I admit, the habitual state of defense had dulled my vigilance. Mine, first and foremost. Had I not been so blinded by the desire to hold out in a blind defense until reinforcements arrived, the Second Regiment might still have represented some combat value.
From the moment the militia integrated into our ranks, a constant discussion had been going on between Ptar and me about transferring their second — reserve — protective field generator to us. The Guard captain resisted, arguing that the valley could be left unprotected if the main generator failed.
I needed the protective field to launch an attack on Loathsom's bridgehead. In the animated series, that's exactly what the Separatist general did — expanded the protective field until it covered the Republic positions. I wanted to do the same thing, only in reverse — cover Loathsom's positions, while hammering the captured territory with artillery and tanks. The protective screen would allow me to bring my forces up to Loathsom's forward lines without risking them during the transit between the city and the enemy bridgehead.
In the end, Zho gave in. The enormous dish on its triangular pedestal — the protective field generator — reached us. Along with three and a half thousand militia — I could throw maybe a regiment or two into battle without fear, but who knew what the enemy had in store for us. More men wouldn't hurt. Besides, the militia needed their baptism by fire.
Rationalism whispered in my head that the more laser bolts the militia caught, the more of my clones would survive. And the more clones survived, the more impressive my victory would be.
And the victory was planned to be grand. Ptar, who was only partially in on the plan, declared with a smirk that I was Christophsis's best friend in the last 500 years. The ship scheme had pleased him so much that the Guard captain had practically melted.
We met tête-à-tête to discuss the plan for the upcoming assault on Loathsom's fortifications. And as it happened, bottles of alcohol appeared on the table — Zho suggested celebrating the upcoming victory over a drink or two. Having heard about the Christophsian tradition of celebrating anticipated successes, I'd gambled on it. After all, a drunk person is a compliant person.
The engineers promised to connect the protective field generator within a few hours, so I had virtually all the time in the world to get my interlocutor drunk and plant the right ideas in his head.
"Your people will be praised, Ptar," I poured balm on the guardsman's already blossoming ego. "A people who took care of lifting their own occupation."
"Aim higher, my friend," the conversation took place shortly before the planned assault on the droid bridgehead. While the clones and militia were setting up the shield generator, Ptar and I were having a talk over a bottle of local wine in my office — the kind that burned in the gut and made your jaw clench. Ptar tried to refuse at first, but a tiny nudge from the Force helped him find answers to all his questions. At the bottom of the bottle.
I myself, though I'd drunk no less, was filtering my system using one of the techniques Exar Kun had used. Manipulation is a delicate instrument. And you always need a sober head.
"I will be hailed as the hero of Christophsis!" the guardsman declared.
"Why be so modest?" I smirked. Weaving intrigues, nudging the tiny mind of a military commander — it was simple but troublesome. I had to carefully steer his consciousness toward the ideas I needed. "Take the entire system under your rule. The liberator hero. The people will readily support such a candidate for ruler..."
"Exactly!" the commander's gaze, burning with emotion and alcohol, flared up. "We'll throw the Separatists out of here. And I will rule the system..."
"Ahem," I coughed. Zho, pulling himself away from the drink, broke into a grin.
"Friend," he extended his enormous paws toward me. "I won't forget about you. Let the Republic go hang — I'll provide you with all the resources you need, whatever you're planning. I'll give you so much nergon-14 that you'll be able to blow up planets..."
"Just don't forget about the ships," I reminded the boastful type.
"Don't worry," he winked at me, refilling his empty glass with fresh swill. "When they ask, I'll say everything as we agreed."
"Splendid!" I touched my glass to his. "Are your men in position?"
Ptar glanced at his chronometer and nodded affirmatively.
"Two regiments are already in position in the Eastern part of the city," he nodded. "As soon as we set up the generator, my men will be the first to rush to liberate the last districts of the capital still held by General Loathsom. Today we'll free the capital, and tomorrow — the entire planet!" The guardsman raised his glass in a triumphant salute. Then, slightly lightening up, he added. "Now, let them feast. It's a tradition — before a major battle, to celebrate its successful conclusion."
"Indeed so, my friend!" I took a sip of the foul brew. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the tiny deck mounted on the inside of my armored vambrace. Vizsla was asking if she could open a communication channel. I touched the keys, replying in the affirmative.
At that same moment, a message about the imminent activation of the protective screen flew from one of the captured reconnaissance droids to Loathsom's headquarters...
The idea was simple as could be.
Expose the militia to the blow, inflict maximum possible casualties on them, so that then, stepping over the backs of the fallen and the survivors, I could become a hero. Sure, the clones would suffer too, but all means are justified for victory. I needed to lure Loathsom out of his hiding places so the next part of the plan would work...
Thousands of bomber droids from the orbital blockade ships burst from their metal berths and hurtled downward in an unprecedented attack on Christophsis's capital.
In the post-mission analysis, no one could have found fault with us. The scanners had been either disabled or blinded by the droid reconnaissance — the very same reconnaissance that had reported our acquisition to the enemy.
We reacted too late. Effectively, defensive formations only began to take shape when the enemy was already in direct line of sight.
Our anti-air forces suffered catastrophic losses. By the time the battle for the Eastern part of the city ended — three days after it had begun — only 10 out of 36 self-propelled guns remained operational. The rest had either lost their mobility or vanished into oblivion. Fortunately for us, the enemy had started the bombardment with the Eastern part of the city. Unfortunately for the militia — most of the deadly payload fell on their heads. The clones, better prepared for the hardships of war, were partially able to save themselves and preserve most of their equipment.
As soon as the CIS ships rid themselves of their deadly cargo, the Eastern part of the city, clearly unprepared for carpet bombing, underwent critical changes. Most of the high-rise buildings, which had once adorned the city like giant colossi, were destroyed. Under the bomb impacts, the buildings crumbled, disintegrating into pieces, and crystal fragments turned into shrapnel, raining down as a deadly storm on the positions of the Second Regiment and nearly three thousand militia. Within half an hour of the air raid, we lost roughly thirty snipers, five hundred men from the Second Regiment, up to fifteen hundred militia, and up to four hundred engineers, medics, and "heavies." The enemy had brought down their orbital "Hammer" on us.
