I have to admit, I hadn't thought about how difficult it would be to command the forces of an entire oversector.
But I should have.
The workplace of a Moff of the Iron Spear sector army is a well-fortified bunker deep within an ancient base. A spacious room. Protected from all possible aerial attacks. I'd even say that in size it rivaled a mini-football field.
Having some experience visiting the offices of big bosses on Earth, I was surprised to notice that in the Moff's office, despite its status and position, there were no relaxation areas or other luxury items.
A massive desk with a computer built into the surface, a holotransmitter, and other communication devices.
In the center of the room — a holoprojector. Along the perimeter of the walls opposite the projector — about ten chairs. Also wall-mounted monitors displaying incoming strategic information in real time. Metal cabinets storing outerwear and unremarkable trinkets — souvenirs.
Well, a heavy work environment. Not even any windows — all lighting from ceiling fixtures.
After arriving, I sent Oli with minor errands to headquarters. Unduli went to communicate with the Order Council. The droid unceremoniously accompanied me as a personal guard. Both halves of the Hutt's gift wisely remained aboard the Defender.
"Reminds me of a crypt," K1 shared his observation, surveying my new office.
"What would you know about that? You can't die."
"But I've often sent beings there," the droid retorted.
Grinning, I placed my command cylinder into the receiving slot on the desk, authorizing myself on the computer network.
Before starting active command — you know, showing myself, waving the flag — I decided to deal with pressing matters. In my understanding, the devil is in the details. So first, I should understand what I have in my hands. So I wouldn't have to trudge back dejectedly with that same flag and lick my wounds later.
Well then, let's examine my fleet.
The Iron Spear was supposed to have three hundred line-class ships. It's worth noting right away that in local terminology, both cruisers and sluggish battleships are equally considered line ships. The gradation mostly depends on the size of the ships themselves. Not on armor thickness, armament, speed characteristics...
In reality, I had thirty-five Dreadnought-class cruisers — greetings from Rendili — twenty Hammerheads, nine Venators, twenty-eight Acclamators, four assault Acclamators. Total: ninety-six ships. Just under a third of the nominal strength. Of course, I could hold out with this — especially since the army's forces controlled only a quarter of the entire oversector.
Twenty-six Arquitens-class light cruisers. As I said, there were supposed to be seventy of them. Fifty Consular-class frigates, twenty-four Peltas. What was reassuring was that each of these ships was crewed with the required number of personnel and small craft. Trachta's help had greatly improved my army's combat effectiveness. True, the required 50% reserve of small craft from the warehouses was completely exhausted. Even the 800 fighters sent by Trachta had been distributed among the ships like hotcakes.
However, I shouldn't forget about other things. Incom had successfully delivered 1,000 unmodified ARC-170s to Ord Pardron — without my permission, the ships were in the so-called "customs zone" meaning they weren't allowed out of the system, but also weren't unloaded into warehouses. Well, let's fix that. With a light touch, an electronic order was sent to the chancellery.
Next. Sienar. They sent a guarantee letter that the two hundred Marauders I ordered from them were undergoing testing and were ready to arrive at the deployment site under their own power within a week. Well, even though it cost quite a lot of money, I needed these ships. Approved as well. In a week, my army would have unpleasant surprises for the enemy.
Now let's move on to army units. Thanks to Trachta, I had nearly three full-strength corps of clone line infantry. First and second generation. Additionally, up to a legion of volunteers had arrived from Christophsis. Hmm...
Within my area of responsibility, the Moff was authorized to independently equip units. Which meant... Three clone corps — that's twelve clone legions. Each legion — four regiments. Total: forty-eight regiments. And four regiments of volunteers. And, as practice showed, the number of volunteers was only growing. At least Shea claimed there was no shortage of applicants. On Christophsis, a "training camp" had been established, so those willing to die for the Republic's cause would arrive more or less prepared.
But for now, I only had four battalions of them. Which meant I could insert them into four legions, one volunteer battalion each. And that would free up exactly four clone battalions. Which meant I could turn my twelve legions into sixteen — I just needed three more volunteer legions...
Still, I liked the idea. Through simple manipulations, the number of line units would increase to four corps. And somewhere out there, the promised money after the audit wasn't far off. So I could buy more clones and ships.
It was surprising that during the time from my departure from Coruscant to my return to Ord Pardron, the soldiers of the 13th Sectoral hadn't lost a single ship. Almost suspicious...
My next step was to familiarize myself with the operational situation.
Essentially, the Iron Spear was surrounded. The Corellian Trade Route, the main strategic artery of our entire sector of the galaxy, was within the sphere of enemy raiding operations, various rabble, and CIS-hired privateers.
The army held the heart of the sector under control — the territory within the "ring": Mon Gazza — Ando — Monastery — Bothawui — Kothlis — Mando — Rishi — Ukio — Molavar — Roon — Iskalon — Rodia — Titus — Christophsis — Radnor — Mon Gazza. Also, on Lainurr, Formos, Aduba-3, and Riin, small garrisons — within a few companies — were stationed. Though, to be honest, these were more observation stations, sentry outposts monitoring movements along remote hyperspace routes. I wouldn't want a suddenly materialized enemy squadron in my rear.
Although, as I remembered from the last briefing, we controlled a section of the Corellian Trade Route from Christophsis to Pakvepor. Forming the appropriate request, I noted with a sigh that while I was pulling Jabba's offspring out of the ass-end of the galaxy, the CIS had launched a massive strike on our group at Pakvepor. Fortunately, the latter planet wasn't of great interest, and besides the orbital group and a small observation post, there were no forces of ours in the system.
Commodore Francia's flotilla, which held Pakvepor, had sustained significant damage and was forced to withdraw for regrouping with ground forces to an outpost south of the abandoned positions. On the orbit of Follin, where the mobile base of the fleet's light forces was located, patrolling the entire sector of the Corellian Trade Route under our control.
Unfortunately, Francia had been unable to break through to Rear Admiral Strikellen's group, which had been methodically grinding down droid forces on the planet Monastery for nearly two months. Meanwhile, the latter's situation was worsening by the day.
