Watching Atroxa's Fury settle unhurriedly onto the landing field in front of the base's main hangar, Malgus's trained professional eye picked out multiple signs of damage on the interceptor. Several plating segments had been torn out by the roots, one of the engines ran unevenly, and the camouflage netting had patches visible to the naked eye…
With displeasure, the Sith thought that only untrained barbarians would use so elegant a ship as a Fury in open combat. And, judging by the looks of it, that was exactly what had happened.
"I deprived hundreds of Anomid scientists of sleep and food to make them build these ships," he said aloud. The Togruta standing beside him wisely kept silent. "And that Jedi and his Twi'leks turned one of the last three Furies into junk in a couple of months…"
The welcoming committee consisted only of the Sith and the former Jedi Togruta. The rest of the base personnel—who still barely numbered even a hundred people—were continuously on duty: ground patrols or space patrols.
And was that not too much honor, anyway? To convene a welcoming committee solely for the sake of servants just like themselves?
Ashara stood in silence, watching two Twi'leks descend the ramp. Buried in organizational routine, she had visibly grown dull.
"We expected your arrival earlier," the girl remarked when the newcomers approached. "Nadia and Kira left as soon as they received your message."
"Surely you weren't expecting us to report to you about how we spent our time?" the Lethan said contemptuously. The red-skinned woman demonstratively tossed her lightsaber hilt in her hand. Everything in her behavior, her stance, radiated superiority toward her interlocutor—like being a Jedi's bedwarmer was something important, Malgus thought.
Still, the Togruta, Malgus, and Atroxa shared something in common.
Hunting Darth Nox like predators, the former commander and the Sith lady tracked down each of his companions. The archaeologist. The bounty hunter. Next came the servant droid, who tried to lead the chase away from the former Dark Council member. In the end, the sorcerer was left with only his loyal Dashade, the Kaleesh, and the Togruta. Those three were of interest to the Emperor, but the beast protected his master to the last drop of blood.
With relish, the Sith recalled how—fed by the Emperor's dark side—they casually deflected most of Nox's attacks. The Councilor lost both hands, then his legs. Malgus nearly lost himself, almost ending the former Lord Kallig's life, while Atroxa effortlessly disarmed the Kaleesh by taking his hand and rendered Ashara unconscious.
They broke them both. Casually, letting the Emperor shatter their will, grind it into dust, and rebuild their personalities from scratch. They begged for death.
But death came only for Nox.
Atroxa aimed the Togruta's blades…
Ever since then, between the girls there had been… to put it mildly, mutual dislike.
It was only a pity the Kaleesh died, sent into the Brotherhood of Darkness's camp. Darth Bane, driven by his own designs, never learned of Vitiate's offer—never voiced by that foolish outsider. Zeylek proved too stupid to believe Kaan's promises…
But on the other hand, they were all just toys in the Emperor's hands.
And in his Apprentice's.
Watching the verbal duel between the Togruta and the Lethan, Malgus noted with concealed hope that the latter did not remain in debt, calling the Force to her. Over the years of service as a Hand, the girl had quickly learned one thing: you should always start the fight first.
"I'll be happy to discuss it with you," Ashara smiled. "The Emperor's Apprentice won't mind if I choke you with your own guts, will he?"
The red-skinned woman bared her teeth, igniting a golden-colored blade. Zavros answered her, completing the picture with two more lightsabers and taking her blades ready…
"Stop," Vette intervened, stepping between the girls who were about to throw themselves at each other. "He won't be happy."
"Little whore," Malgus thought. "Ruined all the fun."
The traitor's fate should have been decided back then—when the former Wrath of the Empire sacrificed his companions to hide from the Emperor's Hands…
Just as Valkorion promised him, the Sith Warrior was killed last. With no sentiment, he sacrificed his former lover—Vette—trying to save himself from inevitable retribution. Need it be said that recruiting the Twi'lek proved easy enough? And with her help, tracking down the Warrior's other companions, wiping all of them out except Jaesa Willsaam, became almost a point of honor for the blue-skinned woman. She easily finished off her former lover and helped break Willsaam's will. Valuable acquisitions—ones that more than once helped realize the Emperor's plans.
But here, on this base, Malgus was frankly bored.
Odessen turned out to be a very trivial, impossibly dull world. The famous balance of the Force—on the basis of which Dougan had chosen the planet—brought only a calm that disgusted the Sith.
Sith blood demanded action—preferably the kind where a battle raged all around…
Why in the void did Dougan call these two Jedi women? He was at war. He needed a commander, a man of action—not these contemplatives.
"Let's go to the operations center," Vette said. "The Master has assignments for us."
"A holotransmission would've been faster," Malgus said irritably, hoping at least for a verbal exchange.
But the girls ignored him, silently heading deeper into the base.
***
According to Vette, the atmosphere in the current operations center fully matched what had reigned here in the days of the Eternal Alliance.
Arranged around a massive ancient holoprojector—which, notably, worked perfectly even four thousand years later—the three Hands watched as the fourth adjusted the equipment.
"And why does she have the message from the Master, not you?" Ashara asked Atroxa.
The Lethan shrugged calmly.
"I don't rule his thoughts," she replied.
"Oh, we know what it is you rule over for him," the Togruta waved it off. Seeing incomprehension on the Lethan's face, she added, "We all know how you spend his evenings."
"Less jealousy, sweetheart," Atroxa smiled. Malgus thought with disgust that the Sith lady wasn't embarrassed by a reputation of easy virtue. Though, he recalled, she never had been. The entire Imperial Navy knew exactly how she earned her appointment on Coruscant. Sith, moffs, admirals… who hadn't ended up in that slut's arms?
Disgusting. While Sith schemed and wove intrigues against each other, she simply spread her legs in time for the right sentients.
Over the years of serving the Emperor, more than once Malgus had thought he wouldn't be surprised if someday he learned that she earned her place among Valkorion's Hands with the same part of her body.
"And who's jealous?" Ashara snorted with laughter.
"You're jealous," Atroxa savored every word. "Believe me, girl—if you don't want to die of old age on this chunk of rock surrounded by antiques, get over your pride. In the end…" The Lethan rolled her eyes and licked her teeth with the tip of her tongue, predatory. "It's worth it."
"Could you stop?" Malgus growled. What was that blue-skinned one still fiddling with?
"Easy there, big guy," Atroxa snorted. "You haven't had a chance since the Empire."