Despite the lull that followed the strike — which allowed us to pull out the few surviving vehicles and survivors from the rubble — we still couldn't implement defensive measures. The accursed shield generator, our only hope, had also been damaged in the raid, and a team of engineers was frantically calibrating it while our forward units recovered.
The ground forces' "Anvil" entered the fray.
Over a hundred AAT tanks, fifty Octuptarras, countless spider droids... and endless streams of B-1s and B-2s — all this mechanical chaos surged into the breach in our defenses, finishing off the survivors and crushing the feeble attempts at resistance from the militia and disoriented clones of the Second Regiment.
And, as if that weren't enough, Trench decided to participate in our public flogging once more. Landing barges dropped more trouble on us at the Northern highway, tying down the First Regiment in battle, while a small but heavily armored tank fist, advancing on our southern positions from the enemy bridgehead, pinned down the Third. The Western direction, though relatively quiet, I couldn't afford to pull too many forces from either.
All I could field against Loathsom's monstrous armored fist — troopers, flamethrower operators, engineers, even medics — every single one of them threw themselves into the counterattack.
Ignoring Ptar, who was getting underfoot, I Force-punched the window of my office out and, with a virtuosic leap, landed in the midst of the panicked reserve clones.
"Deploy the artillery!" I grabbed the nearest clone artilleryman and gestured toward the breakthrough point. "Heavy fire on the forward positions."
"Sir, but our people are there!" Fett's clone objected.
I had no time for formalities — Vizsla was reporting an enemy breakthrough beyond the second line of defense. Which, to put it mildly, was not what we'd planned for. We hadn't fed them the plans about the gaps in the Eastern part of the city just so the enemy could capture the whole thing.
"Son," I grabbed the clone by his chest plate. "If you don't open fire on the forward positions right now, there won't be any of us left here soon either. Execute!" Giving the clone a Force-enhanced shove, I jumped onto the nearest speeder bike and rushed toward the breach.
Clones with jetpacks, snipers, AV-7 artillery pounded the advancing units into the ground, but the onslaught didn't weaken. Our minefields managed to slow down and even partially stop the enemy's tank units, but we couldn't break the offensive. There were too many tin cans eager for our blood. The infantry droids, disregarding losses, advanced over the hulls of their fallen brethren, obeying their electronic commands, supported by heavy tank cannon fire.
The first to arrive at the breached positions were the troopers under Commando Berserker. They bore the full force of Loathsom's strike. Without fear or reproach, Berserker's clones, like him, walked into death, fighting to the last magazine and grenade. The maddened militia died by the hundreds, torn apart by shrapnel, mowed down by droid weapons...
A total hell. There was no other word for this bacchanalia. I raced toward the front line, flying past militia forces fleeing singly or in groups. The clones, seeing their commander's figure charging toward the enemy, surged forward in a united rush toward the advancing foe.
A lead trio of LAAT/is raced overhead, raining fire on the enemy forces. I was together with one of the two remaining battalions of the Second Regiment, covered by half our remaining stormtroopers. Day and his subordinates stayed to maintain the appearance of a flimsy defense on the Western direction, while four dozen stormtroopers were pounding the enemy in the north and south.
At the spearhead of the counterattack, drawing the clones behind me, I recalled with a smirk how I'd criticized those Jedi who, on Geonosis, advanced ahead of the clones. I remembered my criticism. And I tried on their fate. It was bitter. It's easy to criticize others when you're watching from the sidelines.
At full speed, I dodged a shot from an Octuptarra. Soaring upward, I sent the speeder into a free flight that ended in an explosion among a cluster of B-1s. With a lunge, I left the street, ducking behind the corner of a massive building.
"Berserker!" I shouted into my comlink. "How bad is it?"
"More than half the troopers are dead or wounded," the clone responded. "We've cut most of the tanks off from you. We're managing to hold them back with heavy weapons for now."
"Hold on, we're a couple hundred meters from you."
Dodging another shot, I realized we were losing. Our forces were being systematically ground down by overwhelming numbers. The militia, never tested in real combat, buckled. Clones were fighting to the last, but a wall of droids and tanks was inexorably advancing through the city, widening the breach in our defenses with every passing minute.
And that was the moment I'd been waiting for. The moment when the trap I'd set would spring shut.
That sounded encouraging, of course. But that was two to three hundred meters across a space littered with enemy infantry.
A massive chunk flew off the corner of the building I was hiding behind. Then, red blaster bolts started nipping at the permacrete in front of my feet. When I'd ducked into cover, a few dozen meters had separated me from the enemy. Now, it seemed, the buffer zone was gone.
Closing my eyes, I began to concentrate. Pulling the flows of the Force into myself, I raised Force shields around my body. The Force whispered to me about the enemy's disposition.
First, several dozen rows of B-1 droids. Then B-2 droids. And behind the infantry came the Octuptarras, raining fire on our units pinned down in the terrain folds about ten meters behind me. The sky was getting crowded with gunships belching flames at the enemy reinforcements.
But enough sitting around.
The sword that once belonged to the most competent son of Valkorion leaped into my hand on its own.
"Well, let's go, my little trash cans," I tried to cheer myself up.
Leaping out of cover, I delivered a wide Force strike at the B-1 ranks that had drawn level with me, mowing down several dozen droids. The mangled bodies of enemy soldiers turned into kinetic projectiles, spraying a hail of improvised shrapnel at the budget Terminators following the fallen.
The blade arced, ricocheting several blaster bolts aimed at my body off the ground. Jump, dodge, another Force Push. The droids scattered like bowling pins again. But there were too many of them.
Parrying shots with my blindingly yellow blade, I tried to redirect them back at the enemy, but it didn't always work. Praise the Force, I managed to dodge a couple of shots from the nearest Octuptarra. With my own eyes now, I could tell we were facing about a thousand droids, supported by only three octopus-like walkers. Throwing the nearest droids away from me, I ducked behind the cover of an improvised barricade on the opposite edge of the street from where I'd been hiding.
