There is no greater lie than in love and in war.
About the first one—nothing to tell. Didn't get the chance.
But as for the second—yeah, I got my fill. And, as corny as it sounds, I hope the three months I spent on Christophsis are only the beginning of my adventures in a galaxy far, far away. Despite the tons of shit and horror I've managed to see in five months of being dropped into this mess, it looks like I've already gotten used to it. A fool's dream came true. And I'd have to shovel through my dream in full. Because if I don't paddle against the stream of bantha poodoo and sticks the Republic and the Jedi are using to build their strategy for this war, I'll be crying my eyes out. If I'm lucky, anyway.
Don't get this wrong—I had no complaints about Christophsis.
Sure, this planet dug into my skin, fine dust seeped into the tiniest pores of my body so deep you couldn't wash it out with any soap, not even with the help of sexy Twi'leks. But I didn't hold it against the planet—my first real baptism by fire.
How are peaceful citizens to blame if their government abandoned them and sold them to the CIS for a couple of fat accounts? They're not. Especially since I'd had the "pleasure" of seeing something like that more than once back in my own universe. Same politics—just on a galactic scale. With blackjack and whores.
Can you blame them for us fighting for them? Not a chance. A good third of my forces is a consolidated regiment of local militia, armed with captured CIS tech. Almost two regiments of locals willing to fight for their planet's independence from the Separatist yoke is a strong argument in a protracted conflict. Although, it's worth noting, they weren't exactly eager to join my units from the first days of the occupation.
And this conflict is going to be no joke. If memory serves, the Republic was going to fight on Christophsis for almost the entire first year of the war—certainly the slaughter at Jabiim will end faster than the liberation of the Christoph system. And another world desecrated by war will return to the Republic.
The Republic. Like the locals, I'll soon be saying that word like it's a swear.
Now, in order.
In my youth, when I watched the original trilogy films one after another, the Republic destroyed by Palpatine seemed like a utopian state—the one the Rebels were fighting to restore.
The prequel trilogy shook me. Corruption, lawlessness, slavery, predatory taxes… Is that really the perfect Republic Obi-Wan died for?
The Expanded Universe—books, games, comics—gave me food for thought. And the more I dug into the details of life in the Republic, the more excuses I found for Palpatine's actions… Though what Palpy did after seizing power—no, thanks. There are no ideal rulers, sure, but a policy of terror is not the best way to keep the people's love.
For more than two months, my legion has been left to itself, cut off from the main body of the 13th Sector Army. No reinforcements, no cover ships.
Since we repelled Loathsom's tank attack, we've had several dozen more clashes with the enemy. In scale and pressure they were nothing like the previous Separatist push. Small mechanical groups—several tanks, up to a company of droids—tested our defenses day and night, striking our forward lines in broad daylight or in the dead of night. It became clear the enemy was probing our defenses, patiently and coldly, with machine intellect, studying us—preparing to sweep the hated Republic troops aside in one decisive blow.
From time to time, petty reconnaissance raids turned into bloody battles for one sector of defense or another. At the cost of serious losses in manpower and the equipment attached to the legion, we held the blow. And the moment the enemy forces rolled back from our positions, the ever-present engineers rushed forward to put the line back in order.
The Seps, one way or another, were trying to drive us out of the capital, wearing my troops down with countless attacks at any hour. Tanks, infantry, rocket droids, spider droids… all that junk found its death on the city's outskirts. But the longer our drawn-out standoff lasted, the more our resources dwindled. The number of clones capable of holding a weapon slowly but surely shrank. And at the same time, the clones' faces grew darker, because despite the obedience program stuffed into their heads, one simple truth began to reach them:
The Republic had abandoned us. Surrounded by the enemy, practically crushed, broken… with no chance to win by our own силами.
The first—and last—attempt to break Admiral Trench's deeply layered blockade cost the "Iron Spear" four—FOUR!!!—Acclamators and two Venators. By the most conservative estimates, Trench killed about a hundred thousand clones in an hour of fighting, along with an outright obscene amount of equipment. The Separatist admiral limited himself to losing two frigates—both credited to our elusive Fury. The Republic fleet went under, handing the enemy a clean win.