Malgus warned her with a slow shake of his head. That woman had always known how to manipulate men. But not him. He had overcome his weakness, and fleshly pleasures didn't concern him.
"I'll take your word for it," Zavros snorted. "With your experience…"
"You don't believe me," the red-skinned beast smiled. "Ask Vette."
For a second, the Togruta froze, mouth open.
To be honest, Malgus was surprised too. Not that surprised—after all, Vette, like Atroxa, was a Twi'lek, and loose behavior was in their blood. Still. Unexpected.
"Oh, there's that port!" came from the blue-skinned smuggler. The girl emerged from under the holoprojector terminal and inserted a data chip into the receiver slot. "Let's take a look at our assignments…"
Her hands fluttered over the keyboard.
Atroxa and Zavros devoured each other with their eyes. The first—with a certain triumph. The second—with distrust and a touch of disgust.
At last, the Togruta couldn't stand it.
"Vette!" the former Jedi called the Twi'lek. "I have a question for you…"
***
While the aliens went off to whisper, Malgus brought up the information about his assignment on the holoprojector screen.
Unlike the Emperor—who set tasks simply, succinctly, unambiguously, issuing orders through the voice of his toady Harth—this mission from Dougan…
A stream-of-consciousness mess. Words, words, words, historical references, words again…
Nothing specific.
Only references, musings tied to Revan, his struggle with his own apprentice… Malgus prepared to close the file and ignore the assignment, but his eyes caught what was written in the last paragraph.
"The Star Forge is not the only station the Rakata created. You know what I'm talking about. Activate the station before my return."
Rereading the order, Malgus felt like the air had been sucked out of him.
Once, the Rakata—the dark side's servant species—created a fully automated station that produced droids and ships faster than any shipyards in the universe could.
The Star Forge.
Revan and Malak—two fallen Jedi subjugated by the Emperor—set out to search for it. Had the Empire gained the power of endlessly reproducing fleets, it would have become invincible and would have swept the Republic away in an instant.
Malgus didn't know the details, satisfied with scraps of rumor. But over thousands of years of serving the Emperor, he uncovered this secret too.
Revan and Malak turned against each other. The Republic supported Revan, twisting him with the light side. As a result of a massive battle in the Rakata's home system, Lehon, the Forge was destroyed. The fallen Jedi's empire collapsed.
Revan spent three hundred years in the Emperor's captivity. The Jedi freed him and allowed him to pursue his revenge. Revan managed to keep it hidden from the Emperor—who had studied his prisoner for three centuries—that the Forge had a younger sister: a station called the Foundry.
Even if its resources couldn't match the Forge, in skilled hands the Foundry could bring half the galaxy to its knees.
Revan used it to produce war droids. When the strike team under Malgus's orders seized the Foundry and disposed of Revan, the Sith set his sights on it.
No one—not even the Dark Council—knew that the Emperor's Wrath, Darth Nox, a bounty hunter, and an intelligence agent had preserved the Foundry. Even then, planning his New Empire, Malgus understood what would be at stake.
A trump card like the Foundry had to play its role. Malgus sent thousands of scientists to the Foundry to unlock its secrets.
The moment the Emperor was felled by the Jedi and the Dark Council rushed to tear each other's throats out, Malgus announced the creation of his New Empire.
The Foundry, hidden in a new system under Anomid camouflage fields, waited for its hour.
It didn't get it.
The reports sent by the outsiders forced Malgus to abandon using the station.
A creation of the dark side, the Foundry drove most of the scientists insane. The outsiders killed each other by the dozen just to escape the station's influence. Malgus himself visited it. Once.
As a true servant of the dark side, he marveled at the power of the thing. The prospects it opened up almost made him the Foundry's slave. The temptation to let its power flow through him was so great that only monstrous self-control kept him from being subjugated.
He left, swearing never to return. Unable to destroy the ancient structure, he chose to forget it—and wiped every mention.
Now, reading the man's order—find and activate the station—he again felt as if the Force itself had frozen in his veins. Memories surged over him, bringing only a grim sense of an oncoming catastrophe.
Rage burned in his blood.
A boy. A fool. He would doom them all.
To them—to all of them—the Foundry was only a plant. But only Malgus, and perhaps Revan, had seen the true face of that dreadful invention.
It would rip the soul out of its creator, dry his veins, grind his bones to powder—and never stop. The Foundry was absolute evil, so all-consuming that only the Emperor himself could have rivaled it.
The station would spare no one. It would use any sentient as fuel in service of its goals. Aboard the station, Malgus felt its insatiable hunger. Drinking the Force and life energy out of its inhabitants, the Foundry used those who tried to wield it. While sentients received its products—weapons, droids—it used them. Clouded their minds, drove them mad, and fed on those who broke.
From memory, Malgus could reproduce the report of his scientists who opened his eyes to the monster he had been ready to awaken.
"It will never stop executing its program," he murmured the words branded into his mind. "Its mechanisms can sleep for thousands of years, but they will always be ready to work. The Foundry is one big trap for any sentients—Force-sensitive or not. Perhaps that's why the Rakata abandoned it, sending it to a remote system. Its purpose and tasks are unclear, but to fulfill them it will tolerate anyone who can sate its hunger in the Force."
Closing his eyes, Malgus—perhaps for the second time in his life—felt real animal fear. The first time was when he stepped onto the Foundry. The second was now, realizing the man's order required him to return.
"Abyss take you!" Malgus slammed his fist down on the terminal's glass surface hard enough that the holographic text vanished. Glancing around, he saw the few mercenaries—the technicians Harth had hired—hurry out of the room to avoid the Sith's wrath.
Four thousand years wasted.
The secret he had guarded became reality.
How, Hutt take it, did the boy even learn about the station?
His thoughts were interrupted by Atroxa's familiar, provocative, languid heel-clicks approaching.
Seeing the Lethan watching him with interest, Malgus strode toward her in fury, jabbing a finger into the chest of the Jedi's bedwarmer.
"You. You will return to him immediately and make him abandon this plan. The Foundry will destroy us all the way it did its previous masters. Tell him our lives aren't worth becoming fuel for that damned death machine—"
The girl stood before him, smiling. But this time her smile wasn't flirtation or coy play.
It was the hard mockery of the one in control toward his servant.
A suspicion flashed through the Sith's mind…
"Why don't you tell me directly?" The girl's lips moved, but the voice that came from her mouth was not her melodic one at all. Distorted by the Force—a man's voice, whose consciousness had seized the Sith lady's body—Malgus recognized it almost at once.