Mark Stryklen, a rear admiral in his early sixties, a veteran of the Stark Hyperspace War, commanded from aboard one of the first Venators in the army — the Liberation. His squadron, which included about forty ships of all classes, was maintaining a blockade on the planet Monastery, holding up to three million battle droids that the Separatists had gathered for a strike on the 13th. The planet was essentially a bridgehead, and the rear admiral was doing a great job, holding such significant enemy forces — including up to fifty Munificent-class ships alone — with such limited resources. He had managed to keep all his ships in relatively combat-ready condition, despite the lack of reinforcements and the Separatists' unceasing attempts to break out of the pocket.
The beginning of the campaign against CIS forces on Monastery was under the command of Jedi Master Abruk, but he died during a failed landing operation — he tried to take Monastery on the fly. The zerg rush predictably turned into a bloodbath. Only a few hundred clones survived from an entire corps (so that's where one of the six allotted ones got gloriously screwed!) along with the master's Padawan, who was currently with the admiral. Interestingly, the Council hadn't even recalled the boy to place him under a new mentor's care. Curious.
Still, under the wing of a talented commander, the boy would gain more experience than if he were trained by a fanatical Jedi. Speaking of talented commanders...
Another advantage of my position was that I handled personnel matters myself. So, a little about the personnel of my fleet.
Conditionally, the territory of the oversector was controlled by a sector armada — that was the general name for all ships subordinate to the Moff in the oversector's space. By area of responsibility, the oversector was divided into the Southern Theater of Operations and the Northern Theater. The Southern Battle Group, under the command of Admiral Ilio Vara, was based directly on Ord Pardron; the Northern, led by Rear Admiral Mark Stryklen, was in orbit of Follyn.
Each battle group included up to a dozen squadrons under commodores, who in turn commanded groups of combat ships — flights, usually under the command of particularly talented captains. Most of the light forces — corvettes, frigates — were crewed by clones.
Bailur's atrocious command style had led to most of the Northern BG's forces being destroyed. In the early stages of the war, they were commanded by the infamous Admiral Gran, who had "distinguished himself" with the "deblockade" of Christophsis. I don't even want to know how the hell he ended up in Admiral Vara's Southern Battle Group's area of responsibility. But the result is well known.
The Separatists confidently knocked out the flagship ships of the Northern Battle Group's squadrons in the first months of the war. Therefore, Stryklen, the only one of all the squadron commanders, now led the remnants of the Northern BG. He was fighting desperately against superior forces, having gathered the last four squadrons from his zone of influence into his fist. So far, he was managing to hold off the enemy's onslaught — and only because most of the Dreadnoughts were being sent his way. But even though his reports weren't hysterical, he was steadily asking for help. Yeah, if only I knew where to get it. Besides, due to high mortality, there weren't many willing to take command positions in the 13th Sectoral, let alone in Stryklen's battle group.
Things were slightly better in Admiral Vara's domains. His armada included the "Hammer" and "Anvil" squadrons. Under the experienced leadership of Pellaeon and Kreeves, the Hammerheads were successfully guarding the southern borders. The light forces of both battle groups were mainly engaged in patrolling trade routes or hunting down and destroying small enemy groups.
As for ground forces. Dialo handled personnel and logistics. Major Darill now handled intelligence and counterintelligence. Also, my valiant line regiments were commanded by inglorious bastards — that is, unremarkable Jedi. Jedi Knights Kydra, Arkan, Lobin... and five other unremarkable names. They were all currently stuck on Follyn, a backwater planet whose government had graciously allowed ships and Jedi to rest after the defeat at Pakvepor. I couldn't even remember them. If they were ever mentioned in the expanded universe, I'd never even heard of it. Oh, right, and the Padawan stuck in Stryklen's fleet. That makes nine. For our enormous theater of operations. Not even funny. The 14th Army alone has over a hundred Jedi. And the neighboring 17th has over a thousand — while our territory is many times larger than what the "Chromed Shield" forces are defending.
Although... I glanced at the casualty list... One hundred and fourteen Jedi... In six months. And that's just knights and masters. About fifty Padawans also died or were listed as missing in action during the "Iron Spear" campaign. Damn it! Almost two hundred in almost half a year... And I found a memo from Bailur to sector command, in which the Moff vividly described the Jedi's incompetence and begged to be rid of their command. Hmm, apparently, he succeeded. But I need something completely different. I need Jedi. The more, the better.
The lion's share of the ships and units of the sector army and fleet were currently under the command of clones. Jango Fett's copies were good guys, capable, sure. But they made terrible initiative-taking commanders on starship bridges.
I need living, skilled, and competent commanders. Without talented generals, I won't last long. Of course, I won't get to sit idle myself — the situation isn't great. Especially now that Hutt space, which the CIS had previously ignored, has openly joined us. Of course, Jabba will take care of his own space, but it wouldn't hurt to submit a request to increase the authorized strength of the army and fleet, given the expanded area of responsibility...
It's wonderful being a Moff. You can always access the sector command's electronic database and find out which individuals are on active duty... And you can always send them an offer to transfer to your sector army. Fortunately, in this far, far away galaxy, all I needed for that was a vacant position in my army and the soldier's willingness. Memories stirred in my mind... Grand Admirals, Grand Admirals, where are you...
Too bad I can't do the same with the Order. For that, I'd need the approval of the High Council. Well, I'll have to have a heart-to-heart with Yoda and Windu...
My thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected intrusion.
Without knocking, the head of sector intelligence burst into the office, alarmed — something I hadn't seen in him before. Darill was clearly out of breath, struggling with shortness of breath. But he managed to get the main thing out.
"Grievous wiped out our group on Follin. The droids have launched a counterattack."
* * *
Watching the remnants of the battered Republic forces from Jabiim leave the deck of his Acclamator, Captain Nial Declann thought with reverence about his upcoming leave. The docks would spend several more days repairing the numerous damages to his cruiser, sustained during the evacuation of clones from Jabiim. He, on the other hand, would use that time productively. Visit a couple of cantinas, get some proper sleep.
