This section of the flagship Chimaera, which Grand Admiral Thrawn had chosen as his study, was located several levels below the bridge. It had once been a room intended for the rest of the bridge's half-watch, but after a minor refit on Nirauan, by the Chiss's personal order, the spacious room had been cleared of its numerous beds.
Now it housed a desk, a stationary holoprojector, a couple of cabinets, and a perfectly made standard bed in the corner furthest from the entrance. On the walls were numerous monitors, their screens continuously streaming information duplicated from the bridge. The entire life of the ship, the squadron, the fleet, the ground contingent—all before those burning eyes.
The Grand Admiral spent all his time here, except for those moments when circumstances required his presence on the bridge. It was not known for certain exactly what the Chiss did here. In fact, nothing was known about his personal life or free time at all. It was as if he lived for service alone, and nothing more.
It was quite... unusual. Such dedication to the cause was commendable. But the Twi'lek knew from experience that with such an approach, it was quite easy to burn out. He himself had given ten years of his life to Republic intelligence, reaching the position of department head on one of the worlds of the Mid Rim. And it all ended quite prosaically—as soon as things got heated, namely, the Clone Wars, Armand Isard began ruthlessly getting rid of all those who could in any way prevent Palpatine from beginning his usurpation of power. His backroom games with senators, mysterious disappearances right from the Senate building, vague hints to some, clear favor to others—militarists and sentients with clearly authoritarian political views—all of this was alarming. It was not for nothing that Deimos had asked to pay great attention to the Chancellor's connections. No one wanted a repeat of Finis Valorum's reign.
True, they had underestimated Armand Isard himself back then. The intelligence chief quickly got rid of all the undesirables, replacing them with his own proteges, loyal to the bone either to him personally or to Palpatine. With such an approach, dreaming of productive work from the SBI was no longer an option.
After his dismissal, R'Lair returned to his homeland, took an active part in the resistance against the separatists, was wounded, captured, sold to slave traders... In essence, the very fact of his rescue—as well as that of thousands of his compatriots—was one great stroke of luck. And a chance to settle scores with the Republic.
R'Lair approached the bulkhead behind which Thrawn's private apartments were located. He had been here several times already—never on trivial business. And never before had the Chiss summoned him so suddenly. An urgent summons from the Grand Admiral was no joke. Something extraordinary must have happened.
Stopping before the door, the Twi'lek habitually thought to straighten his uniform, but when his hands mechanically reached for the hem of his clothes, he realized too late that in his current field position, he did not wear a uniform, preferring ordinary civilian clothes. Yes, the job was new, but he couldn't get rid of reflexes hammered in at the subcortical level.
The Twi'lek touched the local intercom key and reported his arrival.
The door slid aside before he finished the sentence. Mentally gathering himself, R'Lair stepped inside, entering a small vestibule. The inner door opened only after the outer one was securely sealed.
Inside, as always, a muffled twilight reigned, hiding most of the room from view. The chief intelligence officer of the Expeditionary Forces stepped over the threshold...
Thrawn sat at his desk, his hands folded in a steeple on his chest. His head was tilted back, and he was examining holographic objects slowly circling under the ceiling of the apartments. Paintings, sculptures, pottery... all of this, undoubtedly, had its real prototypes—in a couple of the paintings, R'Lair recognized several quite famous ones. Something from Kuat, Alderaan, Malastar... But the vast majority of all this he saw for the first time and could not even guess who they might belong to. Glancing at the monitors, he noticed that they too displayed images of art objects from alien races.
The Chiss's blue-black hair was barely visible in the gloom, which made his blue skin seem to belong to a corpse. Only his open and rarely blinking red eyes indicated that the Grand Admiral was alive.
"Intriguing, is it not?" Thrawn inquired, without changing his position by a millimeter. His calm, slightly vibrating voice had previously caused the Twi'lek to falter. But now, having spent more than one campaign side by side with this naval commander, he had learned not to react to the peculiarities of the Chiss's voice. "What do you think?"
"I, as before, pay tribute to your talent for understanding an enemy through the study of their art," the Twi'lek said. "But I prefer to act by the methods that are within my power."
"That is commendable," Thrawn said, straightening up and looking directly at the intelligence officer. "I respect your point of view. But, as you understand, you are here for a different reason entirely."
"Even so," the Twi'lek smirked. Who would have thought that Thrawn had called him for something other than looking at holographic art.
"Our campaign against the Tof is progressing quite successfully," Thrawn stated. "Although I will not hide that after the successes of General Helnior on Tof and General Tann on Nagi, our rapid advance deep into their territories has slowed significantly."
"I never thought that turning a planet into glowing slag was a success," the Twi'lek admitted. "We lost an entire world."
"That planet holds not the slightest value for the Imperium," Thrawn countered. "Useful minerals are either exhausted or lie too close to the core. And by other parameters—ecology, biosphere, flora, fauna—Tof was on its last legs. We merely accelerated the process. And taught the Tof and other civilizations of Wild Space a lesson. A small price. Especially since it will not be difficult for the Imperium to extract deep resources even in such circumstances. After all, the Base Delta Zero order regarding the Tof was sanctioned by the Emperor himself."
"Be that as it may," the Twi'lek agreed. "But I am not here to discuss facts already accomplished, am I?"
"Precisely," Thrawn confirmed. He touched a control panel on his desk, and the holographic art exhibition vanished instantly. Instead, the apartments once again turned into a compact semblance of a tactical room. Screens filled with reports from various posts of the Chimaera and other ships of the Expeditionary Forces. The state of the base on Nirauan, reports from outposts, intelligence reports... The open space above the Chiss's head turned into a tactical holographic map of the galaxy, partitioned into territories controlled by the conflicting parties. Republic territory was colored red, the blue-filled systems of the Confederacy alternated with pale sectors maintaining neutrality.
Golden sparks of planets loyal to the Imperium shone across the entire galactic disk. Curiously, none of the known superpowers of the galaxy even suspected the rising strength and territory of their young competitor.
And yet Thrawn had already annexed vast spaces to the Imperium, comparable to the territories of the largest oversectors. And this was not the limit!
Now, even if the inhabited galaxy did not suspect it, the Imperium, having swallowed the Tof territory, would come right up to known space—the territories of the Republic's Ninth Systems Army. An interesting expansion.