"Jedi," Malgus bared his teeth. He stepped close enough that Atroxa's perfume reached his nostrils. Grabbing her by the shoulder, Malgus shook the beautiful doll that had become a vessel for his master. "You don't know what you're doing, you—"
In a lightning motion, the Lethan's slender hands seized the Sith's arm and twisted it at an unnatural angle, tearing ligaments and bringing blinding pain. Howling, Malgus instantly summoned his lightsaber hilt to his hand, but he couldn't use it.
"On your knees," the voice thundered in his ears, triggering the Emperor's program of blind obedience buried deep in his mind, "before the dragon of Zakuul!"
The moment the code phrase ended, the Sith collapsed to his knees, driving his armored kneepads into the base's grated floor.
Malgus's body began to shake with fine tremors. Vitiate, the old sadist, had made sure that once a Hand disobeyed him even once, they would never feel the urge again.
The Sith's nervous system burned as if someone had fed power into it from the nearest reactor. His skin relived the memory of countless cuts and flayings. Again and again, scenes of breaking the warlord's bones rose in his mind…
The code phrase dragged to the surface all that pain and suffering the future Hand endured day after day for years, before his will finally gave way. Only the oath of loyalty to a new master ended Valkorion's torture a thousand years ago. Sith sorcery Malgus had never even suspected bound him in service to a ruthless maniac.
And now the dead man had handed his whip to his apprentice.
"I…" The words were spat out with clots of blood. Tearing off a respirator filled with blood, Malgus tried to clear his damaged airway, realizing that every second he lost precious time. His body—receiving no physical injuries—tore itself apart with the experience of past torment. A refined delayed torture for those Hands who, like Malgus, forgot their place. Sith magic—the very thing that halted the aging of each Hand—broke loose, destroying the apostate from within. Malgus knew the price of his salvation. And he was ready to pay it.
"One day," he thought, "I'll tear your limbs from your body and break your spine."
A thought he would live with from now on.
He would rid himself of Valkorion's "gift."
And he would settle accounts with the boy.
"I… swear… loyalty… to your… kriff… teaching…" Blood poured from his throat, nose, ears, eyes in a solid stream. "Master…"
The words had their effect. With two harsh spits, he managed to clear his throat and draw fresh air. The throat damaged in past fights betrayed him with a raw rasp.
Malgus was on all fours.
Crushed. Destroyed.
In a puddle of his own blood.
In the old days he wouldn't have lived a day—other Sith, sensing weakness, would have killed him in the next alley.
Atroxa—or rather, his new master—crouched before him. The new master lifted the Sith's face and stared into Malgus's weakened features with those blue-black eye sockets.
"There will not be a second chance," the Jedi warned through the Lethan's lips. "Obey, or die."
With those words, the Lethan's slender fingers deftly fitted a respirator mask onto his face. Malgus inhaled the now-safe air with relief and, savoring it, fell onto his back. The tremor in his arms and legs reminded him of the public humiliation the Emperor's Apprentice had inflicted.
The boy had learned a new trick—placing his consciousness into the bodies of his Hands.
A technique the Emperor used on his secret agents: the Children of the Emperor. After Vitiate's death, on their own or with Jedi or Sith assistance, all those "Children" were found and exterminated.
Except one.
Kira Carsen. The Jedi woman who went to Dougan.
Only she—or the old maniac himself—could have revealed that link technique to the boy's new true master. Huttspawn.
Out of the corner of his eye, Malgus saw Vette and Ashara standing in the doorway where they had gone to gossip. Atroxa pointed at Malgus lying powerless.
"When you're done staring, help him get his senses back. And get to work."
***
In the past, Kira had been one of the Children of the Emperor—a group of individuals capable of housing the Emperor's consciousness and acting as his secret agents.
Nadia Grell, together with her teacher, had fought against the Children of the Emperor.
Both girls possessed valuable experience that would let me coordinate the Hands' actions from any point in the galaxy. For the most part, that was exactly why I called the girls to Christophsis in person. Reports were reports, but they were obligated to share their knowledge with me.
I called them to my office closer to evening, a day after their arrival. Having postponed Ptar's request for a meeting—delivered to me by the commandant's office chief—I ordered Vizla to lock down access to the floor. The Mandalorian snorted cynically and gave the appropriate orders to the clones.
"You called for us, Master?" Grell asked, entering first.
In the evening twilight, shadows falling over objects in the room caused slight discomfort. I hadn't turned on the lights deliberately.
"Come in," I said, gesturing the girls to the couches as I finished reading Grell's report. I wanted to question the pale-skinned girl right away, but…
The girls sat half-turned, each on her own couch.
"You both dealt with the Children of the Emperor in your time," I began.
Seeing their faces darken, I continued.
"I want you to teach me how to maintain contact with you at a distance."
"Only the Emperor could do that!" Kira declared. "And each of his servants—the Voice, the Children—underwent special training, enhancements… It's impossible to house the Emperor's consciousness without that."
I could feel my initiative wasn't inspiring enthusiasm in them. But that was what they were Hands for: to obey.
"Kira," I said as calmly as possible, "my consciousness is nowhere near the Emperor's." The girl tried to object, but I cut her off. "This isn't a request."
A spark of anger flashed in her eyes, then vanished.
Despite her rebellious nature, she understood the rules of the game perfectly.
"You can't just snap your fingers and move your consciousness into another body," Grell shook her head. "A direct link between subjects matters. The Emperor subjugated us and gained the ability to enter our minds. But he never performed full transfers of consciousness. We only heard his voice, his emotions—nothing more."
"We were taught to believe in the Emperor, to adore him," Carsen added. "To be completely devoted. For all his power, the Emperor couldn't subjugate the mind of a Sith Lord who wasn't prepared or trained."
"Emotional conditioning," I suggested. "They made you open to the Emperor's consciousness. When you turned to the light," I addressed Kira, "you blocked the Emperor's access to your mind. But he took you over aboard the Desolator…"
"I gave in to anger," the girl admitted. "And my mind opened to him."
"Which is," I smiled, "exactly why it's hard to doubt this is a dark side technique. Let's try?"
"I know very little about how the Emperor tuned himself for the link with his agents," Kira admitted.
"But we know that when he used Voices and Children of the Emperor, he remained in a long meditative trance," Nadia added.
