Being in my cabin aboard my new flagship—a Hammerhead-class cruiser named the Wanderer—I lay on a hard bunk with my eyes closed, letting the Force flow through me.
I was shedding the tension of the last few days, finally letting my body relax. I didn't have to chase anyone, run anywhere, or constantly expect an attack.
Now, there were only the lights of hyperspace and the upcoming leave on Ord Pardron.
Not everyone took the Elder's behavior well.
Transferring more than fifty ships to a Jedi General—ships that rivaled the Acclamator in both power and speed. That would grate on anyone. Four cruisers—the Brave, the Majestic, the Unyielding, the Fearless—and the most heavily damaged one, the Warrior, remained in Christophsis orbit, along with the entire Thranta fleet. I had to make a grand gesture to the "donors" and return some of the ships. After all, five cruisers and thirty-five corvettes are a force the CIS will reckon with. They'll think seven times before aiming to attack the planet again.
Bylur was already rubbing his hands, deciding where to distribute the ships. Just think—he found crews and commanders immediately. A shrewd guy. Though Hammerheads won't fly anywhere except in my fleet.
Senator Fren Aizel—nephew of the Elder elected as the planet's ruler—saw to that. Something like a presidential republic was being planned on Christophsis. The newly minted senator talked about this, and much more, a week ago to the correspondent who aired the scandalous two-week-old interview with Elder Aizel. The second interview, with the system's appointed representative in the Senate, stirred the holonews airwaves. It added dividends to my beloved self in the form of public notoriety. A Jedi who made the population of an entire star system fall in love with him…
Recalling what happened, I only smiled. Everything went as well as it possibly could. Grateful natives will eat from the hero-liberator's hand. And smart people who want to be on top will always offer their services.
The Aizels are one of the minor oligarchic families. They simply didn't have time to flee. They sat through the entire occupation without a peep. But later, when the Separatist forces were finally crushed, they reached out to me.
Well, I thought Jo Ptara, whose brains were pickled by Force suggestion, would have to bleat before the holocameras. But it was resolved much more easily.
I'll admit, the guys are true patriots of their system. The fighting had barely ended, and they were already asking for support to become the new government. I agreed to support them in exchange for my own demands.
We were satisfied with each other. Shirano and almost the entire Rendili contingent didn't mind taking new citizenship. In effect, all power in the system belonged to the Self-Defense Fleet led by Shirano and the Self-Defense Forces led by Shae. They would keep an eye on the nominal government, whose task was merely to take its percentages from lucrative contracts and not forget to care for the planet. Whatever pragmatic plans I had for Christophsis, they would fall apart if the planet continued to lie in ruins.
Now, thanks to propaganda and my actions on the planet, my legion was literally bursting with militiamen. Departing, I practically begged half a million men and women aged 15 to 50 to stay on the planet.
Inside each Hammerhead, a battalion was flying toward the sector army headquarters. And only ten cruisers carried clones. I lost more than half of my boys. But the rest are battle-hardened monsters who wouldn't fear the devil himself. We had almost no GAR equipment left—and what was left, I wrote off to hell. Vizla will find a use for that property. After all, the Self-Defense Forces have to train on something, right? They still have to supply me with educated and trained militiamen.
Of whom there were another two and a half regiments on the remaining Hammerheads. Of course, they're armed with whatever—I put Republic weapons strictly at the clones' disposal to avoid problems.
The clones…
I gave my word to Alpha that I'd tell him everything, but after arriving at the base. I told him the general info—about Palpatine, the clone army, the upcoming Sith coup, and the building of a center of resistance. The clone seemed to believe me. So, maybe, on the quiet, I'll be able to scan him and understand—is that damn chip there or not?
On Ord Pardron, a lot of routine work awaited me. I didn't even want to think about it. But I know one thing for sure—the legion should be given leave. At least a week off. After such a meat grinder, don't the boys have a right to rest?
Though… from a legal standpoint, clones are completely rightless creatures. Property of the Jedi Order. Or the Republic—I don't remember exactly when the Jedi handed the army over to the politicians.
I also had to find time to run to Odessen. I hadn't bothered to get encryption gear, so I had no desire to risk maintaining holocomms with the base.
Glancing at the chronometer, I figured I could sleep for about six hours. The system would wake me thirty minutes before arriving at the headquarters.
***
Standing on the bridge of his Acclamator, Captain Eon Kreevz silently watched as the Separatists slapped the Republic's forces once again. Though he appeared emotionless from the outside, inside he wanted to grind his teeth with impotent rage.
Eon remembered the golden rule of command: "Don't lose control." In any situation.
It was terribly frustrating that for the umpteenth time this week, CIS mobile groups were making raids on the sector army headquarters.
Yes, Ord Pardron had its own defense—a massive station in orbit and a rapid-response group of brand-new Venators. But the war was mercilessly sucking resources dry. The loss of the force trying to break the Christophsis blockade caused a terrible shortage of warships.
Now, only one Venator guarded the planet—the Moff's personal flagship—plus a pair of Acclamators: his, Eon's Victorious, and the recently arrived (though, truth be told, exiled after his epic in the Fat system) Leveler under Gilad Pellaeon.
Unlike the neighboring 12th Army with its bustling Lantillies, Ord Pardron couldn't boast orbital stations, platforms, or docks. Despite proximity to the Corellian Trade Spine, the commercial spirit in the sector wasn't exactly overflowing. Of course, being near Hutt Space created some commercial prospects. But the Hutts weren't famous for the cleanliness of their deals and shipments. A small contingent of the Judicial Department before the war had chased local smugglers and pirates but hadn't had much success. Some blamed Bylur, who later became Moff; others blamed the Department itself.
Pirates had become active with the start of the war.
Now and then, assistance requests and distress signals from nearby systems reached the orbital base. Smugglers, semi-legal traders, and law-abiding merchants traveling the Corellian Trade Spine were under attack.
GAR command sent a task to the Iron Spear headquarters: deal with the pirates and ensure trade route security. But so far, all the Moff had achieved was that merchants began using the Ord Pardron system as a temporary refuge. No one had canceled the primary task of ensuring Kamino's security. That was why most of the ships entering the army departed almost immediately, not lingering here. The Moff did not risk provoking the Chancellor's or the Senate's indignation, so the Kamino orbital group already numbered nearly a hundred new Venators and twice as many Acclamators. And this was while the army's other "hot spots" were literally choking from a lack of ships.
The Ord Pardron system was literally teeming with ships of all kinds seeking refuge from ubiquitous pirates. Not designed for such a flow of ships, the station effectively created a "jam," forcing ships to stay in the system for days until their turn came.