The Imperium, through Thrawn's hands, had effectively eliminated any threats to its borders from three out of four sides. Currently, the only full-fledged and highly militarized state in the Unknown Regions was the Chiss Ascendancy—the Grand Admiral's homeland.
The Twi'lek did not know the plans of the Emperor and Thrawn himself regarding the state of the blue-skinned ones, but he guessed that the former syndic would not have been able to achieve such a high position at the Emperor's court if he easily changed his preferences. Therefore, it was logical to assume that the fate of the Ascendancy must be different from a typical conquest. An alliance? Possible. And even most likely.
If there are even a couple more like Thrawn there—conquering them would bring more trouble than benefit. On the other hand, strong allies would certainly not hurt the Imperium.
"Our goal is here," Thrawn, pulling the intelligence officer from his thoughts, pointed to an empty piece of Wild Space. Not colored in any hue, it was located quite far from the current position of the Expeditionary Forces. An entirely different part of the galaxy.
"And what is located here?" R'Lair inquired.
"That which the Emperor requires," came an unexpected low voice from the darkness of the Admiral's cabin, making the intelligence officer reach for his blaster. While he frantically tried to accept the fact that he had left his weapon in his cabin, a tall humanoid appeared in the twilight of the apartment's artificial light, encased in heavy armor of matte-black color. The Twi'lek mechanically noted that a lightsaber hung at his belt.
A heavy aura of fear emanated from the stranger. His very appearance made the intelligence officer feel extremely uncomfortable. Not to mention that he, encased from head to toe in armor, wearing a mask that hid his face and any clues about his race, almost immediately made it clear that he was the one in charge here. Even Thrawn, despite his impassive expression, seemed to fade into the background of this...
"Who are you?"
"I am the Emperor's messenger," the stranger snapped. "His loyal and devoted servant, as are you all."
"Of course," the Twi'lek nodded. "How can we be of service?"
"This sector of the galaxy," the giant approached the holographic map and pointed to the area highlighted by Thrawn, "is of particular interest. A mission of extreme importance and secrecy. Select your most competent agents—predominantly of your race—and send them here. Seven star systems—at least a pair of agents to each."
"What are they to find out?" R'Lair swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
"Primarily, blend in with the locals, with the slaves," the giant explained. "The Emperor wishes to know absolutely everything about this system: defense systems, troop numbers, their armament, the mood of the oppressed. Exposure of our agents is unacceptable. Failure is unacceptable."
"I understand, but..." the Twi'lek met Thrawn's eyes and, seeing his slight shake of the head, refrained from the question. "I will attend to it immediately. How much time is allocated for infiltration and intelligence gathering?"
"As much as is required to obtain a detailed picture of what is happening there," the armored giant said, cutting him off. "I will await your report aboard the Chimaera."
"Certainly," the intelligence officer nodded. "With your permission, I will go to prepare my people for the mission."
"You will go with them," Thrawn added, pointing to one of the dots. "This system is the most important among the others. As is this one," another of the seven dots blinked. "The Emperor wishes for the best officers to be sent to them."
The Twi'lek shifted his gaze from the giant to the Grand Admiral for a moment, trying to understand if this was a joke. But his sixth sense realized it was not.
Sighing, R'Lair said:
"It will be done."
***
How pleasant it is to be back.
As soon as the door leading to my chambers closed behind me, I allowed myself to relax.
The events of the last few days had completely exhausted me.
The loss of Kylie, the battle with Kirvan, the multi-move game with the Family.
And then Darman did me a favor at the end...
It felt as if in a Galaxy Far, Far Away, contraceptives were invented for idiots. No, I mean, fine, the clones—they were unlikely to have been explained that male fluid, when placed in a female body, would ask for the light in nine months.
But, damn it, the Jedi... Though, remembering the history of the Skywalker twins' appearance, it's no wonder. If even the Chosen One doesn't know another way to rid a woman of monthly bloody adventures, then I just don't know what to say.
No, the fact of Etain Tur-Mukan's pregnancy didn't bother me as such. It was expected that it would be exactly like that.
But what the hell possessed me to ask Cross to prepare information on similar excesses throughout the entire army...
The staff had removed more than two thousand volunteer madams from active service. Guess in connection with what?
That's right! Maternity leave. And no—not about peace, land, and other things that Grandpa Lenin used to spout. Oh, human females! There's a war on, and they decided to take care of demographics.
A dirty business, of course, isn't complicated. And this exchange of seminal fluid for pleasure occurred predominantly in those units performing guard duty on planets in the rear. But the fact remains. Why did they join the army? To find a better place to park their pilot caps? And who's going to defend the motherland?
Yes, I'm not sinless in this matter myself (oh, how not sinless), but for Masha's sake! But I don't act like that joke about pregnancy, saying a pregnant woman is a person with a bad sense of humor. Someone played a joke on her, and she puffed up.
At first, I wanted to react to this disgrace somehow, and then... Forbid sentients from swimming the breaststroke on top of each other? No way, you couldn't even dream that up in a nightmare.
Therefore, after thinking it over, I just waved it off. The provision for the pregnant ones came from the budget of Christophsis, so I didn't foresee any problems for my plans personally.
Though... maybe for safety's sake, I should send all my madams to the gynecologist for a check-up? Because I know one rich and influential senator who, while her beloved was plowing the expanses of the galaxy on starships, didn't even bother to figure out how many little ones had taken root inside her. Otherwise, before you know it, heirs will start crawling out of every crack. I'll be the Immortal Emperor Big Nest.
Shedding my cloak, I moved slowly toward the bed, unbuckling elements of armor from my undersuit one by one and dropping them onto the soft carpeted floor. To the Hutt with it, I'll sleep, then deal with the armor. Clean it, fix it...
Should I get an orderly or something?
No, that's stupid.
As soon as I reached the pillow, without even getting rid of the undersuit and boots, I fell into a dead sleep.
And outside the window over Christophsis, the dawn was coming into its own...
***
The entire Gold Squadron, twelve BTL-B Y-wing heavy assault starfighters, was off the hangar decks of the Avatar in less than two standard minutes from the time the first signals of the battle alarm buzzer sounded. The best result among the destroyer's air wing since it was commissioned.
