"I'm curious why you chose this place," Kira muttered. "It's like it has some symbolic meaning for you."
Rick shook his head.
"There are no witnesses here," he explained. "We mustn't reveal your identity."
"Yeah, yeah," the girl muttered, tossing her cloak aside. A double-bladed lightsaber was in her hands in an instant.
"Last time you fought Malgus, it was like you were pulling movements out of memory, wrenching joints," the Hand recalled. "It really got under Malgus's skin. And it made you vulnerable. If he hadn't had orders, the Sith would've killed you in the first couple of minutes."
"Didn't know you were watching," the man replied, remembering. "Otherwise I'd have tried to go all out."
"That day has come," Kira told him and ignited her twin blades. Golden beams played in her hands, weaving endless chains of thrusts, surrounding the girl with an impregnable wall of energy.
In response, the Emperor's apprentice unclipped his own weapon from his belt. A shimmering golden blade burst from a richly inlaid hilt with a low hum and hiss.
The opponents took their stances and began to circle each other slowly.
"My saber doesn't have a training setting," Kira warned. "I can kill you easily if you slip up."
"Prove it."
He lunged forward, and the fight boiled over.
***
Resting after her previous spar with Rick, Nadia gladly drank water diluted with fruit juice.
The three of them trained in the abandoned university building, not far from the monument erected in honor of the fallen clones. The spacious storage room, windowless, with a single exit, was better suited than anything else for secret sparring.
Watching Kira and Rick train, the Sarkai girl expected the Emperor's apprentice to open aggressively, but the ferocity of his attack still caught her off guard.
He started with a series of overhead strikes, gripping the saber with both hands and bringing the blade down from his full height. Kira, stunned by the crude strength so unlike Niman, still blocked the blows easily with her double-bladed lightsaber. But the force Rick put behind his strikes was such that the girl had to give ground, and for an instant she even lost her balance.
Still, she recovered quickly and slipped away from Dougan's rising cleaving strike, one that could have split her from hip to shoulder. She caught the blow on one of her blades, dropped low, spun around her axis, and at the same time answered with a quick thrust to her opponent's face. Rick only tilted his head aside, shoving the girl back with the Force.
"Not bad at all," the girl commented. "Strong attacks from a Niman practitioner are something few people expect."
"Well, I don't have that many opponents with lightsabers," the Jedi smiled. "For example, Atroxa with her Ataru gave me trouble."
Kira laughed from the heart. Grell, hiding a smile, buried her face in her knees.
Atroxa, like Malgus, was a practitioner of Shien—the Fifth Form. Atroxa had mastered Ataru only during the Ruusan period, at the Academy on Coruscant, in her fruitless attempts to recruit the Sith Lord Kaz'im. Still, as Nadia suspected, Atroxa—with her ambitions—couldn't ignore the chance to gain knowledge of other lightsaber forms. She just didn't advertise it, as befit a Sith.
Grell herself preferred the defensive style of Soresu, which she had mastered to perfection over thousands of years. Together with a double-bladed lightsaber constructed so it could change the length of its blades, her form created an impenetrable defense. Her friend, despite a similar weapon, remained faithful to Makashi. During the Cold War era, the girl was always at the spearpoint of the attack, so in those days, when every other person carried a lightsaber, she chose the best lightsaber form against her own kind. Over millennia, her style wove in dozens of elements from other forms, granting her, among other things, comparatively decent protection against blaster fire.
Kira answered with a quick thrust to the face with one of her blades, but Rick slipped his head aside and immediately delivered a sweeping cut at her heart.
Ashara expanded her arsenal not only with Jar'Kai, familiar to her since the Jar'Kai War, but also Ataru. Malgus, though still faithful to his Shien, never hesitated to draw on Makashi's toolkit. Still, more than once he was seen training in Juyo, but the Sith warrior never demonstrated full use of that style in actual battle.
Meanwhile, the training continued. Rick—standing in the traditional stance of Niman adherents, a two-handed grip, blade angled toward the ground—suddenly burst forward, spinning around his own axis and striking from low to high. Kira dropped to one knee instantly, but caught the blade on one of hers, tilted her saber, and redirected his strike downward. The tip of Rick's blade dug into the permacrete. That should have left him open to a counterattack, and Kira took it. Holding Dougan's blade pinned to the ground, she snapped upward from her kneel and struck at his head with her second blade, forcing Rick to defend. He seemed to hesitate, and instead of stepping back and breaking distance, he raised his left hand to protect himself…
Nadia cried out, realizing the man wouldn't react in time…
Kira's golden blade ricocheted off a pale, translucent Force barrier projected by Rick. Letting out a startled yelp, the girl sprang back, deactivating her blades.
With interest, the man held the Force barrier before him—a hemisphere projected from his left palm, shielding him from any physical attack.
"Funny," he said. "A terribly familiar technique… Let's call it for today." With an effort of will, he made the barrier vanish.
"I'll be on the Fury," he tossed at his sparring partners. Pulling the face mask of his Sith-warrior armor to him with the Force, he extinguished his blade and left the room with quick steps.
Meeting Kira's eyes, Nadia only spread her hands.
***
"You should've seen it, brother!"
Even though Alpha's voice—like that of the other millions of clones in the Grand Army of the Republic—was similar to every other, he could identify the author of this call without trouble. Not because his ARC brother had any special voice. Just because there were only two of them aboard this ship. And only Baldy knew his comlink frequency—something he was now abusing, distracting his comrade from work.
"Baldy, I'm busy," Alpha said without looking away from the tactical holoprojector, his comlink on speaker mode.
"Just look. It's super—"
"We've got less than half a day left to finalize the attack plan," Alpha said with mild irritation, "and you're fooling around. We're still behind schedule…"
"But this armor is just awesome!" the other ARC's excited voice came from the speaker. "Why didn't they give us armor like that?"
Alpha had known Alpha-22—an ARC trooper, named Baldy by the general under Kaminoan conventions—since birth. Like all his brothers. But out of the entire hundred commandos of the Alpha line, only Baldy couldn't keep his mouth shut during mission planning.
One of the Kaminoan scientists once said that Alpha-22's talkativeness compensated for strong emotions—fear, for example, or joy. As if unstoppable chatter helped him regain inner calm.
