The morning turned out... rainy.
Watching raindrops tap against the windows of my "cell" I couldn't bring myself to call the room in the Temple anything else — I thought it might be a good idea to find myself a place to live on Coruscant. My own secret lair, where I wouldn't have to hide from hundreds of Jedi. Where I could spend the night however I wanted and with whomever I wanted.
Rolling my shoulders back, I laced my hands behind my head and sank into thought.
I need to visit the Moff, feel him out and figure out what he and the people behind him want from me. Maybe I can make some useful connections.
Besides, it's time to get in touch with the army. In a week, Oli will arrive, and we'll take off to find the little Hutt. Of course, I know where he is, but I shouldn't find him at the snap of my fingers. A massive search — that's what I need. Alpha and Balda, my loyal clones, will keep an eye on the planet Teth, so the kidnappers don't slip away, Force forbid, while I'm taking care of my business.
The Force... truly a wonderful ally. With its help, my long-forgotten memories were surfacing. I just had to concentrate on the information I needed, and after a while of meditation, it would come back to me.
The Emperor was right — a confrontation is on the horizon. Whether it's Jedi or Imperial Inquisitors, I need trained Force adepts. People I can subjugate to myself, to my ideas, turn into extensions of my will.
Strangely enough, I had several options. Okay, I'll admit it. Only three. But each one needed to be thought through before I went all in. Though nothing stops me from working on the first option while I'm busy searching for the Hutt brat.
Of course, you might say he's just a child and hasn't done anything wrong, that I can't treat him like that. But no. He's a Hutt. Which means, by definition — a bastard, a gangster, and a future criminal.
I'll likely be up against Ventress. "Likely" because she was also supposed to be freeing Gunray. But something in this timeline isn't going the way I remember. Events... are moving a little faster than I recall. Am I to blame? Possibly. Even likely.
Does that mean the war could end much earlier than planned? Oh, I hope not.
I understand I need to speed up, but the main "work" takes too much time. And now there won't be any time at all...
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I glanced at the wall chronometer. Four in the morning. I'd slept about five hours, but thanks to meditation, I was well-rested. Pulling my armor toward me, I started getting dressed...
The comlink beeped. Looking at the display, I saw the call was coming through on the channel reserved for Jedi General Rick Dougan. Wait, no. Correction. Senior Jedi General. I'm a Master now. Anyway... I pulled the device to me with the Force.
"Dear Senior Jedi General Dougan, hello," the face of a completely unfamiliar girl looked at me. She seemed a bit surprised to see a mask instead of a face. Though, I have to admit, the girl was rather pretty. Sharp features, a small nose, full lips, a neat hairstyle. "My name is Nora Pifel, I'm your personal top manager at Kuat Drive Yards. I've learned that you are now commanding the 13th Sector Army. Would you like to meet to discuss new orders?"
Was she out of her mind? Apparently, Coruscant, like Moscow, never sleeps.
"Dear Nora," I said. "If you're working at 4 AM, that's a huge achievement for your bosses."
"Oh, forgive me," the girl clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. "I just started in this position. I'm arriving on Coruscant today with a shipment for the army, and I wanted to ask if you have any preferences regarding equipment types."
"Don't worry about it," I waved it off. "I wasn't sleeping anyway. If you can, send me a list of what you can offer, and I'll look it over."
"Thank you, Master Jedi," the girl smiled. "I've sent you the file. Enjoy your viewing."
The manager disconnected, leaving me alone.
Huffing, I set the file aside. I should first find out how things are in the army itself before I start buying everything the merchants are ready to peddle. Plus, after the Marauder purchase, the army's account was seriously depleted. Enough to buy a couple of fully kitted-out Acclamators, but nothing more. And for me, that's like a band-aid on a bullet wound.
Of course, maybe I should steer Shay toward buying equipment from Kuat? Say, I wouldn't mind if the militia trained and entered the army already equipped with Republic-standard military hardware. Hmm, good idea. I typed out a message to the Mandalorian woman and sent it.
Without a doubt, using Kuat's numbered accounts, I could buy a Venator for the whole army. The question is just how many questions that would raise. And judging by Yoda's stories — oh, quite a few.
Well, let's first check out the training halls. My hands are itching to get back to practicing with a lightsaber.
* * *
Tossing another droid aside with the Force, I drove my blade into its comrade, making it scatter into pieces. The last opponent charged at me, but I was already bored with the fight. Using the Force, I crushed the droid into a metal sphere and tossed it aside.
Droids aren't the answer. I needed a living opponent. Cunning, skilled. Machines are for younglings. And I'd just wasted two hours on stupid swinging. Too bad Nadia had left...
Behind me, from the entrance to the training hall, came a resounding clap of hands. Deactivating my blade, I turned to face the guest.
"Impressive," the Jedi Master, a lightsaber combat instructor, stood in the doorway. "Let's say you've mastered the youngling program. Not tired of hacking droids yet?"
"Master Drallig," I bowed to the approaching instructor. "It's early, and I couldn't find a sparring partner."
"So you must not have looked very hard," the man snorted. "Every youngling knows where my room is. Every Padawan knows I never refuse a lesson. But Jedi Master Dougan, apparently, doesn't know that. Maybe it's time for a refresher course?"
"You're as inimitably witty as ever," this Jedi had earned the nickname "Troll" from his students for his caustic, sometimes over-the-line jokes and taunts. In the Jedi's own opinion, it was supposed to build character. And it was a decent prophylactic against Dun Moch.
"And you, as I can see, weren't improved by that lightning cookout," the Jedi snorted. "Your movements are still wooden. If it had been Dooku in her place, your feints wouldn't have helped."
"If it had been Dooku in her place, I wouldn't have been fighting at half strength," I shot back with a smirk.
"Oh, really?" the instructor circled around me as he spoke. I noticed he had unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and was holding it in his hand. "I thought about it more than you could ever articulate. If it weren't for that Padawan — that pretty little girl — you'd have been toast. And why did she cling to you so much when you were lying on the floor like bantha dung? You two didn't break the Jedi Code, did you? I hear in some sectors, they cut your head off for that sort of thing..."
Something snapped inside me. It wasn't right to insult a girl. Especially when she couldn't hear it. And least of all if she was my student.
"Master Drallig," I activated my blade. "You still have a chance to apologize."
"For what?" the Jedi seemed genuinely surprised, revealing his emerald blade. "For the fact that you're a pushover and some half-baked Sith almost killed you? Of course I'll apologize — if you can pin me right here," he tapped his foot on the floor. "But until then, you're nobody and your name is 'Nothing'! Next time you meet a Sith, send your student — she'll do better..."
"I warned you."
With a characteristic crackle, our blades crossed.
* * *
Lightsaber training started promptly at seven, standard time. Master Drallig didn't like latecomers. He always came early to mock those who were late.
The younglings hated the teasing, so they tried to come early. They couldn't avoid the master's taunts even then, but it was better to be seen as an early bird than a clumsy fool. It was only because of this that the younglings of the "Mynockk" clan witnessed this scene this morning. The training hall, where droids usually taught the little ones the basics of lightsaber combat, was in utter chaos. A dozen training droids lay cut to pieces. Smoke marks from actual lightsabers scarred the walls and floor.
In the center of the hall, showering each other with blows, two figures swirled in a death-dance.
The first was the all-too-familiar "Troll." He attacked, defended, rolled, landing truly incredible strikes on his opponent, who proved worthy of his attention. He immediately captivated the attention of all twelve younglings. Tall, clad in matte grey-black armor, with a face mask concealing his features, he gripped a sword with an unusual, golden blade. Unlike his opponent, he moved little, trying to conserve his movements. But his blade was everywhere the "Troll" aimed his strike, intercepting the dangerous blows aimed at the Jedi.
"That's so cool!" one of the girls whispered.
No one answered her. Every member of the clan watched as the Jedi fought a fierce battle.
* * *
"Shit, I'm so tired. Does that bastard even know what fatigue is? He's like a machine! Yoda definitely needs to check him for steroids."
The fight had definitely dragged on. I felt I could keep going — the Center of Being had been paying off from the start. My fencing style created an ideal defense. Drallig, changing his style from time to time, aimed to catch me off guard, but no such luck.
The truth was revealed to me.
Let me start with why I learned the Center of Being in the first place. Neither the previous owner of this body, nor the Kun I absorbed, though they knew of such a technique, ever used it. But I, out of curiosity, asked Nadia about it. And interestingly enough, I mastered it. Instantly.