"Besides," Carsen reminded, "we need a Force-sensitive utterly devoted to you…"
With inward irony, I noted how subtly Kira marked both her own and Grell's attitude toward me. The girls were absolutely right: they knew only the reverse side of the coin—the actions of the Emperor's "receivers."
But an attempt was an attempt.
"I think our joint meditation will be enough," I said, taking a posture comfortable for freeing the mind.
A moment later, both girls joined their minds to mine.
***
Strangely enough, I even had a subject for consciousness transfer.
And even though Kira was only a couple of meters away, only she had specialized preparation for containing another, more massive consciousness.
In truth, the idea of moving my consciousness into another body—seizing control—interested me from the time I first encountered this technique back when I was still a player in a Star Wars MMO.
Studying all sorts of reference books and online articles about Force abilities with shameless obsession, I picked up fragments of information—often contradicting each other. But in any case, it was information I needed.
I never made it into the knowledge repository on Odessen—yet it held a decent volume of data from the Jedi Order archives, the Sith Order, even the Mystics of Voss. And the fact that knowledge had been accumulating for over four thousand years said nothing at all.
There was a small library aboard the Defender and each Fury. But the lack of time didn't let me absorb anything new.
Of course, my head held knowledge of Jedi training, Force techniques my predecessor learned from Valkorion. Even Kun's understanding fit in my skull.
But I wanted more.
Partly, by moving my consciousness into the bodies of my Hands, I could solve an urgent problem: getting new information while I was here on Christophsis, under siege.
Can the state of meditation be described in words?
It can. Peace, tranquility…
But that's for Jedi.
Controlling another body required the dark side. And, to be honest, of Sith meditation—aside from Naga Sadow's Battle Meditation—I had heard for the first time. Still, Atroxa was always at my disposal…
And, oddly enough, on this question as well.
Guided by my memories, I drew strength from my followers. The Force flared in us like three brightest flames, illuminating the entire astral projection of Christophsis.
Watching them—and myself—from the side, I saw with no small surprise that my flame raged stronger than my companions' lights. Did it mean something? Perhaps. I would have to sort it out later.
Wrapping myself in the girls' Force, I began projecting my consciousness into Kira. At first, nothing happened, but then I felt faint flashes of foreign emotions.
Her emotions.
Distrust. Kira's will—never broken by the Emperor—refused with every fiber of her soul to accept my vision of the future. With the Force, she managed to hide her negative assessments from me, but now, when the world around us wasn't burdened by bodily shells, I could read her like an open book.
And the girl didn't seem to suspect it.
Pain. I saw her wound—the loss of her beloved. I saw her hope for his return. Somewhere deep inside those emotions I sensed a hidden triumph and spiteful anticipation, an expectation of an inevitable threat to herself.
But that "surprise" lay very deep in her mind, surrounded by countless thin strings. I didn't dare disturb them.
Circling the girl's consciousness, I grew more and more disappointed in my assumption. Her mind remained closed to me. Pushing through the thickets of surface emotions and sensations, I reached the core of her consciousness. And, to my surprise, I noticed it was surrounded by an impenetrable sphere that reflected every attempt I made to penetrate.
After hundreds of attempts to break through, I had to withdraw and leave Kira's mind.
But I found numerous cracks and small breaches in her defenses. Not enough to break through, but quite acceptable for projecting my thoughts. Probably that was the loophole the Emperor used to gain control and transmit his thoughts to her after her captivity.
Next, I turned my attention to Nadia.
The Sarkai girl was in complete serenity.
No emotions—only calm. Her consciousness didn't resemble the chaos of feelings that raged in Carsen. The pale-skinned girl had an inner peace, and empty fears didn't trouble her.
Like Kira, she mourned a lost beloved. But that loss remained in the past.
There was no anger in her, no hidden thoughts.
Her attitude toward me could be called indifferent—like office workers treat the boss of a neighboring department. Yet I still sensed a certain interest. The fate of the galaxy and the fate of the Jedi weren't irrelevant to her. She seemed to have taken a waiting position, ready to evaluate my actions. And it was like a general policy of her thinking—regardless of what question was on the table.
Of course, it would be foolish to expect that I—and my intentions—could please anyone who came under my command. But the fact that even the Hands didn't believe in me stung.
On the edge of my consciousness, the Emperor's words surfaced: I must subjugate the Hands to myself. They must know their place and superstitiously fear letting me down.
And for that, I needed to speak only one phrase. The very one Valkorion used to control his daughter, Vaylin.
Let ethics stay aside. When you're taking a galaxy, you don't care much.
But if I subjugated that will, would I get only puppets who executed my will, or fanatic Force-sensitives devoted to me—who, like the Revanite Order, would follow me no matter what epic fail I planned?
So many unanswered questions…
But meanwhile, unlike Kira's consciousness, I found no barriers around Nadia's. The temptation was too great.
I needed to bring the Hands under my influence. To seize power over them.
An ambitious, risky, even reckless plan formed in my mind.
I touched her with my mind. I stretched a small strand of my consciousness and touched the Jedi woman's consciousness—deliberately choosing as the point of contact her thoughts about the future structure of the galaxy and the Order.
If it mattered to her—if my words didn't affect her—then let my thoughts find fertile ground among her concerns.
My concept of the galaxy's postwar order had long since settled firmly in my mind. All that remained was to share it with my Hand… Perhaps it would be enough to imagine how I saw the future under my rule?
The Force told me that in the real world the girl experienced a brief disorientation. No matter how carefully I tried, it came out like a bantha in a porcelain shop.
In that same second I felt her heartbeat, the blood flowing through her veins.
I felt my presence in her body. I felt Grell's consciousness nearby—shocked, watching in horror as I opened her body's eyes and looked around.
My own body, frozen in a lotus posture. Huh. Why does nobody tell me my hair is a mess and it's grown out too much? I look like a bum in armor.
Kira sitting nearby, knees tucked under her in a prayer posture…
Feeling inner triumph, I guided the Force and nudged the datapad on my desk slightly aside.
I had power over another body. I could break beyond the boundaries of my own mind.
Bite me, Harry Potter.
In this universe, Dark Lords have better cookies.
I should wrap it up. I felt a light tremor appear in the Sarkai body's hands, and blood spill over the girl's lips, running down from her nostrils.
I hurriedly left her consciousness, minimizing the damage from my presence as best I could.
Outside the body, I focused on Atroxa's image—familiar, known in every centimeter of her body… The moment I managed to find her through the Force, my consciousness surged across the galaxy toward the coveted goal.
