Worm Loathsom, general of the CIS Army, could not hide his emotions. Though, by now, the former general of the ground contingent on Christophsis.
The Kerkosian directed his irritation in his thoughts at his last interlocutor—Admiral Trench, with whom he had ended a comm session just a few minutes earlier.
Count Dooku, displeased with how things were going on the planet, decided to reshuffle the command structure, handing primacy of authority to the Harch. Planetary forces were now to obey orders from orbit. In effect, the former Jedi humiliated the general, subjugating a man who had poured so much effort into destroying the Jedi task force to a petty naval officer.
Worm did not deny the Harch's merits in maintaining the blockade of Christophsis. Thanks to him, the planet was locked inside an impenetrable ring of ships, which ruled out reinforcements reaching the Jedi on the surface. But Worm himself had done no small amount to destroy the resistance on this planet. How many clones did Kenobi and Skywalker lose before that damned Dougan arrived? Thousands! The Kerkosian had come just a little short of finishing them off, forcing them to capitulate.
The arrival of reinforcements and the evacuation of the battered Republic forces—that was on Trench.
"'You are incapable of crushing a tiny Republic force, General,'" Worm mimicked Dooku. "'You have hundreds of times more soldiers!'"
With irritation, the general stared at the crystalline monoliths of the skyscrapers visible from his residence's windows. He had taken for himself the most luxurious mansion within the capital. A small district of the city, turned into a foothold, became a reliable thorn in the side of the capital controlled by Republic troops.
Yes, he failed to break the Republic. Yes, he failed to breach their defenses. But Trench's landings had achieved nothing either! And now, starting tomorrow morning, he would have to hand over command!
The reservation for the locals had been seized by those same locals. Trench's "humane" approach to humans turned into a shameful defeat for him—now the people had gotten their hands on an enormous amount of weapons and ammunition. And all the proton artillery went to them as well. Worm had planned to use it to bombard the capital of Christophsis and force the Republic to make peace.
The Harch was surely celebrating. With what malicious glee he told Dooku that Worm was trying to preserve the capital only for its bank vaults. Perhaps that was the reason for the general's demotion. But really—shouldn't he have some perks, given he was forced to waste away here, on a world of pompous, insolent miners? He could have been leading victorious offensives somewhere in the Core.
Trench, blast him! If he hadn't so incompetently squandered his first battle group, the Jedi wouldn't have been able to bring their troops to the planet. And these new ones turned out better than the previous lot.
Worm had butchered the earlier clones by the hundreds. The Jedi literally carpeted the streets of the capital of Christophsis with their bodies. And this new Jedi, Dougan…
He made an alliance with the locals. Sure, humans weren't clones, but they could still hold weapons and point them at droids. And they put them to use, regularly wiping out CIS patrols.
Loathsom began to draw air loudly through his nostrils, recalling the last successful attack on Crystal City. A bloody slaughter, in the spirit of those Kenobi and Skywalker endured.
Back then, reconnaissance discovered that a large militia force—up to three thousand—had arrived in the city. They also delivered a backup shield generator captured in the valley. In a city where only the central district remained intact and the entire periphery lay in ruins, the concentration of CIS enemies reached its peak. And if they deployed a defensive field, they would become extremely dangerous… That chance could not be missed…
Trench and Loathsom struck simultaneously, smashing buildings, equipment, mowing down enemy forces… It seemed the CIS would reach the Republic's central positions any moment now, but no… the enemy threw all its reserves at Loathsom's forces, slowed them, stopped them, and then pushed the mechanical army back. Trench's bomber strike ran into the activated protective field and hurricane fire from the surviving anti-air artillery.
Expecting a counterattack, Worm tortured himself with the hope that the clones would rush to pursue the retreating CIS units and blunder into minefields left especially for them… But it didn't happen. The clone vehicles didn't move. The "meat droids" didn't either. The only consolation was that a fair number of militiamen met their end on those "surprises."
Almost a month had passed since that massacre ended.
But as before, everything stayed where it was.
The clones kept sitting in the capital; the locals stayed holed up in the valley half a continent away from the capital.
Atypical behavior for a Republic commander. After the very first attack, the Jedi turned the city into an impregnable fortress. The approaches were mined, snipers and scouts on the rooftops. Heavy weapons burned tanks and vehicles before they could even come close. The broad streets were choked with barricades, and the houses were fortified. Those clones with jet packs were everywhere, sniffing around…
And that artillery! Even if the Republic guns had a smaller range, they still had guns. And they inflicted unprecedented losses on his forces.
Though… not his forces anymore. Trench had taken command.
So let Trench figure out how to beat that Jedi.
With a faint grinding sound, Worm rubbed his needle-sharp teeth—an ancestral gift—against each other.
The war had been going for half a year now. He had spent nearly as long on Christophsis. His plan—to starve the Republic out—was supposed to bear fruit… He only needed more of those metal blockheads…
The foothold held by CIS forces in the capital's south was a small district where the elite had once lived. A luxurious library, expensive boutiques and shops, shameless villas fitted out with the latest technology, glittering with opulence.
Occupying barely a dozen blocks, the district had its own high-speed underground highway station, blocked off as unnecessary years ago. Worm understood the rich—why would they use transport for the poor if a high-speed line ran through their district? Besides, only the wealthy had personal ground vehicles on this planet. Still, after the concentration camp was taken, Worm ordered precautions. A good hundred meters of tunnel were mined. The blast doors—designed to hermetically seal the tunnel against possible flooding—were lowered, and their controls were disabled. The same procedure was repeated in every settlement on the planet controlled by the CIS. Worm did not make the same mistakes twice.
The droid army managed to entrench itself in this district because Worm had taken a liking to this oligarch refuge long before Dougan's forces arrived on the planet. Minefields, energy barriers, barricades… tanks became part of a massive defensive system. That system grew so threatening that the Republic did not dare assault it…
A massive blast somewhere on the outskirts of the district was so powerful it blew out the fragile crystal used as window glass. The general felt the floor buck beneath his feet, but he managed to stay upright.
To his sensitive ears came the sounds of firefights in the street. Rushing to the window, he saw—horrified and stunned—white figures of clones inside the protected perimeter of the foothold, mercilessly gunning down dim-witted B1s. Like demons in the night, clones soared into the air on their jet packs, using heavy weapons to annihilate tanks, troop transports, and walking assault tanks. All the hardware that could have given an advantage over the Republic was destroyed in the first seconds.
Peering from the balcony at the attacking crowd, the general noticed with surprise that beyond the clones, his base was flooded by hundreds of the planet's natives, repeatedly supporting the clones with fire from captured CIS weapons.
"Connect me to Trench," the general returned to the ops room with an energy uncharacteristic of him. Activating the holoprojector, he ordered the image of an OOM droid that appeared. The naval tin can didn't understand the first time, so Worm had to repeat himself.
"Understood-understood," the fool finally said. The image shifted to the Harch's hologram.
"Loathsom!" The Secundus Ando native did not hide his irritation. "What's happening on your end?"
"I'm under attack!" the general snapped. Did he have bigger problems there? "Clones inside the perimeter. Militiamen with them!"
Somewhere below, with a metallic clang, the entry door was ripped off its hinges and slammed down. Nearly a ton of armor, by the way. The Kerkosian felt a sucking sensation form low in his gut. They'd come for him…
Irritated chittering came from the Harch's mouth. The same OOM droid appeared in the holofield again, handing the admiral a data card.
"These attacks are happening in every major city," Trench said, glancing at the message. "Both megacities have already been hit."
"That can't be!" Loathsom boiled. "How did they manage it?"