After the battle in orbit of Jabiim, when death literally walked on both sides of him and his ship, Nial felt for the first time that his natural talents for tactical thinking couldn't help. Death and droids seemed to be everywhere.
Despite the despair, he still managed to break through. The Separatists hadn't managed to damage his ship like the other two Acclamators. And he managed to take off. Relying only on his own calculations of the battle. The clones who made up his ship's crew didn't pay attention to the fact that their commander was behaving somewhat unnaturally — he was silent a lot, as if pondering every order. But it was thanks to his talents that they left Jabiim.
It could be said that he was responsible for saving all those surviving Jedi — Kenobi, Skywalker included. Still, saving the legendary pair was an achievement in itself.
His thoughts were interrupted by an incoming call on his personal comlink. Hmm, strange. The call was on command frequency. What did they want? He'd just been granted leave.
"Captain Nial Declann," a staff officer addressed him. The dark-skinned officer silently nodded to his superior. The speaker didn't introduce himself — you couldn't remember all the staff officers by name in a lifetime. "Sector command has received a request for your transfer to the position of commodore — commander of the 'Blade' squadron in the 13th Sector Army."
"Iron Spear?" the captain asked in surprise. The staff officer silently nodded.
Unexpected. Nial had been in the active fleet since the beginning of the war, but he hadn't had any major successes at the front. A couple of victories over pirates, some skirmishes with Separatist raiders... and saving the Jedi from Jabiim. Had he been noticed? They weren't offering him a promotion for his good looks... Rising from ship commander to the bridge of a flagship of an entire squadron in less than a year... A gift for an officer who wants to serve the Republic.
"I agree."
"Your transfer has been approved by command," the staff officer said after a second. "Immediately prepare the cruiser for flight — you're departing for the Lannik system to receive reinforcements — new Marauder-class corvettes — and then you'll proceed to the Bothawui system, where you'll join the fleet under the command of Senior Jedi General Dougan."
"Jedi?" Declann was surprised. "Bothawui? But that's a quiet sector..."
"Not anymore," the officer admitted. "Three hours ago, General Grievous" the name sent a chill down the captain's spine — "destroyed the fleet's mobile base and ground forces on Follin. The Jedi believe their next target is Bothawui. Contact the Jedi Temple — they have passengers for you."
"I... I understand you." The staff officer disconnected without saying goodbye.
Nial ran his hand dazedly over his short hair. Promotion, Grievous, Bothawui, Jedi... That same invisible force that had whispered the right maneuvers to him during battle, that had given him hints about the enemy's actions, was now unequivocally telling him that all this was clearly not for the good...
* * *
Watching the wreckage of a pirate ship fall into the atmosphere of a gas giant, Afsheen Makati thought with grim satisfaction that his confrontation with the cunning and arrogant Trandoshan who had been terrorizing the near space of Kashyyyk, regularly conducting slaving raids on the Wookiee planet, was over.
Twice he had led the captain of the carrier Acclamator. Twice the Trandoshan had managed to escape with his cargo.
But the third time, Makati didn't let himself be fooled. He calculated the pirate's approach course — always the same. Hiding in the shadow of the gas giant in the neighboring system, he waited for the Republic patrols to appear. And the pirate raided behind their backs. But now his luck had run out.
The Resolute — a carrier modification of the Acclamator — dropped some of its heavy scouts in sight of the smuggler. And as soon as he, having counted the number of departing Republic ships, rushed into the Kashyyyk system, the rest of The Resolute's air wing was waiting for him at the exit point. The battle lasted barely half an hour.
By the time the cruiser itself arrived, the clones had smeared the slaver's old but nimble freighter across the gas giant's stratosphere. Another bastard had found his well-deserved reward.
An incoming message on the holoterminal caught his attention.
"Captain Makati," he introduced himself to the official from the 12th Sectoral headquarters, where he was serving. "How can I help you?"
"Captain," the personnel officer's booming voice (Afsheen remembered his face. Right, he was the one who had blocked the officer's participation in the exams for the reserve for higher positions. In favor of another officer — his close friend). "I recall you dreamed of a promotion..."
"As I recall," the cruiser commander narrowed his eyes, "you, Disra, considered me not competent enough for that..."
"Well," the young commander snorted, "the Jedi don't really understand personnel. Our neighbors from 'Iron Spear' have finally decided to fill their command gaps. And they're calling anyone and everyone. Including you, Makati."
"Is that so?" the captain chuckled. He glanced furtively at the clones filling the bridge. But the copies were indifferent to their superiors' bickering. "And what hole are you planning to exile me to?"
"If you agree," the personnel officer drawled. Usually, his drawn-out speech meant only one thing — it was better to agree. Otherwise, it would be worse. Afsheen had learned this firsthand when he didn't take Disra's advice and didn't give up his place in the certification queue to Disra's friend, Tigellinus. As later events showed, Tigellinus got the promotion anyway and was already commanding a squadron, albeit in one of the Central armies, in relative peace — maintaining the blockade of Phaerost. While Makati himself was chasing pirates. On a cruiser that hadn't been repaired in ages. "Then sign the documents I sent. And head to Rendili — reinforcements are heading to the 13th Sectoral. You'll lead one of the new squadrons, 'Spear.' Though if it were up to me, I'd send you chasing pirates in that old bucket."
Afsheen smiled threateningly. Whatever was happening at the top, someone had clearly noticed him. An officer covered in disciplinary actions had been spotted and called to command an entire squadron. Inwardly restraining his triumph, Makati touched his command cylinder to the transfer order.
"Safe travels, Captain." The smile on Disra's face looked more like a skull's grin. Silently promising himself to one day wipe that grin off with the heel of his boot, Afsheen silently saluted his enemy.
As soon as the communication session ended, he ordered a course change.