The Center of Being is a stance in lightsaber combat. It was also sometimes used for meditation. But that's beside the point. This form was used to put the body into an unconscious state, where the organism itself reacted to threats, raising passive and active defenses. One who deeply knows this style can almost subconsciously defend against the smoothest random attacks and thrusts. In my case, it was an absolutely necessary thing. Experienced swordsmen spend years honing their skill, training their bodies to react reflexively to danger. I didn't have that luxury. I didn't have time to train my body.
But I did have the rich life experience of a former Sith Lord.
And now, Drallig was learning all the intricacies of opposing a Niman master.
I wasn't controlling my body. The Force was guiding me. My brain gave commands; my hands and feet executed movements. Ancient knowledge guided me. I set blocks, counterattacked, forcing the instructor himself onto the defensive. Then, a second later, I was evading his thrusts. Movements that were angular and clumsy at the start of the fight, repeating over and over again through countless iterations, sped up, gaining smoothness. Our duel had turned not into a beating, but a full-fledged confrontation. But no matter how long it lasted, I still understood that Niman alone wouldn't be enough to surpass Drallig. A master of six of the seven existing lightsaber combat forms, he had enough techniques in his arsenal to stop me. I don't know how Skywalker will eventually get through to him during the Temple purge, but the Chosen One with his Shien is apparently really stronger than me.
* * *
There was no point in taking unnecessary risks: fighting with lightsabers, we could not only injure each other, but also hit the kids — there were already about twenty of them crowding at the entrance. Meanwhile, Drallig was getting really worked up. Sensing my fatigue (damn Yoda! Why did I remove my Cloaking for the sake of this... Grand Master?), he switched to a more aggressive Shien, trying to break through my defense with a series of monstrously powerful strikes.
Several times I tried to peacefully break the distance, giving him a chance to stop the fight, but the instructor was in full swing. Cutting me off from the exit, he pushed my bulk into a corner, showering me with blows. The monstrous kinetic force he put into his combos and strikes resonated with my internal tension.
I knew I was losing. And he knew it perfectly well. If I kept just holding him off, he'd kill me.
Gathering the Force, I threw the instructor back several meters.
The two opponents froze, facing each other. Twirling his blade in his hand, Drallig mockingly beckoned me with a gesture.
"Don't chicken out," he chuckled.
"Wasn't even thinking about it," I deactivated my blade, making it unequivocally clear I wasn't going to continue the fight. "Lesson over, instructor."
The "Troll" watched me for a while, as if unsure whether to continue the fight or not. Finally, seeing me heading for the exit, the instructor extinguished his own lightsaber.
As I passed through the line of kids, I ruffled the hair on one of them. His face seemed terribly familiar.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Sors Bandim," the boy said. I felt those two words stab into my heart like a red-hot needle. Scenes from the movie flashed before my eyes...
I had heard his voice before. And I had seen that small, round face, expressing immense anxiety. Blond, with piercing blue eyes. He looked about five or six years old. The war would last another couple of years — the Republic still hadn't switched to a massive offensive. Maybe I had changed history, but this kid, it seemed, was destined for an encounter with the Force. It was unlikely anyone would take him as a Padawan — by the end of the war, he still wouldn't be old enough to become one. God, he was just a child... Dressed in an oversized robe, he looked so funny. The hem of the standard Jedi tunic reached his knees, and the sleeves, far too big for his thin little arms, made him look like a bird.
"Master Skywalker! There are too many of them here! What do we do now?" Those would be his last words before Vader activated his saber.
Embarking on my crusade against the Sith, I hadn't considered how I would look into the eyes of those children and Padawans who would be caught by the punishing hand of that Jedi bastard...
"I..." my voice faltered. "Master Rick Dougan, little one. Nice to meet you."
"You're the Hero of Christophsis!" the boy exclaimed. His thin, childish voice pierced my ears. Tears welled up in my eyes that others couldn't see. A dozen little sparks in the Force, they surrounded me, beautiful in their restlessness and innocence. They weren't guilty of anything. Not one of them had sinned, hadn't even thought badly. They had a whole life ahead of them, a life that would be cut short by a half-mad not-quite-Master. "But a Sith killed you!"
I crouched down in front of the boy and put my hand on his shoulder.
"Here's what I'll tell you, my young friend," I was immediately surrounded by children, blinking their trusting eyes. "I was wrong, I underestimated the enemy. It cost me dearly — I barely survived. But I won't let that happen again. I'll train ten times harder. I'll delve so deep into the study of the Force that the Balance Corps will be jealous. But no one will ever hurt you."
The little boy stood there, mouth open. He probably didn't understand what I was saying or why. He didn't know what actually awaited him. But I did. I can be a bastard and an egoist. The lowest scum who will plunge the galaxy into yet another war. But children… I won't let anyone hurt children. Let Skywalker be a master three times over and the Chosen One ten times over. Let him have twenty legions. I will save these children.
The words literally stuck in my throat like a lump. But I kept talking.
"I won't let anyone hurt you, do you hear?" the kids giggled. Looking at Sors, I forced my feelings to recede with effort. He'd be about seven or eight when the clones, led by the fallen Chosen One, stormed the Temple. Oh, no, no way. Let them wipe out all those radicals and dogmatists who missed a Sith right under their noses. But you will not touch the children.
Ruffling the Padawan's hair, I unclipped a comlink from my belt and placed it in the boy's hand. "For the direst emergency!" I said in a stern voice. The boy, mouth still agape, clutched the comlink in his hand, looking around at the children surrounding him.
Then, standing up, I pointed a finger at Master Drallig and said:
"And if he ever laughs at you again, tell me about it. I'll come back and make him regret it."
"Yeah, right, sure," the master laughed. "You can barely stand…"
"You know," I addressed the younger Jedi, "why Master Drallig is so mean?"
"No-o-o-o-o," the little ones answered in chorus.
"It's because nobody hugs him," I exclaimed. The man looked at me in surprise, trying to figure out if I'd lost my mind. Then, when he saw a good dozen young Jedi charging at him, arms outstretched, his face twisted into a grimace.
"We're not done, Dougan!" the Jedi, knocked off his feet by the younglings, shouted after me. Smiling, watching the little ones cling to the Jedi lying on the floor with both hands, with childish restlessness and love for their neighbor, I pulled my hood over my head. "That's not fair!"
Shrugging, I walked down the corridor toward the Temple exit.
Of course it's not fair. I don't even use that word in this galaxy. After all, my teacher is a Sith.
* * *
The morning traffic jams on Coruscant are absolute hell, of course. But everything changes when a military gunship takes you to your destination. Weaving between traffic flows, the LAAT/i raced at top speed, delivering its sole passenger to headquarters.
Stationed in the heart of the Galaxy, the First, known as the "Sky Hammer," was one of the largest sector armies. Its primary mission was to protect the Galactic capital and key sectors of the Core. Its secondary role was to provide support to other sector armies. For this reason, the First always had a full complement of ships, clones, and equipment — even with a small reserve.
It was commanded by Moff Trakta of Anaxis. I had a short flight ahead of me to the planet that had borne the title "Defender of the Core" since ancient times. The captain of the Serenity, the cruiser that had brought me to Coruscant, a clone named Chedd, had kindly agreed to help me. His cruiser was due for a new assignment — the flight to Ghanrei was the ship's first since leaving the slips.
I was kindly provided with a cabin in the senior officer's quarters. The flight wasn't that long — just a couple of hours. During that time, I needed to set a number of tasks. However, first, I should meditate. Enough lounging around. My Empire needs new recruits.
* * *
A demanding mental intrusion forced Atroxa awake. Opening her eyes, the Lethan instantly oriented herself, recognizing the master who was gently touching her mind.
An ancient Sith technique the Emperor had taught her, making her one of his Hands. The master didn't have to take control of his Hand's body. Telepathic contact, thanks to the Force Bonds formed during training, allowed the exchange of thoughts, feelings… Apparently, the master had decided to practice this Force ability as well.
His gentle mental touches brought back memories of the nights they'd spent together, when he'd touched her velvety skin just as tenderly, and then a wild beast would awaken within him.
"Master," she concentrated, closing her eyes. She pictured Dougan's image, and he appeared before her, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "I'm glad to know you're doing well. I was worried."
"Good to hear, Atroxa," the master chuckled. There was a metallic edge to his telepathic voice. "But I don't think you missed me."