Christophsis had more than a dozen cities, but only three mattered: Crystal City—the planetary capital—and two smaller megacities, the Northern and Southern Cities. The latter were controlled by large military contingents of the droid army, and attacking them should have been impossible, if only because the space around them was under surveillance. Each city had an occupation contingent—at least five hundred thousand droids with accompanying heavy weapons.
The Northern City held the planet's entire interstellar infrastructure: workshops, launch pads, fuel depots, cargo yards and hangars, a spaceport capable of taking the largest civilian ships. At the very start of the occupation, the spaceport was bombarded from orbit—when the Jedi tried to use its defensive batteries to fire on the CIS squadron in orbit.
The Southern City was a residential zone—an enormous megacity where most of the planet's population lived. The other towns clustered around those two but were of no interest to the CIS—no strategic facilities, no wealth like the capital's.
"Same way they took the valley from you," the Harch chittered. "They're attacking from underground."
Loathsom, like his distant ancestors, gave a guttural growl. He'd been played. Again!
"Sir," the OOM droid came back into view. And though its metal head couldn't show emotion, it looked deeply troubled.
With a crack, the room's front door splintered into shards.
Like a meteor, a short—almost fragile—girl burst in, her skin alabaster-white and her hair the same snow-silver. Sarkai, the general recalled the species name.
She held an activated lightsaber, with a pair of burning golden blades.
"Another Jedi?" The general's astonishment had no limit. "Here? But how?"
With a casual movement, the girl deflected a shot from one of the two droids near the general. The clone behind her, wearing armor of an unknown type, finished both opponents with precise fire, then trained his weapon on Loathsom himself.
"You're under arrest, General," the girl said, deactivating her weapon.
He had no choice but to raise his upper limbs. Seeing that, Trench's hologram chittered with displeasure. The clone immediately wrenched Loathsom's arms behind his back and cuffed him, then led the captive away.
"Jedi," Trench stated. "Another one. Unexpected."
"Is that a problem for you, Admiral?" The girl smiled lightly, focusing her attention on her interlocutor. "Recommend you surrender while you still can."
"I have nothing to fear," the admiral said proudly. "Very soon I'll sweep you off this planet…"
The girl glanced at her left wrist, where a small computer was strapped. Then she smiled again, looking back at the CIS fleet commander.
"Admiral, I think your problems have arrived."
***
Standing on the bridge of the Wanderer, Shae Vizla watched as the Hammerhead fleet and corvettes formed into strike groups.
A remote uninhabited Mid Rim system held no interest for either warring side. Still, that was precisely why the ships modernized at the Rendili yards had been stationed here for the last month.
"All groups report readiness," Rear Admiral Ermin Shirano reported. Tall, muscular, with a firm chin and chiseled features, gray at his short chestnut hair, he could, in Shae's opinion, compete in looks and manliness with Mandalore's finest sons. "We're taking fighters aboard and will be ready to make the jump."
"Excellent, Admiral," Shae praised. "We're on schedule?"
"Of course," the commander assured her. "That's what you're paying us for."
"And not a little," the woman reminded him. The fleet commander grunted and disappeared deeper into the compartment. He was to lead an armada of ancient but well-modified ships into a battle whose outcome would determine his commission and the bonus for his subordinates.
With anticipation, the Mandalorian studied the ships that would clash with Trench's formation.
All vessels were divided into five groups. Each group was assigned its own front in the upcoming battle. Mandalore the Avenger had left Christophsis a week after the bloody battle that cost the legion a large part of one regiment. The Fury spent two days in orbit, collecting detailed intelligence on the CIS grouping: twenty Munificent frigates, five Bursas, and Trench's flagship, the Providence-class dreadnought. The battleships held six positions in orbit. Frigates freely patrolled between them. Multiple fighter groups of every sort conducted patrols, clearly hoping to catch the "invisible" ship that kept slipping through the blockade.
The First Group included seven Hammerheads and twelve Trantas. That group would take on Trench's flagship and its truly enormous air wing.
Groups Two through Five numbered ten pennants each—five cruisers and corvettes apiece. Their share was containing or destroying—depending on luck—the Bursas.
With a sigh, Vizla stepped away from the viewport. How much money had been sunk into these ancient but, honestly, sturdy ships? For the same sum, Mandalore could have ordered hundreds of medium corvettes or frigates, which would provide serious competition to most Confederate ships.
Still, it wasn't her place to count someone else's credits.
What she did know was how to spend them.
Jedi, in general, were decent people. But when it came to war…
No, just think about it! Spend hundreds of millions preparing an entire fleet—and not even remember that the ships have no crews! What was in those fools' heads with their energy toothpicks? Which one of them even flew to Rendili?
Good thing Dougan decided to send her to Rendili to accept the shipbuilders' offer to construct new Aureks and Claws. The second task was signing contracts to repair the Katana fleet. And the main task was coordinating the fleet's strike on the CIS ships at the right time.
The Jedi first wanted to send Carsen to the shipbuilders, but as soon as the "ships without crews" story surfaced, he changed his mind and put the matter in the hands of someone who at least knew what it meant to lead people into battle. Sure, during the war with the Sith Empire the Jedi proved themselves—and not badly. But certainly not in full-scale engagements.
Rendili StarDrive's personal top manager, Ion Grettcher—a native Rendili, son of a moderately influential family—turned out to be a sharp young man. Under other circumstances, he might have interested her, but… four thousand years of life experience left their marks.
The chance at extra commission interested Ion, and he shared that Rendili Defense Force personnel, closely tied to Rendili StarDrive, often took private contracts, escorting large trade convoys through dangerous stretches of hyperspace routes in their Dreadnoughts. Defense Force command turned a blind eye, taking a percentage off the jobs. Those very Rendili servicemen formed the ferry crews for the ancient fleet.
And maybe someone from the ferry crew wouldn't mind testing the result of months of yard work in battle.
Paying the manager enough that he could have bought himself a cruiser, Shae could only watch him race around the planet, earning his credits. However much the Rendili wanted to learn the client's identity, the customer's name remained secret—just like the aim of the planned strike.
It took Ion three days to settle everything with the corporation and the Rendili Defense Force. Twenty thousand sentients from Rendili's armed forces arrived at Shae's call—and at the credits. In truth, that number was only the crew of a single Dreadnought, but the recruitment principle didn't interest Vizla much.
She had sixty-two ships, nearly a thousand fighters, and very little time to prepare those ships for combat.
Given the enemy's numbers, they could have jumped into the Christoph system all at once and smashed the Seps to pieces. But the Mandalorian doubted she'd be able to explain the reason for heavy losses to Dougan afterward.
Newly formed formations required training and coordination. That was exactly what the temporary commander of the fleet, Rear Admiral Ermin Shirano, did.
The number of ships demanded an officer of higher rank, of course, but despite the large commission, no volunteers were found. Shirano, who previously commanded the ships' transfer at Rendili, had positive recommendations from his command and from corporate leadership. And there wasn't much choice, anyway.
Spending neither strength nor time nor credits from the unknown employer's pocket, Shirano drove his subordinates hard. His effort to minimize losses through long training and discipline appealed to Shae. As Mandalore, she did the same. Sweat saves blood. That old truth in Mandalorian culture was left by their ancestors, the Taung.
With time in reserve until Day "D"—as the Jedi called the day and time of the operation to break the Christophsis blockade—the Mandalorian watched the temporary personnel at work. Nicknamed the "Hammer Fleet," the cruisers and corvettes relentlessly pounded nearby asteroids into dust. The crews acted better and better each day. It showed they had at least some naval experience. Later, once the hired hands got their money, they would return to service in their home system. And the owners of this modernized old junk would have to look for new crews. Crews that would need training. Of course, Fett-clan mercenary clones were promising material, but it still wasn't it. The fleet, together with its crews, had to be loyal to its owner—Dougan. Not to the Republic.
