Hm... I admit, I was wrong. Now Kero'Tus really started moving. It felt as if the whole city had taken up arms—there were basically no "civilians" on the streets, absolutely everyone in armor and with weapons.
Also, it turned out that Mandalore has a fleet after all! It's just that part of the ships were constantly used, another and smaller part was on duty in Mandalorian space, and the main forces were in mothballs. Now I understand what Vizsla was counting on. Gathering for war, with such reserves you really can launch a small and victorious one. And again, now it's clear why the KTS is so afraid of the return of the Mandalorian threat, and even receives support from the Jedi. Interestingly, many Mandalorians themselves didn't know about such reserves, including within their own clans.
The clans designated as scouts left yesterday already; we remained on the planet for another twenty-four hours. The Mandalorians were equipping the ships: some clearing the holds, others loading ammunition, others conducting equipment checks. Thanks to the Mandalorians being quite independent guys, my attention was required only so-so. I said what was needed in general terms, and they'll handle everything perfectly themselves. I sat in the headquarters and checked scenarios of event development during the storming.
As practice showed, these guys don't really know how to plan large operations, having gotten used to acting in small groups for quick raids, and I had to take that into account when drafting the plan. Because of this, there was no talk of any bridgehead for a subsequent offensive—the task had to be solved in one day, and for that I had to strain my imagination and take into account all the features of each clan, of which, by the way, there were f*cktons. Not clans, there are just many of those, but their personal qualities or gear and equipment—oooooh, that's a separate song.
By common decision (and my kicks), our main forces were loaded onto the Lucrehulk. In this, without exaggeration, huge ship, one could transport dreadnaughts in parts, so enormous the vessel seemed. Inside, right near the entrance, seventy-four Basilisks were placed, thirty of which were ours, and another forty-four the Mandalorians had pulled out and quickly repainted themselves. Despite the fresh paint job, the machines differed strikingly from my models. While ours were all of the same class, finding two similar machines among the Mandalorians was already a problem. Missiles, flamethrowers, bombs, shockwave cannons, lasers, plasma cannons, someone had generally screwed a mass-driver from a turret into the snout, getting a kind of "mosquito." The machine concepts also differed: some had extra legs, some, on the contrary, fewer, some a closed cockpit, some an open one. I'm silent about the TTH altogether.
How to use this whole pack, I, to be honest, don't even know. Inspiration has hanged itself, and imagination has drowned. The only adequate option—create squads and attach each such machine together with its pilot to a specific squad.
Following the Basilisks stood "Meteors." Mandalorian drop ships, well-proven since the days of the Mandalorian Wars. The machine's concept hadn't changed, only refined in accordance with new realities. The ship's concept itself is extremely simple—you just fall on the planet like a meteor. Cons—low maneuverability in its class. Но in return—this thing is guaranteed to deliver a squad to the surface. Armor and shields are disproportionate for such a small piece of crap, as is the G-force compensator. Even if you f*ck up against the ground at full speed, you'll at most be slightly jolted. These things cost relatively much. Why relatively? Because MandalMotors formally keeps the price tag at one hundred and twenty thousand credits apiece. Но for their own, naturally, they make serious discounts, and if you also bring spare parts—they'll generally arrange it for a pittance. And this is despite the protection from the Techno Union, which I still have to bring down!
There weren't many Meteors, like the Basilisks, but they will be more than enough for us. As well as all the other equipment remaining since ancient times.
A bit further into the hangar was a kind of improvised barracks. Since the people were too lazy to run far, they decided to just deploy inside the hangar, especially since there was more than enough room. Next to the "barracks," a similar improvised "headquarters" was placed, but that was my whim. Running back and forth to the bridge in this behemoth—not an occupation for the faint of heart. Therefore it will be much simpler if the summary comes directly here.