The Twi'lek looked with indifference and surprise (how did he know?) at the mercenary captain snoring peacefully beside her. Tall. Strong. Attractive. Assertive and insatiable. But still — not the master. Just a bit of fun, nothing more. Was it really that important? Atroxa swallowed, remembering Malgus's torment. The master was displeased with her. That was very bad. Of course, he hadn't explicitly forbidden it, but… She could have figured it out herself.
"Have you begun releasing the equipment?" the master's image pulled her from her thoughts.
"Yes, master. We're producing up to a thousand units of equipment sets and assault droids per day. NK claims it's not advisable to start the second and third assembly lines of the Forge yet — the station hasn't finished its own construction. That's another six months."
"Acceptable," the Jedi acknowledged. "I have a new task for you."
"I am entirely at your disposal," Atroxa replied readily. "How can I be of use?"
"You will go to the planet Suzefi. There you will find Force-sensitive individuals. They will either join us or die. Use any means necessary."
"Yes, my lord. I won't let you down!" the Lethan assured him fervently.
"And one more thing, Atroxa," the Jedi added after a pause. "No one has the right to touch my Hand."
"I understand, master."
The Jedi broke the connection. Painfully this time. The Lethan felt the Force lash across her nerves like a whip. Unable to hold back, she sobbed. Then, getting up, she began to get ready…
"Hey," the mercenary stirred beside her. "Where are you off to? We were going to continue in the morning…"
He reached out a hand, stroking her lekku. He was trying to arouse her desire, to lure her back to bed, but…
"No one must touch the Emperor's Hand," she said, turning away from her lover. For a moment he stared at her, not understanding what was happening. Then, when Atroxa began to crush his bones with the Force, he screamed, but the Lethan broke his neck, ending his suffering.
No one.
* * *
He meditated, locked in his cabin aboard his old flagship. The Smiting Hand. The ship he'd been through so much with. And which he'd finally reclaimed. The ship, hidden in the depths of the New Forge, was undergoing repairs and would soon be able to head for the stars. He just needed to pick a suitable crew. Turning it into a copy of the Emperor's automated, droid-dependent dreadnoughts… He didn't want that. He needed to form a team personally loyal to him. To avoid any incidents.
You might say Sith don't meditate. That's not true. Over the millennia, Malgus had managed to absorb some Jedi teachings. And he'd been able to learn a few things from the enemy.
Malgus felt an intrusion into his mind. Authoritative, uncompromising. And spine-chillingly familiar. Rage filled the Sith.
"Master," he said. A projection of the Jedi's figure appeared in his mind. Judging by his posture — also meditating.
"Malgus," the Jedi's whisper entered his head. "Tired of playing second fiddle?"
The Sith forcefully suppressed his rage.
"I am following your orders, my lord."
"Then it's time to bring Sith Space back under your control," Malgus felt his blood boil at the words. Korriban. Ziost. Relg…
"Sith Space must once again become inaccessible to the galaxy, Malgus," the Jedi instructed. "Cargo ships with our new servants will soon arrive in the system. Some of them will be useful to you for restoring the Sith worlds."
"Yes, my lord."
Malgus jerked to his feet. Surveying the cabin, he turned to the rack where his armor hung. Time to get to work — he'd rested far too long as it was.
* * *
"Nadia?"
The Jedi's eyes flew open. Still feeling herself in the passenger cabin of the Haor Chall Engineering flagship transport, she could still feel the threads of the Force reaching out to her. Sleep vanished.
The girl slipped out from under the blanket, pulling her lightsaber to her. The feeling of danger, of intrusion, didn't leave her. An attack? In hyperspace? They were about to arrive at their first stop — the Lehon system, where the convoy would depart under the escort of one of Malgus's Sith dreadnoughts.
The girl's consciousness anxiously sensed a foreign presence. However, almost immediately, the Sarkhai girl recognized her interlocutor. Deactivating her lightsaber, she folded her hands before her face, allowing herself to sink into the meditation characteristic of Consulars. Her thoughts cleared, her senses sharpened. She found the Force rays being emitted toward her, and allowed them to connect with her, absorbing them into her own radiation.
"Master," she allowed a wave of warmth to flow back in response. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," the Jedi's image was smiling. A reciprocal feeling of care and affection came from him. "There have been some changes to our plan."
"As you command, my lord."
"One of the transports and all the Xi Char on it are to be handed over to Malgus. The second is to remain at NK's disposal. The third is still heading to Zakuul."
"I hear and obey, master."
The girl smiled and set aside her lightsaber. Sleep wouldn't come anyway; she needed to inform the Prelate about the changes to the plan. Grell stretched, letting the Force invigorate her muscles.
The bulkhead separating the refresher from the main living module slid aside, letting the Jedi, moving with a light step, inside. The lighting flared, revealing in the large mirror the enviable figure of the Sarkhai Jedi.
"Nadia…"
This time the Jedi's voice seemed like a whisper… Slightly embarrassed, but interested.
"I'm still here…"
"I know, master."
With a deft movement of her hands, Nadia sent her peignoir to the floor.
* * *
Another gunship delivered me to a massive permacrete building. Leaving the vehicle, I presented my command cylinder to the guards at the entrance.
"Everything's in order, sir," said the clone sergeant commanding the patrol. Handing me back the cylinder, he said, "You need the second floor — that's where the Moff's office is."
"Thank you," I returned the cylinder to my belt pouch. I walked past the clones, catching a phrase one of them tossed out.
"First time I've seen a Jedi in armor."
"You don't recognize him? He's the one who wrecked the tin cans at Christophsis and Ukio."
"No kidding? Tell me about it!"
Leaving the stairwells and gossiping clones behind, I reached the coveted door. I was met by a man with captain's rank insignia. After listening to me coldly, he politely offered me to wait.
"Sir, Moff Trakta is busy right now. He's in a meeting. Would it be convenient if I inform you when he's free?"
"I'll wait," I plopped down into one of the chairs that obligingly stood around a small table in the reception area. The man shrugged and returned to studying documents on his work computer.
I, in turn, remembering the information Pifel had given me, immersed myself in studying the details of military innovations…
About an hour later, the door opposite me swung open, releasing a middle-aged man with harsh facial features. A notable hairstyle — shaved sides of the head, with dark, medium-length hair combed back in the center. Either a fallen mohawk, or some god-knows-what fashion.
He placed several information chips on his assistant's desk.
"Send these to the sector armies. A new CIS ship."
"Moff Trakta," the adjutant stood up. "Master Jedi Dougan is here to see you."
I stood up, finding myself almost half a head taller than the Moff. Measuring me with an appraising look, he silently nodded, like, well, let's go, since you're here.
We proceeded into his office. Without much ceremony, Trakta returned to his desk.
"Greetings to the Hero of Christophsis," he raised his right fist above his head. "How can we ordinary soldiers help the genius of war?"
"Nice start."
"Is this some kind of test for newcomers?" I sank into a comfortable chair opposite the Moff. Trakta, smiling, raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"It's not me. It's the holonews."
"Ah, right, right," I chuckled under my mask. The Moff, filling glasses with an amber liquid, handed me one. I refused, pushing the glass away. The Moff, downing the first one, shrugged and helped himself to a second.
"So, what brings you here, Senior Jedi General Dougan?"
"I've been assigned command of the 13th Sectoral…"
"I sincerely sympathize," Trakta pursed his lips. "Ord Pardron… what a backwater. And the area of responsibility isn't great either. Especially after Bailur… It's a complete mess there. And there are slightly fewer than no candidates wanting to take the commander's seat. No one wants to ruin their career."
"Exactly. I took a look at the army's accounts the other day. It's a crying shame."
"That's shitty," the Moff switched to the informal without preamble. "But don't get discouraged. Sector Command is conducting an audit right now. When they're done, they'll allocate additional funds for you. You're not going to fight with your bare ass, are you?"
"I have about two hundred million in the account."
Trakta, who had been raising a cup of caf to his lips, snorted.
"Is that a joke?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then you're in deep shit, my friend," Trakta turned to the computer terminal. "Through the global network, we can access your army's reports. Plug your cylinder into the slot."
I followed Trakta's advice. The Moff quickly tapped a few keys and turned the screen toward me.
"I'd even say you're even deeper."
For convenience, the data in the reports was divided by a dash into "Authorized by Table of Organization" and "Actually Available."
Well, let's do the math.