Even the 187th Squadron of ARCs, commanded by Consul, lagged behind them by more than a minute. And they are the elite.
Corvo smirked, executing another dizzying turn.
"Boss, I'll return your regenerator," the tail gunner's voice came over the internal comms. "Stop trying to throw me out!"
"Fewer words—more shooting," the squadron commander noted pointedly. "And aim better—I don't want to spend another two days patching holes in the machine."
"I'm telling you, there were two of them! I took one out, and the second..."
Corvo allowed himself a crooked smirk. He liked teasing the young Pantoran, who had only been in the commander's crew for two weeks. A young lad—twenty at most—cheerful, one of the thousands of volunteers who had signed up for service in Ghent (army). This one was "lucky" to take the place of his deceased brother.
The lad himself admitted that he actually wanted to be a combat pilot, and sitting in the tail gunner's seat of a bomber didn't particularly appeal to him. But he hadn't flown the required number of hours on the simulator to be entrusted with a fighter. So, as he put it himself, he was "dragging along as ballast."
But even so, the young future pilot was getting some kind of real combat experience. And even if today's operation was just a routine sweep of enemy outposts, it was a hundred times better than a boring simulator.
At least, that's what Corvo thought.
"No enemy fighters observed," a voice sounded in the helmet's headphones. "A pity."
"Don't pout, Consul, everyone has their job," Gold Leader requested, flipping switches, preparing the bombs for release. "We'll stir them up now. So keep your wings in combat mode—it might happen that you'll have to cover our nozzles."
"Copy that, Gold Leader," Consul said dryly. "Good luck down there. Drop a couple of bombs for us."
"With pleasure," Corvo promised, directing the machine into the upper layers of the atmosphere.
What the separatists found so appealing about this small, godforsaken moon was hard to say. An uninhabited system a couple of hundred light-years from Pantora. No resource deposits, no convenient location near hyperspace lanes... However, it was from here that enemy raiders tirelessly harassed Admiral Tigellinus's fleet group with their endless raids.
Eventually, the command got tired of it. The enemy's latest raid ended with the traditional turning of Confederacy ships into a pile of scrap metal. All except one. A heavily battered Recusant-class light destroyer barely escaped. The command calculated its possible hyperspace exit trajectories and here—the Avatar, accompanied by two Marauders, paid a return visit of courtesy.
And the fun began.
Determining the location of the enemy base on the surface was a piece of cake. And while the carrier-destroyer, with the help of two corvettes, was proving with dashing enthusiasm and a clear love for the process to the Recusant-class light destroyer sitting in orbit how glad the command of the Stiletto Fleet was to see it, the bomber squadrons, with long-range cover from the ARCs, visited the separatists' ground fortifications.
As his BTL-B broke through unexpectedly thick cloud cover, Corvo noted that since his transfer from Admiral Pellaeon's Hammer Fleet, there were no boring days. Either reconnaissance, or bombing enemy raiders, or teaching at the Pantoran Pilot Academy—a hastily organized educational institution for locals who expressed a desire to serve in the Grand Army of the Republic. In short, life was in full swing even when he wasn't sitting at the controls of his starfighter.
Right in front of him, the clouds parted sharply, revealing a rather interesting picture of what was happening on the ground.
"Avatar Control, this is Gold Leader," he contacted the dispatcher on the destroyer. "Information update. This is not an outpost. A full-fledged base. About ten square kilometers in area."
"Copy, Gold Leader," the clone dispatcher responded. "Directing the 187th Squadron to you."
"Copy," Corvo confirmed. "Guys, maximum attention. The 'heavies' are coming down to us."
"What for?" one of the pilots inquired. "We've got three or four runs of work here..."
"Stop clogging the airwaves, Gold Seven," the squadron commander requested. "Prepare, we're entering the AA zone."
At the briefing, it had been hammered into them that the base in this backwater was just a spit, rub, and forget for an elite squadron of "bores," as the Gold were considered. Because it was believed that there was a simple outpost here—thanks to the notorious Bothan slicers, who had somehow determined this by HoloNet network traffic.
And it turns out, there's not just a thoroughly entrenched enemy here, but also by no means a small number of Vulture-class starfighters that were already lifting their droid asses from the surface and striving to say hello to the Republic bombers. And that's not to mention that the base was bristling with fire from anti-aircraft rapid-fire guns.
After the inactivity in hyperspace and the easy start of the operation after takeoff, the flight through the atmosphere turned out to be a real punishment—the machine shook and tossed. But Corvo himself had a blast with the titanic struggle with the controls, dodging a sea of scarlet fire in the clumsy machine. In such moments, he very much hated the day he switched from ARCs to BTL-Bs. Having become famous after the destruction of the separatist superdreadnought, these bombers firmly settled in the GAR. And quite soon they acquired a very insulting nickname "wishbones"—for their characteristic fuselage: a narrow central section and two large main engines set on opposite sides of the cockpit. No sentient in the galaxy in their right mind and memory would call the BTL-Bs elegant beauties, and their flight qualities both in and out of the atmosphere were worse than those of the notorious ARCs and V-19 Torrents (aka "Avalanches"), and slightly better than a rock in free fall.
They were also slow, like Tatooine banthas. But reasonably well-armed: two laser forward cannons, two proton torpedo launchers, and an ion twin for the tail gunner. It seems the designer of this hellish machine very much loved the number "two," but couldn't stand the crew of this hearse being comfortable—ten minutes had passed since the start, and his back and legs were already stiff. It's scary to think, the dark genius of the manufacturing plant even installed a hyperdrive here, as if implying that the "bores" could reach the target on their own. Clearly, the clones didn't complain about such conditions, but the former civilians literally spat at the machine. And the clone pilots were secretly in solidarity with them. A big slow uncontrollable coffin for a pair of people and an astromech droid.
With simple modifications—removing several elements of the engine casing—the pilots got a little more maneuverability out of the machine. Although this was not highly encouraged by the superiors, it was still better than just being a flying piece of permacrete slab.
Meanwhile, the ARCs, clearly descending on afterburners, flashed past the bombers without hitting a single machine.
"Show-offs," Corvo said without much malice.
"No hard feelings, Gold Leader," Consul replied with a touch of sarcasm. "Everyone has their job."