When everything was ready, I assigned another couple of people to the CIM to control the turrets and ordered it to follow us as part of the Lucrehulk's escort. I myself set out on this big guy, as part of the main strike group. Although a commander isn't supposed to run ahead of everyone, I am primarily a fighter and it's a sin to keep such a unit in the rear. And I don't like sitting in the rear anyway...
The journey to Oba Diah passed without incident. No jitters, no nerves. On the contrary, it was suspiciously quiet. Someone was silently cleaning a weapon, quiet conversations were heard somewhere, someone was going over the plan once more, and someone was repainting armor. Everyone was busy with their own business. But as soon as I appeared in sight, the people immediately got distracted and looked at me.
It was a bit scary. The flight took almost four days, and direct at that. During that time I heard all sorts of things behind my back. The people discussed common plans, discussed what was happening with their home, discussed me personally and what I represent. I laughed when I heard a dispute between Vizsla and Fett about whether I was a Mandalorian. The first grumbled that they were sticking their necks out and getting into another scuffle on someone else's side, the second said there were no outsiders here.
Hearing how I was being defended, I recall one of the drinking sessions the Mandalorians arranged when I was still going to join Clan Stick. Those who were there with me were many times more loyal to my person than the others. At the very least—they placed more trust.
Clan Ordo and Clan Vizsla stood apart. The former were, if one can say so, the founders of the current "True Mandalorian" movement with the mercenary concept. They believed that the Mandalorians had occupied their niche on this ground, should remain in it and develop further. They're unlikely to join RAVEN, but that doesn't matter. The main thing is that I managed to unite the two warring sides, and unite them so that everyone turned out satisfied. I hope I manage to convey to them that they are one people and civil war must not be allowed.
Vizsla, though... I don't understand him. What is Khan achieving, trying to unleash a fratricidal war? Take the Mandalore status by force and go hand out thrashings to everyone? Even if they win, they won't go far. Eh... pity, you can't just get rid of him like that. Even if I bring the evidence Hego Damask provided me to the surface (which I personally doubt), Vizsla can always say he's not aware of Reynar. In principle, he really might not be aware, as the money came from third parties, and it could well be for some work or other.
Thinking about that, I tried to speak with Khan personally, but he shied away from me like a leper, as did his son. I didn't have time to open my mouth before this guy cleared out quickly. Hm... su-spi-cious. Alright, there will be time—we'll sort it out; now we have to focus on the Pykes.
"Beep-beep-beep-beep."
"Zero, who else is it now?" I get distracted by the call.
"Message from Tatooine."
"Go ahead."
"Shade, I know I'm at a bad time," the image of Dis turned on, "just letting you know that those same individuals who sent you a message two weeks ago have flown to Tatooine after you. There are two of them, a man and a woman, both humans. I'll say right away I don't know who they are, and they'll only speak with you. They aren't causing problems themselves, only asked when you'll return. I answered that according to circumstances. If anything, we're waiting for you in your palace."
"How everything is ill-timed," I sigh, having finished listening to the message.
"Attention crew. Exiting hyperspace in ten minutes! I repeat, exiting hyperspace in ten minutes."
"Zero, stay here, I'll take it from here," I order the droid, grabbing my helmet.
***
As planned, the Mandalorians who arrived on the planet, having scattered, conducted a series of sabotages, including blowing up ships at airfields, destroying equipment depots, and disabling global communication means. Also destroyed was the shield generator that was supposed to cover the Pykes' main citadel from an outside strike. It would have been ideal to destroy the internal power station too, but it wasn't possible to reach it. A citadel is a citadel.
Though, examining the photos of the citadel I couldn't help laughing. Ours clearly have a practiced eye, because they dropped the Hammerhead exactly on target, which is why the southern wing along with all the landing pads is not in the best state. Had they taken it just a liiiiittle higher—they would have hit exactly the center of the fortress.
