square kilometers with massive pit-prisons packed with Humans. Even looking at them, the leader of the Freedom Warriors realized how difficult it was to grasp such a scale, and even harder to accept that no one in the galaxy had solved this problem for long years.
Grimacing with displeasure and jerking his head, causing his numerous lekku to fall along his neck and shoulder blades, the Nautolan picked up the rifle leaning against the wall. A habitual check, quick finger movements done blindly, while his focused gaze looked out into the distance at the human pits.
With every passing second, Blaze's mood worsened. He urgently needed to blow off steam, and he knew the best way to accomplish that.
"Prepare for battle. We're moving out."
***
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