It would seem—a small squadron, powerful cover from a Valor-class orbital station like the one defending Carida, should have made the enemy think twice about poking their nose into the 13th Sectoral headquarters system.
But after the first pair of raids, the pirates and the CIS realized the Ord Pardron defense forces couldn't protect the whole system, limiting themselves only to planetary orbit. Therefore, their raiding groups reaped their bloody harvest from civilians, destroying their starships on the system's periphery and slipping away as soon as patrol fighters or ships reached them.
The Separatists acted in small forces of three or four ships, mainly Munificent frigates. The former banking ships had very serious armament, lethally dangerous to unarmed transports. Especially grating were the thousands of droid fighters, like a horde exterminating small freighters and unarmed vessels. Pirates used obscure modifications of former civilian starships that bolted as soon as they saw ARC-170 patrols.
Jumping into the system, the pirates attacked, and meeting resistance from duty ships, they fled. The Separatists didn't shy away from brief skirmishes.
And now, four Separatist frigates were preparing to slip out of the system after doing their dark work. They were finishing off a small Corellian-built heavy transport convoy. The Leveler and Victorious were pushing toward the conflict site at maximum speed, hoping that at least this once they could pay back the enemy for weeks of humiliation and endless slaps from transport destructions in the system.
The situation was, to put it mildly, foul. Especially considering that both Republic ships carried fifty former Judicial Department academy cadets who were to continue their service as midshipmen on 13th Sectoral ships. And these twenty-year-old runts were now watching the Republic take yet another slap from its opponent—the very one that HoloNet news reels portrayed as incapable of an adequate response.
Hutt! Such a blow to reputation…
The last of the three transports burst with the yellowish fire of an explosion. That was it; the quartet of frigates prepared to jump to lightspeed.
"A large group of ships is exiting hyperspace," one of the clone operators reported.
Eon swore quietly. The Separatists had called for reinforcements, clearly deciding to finally grant Ord Pardron the fate of being attacked by a full-fledged fleet, as had happened with some sectoral bases. And now the pair of Acclamators would be rolled out thin across the entire system…
"Warn the base and the Impetuous," Kreevz ordered regarding contact with the flagship.
But expectations were not met.
Peering at the viewport, the captain was surprised to find an entire fleet materialized before the CIS ships. Unlike the Republic's usual cruisers, these nevertheless opened fire on the Confederate starships.
"The ships are transmitting Republic identification codes, sir," the same operator echoed. "It's Jedi Knight Rick Dougan from Christophsis."
Kreevz's lips spread in a satisfied smile. Twenty-two Republic ships against four CIS ships.
"Cadets!" he called out, drawing the attention of the future midshipmen standing behind him. "Now you will see the enemy receive a good lesson for the future…"
The ships' actions showed a coordination that was still faltering on GAR ships. In groups of four or five, the newcomers—which Eon recognized as ancient Hammerheads—concentrated their turbolaser volleys. Almost instantly, the Munificents' shields sagged, after which the cruisers' scarlet volleys tore through the frigates' armored plating, turning them into miniature supernovae. One by one, all four ships turned into a sea of wreckage.
The cadets behind Kreevz buzzed with excitement, sharing impressions of what was happening. Eon understood their state. The 13th Sectoral, though fighting across its huge territory, couldn't boast loud victories. Taking Christophsis was one of the few recent successes. Bringing Yukio back into the Republic could also have been counted as a success—rumor had it the Jedi Order had a hand in it.
True, all their successes went to hell—about a week ago, the planet returned to the CIS, again depriving the GAR and the 13th Sectoral of a valuable food source.
Regardless—Kreevz forced himself to smile—victory should be savored now.
"Dispatch rescue parties," the captain ordered. The last thing he needed was the damned merchants starting to complain.
***
To be honest, the time of my absence from Ord Pardron had benefited the planet.
A large number of new buildings had appeared around the base—mainly the outer perimeter of the base itself, with many hundreds of barracks to house personnel. Arsenals, vehicle hangars, fighter revetments, headquarters sections…
The base territory was no longer just a cave in the rock, but also a huge gray-steel fence enclosing a giant area. At a quick glance—at least half the area of the Jedi Temple.
And at a respectful distance from the base, Pardron City began.
Before the war, a small civilian population lived on the planet—something like a hundred thousand people. They were subject to the commander of the Judicial base. Now, the planet's affairs, like those of the entire area of responsibility, were handled by Moff Bylur.
Perhaps it was harassment by pirates and Separatists that started a centralized civilian settlement, instead of hundreds of villages scattered across the planetary globe.
Pardron City. A grand name, for sure. In reality, it was a small town, though one that already had its own spaceport and accompanying infrastructure. To the delight of the soldiers from the base, the town already had a dozen or two cantinas and brothels. A couple of large shops. A small district for cultural leisure with a holotheater.
Despite the lack of skyscrapers—though I noticed a couple of spots where they clearly planned to build them—the town had its own charm, unlike the polish of Core World cities.
Flying over the town in a shuttle, I made a note to visit there.
But for now—military business.
I had to report my arrival to the Moff, quarter my fighters, and squeeze out at least a short leave.
"I've seen better backwaters," Kira said. In the Force, the girl radiated a light irritation, contrasting with the serenity of Grell walking beside her.
"Actually, this is our home," Baldy, closing the procession, took offense. "Not that we chose it, of course…"
"We haven't seen your base yet," Alpha added a needle. "Maybe it's even worse."
Exchanging a glance, both girls laughed.
"Comfort yourselves with that thought, boys," Grell said through her laughter. "At our base, you'll rest in style."
"Except there are no brothels there," I reminded them. "And you're not allowed alcohol yet. You're only ten years old!"
With jokes and banter, our procession reached the army headquarters. Stepping aside to let a clone in brand-new armor with the insignia of a Senior Clone Commander pass, we slipped under the building's vaults, leaving the starting rain behind.
***
Watching the strange procession, Senior Clone Commander Nyx couldn't help but notice their shared color scheme.
A Jedi clearly led them—judging by the lightsaber fixed to his belt. An extremely strange Jedi. In armor, with a face mask fixed on the side of the belt opposite the saber. A matte-black cloak with silver trim was thrown over the armor.
Two girls followed him, dressed in gray-olive armor over black undersuits. Armed with a pair of blasters, they gave the impression of bodyguards or mercenaries. And the cloaks thrown over the armor—same as the Jedi's—made it clear they were just assistants, maintaining a shared style with their boss.