It wouldn't piss me off so much if the Republic were acting blind.
But I served Bailur the enemy disposition on a platter.
In our first month on Christophsis, my ground recon—together with the cloaked Fury—managed to determine the enemy contingent's strength with accuracy down to almost the last armored unit. And all of it was sent to the sector army headquarters on the next Fury run—on which I'd organized the evacuation of the severely wounded offworld, and then the return delivery of ammunition.
I did everything I could to prepare a breakthrough by allies. From the start of the blockade, Trench hadn't received a single extra ship, not one transport with reinforcements for the ground forces. So, by the Force, CIS resources are not infinite. One powerful удар, and we can return the planet to the Republic's fold… We just need the right blockade-breaking tactics. I made all of that as clear as possible to the Moff in my report.
I was ready to strangle the commander of the GAR task force that arrived to "lift our blockade" with only six ships. Admiral Whoever-the-kriff-his-name-is, a Gran, the moment he got into our comms range, popped up on my holoterminal like a stain you can't scrub off.
Puffing out his chest plates proudly, he told me with great pomp that he would now sweep Trench's ships aside with the fire of his Venators and Acclamators, then deliver us new equipment and reinforcements.
I didn't even have time to object before Trench's hordes of fighters—backed by concentrated fire from the Seps' capital ships—tore the Gran's force into scrap metal. Watching thousands of sentients die because of the stupidity of an alien who had apparently been put in command by an even stupider sentient, I couldn't believe it was real. The Force screamed, as if boiling water were being poured onto its naked flesh…
In an hour, the Republic lost a shitload of forces. The two frigates we shot down were only a modest attempt to wet the score. Especially since the Fury took a beating too. Trench—the crafty bastard—managed to damage the hull plating and some ship systems, so extended reconnaissance flights by the Sith interceptor were now something we could only dream of.
And on top of that, taught by bitter experience, Trench deployed a patrol field of fighters around his ships, kept in constant motion. An attack from under cloaking like we'd done before would now inevitably end with the destruction of our invisible ship.
Atroxa, who flew the Fury in that battle, turned out to be the only pilot who managed to reach the surface intact. A small shipment of medicines and food was instantly distributed from the ship's holds among the legion's personnel.
The Lethan handed me the command manifesto personally issued to her by the Moff. Skimming it, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
I couldn't even come up with a synonym for what the "Iron Spear" command had done. Bailur had sent six ships to me, loaded to the brim with clones and equipment. For the record: one Acclamator could carry a legion with room to spare. Along with crew, support personnel, and landing troops—16,000 clones, 320 74-Z speeder bikes, 80 LAAT gunships, 48 AT-TE walkers, 36 SPHAs. Around 156 V-19 Torrent fighters. And that's only on ONE cruiser. And four of them were lost…
A Venator's specs were better than its predecessor's in space combat. But numbers don't lie. 192 V-19 Torrent fighters, 36 ARC-170s, 40 LAATs, 24 walkers. 7,400 clone crew on each, plus up to 2,000 landing troops. Aboard the Venators, almost 18,000 more clones found their deaths.
I didn't know how to politely describe what the Moff had done. Not only did the Republic's precious ships go to the slaughter, but the clones—the clones that were always in short supply. The clones needed like воздух… more than fifty thousand met horrible deaths in the cold depths of vacuum and on cramped starship decks.
Perhaps it was precisely because I did end up finding the right words later—when, a week after the squadron's destruction, I sent Atroxa off with yet another report—that I received a sorrowful recording from Bailur stating that the 13th Sector Army no longer had sufficient forces to lift the blockade of Christophsis the way I suggested. A мягкий hint that I was also to blame for what happened. As if it was me who shoved thousands of clones into their graves.
Bailur's message reeked of cold bureaucratic "kindly piss off, sir." It made my blood boil with rage and the desire to gut the bastard. But like Vader, I couldn't choke him from halfway across the galaxy. And I regretted that.