No such tasks were assigned to her, but as a leader of her people she was used to thinking broadly. Still, in this situation, nothing beyond obvious conclusions came to mind.
About two weeks after her mission began, she received a notification from Grettcher that the company leadership was ready to proceed with the second point on the list.
Such a simple message meant Rendili StarDrive was ready to carry out the operation to reactivate the Katana fleet.
She needed to provide the fleet's coordinates and be personally present when the company ships arrived. Literally, she had to take part in counting the ships. Rendili's military fleet consisted mainly of Dreadnoughts, and Shae had two hundred in her possession. The company very much did not want possible accusations of waste or appropriation.
"Admiral Shirano," the Mandalorian pulled the commander out of his routine work. "We need to depart."
"As you command," the man agreed indifferently. Turning to the comm operator, he said, "Tell the Peacekeeper that Commodore Dellis is taking command of the exercises."
Then, addressing the armored Mandalorian woman with a faint smirk, he said:
"I am entirely at your disposal, ma'am."
***
"Your employer isn't simple," those were Shirano's first words when the Wanderer dropped into realspace at the rendezvous point.
"You think so?" Shae smirked.
The admiral gave her a skeptical look.
"These are Dreadnought-class cruisers," the man jabbed a finger at the uneven line of ships drifting in space. At first glance, in the blackness of space, nothing remarkable could be made out. Only a trained eye could distinguish starlight from the soft shimmer of the running lights of hundreds of ships. "I may be wrong, but there are about two hundred pennants here. More or less."
"Could be," Vizla said, standing on the bridge of the Hammerhead, watching through the bridge's transparisteel as the movement of empty warships unfolded before her—ships that had arrived here at the will of one long-dead being.
She ignored the crew's quiet chatter, discussing what was happening.
"These are the Dark Forces," Ermus voiced his opinion. "These are Republic ships…"
"Admiral," the woman looked at the commander, "these were Republic ships. Now they're in neutral space. And neither the Republic, nor the CIS, nor the Hutts, nor even the last gizka have any right to them. Except," she stressed, "my employer."
"We'll have big problems," he warned. "The Republic won't let this go—they desperately need ships and—"
"My employer," the woman cut him off, "will resolve any possible problems. As you can see, it's no trouble for him to repair old ships and hire an entire fleet of specialists. The Republic won't be a problem either. We spent a decent sum to get these ships," she warned. "And we won't let anyone take them from us. The secret of the Dark Forces will remain between us. My employer won't spare effort or credits to silence anyone who threatens the secrecy of his plans. Understood?"
The man nodded.
"The Unyielding is on approach," one of the navigators spoke up. "Arrival in a couple minutes."
The admiral nodded again, showing he had received the information. Hands clasped behind his back, in the matte-black uniform of the Rendili fleet, he stood at the front of the bridge, lost in thought. Vizla did not disturb him. Sometimes, before making a fate-deciding choice, a person needs to simmer in their thoughts. Nothing persuades like the arguments we form for ourselves.
The reflective silence was broken by the arrival of another ship.
Still, Vizla wasn't too surprised to see a tactical command ship here.
"I thought they were cut up for scrap long ago," she shared.
The newcomer looked more like a huge station fitted with engines. In the era of the Mandalorian Wars, these ships served as coordinators for small Republic fleets. And the memory of them was etched firmly into her people's history. A giant three kilometers in diameter, it had low speed but never became a hindrance to Republic offensives. Deep inside the ship was a supercomputer that commanded the attached group of ships. "Invincibles," that was the class name. With an impenetrable defensive screen of their own guns, these ships led to victory in dozens of battles. And few Mandalorians could brag they had captured or destroyed such a ship. Vizla strained her memory. If it didn't fail her, only one of the Invincibles ever became Mandalorian spoil. In all recorded history.
"Practically all of them have been melted down already," Shirano noted. "The Unyielding was modernized into a mobile workshop around the same time the Katana fleet was built. I might be mistaken, but I think they meant to sell it as a bundle. No one would mind a mobile fortress that can repair your own fleet. Its holds can take up to fifty thousand tons of cargo. Or," he pointed at the nearest dreadnought, "become a dock for these guys."
"Judging by the fact this ship stayed with you," Shae said, "the Republic didn't want to buy it?"
"Who needs a base-dock for a fleet that doesn't exist?" the admiral smiled. "Besides, it's expensive—almost three billion credits. The Republic considered it an overly costly ornament. Maybe your employer could use a ship like that," he hinted. "His ships will need repairs somewhere…"
"I'll pass it along," the Mandalorian promised.
The man kept watching as the huge ship released hundreds of transport shuttles from its hangars, racing toward the dead ships.
"With a fleet like this you can seize a sector," he said. "And rule it…"
"My employer's plans cover the entire galaxy," Vizla said carefully, lowering her voice so others on the bridge wouldn't overhear, "and he needs talented specialists, whose services he will reward as generously as possible."
The man looked at her with suspicion and caution, as if he wanted to see a sign it was a joke. But the Mandalorian was dead serious. Not a trace of a smile, not the slightest hint of insincerity.
"I think," the man finally said, "your employer is an extremely ambitious person."
After that, the man fell silent again. Together they watched as Rendili StarDrive workers prepared to awaken the legendary fleet. The ships' seemingly excellent exterior condition was only a shell; inside were hundreds and thousands of malfunctions the Rendili crews would have to fix to restore the ships' former greatness and strength.
Each thought of their own, but it didn't change what was happening. The Emperor's apprentice wanted this fleet. And for it he was ready to write off the lion's share of funds from the company's numbered account. The shipbuilders could only rejoice at such a profitable contract. Funds that had lain dead weight were finally being released. A company deprived of government orders on the eve of war got an unprecedented infusion. Building new Hammerheads, repairing the Katana fleet… even without Republic contracts, the planet had every chance at continuing a comfortable existence.
And if so, then the mysterious employer would always need experienced officers and personnel familiar with this technology. Whatever the Rendili government wanted, the corporation had long since become practically one with the self-defense fleet. Still, no one complained. The Republic protected Rendili, even if it didn't use their services as much as before. That wounded the pride of most Rendili natives. In higher circles, rumors circulated about the government flirting with the CIS—Admiral's friend, Jace Dellin, said as much, aiming to take the post of commander of the Rendili Defense Fleet by year's end. Like most old-school officers, Dellin had no desire to get involved in political squabbles and bow to merchants. Meanwhile, the Republic was flirting with Kuat, where Rendili spies worked the yards in force. Few people like it when a rich client goes to a competitor. Especially when that client determines whether your sandwich has delicacies—or not.
"Tell me," the man made his decision, "how do I arrange a meeting with your employer?"
"I can arrange that for you, Admiral," Shae promised.
***
The enemy's superiority in small craft—fighters and bombers—showed itself almost at once. Like clouds of gnats, they swarmed the ships, seeking to drown them in a sea of laser fire.
Trantas, Aureks, and Claws handled the task enviably well, cutting the pests off from the larger ships. In the first half hour of the battle, Shirano's losses amounted to one corvette and a dozen fighters. Not a bad result, it had to be said.
Given that by that point Trench's ships had already either dropped out of orbit, been disabled, or exploded—about five Munificents and simply myriads of fighters. The Rendili commander's tactics, built on Vizla's intelligence, were paying off.
The enemy ships stretched in blockade formation were subjected to concentrated, massed fire from the invasion groups. Outnumbering the enemy, the Hammerheads and Trantas could dictate the terms of the brawl without fearing strong opposition from the mechanical foe. Target after target, the groups destroyed the blockade ships, shifting more and more lethal fire onto the Bursas and Trench's own flagship.
