Having given my subordinates something to do, I decided to take care of myself. I thought the bandages could probably be removed by now, but I hadn't yet found the time. Oh well — they didn't bother me, so it was fine. Sitting down on a fallen tree trunk, I began unwrapping the bandages from my head.
Ahsoka, who had been watching me, first snorted quietly, then doubled over with laughter. It was obvious she was trying to restrain herself, but it was beyond her power.
"What's so funny?"
"Teacher... your hair... it's—"
I rummaged through the pouches on my belt and pulled out a small mirror. The reflection was almost comical: strands of hair of uneven lengths stuck out all over my head, scattered between completely bald patches. It looked like some kind of exotic tribal hairstyle. Clearly, this needed fixing.
"It suits you, hee-hee... very much, ha-ha... Teacher," the Togruta wheezed, laughing harder.
"You're such a pain... Can't you take pity on your poor teacher?"
"I'm not a pain — it just turned out that way!" the Padawan said in mock indignation.
I tried to calm her down with a stern look, but, as usual, the effort had the opposite effect. The dark-skinned girl with white facial markings was soon twisted in another fit of laughter.
"Teacher, heh, you've got to show up at the Temple like this, heh-heh... I think they'll appreciate your new hairstyle there... ha-ha-ha... You'll cause a sensation!"
"Witty girl... no," I pretended to brood, though inwardly I couldn't suppress a mischievous grin. "You're worse. You're Snips."
"Teacher!" Such righteous indignation! And instantly she forgot all about the "terrible" stomach cramps that had demanded the strongest hugs just minutes ago, as if they had never been there.
"Yes, from now on you are Snips, and nothing else. It's your own fault — you shouldn't break the rules."
"But that's not fair!" cried the Jedi, insulted in her best feelings. "I wasn't the one who started it! It just happened! I only reacted! If you hadn't taken off the bandages, none of this would have happened..." Then, all at once, inspiration lit her face. "Exactly! I'm the victim! You provoked me!"
"So it's my fault?" I tilted my head in mock interest.
"Yes!" she confirmed with bright enthusiasm, only to freeze as she realized what she had just blurted out — and how I was looking at her. "I mean, no!" Her hands shot up defensively, index fingers raised as if to say: I'll explain, I'll explain, just don't interrupt! "It was a coincidence!"
Sighing dramatically, I lifted my gaze to the green sky.
"Oh, why am I punished like this? Then again, it's my own fault... I knew what I was getting into, and still..."
"What are you talking about?" Ahsoka narrowed her eyes, cautious and suspicious.
"It doesn't matter, Snips... it doesn't matter."
***
After a while, the first reports began to come in from the "trophy" teams, processed at the command post where the information scrolled across one of the screens. As the most invested party, I sat silently, watching the ever-growing list.
What could I say? I hadn't expected much in terms of spoils, but they still managed to surprise me in some areas — and to disappoint me in others. For example, we recovered only two heavy artillery systems. The rest had been destroyed by our own bombardments, and there hadn't been many to begin with. Still, the two we did get were J-1s — massive proton cannons. Essentially droids capable of moving on their own, though for some reason the designers hadn't given them the ability to fire independently. But it didn't take more than three B-1 droids to control the thing: one as a gunner and two as loaders.
They were incredibly powerful weapons. If memory served, only six of these guns had once held off Master Windu's landing on Ryloth — and even managed to shoot down one of his ships.
Even more surprising, though, was the discovery of 8,500 DUM-series pit droids still in more or less working order. These little guys, barely over a meter tall, had been tirelessly trying to patch up their comrades and salvage equipment in the middle of the battlefield — naturally, getting caught in the crossfire. The number sounded enormous, but considering that a single Lucrehulk-class ship carried upwards of two hundred thousand assorted repair droids, it was less shocking.
And then there was the rest. Roughly a hundred repairable AAT tanks. Ten MTT transports. Around a dozen PACs. Three and a half thousand B-1 droids, some not even activated yet. A couple hundred B-2s. Several dozen laser cannons. Fifty generators from droidek. Piles of E-5 carbines, handheld rocket launchers, and several dozen tons of mixed ammunition, mostly rockets. And of course, armor plates, spare parts, and plenty of scrap suitable for re-use — some from their machines, some from ours.
I was still poring over the numbers when the chief engineer captain approached, an R-series droid trailing behind him.
"General, may I speak with you?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.
"Go ahead."
"Um... why exactly are we collecting all this... junk?"
"It's not junk," I corrected. "It's military trophies. And since I don't expect reinforcements to reach us anytime soon, but I am certain we'll be thrown into another battle very soon, I intend to use everything I can get my hands on."
"Oh. I see, sir."
"How are things progressing?"
"On schedule, General. Most of the trophies have been delivered to camp or are en route. We haven't pushed far out — even with the Separatists in retreat, their scouts are still a risk."
The R-series "bucket" beeped something. I didn't understand binary — my predecessor hadn't thought it worth learning — but the engineer caught it immediately.
"By the way, General," he continued, "I'll need your authorization to reprogram the repair droids. They'll be invaluable for transport, maintenance, and adapting captured technology. Only you can approve it."
"Just the repair units?"
"For now, yes. Combat models require specialized software or at least internal access protocols — all heavily classified. We might be able to extract some data through the repair units eventually, but that will take both time and equipment. The DUM and BLX series are open-market, though. Reinstalling their systems is straightforward, and we've got the software."
"All right. Send me your request."
The engineer handed me his portable datapad.
On the small screen, the message read:
Reprogramming request: DUM-series droids, model R-45L/i. Quantity: 8,545 units. Status pending...
After a short pause, I began entering data.
"Affiliation: Grand Army of the Republic. Assignment: The Acclamator-class military assault ship Marat. Subordination: Engineering Service, Repair Corps. Priority of orders..."
I hesitated at the last line, glanced at the engineer, and quickly entered:
"Priority of orders: Mikore Vikt."
I repeated the procedure with the rest of the captured repair droids, though their numbers were much smaller.
"Captain, once you have a free R-series astromech, send it to me. And as soon as you've got technical details on the enemy's equipment, bring them. I have a few ideas. Although... there is something else."
"Yes, sir?"
"We'll need to do this—"
I outlined the plan briefly.
"Hmm. A little unusual, but we'll do everything we can."
"Good, Captain. Report back when it's done."
"Understood, sir. Permission to withdraw?"
"Go."
With a sharp nod, the clone strode off briskly into the depths of the camp.