Of the three hundred line-class ships authorized for the army, only 76 were on hand. This included Venators, Acclamators, three dozen Dreadnoughts, and twenty of my Hammerheads. As a separate category — twenty-three Arquitens-class light cruisers. Out of the authorized 70. Clicking a hyperlink, I saw last month's report. The Second Battle of Ryloth had cost us a huge squadron — from the 13th Sectoral alone, twenty-seven units were destroyed or written off. "Terrible," "terrible," "terri-ble"…
Two hundred forty Consulars and forty-four Peltas had actually turned into forty and nineteen, respectively.
Small craft — a third of what was authorized. Even less.
Assault shuttles — well, at least those were up to standard.
Having finished reading the fleet summary, Trakta exhaled noisily.
I switched tabs, checking the ground forces summaries.
Each sector army included four full-strength clone corps. 147,456 line infantry soldiers. Additionally, each corps was separately equipped with heavy machinery with crews, repair units, and logistics support. On the plus side: the army had nearly a fivefold reserve of construction modules — the very ones used to build positional fortifications and garrison bases. And more than double the authorized amount of combat vehicles. Walkers, artillery, speeders, self-propelled guns, repulsor tanks, armored personnel carriers… We had more than enough of all that for the amount of line infantry I had.
But, unlike other armies, due to the large theater of operations, the 13th, like some other armies, was supposed to have six full-strength corps on hand.
"There aren't even two here," Trakta grimaced. "Where did he send all the units? In the third month of the war, the 13th was better supplied than any of the Southern armies — your readiness was up to 70%."
I told the Moff the story of the attempt to break the siege of Christophsis. After listening, Trakta grimaced as if he'd swallowed the local equivalent of a lemon.
"Knowing what I know now, I'd have killed him on the spot," the Moff admitted. "How is the army still holding out?"
"That's why we were sitting on a small patch, squeezed by the Confederates," I realized. "I'll, of course, review the army's order log, but I get the feeling there were plenty of zerg rushes like the Christophsian one."
"Zerg what?" I caught the Moff's interested look.
"It's a term," I began to explain. "I heard it on some wild planet. That's what they call stupid and reckless frontal attacks with no hope of victory."
"Hm, interesting."
Trakta leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. Then he slapped his palm on the table.
"The Sky Hammer is currently the most fully equipped army. We have almost 90% of our nominal strength. I think I can help you."
Before I could ask how, the Moff was already buried in his own army's reports.
"Look, I won't get a pat on the head for this, of course, but we'll all be swimming in blood if the CIS breaks through your lines and charges down the Corellian Route into the center of the galaxy."
"Hm, actually, there are still the 16th and 2nd Sectorals after us."
"Believe me," the Moff said benevolently. "If you're wiped out, the Mid Rim will have such a hard time that they'll crucify me if I could have helped but didn't. But I'll tell you right away — don't expect big handouts. We have Foerost right next door — it eats up almost all my line forces. And we're short on officers. Plenty of clones, but competent organics…"
"What's going on at Foerost? I heard the planet is blockaded, but no details."
"Ah, that…" Trakta grimaced again. "Another headache. Foerost is located a hundred light-years from Coruscant, on the Coros Route between Quar and Caikielius. The Techno Union's largest shipyards are there. But the main thing is the huge resource deposits: they're literally scooping out the planet's core. And using them to build a fleet. We missed that, literally in the year before the war started, the Techno Union fortified the shipyards. And as a result — we're forced to maintain a blockade. Currently, the enemy has over a thousand warships. We can only boast about seven hundred. For now, that's enough to keep the Separatists blockaded. But they're building new ships every day — faster than we can counter them. We don't have enough strength to break their defensive ring, and even if we did, their planetary defenses are insane — nothing but scrap metal would be left of the breakthrough fleet. Been tested," the Moff grimaced. "On the plus side — they're not great at breaking the blockade either. We brought in two Kuat Mandators. These monsters reliably block the CIS ships. They're slow, of course, but that's not critical for a blockade. So, you could say there's a certain parity of forces."
"I see." A memory stirred in my mind. The Separatists would build a huge fleet by the end of the siege and cut through Republic worlds like a hot knife through butter.
"Well, let's get back to the help…"
"And what can the First Sectoral allocate? What can I count on?" I asked with a smirk.
"So… a fresh shipment from Kuat just arrived. Twelve Venators… Well, I can spare you three at most — don't hold it against me. And the same number of Arquitens-class light cruisers."
I frowned. "Crap. That's not enough. But on the other hand, it's something."
"Only three? No way to spare more?"
"No offense, but no. Venators are valuable goods. Light cruisers too. I'll be getting forty-eight units myself in the next three months — and thirty of them will go to Foerost."
"Still… three ships is too few."
"Nothing to be done," Trakta spread his hands. "Let's try to compensate with other ships. For example, Acclamators. Hm… You're incredibly lucky, my friend. I can allocate eight Acclamators to you. Though, they're, shall we say, an acquired taste."
"What do you mean?"
"Look," Trakta highlighted eight ships in the fleet list. "In the first months of the war, they tried to modernize the Acclamators for two purposes. First of all, by dismantling part of the internal space, they expanded the air wing. Now it holds about four hundred small craft. But now there's no question of any landing operations or heavy equipment transport. Of course, the armament is the same as the base model, they even added anti-aircraft guns in the aft hemisphere."
"Interesting. Considering that Rendili is ready to release the first squadrons of Hammerheads in the near future, supplementing one or two flotillas with such ersatz carriers could create a good strike force."
"I'll take them."
"Well, I should think so," Trakta grinned. "By the way, isn't Captain Pellaeon with his Equalizer hiding out in your fleet?"
"Familiar name. What's wrong?"
"It's just that his Acclamator is one of three that got a second modernization — they were rearmed with strike missiles. I had three more like that — we tried using them in the siege of Foerost. Stupid idea. Under massed fire — they burn like matches. Out of twenty, only three hulls were pulled out. They spent about two months being repaired on Kuat, and now they've just been returned."
"You do realize I'll take anything that doesn't fall apart in mid-air. The main thing is quantity."
Trakta laughed.
"Don't put your finger in his mouth. However, I can cheer you up some more. Remember how, before the second attack on Ryloth, they sent you thirty Dreadnoughts? I can offer you five more — Rendili sold them to us at the beginning of the war. Sector Command bought them while ships were in short supply. But as soon as the army started receiving Acclamators and Venators, they hurried to transfer them to the reserve. Most, of course, were used up during that time. I remember reading a report — they bought three hundred ships, and only fifty returned. The crews on them are huge, and the ships themselves are sturdy. They can be assigned to planetary defense. Their air wing is small — only two squadrons — but it's better than nothing."
"I'll take them."
Really — what choice did I have? Dreadnoughts really are sturdy ships. Shields and armor are up to par. Only the armament and speed are lacking. But for a blockade, or conversely, for defense — they're perfect.
"I can share plenty of small craft — I have a reserve of almost two thousand, ordered extra, considering Foerost. Of course, not AIRs, not Etas, and not Deltas. V-19 Torrents. Eight hundred of them won't be superfluous for you."
"Of course they won't — I have practically no small craft at all."
"Hm… Well, all the ships I send you will be fully equipped with small craft and double the standard ammunition load."
"Alright, I'll take those too. Anything else?"
"Unfortunately, that's it… However," the Moff ran through the lists, highlighting ships. "I'll gift you a dozen Consulars of various modifications, and, believe it or not — I'm tearing this from my heart — seven medical Peltas."
"Generous," I assessed. "More than I expected. Thank you very much."
"We're doing a common cause," the officer waved it off. "Although, wait a minute. There's one more option. In the unfathomably distant past — one of the strongest ships in the Republic fleet."
"What kind of vessel?"
"Ah…" the Moff waved his hand, "once upon a time — a Valor-class cruiser."
A memory stirred in my mind. No kidding? Does the Republic even have a ship that isn't scrapped?
"It's called the Telos," the Moff turned on the holoprojector. And before my eyes appeared a three-dimensional hologram of a ship I knew from an MMORPG. "Right now — frankly, a wreck. Once upon a time — a Jedi flagship, a heavy line cruiser. When the Order was selling off its ancient fleet, they forgot about it. It's still floating in orbit of the nearest Grinsalt to us with a minimal crew. The armament is crap, but the armor — wow. There's more durasteel there than on modern Venators. The Hammerheads are under your command, right?" he recalled. Receiving an affirmative answer, he continued: "Well, there you go, it'll be your heavy cruiser. You'll have to invest a lot, of course — forty million or more. The ship is a beauty, of course — it should be able to take a hit, but it's easier for us to build a brand new Venator than to restore this archival exhibit."