The Third Group, pressing a Bursa positioned over the planet's south pole, had certain success. The Trade Federation ship lost shields and burned, throwing millions of fragments into the planet's orbit. A well-timed run by an Aurek squadron wrecked the giant ship's hangar, leaving it without its air wing. Finishing off the wounded beast—still snapping back viciously—took only ten more minutes…
Trench's fleet was ablaze. The ships spread out in orbit were drawn into a confrontation with five massive and well-armed groups, which—using a maneuver long rehearsed—stripped a chosen target's shields with concentrated fire. After that, the enemy had only minutes to live. Trantas, operating in detachments, almost with impunity gunned down Munificents, taking advantage of their overwhelming superiority. Hammerheads, using similar tactics, "split" Bursas.
Of course, Trade Federation battleships were tough nuts. Essentially the key nodes of the orbital blockade, these ships poured fire over their enemies, forcing Hammerheads to act more cautiously. Rendili-built ships "carouselled" around the massive battleships, pouring fire into them, not letting the enemy settle on a single target. Trantas, not tied up with CIS frigates and scarcely inferior in armament to their larger counterparts, supported the latter with fire while simultaneously neutralizing enemy fighters.
Trench could not help but understand that the arriving ships' numerical superiority would sooner or later lead to collapse. After three hours of battle, more than half the Munificents had turned into a haze of wreckage. Two Bursas were also nothing but scrap, still burning in the upper atmosphere. A third, without engines and much of its armament, fought back with its last strength, launching ever new waves of fighters, hoping to break the resistance of the enemy pressing in.
The last two, along with the five remaining Munificents, pulled toward the planet's north pole, where the Unconquerable—Trench's flagship—fended off the First Group's pressure. That Quarren-made vessel managed to disable the Warrior, hitting the ship during a maneuver with a homing missile into the bridge. A lucky strike cost the ship control. Before command was restored from the secondary bridge, the cruiser took several more heavy hits, removing it from active participation. With the bow badly damaged, the Hammerhead withdrew from the fight and remained under the cover of two Trantas, which drove off incoming Hyena bombers.
By the end of the fifth hour of battle, when the Harch had only his own flagship left—requiring long repairs—and two battered Bursas in such a state that scrapping was better than repair, the CIS admiral executed the most reasonable maneuver available.
Ablaze with fires in undogged compartments, spewing myriads of fragments into space, the three barely living ships from Trench's armada left the Christoph system, putting a decisive end to the planet's blockade.
"Fleet-wide order," the rear admiral bustled, seeing the enemy's retreat, "begin rescue operations. Fighters are to continue hunting enemy squadrons," and in retreat, the Harch did not bother to recover even a portion of his air wing.
With inner approval, Shae noted the mission's success. The enemy fleet wasn't just defeated—it was annihilated. Crushed in every sense. The Bursa that couldn't get its fires under control was a fine trophy, though it still needed to be captured. Having lost four corvettes beyond recovery, the squadron had damage of varying degrees, but aside from the Warrior, no critical malfunctions were observed.
Losses among fighter pilots were grim. More than two hundred machines, with their pilots, vanished into nothingness. The remaining forces were enough to organize system patrols and hunt down stragglers, but for the near term the squadron had lost most of its air wing. If the enemy brought reinforcements, that could become a problem.
"Establish contact with the planet," the admiral addressed Vizla. "The blockade is destroyed. The ships are ready to provide support in the ground operation."
***
With the remnants of the orbital group fleeing, finishing the remaining ground forces became only a matter of time.
Nadia's capture of General Loathsom played directly into our hands, accelerating the triumph.
We made it in time.
Loathsom, by mining sections of the tunnels, only simplified the task for us. Blowing the mine barriers triggered collapses that became an excellent path outward. Half-choked with rubble, they prevented our heavy vehicles from passing, but they let the infantry deploy. With support from clones with jet packs, infantry and militia, in a single surge, toppled the droids.
Nadia and Baldy attacked Loathsom's foothold, leading the Third Regiment and the two and a half thousand militiamen attached to it.
Kira, with support from the First Regiment—which suffered the lightest losses—and a similar number of locals, fought for the Southern megacity.
And I, with what was left of the Second Regiment and the largest militia detachment, had to take the spaceport. Faithful Alpha remained under my command as well.
The remnants of Rudy's Fourth Battalion and Mimo's engineers would defend the base against possible attacks.
In total, the militia managed to field up to ten thousand fighters. I took four thousand of them for myself. I threw the last battalion into attacks on the other settlements on the planet.
We weren't trying to win on every front at once. For the most part, the attack was aimed only at taking Loathsom and the Northern megacity. The others were meant to tie the enemy down and prevent reinforcements from arriving. My star armada did the same in orbit.
It worked out even better than planned.
We managed to catch the enemy off guard.
OOM droids, which managed the enemy contingents on the planet, were serious opponents. Like relays, they passed orders from the central computer down to subordinate forces. More autonomy, more tactical capability. In practically every settlement on the planet, the CIS units were commanded by those droids.
Maybe blind luck—or experience in guerrilla raids—helped the militiamen break the enemy's forces. Rudy, fed data from across the planet, informed me in real time that yet another settlement had been retaken.
Our first major success was Loathsom's capture. Destroying the Seps' foothold was the key element of the plan. By monitoring Confederacy communications, the Republic forces learned about the transfer of authority. If it went through, forcing the droid units to stand down would become impossible.
In the Clone Wars animated series, Obi-Wan forced the CIS forces to surrender by taking Loathsom prisoner. Why not pull the same trick? Why destroy thousands more droids and sacrifice lives if it can be avoided?
But here, an unpleasant surprise awaited us.
With the start of the Clone Wars, the Confederacy of Independent Systems needed a new type of battle droid. Like the Republic, the CIS needed talented officers capable of commanding ordinary droids both in ground and space battles. Unfortunately, neither the Republic nor the CIS had a shop selling tactical geniuses, so while the Republic gained experience through trial and error, the CIS continued its experiments with droids. Trying to make them smarter, feeding them various tactical algorithms and the Force knows what else, the Confederate scientists did achieve success.
The result of the Separatists' engineers and scientists was the T-series tactical droids. These nearly two-meter-tall guys, resembling the ancient Cylons from a well-known universe, were meant to command CIS warships and battle units.
And they did it well.
Capturing Loathsom, unfortunately, did not ease our lot. The foothold that had frayed our nerves finally fell. And with it, all its defenders. Grell reported large stores of captured weapons and equipment, which, Mimo assured, would be comparatively easy to restore.
But it did nothing to ease my situation—or Kira's.
The CIS armed groups controlling the Northern and Southern megacities turned out to be under the command of tactical droids. Those guys simply ignored Loathsom's broadcast order to surrender. We ended up with two very large pockets of resistance, which could only be taken by force.
***
"The Third Regiment is moving to support the First," Alpha reported to me, diving into the same trench as I did.
Hard to call a giant bomb crater a trench, but nothing else was available. The GAR's greatest oversight was the absence of basic entrenching tools for clones. Damn it, not even a damn folding shovel!
"I'm happy for them," I shouted back, trying to be heard over the thunder of nearby detonations. "But how does that help us?"
"Grell and Carsen will crush the forces in the Southern megacity, then help us," the commando explained.
"And here I was thinking it was something good," all that remained was to spread my hands.
The Northern megacity was no smaller than the capital, but unlike it had few skyscrapers. Built, in essence, solely to support the spaceport's activity—which the local elite placed away from residential areas—the megacity contained more than ten landing pads capable of taking huge spacecraft. If Bursas could descend into atmosphere, they'd find fine parking here.