We were also given intelligence data. Defensive positions, towers, turrets—everything they could reach in such a short time. As I thought, there was a whole battery of twelve anti-aircraft guns on the Pykes' citadel. Rather, eight now, as four of them suffered from the cruiser.
Nevertheless, jumping directly onto the citadel was too risky and simply not justified, when one can enter from the blind side. Since the citadel was on an elevation in mountainous terrain, nothing prevented us from going through the lowlands from the southern side, especially as those places had just been cleared of all sorts of nastiness in the form of auxiliary defensive structures.
But before jumping, the threat in space must be dealt with. Using the Lucrehulk as a tank, we brought it under the guns of the Syndicate's defense fleet. Contrary to my expectations, the Syndicate had a fleet, and a good one; the Pykes clearly didn't skimp on their safety and kept as many as three cruisers, a pair of dreadnaughts, one station, and several fighter squadrons near them.
Another thing was that they didn't have time to come to combat readiness before they received a punch to the gut. While the Lucrehulk in the company of the strike group crawled toward the targets, "Kfang"-type cruisers were moving into position. Two old ships, built during the Mandalorian Wars and subsequently modified multiple times, were going to fire a volley at the most dangerous targets in the form of dreadnaughts. The paired mass-driver guns built directly into the hull didn't give that maneuverability that turrets could allow, and required the whole ship to pivot, but when they fired—it was a total f*ck-up for the target, especially in our times when due to the absence of such weapons ships weren't fitted with thick armor.
Moreover, a direct hit from a slug accelerated to oh-ho-ho speeds can easily exceed the capabilities of a gravity compensator. In the end, even if the ship doesn't suffer critical damage, it will still turn out to be inoperable, as its crew turns into something smeared in thin mincemeat across the bulkheads. Such a strike can be compared to a sledgehammer blow to a can of stew. The military-grade can itself might survive the blow, but the contents will acquire a quite specific consistency.
I'm silent about the fact that corpuscular shields are far from always put on ships of the last millennia, which makes them essentially defenseless against good old kinetics. And so now—the ships fired the first volley, which already turned out to be more than palpable for the dreadnaughts. Looking at how the fat beauties were mangled, I observe the second volley.
"Reporting, both dreadnaughts disabled," the operators reported over the link.
Another shot hit a Corellian corvette. On impact the machine was simply torn apart. Fire a larger caliber—and the ship would be blown away like dust from a table. Another projectile hit a Hammerhead cruiser, literally denting the cockpit deep into the hull. Another couple of shots were made with explosive projectiles and aimed at the fighter clusters. A cloud of shrapnel accelerated to twenty thousand meters per second clearly didn't bring benefit to the small aviation.
Following the shrapnel came a volley of missiles. Flying past us, the lethal swarm went to the resisting targets and thoroughly depleted the station's shields.
"Kfangs on capacitor recharge," a report comes as soon as the shelling ceased.
"Deploy 'Death Rattle,' let it disable the station. Corvettes—cover the cruiser. Focus on the small ships," I give the command, observing the hologram. "Death Rattle," the personal ship of the head of Clan Vizsla. A multiple-times remade unique Mandalorian cruiser broke forward in escort cover. "First and second Basilisk wing—into battle. Targets—first and second dreadnaught."
From the Lucrehulk's hangar small craft with drop troops on board emerged almost immediately. The Basilisks' design allowed for four passengers to be secured directly on the hull, plus the pilot.
"Bombers, attack target 'B.' 'Asp' wing, don't let the enemy fighters gather."
"Attention! Observing attempt to flee the battlefield."
"Kfangs, destroy the cruiser."
"Accepted. One minute to fire."
Increasing the image, I observe the Basilisks bursting inside. The droids like real beasts gnawed into the hull of even the non-resisting ship, cutting a path for their riders. Having expanded the passage, the beasts immediately climb inside themselves. Right... now I understand why the Republic banned these things. If such a parasite gets under the hull, what are you going to do with it? And if it's not alone? In the company of infantry? Farewell to the ship. The only possible option—shoot this junk down on approach, but you just try to hit that nimble cockroach.