"Sir," a clone's voice crackled in my helmet's earpiece. "This is Flint, commander of the jet clones. Striking the enemy walkers!"
At that same moment, dozens of snow-white figures flashed between the buildings, leaving a barely visible jet trail behind them. An instant—and tiny rockets, fitted with the most powerful explosives, left their mounts at the tops of the backpacks and streaked toward the massive enemies.
The first Octuptarra caught four rockets in its huge spherical body. With a monstrous roar, yellow-blue flame erupted from the monster's head. The giant tilted, hung motionless for a moment, then crashed onto the pavement with a thunderous noise.
Confusion spread through the front ranks of the droids. The mindless mannequins started swiveling their heads in all directions, dying under the fire of the ever-vigilant clones. Taking advantage of the enemy's hesitation, the white avalanche surged forward, covering the space between them and the droids in one go.
Just as the clones and droids clashed in hand-to-hand combat, the second Octuptarra exploded and fell. Like its predecessor, this giant ended up on the pavement with its head destroyed.
The barrel of a Separatist carbine appeared over my cover.
Slipping out of cover, I stabbed the faltering B-1 with my blade, then ripped it off the energy sword with the Force and hurled it deep into the B-2 ranks.
"Contact with Berserk is lost!" Alpha shouted in my ear, appearing beside me from nowhere. "His men aren't responding."
"Tanks!!!" a frantic scream rang out. Glancing over the cover, I spotted the all-too-familiar hulls of AATs moving toward us.
"They're all dead, sir," Alpha said with some shock. "Otherwise the tanks wouldn't have gotten through."
"They need to be stopped!" I slapped the clone on the shoulder. "Otherwise Berserk's sacrifice will be in vain. And now," I rose to my full height, deflecting a couple of shots with my blade, "get up and cover me!"
The meaning of Alpha's words only hit me a couple of seconds later. So all my Helldivers were dead? Son of a bitch!
Rage awoke inside me.
My ARC was dead.
Thoughts alternated with strikes.
With a swing of my blade, I cut a droid in half from waist to shoulder.
One of my three ARCs!
The other two B-1s crumpled under the Force as soon as I focused on them.
And with him, it turns out, all the Helldivers!
Darting to the side, I got out of the B-2's line of fire, then, lunging back the other way, swept my blade across its barrel-shaped hull and shoved it away with the Force. The next one I pulled toward me instead, driving the energy blade into the head area of the Confederate droid.
They bought us time!
With a slash of my blade, I severed the arm and upper body of the nearest droid. Not waiting for it to fall, I jumped onto it, and using the fallen enemy's body as a springboard, launched upward, simultaneously gathering the Force within me.
Like a ballistic projectile, I landed on the ground, transferring all the accumulated Force into my left hand. And the moment my hand touched the street's permacrete, the Force burst forth.
Twisting the even hexagonal permacrete slabs, the Force surged forward, tearing up the pavement, making the enemy droids stumble and fall clumsily. Of course, I was nowhere near Starkiller, but within a good twenty-meter radius, the droids went down like bowling pins. Flailing awkwardly, struggling to get up, they became easy targets for the advancing clone forces.
We stormed the Helldivers' positions only half an hour into the battle. We had to bring up heavy weapons for the tanks. As soon as several dozen of those boxes from the forward units went up in flames, the enemy retreated. The droids shuffled backward clumsily under the fire of the pressing clones, littering the pavement with their corpses.
Having pushed the enemy off the front line and sent Loathsom's equipment and infantry fleeing back where they came from, I checked on the situation on other fronts. With minor losses, the First and Third Regiments had held.
But things were much worse with the Second Regiment. Essentially, of the entire regiment, only a battalion and a half remained alive, and even then only those who'd stayed on the Western front. On the Eastern front, only mountains of corpses remained.
Slightly more than fifty Helldivers had survived. Uninjured and combat-effective—no more than a dozen.
Surveying the battlefield, strewn with bodies in snow-white armor and the husks of war machines, I couldn't shake the thought that my own death had been wandering somewhere among those droids.
"Forward!" Ptar's drunken voice rang out somewhere very close. The enormous figure of the guardsman flashed a few meters from me, seated on a speeder. After him, like a pack of hounds, a hundred other speeder bikes surged forward, militiamen riding them.
"Stop, you idiots!" Alpha shouted at the top of his lungs. "The field isn't working!"
But the militiamen didn't listen. They passed the city line, charging in pursuit of the Kerkoidian's retreating tanks.
The very enemy I had deliberately drawn into the city, planning to drag him into a fight with the militia, cut him off from reinforcements with the shield, and crush him like a flea. Honor, respect from the clones, blind adoration in the eyes of the surviving militiamen. And Ptar's drunk face, having contributed not even the slightest effort to the victory.
I just hadn't planned for this outcome. A third of my forces, gone like that. Losses were still being tallied, but up to fifteen hundred clones from the second regiment—along with their commander, De—up to five hundred engineer clones, almost all the Helldivers. Twenty-six self-propelled guns, four walkers, a dozen gunships—this was more of a Pyrrhic victory.
Watching from the top of the Second Regiment's operations headquarters as the victory-emboldened militiamen charged onto mines and were butchered by Loathsom's tank squads, I didn't feel like my plan had worked. I had lost too many of my people. I had miscalculated.
"Your plan just needs the finishing touches, apprentice," the Emperor's ghost materialized to my left. The ancient Sith admired the smoking ruins, the piles of bodies, the twisted wreckage of vehicles. A smile played on his lips.
"I weakened my flank," I reminded him. "Heavy losses in equipment, personnel..."
"Who cares about losses when you can make their sacrifice a beacon of hope?" the Emperor asked. "These little people," he jabbed a finger at the dozens of militia figures running from the tank blaster fire, "are simply filth."
Loathsom had lured the militia beyond the range of our artillery cover. The trap he'd set—an anti-personnel minefield—had cut down a huge number of the freedom fighters. Just as they had fled in terror from the droids at the start of the attack, now they were desperately trying to get back under the protection of the city buildings.