Even before the war, the Christophsians equipped the spaceport with a kind of anti-air artillery. The Separatists destroyed it when the previous Jedi force tried to use it.
In its place, the Seps brought their own. How disappointed I was when I saw a dozen operational anti-air guns in the droids' hands. And I have to admit, this mechanical guy used them creatively.
The repaired guns now kept our ships in orbit at bay, preventing them from intervening. At the same time, the guns were flattening our positions, keeping us from finishing what we started.
After blowing a tunnel section, we rushed the attack and seized two-thirds of the spaceport, thoroughly roughing up the droid contingent before the tactical droid entered the fight.
After that it got more fun. In practice, the remaining spaceport territory was one continuous permacrete plain. On one side—us; on the other—an enemy bristling with a dozen guns, controlling the massive spaceport building. A stalemate.
To the left, right, and behind, landing pads surrounded the droids, ruling out flanking or a rear attack. The air was covered by artillery.
And this time the "metro station" didn't run anywhere near the droids' positions.
The landing pad was carpeted with the bodies of clones and militiamen killed trying to storm the spaceport building. On open ground, they became like targets at a firing range for tin cans.
The "rush mid" plan we used to take most of our current positions drowned in blood. The few survivors hid in improvised trenches, crawling as they could closer to the droids' citadel. But with every such dash, there were fewer of us.
We managed to distract most of the guns by calling in air support. Even if it couldn't inflict serious damage on the fortification, it got the tactical droid's nerves. And it kept the full dozen guns from plowing the square and sending us to the Force.
"How soon until our guns arrive?" I asked.
I saw no other option—if we couldn't take the building, we'd have to level it.
"The guns are already here," Alpha reported. "They're mounting the carriages. Another half hour and we can open fire."
"Let's just hope we don't get chopped to pieces in that time," I answered doubtfully.
We had to buy time. Stop the firefight, let the engineers finish mounting the guns, let the medics recover the wounded. I shared the thought with the commando.
The clone froze for a moment, as if stunned by what he heard, then decisively rejected the idea.
"Droids don't negotiate, sir!"
"Oh, we'll see about that!" The clone's answer gave me an idea. As they say—good thoughts come after the fact.
***
Tactical Droid TX-65 was a typical representative of his kind. A barrel-like yellow-and-blue torso and a flattened head fitted with red photoreceptors. Organics might have found dozens of ways to describe him, but for a tactician it did not matter.
Only mission execution—Confederacy victory in this war—was the direct and obvious goal for each tactical droid. And nothing was allowed to interfere with fulfilling that plan.
He, like the other tacticians, was assembled at a Baktoid Armor Workshop plant. Their electronic brains were loaded with impossible volumes of data, subordinating the droids to one aim: the destruction of Republic forces. Ground battles, space battles—it was all the same. The Republic must fall, and its masters were destined to rule.
General Loathsom assigned him to command the garrison in the Northern megacity. A strategically important outpost on the planet, the spaceport in that city allowed receiving and sending heavy-tonnage ships.
But the general did not use the spaceport, and no reinforcements arrived for him. Leading a half-million-strong army, TX-65 could not grasp the reason for leaving so valuable a resource idle. All his heuristic and tactical algorithms pointed plainly: accept as many troops and heavy vehicles as possible and destroy the Republic's resistance.
TX-65 knew the new clone commander had significantly strengthened his base's defensive perimeter. Simple calculations indicated that the Jedi's passivity and that of his soldiers pursued an objective unknown to the droid—possibly awaiting the blockade's breaking. But in that case, pressure should have been increased all the more. Land additional forces from ships and begin the assault.
However, a personal hostility arose between Admiral Trench and General Loathsom. Their behavior called into question the possibility of fruitful cooperation and achieving Count Dooku's objective: the destruction of Republic forces.
TX-65 acted. Even though he commanded only low-efficiency B1s, he used them to restore most of the spaceport's anti-air artillery to operational status and prepare it for firing on ground targets. And it turned out to be timely.
The clones used the underground transit tunnel and managed to seize almost the entire peripheral area of the spaceport in the shortest possible time. The tactical droid prevented their further advance only with artillery barrage fire.
Situation assessment spoke plainly of the near-certain rout of his grouping.
He had a little over fifty thousand B1-series droids left.
The reactor supplying the anti-air guns was located in territory held by the enemy. TX-65 calculated it would take no more than a day before the enemy discovered this, cut power to the artillery, and take the spaceport building by assault.
Besides, the enemy had AV-7 guns. After General Loathsom's capture, those guns could be redirected to destroy units under TX-65's command.
The droid could have spent hours developing plans for his own defeat using the information available. Under other circumstances, he would have been planning defenses for continued holding of the assigned facility.
But none of it mattered.
The organics would destroy his force. At the cost of heavy losses, but they would still bring every droid under his command to a state excluding functionality.
And him as well.
The droid did not know what "death" was—that was a concept inherent to organic life. But cessation of function…
"Hello-hello," the system unexpectedly came alive. "Hey, tin can, how's it going over there?"
The contingent HQ was located in the spaceport's dispatch control room. The powerful equipment left by the previous owners would have given the tactician an advantage, if he weren't bound by limited forces.
"The transmission is from the clones' side," the nearest B1 reported.
"I know," the tactician snapped. "Open the channel."
"This is Tactical Droid TX-65 of the Confederacy of Independent Systems Army," he introduced himself. "Identify yourself."
"Oh, look at that," the voice sounded delighted. "Thought I'd have to search this whole building for you. This is Jedi General Rick Dougan. Well, you've heard of me, yeah?"
"I have information," the droid confirmed. "What is the purpose of this communication?"
"You see, my mechanical friend," the voice said. "While you and I are chatting, my soldiers are deploying artillery—the same stuff that chewed up Loathsom's tanks. And in half an hour my guns will tear your whole building down to the foundations."
"I have calculated that outcome," the droid replied. "You will suffer losses in the assault."
"Well, you won't exist at all," the human countered. "Do you need that? Fresh off the assembly line, and already for scrap."
"My unit is irrelevant," the droid replied. "The Republic will fall. My mission will be completed by other droids. The Confederacy will win."
"It'll fall, sure. Just need to wait a couple years," the Jedi answered unexpectedly. "But what do you get out of it? You'll be gone anyway. Same with me, maybe."
Critically perceiving the enemy's information, the droid could not help but note that the words contained no facts. And without facts, no model could be calculated.
"I require more data," the droid stated.
"What data do you need, droid?" the human asked. Then, not waiting for an answer, he continued: "The war will last three years or so. The Republic and the CIS will beat each other senseless until one day the Sith behind this entire war carry out the whole plan. The Jedi Order will fall, all CIS droids will be shut down. The Republic will be transformed into an Empire, with a Sith at its head."
"Count Dooku will come to power," the droid concluded. "That is an acceptable outcome."
"Anakin Skywalker will kill Count Dooku. And then Darth Sidious, who manipulates all of us and rules the Republic, will turn him into a Sith. It's all been decided long ago, droid."
"This information has no confirmation," the droid objected. "There are no facts."
"You should know Jedi have the ability to foresee the future, droid," Dougan appealed to the tactician's memory banks. "I've seen all of this, and I know what will come."
The tactician was silent. He analyzed what the Jedi said. Much remained unknown. If a Sith ruled the Republic and sought to destroy the Jedi, why not simply let the CIS take Coruscant? The droids would carry out the purge. The GAR would only need to not interfere.
But the Republic government did the opposite. Clones and Jedi kept taking more and more territory. Jedi were dying, but still not as quickly as they could have, if they were surrounded by an entire army.