"All drop troops, the path is cleared. Begin the drop," I give the command, then leave the improvised command post.
Climbing into the Meteor waiting for me, I sit in a chair near the other Mandalorians. Hanharr, sitting next to me, was impatiently fingering his vibro-ax.
As soon as the ramp closed and the gravity compensators turned on, we stopped feeling what was happening outside. Neither takeoff, nor exit into space, nor even passing through the upper layers of the atmosphere, although, it would seem, the pilots didn't be polite and entered at top speeds, which should have shaken the ship like crazy. Но none of that was there.
Glancing to the other side, I see a merry Warren. He looked at me and waited for the command to jump out and climb onto the Basilisk attached to the hull. The machines couldn't pass through the atmosphere so quickly on their own, so they clung with their paws like cockroaches to the hull.
But then the green light comes on, the gravity compensators cease work, and the doors open. Unbuckling, I stand at the edge and look at the approaching planet.
"Go," I nod to Warren and he is the first to jump out of the ship. The beasts also detached, falling next to us. Jumping onto the pilot's seat, the Mandalorian buckles in. Jumping after, I adjust the trajectory with the jetpack and cling to the side as a passenger. Hanharr secures himself nearby.
Regrouping, we break away from the main strike group. The ships went to help ours in particularly hot spots, while our wing of twelve Basilisks, plastered with infantry, dived into the lowlands and flew along it toward the citadel.
When less than a kilometer remained to the target, we detached from the Basilisks and, turning on the jetpacks, flew on our own. Flying up to the landing platforms, we encountered a real shock. They weren't shooting at us! The landing platforms were completely empty; the anti-aircraft guns that could reach us were aimed, but no one fired.
"No one fire," I give the command, being the first to land on the pad where a single unarmed Pyke stood. A thin tall humanoid body with a large head. Three-fingered hands, two-fingered feet. A helmet-mask on the head, from the chin of which two breathing tubes protruded.
Warren lands next to me with a crash on a Basilisk, Kaut on the other side. The other Mandalorians scattered into sectors closed to fire, ready at any moment to work with missiles on the heavy turrets.
Listening to the Force, I feel the Pyke's fear, and behind his back, right behind the door, I feel an entire cluster of living beings prepared for defense. Smiling under my helmet, I laugh at myself, imagining how a bunch of defenders, by the method of pointing, pushed out one of their own, "maybe he'll negotiate."
"Please, don't shoot," the Pyke shouted loudly, showing unarmed hands. "Let's talk?"
Exchanging a glance with Warren, I walk forward.
"You want to deceive me?" I back the words with the Force, although I already feel there's no catch.
"No. We want to talk."
"Or live," I finish to myself.
"This is our leader's decision. Please, don't shoot; we are ready to lay down our weapons."
"If so, give the order, and we'll cease the offensive."
The Pyke nodded and made contact with his master, passing on my words. Not a minute passes before I hear surprised exclamations from ours that the Pykes are laying down their weapons.
"No one fire. It seems they are surrendering," I announce on the common wave.
The disappointment that flooded the Mandalorians' emotions I felt to my very core. Well yeah, you've just stepped over the threshold, intending to stretch properly, and they've already shied away from you so much that they preferred to lay down their weapons. Ours didn't even have time to get a taste, just landed, seriously?! Maniacs, honestly. My maniacs.
"Warren, Kaut, Hanharr, Tron, Nerra, you're with me. The rest—take control of the perimeter. Especially—the anti-aircraft installations."
The Mandalorians nodded, while the Pyke nervously fingered the tubes under his mouth.
"Lead the way."
"Certainly. Please follow me."
