"What do you think about this, brother?"
The clone standing near the monument turned away from the lines with the numbers of the dead and looked to his silent friend beside him.
"I don't know. It's all a little strange, but... the words seem right."
"I think it turned out well. The brothers would be pleased."
"We'll see what happens next. Our business is war..."
***
Early in the morning, the usual daily routine began. Get up, wash, eat, send the Padawan to train (so she doesn't get underfoot, heh-heh). Well then, Jedi, great deeds await us!
With the arrival of equipment and additional supplies, the pace of construction at the base noticeably increased. Yesterday, after sketching out a rough plan, I assigned the work. An area of about four by four kilometers was cleared. Along the perimeter, walls at least four meters high were being raised, together with seven-meter defensive towers, each bristling with dozens of captured barrels and topped with missile launchers.
Remembering what little I knew of World War II tactics, I wasn't very confident about the high walls and towers prescribed by the plans for a permanent base. At the same time, I had to admit that the local plastoconcrete was much stronger than Earth bricks, and even the Brest Fortress—built from it—was stormed for almost a month despite overwhelming superiority in numbers. In any case, lacking proper fortification education, I considered it unwise to interfere with the engineers' plans. Still, I intended to deploy a fortified area around the base itself: full-profile trenches, pillboxes, dugouts, and so on. So, you could say a compromise was found.
Inside the perimeter, along the walls, rose barracks, warehouses, workshops, canteens, and other vital buildings, including communications centers and a hospital. There was also the main command post—a hundred-meter structure covered by a powerful deflector shield and crowned with a forest of antennas.
At the center lay a large landing pad, spacious enough to accommodate the Marat, the as-yet-unnamed Consular, and the Pelta frigates that had arrived early that morning.
Orderly chaos reigned everywhere. Everyone bustled about, but with clear purpose.
The chief engineer distracted me from contemplating the scene.
"Good morning, General!"
"There's no such thing as a good morning," I snapped.
"I can't disagree," the clone smiled unexpectedly, then continued:
"Sir, I have two pieces of news for you."
"Good and bad?"
"Yes, sir. Which would you like to hear first?"
"Start with the bad," I waved.
"We won't be able to reprogram the B-2 series droids. Their defenses are too strong, and they carry too many hidden protocols. We don't have the equipment for that."
That sucks.
"And the good news?"
"We managed with the B-1s. Nothing particularly complicated. We installed additional security protocols. Here." The captain handed me a datapad. "We need your approval."
"And did you get the technical drawings?"
"Yes, sir. The DUMs and other repair units had fairly detailed schematics stored in their cores."
"Then let's go to the command post. I have a couple of ideas."
On the way, I filled in the necessary authorizations, once again listing only myself in the "command priority" column.
"So," I said, looking over the list, "here's what we'll do.
"First, we need to upgrade the AT-TE tanks. Install a pair of droideks deflectors on each vehicle to give at least frontal protection. Add extra armor to the pilots' cabins. Next: install the remaining shield generators on the speeders, as many as possible. Paint the B-1 droids green. Form them into companies and battalions, as well as equipment crews, and distribute them among the regiments so that every commander has something to cover his troops in the hottest sectors. In addition, form a base guard out of them, plus counter-boarding teams for our ships. Repair all AATs. Weld brackets onto the hulls so they can carry troops. Remove the loading ramp from the MTT transports, install twelve to sixteen additional blasters and, if possible, a couple of missile launchers. And mark all equipment and droids with our legion's insignia."
"That's not difficult, sir. But I'm afraid painting the droids green won't work—we don't have that much paint."
"What do we have?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. Hope dies last.
"Red and white. Lots of it," the engineer dashed my hopes.
"To hell with it. Paint them white with red stripes. At least mark them as ours somehow."
Of course, I understood that white and red were the main colors of the fleet and the army, but there was no need to take it to the point of idiocy. Camouflage would be far more rational. Too bad I couldn't order and buy it.
Not because I didn't have the money. Think about it—those E-5 blaster rifles, even if I sold them at a discount, would bring me a staggering two hundred and fifty million credits. Damn it! I wouldn't mind selling them; I just didn't need that many blasters, and I could buy something useful instead. Ships, even—enough money for dozens of light cruisers, at least the Sienar Marauders. Underrated machines, oh so underrated. But Kuat was "trendy" now, and Sienar had fallen out of favor. Or even a couple of cruisers. But who here would need them? The local savage natives?
Besides, if the Order or the Senate learned of my dealings, they'd quickly kick me out. The former as a preventive measure—it wasn't fitting for a Jedi to have that kind of wealth. The latter simply because I hadn't shared. I'd have to tread carefully...
***
To take control of the factory in orbit of the gas giant, I formed a party of a hundred troopers and a team of engineers, reinforced by a light cruiser and a dozen starfighters, plus a company of droids in the holds to serve as the future garrison. No resistance was expected—the factory was automated. All that remained was to install a few defensive turrets and link the facility to our command post.
We needed to start delivering fuel to the fleet base, which was in dire need, and prepare for new attacks. My senses in the Force told me the Separatists wouldn't retreat so easily.
***
I was distracted from thoughts of fate's twists by an urgent call from Commander Blam.
"Sir, local natives at the east gate. They demand to see the chieftain."
I hadn't been called a chief yet.
"I'll be right there."
***
A colorful procession awaited me. At first, I mistook them for goblins out of The Hobbit, but then, looking closer, I realized their faces were more "handsome." Their ears, though, were exactly like Shrek's.
At the front stood the chief, leaning on a staff. How did I know? Easy—bright colors and lots of feathers. Though he also had a perfectly ordinary communicator hanging from his arm.
"Great Chief Mbagongo welcomes the emissaries of the Republic!"
Well. I did have some experience in negotiations, thanks to my mentor. Although, as memory reminded me, I had never dealt with this sort of "contingent" before.
"I am Jedi Knight Mikore Vikt, and I greet you, Great Chief Mbagongo. What brings you to me?"
"Before you be planet machine! Long have we traded well with the people of Bomongo, but lately it has gone bad, and we have ceased to trade! Your evil machine must be driven away! Now we will trade with you!" The chief struck his staff on the ground.
"What do you need?"
"We need repair for our machine, so our tools can work in the fields. We need a little bit of a guns to hunt kvvirrums. The kvvirrum is large and its hide is strong; spears cannot pierce it. We need guns!" the chief declared.
I take back my earlier thought. I'd assumed they were complete savages—apparently not. Still, it wasn't in my interest to quarrel with them.
"All right. We will trade."
"Hwai-wei! What does the messenger of the Republic need? We can give fruit, we can give meat from the sloms."
Hmm. Diversifying the diet of my voracious clones? Why not. Wait—that gave me an idea.
"All right. Do you have paint?"
"Why do you need paint?"
"We've gone to war!" I announced grandly. "And I need to paint my warriors."
"Good work! My help is yours!" the chief nodded eagerly.
All right, then. At least some of "goods" would be put to good use.