Unlike desk commanders, I was on the front lines. I watched my men die and take horrific wounds. On Ord Pardron, on Coruscant, clones could be treated like meat, like expendable material, like flesh droids. But to me, they were living people. Without rights. Doomed to the slaughter from the start—either by droid hands or accelerated старость. I understood that getting attached was stupid—one day they'd turn their weapons on me. But living and fighting while fearing every rustle behind my back was something I couldn't do either.
I discussed the Moff's reply with a small war council—just me and my two Hands. No matter how loyal the clones were to me or the Republic, it was too early to bring them into this. Until it was fully clear what exactly would make the clones raise weapons against the Jedi—the chip or blind obedience to the Contingency Orders—I could rely only on those loyal to me personally. It's already enough that some clones know the Fury's cloaking secret. Sure, it's only the regimental commanders and the ARCs—the ones I trust. They won't talk. But still.
The discussion took place at night in my office after Atroxa brought the message. Just me and two sexy girls. Yes, it sounds like the beginning of a famous adult film, but not this time.
"It's entirely possible you shouldn't have called their plan 'bantha shit,' and its author a 'moral enthusiast of same-sex love,'" Vette offered when I complained about the dispatch from Ord Pardron.
"I still don't understand why I wasn't allowed to gut the Moff like a shaak," Atroxa said, playing with her lightsaber hilt. "He was practically eating me with his eyes." The Lethan closed her eyes, licking the tips of her teeth with the end of her tongue. "One swing of a blade and—"
"Enough," I cut off my Hands. Both Twi'leks sobered up, focusing their attention on me. Even restless Vette had become more pliant after… the shower incident.
"This," I waved the datapad with the Moff's message, "is the Moff's direct answer. He plainly hinted that he doesn't give a damn about us anymore."
"And what will our next actions be, my lord?" Atroxa asked.
I leaned back in the chair. I had to think. Hard.
The legion's strength is running out—no point putting on a brave face. Up to a third of the personnel are lightly or moderately wounded but still in the line. More than 500 have already been evacuated to Ord Pardron. Ammunition is running low. The vehicles will soon be dead in the water without spare parts or ammo. The walkers' kinetic cannons burned through their stocks in the first few weeks. There was hope for a breakthrough, but now…
Time to admit it to myself: Valkorion's apprentice is stuck in a tight ass.
I suspect the Sith ghost—who hasn't appeared in many weeks—is actually watching from the shadows, evaluating. Waiting. But waiting for what? Victory or failure?
Though… it doesn't matter. He must understand that without outside help my army will fall. And there goes our Plan. Or does he have another Plan?
Kriff! Questions. When do the answers start?
Living a double life is unbearably hard. I don't fully trust Valkorion. I don't trust the Republic either. But I'm bound to both. A servant of two masters.
What do you do to survive in this Hutt-forsaken universe?
I wanted to live.
I wanted to be stronger. The power I absorbed with Kun's spirit, the power Valkorion dangled in front of me… the universe in my hands. Just reach out—and there I am at the top. How did he put it? A war hero. The galaxy's savior. Its ruler… And what did Vitiate say? I must become a liberator in the eyes of the galaxy's people. Sure. I can't even liberate one lousy planet, and I'm already reaching for the galaxy.
The Sith stubbornly insisted all of it was within my power. That I would carry out his Plan. Was he wrong? I don't believe it. That bastard even engineered his own return. I can't imagine an Emperor making a plan that doesn't have the ending he needs…
But does that ending include me, as he promised? Or will I—like Revan, like the Hands—be used to secure a beachhead for the true Sith fleet's invasion…
A Sith fleet…
A fleet…
I really should've slapped myself in the head with a proper facepalm. But not in front of the Hands. The Emperor chose them to serve me. To embody my will.
Fine. In terms of embodying my fantasies, they've been tested. But I won't do everything through bed, will I?