"They designed us excellent armor, Baldy," Alpha said in a lecturing tone.
For the second hour he studied the holomap, carrying out the general's order: devise an attack plan on the CIS positions. By holding the Northern and Southern megacities, as well as a foothold in the capital, the Seps effectively deprived the Republic of operational maneuver. A dozen settlements on the planet—aside from the three megacities—interested almost no one. The droids limited themselves to patrolling those towns, while militia occasionally staged ambushes, sharpening their guerrilla tactics.
It didn't change the overall picture. The capital, protected by an energy shield, could ignore bombardment from the enemy's orbital forces. But the moment Republic troops left shelter, enemy air power struck them—without any escape.
"I'm telling you, it's better," Baldy wouldn't let up. "Just look. One glance."
Shaking his head, the clone commando finally tore himself away from the terminal and made his way across the ship's compartments with the firm intention of chewing his brother out. And, to be honest, once he saw him, he started worrying about something else—how not to get it from the general.
After the arrest of the former guard captain, some unrest started among the locals. The general, fearing an information leak, sent both commandos to the ship of his mercenaries, where they were supposed to process the latest intel and provide their thoughts.
Baldy, bored after several hours of failed modeling, began wandering through the ship's compartments, ignoring Alpha's prohibitions. For self-willed antics like that, the general could rip you a new one—for nothing at all.
Alpha felt very positively toward their general. He didn't fit the image of the Jedi Alpha had seen on Kamino. He didn't brag about the mythical Force. He didn't disdain wearing armor. He didn't treat clones with the contempt and snobbery the clones already had a taste of on Kamino from representatives of the Order.
Could it be said their general was a good man? In light of recent events—when clones were buried with full military honors—Alpha no longer doubted it.
Alpha couldn't call the general his friend—there was still a sense the Jedi, unintentionally, kept distance from getting close to his subordinates. But maybe that was right. Service was service, friendship was friendship. Even though Jedi, like clones, gave themselves to serving the Republic, Alpha never thought to call himself equal to the Jedi. He and all his brothers were made for war. The Jedi accepted command by necessity.
Unlike his infantry brothers, the ARC trooper wondered what would happen to the clones when the war ended. The Jedi would return to their Temple, but what about him and his brothers? What would become of them?
Alpha was tempted to ask the Jedi, but the man was always somewhere else—either at the front or among the mercenaries. And, to be honest, Alpha feared the answer, suspecting he wouldn't like it.
Baldy's fate, however, was already known to him.
He would strangle him with his own hands.
While Alpha labored over the plans, the other commando stuck his nose where it didn't belong. In one of the compartments he found a storage locker and, with no shame whatsoever, broke into it. Somehow, he brought an armor set into the light and pulled it on.
It had to be said: Baldy was right. The Kaminoan armorers would have given a lot to get this specimen into their hands.
Like clone armor, the base of it was a fabric-armor bodysuit, but thicker than what clones wore. Still, on Baldy it was oversized—the folds gave away the build of its former owner.
The sturdy ergonomic armor elements looked thicker even at a glance than clone plates. Unlike their own armor, the found set wasn't pure white. It was more a gray shade, with many red and gray-black geometric patterns. A bandolier ran from the left shoulder across the chest, with pouches, and at the top of it—hilt down in a sheath—a massive vibroknife was secured.
On the left and right of a narrow cloth belt were armored plates. On the left was an empty blaster holster; on the right, a couple more pouches. Magnetic clamps on the back held a gray-black pack securely—inside it you could hide all of the clones' simple kit and still have room left. At the top of the pack sat a powerful comm transmitter the clones could only dream of having in their armor.
A portable computer and holoprojector were built into the bracers, raising the wearer's autonomy—not just a little. Even Null ARCs likely couldn't boast gear like that.
The helmet inspired the most admiration. Not only were its visors almost twice as wide as those on clone armor, it could form a sealed system with the entire suit. Of course, Kaminoan designs could do that too. A targeting computer, all manner of scanners, a rangefinder. Over the visor, a mechanical sunshade was attached—saving the wearer from harsh sunlight, like on Geonosis, where few of his brothers could see properly. Even visor polarization didn't always help.
"Put it on," Baldy said, showing off, pointing at the chest to his right. "There's another half-dozen like it. All in packaging, like new. Like we were expected…"
"Not new," Alpha objected, pointing at multiple scratches on the plates. "If we were expected, the undersuit would be our size. Take it off, I'm telling you!"
"You'll take it off my dead body," Baldy lowered his voice, threateningly.
Alpha rubbed his temples with effort. Not only had they come up with nothing, now this poodoo had put on someone else's armor. Yeah, they were definitely going to get it…
"Ahem-ahem," the Jedi's voice boomed like thunder on a clear day.
Obeying drilled reflexes, Alpha turned over his left shoulder in place, facing the general standing in the doorway. The man, wearing his usual gray-steel armor, stood with his shoulder against the jamb, watching the clones' reaction with interest.
The clones, meanwhile, snapped to attention and waited for punishment.
"At ease," the man smirked. Smiling, he looked at the clones staring at him with guilty eyes.
"Sir," Baldy began. "This was my fault—"
"Like it?" the general asked unexpectedly. The simple question threw both ARCs off. Alpha exchanged a glance with his brother, hoping Baldy might have caught the hidden meaning. But Baldy failed here too.
"I like it, General Dougan," Alpha said.
"Good," the Jedi smiled crookedly. "Consider it a gift—one set for each of you."
"Sir?" The confused clones looked at each other again. They'd disobeyed orders, broken into his storage, and he wasn't even going to chew them out?
"Change," the man ordered. "And I'll see you in the conference room."
With that, the Jedi turned to leave. Then he tossed over his shoulder:
"The undersuit is fitted by the wrist computer, Baldy," and walked out.
"Yes, sir!" Both clones, as if on command, thumped their fists against their chest plates. The military salute the general displayed at the funeral procession had found its echo among the legion's soldiers and militia.
Alpha didn't like gambling, but if he had to, he'd bet there wasn't another general like this one in the entire GAR.