A pair of clones followed, dressed not in standard Phase I armor. Though the armor didn't catch the eye as much as the armor elements painted black with silver trim. Each clone had some insignia on the left breast, but Nyx didn't have time to make them out.
He had arrived on Ord Pardron this morning. His training on Kamino was complete. Long, grueling sessions under a special program allowed him to rise above his original position—battalion commander—and lead an entire legion. Instructors highlighted him for his tactical mind, resourcefulness, and reticence. Walon Vau praised him for his persistence, firmness of character, fairness, and ruthlessness. The instructor said he would have made an excellent commando, but Nyx decided to go another way.
Unfortunately, he couldn't find the Moff. At first, the adjutant fed the clone standard excuses until finally, enraged by the delay, Nyx promised to cut out his eye if he didn't tell him where the Moff was. The adjutant, a scrawny boy, deigned to tell him after all.
Now, the Senior Clone Commander was heading to the makeshift Officers' Club—a cantina on the base territory where 13th Sectoral officers off duty liked to spend time. Nyx had heard plenty about this little spot in less than half a day. A place where you could get anything you wanted—from booze to drugs and women for sale.
Disgusting. A warrior's duty is to fight to the last drop of blood. Not to celebrate while war rages around. Especially not in the 13th Sectoral's position to rest—the enemy is pressing from all sides; clones, his brothers, are dying by the thousands… No, that won't do. He will get command of a legion and depart to fight for the Republic… What is this?
A group of clones approached him, escorting a handcuffed Kerkosian. Holding DC-15As at the ready, the clone squad moved slowly along the path toward the prison block. But that wasn't what caught the Senior Clone Commander's attention.
"Sergeant!" calling out to the squad leader, the clone beckoned him over. As soon as he obeyed, Nyx jabbed a finger at his breastplate.
Like those two clones' uniforms, the armor elements were painted matte black with silver trim. But the infantrymen at least wore standard Phase I armor.
A pentagonal emblem with silver edges was clearly visible on the clone's chest. In the upper part of the emblem was a silver regular hexagon with a snow-white eight-pointed star. Below the hexagon was a circle with four bands, and in the center, the number "204" stood out in white.
"Who are you and why is the armor repainted? What is this non-regulation emblem?"
Like his instructor, the clone jabbed his interlocutor in the chest plate with each question.
The sergeant waited out the superior's outburst in silence, then said with dignity:
"We are soldiers of the 204th Legion, sir," the clone sergeant introduced himself and his men. "And this," he touched the left part of the breastplate with feeling, "is our emblem. If you have a grievance—take it to Jedi General Rick Dougan, our commander. And now," the clone took his rifle in hand, saluting the superior officer, "allow us to escort the Separatist general we captured to the guardhouse."
***
The Officers' Club, as they pretentiously called the spacious two-story cantina with a panoramic roof, met us with loud music. The atmosphere of minimal lighting reigning in the establishment gave me the feeling of that very place where Obi-Wan cut off a thug's arm in A New Hope.
Glancing around the cantina, I easily found the Moff's colorful figure. His adjutant, some spooked little fellow, had ratted out his boss to us. And, apparently, not only to us.
Peering at faces and insignia, I noticed with surprise that the cantina had a certain gradation for its clients. The lower floor was occupied by junior army and navy ranks. At a dozen tables, representatives of the junior command staff gathered. Also, a fairly impressive collection of young midshipmen, boisterously giving themselves over to alcohol. As it happened, the youngsters occupied the entire space near the stairs. Sizing up their behavior and the volume of bottles on the tables, I realized with a sigh that a drunken brawl was unavoidable.
The second floor was the habitat of the senior command staff—army leadership, captains of capital ships… though a couple of civilians also flickered there, whose belonging to the dealer class couldn't be hidden even by expensive clothes. Solidly and formally, the fathers-commanders sat on leather sofas, sipping bright liquid from glasses.
Both floors were connected by a wide staircase which, like a social elevator, divided the patrons into social groups of privileged persons and workhorses. Though, looking closer, I realized that more than the stairs, the floors were divided by a thick transparent ceiling-floor, muffling sounds.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure in snow-white armor, briskly and boldly climbing between floors. An aura of contempt and impatience, extreme irritation, radiated from the figure. The evening was ceasing to be dull.
"Thanks, guys, I'll take it from here. Go to the legion; see that everyone—militia too—gets fed in the mess hall," I commanded the clones. Without any sentimentality, the ARCs left the establishment. Left alone (both Hands had gone to the apartments assigned to our legion's command staff), I walked slowly toward the Moff. Bylur, like a petty tyrant, had concentrated all power in his hands. Now you couldn't even get barracks for the legion without his approval. One wonders what he needs a headquarters for?
"I'm telling you," a pleasant female voice reached my ear, slightly drawn out under the influence of drink. "It's a staged fight. You can't time a hyperspace exit that perfectly."
The source of these conclusions was a girl. Twenty to twenty-two years old, short, with a cute face and dark-red hair hidden under a headpiece. The girl's eyes shone while she held court before half a dozen of her comrades. They occupied one of the tables closest to the stairs. And judging by the abundance of empty bottles on the tabletop, the group had a serious reason.
"They just put on a show for us," the girl continued.
"Mara," one of the guys sitting at the table named her, "settle down."
The speaker threw a look full of indignation at her comrade.
"Treuten, I don't like being led by the nose! We came to fight, not to watch a show…"
From that moment I was interested, so, abruptly changing my route, I sat down next to one of the clone lieutenants, lazily sipping from a mug… is that caf? Caf in a cantina? Seriously?
Seeing me, the clone tried to salute, obviously noticing my belonging to the Order, but I stopped him with a gesture. Waving to the bartender and ordering a caf for myself too, I began to listen with interest to the continuation of the conversation. Sitting just a couple meters from the group, I also caught another scene.
The clone in armor, with the insignia of a Senior Commander, was saying something to the Moff—restrained but furious. The latter, lazily glancing around and at his civilian companions, clearly wasn't happy with the conversation.
"We haven't even received assignments yet!" another midshipman objected to the girl—slightly plump, with ridiculous youthful mustaches. "What war are you talking about?"
"The very one the Jedi dragged us into!" the girl answered hotly. Probably even too loudly. Cantina patrons from neighboring tables took notice of the noisy company.
"Let's be quieter," a fourth member of the team suggested, a boy with curly blond hair and pilot insignia on his uniform. He was supported by a nod from a silent brunette modestly sipping a cocktail through a straw.
A young midshipman with an aristocratic face, fine features, and a short buzz cut stood up, interrupting his comrades' argument. The company fell into silence, sipping alcohol from their containers.