Not enough data. The human did not share everything he knew. An устойчивую model of events could not be built. The results would not be optimal.
The droid fell silent, analyzing the situation.
If the human's premise was true, then this entire war was meaningless for anyone except a narrow group of sentients. Sith and Jedi—ancient enemies waging wars for control of the galaxy. If the outcome of this war was predestined, then his entire mission—Confederacy victory in the war—lost its meaning.
If there was no meaning in fulfilling the primary objective, then winning this battle no longer mattered.
But that conclusion was valid only if the Jedi's words were true—and those words lacked detail. More data was needed. Then another plan arose in his electronic brain. Weighty grounds were needed to defend his position and put forward his demands…
"Cease fire," the droid ordered.
"Siiiir?" one of the commanders drawled.
"Continue keeping the Republic forces in your sights," he ordered. Then, opening the comm channel, he said, "I require additional information, human. Move into the spaceport building with your hands raised. If you attempt to attack us, we will resume fire."
"As you say, tin can," the human agreed. "But one clone will come with me."
"Acceptable," the droid allowed. "Only one, and unarmed."
"Deal," the human agreed. "Brew us some caf in the meantime."
***
"Sir, have you lost your mind?" the commando spoke up as soon as the Jedi ended the transmission. "Going in there? They'll shoot you!"
"Not just me," the Jedi reminded him. "You too."
"This isn't funny, sir," the clone assessed. Seeing the Jedi conceal his lightsaber in the armor's chest piece, the clone hurried to prepare as well.
"Not for me to criticize, sir," he continued. "You talked his teeth off, really. Looks like his whole brain shorted. But why do we need to go inside? There are a hundred thousand droids in there—look, there's practically a platoon in every window."
"I didn't lie to him," the Jedi confessed, stunning the clone.
"General, pardon me, but what did you say?" the commando asked again.
The human rose to his full height. With his hands above his head, he waved to the droids.
Swearing quietly, the clone followed his example.
"This is a damn stupid idea!" the clone hissed. Then, catching himself, he added, "Sir!"
"Alpha," the human addressed him. "Listen. I didn't lie to that droid by a single iota. Everything is exactly as I told you. The Republic is run by a Sith Lord who controls both sides of the conflict. His goal is to destroy the Jedi Order, establish a regime of Sith terror, and rule."
"We have to report this," the stunned clone managed. "The Jedi and clones together will set things right."
Walking slowly across the landing pad, the human continued.
"Remember the contingency orders, Alpha," the Jedi urged. "What does Order 66 say?"
"In the event of Jedi officers acting against the interests of the Republic, and upon receipt of direct orders confirmed as having been received directly from the Supreme Commander (the Chancellor), GAR commanders will eliminate said officers using weapons, and command of the GAR will pass to the Supreme Commander (the Chancellor) until a new command structure is established," the clone recited without stumbling. After that he fell silent, shocked. "So it's us who will do it?"
"Exactly, Alpha," the Jedi nodded. "Ten years ago, one Jedi foresaw this war. He approached the Kaminoans with a request to create a clone army. As soon as they accepted his order, the Jedi was killed by Darth Tyranus—Count Dooku, the future leader of the CIS. I'm not sure what will make the clones raise weapons against us—contingency orders or biological implants in your heads—but you will do it. Every last one of you. And the Jedi Order will fall."
"We have to resist it," the clone said decisively. "We have to inform Army Command, the Senate, the Chancellor—"
"The Chancellor is the villain," the human smirked. Seeing the incomprehension, he continued. "He's a Sith—a representative of the Order, the Jedi's ancient enemy. He hides in plain sight, with enormous power among senators and the military. He controls Dooku as his teacher—Darth Sidious."
"Sir," the clone gaped. "If you know all this, why are you doing nothing?"
"Me?" the human looked surprised. Then, as if remembering, he explained, "Well, I just told you…"
"But they can kill both of us right now!"
"Oh, right," the human caught himself. "But in any case, I'm acting."
"How?"
"Alpha, if we survive, I'll tell you everything. For now, let's ask the droid to switch to our side, yeah?"
***
After listening to the human, TX-65 was silent. For exactly three minutes.
That was how long he needed to assess the truthfulness of the Jedi's words and model the information received.
The results… did not please him.
Just as the human predicted, after the death of its leaders, the CIS would fall into the victor's hands.
The Republic would fall next. One enormous game of dejarik—where on both sides, the same player moves the pieces.
"Darth Sidious," the tactician repeated. "A high-ranking Republic official?"
"Exactly," the human confirmed.
The droid counted in silence. The humans did not give him the Sith's name and position, but they didn't need to. Baktoid gave him a perfect brain.
"Sidious is Chancellor Palpatine," he answered after a couple minutes of calculations.
"How, in the name of the Hutts?" the clone swore.
"It is simple. Transforming the Republic's form of government into a monarchy benefits the ruler of the new state. The current Chancellor has more privileges than his predecessors. He commands the army and the fleet. He has a majority of supporters in the Senate. Further consolidation of power in his hands is in his personal interests. Any other figure attempting to seize power would receive neither political nor military support."
"Yeah, that checks out," the human muttered.
"The Jedi Order will oppose the seizure of power," the tactician continued. "Therefore, they must be eliminated. Sending Jedi into a controlled war against a state with no limitations on recruitment is a logical step. The larger the enemy army, the fewer chances the Jedi have to survive."
"I think," the clone remarked, "this droid thinks reasonably."
"Statement of fact," the tactician confirmed. "I am a machine. I cannot be wrong."
"Then make the right choice," the Jedi said. "The CIS is headed for defeat. The entire droid army will never achieve its goal. The Republic will not be defeated. It will only grow stronger."
"That is the most probable outcome," the droid confirmed.
"Then explain why die for a cause that's doomed to lose?"
"The initial data were different," the droid reminded. "The CIS was to win."
"But now you know it won't," the clone noted.
"They'll send you to the smelter," the Jedi supposed. "In the new army, there will be no need for tactical droids. They'll destroy you."
"An obvious outcome," the tactician agreed.
"But," the Jedi said, "there is another."
TX-65 turned his photoreceptors toward the human.
"Speak, human."
***
One of Coruscant's countless low-level eateries sheltered many wanderers of the underlevels that evening. The owner—a Toydarian named Siun Tarr—kept his rotund body aloft with flaps of leathery wings. Filling the roles of bartender and waiter in his own place since some crafty patron bought his ancient droid, he eyed the gathered clientele suspiciously. Shady types. Bandits, small-time mercenaries, underlevel workers. In short, the usual crowd for his establishment.
No other regulars came here.
In a corner, a jukebox played something, and on an old monitor fixed to the far wall, the news ran over the HoloNet, as was customary at this hour.
The anchor—a slicked-back Devaronian in a little suit that would have gotten a vibroknife stuck in his throat instantly on this level—talked about the situation at the front. Day after day, nothing but disappointment. Another "tactical withdrawal." Of course, the Republic was waging a victorious campaign: Geonosis, Muunilinst, Brentaal IV… But those were drops in the sea. The galaxy was vast. And few believed the Grand Army of the Republic, commanded by the Senate's chained dogs, was truly as good as they said on screen.
But thanks to a techie Givin, Tarr's receiver also picked up the HoloNet Hyperwave Relay cartel's signals. Listening to that could bring serious trouble, but on these levels patrols never appeared, so the cantina's patrons, not inclined to trust official media, sometimes gathered to listen to CIS channels.