"But," the Emperor continued, "if you save even one of them right now, they'll praise you as their savior for the rest of their lives. Not their commanders, but you—the Hero of Christophsis, who saved the militia from annihilation. Your plan is good. Follow it through to its logical conclusion..."
"Sir," Balda stepped toward me through the Teacher's dissolving figure. "The tanks have turned around and are shooting the militia. Those idiots even chased the Sep droids on foot."
"Scramble the gunships," I ordered. "Gather the survivors and bring them to the magistrate."
"But, sir," the ARC protested. "We've already lost too many."
"Let's not lose any more, Balda," I said instructively. "If the militia gets wiped out, who'll supply us with food?"
The clone froze, tilting his head slightly to the left, studying me. Then he silently saluted and left the roof.
"Splendid, my apprentice," the Emperor's ghost praised. "You only have to wait a little longer..."
As if confirming his words, I suddenly heard the low hum of engines. Through the soot and smoke in the pre-dusk twilight, the shadow of the Fury flashed over the city.
* * *
"General Doogan," the holographic recording flickered. "You are displaying a very rare example of composure and command spirit. Your smuggler assistants have brought me the latest reconnaissance and operational data. I believe you have sufficient forces to hold out under siege for the next month. Many Jedi have fallen in this time, many clones have died," the speaker made a show of regret. "We are in a difficult situation, in need of practically everything. Unfortunately, although the Iron Spear is currently engaged in a small number of critically important battles, we do not have sufficient forces to relieve Christophsis. We simply lack the ships. Our previous attempt ended with the loss of the reinforcements sent to you..."
I groaned and rolled my eyes. Meanwhile, the recording continued to annoy me.
"The Jedi Council also sends its approval. High Command has a plan for the relief of Christophsis next month, so you should hold out..."
I stopped listening after that. A short burst of lightning fried the portable transmitter, silencing Bailur's recording. The device, obeying the laws of physics, flew off the table and shattered against the wall.
With a measure of surprise, I noted that I had learned to produce much more lethal lightning.
"I actually still had information on it," Kira remarked, following the transmitter's trajectory with her eyes.
The girl was sitting on the couch in my office. A short haircut of dark chestnut hair, a light jacket with armor plates sewn into it, pants made of some animal skin, blasters on her thigh and belt... Not the slightest hint of belonging to the Order. The girl was playing another role, maintaining her smuggler persona.
"I don't care," I snapped, staring at the commanders' reports on the day's events.
In general, Kira had nothing to do with it.
It wasn't her fault I was stuck here. Without communications, without reinforcements, without support.
The bitterness of loss took its toll.
Strange thing. I know how the Clone Wars will end, I know what the clones are needed for, but still—I strive to keep them alive. I worry about losses. But back on Earth, I had preached a completely different philosophy.
Different principles. So what was this fracture that had occurred?
"So many corpses," Nadia remarked, watching through the restored glazing of my office as the clones' remains were being transported to the former university building, located a couple of buildings away. The building had long been looted, but its extensive gardens, where all the trees had burned down, were more suitable than ever for what I had in mind.
Unlike Carsen, the assistant to the long-dead consul was dressed in a light blouse, over which she wore a light breastplate with a light blaster attached to it. A cloak of fabric armor protected her back from shots, and her legs were carefully guarded by fabric armor leggings, over which camo-painted armor elements were fastened. An assault rifle with a modified optical visor hung behind the girl's back.
"Yes, we've seen some fighting," I remarked.
Vette and Atroxa had left and were supposed to send only Kira to me. The reason Grell had come along with the former companion of the Hero of Tython was still unknown to me. But nothing prevented me from finding out.
"How did your assignments go?" I inquired matter-of-factly, looking over both of the Jedi's followers.
The girls exchanged glances.
"Usually," Kira began, "Hands reported on their missions individually."
"That was the Emperor's rule," the second chimed in.
Looking at the girls' innocent faces, I gestured for Nadia to leave. Her mission interested me the most, so I saved it for last.
"I'll be in touch," the girl bowed and left the office.
Following her with my eyes, I returned my attention to the Child of the Emperor.
"Tell me."
* * *
He didn't inspire persistent revulsion or superstitious horror. She sensed no excessive Darkness in him, or the monstrous designs his Teacher pursued.
For what reason this boy (from the height of her years spent in carbonite, she could not look at the Jedi sitting before her any other way than a mother looks at a child)... Since their acquaintance, one question had pounded in her head—why had this Jedi betrayed the Order and bowed to Vitiate's teachings?
Back then, on the station, awakening her from her sleep, Set had said with a smirk that she was to become a nanny for the Emperor's new apprentice. A fallen Jedi in the Emperor's service. With all the strength of her Jedi soul, she despised that smug type. For almost a thousand years, he had served the Emperor. Knowing the secret of transferring consciousness into a new body, he had long ago destroyed his original body with Sith magic, crawling into the flesh of his own clone. Harth did not reveal his secrets—how he had gained access to the technique of cloning a Jedi's body. He spoke little, in general.
For some reason, the Emperor's loyal servant had left the station before the new apprentice arrived. Was he afraid of him? Hardly. In a thousand years, he had accumulated enough knowledge and tricks to fear none of the Hands.
"You will teach him as you were taught in your time," her sight hadn't returned yet, but the Emperor's voice—a low, guttural bass that seemed to emanate from several throats at once—she remembered for life. "He is my apprentice. You will listen to him as you listen to me. You will protect him as you protect me. Teach him to control his abilities. And he will bring peace and tranquility to our galaxy. Finish what your beloved could not..."
She listened to the Emperor, absorbed his every word. She had long since stopped crying over her murdered beloved. The tears had dried over the years. Her heart had hardened over the centuries. Only the desire to reunite with the one once called the Hero of Tython—that alone made her serve the Emperor.
No matter what a monster he was, only the Emperor had the power to bring Kira's murdered beloved back to life. And if that was required—she would serve his apprentice. Only so that her beloved could be reborn. And as soon as that happened—the Emperor's plans would come to an end.
"Tell me," the Jedi Doogan said.
With a simple exercise, Kira calmed her heart, which had begun to beat faster—at the mere mention of her deceased love.