The Lethan—at first stunned by the intrusion—easily yielded control, welcoming and desirous, inviting me into her tender body.
Using her emotions as a beacon, I broke into the Sith lady's mind without any reverence at all.
***
Returning to my body, I felt profound exhaustion.
Opening my eyes, I noticed Nadia and Kira's worried looks. Touching my face, I felt my fingers brush something sticky.
Pulling my fingers away, I noted with some indifference that it was blood.
"You… are free," I said with difficulty. Then, catching myself, I added, "Thank you, girls. Sorry for the discomfort… I…"
"It's all right," Nadia said quickly. I didn't miss the fleeting confused look Kira threw at her friend—as if Carsen had expected something else from her…
"You should rest," I decided, rising to my feet. Severe dizziness nearly made me fall, but the Force let me catch the edge of the desk.
"So should you," Kira remarked.
I nodded.
"So should I."
***
I slept for almost a day, waking in the evening.
The sensation of mild nausea and dizziness hadn't gone away.
A headache appeared. Frankly, not the best feeling.
With some effort, I made it to the fresher and got myself back in order.
I brought only two sets of armor to Christophsis. A Sith Warrior's gray-steel armor with a mask and a matte-black cloak with blood-red lining and sleeve trim—armor that had become my second skin over the course of battles.
And a Jedi Knight's armor gathering dust in the wardrobe, with a cream-colored cloak. The yellow indicator light beneath the chest plates signaled the armor's computer systems were operational.
Many times I'd been about to put on the Jedi set, but I always returned to the garb of Vitiate's Imperial warriors.
Sighing, I pulled on the Sith armor again. Throwing the cloak of light shadow-silk over the suit, I noted with displeasure the cloak's many damages: tears, snags, scorch marks from blaster bolts…
A pity that so rare and costly a fabric—one that muffled almost any sound—was ruined. I would have to find and order a new cloak. Thinking, I decided to order cloaks of the same kind, but with silver edging and the legion's banner-emblem embroidered on the right side of the chest.
The last element was the mask: strict, with eye slits protected by polarized lenses, with predatory edges, it cooled the skin pleasantly. Over millennia, the electronics inside hadn't grown obsolete in the slightest—unlike, it must be said, the Republic's electronics of the Cold War era.
The day ahead would not be easy.
The locals, after emotional conditioning, needed their progress reinforced—otherwise, slowly but surely, they would begin to grow disillusioned with their new idol.
Several small but sensitive victories were needed. A couple of small victories that would grow into a large-scale battle…
A decent option, really. All that remained was to plan everything so the victories were ours—not the CIS's.
But first I had to handle routine. As they say, a person is most active after sleep. That had to be used.
For over an hour I studied consolidated reports on mobilization, arming the new militia, organizing training. Fortunately, we had plenty of captured CIS weapons.
I was just reviewing engineers' reports on improvised inventions meant to ease our shortage of heavy weapons. It had to be said: very sensible initiatives. Weld four or six E-5 blaster rifles onto one mount—and there you have a multi-barrel analog of a machine gun. True, due to their design, E-5s tended to overheat…
But it was better than nothing.
Having signed off on producing that sort of weapon, I was interrupted by a cautious knock at the door.
Focusing, I noted with surprise that I'd become so immersed in work that I hadn't noticed Nadia Grell approaching my office. Grimacing at my slip—one day such carelessness could cost me dearly—I opened the door with the Force.
"Nadia," I greeted her, rising from behind the desk.
The Jedi woman wore a dark-blue doublet with armor elements, black leggings with protective plates, and tall heavy boots. Over it, she wore a black hooded cloak meant to conceal weapons and protect from weather.
"Master," she bowed slightly, settling more comfortably on the couch I indicated.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
She smiled. Clearly, the attention pleased her.
"Much better," she answered. "A couple of meditations, and the discomfort went away like it was never there."
"Mmm." Right. Among the extensive legacy I'd inherited from Exar Kun's spirit were several restorative meditations and healing trances capable of using the Force to mitigate harmful impacts on the body. I should try them.
"You look exhausted," the girl noted. There was genuine concern in her voice.
"I slept poorly," I lied. "Nadia—if it's okay, when we're alone let's use first names."
"As you say," she inclined her head. Then, catching herself, she corrected, "As you say."
"That's better," I smiled. Returning behind the desk, I glanced at the datapad where the data crystal with the Hands' reports was still active.
"Kuat refused us?" I asked. The Sarkai girl nodded silently, turning half sideways on the couch. "I didn't manage to finish your report. Tell it in your own words?"
"They're certainly interested in making new credits," she explained. "But their capacity is tied up in Republic orders. What they can spare for us is negligible. One or two dreadnoughts a month is a drop in the ocean. And given the number of Republic officials, inspectors, engineers, security, and so on—our order will stop being a secret to Coruscant bureaucrats very quickly."
Of course I could argue: in my era, Kuat built most of the Empire's Super Star Destroyers in absolute secrecy. But different time, different state.
"And if our order is fulfilled on Rothana?"
"The moment Kuat's representatives heard the planet's name from me, they ended negotiations. On the way back I had to take a winding route to shake their security service."
Not the best news, of course. But I doubted a Sarkai could keep her reputation as the Emperor's Hand for four thousand years if she couldn't lose pursuers.
"Your opinion?"
"Kuat isn't interested in cooperation. They get large and extremely profitable orders from the Republic and see no sense in spreading their efforts on an unknown customer—even though we hold one of the company's largest numbered accounts."
"Corellia?"
"Same. The Corellians are building what they believe is their own fleet in secret; they don't have time for outside major orders. All large and medium slips are occupied building the Corellian fleet. They can only offer us small yards—for ships no larger than corvettes."
"Hm," I mused. At the Corellian Engineering Corporation we held the second-largest numbered account—hundreds of thousands of quadrillions of credits. Enough to cover the cost of dozens of Republic fleets. "We're not exactly spoiled for major players. If this continues, we'll end up without ships. And Sienar?"
"Sienar, to put it mildly, isn't doing great right now," she explained. "Some of their developments didn't pay off, leading to serious financial losses. In essence, the company is ready to sell its work to whoever pays most. But the problem is, there aren't many buyers. The Republic orients around Kuat. The CIS has its own shipbuilders—not as talented, but still capable of mass production. Sienar is fighting to survive. The Senate has slapped their hands more than once for playing with the CIS, but Raith Sienar has good protection in the Republic armed forces. His developments—like the ion engine—openly go to Kuat, secretly to the CIS. Yet despite their promise, the Republic isn't willing to integrate them into already established designs."