Turning around, the nervous alien led us inside the citadel. Directly behind the doors, as I expected, we were met by a crowd armed to the teeth, with heavy repeating blasters and a turret under the ceiling. The passage was reinforced with special protective shields provided for in the building's design. Amusingly, but as I noticed, some Pykes hadn't even finished dressing, so quickly had the events developed.
Stepping forward, I look at the parting Pykes. Weapons tucked behind belts, hands free, everyone keeping their distance. Passing through the central corridor, we enter the elevator. It lifted us about twenty floors up, and led into another, exactly the same corridor. Deactivated turrets hung from the ceiling; a few guards, including mercenaries, stood along the corridor.
Near the entrance, in a kind of small hall, I encountered an amusing and ambivalent picture. Besides the mercenaries and Pykes there were quite ordinary guys from the Republican Security Force. Corellia, Alderaan, even Coruscant badges, how lovely! I even became interested in who we'd see behind the doors.
The doors slid aside, letting us in. An elongated hall with a straight path to the Pykes' "throne." To the left and right stood massive columns with turrets hidden in them, and a real light mist from narcotic fumes stood in the air. In the alcoves between the columns "like rooms," I felt the presence of hiding living beings. It was noteworthy that almost all the rooms were occupied.
Walking through the hall to the "throne," I look at the leader of the Pyke Syndicate—Nol Enorr. Guards stand at the edges, and on the right hand, apparently, the deputy, or first assistant.
"I greet the great warriors on Oba Diah," rising from the throne, the syndicate leader friendly spread his arms, descending the short staircase. "May I know what provoked you to this attack? How did we incur your wrath?"
"Provocations," I aim the pistol barrel at the Pyke's forehead. The situation plus the reputation did their job. Nol was ready to sell his soul to a demon, if only I didn't pull the trigger. "Shade Aero warned you—don't cross his path, don't meddle on his territory. And what did you do?"
"I admit my error, but you must understand, business is not conducted that way. We always prefer to reach an agreement, but with your employer a whole series of disagreements arose! We only wanted to force him into negotiations, nothing more."
"Well there, you forced him. We're here, and what next?"
"Mmm, as I understand, you are authorized to conduct negotiations on his behalf. If so, the Pykes are ready to offer apologies and hear your claims. I am sure that we will be able to reach an agreement."
"Let's try," I put the weapon away.
"I ask you to follow me; be my guests."
Exchanging a glance with the Mandalorians, we follow the Pyke into the door near his throne. There we were led into a guest hall. Luxurious chairs, many, many treats on the table, including prohibited ones; slaves stood at the edges.
"Air this crap out," I say, sitting down at the table.
"Certainly."
A nod to his own, the ventilation system starts. Man, did they smoke it up; another twenty minutes and the filters would clog.
When everyone was seated, gazes focused on the Pyke.
"Ahem, yes... as I said, we offer our apologies and are ready to pay serious compensation. Also, we will leave your territories in peace."
"Not suitable," I shake my head, leaning back in the chair.
"Then... we are ready to hear your proposals," the Pyke indicated me with a wave of his hand.
"Regular deductions to the RAVEN PMC—one. Compensation for the provocation and frame-up with the transport before the Republic organs—two. As you correctly said, leave the territory and organizations on it in peace. We, in return, will allow you to continue flying unhindered. That's three. Also, we need spice. Not for sale, we need pure spice for medicine production. I know you engage in this; you can offer the finished product, but at a very moderate price. That's fourthly."
"Excuse me..." Nol raised a hand. "Could we immediately clarify the question regarding the first points?"
"Certainly."
"We can offer five percent of constant income, plus two hundred million in the form of compensation."
"Thirty percent, and a billion credits," I deliver the counter-demand, which made the Pyke cough quietly.
"B-but..."
"Is something wrong?"
"How should I put it," the alien hesitated, rubbing his fingers. No, I know what's wrong, pal, but I very much want to see how you'll squirm and what you'll tell me. "Thirty percent is very, very much. The Black Sun Syndicate takes less, twenty percent. And that's the largest percentage of those we deduct. There are very many competitors in our business, because of which we have to share with many. We physically cannot provide you with such a percentage."