The pilots of the 187th burst into the formation of Vulture-class starfighters, immediately beginning to douse them with all types of weapons: laser cannons flooded the entire space in front of the bombers with green fire. The lights of proton torpedoes flashed.
Wastefully spending such valuable ammunition on some...
Corvo, pressing the trigger, tore apart a Vulture-class starfighter that flashed nearby. And swore quietly.
"What's the matter, boss?" the trainee spoke up.
"Everything's fine," the squadron commander assured him grimly. "Watch the rear. We're going in for the bombing run."
Although, in fact, they only had to burn off what wasn't already on fire. Consul's pilots had just dropped proton torpedoes on the base, significantly plucking the Vulture-class starfighters, and proudly peeled away. However, to their credit, it was worth saying that they took aim at the perimeter of the base, leaving the most delicious targets—the buildings—to the "bores."
Gold Squadron lined up in a combat formation, providing maximum protection and area of effect. As soon as clouds of acrid black smoke appeared under the belly of Corvo's machine, he began dropping the "gifts."
Burning debris of droids and stones flew silently into the air. The mountainside on which the separatist base was located was covered in thick greasy smoke and sand kicked up from the ground, as the tail gunner reported.
Corvo, throwing the machine into a barrel roll, exited the base's line of fire, executed the turn necessary to preserve the machine, then dived to the surface and almost scraped his belly along it, entering a new combat course.
"Repeat the run," he commanded his subordinates.
And a dozen wishbones began to iron the base, turning everything that couldn't hide into piles of smoking debris of various sizes.
Half an hour later, it was all over.
***
The call of the comlink pulled me out of unconsciousness.
Sleepy, with difficulty orienting myself in space, I looked around. Right, still in my bedroom. Good already.
And still dressed. Even better.
My head is throbbing—that's worse. And this annoying buzzing from somewhere...
Ah yes, the comlink.
"Sir," as soon as I turned on the communication device, I immediately heard the voice of the red-headed beast. "Meeting at ten in the morning..."
"I'll be on time," yawning, I promised the Alderaanian innocently oppressed princess.
"It's already noon, sir."
"Oh," I wanted to facepalm with full force.
A meeting with most of the commanders under my command had been scheduled for ten in the morning. We should have started planning operations against two of the three planets of the Triad of Evil. And it wouldn't hurt to find out the latest data...
And I slept through it all.
"Don't tell me everyone's been waiting for me all this time and you didn't dare disturb my sleep."
"I called you eight times," Mara noted impatiently. "I dismissed everyone an hour ago, asked all the generals to be on standby."
"You're such a sweetheart," the yawn into the microphone was clearly unnecessary. But what is natural is not shameful. Ha, look at that, sleep did some good. Even the little jokes woke up. "Don't you want to become the Empress of a young but developing state?"
"Just like that?" the Alderaanian smirked. "And which sectors does this 'state' of yours border?"
"The Imperium is a small but very proud state for now," I warned. "It borders whoever it wants."
"Very witty," the girl said without a hint of irony. "But if you aren't in the tactical center in half an hour, and I have to talk to Master Piell from the Jedi Council myself, I won't care about anything, I'll come and drag you out of bed by your leg."
"Deal," I agreed, leaning back onto the bed. "Only, mind you, wear red underwear—I think it would suit you..."
With those words, I turned off the comlink, ignoring the girl's indignant exclamations. Yes, I'm allowing my subordinates a bit too much—specifically, those in whom I sometimes warm my reproductive organ. Even though Mara and I were united by purely business relations—both in service and on the Alderaan issue—the brat is clearly crossing the lines of what's permitted. Should I zap her with lightning or something? Though no, it's not worth it. I am unrestrained in my desires to use the Dark Side. Palpatine paid for a similar mistake in his own office once. And I don't really want to see my adjutant with a face like a baked apple.
I'll have to talk to her, give her a proper reprimand. You know, hang her upside down from the balcony—I'm not a Jedi to hesitate with such techniques, simple but effective.
STOP!
The essence of the girl's words, having reached me, forced me to drive away the remnants of sleep, open my eyes wider, and sit up on the bed.
In what sense is Master Piell here? Yes, he was going to fly to the location of my units. But there's a blockade, we're surrounded. Did he teleport here or something?
Well, I certainly slept well.
I spent about five minutes getting myself in order—Moving Meditation, inherited by me along with Muur's knowledge, combined with a cold shower—just what the doctor ordered.
Without overthinking it, I pulled on my old Sith warrior armor and headed to the designated room of the Citadel.
To my surprise, it was crowded inside—virtually all the officers and Jedi I was supposed to have met more than two hours ago were present.
The Chief of Staff—General Locus Geen, my deputy—Aayla Secura, the head of personnel and logistics Colonel Dialo, the army's chief intelligence officer Major Feb Darill. Vice Admiral Nial Declann (ah, he's come to, the old bird). And the corps commanders—Master, Ded, Cody, and Nyx, representing the Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth corps respectively. And the red-head. Master Piell, next to whom stood a clone I didn't know. Consider it almost a friendly, nearly family atmosphere. And Sergeant Skirata, today for some reason without the accompaniment of his Null-class Advanced Recon Commando boys.
It seems Cross sent out the call and gathered everyone again. The treacherous mademoiselle, look at her standing there smirking, shooting her eyes at me.
"Glad to see everyone, gentlemen," I greeted those gathered, approaching the tactical holoprojector. "My apologies for the delay. Master Piell, glad to see you. You managed to break through the blockade after all?"
"Likewise, Master Dougan," the Lannik responded with a slight smile on his lips. "Yes, it took some work," he nodded toward the clone in black Phase II armor standing nearby. "Meet Captain Teplyak, a shadow clone, Ghost Squad. Thanks to him and his boys, I was fortunate enough to reach you in one piece."
Casting an evaluative glance at the clone, I nodded silently. The guy was calm, impassive, however, at the same time, it didn't escape me that he was almost constantly darting his eyes around, as if memorizing the surroundings and the faces of those around him. Is he a spy?
"Don't mind Teplyak," Even noted benignly. "He became a bit of a paranoiac after three months on Saleucami."
"And what were you doing there, Captain?" I inquired.