***
The armor's computer adjusted the fabric—using metallic threads woven into the undersuit—to the clones' physiques. A couple of minutes, and both clones, helmets tucked under their arms, returned to the compartment where the holographic map of the Crystal City rotated slowly above the holoprojector.
The Jedi, hands on the tabletop, studied his palms as if there were something interesting there besides armored gloves and the polymer lining of the suit's inner layer.
"Sir," Alpha cleared his throat, drawing the general's attention. The man looked at them, and a sincere smile lit his face. "We… wanted to apologize for breaking in…"
"It's all right," the man waved it off. "I asked the girls to bring that armor for all the ARCs…"
An awkward silence hung. Everyone remembered Berserker, whose sacrifice ensured victory—and survival—in the last blood-soaked battle.
"Will every ARC get one?" Baldy asked. "On Kamino they said they'd improve our armor, sure, but this radically…"
"That armor wasn't made on Kamino," the man objected. With a gesture he invited both commandos to sit. Once they sat opposite him, he continued. "It was created during the Great Galactic War, when the Republic fought the Sith Empire."
"So we weren't the first clones made for war?" Alpha asked, but got a negative answer.
"That was about four thousand years ago. Cloning wasn't widely known back then, so the Republic recruited its own citizens into the army. But the Republic Army also had commandos—like you. This armor belonged to them."
"It held up well for so many years," Baldy remarked, looking around.
"Built properly," the man smirked, then continued. "The commandos who wore this armor were called Havoc Squad. I pulled the armor out of the vaults of… a certain collector. I figure you need it more than some storage herm-case."
"We're grateful, General," Alpha voiced what they both felt. "Was it worth your attention—caring about us?"
"Of course," the Jedi answered as if it were self-evident. "How could it be otherwise?"
"The thing is," Baldy said, "clones in other legions don't like their generals… and Jedi return the feeling."
The man sighed, like he'd heard the story before.
"Sadly, that's true," he said. "The Jedi didn't return to war because life was good. And unfortunately, the Order didn't teach us how to be generals. So Jedi have to learn military science as they go."
"But that doesn't explain treating our brothers like things," Alpha objected. "You're a Jedi too, you weren't trained as a general either. But you don't risk our lives for nothing. And you don't treat us like 'meat droids'," he added, lowering his voice for the last words.
"Where did you hear that?" the man demanded.
"The brothers talked about it," Alpha answered reluctantly. "When we were preparing to repel the attack on Kamino. When you were assigned to the 204th, many thought you'd be the same as the other Jedi."
"And I'm not?" the man asked.
"No, sir," the clones answered in unison.
"You don't sacrifice us for victory," Baldy said. "The infantry brothers don't understand it, because we're born to fight. We were taught to minimize losses and always achieve objectives, sure, but Geonosis, Kamino… the brothers are already used to us being expendable…"
"You care about the wounded and the dead," Alpha continued, cutting off his talkative kin before he said too much. "On every point, you're better than other generals," he noted.
The man smiled. The praise clearly pleased him.
"Alpha. Baldy," he addressed each of them. "If you ever hear someone call you 'meat droids,' or things," he tapped the vibrosword sheaths fixed to the new armor's bandolier, "use these to make the talker regret it. Whoever he is."
The clones looked at each other. No one expected that.
"I can't answer for all the Jedi in this galaxy," the man continued, "and I don't want to. It's a headache. But those who serve under me will never—hear me, never—put up with insults from anyone. Just because we were born differently doesn't mean anyone can allow themselves that."
The man shook his head.
"I won't tolerate lawlessness from my soldiers," he warned. "But I will never let anyone hurt a single one of them. Remember that. Understood?"
Both clones nodded silently.
"Good," the general concluded. "Should've said it earlier, but the talk never came up. No matter—I'll announce it at the next officers' briefing."
The general's words sat well with Alpha.
On Kamino, when they first met their new general, the legion and the ARCs saw only another commander appointed from above. Later, everything changed.
Alpha began to suspect their commander wasn't simple when he burst into Lama Su's office. And when the Jedi started squeezing additional clone units, weapons, ammunition out of the prime minister with particular insistence, the commando became sure General Dougan was anything but simple. Alpha remembered that the supplies brought with the legion didn't include even half of what the Jedi had wrung from Kamino's ruler. With some quick math, the commando concluded that somewhere, the weapons of an entire infantry regiment had been set aside.
Returning to his memories of Kamino, Alpha suddenly recalled that besides gear, the general had made very specific demands of Lama Su. Over time, that episode had faded—given everything else. But now it surfaced again. Should he raise the question now?
"Well," the general drummed his fingers on the table. "Let's take a look at the attack plan. I've got a couple of ideas…"
"Next time," the ARC decided. Not soon, maybe, but someday Alpha would ask his commander why he needed a full-cycle equipment set for an entire regiment. Of course it wasn't his business—the Jedi knew best—but two coincidences—uniforms for a regiment and equipment for cloning a regiment—couldn't go unnoticed.
***
Watching the stars compress into points and pull the Oryol back into realspace, Vette stared at the world spread out before her.
To be honest, her master's orders weren't clear to her, but she had no intention of disputing them.
Leaving Christophsis, she made perhaps the most heart-wrenching journey of her entire history. After delivering Atroxa to Kamino to meet her master's man, she entered coordinates the man had asked her to memorize and never leave in the navcomputer.
She visited the Emperor Vitiate's homeworld.
Nafema. A barren sphere that left behind a feeling of a seething, invisible abyss.
There was simply nothing living on the planet. Only ancient ruins of cities and settlements, and droids that outlived their masters. Still, there were traces of battles on the planet.
Hundreds of war droids stood frozen forever, struck down by lightsabers. The girl found dozens of corpses—humans and Sith—whose premature death was the result of virtuoso lightsaber work.
Her stay on the planet was brief. Following her master's instructions, Vette found the former Spire—where Valkorion once tormented his daughter. The half-ruined structure still met her master's requirements. A reliable Zakuulan power source—a solar generator—powered the cargo the Twi'leks delivered here: cloning incubators stolen on Kamino. There were five in total, but three didn't survive the Fury's many raids on Christophsis. Still, for her master's plans, even two were enough. Lama Su, whom Atroxa had visited, as it turned out, was not thrilled that someone else knew about his dealings with Dougan, but after a few choking techniques and cuts on his body delivered by the Lethan, he obediently sent the needed information to the Fury over an encrypted channel. Atroxa, who had her own assignment for the prime minister, showed no interest at all in her colleague's mission.