"I understand. Other syndicates, groups, competitors, everything leaves its mark. Но I don't see a problem in that. If you have a problem with competitors, you can hire us. For a good price we can clean up the market a bit," I say, taking a glass with a drink in my hand. And, from the look of it, not just any drink. I don't know what they mixed there, but there's no poison here, nor alcohol. As the Force suggests, there is basically nothing poisonous on the table, but nevertheless, none of ours had touched the food. And yet the Pykes specialize in poisons too; it's even strange they aren't trying to poison us.
The Pyke himself seriously considered my words. Fear began to recede, giving way to a commercial vein.
"Besides, you say you have to share with many? Well, that's also not a problem. Give us the coordinates of some syndicates, preferably closer to Tatooine, and you won't hear of them anymore."
"Gladly. Since you offer your services, I can provide you with forty percent in exchange for a discount when hiring and eliminating certain specific groups."
"Agreed."
"As for the compensation... It's not that we don't have that kind of money, but it will be more needed when expanding and restoring our business. Can we offer you anything else?"
"Certainly. We can waive the compensation in exchange for a series of services."
"I'm listening to you carefully," the Pyke immediately livened up.
"I know that you have serious influence in lower Coruscant, and in the upper too," I nod back, hinting at the guards of the "high," but hidden persons. "So, if you conduct a series of operations in the course of which certain senators from the KTS cease to show increased interest in us, we will be very grateful. And the further the KTS goes from us, the better it will be. There are also certain individuals looking after Mandalore and controlling its political structure. Ideally, they should be removed as far as possible, but if that's impossible, then at least occupied with something."
"Oh! I assure you, that problem will cease to bother you in the near future."
"I hope so. By the way, Nol. Another thing."
"Yes?"
"I know about your favorite method of transporting spice to the central worlds. You just register an official cargo to a med lab, only you load more than needed, or maybe not quite with what's needed. If you're transporting a large batch, turn to us; for a double payment we can provide services for the safety of particularly valuable goods from competitors."
"Thank you for the proposal; we will definitely use it. But tell me, how did you find out about it?"
"You aren't the only ones who've thought of it," I laugh, rising from the table. "An analogous scheme worked twenty-five thousand years ago too, just in a slightly different form. So, do we have a deal?"
"Certainly. Should I draft a package of documents?"
"No need. In case of anything, we'll just drop by for a visit again. All the best, Nol."
"Farewell..."
Leaving the Pyke, I go back out into the throne hall. Op-pa! What personalities. A common Hutt was peering from behind the doors. Pointing two fingers at him, I simulate a shot and the door immediately closes.
Amused, I leave the citadel in the company of Mandalorians and under Pyke escort.
"So, we'll be working with drug dealers now?" Warren asked over the internal comms.
"These guys will always be around, Warren. Centuries and millennia will pass, but there will always be a demand for certain things. To eradicate this infection, the very culture of the people must reject it, as happens with yours. Demand creates supply, heard of that?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well there you go. And this way, let them bring us profit."
"Hm..."
"Attention everyone, return to the ships. As soon as we receive the target coordinates, jump to them immediately. And remember, brothers and sisters, the less destruction there is, the more we can carry away."
***
Leaving Oba Diah, I was mentally conducting an assessment. Everything seemed correct. On one hand, I revealed the Mandalore problem to the Pykes and they could, on the contrary, apply pressure to the right senators ensuring us problems. Only they don't know that it's a false hook. The senators won't be able to apply more pressure than there already is, unless they try to unleash an armed conflict, which I personally doubt. Elementally because in these circumstances it's in my power to redirect the Republic's strike and defuse the situation... or have some fun and provoke a conflict? If the KTS try to set the Judicial Department on us, I can always show the contract that we are actually for the Republic and generally—everything is fine. And these bad comrades are actually building intrigues against the great and powerful. Can we, ha-ha-ha, roll them over a bit?