Looking at the ship, I grimaced inwardly. I never liked Republic ships from the Cold War era. They seemed… civilian, somehow. Massive, poorly armed compared to Imperial counterparts…
"Will it even make it to the shipyards?" I chuckled.
"Why?" Trakta was surprised. "Grinsalt has a decent ship repair yard — a Rendili branch. Though, they mainly deal with civilian liners. But they're part of the army's military suppliers, so they have access to military contracts. If only there was money… Which, of course, you're short on. Soon there should be a Senate session on additional army funding. If the politicians don't muddy the waters as usual, we'll get a decent boost. However," the Moff leaned toward me, "you could look for sponsors — for example, Kuat occasionally provides military equipment to the Core Worlds out of charity. Maybe you could try that too?"
"I was advised to ask the Christophsis government for help," I grinned. The Moff had no idea how much he'd helped me.
"Exactly!" Trakta clapped his hands. "Intelligence reports they've ordered a huge fleet from Rendili — they're churning out Hammerheads there faster than my cook churns out meals. Fifty new ships in a month or two will be coming off the slips. Apparently, Christophsis's pockets aren't shallow."
I sighed.
"You've convinced me. I'll take the Telos."
"Well, that's just wonderful," Trakta poured himself another glass of whiskey. "I'm amazed at you Jedi. You bought a whole army, but you didn't bother with a fleet."
"I would have thrown in a few ideas if I'd known about the order," I shot back. "But seriously — thank you so much. Thanks to you, my fleet will gain forty new ships."
"Well, I also wanted to give you a corps of clones, but if you don't want it…"
"Stop, stop, stop," I protested. "You didn't mention infantry. What corps?"
"A combined one. Assembled from the entire second generation of clones — fresh out of Kaminoan training. Line infantry. Nothing fancy. We don't need them yet — we're not really fighting ground battles…"
"They'll do," I waved. "I'll distribute the reinforcements among experienced units — they'll train the newbies. Hopefully, losses won't be as heavy as at the start of the war."
"Your call," Trakta warned. "You're the commander… By the way. I heard Christophsis is sending you volunteers."
"That's true," I nodded. "Right now there are about three regiments scattered across the planets. Minimal experience. Mostly former rebels."
"Call it a legion in the active roster," the Moff calculated. "Of course, compared to clones, they're not much of soldiers. But as a last resort… Anyway, we've gotten carried away talking," Trakta copied the data onto a separate datapad. "Send this to my office — my adjutant will allocate you the ships and clones. And I've got another meeting. You'll learn to hate them soon enough."
"Thanks again, Trakta," I stood up, shaking his outstretched hand. "I owe you one."
"It's nothing," the Moff waved dismissively. "We're doing the same work," he reminded me. "When you drive the Separatists all the way to the galaxy's edge — fire a couple of salvos for me too."
"Absolutely."
* * *
The junior officers gathered in the operations center of the Wanderer were heatedly discussing the latest news.
"Do you even believe what's happening?" Alif asked his friends. "Our general — became the commander of a sector army!"
"Does that surprise you?" Teradoc wondered. "He squashed a Moff like a fly — the Senate Intelligence is still stirring up trouble on the ships. They've already arrested two Acclamator commanders — they were smuggling spice in their holds. Disgraceful. On combat ships, no less."
"Actually," Teren noted, "his victory is our promotion. Or haven't you realized who got you your new ranks?!"
His companions sheepishly lowered their eyes. Essentially, they had two combat operations under their belts — Ukio and Rodia. Plus the anti-corruption conspiracy against the Moff, in which their role was not just small — but utterly insignificant. And yesterday's midshipmen had become lieutenants overnight. There hadn't been much movement in Teren's own rank — his stripes remained the same. But the departmental commendation and hefty cash bonus warmed his heart and his wallet. At his age, he was commanding a battlecruiser — few senior officers could boast of that. So, genuinely happy for his friends, he didn't feel deprived. It was enough that the new commander of the Hammer Squadron, which included his Wanderer, nine more Hammerheads, and the Equalizer, Commodore Pellaeon (he'd certainly gotten his due from the personnel department), had taken him under his wing, often discussing tactics and strategy with the young lieutenant. Commodore Kreeves had received command of the Anvil Squadron — the second dozen Hammerheads and his former Equalizer.
Senior Jedi General Dougan, though stationed on Coruscant, never loosened his grip on the forces under his command. Just the other day, Pellaeon had triumphantly crushed a CIS expeditionary corps consisting of three Lucrehulks and a dozen Munificents. The Hammer Squadron had demonstratively left the system, leaving only the previously requisitioned merchant ships in orbit. And as soon as the Separatists tried to take revenge on the planet for the capture of the Viceroy, the Hammer ships returned to the system. In the ensuing battle, they lost two ships — the Ancestor and the Tracker. The Voice of Katharr sustained serious damage and was nearly abandoned by its crew. But the arriving reinforcements — the Christophsis fleet — helped save the ship. Currently, Pellaeon was busy receiving three Hammerheads from the Christophsis fleet to replace the damaged ones. The Voice, like the Warrior damaged during the blockade run on the Christoph system, was cannibalized for parts for other fleet ships.
The army staff was frantically compiling the reports the general had demanded. Troop and equipment numbers. Fuel. Spare parts. The previous leadership had little interest in this, and the work of the staff officers had gone unnoticed. Now, though…
But Mara hadn't gathered them for that. One way or another, they all belonged to the Hammer Squadron — just like Nyx, who was absent from the meeting. No one had given a reason for his absence. But judging by the fact that the order to assemble had come from Pellaeon, Mara was in no mood for jokes.
"In short, our squadron has been ordered to locate the kidnapped son of the crime lord Jabba — from Tatooine," the girl announced. Upon hearing this, Garven snorted contemptuously.
"But they're criminals!" Rina Torsill, standing nearby, rolled his eyes. "Why should we be doing this?"
"Because the general assigned it to us," Teren cut in. "And he's hardly doing this out of the goodness of his heart."
"Yeah, that's right," the pilots agreed. "Also true."
"Are we all done?" Mara inquired. "Our squadron has been allocated a section of the Triellus Trade Route — from Formosa to Saivris. We need to sweep all abandoned outposts, uninhabited planetoids, and so on. Ground reconnaissance — for Nyx and the 204th Legion. We deliver them to the location and provide cover. Most likely, the Separatists are involved, so a couple of cruisers nearby won't hurt our guys."
"And why are you telling only us?" Teradoc wondered. "There are other ship commanders. My Pelta, for instance, is hardly going to take part in the search."
"Well…" Mara drew out. "The General specifically insisted that the squadron have a hospital ship. Commodore Pellaeon will inform the other captains. But first, we need to give him at least some material to work with for the search. I definitely can't handle it alone — this calls for a brainstorming session."
"Great," Teradoc folded his arms across his chest. "Just what I needed — to come under Separatist fire in this unarmed tub."
"What's stopping you from asking us to cover you?" Garven asked, pointing at his fellow pilot.
"Your smug faces make me uneasy," the lieutenant mimicked them. "You'll start begging for medical stimulants again."
"Hey, that was only a couple of times!" Torsill perked up. "We were patrolling the three nearest systems without rest — we were tired."
"Enough," Mara, without a shred of shame, grabbed the last speaker by the ear, like a grade school teacher. "I'm going to write a report on you right now, and for the next couple of years, you'll be flying nothing but a garbage scow on the Outer Rim. We're the flagship, after all! Can you show even a shred of responsibility?"
* * *
There's nothing more fascinating than watching the rest of the fleet form up around your temporary flagship.
"Sir," the captain of the Salvation approached me. "Ships ready to jump. Three Venators, eleven Acclamators, three Arquitens-class cruisers, five Dreadnoughts, ten Consulars, and seven Peltas. All clone captains have reported cargo acceptance. The Dreadnoughts are noting their delay en route."
"Good, Chedd," I smiled. "Tell the fleet to transition to light speed."
"Yes, Commander," the clone captain saluted and headed for the operators.
I was left alone, admiring the sight of my new ships vanishing into hyperspace. A minute later, the stars stretched into blinding lines before our own ship as well.