* * *
Joseph Grunger had always known he was born for more than chasing pirates on the Hydian Way. His light cruiser, the Arquitens-class Fury (the captain had named the ship himself), had become a terror for local freighters. Pirates shied away from his small detachment's course — the Fury's flight also included two Consular-class ships. The fast and maneuverable unit always showed up where it was least expected.
Originally from Alderaan, before entering the Judicial Forces Academy, Grunger had lived on the planet Gorgon in the Mandalorian Sector. His parents — fairly wealthy Mandalorian descendants — had long abandoned their people's way of life — waging eternal war — and were engaged in mining. Although Joseph suspected that his father did, every now and then, dabble in spice trading — otherwise it was hard to explain the elder Grunger's acquaintance with numerous criminal figures.
Like Booster Terrik, who now posed as a supposedly law-abiding employee of a vague transport company, hauling food and supplies. Meanwhile, numerous Corellian freighters, armed so heavily they could blow up a couple of Venators, didn't try to avoid patrols. On the contrary, those who just yesterday had been detained by Joseph as smugglers now presented their ships for inspection. And unfortunately, they had nothing illegal.
Food, equipment, fabrics... Joseph assumed it was all going to the Corporate Sector, but he couldn't prove it. Especially since the cargo that the freighters refused to present for inspection was often marked as not subject to inspection. At first, it was some Jedi's documents, then — about a month ago — the same papers turned out to be issued by the chancellery of the 13th Sector Army. Joseph had lost count of how many requests he'd sent there about the legitimacy of these papers — in the bureaucratic confusion of contradictory orders, he couldn't challenge the legality of another sector army's actions. And when he complained to his superiors, they just waved him off with something like "Jedi business, don't get involved, you'll only cause trouble."
But Joseph didn't believe in such injustice. So he sent his requests to the leadership of the 13th Sector Army time and again, but Moff Bailur didn't even think of answering Commander Grunger.
But just two days ago, everything changed.
Major Dialo, from the personnel service of the 13th Sector Army, notified him of a transfer offer. "Iron Spear" was offering him a step up from the rank separating him from captain.
He had left the bridge of his beloved cruiser for the new assignment. And now, in the Lannik system, under the disapproving grumbling of the local government, a huge armada was forming. About fifty cruisers of a type he had never seen before — Hammerheads — supported by a hundred equally unusual Marauder-class corvettes, were preparing to depart for the Bothawui system, where they were to give battle to General Grievous's enormous fleet.
Joseph curiously examined the bridge of his new ship — a Marauder-class corvette. Brand new, without any flaws. A strict, magnificent ship in its ergonomic and functional design, its power comparable to the strength of his recent flagship. Word had it that this hundred Marauders were the first of their kind with missile armament. They were something of a test run for Sienar. How these ships performed would determine their further procurement by "Iron Spear." Strangely, other sector armies weren't just uninterested in this corvette — they hadn't even heard of it. This became clear from the conversations of the squadron and unit commanders who had arrived for the meeting.
The crews on the corvettes were the same clones. But they had only recently arrived on these ships — some of them had been taken from the four Acclamators that were hanging in space, surrounded by brand-new Hammerheads — ten per flagship. Also, each squadron included five new corvettes. Officially, for the defense of large ships against numerous enemy light forces. But Joseph had already familiarized himself with his ship's technical data. It could tear a Separatist Munificent to pieces in a few minutes of battle. And there were a hundred such ships. With their missile and laser armament, the Separatists wouldn't have a single chance at victory. Joseph commanded "Arrow 3" a dozen nimble Marauders covering the "Blade" squadron.
But for now, all of them — the newly minted officers of the 13th Sector Army — were aboard the Venator-class battleship Salvation. One of the newest ships, it had become the flagship of the entire armada that was to move out to Bothawui.
Walking through the corridors of the Star Destroyer, as the Republic Navy's battleships were now called, Joseph noted with interest that there were also many Jedi on board the starship. One stood out noticeably: the one wearing black armor and an impenetrable protective mask that hid his face. Word had it that he was the Jedi who would lead the operation.
But one way or another, everyone — squadron commanders, unit commanders, Jedi standing out in their attire against the gray uniforms of the military — gathered in the command section behind the main part of the Venator's bridge.
The Jedi in black armor spoke first.
"Gentlemen, officers, I am glad that you have arrived here today. My name is Rick Dougan — I am the commander of the 13th Sector Army, Jedi Master."
A low murmur passed through the gathering.
"Each of you has caught my attention with your military successes. You know how to do your job, which means you will bring success to the operations of the 13th Sector Army. If not — we will part ways. There will be no freeloaders in my army. I will not punish the innocent or reward the uninvolved. If anyone came here by mistake, hoping to sit it out in headquarters — the door is open, leave the meeting."
Interesting. Joseph had never heard such words from a Jedi before. Still, none of the military personnel even stirred. Only one of the Jedi — a middle-aged man with a gray ponytail, covered in armor pieces — smirked at these words.
"Now, to business," the general activated the holoprojector.
"This is the Follin system. Two days ago, General Grievous's armada — over a hundred ships — attacked our Northern Battle Group's mobile base and completely destroyed it. The garrison on the planet was also wiped out in its entirety. We lost over a dozen ships, eight Jedi, and up to a regiment of clone line infantry. Jedi Order intelligence believes Grievous's target is Bothawui." The holographic map changed, showing the Bothans' homeworld.
"Isn't that a bit of a stretch?" the gray-haired Jedi asked loudly. "Bothans are the eyes and ears of the Republic. Surely they know about the attack on their planet?"
Dougan paused briefly, looking at the speaker.
"Gentlemen, meet General Rahm Kota. He commands the 'Ruusan Rebels' volunteer brigade."
* * *
Rufaan Tigellinus looked with undisguised curiosity at the suddenly silent Jedi. Tall, in armor. With a face scarred and a gray ponytail, he looked like he had stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. One of those that photograph "model" soldiers to inspire young people to volunteer.
The young commodore had decided to join the ranks of the 13th Sector Army's command against the advice of his old friend, personnel service Commander Vilim Disra. The latter categorically advised against trading relatively quiet Coruscant for a backwater like Ord Pardron.