"You sent me to the Rendili shipyards to oversee the repair and modernization of our ships," the girl reminded him. From a hidden pocket on her belt, she produced an information crystal. "The company's management was satisfied with our order and fulfilled it on time. The crystal contains the reports of all the Hands, encrypted for your study."
She held the crystal out to the Jedi. Pulling the crystal to himself with the Force, the man inserted it into the datapad, unlocking the encrypted text with his fingerprint. However, he didn't read the report.
"Tell me about your successes, Kira," he asked. Asked. Not ordered. The girl was surprised to discover a wave of attention and goodwill coming from the man toward her.
"All the Hammerheads and Thranta-class cruisers, without exception, have had their weapons, defenses, power, and propulsion systems upgraded," the girl continued. "New communication systems and advanced navigation systems have been installed. A partial system upgrade freed up some of the crew and reduced it to 250 people. The flight deck space has also been expanded—it can now accommodate up to two squadrons of Aurek or Claw-class fighters."
"Wanderer, Valiant, Dauntless, Republic's Call, Forefather, Vanguard, Coruscant's Radiance, Veltraa, Voice of Katharr, Taris's Revenge, Tython's Triumph, Brave, Praetorian, Protector, Seeker, Majestic, Warrior, Guardian, Restorer, Peacemaker, Nebula, Endurance, Relentless, Iron Sun, Blue Star, Fearless, Amplifier..." the Jedi began to read aloud the ancient names of the ships from her report. "A regular flower of the Old Republic."
The girl let the caustic remark go in one ear and out the other.
"The company left seven heavy turbolasers on the head—three turret-mounted and one fixed gun—supplemented by another four dual turret mounts on the wings—two on each wing—two on the upper side. The number of paired dual medium turbolasers has been brought to five—two in the lower sections of the wings and one in the aft section—as originally positioned. Point defense consists of two dozen quad laser cannons, concentrated on the ship's spine and belly. Point-defense laser cannons are concentrated on the bridge and stern—two dozen guns."
"With armament like that, our cruisers are no match for the Venators," the man grinned. "I'm satisfied. But, as I understand it, we can't equip all our Hammerheads with Aurek fighters?"
The girl nodded in agreement.
"Only 15 out of 27 cruisers. The fighters have undergone a major overhaul, a moral upgrade. The company is ready to take on the production of new batches of fighters—if we're willing to pay 70,000 credits each."
"Twice the original price," Rick smiled. "No choice, we'll take them. What about the frigates?"
"All 32 Thranta-class cruisers have undergone a complete modernization. Six paired heavy turbolaser cannons—three turrets on each side of the hammerhead bridge. 12 laser turrets across the hull are positioned so that each hemisphere of the ship is covered by 9 turrets. Two ion cannons per side. Eight missile launch tubes. Wing—twenty-four Claw-class fighters."
"Do we have enough of them?" the man asked in surprise, checking the records.
"More than enough. In place of the missing Aureks, the remaining dozen Hammerheads each carry 16 Claw-class fighters. These fighters have also been modified. Their cost when ordered at the Rendili shipyards is 100,000 credits."
"Fascinating," the man praised.
"The company is ready to produce whatever quantity of Hammerheads and Thranta-class cruisers we need according to their design," Kira moved to the final part of her mission. "The sums in our accounts on Rendili are enough to build up to a thousand ships of each type—with enough left over to build hundreds of thousands of fighters."
"How interesting," the man chuckled. "And what about the dreadnoughts? I hope you excelled there too?"
The girl felt the man's undisguised attention on her. Not the attention of master and slave that the Emperor or Harth showed. The attention of a man toward a woman.
Sympathy, concealed behind feigned posturing and polish, seeped through his mental defenses. Perhaps someone else wouldn't have noticed it, but not her. Not with her life experience.
The girl cursed mentally. The last thing she needed was for him to try to drag her into bed, like Atroxa. Of course, the Lethan wasn't averse to it herself—that was just her nature. But she was definitely not his kind of bird. Let him think what he wants.
"Thanks to our extensive spending, we have a personal VIP manager," the girl explained. "I conveyed the gist of what was needed to him in general terms. The company is ready to take on the work, guarantees the project's secrecy, but only on the condition of no conflict with the Republic government. For the extra trouble and confidentiality, they're asking for an additional 10 billion. I didn't mention the Katana Fleet directly. I only hinted that they are ships lost by the Republic and found by our search parties."
The man laughed. There was no malice or triumph in his voice—just ordinary amusement. Artless, as if this man wasn't shaping the fate of the galaxy, striving to carry out his Teacher's next horrifying plans.
For a moment, Kira wondered if he could become a tool against Vitiate. Or was his faith in the Emperor unshakable?
"Capitalists won't miss a chance to make money," he said, his laughter subsiding. "As soon as we're done here on Christophsis, you'll go to Rendili and sign a contract with them for the repair of the 'Dark Forces'."
"As you command," the girl bowed her head in respect.
"If that's all, you're free," the man leaned back in his chair, bringing the datapad with the reports to his eyes.
"My lord," the girl rose from the couch.
Meeting the Emperor's apprentice's eyes, she asked:
"Do you truly believe that only through war can you bring peace back to the galaxy?"
Rick ran his hand over his face, as if relieving tension. He was silent for a moment, then said:
"You can't just let things run their course. The Sith will exterminate the Jedi—and with them, trillions of innocents. Simply because they've been waiting so long for revenge. And it won't stop—from its birth to its death, this galaxy will suffer, torn apart by ideological contradictions. In the end, this will lead to the extermination of thousands of worlds. It's time to put an end to it. Here and now. The Jedi and Sith must see the light. The Force is One. And if anyone wants to, they can keep dividing it into Light and Dark sides. Somewhere on the fringes of the galaxy, without harming peaceful beings."
"Surely this can be conveyed to the Order peacefully?" the girl was surprised.