"Let's not quarrel," the midshipman suggested. In an exemplary uniform, clean-shaven, he gave the impression of being the most reasonable person in this whole group. Raising a glass, he made a toast. "To the baptism of fire!"
"To the baptism of fire!" his companions supported him.
Finally, they brought me my caf and a couple of cookies. The clone lieutenant, as if apologizing for the youngsters, lowered his voice and said:
"Forgive them, sir," glancing at the midshipmen with some sympathy, the clone returned to the conversation with me. "They were on a combat ship for the first time today."
"Seriously?" I smirked.
"Yes, sir," the clone nodded. "I'm the commander of Blue Squadron, ARC-170s, Lieutenant Fredd, from the cruiser Leveler. Captain Pellaeon commands it. And this group of fledglings is our cadets."
In the back of my mind, the cruiser commander's surname stirred. A very familiar surname. And a very promising surname, it had to be said.
"Well then," I smirked. "Then they really have a holiday."
Glancing at the youth and meeting the eyes of the red-haired beauty, I looked away and called a droid waiter. I was damn hungry. And I didn't want to speak with the Moff on an empty stomach. The Force suggested that after speaking with the Moff, my appetite would vanish.
***
Terren Rogriss, a Judicial Department academy graduate, was one of fifty midshipmen interns invited to intern aboard the strike cruiser Leveler. First combat mission, and there it was—victory.
Before their eyes, the Republic fleet destroyed a CIS task force. Is that not a reason to celebrate a successful start to military service? For almost a month they all—a hundred Academy cadets—had been wasting away here on the planet, performing small tasks and analyzing thousands of reports. Now the internship was over. Their entire group—the midshipmen—would receive assignments to combat ships and rush into battle.
Their group of fellow classmates—six Academy students—were not the most outstanding. The outstanding ones were those fifty who interned on the Moff's flagship. Offspring of rich families. Those who didn't even lift a finger at the Academy. Yet—they had patents with honors and the rank of lieutenants.
Instructors called Terren and his comrades "solid middle-grounders." "You will never become admirals," they said. "But under your command will be the fleet's best ships." Good executors—that was the maximum their mentors predicted for them.
Terren glanced at his comrades. He was the unspoken leader of their group. But each member was an interesting personality.
Mara Cross—an impulsive red-haired beauty. Hard, unprincipled. To everyone and anyone, she said she aimed for a staff position, but her results in capital ship command disciplines… to put it mildly, could put many to shame. But regular disciplinary violations, a quarrelsome nature, and an inability to compromise kept her from reaching high positions.
Treuten Teradoc. Always polite, calm, rational, overly pragmatic. It seemed he wasn't bothered by what was happening. But he was the company's safety valve, stopping them in time from actions that could have unpleasant consequences.
Amis Griff. A joker and the life of the party. He tried to turn any conflict into a joke. Not always successfully. In his early twenties, he looked older than his peers. And he was craftier.
Garven Dreis. A born commander of anything that flies faster than a corvette and is smaller than a patrol ship. A fighter pilot through and through. And, strangely enough—the team's diplomat. Only he managed to find the right words to reconcile comrades in case of conflict.
Ryan Torsil. Dreis's always-silent friend. An equally reckless lover of starfighters. Also—a programmer from God. Rumor had it he raised the money for Academy training through electronic piracy. No one had ever been able to prove it.
As for himself, Rogriss considered himself the group's strategist. His analytical mind, though inferior to Mara's abilities, always kept himself in check in everything. And that allowed him, the only one in the entire group, to receive lieutenant bars. And although he hadn't yet told his comrades, he had received an assignment too. Unlike his friends, who faced the unenviable role of staff rats. The newly minted lieutenant thought that, over time, he might request his comrades' transfer to his ship—a brand-new medical Pelta. And save them from the fate of staff rats.
He was just about to announce this, but his pre-prepared speech was interrupted by a stranger's appearance.
A man in a black robe immediately caught Terren's attention. He wasn't dressed in a standard uniform, but the guards at the entrance hadn't even stopped him. No, he entered the cantina with his own guard—the lieutenant managed to notice a pair of hulks in unknown armor before they left. That meant only one thing—this man possessed great power. Enough to disturb the Moff's peace. And judging by his looks, the man was interested in the Moff and his circle.
The conclusion was obvious. This man was a Jedi. And he had arrived recently. Otherwise, the cadets would have seen him earlier. During the time they had been here, almost all the Jedi generals assigned to the 13th Sectoral had been to headquarters and were known by sight to the young lieutenant.
The Jedi sat calmly a couple meters from them, one table over, engaged in casual conversation with a clone pilot. A few times he looked over at their table, exactly at the moments when Mara was voicing drunken criticism of the GAR and the Jedi. However, it did not escape Terren that once the beauty, the object of desire for the whole course, met eyes with the Jedi. And since then she had been watching him. Sideways, fleetingly, but she didn't take her eyes off him.
"Guys," she finally said, "there's a Jedi in the cantina."
The group became agitated. All kinds of rumors circulated about the Jedi. From those that they steal children to their supernatural abilities. Rumor had it that Jedi could become invisible and overhear others' conversations.
"Where?" Torsil livened up, turning his head. Mara whispered the direction.
"Oh, hutt," Griff muttered, hiding his face in his hands.
"That can't be!" Dreis responded. "That's a Jedi?"
Indeed, the comrade's doubts were understandable. This character didn't look like a Jedi. Encased from head to toe in armor worth, by Terren's estimates, more than a few tens of thousands of credits, he looked more like a mercenary. But the midshipman preferred to trust his hunch.
"I'm going!" Mara exclaimed, leaving the table like a flash. The nimble beauty left the table without a shadow of embarrassment and headed straight for the Jedi.
"She's crazy," Teradoc shook his head. "He's a general! He'll brush her off like a nuis—"
The midshipman didn't finish. Before the eyes of all five, the girl, after exchanging a few words with the Jedi, sat down beside him. The stunned friends could only watch as the impulsive beauty led a dialogue. However, after a few minutes, she was already waving to them, beckoning her comrades to join.
The Jedi, looking up from his meal and glancing at the group, also waved as if to say, join in.
"If we get kicked out of the fleet," Dreis warned, "I'll strangle her."
The other four boys supported him with silence.
***
Having met the young officers, I sat with an expressionless face and listened with interest to their surnames. Thanks to meditation, I had not only mastered someone else's body but also stirred up my own memories. Therefore, much of what was known to me from the Star Wars universe lay on the surface of my memory again.
Terren Rogriss, Treuten Teradoc. A pair of future Imperial admirals who would become warlords after the Empire's collapse.