Unlike the rest of the fleet, my destination was not Ord Pardron at all. I was due to stop in the Core Worlds.
First stop — Grizmalt. That's where the Tranquility was headed. I was to see Commodore Bill Dabrin in person — the honorary commander of the Telos. From what I gathered, he was the only captain of this ship in recent times — during the Stark Hyperspace War, the Republic had tried to get the Telos in order, found a crew… But the most they managed was to update the power grid and partially the equipment. Neither the air wing nor the artillery ever saw an upgrade.
I'd already spoken with the captain via voice comm. As well as with the representatives of the Rendili shipbuilders, who were delighted by the sudden windfall — fifty million credits from a numbered account. A complete modernization of the ship to modern standards was planned. The Rendili engineers, having learned from the intermediary on Christophsis that the ship would join the active army and was unlikely to rust away in orbit, approached the task with commendable scope.
First and foremost, I needed to finish with my Hands.
Remembering the last communication session, I, I admit, felt my heart beat faster. Who knew the girl was so passionate…
Ri-i-i-ght! I forced myself to push thoughts of Nadia away. I needed to concentrate on completing the primary tasks first. The Empire does not tolerate failure.
And as for the Sarkhai… from the look of it, she wasn't at all averse to getting to know her master more closely.
* * *
The sound of the comlink caught Ashara at the worst possible moment. Levitating a huge piece of collapsed roof, she held it in its architecturally intended place while droids — stormtroopers repurposed as minimally skilled builders — filled the cracks with permacrete foam. Only then did the girl channel the Force to the designated spot, eliminating cracks and permacrete voids at the molecular level, restoring the material's original monolith and strength.
Force Forging — a painstaking and exhausting process. But here, it was as if the Force itself supported her, allowing her to restore the long-ruined Temple. Though built to last for centuries, it needed only minimal corrections. The ancient Jedi had worked hard, similarly using Force Forging to create the Temple's walls and ceilings. The Togruta had only to follow the example of the ancients.
There was no point even attempting to restore the patterns that had once covered the Jedi Temple's chambers. Time, wars, and neglect had erased them forever. So the best she could do for the ancient Jedi abode was to restore what was destroyed and reinforce what had decayed.
Waiting for the fragment to harden, she pulled a holographic comlink from her robes and activated it.
"Ashara," the miniature figure of the Sith Emperor's apprentice appeared before her.
"My Lord," she said without a hint of reverence.
"How is your mission progressing?"
He was curious? Really?
"The Temple has taken serious damage," she admitted. "But thanks to the ship's supplies and the remains of battle machines, I am successfully restoring it."
"Is that so?" the Jedi was surprised. "That's commendable. I suppose I should find the time to visit you on Tython."
"I would be immensely glad to have you," the girl said in a neutral tone.
"Do you need anything else?"
"Construction droids wouldn't hurt," the fallen Jedi admitted. "I've gained access to the Temple's central computer. With the right skill and resources, we could restore the Temple and its surroundings within six months."
"Aren't you lonely there in solitude?"
"I'm fine with everything, my Lord," the girl tilted her head.
"What do we know about the planet?"
"No travelers come here," the girl said. "The system is completely uninhabited. The local natives — Flesh Raiders — caused some discomfort, but I solved that problem."
"Interesting, how?" the Jedi smiled.
"I killed half of all the leaders," Ashara replied guilelessly. "And promised to kill the rest if they didn't become my servants. So I already have a couple of thousand unskilled workers."
"Harsh," the Jedi judged. "But effective. Did you limit yourself to just the Jedi Temple?"
"The natives, under droid guard, are excavating sites of former Je'daii temples," the Togruta reported. "So far — nothing but ruins."
"You've done excellent work, Ashara," the man assessed. "I'll send you additional forces."
"As you wish," she bowed her head.
Then, seeing that the Jedi hadn't ended the connection, she asked:
"What is all this for, my Lord? We're not planning to train Jedi."
"We are not," Dougan confirmed. "The Jedi weren't the first here. I'm interested in the knowledge of the Je'daii. Their ideas will become the foundation for our new Order."
"Have you already thought of a name for it?" the girl inquired.
"I wouldn't say I've fully thought of one," the Jedi hesitated. "What do you think of 'Imperial Knights'?"
The Togruta was taken aback. Since when was anyone interested in her opinion? She was merely an executor…
"I… I like it, my Lord."
"Splendid," the Jedi approved. "Let's call the Order that for now. By the way, I recall the Temple used to fly the banners of the Order and the Republic… I'm sending you the banner I've designed. It should be hung at our new Academy, as a symbol of a new beginning."
"It will be done, my Lord," the Togruta bowed her head. The figure dissolved, replaced by the image of a pentagonal standard… Memories pricked at her mind. A banner strongly resembling the flags of the Revanite Order, against which her former teacher and lover had led a military campaign. Was there some hidden meaning in that? It didn't matter. She was merely an executor.
"Hey, you," she Force-stopped a passing Flesh Raider. The degenerate descendant of the Rakata race looked at her with frightened eyes, baring a mouth full of sharp teeth. "I need your best artists to depict this flag. And just you try to draw it crooked — I'll gut you personally."
Watching the native sprinting away at full speed, Zevras felt a slight euphoria from the Jedi's praise. Maybe he wasn't as bad as she had previously thought.
* * *
Standing by the window of the upper hall of the Great Temple, Vette was enjoying the view before her through a monocular.
Hundreds of bare-chested, powerfully built men were sparring with each other. Practicing techniques on one another on the ground covered with local foliage, they seemed to feel no fatigue.
They were the glorious legacy of Mandalore. They were weapons in the hands of their master. They would bring peace and tranquility to his new Empire. Each of them was guaranteed a future. For the glory of their master — they would crush all his enemies. So taught the instructors of Clan Farr. True Mandalorians.
Even if they faced their brothers — clones — they were to carry out the order.
"They are magnificent, aren't they?" the Kaminoan standing beside her watched her charges without interruption.
"You have done excellent work, Ko Sai," the Twi'lek admitted. "Your growth algorithm… It's something else. Fifteen days — and an adult is ready for training. Another five — and all the knowledge from the curriculum is absorbed. In less than a month — the clone is ready for combat."
"For that, thank your employer," Ko acknowledged. "His approach with those animals…"
"Lizards," Vette corrected the Kaminoan. "Ysalamiri are lizards."
"Wonderful creatures," the cloning engineer smiled. "Kamino could use them to increase clone output hundreds of times over. The Republic could have won…"
"Unfortunately," Vette admitted, "my employer is not interested in that. HIS army serves only his goals."
"Prime Minister Lama Su asked me to convey," the Kaminoan said, "that starting with the third generation, the clones meet your employer's expectations."
"That's wonderful," Vette smiled. "You get double payment for the same product."
"Such are the terms of our collaboration," the Kaminoan reminded. "The Prime Minister is also concerned about Kamino's safety when your employer's plan begins to unfold."
"We remember our obligations," Vette snorted. "You'd better have evacuated more incubators — a thousand units is practically an insult."
"We cannot evacuate more without risking exposure," Ko explained. "The Republic meticulously tracks any movement of equipment and DNA samples."
"Well," Vette smiled. "My employer is happy with this too."
"Why are you using samples from the same donor as the Republic?" Ko Sai inquired.
Vette didn't get a chance to answer — a comlink chimed in her pocket.
"That's my employer," the girl snorted. "Want to ask him yourself?"
"I shall refrain," the Kaminoan hurried towards the exit.
Satisfied that the lanky Kaminoan had left the Great Audience Chamber, the Twi'lek opened the communication channel.
"My Lord," she bowed. "Glad to see you in good health."
"It's pleasant to hear that from you, Vette," the man replied. "How is your mission progressing?"
"Production is operational," she admitted. "The first thousand soldiers have already moved to practical training. The second batch is on its way. Ko Sai has set up the full cycle in the Great Temple. No cases of psychosis or insanity. The lizards have settled in like they were born here."
"That's good to hear," the Jedi approved. "You reported on recruitment…"
"We have access to more than two hundred smuggler crews," she boasted. "Trusted agents continue hiring and recruitment."
"Are they truly worthy of trust?"
"No more than any smuggler," the girl admitted. "But we're unlikely to find better candidates. Or agents."
"Well… on Corellia, a fleet of freighters is being built for us. I'll let you know when you can send your recruits for the ships."
"Acknowledged," the girl assured him. "Lord, there is information you should know."