In the capital, the young commodore enjoyed luxury and comfort. The life of the party and a joker, he often attended social events and always remained in favor. Several times he had been to the Opera House — the same performances graced by the Chancellor himself.
But amid all this social gloss, Tigellinus hadn't forgotten the reason he had joined the fleet. Behind all this pompous behavior, charisma, and servility stood a man of unyielding faith. An officer who faithfully and truly wanted to serve the Republic.
His position in the First Sectoral headquarters frankly weighed on him. What was the point of countless meetings when a war was raging out there among the stars? And decisions important for the galaxy were made on the bridges of ships, not in dusty warehouses turned into makeshift headquarters.
So, perhaps for the first time in his life, the officer didn't take his friend's advice. Disra, from a not-too-wealthy but influential family, didn't dream of military success himself. Unlike Rufaan, who sought glory through military victories, Disra desired political power, but through others' hands. Therefore, having Tigellinus in the capital gave him a chance to get out of the cesspool of the 12th Sectoral himself, where he was stagnating. So Disra did everything to "help" the transfer offer get lost.
Commodore Tigellinus didn't stop his comrade. He submitted the transfer request himself. He personally sent it to the commander of "Iron Spear." And, to his surprise, he approved it immediately.
Assessing his position, Rufaan realized that as a combat officer, he hadn't lost. There, as a staff rat, he could only dream of a ship's bridge. Now, he had an entire squadron in his hands, led by his Avatar.
Rufaan had had his eye on the Acclamator-class destroyer since his time at the 1st Sectoral headquarters. One of the rejected upgrade versions of assault ships — a sort of aircraft carrier. With a larger air wing compared to its classmates, this ship held surprises. They were mainly used as air transports — the landing compartments had disappeared during modernization. But for operations in deep space, this ship was perfect.
With the appearance of the Venators, the need for this type of carrier had disappeared. So Acclamators in the Core Worlds were either being mothballed or transferred to the front lines.
Acquainted with many high-ranking officers of sector command, Rufaan had managed to eloquently and convincingly justify the need to transfer this ship to his command. It wasn't needed by the 1st Sectoral anyway, but the 13th would find it useful...
The Avatar set off, assigned to "Iron Spear." A new flagship for the "Stiletto" squadron. Of course, the starship with its entire crew didn't come to its new "owner" for nothing.
Gossips said that the Jedi commanding the army had gotten many officers with their ships. But at the cost of sacrificing the brand-new Venators that were supposed to arrive in his army by the end of the month. Four Acclamators of varying degrees of "beat-up-ness" in exchange for four brand-new Venators?
Hearing this, the young commodore doubted the logic of the new commander's actions. But seeing the armada assembled in the Lannik system, he mentally applauded the Jedi.
He had a large fleet for the upcoming battle. And according to rumors — by the end of the month, reinforcements awaited him: as many Hammerheads and Marauders again. Instead of four lonely Venators that would only arrive in a month, he already had four flagships for four squadrons. With trained crews and experienced commanders.
Was the game worth the candle? That was the question.
"I dare to remind you, General Kota," a Mirialan Jedi entered the conversation. "Master Kenobi confirmed our assumptions with his own intelligence data. Bothawui is under threat of invasion. The Northern Battle Group is already fighting Grievous's superior forces and is retreating, taking losses."
"Well, if the Council considers the attack inevitable..." The gray-haired Jedi smirked again but fell silent. Holding his gaze, Rufaan unexpectedly spotted an old acquaintance at the far end of the compartment. Afsheen Makati.
The latter met his eyes. Both commodores (so they'd finally promoted him, Rufaan noted) gave each other a brief nod and returned to listening to the senior Jedi General's speech.
Still, Tigellinus felt a nagging unease. He'd once listened to Disra and set Makati up. A competent, capable officer who'd been on the verge of a career advancement before the Muunilinst invasion, only to be slandered by Disra and exiled to chasing pirates. Rufaan himself had learned of it too late to do anything.
Well, since they were in the same army now, maybe he could at least apologize.
* * *
Commodore Osvald Teshik received his assignment to the bridge of the flagship destroyer of the "Shield" squadron — the Venator with the clumsy name Tranquility, where the meeting was taking place, along with a promotion in rank, with equanimity.
Naturally cautious, taciturn, calculating, and perceptive, the man hadn't served as captain of one of the 1st Sector Army's renowned destroyers — the Aggressor — for nothing. Twice he'd taken his Venator into massive skirmishes during the Phaerost blockade. Twice he'd emerged victorious. Meanwhile, his lone ship had skillfully used its advantages, striking the enemy again and again, turning separatist vessels into novas.
To be honest, like his acquaintance Ishin-Il-Raz, he'd initially refused the transfer to the "Iron Spear." Teshik didn't trust Jedi. Especially those commanding an army.
Jedi weren't warriors. His father had told him that. And he'd been right. Osvald's analytical mind only confirmed the conclusions he drew from statistics. Jedi were dying like flies. The war had lasted less than a year, but nearly a thousand of them wouldn't see its end. And with them — thousands of soldiers and officers of the Grand Army of the Republic under their command.
Ilis had said more than once that the Jedi would eventually lose their minds — people were already whispering about it in the Commission for the Protection of the Republic, where his friend worked.
But Osvald preferred to rely on facts. He'd taken time to think before giving his answer. And, with all due curiosity, he'd delved into the military reports.
The Jedi hadn't been placed at the head of the "Iron Spear" for nothing. Christophsis, Ukio, the liberation of slaves in the Rishi Maze, the exposure of Moff Bailur... And as a natural result — an alliance with the Hutts. Something the entire Republic had never expected. A true hero. An icon, he had to admit.
Osvald Teshik wasn't a stupid man. No one's career — Jedi or otherwise — could rise that fast. Someone was clearly backing him. Which meant he needed to stay in that person's orbit. Career growth wouldn't be a problem.
At thirty, Osvald already commanded the most modern Star Destroyer. Now, he had his own fleet under his command.