Yes, that'll be fun. Pretending to be the Republic's lackey, taking what we need and building up strength. Actually, the situation with the Pykes is exactly the same. We are ready to work with them, do the dirty work; Nol may well consider us lackeys, well and let him. We always have someone to deflect blame to, beating up another group of bandits and taking the loot. The main thing—not to cross paths with the Republic, but I think the right sum in the right pocket will resolve all disagreements.
"Beep-beep! Message from Oba Diah," Zero distracted me. Glancing at the tablet, I smirk. Amusing, very amusing. There are already three major spice production points on the Corellian trade route. The first belongs to the Hutts, the second—to the Twi'leks on Ryloth. And here it also turns out that, right under our noses, sits a certain Galactic Spice Mining Guild. Despite the catchy name, they are, though a quite serious group, only in second place after the Pykes.
"Zero, tell the Council of Clans that we are setting out, and pass these coordinates," I highlight the necessary planet. "And also, call Warren Stick to me."
"Accepted."
While the Mandalorian was coming to my cabin, out of interest I open the bounty hunters' page. Oh! Amusing, they aren't going to kill me anymore. With Gardulla's death, one employer disappeared; dealt with the Pykes—the second disappeared. Now, right now, the third anonymous employer is withdrawing the reward. Where are you running, dear? I haven't even had time to do anything to you yet.
"Beep-beep, call from the 'fat guy'."
"Connect."
The droid froze and projected an image of a Mandalorian before me.
"Tron, have you dealt with the dreadnaughts already?"
"Yes. We've conducted an assessment of the captured dreadnaughts. In principle, the ships are repairable; there's a lot of damage, but mostly it's minor and everywhere. What will the instructions be?"
"Are they mobile?"
"More or less. Only the decor here is specific and needs a general cleaning."
"Can you drag them to Nal Hutta or Nar Shaddaa?"
"I think so. Though, just to move this crap from its place will require a hundred people—minimum."
"Then prepare the ships for the transition and jump when ready. As soon as you arrive in the system, get rid of these garbage trucks."
"Understood," the Mandalorian nodded and the link disconnected.
A few minutes later, Warren entered.
"You called?"
"Yes. Celebrating the victory?"
"Hardly. We didn't even have time to enter the battle properly."
"That's not a problem; we'll still have time to catch up. Но I called you for this. I need you, in the company of the RAVEN strike group, to visit the Besadii kajidic. Jabba, as promised, passed me their coordinates."
"How far?"
"Right here nearby, on Nal Hutta."
"I don't think the Hutts will appreciate it if we show up to them with weapons drawn..."
"Don't worry about that. Along with the coordinates Jabba passed me a message that he'll settle the issue with the Hutt Council. Jabba's kajidic—Desilijic, is a long-standing and sworn enemy of the Besadii kajidic. Naturally it's profitable for them to remove their direct competitor, even by our hands."
"Did you plan this originally?"
"No. I wanted to speak with the head of the Desilijic kajidic personally and settle this issue, but they beat me to it. We have permission for movement by limited troops through Hutt territory, so my presence is no longer mandatory."
"Limited troops, what kind?"
"We have enough. A pair of drop ships, plus two or three Basilisks. Burst in quickly, cut off the escape routes, and eliminate everyone on the kajidic's territory."
"And what about those who will be outside the territory?"
"The Desilijic will finish them off. We deliver the main strike, and then they'll sort it out among themselves."
"Trophies expected?"
"Of course. Mostly it's money, so you'll find something to profit from. Besadii has its own bank vault on the clan site territory—it won't be a problem for you to clear it out completely."
"Heh, good."
"The only thing is, take only RAVEN fighters, and take them now, because the connection is about to jump. When you're finished, return to us."
"Understood."
***
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