No special skill or expertise was needed—the full cloning program for the required subject was provided by the Kaminoan. All that was left was to add the sample to the incubator and start the process. The prime minister assured her there should be no problems—they had tested the procedure more than once on fully finished products.
Only after making sure the automated cycle system was functioning did her master's loyal servant leave that dead world, returning to Odessen—making a detour to pick up her companion.
Then came the turn of carrying out her master's other plans.
Of course, she was surprised that Dougan established a link with Atroxa—until then, only the Emperor could do that. From the Force-sensitive Hands' accounts, the sensation was something else. In moments like that, Vette thanked the Gods she wasn't Force-sensitive.
Her master changed their tasks. Vette now had a solo mission, though at first it was supposed to be done by her and the Lethan together.
The Master decided otherwise. The Sith pair went searching for an ancient Rakatan artifact. Vette had heard of it, but always believed the station destroyed. Witnessing Malgus's violent reaction when he received the order to find the Foundry, she could only admire her new master's foresight. He clearly suspected the Sith of insincerity—something that had become obvious in front of the other Hands.
Rick, taking over Atroxa's body, broke Malgus again. Just like the Emperor once did, the man forced the warrior to kneel before him and swear an oath of loyalty. It wasn't something the giant enjoyed, but it was still better than death by Sith magic.
Vette shuddered, remembering that the same magic was embedded in her as well. But she didn't have Malgus's stubbornness, so after the incident in the shower, she reasonably decided that voluntary submission to the man was far more useful.
And more pleasant.
Atroxa told her that the Emperor's apprentice literally filled his partner with the Force, heightening sensation. Before that, Vette treated it skeptically. She'd already known one "filler." Besides rage and animal instincts, nothing could be gotten from him. The Wrath of the Empire lived in constant conflict and had no habit of caring about his little slave. When he wanted—she was there. On the battlefield or in bed.
This one, though… was different.
Both as a partner and as a Force-user.
Over four thousand years, Vette had been with many men—almost every known species. All of them enjoyed her sexuality, taking it as owed. Get what you want—sweetheart, be a dear, until next time.
Rick… was different. Of course, he was a man, and after getting what he wanted he even distanced himself a bit from her and Atroxa. The latter was understandable—you had to keep her on a leash. Once she crawled into bed, that was it, you couldn't drag her out. Ashara once laughed that the Force gifted the Sith lady with an insatiable sexual appetite, and that it was the only Force "talent" the Lethan had.
He gave Vette this ultra-secret mission on the night before departure, inviting her on a clandestine date that ended in rough intimacy. Of course, Vette understood he was using her—and once on Nafema, she realized he needed a loyal servant who wasn't Force-sensitive. But she didn't take offense, savoring the moment.
Her new mission continued Atroxa's Kamino mission. For some unknown reason, the man sent the Sith lady together with Malgus. Maybe he wasn't fully sure of Malgus's loyalty.
But one way or another, Vette and her Harrower were now in the skies over the planet Myrkr. Borodino, left in reliable hands, departed for Dantooine.
Truth be told, Vette had never even heard of such a planet before. But through Atroxa, her master explained her assignment.
As often happens, though, everything went off plan.
Despite the perfection of their camouflage system, Harrowers couldn't exit hyperspace invisible. The ships needed a couple of seconds to raise their camouflage screens.
Unfortunately, those couple of seconds were enough for the locals on the planet to take a few unwise steps.
Apparently, her master—though he instructed each of his Hands to recruit worthy candidates into his Empire's service—didn't know this planet was a haven for pirates, smugglers, and other scum from across the galaxy.
"One large freighter on scanners," Atis Farr reported.
A Mandalorian native, Atis—a muscular middle-aged man with a clean-shaven face—belonged to the ancient Mandalorian Clan Farr. Once they aided Revan in the fight against the Emperor, but after Revan's fall they scattered across the galaxy, almost entirely exterminated by both the Empire and the Republic.
The Twi'lek sympathized with them. To the extent she could, over thousands of years she more than once used their services, letting the clan stay afloat. Living on Dxun's moon, in an ancient Mandalorian fortress, the clan couldn't boast strong military power—at most, they numbered a little over fifteen hundred. But unlike other Mandalorians, they honored their traditions and didn't forget those who helped them. That couldn't help but play into Vette's hands…
When the Master needed people, Set Harth tried hard, of course, drawing in various specialists. But they still weren't enough.
That was why Vette had to call the Farr under her master's banner. The conversation was difficult—without lying, Vette told the clan of her master's intention to continue, in part, Revan's work and bring peace to the galaxy. The Mandalorians, to be fair, weren't happy to be dragged into war again, but they also didn't want to remain near Onderon, which joined the Separatists. Besides, refusing help to the one who had saved them for so many years…
All in all, thanks to a small diversion staged by the clan's scouts at the monitoring stations on Onderon, the entire clan relocated aboard both destroyers and then vanished into hyperspace.
"Didn't expect to meet people here," Vette noted.
"That's why they're here," Lew smirked. "The planet is near the Core, and hardly anyone knows about it… a proper paradise for all kinds of spawn."
"They're locking weapons on us," came a voice from one of the stations.
"Shields up?" the clan leader asked. After receiving confirmation, he ordered, "Bring weapons to bear."
"Fighters are lifting from the planet," Vette noted, then added, "And armed freighters."
The Mandalorian laughed. Looks like scum from all over the galaxy was getting ready to rise against two ships armed to the teeth.
"Launch fighters," he ordered.
The clan had a mixed light-force pool—mostly Incom Z-95s—but could also boast a couple of Crusader-class corvettes, the only warships produced by MandalMotors. Even though MandalMotors leadership planned these ships to defend the home system, the new government under Duchess Kryze shut the project down. The clan managed to acquire half a dozen corvettes, paying a ridiculous sum, but now, surrounding the Sith dreadnought with an impenetrable anti-air dome, the corvettes once again proved the Mandalorian government's pacifist shortsightedness.