The Republic was still bogged down on Atraken, taking enormous losses. The siege of Foerost also brought no success…
"The galaxy is divided: after the Battle of Geonosis, Count Dooku's droid armies are rapidly seizing the most important hyperspace lanes, cutting the Republic off from most of its territories."
The Confederate anchor—a young and attractive Twi'lek—instantly drew even the drunkest eyes.
"The clone army under Jedi generals can't cope—they have too few soldiers and ships to hold the Outer Rim. More and more planets are joining the Separatists. Those planets whose governments and people remain loyal to the Republic are attacked. The Jedi are busy with war, and there is no one left to keep peace. Chaos is everywhere, crime is rising," the anchor's voice was matter-of-fact, and at the same time emotional. "Over the past week, the Republic has lost ten Jedi Knights supporting the bureaucratic regime…"
"Hey, owner!" attention was grabbed by the Nautolan Shido—a small-time cog in Black Sun's syndicate affairs. But even a mention of the cartel was enough on their level to earn a certain authority. "Switch to the Republic channel." He waved a datapad. "Updates just hit the site."
Without extra words, the Toydarian switched channels.
"This is Elin Tyrell," a red-skinned Zeltron woman, host of a news block, as always upbeat, attractive, and friendly, clad in a tight jumpsuit that emphasized a youthful, toned body, usually broadcast about Republic victories from the fields of battle. As she did now.
"Citizens of the Republic," she addressed them. The girl was in a spacious office with walls in a dark green style. "Today I am on the planet Christophsis, which only yesterday was literally a battlefield. We are broadcasting live from the office of Christophsis's ruler, from the University of Exact Sciences."
The girl rose from a luxurious carved chair and walked to the window. The holocamera followed her, showing viewers a huge square framed on three sides by the university building. On a small platform stood a figure in a matte-black cloak with silvery edges. The figure was clad in dark-gray armor, face hidden by a mask. But that did not prevent the person from speaking—or the crowd from listening closely. Behind the figure, like two brothers, stood a pair of clones in unknown armor, a warrior woman with loose red hair, as well as several clones in standard armor. On both sides of the figure in black, long, five-pointed black banners hung from T-shaped poles.
"For half a year, the CIS Army held the planet under an impenetrable blockade, forcing its people to surrender."
The girl returned to her seat, and the camera pulled to a wider framing, now catching a small coffee table, across from which sat an elderly Christophsian with short-cropped gray hair, in a tunic of expensive fabric. The old man was thin, and on his face were markings painted in pure white. The cantina owner remembered he had once been on Christophsis. Arrogant rich men quickly shut his cantina down, but he had managed to learn the world's culture.
Only rulers—the nobility of the planet—could afford white marks on their faces. But the old man did not look especially rich.
"But yesterday Christophsis finally won. The CIS forces were routed by Jedi General Rick Dougan, and the fleet…" Here we'll need commentary from the planet's new ruler. Elder Aizel, tell us: where did Christophsis get such a fleet?"
"Christophsis is rich," Aizel began in a surprisingly strong voice for such an old man. "We purchased old ships of the Jedi Order and modernized them at Rendili StarDrive. That fleet defeated Admiral Trench's occupation fleet. In addition to destroying most of his ships, we managed to capture one of the Trade Federation battleships."
"Well, it's nice that thanks to the Republic's efforts another world has been freed and will return to the fold of our state," the girl chirped, but the old man cut her off.
"The Republic has nothing to do with this," he declared. "All your state did was leave General Dougan and his 204th Legion here to chance. It was them—not the Republic—who saved us. Jedi Rick Dougan is a national hero of Christophsis. We will honor him."
"But the general is serving in the GAR," the girl reminded him.
"The Grand Army of the Republic, the Senate, and the Chancellor didn't particularly care about their people here. They were left without reinforcements, without food, without equipment…"
"But the Republic attempted to break the blockade," the Zeltron recalled.
"Of course," the elder confirmed. "Some of the debris in orbit is all that's left of that reinforcement."
An awkward silence fell. The correspondent frantically tried to think how to salvage the situation, because the facts just voiced were not at all what she had hoped for. But Aizel spoke first again.
"Thinking about our world's fate, we did not want a repeat of the past," he noted. "But the general convinced us we should return to the Republic. We are a people who have felt this agonizing war on our own skin. Who, if not us, should open the Senate's eyes to what is happening?"
"That is an excellent decision, Elder," the girl said. "The Grand Army of the Republic will not allow your world to endure another occupation."
"We will see to that ourselves," the man replied. "We are creating the Christophsis Self-Defense Forces, which will include the militia organized by General Dougan, and we will also use part of our fleet for that."
"And what will you do with the other part of the fleet?" the girl asked, surprised.
"Only one Jedi saved our people," the elder said vaguely. "We will answer him in kind."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," the girl spread her hands.
"The Republic could not break the blockade because it had no ships," the elder explained. "So that the Hero of Christophsis is never again in such a situation, our planet transfers to Jedi General Rick Dougan all of its Hammerhead-class cruisers and Thranta corvettes. Christophsis will also assume all obligations for maintenance and upkeep of these ships. Our militiamen are ready to join General Dougan's 204th Legion and help him in the liberation struggle against the Confederacy. From this day forward and until the bitter end, our system will be a reliable bastion for him and his subordinates…"
At those words, the cantina's patrons began to buzz, discussing the elder's statement.
"What is that supposed to mean?" came a surprised voice from one of the regulars. "An entire system swore loyalty to the Jedi?"
"Not to the Jedi—to one Jedi," Shido objected. "He handled everything there by himself. Not your Skywalker…"
"So what, you looking for trouble here…?"
A heated argument flared up in the establishment…
INTERLUDE.
In the setting rays of the star Coruscant Prime, the Council Chamber was painted in the colors of blood. Through the Council Chamber's massive arched windows, the setting sun cast its light onto the glossy floor adorned with an ancient pattern.
Located in the highest tower of the Coruscant Jedi Temple, the Council Chamber presented a tense sight today.
At the center of the chamber, a holographic map of the galaxy rotated slowly. Various colors marked the sectors of responsibility of the sector armies. This map reflected the freshest intelligence reaching the Temple in real time. Just as thousands of years ago, the Temple had become a command center.
Today the Council had managed to gather in almost full strength. Perhaps for the first time since the Clone Wars began.
Opposite the entrance sat Shaak Ti. The Master had returned from a successful mission along with Plo Koon and Agen Kolar.
Depa Billaba should have occupied the seat beside the Togruta, but she was on a mission to Mace Windu's homeworld—Haruun Kal.
To Shaak Ti's right sat the ever-cheerful Kit Fisto, with his constant smile. The Nautolan had barely returned from the battle of Mon Cala, accomplishing something truly unthinkable: reconciling ancient enemies and driving the Quarren Isolation League off the planet.
Next sat Agen Kolar.
Then Adi Gallia, the Tholothian, a recognized master in starfighter combat.
Oppo Rancisis, the Order's most experienced strategist and a practitioner of the ancient skill of battle meditation.
Even Piell, a warrior from Lannik whose scar across his face, together with his fierce gaze, struck fear into enemies.
Saesee Tiin, the Iktotchi, another experienced pilot of the Order.
Ki-Adi-Mundi, the Cerean Jedi Guardian.
Yoda, watching over them all.
Nearby was Mace Windu's empty seat; he had departed for his homeworld in search of a missing Padawan.
And closing the circle of participating Masters was Plo Koon, who was soon to depart in search of a new, unknown Separatist weapon destroying entire Republic battle groups.
The Jedi were silent. There was no point in saying anything. Watching the rippling map, each of them watched as many star systems shifted from blue to red. The Confederacy was advancing, taking more and more worlds.
"First time I've seen the Republic surrounded by enemies," Oppo Rancisis remarked.