The screening force — "Arrow 1," consisting of ten Marauders under the command of an old acquaintance, Captain Zsinj — would become an impenetrable barrier on General Grievous's path.
Teshik didn't delude himself that twenty-one ships, even as formidable as the Venator, Hammerheads, and Marauders, could stop a hundred Recusants, Munificents, and a good dozen Lucrehulks. Even with Rear Admiral Strikellen's retreating forces, Grievous couldn't be stopped at Bothawui.
But the longer he listened to Dougan's plan, the more he couldn't believe his ears.
Looking around at his colleagues, he noticed they were no less surprised by the Jedi's cunning than Osvald himself.
Underhanded, audacious, unconventional. But it might work.
Osvald allowed himself a smile. It seemed the deaths of eight Jedi had forced the temple guards to act... more humanely.
* * *
Demetrius Zaarin, heading to the shuttle that would take him aboard the flagship Acclamator of the "Mace" squadron, was conversing with Miltin Takel — the captain whose "Arrow 4" would be covering the squadron during the battle.
"I didn't expect the Jedi to pull such a trick," Takel lamented. He sniffled comically through his broad nose. But the commodore hadn't noticed any signs of a cold.
He'd heard rumors that Miltin was a drug addict, dabbling in forbidden substances. But according to the same rumors, the captain had been high when he'd destroyed an entire pirate pack with a single Arquitens. The "Black Sun" minions stealing tibanna from Bespin had hoped to get their hands on a shiny new Republic cruiser.
Their base deep in an asteroid field had showered Takel's ship with a sea of turbolaser fire. But the Republic officer hadn't just not lost his ship — he'd managed to cover the base with precise gun salvos. Surrounding the tibanna transports and delivering them to base was just a matter of technique.
Demetrius himself had accepted the Jedi's offer cautiously. A seasoned careerist, he was carefully testing the waters, considering the transfer. He didn't like being stuck in a potential encirclement, right next to the Hutts, who could pull any trick. Zaarin didn't believe in an alliance with them, so he didn't put much stock in Hutt help. Quite the opposite — the treacherous slugs would wait for the Republic to expose its back and then strike. In the chaos of war, the Hutts could snatch a sector or two without much effort.
"Indeed," Demetrius sighed. "The Jedi certainly have cunning. They managed to create a huge army and fleet right under the noses of the Confederacy and the Republic."
Takel fell silent for a moment.
"This Dougan frightens me. He talks so matter-of-factly about how Grievous will behave that it makes me uneasy. How does he know the cyborg will take the ships through the asteroid field? Maybe the opposite — he'll go around it, or slip under it..."
"Miltin," the commodore cut off his subordinate's lamentations. "If you knew the navigation of the Bothawui system, you'd know that the vector of entry into the system from the Monastery side passes right through the asteroid field. Grievous simply doesn't have the extra time to go around the belt — he knows we know about his advance. He knows that if he doesn't take the planet by a quick assault, our ships will stop him. And he knows that we know that too..."
"He knows that we know that he knows that we know..." the captain grumbled.
Stopping in front of the shuttle departing for his flagship corvette, the junior officer inhaled with a characteristic sniff.
"Mark my words, Demetrius — that Jedi didn't tell us everything."
* * *
When most of the officers had left the compartment, the Jedi was silent for a while.
Martio Batch, leader of the "Arrow 5" detachment, glanced sideways at Commodore Tigellinus, whose ships he was supposed to cover.
Commodore Makati and Captain Peccati Syn of the "Arrow 2" detachment also remained. Commander Dougan had said he had a separate task for them. What task could fall on the shoulders of two carrier Acclamators, two dozen cruisers, and as many escort ships?
"General Kota," Dougan addressed. "Are the 'Ruusan Rebels' ready for combat?"
The second Jedi, standing by the wall, was propping it up with his armored shoulder. It was clear he was far from enthusiastic about obeying Dougan. Which was funny, considering the temple guards themselves preached non-violence and other such nonsense.
"As always," he shrugged. "The brigade awaits orders."
"Excellent," the Jedi manipulated the holoterminal, and now a small section of space hung in the air.
"According to our data, Grievous has significantly weakened the ground forces on Monastery — there are no more than half a million droids there. They're supported by a squadron of thirty Munificents damaged in the last battle. The General left them as a burden, taking only undamaged ships with him. As soon as Grievous engages in battle in orbit of Bothawui Prime, the 'Stiletto' squadron, supported by Captain Batch and his Marauders, will cut off his retreat," the Jedi looked at the named fleet officers. "You will make the jump from Lannik to Dressel. In its orbit — a small separatist screening squadron — four frigates. They're conducting a landing operation — the exact number of droids is unknown, but strong resistance isn't expected. The Dressellians have appealed to the Jedi Council for support in repelling the attack. General Kota's brigade, supported by Generals Serra Keto and Falon Grey, will handle the ground operation."
Batch looked with interest at the named Jedi. The girl — medium height, dark-haired, with a few funny braids, narrow eyes, and slightly dusky skin — listened silently to the briefing. The second one, however — a young man with long light-brown hair — was ignoring the commander, whispering something quietly into the girl's ear.
"General Keto," Dougan stared at the holoprojector control panel. "If General Grey doesn't stop clowning around, I authorize you to cut off his legs."
The smirk on Rahm Kota's lips and the alarmed head-turning of the "golden-haired" one drew chuckles from those assembled.
"Commodore Makati's 'Spear' squadron and Captain Syn's 'Arrow 2' detachment," Dougan addressed. "Your task is similar. You cut off Grievous's escape routes. In the Nexus Ortai system," those assembled began to murmur. At the very beginning of the Clone Wars, a major battle had taken place over this planet, ending in a Republic defeat. A dozen neutral worlds had been captured by the separatists. Located at the intersection of two hyperspace routes, Nexus Ortai was of exceptional importance. A kind of hyperspace crossroads. "Grievous left a strong screen — about five Lucrehulks, several escort ships. You will be supported by Commodore Pellaeon's 'Hammer' squadron, which will strike from the Leritor side. Master Unduli," the Mirialan nodded silently, introducing herself to those present, "will take command of the 204th Legion and lead the assault on the planet."