I let the Force flow through me, letting it calm my mind. The outline of a plan formed on its own, in the heat of disappointment, apathy, and self-loathing. It had to be considered, polished, stripped of the excess, and turned into a finished product. I remember, in the first game about Revan, a Sith at the academy on Korriban said that victory must possess true greatness. Otherwise there is no power in it.
If so, my victory on Christophsis must be the kind people remember.
I am the apprentice of the most powerful Sith in the galaxy. Time to wipe the snot and solve problems. Let the CIS leaders do the crying off to the side.
"My lord," Vette's voice pulled me out of my half-meditative state.
Turning my attention back to the Twi'leks staring at my detached carcass, I felt a small satisfaction at sensing their mild тревога—especially Atroxa's, which came in literal waves. If I wanted, I could grab an invisible thread binding me through the Force to the gifted one and plunge into the world of her emotions.
Huh. That's something new.
After such prolonged use of the Force, my head felt a bit light. During my time on Christophsis, I'd somewhat distanced myself from the Force, switching entirely to my intellect and command, relying on myself more than on the all-pervasive substance.
"You were in meditation for more than an hour, my lord," Atroxa explained, as if answering my unasked question that was about to slip off my lips. "We started to worry."
How strange, a thought flashed. She anticipated my question.
Deciding to look into it later, I relaxed my shoulders.
"Girls, I've got work for you."
***
Atroxa left the planet ten days later. The engineers had to work hard to patch up the Fury. Unlike previous runs, she had to make a jump much farther than the 13th Sector Army headquarters. And the destination for this flight had to be something very different.
Same with Vette's mission. It was less significant, but still had its own reasoning.
Sith, like Jedi, could be wrong in their dogmas. But there was a rational seed in every teaching.
In particular, the postulates about attachments. The Jedi denied them altogether. And the Sith didn't much like being tied to specific companions either. I decided not to reinvent the wheel.
I watched the interceptor's departure from my office. I sensed Shay even as she approached my quarters. Scolding myself for neglecting lightsaber and Force training, I tried to keep myself sharp. Fortunately, rituals and Force techniques I could repeat kept flashing in my memory. Though I shouldn't do that in front of outsiders.
"I'll bet you'll call someone else in their place," the Mandalorian guessed. "For example, a couple of Jedi women."
"Aren't you supposed to be out scouting?" I cut down the red-haired warrior who was pushing it. Up to that moment, I hadn't interacted with her closely. It just didn't come up. The Emperor claimed the Mandalorian had her own reasons to join our enterprise. Would be nice to know what they were… Otherwise, there's a potential conflict of interests, and I'll have to lose a valuable asset.
That I needed the Mandalorian, I didn't doubt for a second. As a field commander for the jet troopers, she ran real мясорубки against enemy recon and sabotage groups. And, it must be said, the clones gravitated toward her, eager to talk to a compatriot of their progenitor in their native language.
Naturally, Vizla didn't reveal what time she came from. Vague hints about a Mandalorian past were more than enough to keep the clones from asking extra questions.
"Just got back," the girl tossed a datapad onto the tabletop with a practiced throw. Catching it with the Force, I drew it to myself. "A patrol intercepted a local trying to sneak into our rear through the sewers."
"Surprised he managed to pass on the message," I noted.
"He didn't," the girl shrugged. "Flametroopers don't joke. They torched the system, and only then picked up the datapad. He shouldn't have thought he was smarter than us." She added, "If he'd just walked up to a checkpoint, he'd have gotten off with a couple of shots in the legs."
"You're going to wipe out the locals at that rate," I said.
"Good," she shot back. "The planet will be mine. Or did you have your eye on it?"
Not dignifying the Mandalorian with an answer, I focused on reading the report.
"Militia?" I was surprised a couple of minutes later. "What's this now?"
The girl spread her hands and flopped onto the couch.
"In a month and a half on the planet, we hadn't heard about them," I said thoughtfully. "And now—"
"The Jedi didn't suspect they existed before you either," the redhead remarked.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"Extra people won't hurt," she shrugged. I wasn't even particularly surprised that the Mandalorian knew the essence of the intelligence report intended for me personally. "And if they're eager to die instead of us, I'm all for it. I'll personally hand them weapons and show them where it's best to cover me with their bodies."