"More than once, the great heroes of the past have tried to return the Jedi to the original understanding of the Force," Rick said instructively. "But the Jedi are blind in their dogmas. Just as," he added hastily, "the Sith are in theirs. Our task is to create a new Order, one that will absorb all the teachings of Light and Dark and direct them toward protecting this galaxy, establishing equality, freeing it from slavery, corruption, lawlessness... And if the galaxy doesn't want to unite, even in the face of a great danger," at that moment, the man exuded Vitiate's icy resolve, "I will do it for them."
"You keep mentioning a danger to the galaxy," the girl recalled. "But who is it?"
The man looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether she could be trusted. Then he gestured for her to sit down.
"The population of an entire galaxy plans to invade the Celestial River," he said. "They know no mercy, they are not sensitive to the Force, and they do not use machines. Their cult is war, pain, blood sacrifices. Many years will pass before they arrive in our galaxy—fifty, or even more—but the galaxy will not be ready for this—to stand against the population of an entire galaxy, striving to exterminate us to appease their gods... They will conquer system after system, leaving behind mountains of corpses and beings mutilated and disfigured by their biotechnology. For whom death will be the best release."
"But why don't you tell the Council? The Chancellor? The Senate?" The story shocked her. Even during the war with the Empire, when the galaxy faced extermination for the realization of the Emperor's plan, the situation didn't seem so desperate.
"They don't care about the future," the man shrugged. "The Chancellor is a Sith, and the Senate, if not entirely, is half in his pocket already. The Order is mired in ignorance, weakened, grown fat. Palpatine knows about the threat from beyond the galaxy's borders; his rise to power is one of the steps in opposing the aliens. But his plan is not destined to succeed either. The Jedi, with their narrow-mindedness, will destroy the strong militarized state the Sith will create. And after that, the galaxy will be shaken by local wars for decades—wars for which the Republic and its successors will be unprepared."
"How do you know all this?" the girl asked suspiciously. She knew about Force Visions, but even they weren't this detailed.
"It's..." the man seemed to falter, stopping himself in time. "It doesn't matter. Both I and Vitiate know the end of this saga. And we don't like it. Is that all?" Notes of demand and impatience crept into his voice.
Understanding that she had received answers to more questions than she had wanted, the girl bowed silently and left the office.
* * *
Reports, reports, reports…
I'm starting to understand why the Republic has such a massive bureaucratic apparatus. It's simply impossible to cope with this influx of information.
Kira's report was abundantly supplied with numbers, estimates, graphs… I didn't even bother to delve into it.
I also set aside Grell's report for a better time — it would be more interesting to talk to the girl in person, since she's here.
First and foremost, I was interested in the report from Ashara. In the lines of her dispatch, the girl unambiguously hinted that the position of commandant was weighing on her. However, I must note her successes. Together with Malgus, she connected the power supplies delivered from the station, cleared debris, repaired damaged equipment, and hooked up new equipment. All the thankless work fell on the shoulders of the ten thousand Skywalkers that the Sith had generously "shared" with us. The droids began clearing the area — freeing up living space for the planned construction of barracks, warehouses, and hangars.
Finishing her report, I tensed when I saw the name Seth Harth.
A Hand I had never dealt with before, he glided like a shadow across the galaxy, delivering the necessary supplies to Odessen. Equipment, weapons, supplies… Harth had his own people, his connections, everywhere. It was thanks to him that the base began to acquire the few but desperately needed specialists — mercenaries, technicians, pilots, former military… Zavros directly stated that Seth ignored her, claiming he was doing it for the good of the Empire.
This was more than a little alarming. I don't like sneaky bastards in principle. But when someone who's supposed to answer to you is being sneaky behind your back, it frankly pisses me off.
Undoubtedly — I'm not at all against our little campaign getting valuable specialists. But why the hell is this being done without my consent? Who's the boss here? Am I his, or is he mine?
The Force stirred, signaling a sudden intrusion.
The door to my office opened, letting in Ptar, dead drunk.
The Guard Commander slumped heavily onto the couch, clenching in his muscular hand a bottle of the same swill we'd been drinking before the attack started.
"Two and a half thousand, Rick. Two and a half…"
"Are those irrecoverable losses?"
"Almost," the guardsman said, putting the bottle to his lips. "Maybe about five hundred will pull through, but that's not certain. Damn it, if only we'd had more bacta!"
"We have what we have," my wrist datapad chirped. Ah, a message from Alpha. Right, time to start. "I lost just as many. And it nearly cost us everything."
"Their sacrifice won't be forgotten," Ptar declared pompously.
"There wouldn't have been a need for their sacrifice if your mechanics had turned on the shield," I remarked. "And from the looks of it, they'd never even seen that generator before!"
"Well…" Zho stared at me uncomprehendingly.
"Let's end this conversation," I cut him off. "A funeral procession has been prepared. We must pay our respects to the fallen…"
"Now?!" Ptar stared at me, his eyes rolling wildly. The man was looking at his own kind, his own condition…
"I… I'm not ready," he mumbled slightly. Then a thought flickered in his eyes, fueled by alcohol and the Force. "Say I'm on a mission. Go alone…"
The first part of the Christophsian Ballet was over.
* * *
The local university building was a heavily battered but imposing structure, somewhat reminiscent of a Stalinist high-rise like the one at Moscow State University. True, the central building towered about seven hundred meters above the ground.
The territory around the university had once boasted luxurious gardens. On the facade side, the semicircular university building had once been surrounded by a wonderful grove of fruit trees. The trees had died, and the ground had long been scarred by heavy machinery. But there was no other place.
From the improvised tribune, I surveyed the forces of the 204th Legion standing before me.
Neat company squares of clone infantrymen, engineers, medics… All the clones not on duty, and the locals who had joined the procession, were arranged so that the mass grave would be at the center, between me and the formation of soldiers.
Behind me stood the regimental commanders — Fob, Fan, Rudi, Mimo. To my right, clad head to toe in Mandalorian armor, stood Shea, a silent statue. To my left — Alpha and Balda. The ARCs held the poles of banners, furled until the right moment. The idea of creating our own flags for the legion had come to me long ago. But it only came to fruition just before the unification with the militia.