Adi Gallia noted with sadness the truth of her colleague's words. The Republic's territory was ringed on all sides by fronts where thousands of soldiers and civilians died every second. Only Hutt Space—and the Unknown Regions—were the only places where the Republic was not fighting. Still, the woman noted one more peaceful neighbor of the Galactic Republic: the Hapes Consortium. No strike would come from there. The ionized nebula made hyperspace travel impossible.
"As always, my friend," Agen Kolar said.
Almost simultaneously, several warning lights flared.
"Lantillies," Shaak Ti said.
"Ord Mantell," Plo Koon echoed.
"Taris," Saesee Tiin concluded.
"The headquarters of three sector armies have been attacked," Even Piell summed up. "We are losing the initiative in the war."
"We are not able to conduct full-scale offensives right now," Plo Koon said. "We do not have enough troops and ships."
The Lannik, who never minced words, snorted contemptuously and jabbed a finger at the Savareen sector.
"Christophsis," he named the planet that had only recently turned blue. "The lack of support and ships did not trouble Knight Dougan."
"Praiseworthy, this fact is," Yoda observed. "Allies found he on the planet, and with their help his victory he anticipated."
The Lannik spun his single eye furiously.
"Have you not watched the holonews?" he asked his colleagues. Seeing no answer in their silence, the warrior continued. "The people of Christophsis used our old ships to lift the blockade."
"Our?" Gallia asked, surprised.
"Exactly," the Lannik said acidly. "Hammerheads and Thrantas, left over from the Mandalorian Wars. And note this—we ourselves sold those ships as scrap."
"They are of no value," Ki-Adi-Mundi said. "Too old to be put back into service."
"Tell that to Admiral Trench, who barely got away," Piell snorted. "Nearly a hundred ships. That's an entire squadron!"
"But they handed those ships over to the Republic," Shaak Ti recalled.
"To one specific Jedi," Yoda corrected.
"Strange, this fact is," Oppo Rancisis said. "Why are they so fixated on one particular Jedi?"
"Is there not some hidden meaning here?" the Iktotchi suddenly said. Those gathered looked toward Tiin, who was scrolling something on a datapad.
"I am not saying something is wrong," he hurried to add. "But all of this looks too suspicious. I looked up information about him. Most of his life he spent in the Unknown Regions. When the war began, he vanished—and returned only two months after the Battle of Geonosis. And at the same time that, in the Unknown Regions, we felt the dark side growing. Vokara Che noted that he seems shattered in the Force, but soon he goes to the front, and his first assignment is such a staggering success. Where a Master and a Knight with larger forces failed, he, in a few months, destroys Trench's armada, holds the defense, brings the local population to his side, takes General Loathsom captive… May the Force forgive me if I am wrong, but something is not right here."
"Not the subject of this gathering, this Knight is," Yoda cut off the dangerous line of thought. A few Masters wanted to object, but seeing the Grand Master's stern expression, they did not dare oppose his will. "The Hutts trouble me," he finally said.
A holoimage of a region of space appeared before the Masters' faces—far too familiar to all present.
"Intelligence reports that the Separatists are looking for ways to reach the leaders of the criminal underworld…"
***
Count Dooku, hereditary Count of Serenno, stood in silence on a small balcony of one of his mansions on his homeworld. Tall, imposing, with a neatly trimmed beard, he had always stood out among the Jedi. By his defiant nature, by his unblinkered view of the world… Perhaps that was why Darth Sidious chose him as his apprentice. And the Master was pleased with his apprentice.
The CIS position improved with each passing day. The Separatists advanced; the Republic defended. Darth Sidious sometimes allowed the Republic to win, instilling in the Jedi faith in a possible success of their endeavor. But that was only part of the Plan.
Dooku chose his warlords and dark servants well.
Sev'rance Tann. A woman from the distant Chiss Ascendancy, as stubborn as she was lethally dangerous. Trained in the dark side, she had caused the death of more than one Jedi. She stood behind most of the successful operations in the Mid Rim and Outer Rim. Her protégé, Admiral Trench, caused no small amount of trouble for the Republic. Still, all efforts came to nothing when the Jedi once again managed to pull a stunt involving an entire fleet. The Chiss, occupied with another operation, took Trench's defeat as a personal insult. The useful minerals accumulated over half a year of siege never left for Confederate worlds, which was, without a doubt, bad. But not critical.
Ventress. A born hunter of Jedi. Even failures, like on Ryloth, benefited her. With each assignment, the darkness in her grew, making her even more dangerous.
Kadrian Sey. A Jedi who turned from the light—perhaps even before the Battle of Geonosis. Dooku merely made the offer, and she surrendered herself to his power.
Tol Skorr. Symbolic, that he fell to the dark side on the Sith homeworld.
Sora Bulq. The Order's legendary lightsaber combat instructor. Perhaps the CIS's most valuable acquisition after Tann.
But there were disappointments as well.
Artel Darc proved too worthless. Dooku removed him from sight and sent him to Dagobah to run a prison.
Karoc and Vainok. Good-for-nothing, exiled to Metalorn—where death found them at the hands of Anakin Skywalker, not long ago, just last month.
Saa'to… time wasted.
Drawing a line in his mind, Dooku still could not decide about the last of those wishing to join: Quinlan Vos.
A Jedi spy, believing that Dooku would accept those pathetic arguments. But too valuable to kill on the spot.
"I am here because I betrayed the Republic. I am here because I believe in my ideals…" That was what Vos told him. The Sith almost pitied the boy. The Kiffar was a complicated person: often his views did not align with the Order's, and he acted as he believed necessary and right. He disregarded certain tenets of the Code when they clashed with his habits. Whispers spread through the Order about his romance with Aayla Secura. Whether it was true or not—no one cared. Everyone had long since decided for them.
Small seeds of the dark side will sprout if they are thrown onto suitable soil. The only question is whether it is worth it. Is a double agent truly necessary to spend so much time on?
Sidious was certain it was. Something was forcing the Master to accelerate events. The darkness in the Unknown Regions. Sidious decided it was a threat to their power, and he urged pushing the front line toward the Gordian Reach. The Sith core worlds beckoned Sidious and Tyranus. The Jedi had long forgotten them—and what remained, Dooku erased from the Archives. But in the near term he could not send an exploration armada there to fully subjugate the former Sith Space. Some planets already held Separatist forces, but that was not enough. A suitable commander was needed. Perhaps if Ventress could rid herself of her mania to kill Kenobi and Skywalker—turning routine missions into a personal vendetta—she could be sent there.
Or should Sev'rance Tann be recalled from the front? The commander of an exploration armada must be ready to act in full isolation from the rest of the CIS. The seeming closeness to Corporate Sector territory bred only false confidence. The impenetrable caldera had not served as a reliable shield for the true Sith for so many years for nothing. Or should a commander be chosen who is not sensitive to the Force—someone who will not take the mission as a return to roots?
A convenient occasion to extend General Grievous's "probation." Up to now the cyborg had successfully pacified savages in the Outer Rim. The operations of the Invisible Hand, though remaining secret from the Republic, still did not satisfy the CIS leadership in scale. What is a handful of battle groups to the Republic?
Hmm… Dooku pondered, listening to the whisper of the dark side that had risen. The past always held many secrets that the powerful preferred to keep hidden. Like the ruler of Kiffu, Vos's homeworld. Dooku smiled at his thoughts. It is worth checking whether Vos is interested in the secret of his family's death. Besides, Kiffu would be an excellent place for a Separatist base.
Dooku closed his eyes, listening to the flow of the Force. Yes. He would do it himself. The Kiffar would become his acolyte. Such is the will of the dark side.