Amis Griff. Another Imperial admiral.
Garven Dreis. Ryan Torsil. And here we were brought future rebel pilots…
Surnames like that make your eyebrows rise. Meeting future famous Imperial and Alliance soldiers like this, while they're still fledglings… it's worth a lot!
Only Mara Cross remained a mystery to me. Kill me—I don't remember a name like that.
"Sir," Rogriss cleared his throat and asked, "how did you manage to orient yourself and open fire on the enemy ships so quickly? A couple minutes' delay—and that's it, they'd have escaped."
I smiled. Well, how do you tell children that your ships have professional soldiers, drilled to automatism? Promising to tell about that next time, I shifted the conversation to another topic.
"And what wind brought you to such a wonderful place as Ord Pardron?"
"We're Academy graduates," Mara explained. "Before graduation, we were offered a transfer to the active fleet. We agreed. Но вместо реальных дел занимаемся бумагомаранием в штабе."
"Is that so," I smirked. "And you're already itching for the bridge of a ship? Can't wait to draw Separatist blood?"
"It's not quite that, sir," Teradoc hesitated. "We didn't study just to rot in headquarters."
"Then what for?" the Jedi inquired. The simple question made the kids hesitate. Finally, Dreis said resolutely:
"We studied to kill the Republic's enemies!"
The Jedi looked with curiosity at the former cadets' faces. For lack of a more coherent answer, the youth supported their more resourceful comrade.
"To kill the enemy, you don't necessarily have to study at the academy," Dougan said sententiously. "For that, it's enough to put on armor, take a rifle, and sign up for the infantry."
"But, sir…!" Mara almost jumped in place.
"Don't interrupt a superior officer," the Jedi said sententiously, and continued the interrupted thought. "You are naval officers. Your boots are to tread the decks of ships where crews can be a thousand or more people. And your life, your comrade's life, the whole crew's life, and even the fleet's life can depend on your knowledge, your experience, and your ability to make decisions. Fail to fix a short circuit in a gun's power module—and you'll die with the crew. Calculate the course incorrectly—and your ship will be smeared across the surface of the nearest planet. One careless word during a comm session—and the enemy will grab you, torture you to death, and squeeze the information he needs out of you."
The youth sat with mouths open in amazement. Clearly, such thoughts hadn't visited their bright heads.
"Your desire—to step onto the bridge of your own ship—is understandable," the Jedi assured them. "But ask yourselves—are you ready for the fact that you will have to bear responsibility for your decisions? And the result of your thoughtless act could be the death of hundreds of your friends…"
The cadets sat dejectedly. From the frankly embarrassed faces, I saw that I had held this explanatory talk completely in vain. They didn't yet understand that every wrong action is followed by bitter consequences. And by virtue of age, they didn't want to think about it.
"The General is absolutely right," Fredd supported me. "I've been fighting since Geonosis. And I've seen what sacrifices an error in command turns into," the clone cut himself off, realizing he had just given his opinion on the Jedi. Looking at me, he said, "Forgive me, sir, I spoke without thinking."
"But you spoke truly," I admitted. "Geonosis showed us all what a lack of proper experience and hasty decisions mean. Thousands stayed there, and any of them could be sitting at the same table with us now…"
"I heard," Mara said cautiously, "that almost two hundred Jedi arrived on Geonosis, and almost all of them died. They also turned out to be unprepared? It was their operation, after all."
"The answer to that question is much deeper than you think," I admitted.
"Will you tell us?" Curiosity lit a spark in the girl's eyes. "I've always wanted to know how Jedi think…"
Fortunately, a droid waiter approached the table. And the situation allowed me to avoid answering.
"Anything else, officer gentlemen?" The metal servant's synthesized speech slightly stirred the kids. The first uncertain orders were heard.
Looking up, I noticed that the facial expressions of the Moff, engaged in conversation with the clone, had changed for the worse. Bylur was frankly bored and seemed to be looking for a reason to get away from the intrusive interlocutor. His gaze wandered over the interior, showing extreme lack of interest in the conversation.
"Droid, put all the cadets' expenses on my tab," I stood up from the table, catching the Moff's eye. Seeing me, he was first astonished, after which a smile shone on his face. With an unambiguous gesture, he suggested I come up.
"Good luck, future legends of the galaxy," I shook each boy's hand and kissed the girl's hand.
Following that, I walked quickly toward the stairs. Fredd followed me, said goodbye to the company, and moved toward the exit.
***
"Future legends of the galaxy," Teradoc snorted. The boy looked disappointed. "He's mocking us!"
"Be quiet, do me a favor?" Terren focused on the order. He had decided that alcohol for the evening was enough. A small dinner—and to the barracks. He needed to sleep. In the morning he was to appear at headquarters and receive his first assignment.
"He was more gracious to us than he could have been," Mara noted, looking after the departing man. Then, turning, she added in a half-whisper, "Did you see how surprised he was to hear your surnames?"
"Seriously?" Torsil livened up. "I didn't notice. I've never seen a Jedi so close before."
"As for me," Griff spoke up, "he was surprised we have names at all. Probably thought we only had numbers, like the clones."
Amis's words sparked a sharp protest among his comrades. And a quiet argument boiled between the young officers. Terren cast a sideways glance at Mara, noticing that the girl was staring intently at the Jedi's figure. She probably didn't realize she was being watched. Otherwise, her predatory gaze, bitten lower lip, and frequent breathing wouldn't have revealed such obvious arousal.
***
The evening in the cantina, despite the absence of the fleet admiral and his deputies, was still a success.
Gilad was sunk in a luxurious chair, enjoying an alcoholic cocktail. Opposite him sat Eon Kreevz—commander of the Victorious. Together they led a casual conversation, occasionally interrupting to order new drinks.
The establishment's only high guest was the Moff. He had visitors. A tight circle was situated in a private booth in the far part of the second floor, away from the stairs. And for hours already, a private conversation had been going on.
The captain didn't build any guesses about the substance of that conversation. On the base, only the dumbest person—or a clone—didn't suspect what the Moff was really doing.
And in the context of clones, the captain didn't mean they were worse than others. It was just that these boys weren't bothered by anything at all except what concerned service.
If he told his crew, entirely composed of clones, that the Moff was moonlighting, organizing guards from auxiliary forces for large smuggler or Hutt convoys, every last one would say it didn't concern them.
However, it concerned him, Gilad. He didn't want to waste away here as a guard for a collection of merchants waiting in the system for the Moff to assign them escort forces so the Separatists or pirates wouldn't pick them off on the way.