Smirking at the girl's grim humor, I dropped into my chair and kept reading.
Jo Ptar—that was the leader of the local militia. "Most honored Jedi Knight Dougan," the Christophsian wrote. "I am proud that I can repay you for holding Crystal City back from being plundered by the mechanical army. Our hearts are united with yours in a single стремление to liberate our homeland from the invaders. The restoration of justice and lawful authority on Christophsis is our shared goal. My concerned compatriots are ready to join your army of liberators. We have more than a few loud victories to our name, and I am confident that several thousand new fighters—who know the geography of their homeworld well—will not be amiss. We will await your response for a week. If you are willing to meet and cooperate, launch three rockets from the magistrate. If not, and we were mistaken about you, ignore this message and do as you see fit. Captain of the Internal Guard—Jo Ptar."
"Do we know what forces they have?" I asked.
"We learned they existed about four hours ago," the girl grimaced. "If he had truly significant forces, they wouldn't be asking for support, and there wouldn't be Republic troops on the planet."
"He says 'several thousand,'" I noted.
"Our supplies are already running out," the girl reminded me. "Even a thousand new mouths means cutting an already meager clone ration. If it's more, you'll deprive the most combat-capable part of your army of necessary nutrition."
"Whoever these militia are," she continued, "it'll take a lot of time—and an obscene amount of ammo—before they turn into anything useful."
Her logic was practically printed in red ink. Will these new troops be useful? Shay is right—no militia can replace professional soldiers. But they'll drain resources from us… it's hard to even imagine how much.
On the other hand, it's not scary to throw a militia forward as a living shield for clones. The principle of rational sacrifices: let more die, but weaker ones, so the strong minority keeps fighting. Rational? Rational. But the stumbling block is resources. For all our desire, we won't be able to just train them—we won't even be able to arm our potential allies with standardized GAR weapons.
Though who said the not-very-best warriors have to get GAR weapons?
As if guessing my thoughts, the girl pointed toward the outskirts.
"If I remember right, a whole landing barge crashed there rather badly…"
"And not just one," I recalled. Of course. And over the past months, thanks to our artillery, thousands of droids had found their rest in the surrounding area.
"But even then, we simply have nothing to feed them," the girl said.
"They must've been eating something up to now," I snorted. "So let them come bearing gifts…"
***
The rendezvous with Christophsis's militia leaders went almost routinely. About fifty officers—mostly representatives of Christophsis's armed forces—came to us two days after we sent the signal.
But the result… was interesting.
Our scouts met the envoys several kilometers from the city. Escorted them to the First Battalion's operations headquarters. Disarmed them on the way.
Jo Ptar gave the impression of an authoritative military man.
Nearly two meters tall, corded with muscle that even light Christophsian armor could barely conceal, he outweighed a clone by half again. Dark-skinned, bald, with a pair of probing brown eyes. Hands powerful enough to snap a tree trunk in half.
I smirked, recalling the letter's phrasing, and instantly dismissed the idea that he wrote that "letter to the Jedi war dog." A direct, open threat emanated from him. I could feel it through the Force. Warriors are not diplomats. And he was no exception. A born killer, not a master of flowery speeches.
"Glad to welcome you," I said, pointing to chairs for Ptar and four of his companions—the rest stayed outside the former bank branch turned into a штаб. "I am Rik Dougan, Jedi Knight."
"Jo Ptar," the giant rumbled, settling onto a tiny metal chair. "Captain of Christophsis's Internal Guard. Senior officer among those who remain." He waved toward his four companions.
Unremarkable guys. All of them fit, equally dark-skinned, short haircuts, light armor… About the same height, похожие as if they were brothers. They only created the atmosphere of a retinue. Which they absolutely were not.
I may be a total amateur, but the Force insisted these guys weren't commanders. Maybe security, bodyguards… Or killers.