Gazing at the enormous pit — about a hundred meters in diameter and so deep that one look made me dizzy — I observed hundreds of identical faces and bodies, stacked neatly in rows on top of each other. The militiamen were burying their dead elsewhere, distrustful of our proposal for a common burial site for the victims. Well, to hell with them. They'd still come to gawk — I could make out several hundred militiamen behind the clones' backs, obviously those who had survived the day's bloodbath.
Scanning the rows of silent soldiers, locked in Phase I armor, I noted with some detachment how the snow-white equipment made the soldiers stand out in the dark. Making a mental note — repaint the armor — I activated the comlink built into my wrist comm. Pre-tuned to a channel common for the entire contingent, my goal was to be heard by everyone — not just those gathered, but also those on watch, patrols, scouts… Thanks to our specialists' intervention, my voice would reach the locals as well.
I hadn't prepared a speech in advance, hadn't rehearsed. I wanted to polish it, of course, but the moment I sat down to write, images of demagogues from my world flashed before my eyes. And such disgust washed over me…
No. If I want to be heard by my people, if I want to convey the essence of my words to them, I have to speak in my own words. Without high-flown speeches, without pathos. As an equal among equals.
"General Rick Dougan speaking," I said in a calm voice. Instantly, I felt the gaze of tens of thousands of concentrated eyes upon me. The attention pouring onto me nearly buckled my knees. A powerful thing.
"You weren't asked if you wanted to fight for the Republic — a country you've never seen. You were sent into battle under my command. I swear by the Force, I have done and am doing everything so that you will never regret having served and serving under my command."
A few moments of silence. A slight disorientation among the personnel was distinctly traceable in the Force.
"Today we suffered heavy losses. Our brothers, our friends, gave their lives for the cause of our victory. Without sparing themselves, they fired back to the last magazine, the last detonator. Fighting for the peace and well-being of our state. All of us on this planet — cut off from the benefits of civilization, surrounded but not broken, besieged but not surrendered — are fighting for those we will likely never see. For hundreds of trillions of people who will lose their freedom if we fall. Our brothers and friends fell in glorious battle, giving their lives for the cause of liberating the Galaxy from injustice and tyranny. I promise you, their sacrifice will not be forgotten! Every soldier who dies in this war deserves to be remembered, no matter what contribution he made to the common victory. Together — you and I — we will shatter the shackles of slavery and oppression that hang over this Galaxy. Our actions now will echo through eternity! The glory of our deeds will enter the history books. Future generations will marvel at our heroism and courage. History is written by the victors. And I'll be damned if the soldiers of my glorious legion don't bring order to this planet, this sector, this galaxy!"
Dead silence. The pressure of that intense attention only grew, practically squeezing my head unbearably. Emotions, like waves, washed over the personnel.
Perhaps this wasn't the most fiery speech. Perhaps not even the best that should have been said at that moment, but it reflected my personal attitude. I believed in every single one of those under my command. And I believed in my words.
But, deep in my soul, where the darkness churned, where calculation and pragmatism resided, the little devils were rubbing their hands with satisfaction.
It was clear that the dead had to be buried — we're not strangers to human decency. But the real reason was different.
I was laying down straw to soften the fall, in case Order 66 ever happened.
Operation "Knightfall" in the history I knew was executed ambiguously. Of course, on the one hand, the clones simply followed orders — the very orders given by the head of state. They carried them out well — as befits loyal and obedient soldiers. They were created for this. Orders, obedience — that's the foundation of their lives.
That the Jedi turned out to be incompetent commanders who buried the enemy under tons of clone corpses is also a fact you can't ignore. Disposable material that doesn't even have a name of its own.
But, on the other hand, for example, the same Climber — a clone commando — didn't execute Order 66 and allowed the Jedi Shrike to escape. Was this an isolated case? I don't think so. The Law of Large Numbers suggests otherwise.
From a third perspective, the Clone Wars series directly stated that there's a bio-chip in the clones' brains that subjugates them and makes them kill the Force-sensitive.
Which version to believe? The story about the clones' attachment to the Jedi? Or the new-canon version about the chips?
Lama Su didn't give direct answers. The Kaminoan was quite frank about clone production and the agreement with Tyranus. But he was hearing about the chips for the first time. Unfortunately, he only had a superficial knowledge of the production technology, so he couldn't guarantee the presence or absence of these extra gadgets. He promised to look into everything. Well, soon Atroxa will pay him a visit and check on the fulfillment of our agreement with him.
As they say — hope for the worst and you won't be surprised.
And the same people said — don't miss an opportunity.
"I am proud of you. Every single one of you under my command, and every one out there among the stars," I raised my hand and pointed to the sky in a rush of passion, "are the best people I have ever met in my entire life. Do not forget those you fought side by side with. Who saved your lives and took the same risks you did. We can give up and drown our grief in alcohol. But is that what the fallen wanted? Only with weapons in hand and a thirst for vengeance in our hearts will we remind the enemy of our losses. And repay them a hundredfold! May the fallen rest in peace. And may the living never forget them!"
On command, the legion removed their helmets. One by one, each of them approached, took a handful of earth in a gauntleted hand, and dropped it into the mass grave. After that, the clone put his helmet back on and returned to formation.
Yes, the procession was time-consuming, but it was worth it. I could feel the clones' emotions shifting into a grim, cold determination. A determination that bound them like cement, turning the motley mass of soldiers into a united front. I felt that the soldiers were repeating the burial ritual as one, not because it was an order passed down by commanders. My words had resonated within them. The response in their souls in the Force resonated with my own emotional surge. I felt waves of a certain approval directed at me. Well, that was progress.
Unexpectedly, through the stream of white armor flowing from the formation to the grave and back, I first noticed a few individuals, then more and more militiamen repeating the ritual with the earth. There were no clashes or discontent between the clones and the locals. Everyone, as one, approached to pay their respects to the fallen.
"Sir," Alpha approached me, "have you noticed that the number of locals is increasing?"
Indeed! Through the Force, I perceived an endless stream of locals coming from the Central Station, where the exit from the underground transport network was located. Children, women, old people… it seemed the entire population of the valley had arrived to see off the fallen heroes on their final journey.