Out there, all across the Dufilvian sector, Separatists and pirates were in charge. Dozens of garrisons were sitting without supply and reinforcements because most of the 13th Sectoral's free forces were moonlighting for the Moff.
Such a scheme became possible because all the light cruisers, frigates, patrol ships, and corvettes under Bylur's command were run either by clones who didn't ask questions or by green lieutenants from rich families who kept quiet, waiting for new ranks and positions.
No, certainly, all this activity was covered by heavy operations across the entire territory of responsibility. Radnor, Mon Gazza, Ruun, Molavar, New Cov, Filve… battles were going on for every system. Combat commanders simply had no time to deal with what was happening here on Ord Pardron. They were up to their ears in poodoo, expecting help and reinforcements. Which were unlikely to come.
At the moment, the 117th Legion was recovering on the planet, having barely managed to flee Yukio. The planet where the Jedi had held talks about returning to the Republic slammed its doors right in the GAR's face. The Acclamator Convincing, which was to deliver the 117th Legion to the planet—with the task of deploying a full base—was now waiting its turn for repairs. Though, it should be admitted, it was easier to scrap it than fix it.
The ship and its support forces, carrying the legion led by the Jedi—what was his name, oh who cares!—fell into an ambush of twenty Munificents and one Bursa that had arrived before them. The Separatists had achieved their aim again, and the planet, like a galactic prostitute, turned away from the Republic again. The Convincing and its escorting three Consulars and two Peltas came under blistering fire. According to the Convincing's senior officer, it was a real slaughter.
One of the Peltas and a lead Consular died in the first minutes they exited hyperspace. Following them, the Convincing, the second Pelta, and the two other Consulars literally survived hell. Not a spot on the ships was left intact. The Separatists were shooting them up, targeting bridges and trying to inflict as many breaches as possible. Clearly, they planned to land troops and seize the ships. Но старпом «Убедительного» скомандовал отступать. The mangled ships barely returned to hyperspace. It was only a miracle they reached Ord Pardron. The strike cruiser lost its commander, almost the entire officer staff, and up to three hundred crew. And from the legion they were carrying, only an incomplete regiment and fifteen hundred wounded remained.
Vehicles, base-building equipment… all of it ended up in open space. Retreating, the ships shed everything extra to avoid breaches of damaged hulls in hyperspace. And as a result—the entire army again depended on food supplies from the Core Worlds. Rare and irregular ones. Local merchants took advantage of this, jackaging prices for the most ordinary goods.
Now the survivors waited for the Moff's decision on their future. There wasn't even a way to send the surviving clones to other planets—there simply weren't enough ships. Almost all battle-ready capital ships of the 13th Sectoral were either fighting or guarding a number of strategic worlds like Kamino. Hutt, even in Kamino orbit, an entire squadron of Venators is hanging around doing nothing! And fifty Acclamators! Though why they're needed there—you can't figure it out. The attack was repelled; defensive platforms were delivered to the system. Why keep an entire fleet in the backwaters when it's needed elsewhere?
That was exactly what the two captains were talking about.
"It'll get easier now," Eon assured him. "Did you see the Hammerhead fleet? They tore the Munificents to parts in seconds."
"That antiquity was lucky just to reach here," Gilad smirked.
"Don't say that," the colleague objected. "I heard they were heavily modernized."
"That means they'll be snatched up soon," Pellaeon smirked, nodding toward the Moff's booth. Beside it, to his surprise, stood a clone. Judging by extra armor elements—a Senior Clone Commander. Without ceremony, the clone gestured for the guard clones to vanish, then went inside. "These museum pieces will be pulling duty in a convoy. Though there's a plus—all our frigates will return. We'll have something to chase the Separatists with in the next raid."
"There's another catch," Eon looked around, making sure no one was eavesdropping. "Those ships aren't that simple."
"How so?" Gilad didn't understand.
"Hear about the slaughter at Christophsis? When Vice Admiral Aquish's ships were destroyed," Gilad nodded. Another ringing slap to the fleet. "Well, the locals bought an entire armada of ships—cruisers and corvettes—from Jedi stockpiles. Paid mercenaries—and now those ships are grinding Trench's blockade squadron into star dust."
"You're kidding," Gilad said, alerted.
"There was even a holoreel about it."
"And what, they sold those ships to us?" Gilad suggested. Buying even outdated ships when every pennant counts is a perfectly reasonable decision.
"Nope," Eon smiled. "Remember, I told you I landed a Jedi on Christophsis. And his legion."
"I remember."
"Well, the grateful people of Christophsis transferred their ships to that Jedi."
"Hah," Gilad smirked. "To one specific Jedi? That's some kind of fiction."
"Don't say that," Eon took out a datapad and handed it to his friend. "The system joins the Republic, takes full maintenance of the whole fleet, and even supplies volunteers to that Jedi's battalion…"
"Nonsense," Gilad grimaced. "The Senate won't tolerate that. Some system dictating terms."
"Look lower," Kreevz jabbed a finger at the fresh holonews block. "The Senate passed the bill in its first reading. Even in the absence of the senator from Christophsis himself. So now we have a Jedi with a personal fleet in the Iron Spear."
"Nonsense," Pellaeon voiced his opinion. "The Senate doesn't do anything for nothing."
"Read even lower," Eon smiled. "'Christophsis is supplying the Grand Army of the Republic with strategically important metals and ammunition components at record low prices,'" he read the first line.
"'The Christophsis system, liberated from CIS occupation, announced a reduction in procurement prices for the Republic for strategically important metallic ores and nergon-14, so necessary for us to continue the war,'" Pellaeon delved into the news feed. "'Despite the price reduction for the Republic, the system government still receives enormous profits, which they intend to use to rebuild their planet after the recent occupation.'"
"Get it?" Eon nodded.
"Not really…" Gilad admitted.
"That Jedi is a national hero on their planet," Kreevz explained. "At first glance—a boy, just a boy, but it seems there's something in him. They almost worship him. I think Christophsis specifically greased the Senate with procurement price cuts so they'd push their bill through."
Gilad, admitting that the colleague's conclusions had a right to exist, leaned back against the sofa, sipped his drink, and cast a lazy look over the cantina. And he almost choked on the spirits, seeing a colorful figure in armor and a black cloak enter the Moff's booth. Is that a mercenary?
"Hutt," Eon noticed the guest too. Carefully nodding toward the newcomer, he said quietly, "And that is the very Jedi who crushed Trench at Christophsis."
Gilad looked at his friend in a new way.
"I didn't know he was so young."