"I'm listening."
"While clearing the temple grounds and buildings, we made several finds."
"Go on."
"On the lower levels of the Temple of Woolamanders, we discovered a strange creature," the girl said. "It killed five Mandalorians before we managed to stop it."
"What kind of creature is it?"
"Jedi Master Ikrit," the Twi'lek reported. "Under torture, he told us he arrived here over three hundred years ago to free the souls of the Massassi children. But he couldn't do it, so he went into hibernation."
"How amusing," the Jedi chuckled. "Where is he now?"
"Placed in a stasis pod on the lower levels of the Great Temple. Where the Massassi you killed in the Great Audience Chamber used to be."
"Good," the Jedi praised. "Excellent work. I'll deal with Ikrit myself. Continue to maintain the system's isolation until further notice."
"Yes, Lord," the Twi'lek agreed. "But…"
"Something else, Vette?" her master asked impatiently.
"Yes, my Lord," the Twi'lek looked at her master ingratiatingly. "We found the fortress of the Hero of Tython…"
* * *
The lift doors opened, allowing Commodore Bill Dabrin onto the bridge. The first officer — a completely green youth from some noble family on Corulag — had only assumed the post a month ago. His parents had sent the boy to sit out the war on the bridge of the Telos. The ship, too sluggish and obsolete, was hardly suitable for modern combat. The officers serving aboard dutifully drew their salaries, providing a token defense of Grizmalt. And now, some Jedi had finally remembered the heavy cruiser.
"What's our status, Morgan?" Dabrin inquired. The first officer walked behind him, checking his datapad. Despite Lieutenant El Morgan having only graduated from the Academy, he threw himself into his duties with zeal. And gave the depleted crew no rest.
"All reactors are online. Diagnostics show no malfunctions. We'll make two orbits around the planet and then dock. Currently inspecting the lower decks. The crew is run off their feet cleaning the hangar deck," he complained. "Why did the Jedi suddenly decide to take an interest in the Telos right now?"
"I know as much as you do, son," Dabrin admitted. "I thought it was a joke when command issued the order. But the Jedi has already rented a dock. There's panic in the shipyards — the Rendili representatives are running around like their backsides were plasma-blasted. Dispatch says we're being assigned a second shift of repair crews."
"Well, I'll be," the first officer whistled. Even one shift of a repair team meant thousands of people across hundreds of specialties. Two was outright luxury. Not to mention the colossal expense. "Have the Jedi finally stirred?"
"I heard a whisper that the rich folks from the Outer Rim are footing the bill," the commodore shared the information. "Seems they're trying to curry favor with the Jedi."
"Interesting," the first officer drawled. "Looks like we really are shipping out to the active fleet."
"First, a mid-life refit," Dabrin reminded. "New weapons, a full crew… The flight deck will finally stop wasting away. There won't be a competitor for our Telos in the entire CIS fleet."
"Don't jinx it."
Even the pessimistic remarks of the young first officer couldn't dampen Bill's elevated spirits. Finally, after thousands of years of inactivity, the Telos would return to defend the Republic.
The ship had been designed by Rendili shipbuilders during the First Galactic War. For its time, it was a true giant. Gun batteries in the central section, along the sides, and at the stern created an impenetrable curtain of fire against large and light enemy ships. The navigation bridge was shifted towards the stern, protruding above the main hull, offering a royal view of the battlefield. The lower tower, like a huge fin, housed seven main engines, accelerating the cruiser to insane speeds. Along the sides were spacious hangars, which once could have accommodated two, perhaps even three hundred starfighters. Now there was only a pair of squadrons of ancient Claw-class starfighters — their last maintenance had been about 300 years ago, and since then they'd been gathering dust like museum pieces. They weren't even allowed to be decommissioned. There was simply nothing to replace them with.
The stern hangar could easily accommodate a couple of modern Consulars or Peltas. But no one had ever checked — since the last war with the New Sith, the hangar hadn't been repaired, so even the shields that held the atmosphere were non-functional.
Once, the cruiser's hull had been painted white with red stripes. Now it was just a battered set of armor plates with faded traces of former grandeur.
Bill's distant ancestor had commanded one of these during the Second Galactic War. Family chronicles had so inspired him in his youth that Dabrin chose a career on the bridge of the last heavy cruiser of what was once a vast Jedi fleet.
At the time of the Great Galactic War, this cruiser type was the most powerful in the Republic fleet, significantly surpassing other ships. Unlike its opponents, it didn't have continuous armor plating. Only critically important parts — the bridge, battery decks, hangars, living quarters, reactor zone, engines, hyperdrives — were protected by half a meter of premium armor. This meant, despite its monstrous appearance and seeming clumsiness, the Telos could surprise its opponent with speed, maneuverability, and a powerful broadside salvo of turbolasers, proton torpedoes, and concussion missiles.
He had given thirty years of his life to this ship's bridge. And soon, he would be leading it into battle.
Bill took a deep breath of the bridge's air. Before his eyes, a Venator in Republic colors tore through space.
"Sir," the comms officer's voice was stunned. "The cruiser Salvation is hailing us. On board is Senior Jedi General Dougan. They request permission for his shuttle to dock."
Dabrin straightened his uniform.
"Direct them to the port-side hangar. The starboard blast door is jammed anyway, has been for about five years."
* * *
As the tour of the Telos was winding down, I was feeling mixed emotions. The ship was certainly impressive. The Rendili design — spaciousness and comfort — was immediately apparent. And even externally, the vessel was still a sight to behold.
But inside… It would have been easier to list what actually worked.
The ship's deflector shield didn't work at all. Not since its participation in the battles at Ruusan.
Still, the inspection commission from Rendili StarDrive had already prepared a repair estimate. A huge one. Eighty-three million. From the look of things, the ship's faults had been known for a long time — it was only a matter of money.
Honestly — if the funding had been up to me — I'd never have paid that much for this tub. But the estimate had already been approved by the government of Christophsis, so all I had to do was listen to the local Rendili representative's speech about what a great deed the residents of the Christoph system were doing in support of the Republic fleet.
After spending almost the entire daylight hours on pleasantries with the local establishment, I shook everyone's hand and left.
It was time for the next meeting.
* * *
"Interesting," the General Director of Incom Corporation, Kat Dalig, looked at me with polite interest. "I didn't think such a proposal could come from a Jedi."
We were sitting in his office, which resembled a living room more than anything else, the size of the Telos's bridge. But the furniture was practically nonexistent. It made the place feel uncomfortable, but it didn't stop me from enjoying the caf. I let Dalig have it. I stuck to simple conversation. I had no desire to show my disfigured face.
"I like to surprise my partners," I admitted.
"And you already consider me a partner?" Kat smirked. "I don't recall giving an answer yet."
"But we both know you will," I stated. "And a positive one at that."
"Is that so? I'm sorry, I'm not a Jedi, the future is unknown to me."
I shook my head negatively.
"It's not even about foresight, Mr. Dalig. You're a businessman, and I'm fairly good at constructing logical chains."
"I'd be glad to hear them."
"Well then, allow me to explain," I said, looking the man straight in the eye. "You currently have only three market segments. Speeders and light vehicles. Bounty hunters and ARC-170s. If you look at your quarterly reports, you'll notice that the first direction isn't as profitable as it might seem. After all, there are over a hundred small and medium corporations in the galaxy that have established themselves in this market. The Z-95 in all its modifications is a decent machine. A solid mid-ranger, something the army bought successfully. Until the ubiquitous Kuat and Slayn & Korpil got involved. Let's face it, their fighters are either faster than yours or have additional advantages — deflectors, for example. ARC-170s will hardly be replaced by any fighter anyway. But already now the Republic is filling its hangars more and more with V-wings and W-wings. Have you seen the Eta-2 prototypes? The Jedi adore them."
"I'm aware of all this," the CEO remarked. "Tell me something I don't know yet."