Meanwhile, the drifters on Myrkr genuinely intended to fight. Their fleet numbered around fifty ships—from freighters barely holding together in vacuum to fairly decent refitted yachts, obviously stolen from less attentive owners. Every one of them was armed, but they could hardly withstand a Star Destroyer's might and its mosquito fleet.
"Open a comm channel to them," Vette asked, watching a hundred Mandalorian fighters trade fire with the enemy.
"Why?" Farr sounded surprised. "Half an hour and we'll wipe them out."
"A couple minutes of talking, and some of them will serve us," the girl winked. She knew the price of smugglers' loyalty—and judging by the number of freighters trying to flee the system, they made up most of the colorful company. "Have your people surround them, but don't shoot."
The Mandalorian gestured, and a lovely female voice flowed from Oryol's bridge.
"There's no need to turn our chance meeting into a slaughter, ladies and gentlemen," the girl said. "We can come to an agreement. I assure you, I have a good offer for each of you. Anyone who wants to earn some money—power down your weapons and return to the planet, where I'll be coming down soon. Anyone who can't wait to die—be my guest, our guns are loaded."
After ten minutes, having torn two dozen holdouts to pieces, the Mandalorian fighters established patrols around the planet, preventing any attempt to break out.
Under guard of a couple hundred "Neboviks" and two dozen Mandalorians in armor with heavy weapons at the ready, the blue-skinned Twi'lek went down to negotiate.
***
Jorj Car'das couldn't call himself a smart man.
But no one could deny him quick wits.
Very young, together with his friends, he set off to conquer space. Naive, hungry for knowledge, for the vast unknown.
The events of five years ago, the weeks of captivity with aliens, changed him.
Becoming domineering, hard, demanding, he lost his boyish fire. Over half a decade, he managed to put together a quite decent smuggling crew—almost two hundred sentients scattered across the galaxy, with a dozen freighters. In the midst of a growing war, few could boast such scope.
Except the Hutts.
But the disgusting slugs were busy with their own affairs. Car'das's small operation didn't concern them—for now. Seeing their passivity, Jorj was already picturing the faces of the underworld bosses he was preparing to knock from the top of the galactic heap.
Back in captivity, Car'das gained invaluable experience from the alien who commanded the defense detachment.
Information.
That was what power rested on. Thrawn showed him the power of information, and now Jorj never missed a chance to get any scrap he could. Who knew when it might be useful?
Still, the appearance above Myrkr—where Car'das's organization kept its main base—of a massive warship was news to him. He knew the types of every Republic warship and their Confederacy competitors, like anyone in his organization.
You needed that knowledge to understand who you could sweet-talk, and who you should run from. But here, Jorj was helpless.
The invaders—represented by a pleasant-looking Twi'lek woman—almost ruined his deal with Booster Terrik. Another Corellian, together with his partner, he had interested Jorj with an offer to buy ancient Jedi artifacts—things that, as Jorj already knew, the Order would buy back, secretly but for huge money.
Sure, it was a pity about the pirates the newcomers slaughtered to the last. But how many times did people have to tell those Zygerrians that haste never led to anything good? So it went. Car'das's gang, Terrik's crew, and a good dozen others returned their ships to the planet and waited for what came next.
Myrkr had served the galaxy's gentlemen of fortune as a temporary refuge for over a hundred years. Over time, a small settlement appeared here, where guests could rest, make repairs, move hot goods. Nothing extraordinary: a couple dozen living modules, a fueling station, a couple lousy cantinas, and clearings cut into landing pads ringed around the central building—Car'das's own residence. He had done more than anyone to make the planet profitable. And if his boys had a share here, why not have his own home? Nothing special—a prefab habitat module, with the ground in front of it covered in local dirty-yellow sand. It was on that sand that every ship captain now stood—forced back to the planet. Many left people aboard their ships, just in case.
They tracked a massive transport—clearly not modern—that took a spot on one of the free pads. Two flights of Z-95s escorting it rose into the air and began patrolling the perimeter.
Jorj, like the others, thought about who they were about to negotiate with. Unlike the mercenaries—there were about a dozen of them, all armed, openly speculating on who their new masters might be—he did it silently.
Few could afford to build a ship like that—no less than seven hundred meters. And the number of turbolasers suggested it wasn't some converted freighter at all.
Booster Terrik paced the sand impatiently, repeatedly grabbing his blaster in a thigh holster whenever he heard some stray rustle from the nearby woods. His partner, like Jorj himself, took a wait-and-see stance.
The guests did not keep them waiting long.
At first, the smuggler thought he'd run into Republic forces—soldiers in gleaming white armor, blaster rifles in hand, surrounded the settlement, driving those who tried to stay on their ships into the center. But after a closer look, he discarded the theory.
No, these weren't the Republic's famous clones.
Droids.
Armored, with jet packs on their backs, but droids.
Mandalorians followed behind them—and you couldn't mistake that armor for anything.
Jorj searched his memory and recalled that among the Mandalorians there was a group—Death Watch—that supported the Separatists. It could be them. Then Mandalorians with battle droids (and what model were those?) would be entirely plausible. But he kept his hypothesis to himself. A Twi'lek woman was broadcasting from the ship, and as everyone knew, the CIS didn't exactly love Ryloth natives. The Zygerrians had filled their pockets hauling Rylothians off-world and selling them in slave markets.
And so, once all of Myrkr's small population stood in one place—surrounded by an impenetrable wall of armed droids and Mandalorians—the same Twi'lek stepped out from behind the latter.
Blue skin, slender body, a pretty face. Jorj only recorded facts. The girl, wearing a light jacket and tight leggings, had two heavy blasters on her belt, which didn't match her sweet looks at all.
"Are you the one who took us?" Booster demanded.
"I won't keep you here a minute longer than necessary," the girl smiled. "I have a mission on this planet," she shared. "And you'll help me carry it out."
"And then you'll help us?" one of the mercenaries—a Trandoshan—snickered, baring his teeth and miming certain well-known motions. "Dibs, I'm first…"
In the next second he dropped like a stone, a smoking burn in his chest. In the crowd's stunned silence, the Twi'lek holstered one of her blasters.