My own retinue consisted of all three ARCs, Shay, and Phob. Outside—several hundred clones from the First Battalion. Is it reliable security? Let's hope we won't have to find out. Because Ptar has another forty-five tough guys outside this post's walls. And those are only the ones we know about.
"Nice to meet you, Captain Ptar," I smiled with my lips only. "You were looking for us?"
"That's right," the Christophsian frowned slightly. "Your army is… competent enough, if you still haven't surrendered Crystal City. We didn't expect that from your… these." The man unmistakably indicated my clones.
"Sir," Baldy cracked his knuckles. "Feels like he's asking for it…"
"Easy, Baldy," I raised a calming hand. "I don't think he meant to insult you. Otherwise," I smiled coldly, "it would be pretty stupid of him to mouth off to us in our own headquarters."
"Don't misunderstand me," Jo slapped his knees. "You and your army are among the few who actually fight the Confederacy. Mostly, the Jedi just ask for help, and clones die by the hundreds of thousands across the galaxy…"
"An interesting point of view," I chuckled. "And where did you learn that? The enemy is blocking all communication channels."
"Not ours," Ptar smirked back. Seeing my confusion, he continued. "We drove the Seps off one of their relay stations. Now we listen to their transmissions in passive mode. Mostly it's Hypercomms Cartel bragging and populism… but even through all the propaganda, you can tell the Republic is taking one crushing defeat after another."
"What's the Hypercomms Cartel?" Vizla asked.
"A Separatist analog of the HoloNet," Jo explained. "Broadcasts throughout Confederacy space. News, politics, propaganda, reports from the fronts…"
"And yet," I said, "despite the Republic's defeats and the Confederacy's victories, you sent envoys to us. Why?"
"We don't like the position our system is in," Ptar narrowed his eyes. "The CIS doesn't care about Christoph's future. They only want our resources. The moment they break your resistance, they'll move on to plundering the wealth of our system. They've taken our belt mines, but they're not rushing extraction—the arrival of your force spooked them. So they're waiting for General Loathsom to destroy you, so Admiral Trench can establish a protective perimeter in the system."
"The CIS has many resource worlds," I said. "Christophsis isn't the largest among them—"
"Christophsis is one of the largest suppliers of Nergon-14," Ptar cut me off. "In the nearby sectors, certainly."
Like the infamous baradium, Nergon-14 was one of the most powerful explosives in the galaxy. And often used in proton torpedoes. Now it's clear—raw material for the war machine. That's what the CIS needs here.
"So what?" I clarified. "Your people are ready to join us to liberate the planet?"
"That's right," Jo confirmed. "Not all of us handled weapons before the war, but we're willing to learn, to bring independence to our planet."
"Independence?" I asked, surprised. "Doesn't Christoph plan to join the Republic after the war?"
Jo Ptar tensed noticeably. Apparently, he didn't like my words.
"The Republic," he forced air out through his nose. "And how is it any better than the CIS? Predatory taxes, bureaucracy, corruption… Christoph will be independent the moment we throw the Confederates out of our system."
"Then what's in it for us to help you?" Alpha asked. Seeing the Internal Guard captain hesitate, he continued, addressing me now. "The Republic sent them help in exchange for accession."
"That was a promise by our oligarchy," the guardsman growled. "Not by us!"
"That doesn't change the essence," Berserker cut in. "You lured Republic forces here so we'd liberate your planet for you!"
"Our brothers are dying here in the name of the Republic!" Phob flared up—Phob, usually calm. "You deceived us!"
"Don't you dare call us liars!" Jo sprang to his feet, his jaw working.
The situation turned explosive. I watched Ptar's bodyguards tense. I felt that blood was about to be spilled.
"Enough!" I reinforced my voice with the Force so hard most of those gathered covered their ears. "Everyone out!" I said to the clones.
"Shay," I nodded to the Mandalorian. "Make sure nothing happens outside."
"Your men are free as well," I said to Ptar, who was clenching his fists, "we'll talk alone."
Nodding to his bodyguards, the dark-skinned warrior stared at me.