"Are we moving to a full-scale offensive, sir?" Commodore Makati drew attention to himself.
The Jedi stroked the lower part of his face mask. As if thinking. But a second later, he answered.
"You may not realize it now, but under my command are the best representatives of the Jedi Order and the best officers of the Republic Fleet. We cannot not advance."
Those assembled exchanged glances. On the one hand, it was certainly pleasant to hear praise from the mouth of an army commander... But wasn't he saying it too confidently?
Captain Batch thoughtfully rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn't consider himself an outstanding strategic genius, but he was a good tactician. Otherwise, he wouldn't have become one of the first commanders of Acclamators that delivered the Grand Army of the Republic to Geonosis.
Still, he didn't regret swapping the bridge of a sluggish Star Destroyer for the command deck of a Marauder. No matter how much the Jedi had prepared for the Clone Wars, their line ships didn't match the planned tasks. With the advent of the Venators, the situation had certainly started to improve, but it still wasn't right.
Having received their instructions, the officers and most of the Jedi left the compartment. However, Martio noticed that several officers were still in the compartment. By simple calculation, he realized that fifty Marauders had also not received assignments.
Oh, what a strange game this Jedi was playing, very strange...
* * *
Soara Antana. Tru Veld. Shaddai Potkin. Roblio Darte. Koffi Aranak. Justus Farr. Sia-Lan Wezz. Bultar Syon. Kento Marek. Roan Shrike.
Ten Jedi the Council had sent me. Looking into these faces, I couldn't tell if Fate was laughing at me or not.
But, one thing at a time.
Kento Marek — that's Galen Marek's father, the hero of a couple of games in the "The Force Unleashed" series. A cheerful guy, treats every mission like an adventure.
Soara Antana — a pretty girl, medium height, with a boyish figure and deep blue eyes. An excellent master of swordsmanship.
Tru Veld... a young guy, recently became a Jedi Knight. Young, hot-headed.
Shaddai Potkin. Roblio Darte. Koffi Aranak. Justus Farr. Sia-Lan Wezz. Bultar Syon. This bunch... this is something else entirely.
In my history, after the Great Jedi Purge, Shaddai Potkin and all these guys met on Kessel, hoping to lure Vader there and kick his metal ass. Generally speaking, it didn't go well. Vader tossed them around like kittens, even if he had to work for it. What can you do — better to sweat on offense than suffer on defense.
Roan Shrike... This guy is a legend. I first read about him in the book "Dark Lord: The Rise of Darth Vader." There, he managed to avoid total extermination at the hands of the Great Jedi Purge. He even briefly became a teacher to my current Padawan. Though, looking at Oli's wrinkled nose, I predict that in my reality, she won't be going to him for help anytime soon. Although...
Damn, he copies Obi-Wan's manner of dressing quite amusingly. Even grew the same little beard.
What a silly, silly Jedi. If I were Vader, I'd kill him just for imitating Kenobi.
Well, a dozen and a half Jedi is still something. Even if I asked for a hundred.
"What orders do you have for us?" Soara Antana asked.
"Without a doubt, Generals," I chuckled from under my mask. Clicking up the schematics of the already displayed planet again, I announced. "Monastery."
Looking at the grim faces of those present, I drew attention to a modest, elderly man in a military uniform.
"General Locus Geen," I introduced the renowned ground commander. "The floor is yours."
In an era when Jedi are swinging their sabers left and right, it's not easy being a regular person in the Republic army.
Locus Geen is a legend. He literally cobbled together the plan for the ground assault on Geonosis on the fly. His credits include dozens of battles in the Mid Rim. Where the Jedi with their vaunted Force couldn't cope, the old man did a lot of thinking, then led the troops into attack. And he returned if not with victory, then with an acceptable result.
Strangely enough — unlike the future Grand Admirals, I'd completely forgotten about ground commanders. But the elderly army man wasn't shy about reminding me of himself. With slight irony, he composed a letter for me and advised me not to delay in eliminating the Monastery threat.
"Well then," the elderly commander rose, walked to the holoprojector, adjusted his tiny glasses on his nose, picked up a laser pointer, and began the briefing. "Monastery is officially a refuge for a religious community — the Order of the Sacred Circle. But intelligence assures us that under the guise of refugees arriving on the planet under the 'protection' of the CIS, raw materials for droid production are actually being brought in. However, after the failed landing attempt on the planet, the presence of a CIS battle machine factory there is no longer a secret to anyone."
"Do you have a plan?" Jedi Knight Koffi Aranak asked grimly.
"Without a doubt," the old man smiled. He switched the projection and handed the laser pointer to me.
"As the Commander already said — General Grievous left about three dozen Munificents on the planet. Under normal circumstances, that's a significant screening force. But we have fifty of the newest corvettes, significantly superior in combat power to the Munificents. Each corvette carries three squadrons of fighters — that's about 1,800 small craft. And can deliver 80 troops to the planet. So, with one massive raid, we'll crack Monastery's defenses and land troops via assault shuttles in the planet's atmosphere. You are all participants. In the first part of the battle, support the attack with fighters. Then, join the ground battle — two Jedi per each battalion of clone troops. Rear Admiral Block," I pointed to a tall, stately man, a veteran of several major battles of the past two decades, "will engage the enemy ships in battle. Four thousand clones supported by ten Jedi — that's a force the enemy will have to reckon with."
"There are over half a million droids there," Tru Veld noted. "They'll overwhelm us with numbers."
"Master Dougan held off attacks from millions of droids on Christophsis for several months," Oli declared pompously. "And emerged victorious from that battle."
'What a declaration of victory.' I admit, I was taken aback by such an outburst from the little thorn in my...
"My young Padawan," I reined in the little Jedi in a mentoring tone. The girl, realizing she'd overstepped, looked down, squeaking an apology.