"Anyone else want to talk?" she asked. No one volunteered to become a corpse. "Great," the killer approved. "We'll consider that you're all willing to help me and get a generous reward for it."
"What's the job?" Booster Terrik broke the silence again.
The crowd, shaken by the swift execution, recoiled away from the Corellian in horror. It only amused the Twi'lek and drew laughter from the Mandalorians. Jorj estimated there were only two dozen of them, but he had no desire to start a firefight.
"We're interested in the local lizards," the girl said, still smiling charmingly. Then, seeing the confused faces of the assembled gentlemen of fortune, she added, "Ysalamiri. My master is very interested in them, and he's ready to reward those who work for him generously."
"And if we refuse to catch them?" another bounty hunter asked—the friend of the one cooling on the sand.
Another shot rang out, and the galaxy got rid of one more bastard.
"Looks like the pay question is settled?" the girl asked. Seeing no questions, she smiled again. "To work, boys."
***
With no other choice, Car'das's gang joined the ysalamiri hunt.
To be honest, Jorj knew Myrkr's wildlife only superficially. Mostly because of the vornskrs, who regularly troubled the camp, hoping to feed on slackers. Punitive operations had to be organized, wiping out the predators by the dozen, but the stubborn creatures—whose favorite prey were those very lizards—always returned.
Jorj had no idea why the newcomers might need these little animals. Smugglers and other mercenaries wore themselves out trying to pry the lizards' claws out of the trees. The job went badly. That made the success of Car'das's men all the more noticeable—they delivered the ysalamiri along with chunks of trees. Why strain to pull an animal's claws out of the wood if without those perches the lizards would die?
The Twi'lek, watching the process, noticed and called Jorj over.
"We could just saw down the trees with the same result," she said, pointing at the massive olbio tree fragments Car'das's men were hauling in. "We need lizards, not lumber."
"If you need the lizards alive," Jorj warned, "then don't separate them from the trees. While we're prying their claws out, we'll either kill them or cripple them."
"Yet your competitors have no trouble pulling lizards off their perches," she noted, pointing at bounty hunters dragging the slow animals two at a time. It was hard not to notice the animals looked exhausted.
"And my lizards won't die in a few days because they've got nothing to eat," Jorj objected, adding, "Ysalamiri sink their claws into trees and eat the young bark and shoots. After that, they move on."
"How fascinating," the girl smirked. Turning to the Mandalorian beside her, she ordered him to pass the useful remark along to the other lizard-catchers. "I think my master will pay for your prudence."
"Will the pay be the same?" Car'das nodded toward the two corpses left on the sand as a warning. Following his gaze, the girl smiled.
"We need loyal specialists who know their work," she said. "That scum… consider it a favor to the galaxy."
"And what kind of specialists are you looking for?" Car'das asked.
"Pilots, engineers, soldiers," the girl shrugged. Seeing her interlocutor's surprise, she added, "My master has ambitious plans, a deep pocket, and his own view of how the galaxy should be run."
"Back when people unhappy with the galaxy's order got Mandalorian help, the galaxy drowned in blood," the Corellian recalled.
The girl smiled again.
"You only need to choose what side you and your people will be on," she reminded him. Glancing at her chrono, she turned her attention back to the man. "There's very little time left to decide. Back to work, Jorj Car'das. The sun's still high."
***
When Oryol reached the next point on its route, Borodino was already waiting.
The dreadnought didn't hide, drifting in orbit over the forest-covered planet like a silver monolith.
The two ships exchanged greetings and took up synchronized orbits. The thin trickle of cargo from the first Star Destroyer was joined by a carousel of shuttles and freighters from its sibling, Oryol. Perhaps for the first time in the last four thousand years, this planet was hosting such a large company of guests.
But in the past, on this very planetoid, the galaxy's fate had been decided. Symbolically, it was here that the Master ordered the beginning of his army.
Yavin 4.
Vette would recognize that planet out of thousands.
The place where Revan resurrected the Emperor.
The place where the Hero of Tython put an end to Revan himself.
The place where the victorious march of a new Empire would begin.
"Borodino landed a ground team," Lew reported, as always gathering intel in advance. "They're clearing the area and cleansing the local wildlife."
"The equipment?" Vette asked.
"The deal went through," the Mandalorian confirmed. "Equipment, installation instructions—everything's with us. Borodino is unloading containers, but they don't have enough ships."
"I think," the Twi'lek gave Car'das and Terrik standing beside her a meaningful look, "we can help them."
Both Corellians, not tempting fate in the form of the blue-skinned warrior woman, made the only correct decision. "Credits don't stink," Terrik declared. Jorj was inclined to agree.
After the exhausting work on Myrkr, they received offers that were unwise to refuse. The ones who refused got eaten by vornskrs. Jorj and his gang, Terrik with his partner, and a good dozen other volunteers joined the Twi'lek who never gave them her name. It didn't matter.
Few could brag that a single lizard-catching job topped up their accounts with a six-figure sum. Jorj understood it was only a test—a kind of advance to check the mercenary spirit of the new subordinates. Those who took the money and didn't come back would be found by Mandalorians and made an example.
Whoever their mysterious employer was, he wasn't afraid of conflict with the Hutts and, by the look of it, had deep pockets. Curious—who was he? A senator who imagined himself the new master of life? Or another criminal consortium?
Still, life experience taught Jorj: as long as pockets are full of credits, don't ask unnecessary questions.
"Well then, gentlemen," the Twi'lek rubbed her hands together in anticipation. "Let's get started."
***
Splitting the void with its wedge-shaped hull, Tsesarevich dropped out into normalspace. The dreadnought bristled with dozens of weapons at once, ready to repel any possible attack. But only empty space surrounded the ship, and light reflected off the sought-after planet.
"No ships," Ashara shook her head. However much the Sith lady sulked, the fallen Jedi woman received a separate assignment. And it had to be admitted—unlike Malgus's, the Togruta liked her mission.
Despite the other Hands' suggestions, she didn't take a single living crewmember with her. Only "Nebovik" droids—and R3-T7.
