leaned back wearily on the cot. While our squad returned to base, there were a couple of hours that could be devoted to a short rest. These days, I was tired both physically and mentally. Numerous "dives" into the state of Battle Meditation had helped me anticipate the enemy's actions and pull us out of the mess we could have found ourselves in. But all of it came at a price: despite my ever-improving performance, the cost was still high. Headaches, nosebleeds, even brief fainting spells… And yet, summoning all my willpower, I kept using the meditation again and again — after all, it was my only trump card in this confrontation with the enemy.
We had been on Jabiim for ten days, six of which we spent fighting off separatist attacks. For a while — after the first assault — we managed to cool the locals' ardor a little by thinning the ranks of droids and nationalists. However, five days ago, the real trouble began. Judging by the data Mirro intercepted, they had thrown everything they had at us. The attack was led by someone named Cordelia Stratus, Alto's cousin. She delivered a fiery speech to the National Militia, firmly motivating people into action. Well, the droids didn't even need that; they were ready to follow any command.
In addition, Nimbuses had been spotted in the vicinity — an elite squad, special forces and royal guards in one. Brazen raids, swift attacks, unexpected diversions — all of this was their handiwork. They were extremely well-trained; their unit had passed experience down for thousands upon thousands of years. Their gear surpassed all our equivalents. They even had repulsor boots. "Fucking Hermes, damn them." Although better suited for diversionary operations and losing in open combat, the planet's conditions played into their hands — and we had exactly thirty such specialists of our own. Who am I kidding — there were only three of them: Puck, Lucky, and Devil. Only those guys were properly trained; the rest of the RK clones lagged far behind.
And a day ago, the lieutenant intercepted a message — the CIS, namely the Trade Federation and the Techno Union, had sent reinforcements. Ten Lucrehulk, packed with combat droids, were hovering in orbit. And that wasn't counting an unknown number of smaller ships. So far, we had luck on our side: the weather was extremelyunfavorable for flying. But as soon as there was a break in the clouds… I was afraid we wouldn't last until our own reinforcements arrived. By the most conservative estimates, we were facing a catastrophic threat — more than one and a half million combat droids. In any case, our base would be doomed, and our very existence would be in serious doubt.
But even without that, our losses were slowly mounting. At the moment, we had lost a total of three thousand eight hundred forty-two clones and forty-seven units of military equipment, mainly walkers. We had barely half of our droids left, though I was willing to accept their loss; it was better than losing clones. The Juggernauts were covered in scorch marks, their paint burnt away, but the machines were still running, still spreading death around them.
We continued our cavalry-style charges, operating within a radius of forty kilometers from the base — destroying supply lines and reinforcements, and striking from the rear the enemy forces that attempted to attack our base. We would briefly return to replenish supplies and ammunition, then head back out again, often breaking straight through enemy columns. Ahsoka had practically taken up residence in the turret, exhausting herself completely. As far as I could tell, she was fighting mental fatigue by drowning it in physical fatigue.
In general, we all looked terrible: pale faces, bags under our eyes from lack of sleep, overly sharp movements.
We also had many wounded, but those who could still hold a weapon kept fighting, while the rest were in our hospital onboard the Pelta. However, there still wasn't enough space, even after modernization, though the frigate could now hold up to 1,500 wounded. Two surgical teams worked without pause, fueled by stimulants. To be honest, I didn't care — the important thing was that they kept working. We wouldn't be able to send the wounded off-world.
The atmosphere was heavy — and not because of the weather. The clones were well-disciplined and well-trained; no droids or militia could compare. But even they could be pushed toward melancholy and despondency. Endless streams of water falling from the sky. Endless mud and damp everywhere. The endless flow of enemies did not diminish; the barrels of our weapons were red-hot, and in some places, hand-to-hand combat broke out — and then blood mixed with mud. The nationalists fiercely attacked the clones, who worked silently and methodically with their vibroblades. And the Jabiimi nationalists couldn't hold out, retreating again and again, only to clash anew a few hours later in another frenzied battle.
It was good that the clones were mentally stable — something had been adjusted in them long ago, and they generally didn't care about all the gore and blood. These were the enemy. Enemies of the Republic…
The most stressful thing was the informationblackout. We were cut off from Sector headquarters, from the entire galaxy, and at times it began to feel as though this little patch of land was all we had left…
And yet, despite everything, we kept fighting. The clones followed the rules, carrying out all orders; I couldn't slack off — that would have been damn unpleasant and even… shameful. And we had only one order — to fight.
Fortunately, a few days ago we managed to contact the local Resistance. A messenger had arrived from Orlis Gillmun, the leader of the Jabiimi loyal to the Republic. The messenger turned out to be a fairly young girl. When I asked why she was fighting (the Jabiimi always tried to protect their women and children, and even Alto Stratus did not violate that tradition), she replied that her home was gone and her parents had been killed. She was accompanied by several fighters. I wasn't particularly thrilled about this. The loyalists couldn't help us — or didn't want to. I suspected they had already written us off after assessing our chances. Well, we would see about that.
Still, there was one positive aspect. When our meeting ended, the girl took the holodisk with my message for the Jedi Council, swearing it would reach them. Let's hope so.
Another problem was Alto Stratus himself. A leader of that level was a significant threat, but I didn't even consider eliminating him. Even after his death, the Nationalists would continue the fight, and another leader would simply take the banner… So such actions would be pointless, even though Puck strongly recommended it. Hutt, one day he'll get me. Let's leave that option for last, if things get truly desperate.
Turning over onto my other side, I closed my eyes, trying to fall asleep…