"As far as I know, next year Incom won't be able to participate in the tender. Your competitors from Kuat will take the main niche. The ARC-170 supply contract — that's all that will be left for you. And even that, I'm judging by my own army's previous purchases — after six months of war, mass procurement of ARC-170s stopped. Now it's just inertia, the ossified thinking of many Moffs who don't want to reorganize their ARC-170 squadrons, which are suffering heavy losses. And it's not even that the machine has flaws," Kat raised his eyebrows. "It's that the current command is using these excellent ships incorrectly. They're dying in battles by the hundreds, used as ordinary line fighters. When in essence, they're heavy assault ships, bombers. Kuat's V-wings are appearing more and more on the decks of new ships — it's convenient, especially when the same Kuat produces the capital ships, equipment, and weapons. A small example. On board the Venator I arrived on, the air wing consists of V-wings or V-19 fighters, also known as W-wings, in the amount of 16 squadrons each. And for dessert, completely free, half a squadron of Eta-2 fighters were placed on the ship. Kuat gives them to the Jedi for testing, instead of Aethersprites. I'm not a pro in fighter combat, but the clones like the new machine."
"I'm getting the impression you've decided to gloat," the head of the corporation sighed wearily.
"Not at all. I was merely demonstrating the extent of my awareness."
"I know all this without you," the man sighed. "The Z-95 production lines are practically stopped — out of thirty lines, only five are running now, and mostly for the private market. That's why I agreed to meet with you — your representative promised large cash injections if we find common ground."
"What if I told you that, with a small technical alliance, your developments in the field of civilian T-16 skyhoppers, Z-95 fighters, and ARC-170s could turn into a wonderful product. A heavy, maneuverable fighter, a worthy replacement for ARC-170s, an excellent competitor to all the rest."
"Is that so," Dalig grinned. "Tell us something we haven't tried."
"You're a businessman and an excellent engineer," I added a bit of flattery. "Just imagine the concept — a fighter that takes from its predecessor the T-16 the simplicity of the interface, from the Z-95 the fuselage, from the ARC-170s the heavy cannons on the wingtips, and the ability to deploy them. A small magazine of proton torpedoes."
I'm not much of an artist, but with a graphic editor and a stylus, I managed to sketch a concept art familiar to every Star Wars fan to the point of heartache. Two blown-up Death Stars out of two.
"Cruciform wings?" the man clarified. "They'll disrupt aerodynamics at low speeds in the atmosphere..."
"Fold them. You'll get the same silhouette as the Z-95. Which the enemy won't recognize until the very end — until the fighter blasts him with a salvo from four medium or heavy cannons. How long will your competitors' small craft withstand such fire? And if we add a couple of missiles on the wings, like the ones the droids use? Equip it with a deflector shield — and it will dance among enemy squadrons, under the fire of their guns, mocking them, and cutting them down like a wild predator among domestic banthas. I guarantee you that within six months, this fighter will achieve space superiority, and its opponents..."
"I'm afraid this project is not destined to see the light of day for the next 10 years or so," the CEO of Incom smiled sadly. "Even if we create the blueprints, the fighter will come out... extremely expensive. Two or three hundred thousand credits. It will take more than a year before we can reduce the production cost. We need trials, tests. No supercomputer can do that. And for that, our customer would have to be obscenely rich. Besides, Incom doesn't have missile technology — that's a new direction for us. And we simply don't have engines better than those on the ARC-170s. In terms of mass and dimensions, this project won't be inferior to its predecessor. With low speed, it will turn from a predator into prey. Furthermore, you haven't said a word about rear hemisphere defense — deflectors alone won't last long. The ARC-170 has a gunner-operated weapon. If we add that, the fighter will become just a slow bantha."
"Why do we need such a heavy gun? I criticize it on the ARC-170s and don't welcome it here. A twin-barreled rapid-fire laser cannon, controlled by an astromech droid, will be sufficient. No extra crew members. The droid will handle cover and minor repairs itself. We'll shift the duties of tail gunner and co-pilot to the machine. We save mass and dimensions."
"Still," Kat shook his head. "Missiles, engines... no, the project is good, but not for us. The prototypes alone will cost millions..."
What a Doubting Thomas. I felt anger boiling inside me. Why does Force Persuasion work on Sienar and others after the first arguments, but on this no-name (ask yourself — who knows the name of Incom's CEO? No one!) — it doesn't? I let the Force flow into my words, insinuating themselves into his mind. I increased the pressure on his perception, making him perceive me as a friend... it worked with Sienar, and it should work with him too... I just need to push harder...
"Let's say that if you replace the rear gun on the ARC-170s that I'll be purchasing for my army with rapid-fire laser cannons, I'll finance the project I want."
"I think that's possible," Kat agreed. "But the problems still remain. Engines, missiles... we didn't do that kind of thing on Fresia."
"Oh, don't worry, my friend," I smiled. With the Force, I had finally broken his will. All that remained was to overcome his instinctive fears about Incom's lack of competitiveness. "It seems I have friends who will help you with missile armament and new engines. Would you agree to move part of the production lines to a planet I will designate — your new secret ally and sponsor? I don't want our competitors to find out about the new weapon ahead of time."
"I would only be glad," Kat smiled. "Of course, if you take the costs of moving the project team and the production lines upon yourself."
"That's a trifle," I smiled. "As a gesture of good will, the 13th Sector Army will officially purchase a large volume of modified ARC-170s from you. And unofficially... you wouldn't mind if the shares of Incom listed on the exchange belonged to me?"
"Not at all, Master Jedi," Kat smiled. Calculations were already happening in his head. Forty-five percent of the shares, which I decided to acquire from my secret accounts, would replenish the corporation's budget by several trillion credits. A more than generous move from a little-known ally. "Allow me to assure you of the sincere pleasure with which I welcome our secret cooperation."
"Yes, and one more thing, colleague. You do have a division that produces construction robots, don't you?"
"That's just a subsidiary company," Kat chuckled. "Incom Automata. A daughter enterprise."
"Splendid. I'll need a large volume of construction droids. With a transport ship, of course."
"We'll arrange it within a couple of weeks," the CEO promised. "Our transports are piloted by droid pilots — should I program them for a flight to Ord Pardron?"
"Oh, no need. Better send me the control frequency — I'll set the coordinates myself."
Leaving Fresia a few hours later, I watched as a huge Incom transport ship (not the giants Kuat uses to deliver equipment to the armies, of course), loaded with a thousand unmodified ARC-170s, set course for Ord Pardron. Re-equipping the new machines takes time. But the army's small craft were needed right now.
As were people, though. I needed to contact Christophsis — fortunately, Vizsla had already returned. I had an interesting assignment for her.
* * *
The holo-call caught the director of the company "Nuodo Private Military Company," Rivas Nuodo, at an unpleasant moment. The Duros was entertaining himself in one of the cantinas on the lower levels of Coruscant with a couple of young slave girls who, for modest fees by capital standards, occasionally brightened up one or several of his evenings.
His company included dozens of branches on different planets. Providing armed security services, they had all, without exception, been mercenaries with dubious reputations in the past. But they knew their business well. A couple of times they had been hired by planetary governments — to train their local troops, or conversely, to settle matters with neighbors. He was not ashamed of a single completed contract for his company. Perhaps because the company's ranks included many Mandalorians well-versed in this trade. Ever since their little planet had taken a course toward pacifism, the true warriors had fled from there. Only the terrorists from Death Watch were still trying to prove something to someone.
They didn't have widespread popularity — after all, the market was flooded with similar services, but knowledgeable people always had the coordinates to contact them.
Making a gesture for the slave girls to be quiet, he chose a more respectable background and activated the communication channel.
"Rivas Nuodo, how can I be of service?"
An attractive human woman was looking at him. Dark red hair, a stern gaze. The edge of armor was visible, and the Duros could swear it was Mandalorian. But he asked no unnecessary questions.
"My name is Shea Vizsla, I command the Christophsis Self-Defense Forces. Rivas Nuodo, I'm offering you a contract to train the ground militia of Christophsis. If you can handle it, the fleet will also be generous."
"An interesting proposal," the Duros said in his velvety voice. "The contract price?"
"We have almost two million recruits," the woman smirked. "Handle them, and you'll get a hundred credits each."
The Duros whistled. What a huge pile of money! Even for half that sum, he could buy himself a small moon and build an entire military town on it. Then his company would definitely be heard of. Even his cousin — Cad Bane — would no longer be able to reproach him for supposedly losing his edge.
"Acceptable," he stretched his lips into a smile, "but weapons and ammunition are at the client's expense."
"Of course, mercenary," the woman returned his smile. "I expect you and your people on Christophsis in a week. But first, you have a job on Coruscant. I'm sending the details of the assignment."
"Okay, boss," Rivas received the file and, without looking, disconnected the call.
Glancing at the Twi'leks sitting silently opposite, he broke into a smile.
"Come here and make the future millionaire the happiest man."