"Interesting," I said.
Playing both sides never ended well. But memory told me Sienar's fortunes would only rise. Not for nothing: promising young Tarkin was already in their orbit.
"But despite the bad news, there's good," Nadia admitted.
"Yes? What is it?"
"The CEC might not build new dreadnoughts for us, but it can still help," she began. "It'll be better if I show you."
"Go ahead," I said, handing her the datapad with her report.
Rising, she stepped behind my right shoulder, quickly flipped through several pages, and pointed at an image of a small ship shaped like a "T," with the top bar curved downward.
"The Marauder-class corvette," she presented the starship. "A Sienar design for deep-space patrol and escorting larger ships. The corvette can carry twelve to thirty-six fighters, has eight turbolasers, and tractor beam generators. It can easily be refit into a missile corvette. Several such ships can provide reliable protection for escorted transports or screen larger ships from an enemy's swarm craft."
"Looks like a good machine," I agreed. "Do they produce it for the Republic?"
"The project was developed for them," she confirmed. "But the Senate didn't approve it for procurement. As a result, Sienar—after investing a trillion—has to sell its work under the table to the CIS to recoup costs and save the company."
"Wait," I leaned back, struck by a thought. "We can get a fleet of those ships—and at the same time put Sienar in a vice and take control of the company."
"Our funds in Sienar's numbered accounts would be enough to buy a controlling stake," she admitted. "I discussed it with our top manager after the refusal. He refused to continue, saying it was beyond his authority, but he warned that the company's leadership wouldn't be pleased with such behavior from clients."
"We need to break out of this planet as soon as possible," I decided. "And pay Sienar a visit."
"I'd be glad to accompany you," she said unexpectedly. Catching herself, she immediately returned to flipping through the report.
"I… wouldn't mind," I said—and saw a light blush on her cheeks.
I'll admit: her slip interested me. But I didn't have time to develop the thought, because she pointed her small finger to another image.
"During the Cold War, smugglers praised the XS light freighter for its speed, armament, and spacious cargo hold," she said. A volumetric model of a ship that vaguely resembled the Millennium Falcon appeared before me—more angular, though. "It carried a stock of proton torpedoes and quite decent weaponry that helped it fight off Sith fighters. Often, such freighters turned Sith Star Destroyers into scrap metal."
"The Cold War ended long ago," I said. "And light freighters aren't what we need…"
"These freighters can finally solve the problem of delivering equipment for our army and fleet," she said in a teaching tone. "They can carry up to a company of soldiers—well protected even from heavy artillery. Of course, the ship's design should be modernized by contemporary standards…"
"How many ships will they sell us?" I asked.
"Up to a thousand are in warehouses in the Corellian system," she said, checking her notes. "CEC will replace all electronics, install new weapon systems, and add five twin turbolaser mounts. After the upgrade, such a freighter will be able to fight off any corvette."
"Admit it—you already placed the order," I smirked.
Seeing my positive reaction, she nodded.
"We need ships," she said. "We can't actively use the Harrowers or other conspicuous vessels. But freighters—especially under experienced smugglers—will become not only our transport artery, but our eyes and ears across the galaxy."
"Now we just need to find a thousand crews for them," I smirked.
She looked at me, surprised.
"The best pilots in the galaxy are always born on Corellia, work for the Hutts, and hide on Tatooine," she said as if it were self-evident. "It's worth looking in one of those places."
"Then we'll look," I agreed, anticipating the rest of the report.
"The Rendili Trade Federation, which holds the patent for corvettes like our Defender," she continued, "together with CEC is ready to improve the corvette and produce upgraded Defender variants."
"The ship already underwent modernization on Coruscant," I recalled.
"Our new partners will install two more twin turret mounts of medium turbolasers in both the upper and lower hemispheres," Nadia explained. "And they'll replace the paired side turbolasers with single heavy ones. By the end of the refit, the ship will have quite solid firepower. It will be able to deal with CIS frigates on its own."
"Even if I say no, it won't stop the modernization, will it?" I asked with a snort.
Grell nodded.
"I understand my actions went beyond the scope of my tasks," she admitted. "But what use are numbered accounts on Corellia if we can't use them?"
"Sound thinking," I approved. "If Corellia is striving for sovereignty and creating its own armed forces, it can lead to a simple nationalization of our accounts."
"I thought the same," she nodded. "Especially since the Jedi Enclave on Corellia doesn't interfere in galactic affairs, limiting itself to its home system."
"That works in our favor," I smirked.
The "green" Jedi, in general, didn't pay proper attention to much of anything. Turning to Grell, I said, "How many upgraded Defenders did you order?"
"So far, a hundred," she admitted. "The new ships will have reinforced armor and be able to endure fire from heavy turbolasers…"
"I take it that won't be cheap, will it?" I said with a smile.
"A practically custom order," she began to justify herself. Then, lowering her voice slightly, she said, "One and a half million each."
"Acceptable," I approved. "You did excellent work."
A fact that couldn't be denied.
She accepted the praise with a smile. Then she added, "By the end of my visit to Coruscant, I received some interesting information."
"What kind?"
"The Republic struck Charros IV. The Haor Chall Engineering company has been completely destroyed. The company's shares fell on the galactic exchange…"
"Haor Chall?" I repeated. "I don't recall that corporation."
"They manufactured most of the CIS's well-known equipment," she said, flipping further. Finding an image, she voiced the info. "The C-9979 landing craft. The HMP droid gunship. A variable-geometry droid starfighter. The mechanized assault flyer. And the IG-227 Hailfire droid tanks we know. Haor Chall created and tested on Dantooine the Seismic Tank that Master Mace Windu destroyed a little over a month ago."
"And what about Dooku?" I asked. An entire promising company had been wiped out by a successful Republic raid.
"The CIS appropriated Haor Chall's developments, and the workers were essentially thrown to the wolves. Now the corporation's leadership is trying to save itself, offering its services to the Republic. But as you understand, the Senate's bureaucrats…"
"Can we buy this company?" I asked.
"Why?" she said, surprised. "I thought it would be easier to buy their patents—they're being sold for next to nothing, but without complex production they're useless. That's why they still haven't been bought. The Republic doesn't need them, and the CIS reproduces them without any permissions."