"You should have seen his operation to break the blockade for the first time," Kreevz said dreamily. For a moment he rolled his eyes, then said: "Let's call a couple more space wolves to wet their whistles…"
***
Rurkh Bylur rubbed his hands—the general's appearance among his guests had clearly caused a stir. The Jedi was too young to understand political nuances. Но, как поговаривают, достаточно способен, чтобы участвовать в кампании. Well, a valuable acquisition. Especially with those ships of his. Under the protection of an entire fleet, he could just run his new clients' convoys to Hutt territory and get very serious money for the guard.
It was only a pity his fleet wasn't clones. The Moff winced inwardly, recalling the directive from sectoral command—supplement the ships with personnel and starfighters. How much money would it have brought him if he had appointed clones and clone commanders to those ships?! So obedient, and asking no questions…
Only this Nyx, like a blockhead, keeps droning that he's supposed to command a legion. No matter what, give him that legion. And the answer that there simply were no legions somehow didn't satisfy the clone.
Regardless, why shouldn't the Jedi perform an escort mission? It just had to be framed right.
"Hello, Moff!" the Jedi nodded.
"Glad to welcome you to our company. Gentlemen," Rurkh, demonstratively ignoring the intrusive clone, turned to his companions while sitting on the luxurious leather sofa, "allow me to introduce Jedi General Rick Dougan!"
The merchants sitting nearby bowed reservedly, waiting with alarm in their eyes for the Moff's next moves. "Afraid," Bylur thought with pleasure, "that's good. They'll become more accommodating."
Rurkh suggested the Jedi take a seat. The latter redirected the offer to the clone, who didn't hold back and flopped onto the sofa opposite the Moff.
"So," Rurkh spread his hands, "allow me to congratulate you on the grand victory at Christophsis."
"Thank you, Moff," the Jedi smiled. Rurkh noticed with inner triumph that the young man—hardly even a boy—was uncomfortable in their company. But no matter, he'd have to endure and do a service—since it hadn't been possible to send the clone away at once, we'd do it gradually. "I actually wanted to speak with you about quartering my men in the barracks."
"It'll all be done," the Moff promised. "Let's return to that conversation tomorrow, but for now…"
"No, today," the Jedi answered unexpectedly sharply. The Moff, preparing to shift his attention to the merchants, hesitated slightly. What did he think he was doing, this boy? "My men spent almost four months in beastly conditions," Dougan continued. "And it's night now. We're all tired and want to rest. While we're talking, shuttles are moving my battalions to the planet."
"You should have notified me in advance," the Moff grimaced. What did he care about some clones? Millions of them die every day. So what? They'll sleep for a day or two somewhere; nothing will happen to them. "It'll be extremely difficult to find an intendant now…"
"I sent the request a week ago," metal appeared in the boy's voice. "Immediately upon receiving the order to return to the deployment site."
"Then," Bylur concluded, "it didn't reach me. You know, Judicial Department academy cadets handle the paperwork—they surely messed something up."
"But that doesn't change the situation," the Jedi insisted. "We need barracks."
The little brat! Who did he think he was? Rurkh thought with irritation about how he had been courting these two Hutt fat cats for an hour, telling them how he had everything under control, that he was ready to help them with a convoy. They had almost shelled out ten million dataries, called credits, when this milksop broke his whole image.
"You need an intendant first of all, my friend," the Moff tried his best to keep the conversation friendly. "He'll tell you which barracks are empty…"
"They're all empty!" the clone suddenly spoke up. "On the planet there are only parts of the 117th Legion in barracks E and parts of the garrison in barracks A. After the departure of the 611th, 804th, and 156th Legions, barracks B, C, and D are free."
Hearing this, the Jedi frowned. Not taking his wary eyes off the Moff, he said:
"See, we can take any of the three barracks. You just have to give the order…"
"Bastard," the Moff thought of the Jedi. The boy clearly forgot who he was speaking with. Well, no matter. That could be fixed.
Rurkh thought with pleasure that the Jedi had just signed himself up as the Moff's enemy. And with his connections, this upstart would quickly find his end.
"Take barracks D," he ordered. The boy stood up quickly, preparing to leave the meeting. "Get a good night's sleep and rest—tomorrow at noon you're to be at a briefing in headquarters. You and your fleet have an important mission ahead."
"Sir, my men are exhausted, and the ships are fresh from battle," the boy backed down in the verbal skirmish, allowing the Moff to take the leading position in the conversation. "We have a shortage of personnel…"
"General," the Moff said in an icy tone. "You have an entire night ahead. Solve your unit's problems. By tomorrow lunch, your people and your ships must be ready to escort convoys," he nodded toward the civilians, "through enemy territory."
For a moment the Jedi was stunned. The Moff saw the confusion on his face. But almost immediately he regained his former composure.
"As you command, Moff Bylur," the boy stood up, bowed, and turned to go.
"And one more thing, General," Rurkh solved two of his problems at once. "You need an experienced commander for your legion—Senior Clone Commander Nyx is at your service."
The clone, like his new boss, stood up and took his helmet. And together the pair left the booth.
Rurkh watched them go. He had just gotten rid of his headache—the Jedi and the clingy clone. It was a pity about the boy's ships, of course—Hammerhead cruisers aren't just ancient, they're the glory of the Republic. But the Moff didn't like those who crossed him. The boy, like this clone, were themselves to blame for what would happen to them. Command requires decisive action. Who better than the Hero of Christophsis to rush into battle and win?
"Moff," one of the traders called him. "Can he be trusted?"
"The Jedi?" Rurkh said, surprised. "Not for a second. Keep the true content of your holds to yourselves and everything will go as agreed. Now about my commission…"
***
"What an ox," I said as soon as I left the Moff's booth. The clone following me was silent. For some reason, I wanted to smoke. My nerves were playing up. I was tempted to go back there and just bash the bastard so his head flew off his shoulders.
"We weren't properly introduced," I held out my hand to the clone. "Jedi Knight Rick Dougan."
"Senior Clone Commander Nyx," he shook hands. "Pleased to meet you, General."
"Likewise, Commander," through the Force I felt someone's attention from the second-floor patrons directed at me. Focusing, I noticed my acquaintance sitting in the distance—Captain Eon Kreevz, who, making sure I'd noticed him, made a beckoning gesture. He was at a table with half a dozen fleet and army officers sipping spirits.
"Come on, Nyx," I called the clone. "Looks like someone wants to chat…"
***
When everyone was settled in cozy chairs, Eon introduced the Jedi to the officers sitting at the table:
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Jedi Knight Dougan, the liberator of Christophsis."
"A pleasure," the Jedi smiled at those gathered. "In turn, let me introduce Senior Clone Commander Nyx—he's an addition to our glorious 204th Legion."