***
"If you wanted to insult my men," I said, "you've succeeded."
"We came here to form an alliance," Ptar snapped. "We don't need the Republic's yoke after the war."
"Let's say," I nodded. "But if we defeat Loathsom's army and Trench's fleet, what happens next?"
"We regain control of our system and remain independent."
"And what will stop the CIS from taking you again?"
"The Republic," Jo said with pomp. "We plan to sign an allied treaty with the Republic—our security in exchange for preferential terms in the sale of our resources. Otherwise, Christophsis is rich enough to pay for mercenaries."
Have to admit—it's not a bad idea. What does it cost the Republic to send a few tubs and a battalion of militia? In exchange, discounts.
"I'm sure," I smiled, "that's exactly how it will go. But first, it would be nice to liberate your planet, wouldn't you agree?"
"I believe," Ptar smiled, "that together we can do it."
"What forces do you have?"
"Up to five thousand guardsmen and militia," Jo said with pride. "We're armed with captured Republic and CIS weapons."
"Not bad," I said. "And you're able to provide such an army with food?"
Rations and medicine. The things our forces on Christophsis lacked most.
"We're prepared to supply both our soldiers and yours with food and clean water," Ptar assured me. "CIS troops have not touched our livestock farms and crops."
"Well, would you look at that," I chuckled. For what reason would the CIS preserve the food base of an occupied planet? The droid army doesn't need food. Loathsom's oversight? Or a заранее prepared trap?
"How long have your people been eating from those fields?" I asked.
"Since the start of the siege. As soon as the CIS army entered the cities, we evacuated people to the foothills of the Impassable Mountains, to the planet's resource regions. There's a fine valley there—Ataria—its pastures are dozens of times larger than Crystal City's area. On three sides the valley is surrounded by the ridges of the Impassable Mountains, and through the entire valley, from the upper slopes, flows the Kriol River, which drains into the ocean. More than a thousand years ago, our ancestors placed fields and meat-processing plants there. Essentially, all of Christophsis's food industry is concentrated in Ataria."
"And the enemy doesn't interfere with this?" My удивление had no limit.
"They tried," Jo shrugged. "They wanted to build something like a spaceport in Ataria. Started constructing a base inside the Impassable Mountains. Put up a protective barrier along the valley's boundaries, posted guards. They meant to cut us off from our resource base and force the planet to surrender. But we rose up and took it."
"A whole droid base?" Am I imagining things, or is he embellishing?
"They didn't finish it. Only the operations HQ, the shield generators, the security batteries. Small garrison—just over a thousand droids."
"And how did you manage to take the tinheads' fortifications?"
"The complex is linked to Christophsis's мегаполисы by high-speed underground highways," Ptar explained. "To make it easier to move workers to factories, and products to the cities. We used them to evacuate people out of the cities. And when the droids built their base, we simply appeared in their rear—they didn't even have time to activate the droids."
Yeah, I thought sadly. Must be nice.
"The enemy's defenses were designed to repel attacks from outside," Jo continued. "We caught them by surprise and smashed them."
"Trench didn't try to bomb the valley?"
"He did," Jo grinned. "First he sent bombers—but we activated the Separatists' own shield and fought them off. Then he sent several big ships to bombard us, but we deployed the droids' artillery and drove Trench's ships off."
"What kind of weapon did the Separatists share with you that you could repel warships?" I asked with curiosity.
"We have fifty J-1 proton cannons."
"Impressive."
So these "allies" are coming with gifts. Not only do they have a resource base, they also have weapons capable of nipping at an orbital squadron.
"I should absolutely ally with you," I smiled. Seeing some wariness in my counterpart's eyes, I caught myself. "The question of your planet's postwar structure is strictly your people's business. I'm simply doing my duty—freeing you from the Confederacy's yoke."
"Then," Ptar shook the hand I offered, "I think we'll get along."
As I clasped the guardsman's strong palm, I remembered his words about the planet's ability to pay.
"Jo," I tried to smile as harmlessly as possible. "Can Christophsis afford to buy a few ships?"