"You are absolutely right about the enemy's superior forces," General Geen noted. The old man scratched the stubble on his chin. "Under normal circumstances, one shouldn't even mention a battle. But the calculation relies primarily on the surprise of the space attack."
"Droid ships aren't designed to withstand a massive missile barrage," Block chimed in. "Their deflectors are calibrated for energy weapons. Our ships, however, are maneuverable and fast-firing. The droids won't even have time to strike the ground forces before the corvettes deal with the orbital group and begin precision strikes on enemy targets from the atmosphere."
"Why can't we involve more ships?" Justus Farr asked. The blue-skinned wielder of a double-bladed lightsaber pike clearly looked skeptical.
Block and Geen had nothing to answer the Jedi. Not only was he not under their command, but he was also a representative of the Order. And the army and navy preferred not to get into arguments with incomprehensible temple guards.
"Knight Farr," I looked at the blue-skinned humanoid. "We're not playing games here. You're in the army. You're given an order — you carry it out. Don't like it? You can complain to Master Yoda. No? Then keep your opinion to yourself — share your thoughts with me when you report the capture of Monastery."
* * *
Staring at the seemingly small figures of the Republic ships, Admiral Trench irritably noted that one of the cybernetic implants in his numerous eyes was starting to malfunction. He'd need to see a repair technician.
The battle in orbit of Christophsis had cost him dearly. Parts of his face and body had to be replaced with cybernetic prosthetics. He'd lost facial mobility in most of his body. Which couldn't help but irritate the Harch.
But what irritated him most was the attitude of the Confederacy command toward him. Yes, their loyalty seemed unchanged since his defeat. Large sums had been invested in repairing his permanent flagship — the Invincible. Which, incidentally, had only made it to the base at Ringo Vinda by a miracle. That's where the Harch himself had received medical aid, transforming his already terrifying appearance into a demonic picture.
This was largely why there were no sentients in Trench's fleet now. After the delays with the general on Christophsis, the Harch had sworn off dealing with anything but droids. A machine understood logic, and the admiral himself was an infinitely logical being.
There, at the "Ring" station, he'd endured unbearable pain after each of the forty-seven medical operations. They cut him, sewed him up, implanted things, cut him again. With minimal anesthesia — by the personal order of Count Dooku.
"You have lost your drive and cruel spirit, Admiral," the leader of the Confederacy had declared. "My medical droids will help you get it back."
Lying in delirium, the Harch couldn't shake the thought that the mechanical servants had been ordered to torture him. Until his psyche began to break. Dooku didn't need him until his rage and hatred for the Jedi and the Republic were so obvious that he would throw himself at them like a mad beast and exterminate them to the last.
The assault on the orbital group at Geonosis was just a test.
The Separatist leaders had given him his flagship. Two dozen Munificents and thirty Recusants. More than enough to grind a squadron of nine Republic ships into dust.
All top-of-the-line — brand new Venators. The elite of the Republic fleet.
They were versatile, but designed for line combat. Their holds didn't have as many clones as one would like. And the armament...
Well, a talented admiral doesn't make excuses. A talented admiral looks for opportunities.
The Republicans, seeing the Invincible approach, surrounded by a fleet of Munificents, began their turn with annoying ease. Their hangars opened, releasing clouds of fighters. The Jedi ships themselves were training their guns, readying to attack the enemy bearing down on them...
The Harch clicked his mandibles with interest.
Fast and ruthless. There were no worthy opponents among the enemy. No one there, on the bridge of the enemy ships, had even considered that this might be a trap.
The Harch had learned his lesson. He'd studied his opponent.
The fleet of Recusants, which had jumped into the rear of the Republicans from the orbit of Saiskin, where a "jump base" of the CIS fleet had long been located deep in the rear of the 14th Sector Army, didn't keep the clones waiting long.
The Venators, despite their formidable guns on their wedge-shaped hulls, remained poorly protected from the rear hemisphere.
And now, neither their shields nor their armadas of fighters could save them from the Recusants' attack.
The single turbolaser cannons of the light destroyers concentrated 4-6 units on a single enemy ship. If the Republicans had hoped for maneuvers and the mixing of formations from the Confederates piling on them, they were mistaken.
The Harch didn't repeat his stupidity. He didn't let the enemy ships get close to him. The droids held the space separating them from the Jedi starships, showering the vaunted Venators with streams of turbolaser fire.
Not even ten minutes had passed since the start of the battle.
The obvious flagship exploded first. Nine other ships tried to cover it with their hulls, but only revealed their commander's location. The Recusants from behind and the Munificents from the front clamped the ship in energy pincers, burning through its hull millimeter by millimeter. The armor couldn't withstand the heat, cracked, exposing the structural framework of the hull. Thousands of cubic meters of air rushed into space, instantly crystallizing.
But what pleased the Harch most was something else.
As soon as the last Jedi ship met its end, among the myriad of debris, he could make out an ocean of snow-white armor.
Clones... he had destroyed the entire Geonosian squadron. Broken their spine, cut them down one by one. And hadn't lost a single ship of his own. The destroyed droid small craft didn't count. Acceptable losses.
"Scanners have counted three hundred and seven escape pods," a tactical droid, TX-303, the ship's commander, approached him. "Shall we begin rescue operations?"
The Harch clicked contentedly.
"Of course, begin. We're not savages. Send out the ships. And, open a communication channel with the pods — I want to hear everything."
Leaning back in the admiral's chair, the Harch prepared with pleasure to listen to the pleas for help and cries of terror from those who had tried to escape Fate in escape pods. But he, Admiral Trench, would save them. From their mortal existence. It was enough just to breach the hull integrity of each escape pod and enjoy the chorus of voices begging for salvation...
The Harch smiled contentedly, his red optical sensors glowing.
Tremble, Republic. Admiral Trench has returned. And you all await a repeat of the massacre in the Malastare Straits.
But Rick Dougan and his pet Sarkhai Jedi will die last.
The Admiral squeezed his artificial limb until it hurt. Soon, Dougan, very soon...