"Gathering reconnaissance on the enemy, sir," the clone replied. "Everything that could be useful for the..."
of the planetary takeover.
"I see," I grunted. "So, the decision to strike the Triad of Evil was made long before it was announced. Well, let's take that as a given. I hope you have something to share with us, Captain?"
"My squad has transferred all data to Republic Intelligence," the clone stated.
"Teplyak, don't be stingy," the Lannik requested. "You remembered everything that was on those chips anyway."
"That is so, sir," the shadow clone agreed. "That's why you brought me along."
"Like I said, a sharp lad," the Lannik chuckled.
"Well, we still have to discuss the plan for the capture of Saleucami, so why not do it now?" I suggested. "Major Darill, does our intelligence have anything to please us with?"
"I'm not sure it will please you, sir," the officer replied grimly. "We know that Saleucami is a tough nut to crack. And the CIS command has decided to make it truly impenetrable. The enemy fleet grouping consists of twenty Lucrehulk-class battleships, two hundred Recusant-class light destroyers, and nearly three hundred Munificent-class star frigates. And as if that weren't enough, General Grievous will soon appear in the system."
"Better and better with every bit of news," General Geen sighed.
"Don't be in a hurry to get upset," the scout said tiredly. "The latest news promises us even more sorrow. Grievous's new flagship is one of the heavy Subjugator-class superdreadnoughts."
"Holy shit," Admiral Nial Declann voiced the general opinion of those present with feeling. "Sir, we're going to need something very, very big—and preferably in large numbers—to break through a defense like that. Over five hundred Confederate capital-class ships!"
"That's quite unusual for the Separatists," General Geen said thoughtfully. "To keep such an armada... considering that for the last six months the Separatists have been sticking to small squadron tactics—from four to twelve ships. And here... to keep such a massive number of ships idle..."
"I wouldn't say idle," I said after a moment's thought. "Most likely, all this hardware was gathered specifically for our souls."
"To cut our connection with General Luminara Unduli's army via the Triellus Trade Route?" Dialo suggested. "If so, we're in bad shape—we only have a few outposts in that direction."
"Plus a few cover and patrol squadrons, mostly Marauders," Aayla Secura added. "Rear Admiral Osvald Teshik's Shield Fleet has been withdrawn to Ukio—they're recovering after the battle at New Cov. Rear Admiral Peccati Syn and his Dagger have replaced Josef Grunger at Kamino for the same reasons. That's all we have in that region: damaged and understrength squadrons."
"What about Admiral Vahr's Ord Pardron Defense Fleet?" Kal Skirata inquired. "A Venator and a dozen Hammerhead-class cruisers are also a force."
"Completely insufficient against a swarm of ships like that," Darill lamented. "Even if we gather them all into one fist, we still lose to the Separatists by a little less than double."
"Sir, perhaps it's worth pulling ships from other sectors?" Marshal Master, commander of the 5th Assault Corps, asked cautiously.
"We'll only expose other sectors," Peccati Syn shook his head. "Rufaan Tigellinus and his Stiletto are guarding Pantora and the nearby sectors. Afsheen Makati's Spear was quite badly battered at Rindellia—it's dangerous for them to even leave the system right now while enemy raiders are still swarming in that area. We could withdraw Kreeves's ships from Enark—the Anvil has completed its assigned task and restored our communication with General Adi Gallia's army."
"Judging by the fact that she isn't here, has the Master already departed for her post?" Even Piell asked, receiving an affirmative nod from me.
"Demetrius Zaarin is defending Rothana, and I would suggest not touching his forces," Geen continued. "The Christophsis Defense Fleet under Admiral Shirano was already heavily damaged during the operation at Hypori—they're barely covering the Christoph system, Ryloth, and conducting patrols on the section of the Corellian Run under our control. Vice Admiral Pellaeon, Commodores Autumn and Parck are currently deployed in the 'Heft' system army under Master Luminara Unduli—if we pull them for our operations, everything there will collapse like a house of cards. Rear Admiral Zsinj and his Rapier Fleet are currently regrouping to continue the offensive along the Corellian Run. Josef Grunger is moving toward Vogel—a rather large grouping of Munificent-class star frigates has turned up there, hunting for our transports and damaged ships."
"That leaves Rear Admiral Martio Batch's Sickle and Miltin Takel's Catapult fleets," I recalled. "And the squadrons of Jan Dodonna, Teren Rogriss, Teradoc, and Tallon."
"Negative, sir," Geen countered. "As soon as they broke through to Enark, their units were immediately sent to High Jedi General Adi Gallia's 'Greck' army. Just like in 'Heft', they are very short on ships..."
"So, all we have at our disposal is a very small number of ships," Nial Declann summarized. "Only my Blade and Kreeves's Anvil."
"I think we can pull a few ships from the rear units," Geen added cautiously. "But that's twenty or thirty starships at most."
"Reserves?" I asked Dialo. The colonel, whose very appearance made it clear how things stood with ships not involved in active operations, raised a datapad to his eyes—one he seemed never to part with.
"It's bad, sir," he said. "In our active reserve, we have two hundred Hammerhead-class cruisers and a similar number of Marauders. Also, we can pull up to twenty Acclamators, forty Arquitens-class light cruisers, and a similar number of Consular-class cruisers for the operation..."
"Sounds not bad," said Marshal Ded, commander of the 6th Landing Corps.
"That's only on paper," Dialo noted coldly. "All the ships are among those that have been in battle and are currently undergoing repairs. Due to the blockade, we literally value turbolaser turrets and other spare parts at the weight of Aurodium—the warehouses are currently full to the brim; we made an effort before we realized what was threatening us. Not to mention that our fighters park effectively has no reserves. Right now, every ARC-170, every V-19 Torrent, wishbone, even Delta-7s—every one counts. It must be understood that if we cannot take Saleucami with minimal losses, we will have to send ships into battle with half-empty flight decks."
"No one said it would be easy," I explained with a sigh. "I'll contact the leadership of Incom Corporation—perhaps we can somehow have new fighters delivered to us. And as for reducing losses at Saleucami... perhaps Captain Teplyak's information will help us in some way?"
The clone, exchanging a glance with Master Piell, approached the holoterminal where my efficient adjutant had displayed a hologram of the planet.