The little astromech, after a full overhaul, proved simply indispensable for her at the base on Odessen. A jack-of-all-trades, it could replace most of the idlers Harth hired.
Gleaming in a new silver-and-gold paint scheme, the astromech handled the hardest tasks the Togruta could trust it with. Bringing the ancient giant military tactical holoprojector online—taking up a good third of the War Room's free space—was the astromech's achievement, no matter how loudly the Rodian engineers tried to dispute it, offering to dismantle the archaic device and sell it to some collector.
She thanked the Force that the astromech was returned to Odessen after Dougan's landing on Christophsis. The little one proved a pleasant companion and quickly built rapport with the base commander.
"R3," the Togruta said to the astromech. "Camouflage the ship and take us into orbit."
The droid, connected through a data port to the dreadnought's central computer, whistled a reply and began transmitting the electronic command.
Soon the ship vanished under a camouflage field.
"Should we land on the planet?" the girl suggested. The astromech beeped happily, sending another burst of orders.
The Sith dreadnoughts' extreme automation made a full crew an unnecessary luxury. R3—with highly advanced heuristic processes—handled that well. But unfortunately, for full operation the dreadnought still needed living crew.
Back in the Imperial Fleet, every Harrower could boast that it carried a hundred and fifty fighters, bombers, shuttles aboard. The ship needed a huge contingent of pilots and service personnel. Unfortunately, Vitiate's engineers never managed to remove the ship's need for living pilots. In part, of course, "Neboviks" could pilot shuttles, but they're about as useful for maneuvering support as a bantha is for hunting.
By the most modest estimates, the ship required about four hundred crew, with only a hundred assigned to command and control personnel. The other three hundred were the air wing's team.
Leaving the shipyards of the long-dead Sith company that produced Harrowers, the dreadnought required 2,400 crew and could deliver a little over seven thousand passengers to any point in the galaxy. Each ship in the "Emperor's Ghost" squadron had its own military contingent of five thousand "Neboviks," tasked with boarding and counter-boarding missions. As for payload… the modernization was beneficial—the ship could carry up to fifteen thousand troops with full combat kit and supporting vehicles. Futureproofing, no doubt.
But the Togruta's mission wasn't to destroy a planet. She had returned to the Jedi homeworld.
Tython. The ancient homeworld of the Jedi. Thousands of years had passed since the ancestors of the Republic's guardians settled here. The Sith had dreamed for centuries of bursting into their enemies' birthplace and staging a blood feast. But they never finished what they began.
Darth Angral nearly succeeded, but the Hero of Tython stopped him. The Jedi Knight who became the Order's blade against the Sith Empire. The man who defeated Vitiate, his servant Revan, Vitiate's true embodiment—Valkorion—and his children. True, in pursuit of peace in the galaxy, he didn't notice when he became what he fought. The Emperor of the Eternal Alliance… a state that could have been the galaxy's strongest. But the Jedi lost everything: first the Eternal Fleet, then the Republic's support. Even holding the Eternal Fleet's homeworld, Iokath, the Hero of Tython couldn't stop what was ordained. Too humane to take the Republic and the Jedi by the throat, he doomed himself to death. The Sith Empire, supporting its ally, lost most of its strength and ultimately fell apart, burying for ages the Togruta's idea of a state that would absorb the best of the Republic and the Empire.
At first she thought the Hero of Tython could make it real… She almost decided to leave her master to join the former Jedi…
In the last days of his Empire, Valkorion and his servants found them.
She didn't regret her choice. Her years of wandering with Lord Kallig ended the same way they began. She found the one who would truly realize her ideals.
As a Padawan, Ashara was away from Tython when the Desolator came here—perhaps the most successful superweapon the Republic ever produced. Combining multiple developments by Republic scientists, stolen by Darth Angral's spies, that Harrower could turn any planet into a scorched rock. Sometimes the Togruta wondered why a demonstrably peaceful Republic developed such a terrifying weapon. But she never found an answer.
Still, right now it would come in handy. The most humane solution. A "prison planet," for example.
Ionizing a planet's atmosphere, that weapon turned any technology into useless junk. And it had to be said—pulling that trick over the main worlds of the CIS and the Republic could end the war in a short period of time.
But unfortunately, all examples of that humane weapon were lost: the prototype was destroyed by the Jedi, and the Desolator was blown up by Kira and the Hero of Tython.
Still, the Emperor's apprentice had the Restorer at his disposal—a flagship Harrower capable, with its superheavy cannon, of destroying even the largest ships.
But her assignment was different.
Three dozen shuttles flitted out of the hangars, carrying their contingent down to Tython's surface. The planet where the Sith once carried out a massacre bore the mark of the dark side—but not so critical that the light side was lost to this world.
The planet, of course, didn't have the same harmonious Force balance Odessen could boast, but it was still close—saturated with both the dark and the light sides. The Jedi ancestors valued this world precisely for that balance. Over time, everything changed. The light took the dominant role, twisting the ancient researchers' Force postulates.
Now, the planet seemed to be returning to its roots. The Togruta wasn't surprised to learn that Dougan aimed to recreate a Jedi Academy on Tython. The Emperor's apprentice showed interest in every structure on the planet. The Togruta's shoulders carried the duty of clearing rubble, guarding structures and recovered artifacts. Between the lines it was clear the Jedi had extensive plans for the planet, and therefore Zavros's mission was only the beginning of something bigger.
The fallen Jedi understood that without special machinery and trained people, it could take years to restore the former grandeur. Still, she had no intention of discussing orders.
On the planet and in the dreadnought's holds there was everything needed to create a mobile base. Ordering R3 to land at the designated point, she impatiently slipped out of the shuttle and ran onto the sand-covered plaza before the Temple.
The Jedi abandoned this planet tens of thousands of years ago, rejecting the concept of balance in the Force, embracing only the light. But when the Sith invaded Coruscant and destroyed the Order's stronghold, the Jedi returned here.
She herself wasn't even born when the Jedi resettled Tython. Legends said the Council meditated for a week before choosing the site for the Jedi's new home. Guided by the Jedi Code's call not to cling to attachments, the Jedi didn't copy Coruscant's old ziggurat. Instead, they borrowed Alderaanian architecture, raising three massive dome-shaped bastions. She looked at the still-sturdy buildings—battered by time—with concealed longing.