Interesting. A whole corporation for pennies…
"Any other news?" I asked.
"The last company I visited is Incom."
"Incom?" I recalled the company that would later give the Alliance its best ships. "But we don't have numbered accounts there."
"With them, it's much simpler," she smiled. "In practice, they were left out when the big pie was divided. Kuat, Rothana, even Sienar to some extent—all winners. But smaller companies have to survive on random contracts. In Incom's case, those are contracts for the ARC-170. Even though the Republic gave them a lucrative contract, ARC-170s are highly demanded by the navy, the company can't exist without full utilization of its capacity. The initial Z-95 order—meant to solve the shortage of light fighters for the clones in the fleet—will end in just six months, by the end of the war's first year. And the Republic military has no intention of extending contracts. Incom's leadership will lose the lion's share of profits, which already gives most employees a nervous tic."
"You decided to lure them over?" I smiled.
"I only voiced an offer," she returned the smile. "Incom's leadership wants a meeting with my boss."
"Well," I concluded, "we need to break out of this planet as soon as possible."
***
Nadia's report couldn't fail to please me. Thanking her once more, I asked her to leave me.
I needed to think.
Of course, not everything went the way it should have, and we still don't have a contractor to build Harrowers.
But Rendili StarDrive is ready to earn its credits and build us a Hammerhead and Thranta fleet. Up to a thousand ships of each type. Let's assume. Plus two hundred Dreadnoughts. Rendili did jack up the price, though. Still, the money isn't mine. If the numbered accounts run dry, it's enough to pay a visit to the Imperial Station's warehouses, stuffed full of aurodium.
Freighters are a thin trickle of cargo hauling that still has to be organized.
Defenders—let's assume they can be used as consular diplomatic ships. Or personal starships for the Jedi who join me.
Furies… We'll keep them as the ships of my Hands.
Sienar… A name that makes any Star Wars fan think of light Imperial fighters. But Sienar did more for Palpatine's Empire than anyone else. Sienar gave Palpatine's ships the solar ionization reactor—the massive semicircular hunk under the belly of every Imperial Star Destroyer was called exactly that. It was thanks to Sienar's development, together with their ion engines, that the Empire's ships had an enviable advantage in power generation and speed compared to their peers and competitors. And until someone else gets their hands on those inventions, I should be the one to do it.
Incom Corporation… those guys could take the load off Rendili by taking over fighter production. Maybe they'll offer a more interesting alternative to Claws and Aureks.
And for dessert: a corporation stripped of home and livelihood… too tempting a morsel to pass up.
Still, there's no point forgetting the Foundry either, which is meant to create myriads of "Neboviks" for conquering the galaxy.
Leaning back in my chair, I tried to picture Atroxa…
***
The Sith Lord loomed on the bridge of the dreadnought "Pobeda" like a gloomy monolith as it, together with two of its siblings—"Oslyabya" and "Peresvet"—slipped out of hyperspace. The triangular, predatory hulls of the Harrowers shifted into a cruising formation with Pobeda in the lead and moved deeper into the ancient star system.
"Alpha Squadron has left the hangar," Ash Thorne—Pobeda's captain—approached him.
A tall, gray-haired man who once held a high position within the Judicial Corps, he left his last post about five years ago. The Republic's bureaucracy, bribery, and other vices of the nominal state sent the Alderaanian into retirement.
That was where Harth found him.
Cunning as a wild beast, the Emperor's Hand bent the captain-judiciar into service under a new master. Sometimes Malgus wondered what had made a once-loyal commander of the Republic's law-enforcement forces switch sides.
Thorne entered the Empire's service with several of his acquaintances, who now commanded Oslyabya and Peresvet. The only fully manned Claw squadron consisted of mercenaries—whose number on Odessen grew larger with each passing day.
"You organized patrols?" the Sith asked.
"Yes," Ash replied. Then, catching himself, he added, "Lord Malgus."
Malgus drew a loud breath, pulling the bridge's filtered air through his respirator. The dark side of the Force reigned supreme in this star system. He had been here before, hiding the treasure of his New Empire.
And now he had returned to reclaim what he'd hidden.
With hatred, the Sith thought about having to surrender what he had preserved at such a high price. Hundreds of Anomids—brilliant engineers and scientists—had been slaughtered by him to keep the secret.
"So this is it? Here?" the Lethan's voice sounded on Pobeda's bridge, empty like the ship's other decks.
The Twi'lek was in a markedly elevated mood after their new master mastered the ability to project his consciousness into the bodies of his servants. The Sith had felt it on his own hide. Bowing to the Emperor's Apprentice, he had effectively handed himself over for the latter's unrestricted use. If the boy wished, he could crawl into Malgus's mind too and turn him into a puppet.
With a composed expression, the Lethan stared at the endless blackness of space, where eight planets basked in the light of a yellow sun, with countless moons. Here and there, huge chunks of metal drifted through the void—remnants of an ancient catastrophe. The last battle in this system had filled the star lanes with debris that Malgus's ships could barely pick their way through. His flagship, "Smiting Hand ," took heavy damage while towing the station, so he had to abandon it here, retreating aboard "Vershitel."
"Yes," Malgus rasped. "In orbit over the second planet."
"So close to the primary?" the girl sounded surprised.
"It's a volcanic world. Direct access to raw materials," Malgus explained. "The system's star is too weak to do any harm. Over the millennia it was used by this system's inhabitants, it diminished severalfold."
"Interesting," the Twi'lek smirked. "So you brought the station back to the home of those who built it?"
"This system has been forgotten," Malgus snapped. "The safest place to keep such a dangerous artifact. The dark side is strong here and masks the Foundry's emissions perfectly. Neither Sith nor Republic troops would ever stick their noses in here…"
"They did, when Revan returned," the girl objected. Then, listening to her own sensations, she added, "And the dark side here is… faded…"
"If they had found the Foundry," Malgus countered, "Revan would have finished what he started."
"Fair," the Twi'lek unexpectedly conceded.
"What station are we talking about?" Pobeda's silent commander suddenly asked.
"You'll see soon enough, Captain," Malgus promised.
Reaching out to the Force, he noted with some confusion that the Lethan's words were true. The old aura of the dark side was no longer present here. Still, over four thousand years even Korriban had lost its grandeur.
Malgus had once been faithful to the Emperor. Then he betrayed him, seeing Vitiate's death as the weakness of both him and his Empire. Unfortunately for Malgus, Vitiate did not forget betrayal.