"Saleucami does not possess its own orbital defense systems," the captain said. "As you correctly noted, they possess a very impressive fleet. Trade Federation Lucrehulk-class battleships are positioned in geostationary orbit over the planet's equator, as well as over the planet's poles. Constant patrols by Vulture-class starfighters. Furthermore, all major ground installations are covered by deflector shields with redundant generator systems—the latest innovation appeared shortly before the Battle of Hypori. Also, very strong anti-aircraft and anti-space defense. We were able to detect up to seventy J-1 proton cannons in strategically important areas for the enemy," the clone pointed them out on the map. "Also, the Separatists have over three hundred fighters at ground airfields—this is in addition to what the starships can deploy."
"Ground contingent?" Master asked quietly.
"Up to three million B1 battle droid and B2 super battle droid models, AAT (Armored Assault Tank)s, Octuptarra tri-droids—we counted over fifteen hundred, NR-N99 Persuader-class droid tanks—about five hundred, Droidekas in unthinkable quantities—we stopped counting after two thousand, IG-227 Hailfire-class droid tanks—about six hundred of those, OG-9 homing spider droids—just over a thousand, LM-432 crab droids—my squad counted about two thousand, DSD1 dwarf spider droids—these are mainly occupied with anti-fighter and patrol activities, there are a thousand at most..."
"So," Ded asked impatiently, "against us are three million droids and about ten thousand units of heavy armor?"
"Exactly so, Marshal," the captain confirmed. "However, I must note that this information is over a month old, and in reality, everything could be quite different."
"Wonderful prospects," I said, chewing my lips, though no one could see it from under the mask. "Colonel, what's our situation with ground equipment?"
"Sir, we have no problems with it," the logistics officer admitted. "But I simply cannot imagine how much of it we might need to fight the enemy on equal terms... After all, we have no forward supply bases near Saleucami, which means everything will have to be delivered from the rear—from Ord Pardron, Christophsis..."
"And that takes time," I realized where he was going. "Either we must establish a base right under the Separatists' noses and deliver everything we need for the assault on Saleucami in advance, preferably with a reserve, or bring everything on transport ships with the landing force..."
"The latter is too dangerous, sir," Secura noted. "Enemy raiders could really spoil the whole operation for us if they shoot down even a few ships."
"Then we should think about a forward base," I concluded. "I really don't want to arrange long hyperspace runs for transports with regular delivery of reinforcements and materiel. General Geen, Major Darill, Sergeant Skirata—you are to scout planets along the entire Triellus Trade Route. We need a spot, fairly inconspicuous but close enough to Saleucami so we can deliver the landing force faster than once every twenty hours, which is what it will be if we start hauling equipment from Christophsis... see that you find something suitable."
"We'll do it," the chief of staff assured me. "Give us two days."
"Well, we're in no hurry," I smirked. "But, in the meantime, besides Saleucami, we still have to pay a visit to Felucia. So, we should think about invasion plans here as well. What we've just discussed regarding Saleucami is nothing more than estimates. And I'd like to have a complete plan—command is already rushing us to take these planets, so they'll soon start eating my brain with their usual alacrity. And I would very much like to avoid that."
"Understood, sir," Darill replied.
"And what ground forces will we use to attack Saleucami and Felucia?" Aayla Secura inquired. "Most of the experienced units are already at the front, and pulling them out of there will be quite difficult..."
"I will go to Saleucami personally," I said. "Along with the 5th Assault Corps, 6th Landing Corps, 7th Air Corps, and 8th Infantry Corps," I indicated the reason for the presence of the four clone marshals at the meeting. "We'll take four more volunteer corps with us—that should be enough for the first wave. Felucia... we sent several corps to 'Heft', didn't we?"
"Yes," Dornell agreed, checking his records. "The 32nd Landing Corps of General Ma'kis'shaalas, the 45th Infantry Corps of General Durmar, the 46th Infantry Corps of General Zeltek, the 47th Infantry Corps of General Osar Oset, and the 50th Infantry Corps of General Saras Lurn. The 61st Infantry Corps of General J'upi She, the 62nd Infantry Corps of General T'Bolton, and the 91st Reconnaissance Corps of High Jedi General Stass Allie."
"Eight corps," I sighed. Though, it would seem, why despair? I have about two hundred of those in reserve, not counting volunteers. "I think they'll figure out for themselves which of those to throw at Felucia..."
"Unlikely, sir," Geen said quietly. "The situation in 'Heft' and 'Greck' is almost desperate. Of High General Unduli's eight original corps formed during the merger of the sectoral armies, three remain—the 41st Elite and 70th Reconnaissance are bogged down in fighting in the Mon Calamari sector, and the 620th Infantry is split into units to hold occupied territory. The corps we sent are needed by them to develop the general offensive..."
"Send five more volunteer corps to them," I ordered, looking at Mara. After all, she had to prepare the order for the redeployment of units. "And ten clone corps—a reserve for the capture of Felucia. That should be enough to both hold the territory and develop the offensive."
"Yes, sir," the adjutant replied.
"How many clones did we send to Master Gallia?" It was time to inquire about the other part of my area of responsibility.
"Twenty-four, sir," Darill reported. "The military contingent there... it was practically destroyed, sir. Two or three legions in total remained combat-capable. The Separatists didn't particularly spare them there."
"That's quite a lot," I mused. Then, calculating the total number of clones I had left, I directed: "The question of sending an additional twenty clone corps and an equal number of volunteers to 'Greck' and 'Heft' should be considered."
"Sir, those are practically all the combat-capable and fully equipped units at our disposal," the scout warned. "Send them, and we'll be left with only clones already involved in battles and green reinforcements to protect the largest territory in the entire Outer Rim."
"What can you do," I sighed. "It's war, Major."
"If necessary," Piell intervened, "I am ready to lead the detachments planned to be sent to either of the two system armies."
"Thank you for your help, Master Piell," I gave the Lannik a bow. "I think Adi will be glad of your company—she's short on Jedi."
"Sir," Cody, who had been silent until now, reminded me of his presence. "We also have practically all Jedi in demand. Will you be leading the assault on Saleucami alone?"
"Naturally," I smirked. "True, as for Jedi... yes, they are scarce. But we still have the as-yet-unclaimed Jedi larvae—it's time to see what they're made of."