Only in the pre-dawn twilight did the burial procedure end. For the entire time — almost six hours — the legion, the locals, the commanders, and the ARCs remained on site. The heavy machinery meant to fill the mass grave ended up unused. All the earth that had been excavated was returned to its place by human hands.
A burial mound several meters high now rose in the middle of the garden. In the workshops, engineers were finishing the monuments — metal plates that would be set into the ground along the central avenue leading from the transport artery to the university doors. On each — the personal numbers of the 204th Legion clones who had died during the past campaign.
The first rays of the Christoph system's sun illuminated the east. Yellow-orange highlights fell in clumsy strokes on the clones' snow-white armor, casting awkward shadows on the permacrete.
"Every unit," I said, "once, in the past, had its own distinctive banners."
Once again feeling the attention of those gathered upon me, I nearly groaned from the energy directed at me. It's hard to call it blind adoration. No, it's more like faith, hope, expectations… a tight lump of positive emotions poured onto me. Hundreds of times stronger than at the beginning of the ceremony.
Thousands of people had joined us, filled the empty floors of the university, huddled in groups and stood behind the stormtroopers, looking at us from the surrounding rooftops…
"I am proud that today, in the dawn light of a new day, I am presenting you with your banners," Balda and Alpha stepped forward, flanking me, removing the covers from the tops of the banners as they walked. "The battle banners of our 204th Legion!"
As if on command, both commandos secured the metal poles in the openings on the tribune, from which hung the black banners in their furled state. With a soft click, the side holders opened at the top, and the pentagonal banners unfurled in all their glory.
A wave of surprise rolled through the crowd, later replaced by delight.
I had pondered what the banner of my future Empire would be. Going through the emblems of all the states I knew from the galaxy far, far away, I finally settled on the pentagonal cloth used by the Order of Revan. At first, I wanted to keep the banner black, as I had seen it in my visions.
But later, I remembered an episode from The Hunger Games with the burning dress. We didn't have anything like that, but still… after tinkering with paints, a little chemistry — and we had a matte black compound that bleached when exposed to ultraviolet light.
It was the transformation of the black banners that caused such a huge wave of applause.
Now, as soon as the compound faded in the sun, anyone could see a pentagonal standard with a black base and a silver border. In the upper part, in silver harmonizing with the black background, was a hexagon borrowed from Vitiate's Empire, inside which was an equally snow-white Republic eight-pointed star. In the lower part of the standard remained a massive silver circle, bound by four sashes of the same color, with the number "204" in the center.
"From now and forever," I said, "this banner will strike terror into our enemies and joy into the hearts of our friends and allies! Hurrah!"
Automatically, I raised my hand and struck my fist against the center of my chest plate, thrusting it into the air.
A second later, the air around us was shaken by the roar of a thousand throats, chanting "hurrah!" in every possible way, raising their hands in a gesture of military salute that was new to them.
* * *
By noon, Knowledge Square was empty of onlookers. The clones had returned to the barracks, and the locals, having recorded plenty of holos of the liberating warriors, had gone back to the valley.
However, not all of them.
Leaving the magistracy in the morning, he had watched with silent amazement as hundreds and thousands of people — men, children, and women — besieged the clone commanders, begging to be enlisted in the army and issued weapons. Standing a little apart were those with black armbands bearing a silver emblem — the new Christophsis militia.
And to his horror, he saw practically all his own men in the ranks of this new militia. Meeting their eyes, he saw only condemnation and contempt in them. He couldn't understand it until someone advised him to go to the square in front of the University of Exact Sciences.
Exposing his body, reeking of sweat and the alcohol spilled on his shirt, to the sun, he sat leaning back against a park bench, squinting as he watched the lines of clone numbers.
Thanks to sleep and sobering chemistry, he had been on his feet this morning, but it turned out that much had gone differently than he had planned.
The militia engineers swore they had packed all the necessary parts of the shield generator. However, during assembly, several focusing lenses were found to be missing. The clone engineers just shrugged, searching for replacements in wrecked CIS equipment. Unfortunately, the lenses were only found towards the final stage of the battle — the Mandalorian Shea Vizsla delivered them, having discovered the lens kit simply forgotten in a freight car.
Simple forgetfulness had cost him most of his militia.
He wanted a drink. Idleness and a craving for alcohol in moments of emotional turmoil had always been a trait of the Christophsis aristocracy, to which Ptar belonged. Only the fact that he wasn't the legitimate son of one of the planet's oligarchs was the reason he joined the guard. Twenty years of exemplary service, and you could earn your own name, start your own genetic line of aristocracy…
His gaze fell on a bottle of wine standing nearby. Smiling, the captain grabbed it with his beefy hands and immediately put it to his lips.
Incidentally, they were everywhere — ordinary people, although not particularly prone to drinking, still had traditions. Successes and failures were always accompanied by the consumption of alcohol. It was a tradition…
"Sir, put the bottle down," a young, cracking voice said clearly and loudly.
Ptar, tearing himself away from the drink — which had passed through his veins like fiery lava — saw a pair of teenagers standing opposite him. Awkward, dressed in hand-me-downs, the kids looked at him with a certain disapproval. Next to them was a small grav-platform carrying waste containers.
"Go your own way," Ptar snapped.
"Martial law has been established, sir," the boy bleated again. "We don't drink alcohol. We honor the fallen differently!"
"If I have to repeat myself one more time," Ptar threatened, "I'll tan your hide…"
A blaster safety catch clicked dryly nearby. The well-known E-5 carbine.
Slowly turning his head, he saw a militiaman in light armor aiming a captured Separatist carbine at his chest, but couldn't remember the soldier's name…
"Put the bottle on the bench, step away from the children, and come with us," the militiaman ordered clearly.
"I am Captain Zho Ptar of the Internal Guard!" the giant roared. "I am your commander!"
"Not since this morning, sir," the militiaman cut him off. "Comply with the order, or I will be forced to take you to the commandant's office."
Ptar gave a short laugh.
"Well, try it," he said, anticipating some fun, assuming a combat stance.
A sharp pain in the back of his head and the clink of breaking glass cut short the Internal Guard captain's impromptu.