The central dome bore cracks from Sith ordnance impacts. The two smaller domes—where, as she remembered, the Temple's main protection system was concentrated—looked more intact.
"Establish a perimeter. Ensure the shuttles and structures are secure," the girl ordered the "Praetorian"—the ground contingent's commander. More massive than the others, painted black, the droid confirmed receipt with a short voice command. Coordinating with subordinates, it organized the other shuttles' landing with their "Neboviks." Watching small squads scatter in different directions, the girl gestured one squad toward the Temple interior.
Following behind them, the Togruta noted with pain the time-rotted pedestals where large carved wooden statues once stood, framing the main dome's interior. Devoid of ornament or decoration, the Jedi sanctuary's main entrance looked like the maw of a massive beast, ready to swallow anyone who dared enter.
Doubts stopped her on the threshold. She heard the clank of metal from the scout unit and understood there was no danger inside.
It was something else. Was she—fallen Jedi, accomplice of a former Dark Council member, the cause of more than one Jedi's death—worthy to enter this sacred place? How would the Force look on that?
But the Force was silent.
The girl took a deep breath and stepped under the roof of the ancient Jedi sanctuary.
***
The New Forge met them with oppressive silence.
Dozens of corridors, filled with light and devoid of the slightest hint of life.
No droids, no sentients. Only the oppressive sensation of the dark side—so distinct it seemed to hang in the air. Every chamber gleamed, with none of the dust or stale rot that an abandoned, unused complex should have had.
Atroxa felt the dark side drifting through her veins, kindling instincts, stirring her blood, calling her to battle. Malgus, walking beside her, felt the same.
The Lethan could feel it on her skin: the Sith was boiling inside with dark emotions. His respirator drew in air with such force, as if it were trying to drink in the dark side's fumes.
The contingent of boarding droids behind them slowly but surely dispersed through the station's compartments, taking control of more and more of the Forge's territory. Meeting no resistance, the armed detachment from Pobeda advanced steadily toward the heart of the former Foundry.
"Any thoughts on how this happened?" the girl asked. Studying the Forge's architecture, she had to admit the interior fit the common view of the Rakata as an aggressive, warlike species that once controlled much of the known galaxy. Devoid of decorative excess, the station all but screamed at its visitors that it was built for war—and would not tolerate weakness from its masters.
"Revan suspected the Foundry was something more than a droid factory," Malgus replied. "When we seized the station, we found plenty of reports from his people describing the Foundry's negative effects. Depression, aggression, destructive behavior… Revan wasn't a fool. Just as with the Star Forge, he understood that the Foundry is lethal to everyone except its masters. The more actively you use them, the more they use you."
"So Revan, with all his power in the Force, couldn't control the Foundry?" the Twi'lek smirked.
"Vitiate never admitted it," Malgus continued, "but I always suspected that the whole time Revan was his prisoner, the Emperor did to him exactly what he did to us after the fall of the Eternal Alliance."
"You mean he turned Revan into his Hand?"
"I mean it worked once," Malgus snapped. "I studied Revan. His records here on the Foundry, notes in the Emperor's treasuries, Nyriss's observations… Arrogance led him and his friend into Vitiate's jaws. The Force judge me if what Revan did in the Republic—the Star Forge, his own Empire—wasn't the Emperor's plan. Sure, the Jedi Archives could have shed light on many of his actions, but the Order preferred to forget him, to erase him from history."
"But he still seized the Foundry," the girl reminded him. "And he planned to destroy the Empire with a mechanized army."
"Threats to the Empire always forced Vitiate to act ruthlessly, without regard for losses, using every force at his disposal," the Sith reminded her. "And this time, the Empire's answer to what was possibly the most serious threat of all was the Dark Council's intervention and the dispatch of only a small team to eliminate Revan? Don't make me laugh, Atroxa," Malgus shook his head. "Over the three centuries he spent in the Emperor's captivity, Revan fell and became his obedient servant again. Could he hide his thoughts from the most powerful dark side adept for three hundred years? No. He couldn't. None of us could. Revan was only a man, and for three hundred years his will was in Vitiate's hands. No." The Sith stopped at a junction, deciding where to go. "I'd sooner believe Revan planned to exterminate the Empire's population for the Emperor's sake."
"That can't be true." Atroxa pointed at the right corridor at random. Malgus sent the droid detachment down the left.
"Revan escaped the Foundry and threw all his efforts into restoring the Emperor's spirit," Malgus objected. "Is that not proof of his loyalty?"
The Sith lady fell silent, mulling it over.
Meanwhile, their procession reached a massive armored bulkhead that, unlike the previous ones, did not open as they approached.
Malgus, familiar with many of the Foundry's systems, directed the currents of the dark side into the door lock. Sated, it disengaged with a metallic clang, and the half-meter-thick doors slid apart, letting the Sith inside.
Framed on both sides by a colonnade of massive pipelines, the walkway over an impenetrable void dropping into the station's depths led them to a wide semicircular platform. From there, a ramp climbed to a second level, lined with broad viewports, through which the Sith saw a quartet of Harrowers: three surrounding the last. White figures of skytroopers moved between the ships, repairing Malgus's former flagship, now taken under tow.
Smiting Hand looked like a massive hive swarming with drones.
"Maybe," Atroxa said with a smile, "we'll leave this place richer by one ship."
"Statement: Insistent warning. If you leave," a synthesized metallic voice rumbled from hidden speakers. Malgus went cold, remembering who that mechanical voice belonged to.
With a frightening clang, the armored doors slammed shut, crushing several skytroopers. Malgus and Atroxa pressed back-to-back and ignited their lightsabers, bracing for an attack.
The pair of boarding droids still with them dropped in the same instant, felled by precise shots from the far corner of the Forge's control room.
Then, in a combat stance, blaster rifle leveled, holding the Sith in his sights, a rust-red droid stepped into the light.
"Statement: Sinister triumph. Welcome, meatbags." The red glow of his photoreceptors flashed, promising nothing good. "Statement: Start talking."