The comlink built into my gauntlet beeped.
"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," I apologized. "I need to be elsewhere urgently."
***
"Hutt's compensator," Han Solo hissed through his teeth, examining the burnt part.
On Odessen, the sun was already rolling toward sunset, which meant that according to the Academy schedule, the cadets and students had free time. Usually, this implied that the future flower of the Imperial fleet would be diligently preparing for the next day's classes. But the boy from Corellia preferred to spend his time usefully. Studies came quite easily to him—he knew how to pilot and loved it, and theory was too tedious to waste his time on.
Therefore, Cadet Solo preferred to spend time alone with his ship.
The first in his life, but certainly not the last. Yes, he wasn't many years old, but in ten or twenty years he would definitely be standing on the bridge of his own Star Destroyer, in the crisp uniform of a senior command officer of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul. He knew himself. And the famous Corellian stubbornness—that was a remnant of the project.
Yes, his life had changed drastically since a Sarkhai girl, introducing herself as Lady Grell, had found him on Corellia. Sweet, charming.
And deadly. Han remembered how she, easily wielding a lightsaber, had finished off Shrike's entire gang when he didn't agree to her offer—to receive A LOT of credits in exchange for the boy's freedom. Even though Han wasn't Shrike's slave, he still owed him a lot. But the greedy thug decided he could earn much more with the help of the clever kid.
Big mistake.
Of the whole gang, only Han himself and Dewlanna survived—a Wookiee woman, the only one in Shrike's entire gang who treated him with care and warmth, taught him math and sciences. And in general—she was an extremely caring representative of her kind. Thanks to her, Han learned to understand the Wookiee language. And he was proud of it.
Right now, his co-pilot (though, in fairness, Dewlanna was actually the first pilot—Han's feet didn't even reach the pedals yet) had gone to the quartermasters—to beg for a new quad-laser to replace the one that had to be smeared against the hull of an enemy starship to get away from Mandalore. This had to be done at any cost—after all, he was carrying out a personal mission for the Emperor—the very man who, through Lady Grell's hands, had pulled him out of Shrike's company.
The task was simple—pick up the Jedi, deliver him to Coruscant, and listen to everything he said. Naturally, along the way, worm his way into his confidence by advising this Kenobi to reach out if he needed to get somewhere secretly or escape. Not so much, considering that for the success of this mission he received the sole use of this very freighter, bearing the name "Millennium Falcon." The name was funny, ridiculous, but... somehow catchy.
"Don't daydream, cadet," a strange voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Or you won't notice a bantha settling in your mouth for the night."
Solo, casting aside all extraneous thoughts, looked at the intruder.
It was also a boy—about 5 years older than Han himself. He was wearing the same cadet uniform, though by the stripes on his sleeve, the Corellian determined he was from a different faculty.
"What do you want?" Solo grunted. He didn't like unexpected guests. Especially those who knew how to hack the access codes to the dock assigned to his ship.
"Just walking around, looking..." the other cadet said in an overly casual tone. Han felt that this white-haired boy was clearly here for a reason. Did he want to steal his "Falcon"? "Listen, you're Han Solo, right?"
The kid from Corellia tensed visibly.
The blondie was clearly looking for him specifically. And Han was starting to dislike this intensely.
"Suppose," besides general naval training, the Corellian possessed an extremely foul temper. Coupled with suspiciousness and the seeds of paranoia. At least, that's what Dewlanna complained about, criticizing his habit of falling asleep with a small blaster under his pillow—a habit he had developed during his time working for Shrike. "What do you want in my dock?"
"There's a matter," the boy approached, winking at him conspiratorially. "I heard that they periodically let you fly this beauty," he walked up to the "Falcon's" ramp, leaning against a strut.
"People talk all sorts of things," Han grunted indifferently. Thanks to Shrike for the lesson—how to draw out a conversationalist who needs something from you but isn't in a hurry to share information.
"And yet, word is you do fly. I think if that's the case, we both have a good way to make some money."
"Really?" Han was surprised. "Don't you get enough food in the mess hall?"
"I get enough," the boy nodded. "It's just that I'm used to living large. Even the invitation to the Academy is nothing more than a chance to learn how to earn more than usual."
"Am I supposed to haul something off-planet?" the young Corellian realized. His head always worked the way it should.
"Yes, some cargo," the blondie added mysteriously.
"What kind?" Han asked stubbornly.
"Does it matter?" the boy shrugged. "I know people in the Core Worlds who would pay dearly for much of what's here..."
"Stealing from your own?" Han tried to hide his own contempt. Even in Shrike's gang, there was no such thing. And here, in the headquarters of the Imperial fleet...
He had to find out more.
"What 'own' are they to us?" the blondie smirked. "They came, promised mountains of gold, and moved us from the known galaxy here, to the ass-end of the universe. Not exactly a pleasure."
"We're being taught to be fleet officers," Han narrowed his eyes. Yes, this boy was clearly not here for glory and knowledge.
"Suppose I don't see my destiny on the bridge of a dreadnought," the older boy smirked. "And I only agreed because it promised to be interesting. Where there are many secrets—there's always something to profit from."
"And you didn't miss your chance, right?" Han spoke in a level tone, but inside the boy, entirely different emotions were boiling.
"And I'm offering you to share a rather large amount of credits with me," the boy grinned, extending his hand to Solo for a handshake. "Well, do you agree?"
Han thought for only a couple of seconds. Then, he shook the boy's extended hand.
"Agreed. You can never have too many credits," he said. "But I don't want to work with someone I don't know."
"Don't sweat it, kid," a nasty smirk appeared on the blond's face. "We'll be friends yet. I'm Tyber Zann."
***
"Strike!" demanded the supernova-hot rage seething through her veins.
And she struck.
Every time the inner demon demanded it. The bloodsucker and master of destruction. A monster demanding more and more sacrifices. More deaths. More destruction.
The monster insistently ordered her to end the life of the stubborn opponent who, despite his apparent age and fatigue, turned out to be a magnificent opponent. Experienced, skillful.
And every movement of her blade that he parried, delaying the inevitable, only awakened a greater rage in her. It irritated her that this bastard didn't want to die.
Didn't want it all to end.
She, however, desired it. Like nothing else.