Like a hunting trophy, Malgus—frozen in carbonite—hung in the Emperor's private vault until his turn came. After years of torture, he acknowledged himself as Vitiate's servant. Whatever masks the Emperor wore, he remained the same one who annihilated peoples to satisfy his ego.
For thousands of years Malgus carried out the Emperor's will: eliminating the unwanted, gathering lost secrets of the Empire, preparing ground for a new Empire. He savored the day he could once again break into Coruscant and raze the Jedi Temple to its foundations.
The Emperor promised him.
And what now? Vitiate makes a Jedi his apprentice—his first after himself. And all the Emperor's former Hands—except, perhaps, Harth—become pawns in this boy's hands.
Yes, the Jedi wasn't so simple—he handled Niman decently enough, was proficient with the Force. But he was still only a boy. He had no understanding of the Sith path. Darth Sidious—he was the one who should have inherited Vitiate's power. A true Sith: cunning, driven.
But the boy didn't even know what he was doing. Out of dozens of options, he chose Odessen—a backwater world on the fringe of the galaxy.
All for the sake of balance in the Force.
If he could, he would have spat.
Malgus silently carried out his orders: inspected the station, restored the security systems, repaired the squadron's ships. Grinding his teeth, he renamed each dreadnought: "Retvizan," "Tsesarevich," "Pobeda," "Peresvet," "Oslyabya," "Sevastopol," "Poltava," "Petropavlovsk," "Borodino," and "Oryol."
Names that grated on the ear and made him bare his teeth.
And now these Twi'lek whores show up on Odessen and start giving orders. They were never meant for anything more than sliding under someone at the right moment. Every Hand knew Atroxa didn't even wait for an invitation—she spread her legs for the Jedi herself. And judging by the arrogance that appeared in the blue-skinned one's behavior, she followed the Lethan's example.
Vette took "Oryol" and "Borodino" with her. Along with a legion of droids and the last Fury aboard. Any questions were met with nothing but a loaded look and smug superiority. Such audacity was forgiven only in Harth—Vitiate's favorite.
But not in these loose women.
Even though it enraged him to be taking orders from Atroxa, he obeyed.
He prepared three Harrowers, loading them with a legion of "Neboviks."
And he personally set a course for the Lehon system.
The ancient homeland of the Rakata. The place that became the cradle of the Infinite Empire. The source of their immeasurable might.
Here, amid the aura of the dark side, he had hidden the Foundry. Radiating the power of the dark side, the station could sit here for thousands of years and remain undiscovered—by anyone except the one who left it here under the cover of the most perfect camouflage field.
"Captain Trodd on the line," the holoprojector activated, a small figure of "Peresvet's" commander appearing in the beam. In contrast to Thorne, Gabriel Trodd wasn't tall or lean. A short, heavyset man with a receding hairline, he had lived half a century and spent many of those years hunting pirates in the Outer Rim. But age hadn't dulled his mind.
"We're seeing a drifting ship on the scanners, Harrower-type. Is that one of ours?"
"That ship has been abandoned for a long time, Captain," Malgus cut him off. Then he added, "But we should try towing it and repairing it."
"Understood," the heavyset man replied. "Moving in on the ship."
Left as a pair, Pobeda and Oslyabya closed in on the geostationary orbit of the second planet from the Lehon system's sun.
Covered in molten lava and raked by volcanic geysers, the planet's poisoned atmosphere could not preserve even the slightest hint of life.
"Closer isn't advisable," Malgus warned Thorne, who was preparing to bring the ships into geostationary orbit. "The Foundry could have shifted its position over the millennia."
"As you command, my lord," the ship's commander replied.
The station was hidden under a camouflage screen whose emitters made the Foundry's surface mimic surrounding space. Unlike the camouflage screens installed on the Furies, the station's device was a more advanced model—one of a kind.
"Have the shuttles prepared," the Sith ordered. "The moment I drop the camouflage field, we're heading for the station."
The former judiciar nodded to confirm and stepped aside, passing orders to the few mercenaries still aboard.
Meanwhile, Malgus used the comm console to broadcast a long sequence of Aurebesh letters and numerical strings on an open channel.
Atroxa watched the Sith warrior's actions with interest, not forgetting to glance at the main viewports.
Finally, after spending several minutes at the controls, the warrior pulled away from the keyboard.
"Camouflage is down," he explained.
"But," Atroxa observed with a smirk, "the Foundry still isn't there."
Before the Sith could reply to his companion, the ship's commander cut in.
"Something large just appeared on the scanners," he ran up to the main view screen. "It'll be in visual range any second…"
Combat-alert buzzers sounded throughout the ship, but everyone aboard understood that none of the three vessels could withstand a proper line battle. Each ship had no more than a couple dozen people aboard—far too few to use the ships as intended.
"Captain," the Sith took command. "Wake up the 'Neboviks,' prep them for boarding. Recall the squadron—have it ready to deliver—"
"It can't be!" Atroxa cried out.
The Lethan couldn't contain her horror and admiration as she stared at the massive structure slowly drifting toward the pair of Harrowers.
A colossal metallic core—about the size of a small moon—covered in a latticework of metal structures, with armored plating in places, shone with thousands of lights. On three sides, the core was framed by huge "fins," tens of times longer than Pobeda, in which numerous hangar decks could be made out—protected by energy shields that glittered in the red planet's reflected light.
At the base of those "fins," like a giant smelter, white-orange flame raged, its streams reaching down to the planet's surface, sucking up molten magma.
"This can't be real," Atroxa said in a trembling voice.
With grim determination, Malgus watched as the largest battle station in the galaxy closed in on them.
"Captain Thorne," the Sith addressed the human. "Cancel combat readiness. Keep the ships at a distance from the station. Prepare shuttles and boarding teams."
"At once, my lord," the judiciar snapped himself into motion and began issuing orders.
"Move," the warrior roughly tugged the stunned girl by the shoulder. "It's time we went to the station."
As they headed for the lift, Malgus—lost in grim thoughts—finally found the answers to the questions that had surfaced: what the Foundry's purpose was, and where the dark side had vanished to from the Rakata's home system.
The Foundry had evolved, absorbing the wreckage of its predecessor and saturating itself with the aura of Rakata Prime.
And even though he understood nothing good could come of what had happened, an order was still an order.
He was obliged to bring the greatest automated Star Forge in history under the will of his master.