The lightsaber blades met at incredible speeds, bouncing off each other only to begin new deadly pirouettes. It seemed as if the opponents were fighting with two energy discs—they moved so fast.
But, despite the difference in age, physical strength, and the Force, they were not inferior to each other. On his side—experience, knowledge of the Dark Side. On hers—youth, energy, and unpredictability. And much more than the pathetic scraps of the Dark Side.
In her hands was the Unifying Force.
With which she could simply crush this champion of the Sith. But the point of the exercise was not that at all.
Finally, when she felt blind rage picking her up like a turbulent stream of water picking up a drowning person during a storm, when the Dark Side was clearly screaming that she had won and triumphed, the moment of the true trial came.
Ride the wave. Subdue the element. Control it.
That was the meaning of the task.
Oli stared with a smirk at the opponent standing opposite her, who was clearly puzzled by the elegance with which she had overcome the Dark Side within herself, curbing it and putting the unruly dog on a chain. In his eyes splashed disbelief mixed with madness.
"W-what is this?" Lord Cronal, Prophet of the Dark Side, said with a stumbling tongue. "I expected you to be torn apart by such power, and my torment would end..."
Oli only smiled mischievously.
Fool. He had spent a week on the moon of Christophsis in an abandoned mining complex converted for what the teacher called "The Game." The Prophet, deprived of access to the Force, had fought traps for seven days, avoiding death. He showed an enviable desire to live. But, unfortunately, the longer he underwent the trials, the less he wanted to follow the established rules.
And now his last trial—to defeat the Emperor's apprentice and gain freedom. Or else... However, the second option was already clear.
"I am Oli Starstone," the girl introduced herself. Yes, after half an hour of fighting, it was about time. "Apprentice to the Immortal Emperor."
"That means nothing to me, girl," Cronal barked. "I am a prophet of the Dark Side," in proof of his words, he raised his hands to the ceiling, clearly intending to create a Force Storm or something similar. Oli was well-versed in Dark Side rituals. "And you will die! Here and now!"
"Sorry, man," the girl sighed, turning off her weapon and hanging it on her belt. "But before me, you are nothing."
Struck by the coldness and indifference of her words, Cronal watched in surprise as the girl held out both palms, inner sides facing the Prophet. Surely he could feel how the flows of the Force pierced the girl's body and rushed toward him through her limbs.
In the next moment, spreading her palms in opposite directions, Oli could witness the lanky figure of the Prophet of the Dark Side being torn to pieces with a disgusting squelching sound. Blood sprayed everything around like a tsunami...
"Well, damn it!" from anger she almost stomped her foot, as she used to do when she was a youngling. Spitting the enemy's blood flowing down her face from her lips, the girl wiped her eyes with her hand, regaining her sight. "Now I see why Dougan wears a mask. Easier to wash off the blood and shit of enemies..."
The girl, pulling the opponent's miraculously preserved blade to her, disdainfully unclenched the fingers of the dead hand and hung the weapon on her belt. Yes, the clothes were definitely going in the trash. But to refuse a trophy just because it was covered in the enemy's blood? No way.
The teacher drops Darksiders in batches—it's time to organize her own wall of fame. Fortunately, she had performed her last trial under Master Fay's supervision with brilliance, summoning the Light and Dark sides simultaneously, in equal proportions. Not to mention that during the trial she had to first bring herself almost to the point of merging with the Force, opening herself now to the Light, now to the Dark side...
Since the trials were passed, she could return peacefully. And outsiders wouldn't stare at her, waiting to see if Dougan's apprentice would rip their hearts out for drooling over her teacher or not.
She wouldn't. Emotions under control.
At the exit of the mine face, she was met by the Sephi.
Despite a thousand years lived, Master Fay was still beautiful. Kind and modest. In the Force, she exuded such a strong Light Side that it seemed completely incredible that the Jedi could teach her Dark Side techniques. With control over the latter, which Fay also taught, it was clear enough—over millennia, one can learn any tricks.
"I'm finished," Oli bowed to her mentor. "Everything as you said."
"Yes," the Sephi confirmed in a melodic voice. "I felt it."
"So, our lessons are over?" the girl realized with sadness.
"I'm afraid so, Oli," Fay, without the slightest disgust, ran her hand over the girl's blood-soaked hair. The Padawan sighed heavily, hearing the half-whispered "What's this tangled in your hair? An ear? Oh, messy girl." "But you can always turn to me for advice at any time of the day or night."
"Thank you, Master Fay," Oli thanked her. "And... will you stay here with us? Or will you fly on to wander the galaxy?"
"It's too early to talk about that," Fay said seriously. "Predicting the future is generally a bad omen. One should live in the present, but remember..."
"...that our actions now will reflect in the future," Oli added with a sigh. "Yes, I remember. I just don't want you to fly away. What if I have another breakdown..."
"I'm afraid if that happens, even I won't be able to help," Fay smiled. "But before you start going berserk, at least send me a warning on my comlink so I know which sector of the galaxy to fly around by ten thousand parsecs."
"Very funny," the girl grumbled. Though she objectively recognized the ancient master's rightness. Her powers had increased significantly—studying the Jedi and Sith holocrons left for her by Dougan allowed her to surpass the level of most known Jedi. But still, she was far from her teacher's level.
"It seems we're being met," Fay said with warmth in her voice, pointing to the landing Defender. Oli, turning to the Force, touched the only living being on board.
"Hello, Blade," she heard her teacher's voice in her head with a certain tenderness.
"Glad to see you," she responded. After a pause, she added: "Glad it's you specifically."
"Pity I missed your duel with Cronal," sincere regret emanated from the teacher.
"The whole arena is covered in guts and brains, you can look to your heart's content," Oli smirked, though without arrogance. "I, by the way, am also—covered from head to toe in Cronal."
"Oh... let me better call a pest control ship to pick you up, or you'll smear my whole ship here..."
Oli smiled internally. How she had missed all this—the control over emotions, the ease of communication with her teacher and those around her. Yes, it felt as if not a couple of days had flashed by, but an entire eternity...
"I'm also glad of your return, little one," the thought sounded with warmth in the girl's head.
Oli smiled, continuing her movement toward the corvette, distracted by her inner thoughts. So much still remains to be done...
And she would need to start, first of all, with Ahsoka Tano.