Hearing the legion's name, the clone looked warily at the Jedi but said nothing. The newcomers sat at the table, opposite the officers.
"Rear Admiral Iliso Var," Kreevz introduced an elderly man with a short beard. "Responsible for the Ord Pardron system defense. Captain Gilad Pellaeon—commander of the Leveler. Captain Phev Darill," a short man with thin mustaches and a bald spot nodded briefly. "He is our intelligence. Major Ronett Dialo—personnel and logistics," a stocky colonel whose uniform groaned under a pile of muscles shook the Jedi's hand. In his signature style—full strength. Yet the Jedi didn't even flinch.
Following Eon's gesture, a waiter—this time a living person—quickly filled the glasses. Nyx reservedly declined.
After the drinks, the conversation shifted to more mundane matters.
"What's the news on the war's progress?" the Jedi asked. "I've been… out of touch lately."
Eon glanced at Darill. The man leaned in and turned on a datapad lying on the table, which showed a map of the Galaxy.
"Things aren't as good as they say in the holonews," the captain pointed to several spots on the map. "The GAR has laid siege to several key worlds: Cato Neimoidia, Scipio, Castell, and Foerost. But it hasn't gone past a blockade. The CIS doesn't have the strength to lift the siege; we don't have enough for a decisive offensive. The Separatists are conducting attacks along major hyperspace lanes—if they seize even one or two routes, it'll be bad for us. The CIS will be able to deliver reinforcements dozens of times faster than we can. The Confederacy controls Yag'Dhul, Sluis Van, and with them—a significant part of the Rimma Trade Route and the Corellian Trade Spine. We can say the southern part of the Rimma is already in the CIS's pocket."
"Not bad," the Jedi noted. "But as for our army?"
"It's even sadder there," Gilad joined in. "The CIS has controlled the Abrion sector with its agricultural worlds practically since the start of the war. That's how they were able to strike Kamino through the Rishi Maze. Fortunately—that direction is now blocked by our significant forces. We're largely cut off from our forces landed on planets at the start of the war. Molavar, Shimyia, Filve, and a dozen others—almost all our clone units are cut off from supply routes, blocked. We don't have the strength to break our troops out, so we do what we can—we hold the line. But each month it gets harder. Supply lines are broken. And what sectoral command delivers to us is a drop in the ocean. If this keeps up, the CIS will seize all the resource planets and we'll just starve."
"Well, it's a long way to that," Dialo said with a laugh. "But the situation is indeed sad. Instead of equipment and ammunition, we have to run transports for food. And supplies from the Core Worlds aren't as voluminous as we'd like. Besides, pirates and raiders regularly attack our supply vessels. And there isn't enough strength to defend them. Eh, if only Yukio hadn't surrendered to the CIS…"
"Essentially," Var cut in, "only the fact that the CIS isn't conducting a large-scale offensive saves us. With our forces and equipment—we'd be crushed."
"The CIS isn't up to that yet," the Jedi countered. "They weren't prepared for us having an army and fleet. Now they themselves are forced to restructure for wartime needs. Their hopes for a quick victory over the Judicial Department and the Jedi failed. CIS victories were only possible thanks to massed concentration of army and fleet in a specific direction. But they can't develop an offensive right now. They need time. We should take advantage of this and regain several key worlds in the sector—to reinforce the rear."
Those gathered exchanged looks. The Jedi had noted their thoughts with surprising accuracy. Kreevz exchanged a look with Pellaeon. Could it be that the Jedi was the one they needed?
"Having our own resource base would allow us not to worry about food for the army," the clone said, looking at the map. He explained to those present: "Clones' rapid growth contributes to a high metabolism—consequently, we eat more than ordinary humans."
"Yes," Dialo confirmed. "Good thing we managed to stock up on equipment and related items in the first months of the war—before the Seps and pirates went completely wild."
"Do we really have so few ships that we can't drive off this rabble?" the Jedi wondered. "A couple of raids would be enough to scatter them."
"I'm afraid, respected Jedi," Var noted, "we don't have enough ships. The Moff has concentrated most of the capital fleet on certain… tasks," at the last word, the admiral grimaced as if in pain. "And the light forces are busy… guarding trade convoys."
The special emphasis the elderly commander put on the ships' actions did not escape the Jedi. Eon noticed a note of irritation pass across the Temple-dweller's face. Most likely, if he didn't know what the Moff was doing, he suspected.
"At the moment, you possess the largest forces," Pellaeon explained.
"There are ships," the Jedi smiled. "But I have a terrible shortage of junior and senior command staff. The ship crews are formed from former Rendili servicemen—those the Christophsis government was able to lure with generous pay. Но практически все капитаны и старшие офицеры покинули мостики, как только с ними расплатились. To at least plug the holes, I've had to engage in active reassignment."
"Well…" Dialo drew out. "We're not rich in officers. This month a hundred cadets arrived, but more than half have already received assignments to light forces. There isn't even a way to recall them—they're in raids. At most, right now on the planet there are maybe two dozen officers—those undergoing treatment from the Convincing, plus the Academy graduates…"
"Downstairs I met a group of midshipmen," the Jedi recalled. "I think they wouldn't mind doing something useful."
"A sectoral command directive orders the Convincing to be scrapped," the intelligence officer suddenly said. Those present looked at him, and he just shrugged. "It'll be announced tomorrow. Secrecy, gentlemen," he explained his silence. "But for the common cause, why not?"
"That ship's crew could merge into our fleet," Nyx voiced. The Jedi nodded, agreeing with his subordinate.
"But we have no starfighters at all," he said. "Hammerheads can't boast a large air wing."
"I think," Admiral Var said, "that won't be a problem. I'll order part of the reserves to be transferred to you…"
"I think Commodore Gastano wouldn't mind leading your squadron," Dialo smiled.
"Isn't he recovering on a medical station near Naboo?" Pellaeon recalled.
"If so," the Jedi said, "he won't have time to join us. Tomorrow we set off in a convoy. We'll be escorting a caravan."
"There are no fleet transport caravans tomorrow," Dialo countered. Then, meeting eyes with Darill, the major fell silent. Kreevz and Pellaeon pretended to be interested in the contents of their glasses. Admiral Var looked aside, watching the Moff in his private booth engaged in lively conversation.
The Jedi, following his gaze, was silent for some time. Then he said:
"And no one has tried to fight this?"
Kreevz breathed a sigh of relief. The Jedi understood everything. And, so to speak—took the scent.
"There are extremely few Jedi in our army," the admiral explained. "And those that are—are in blockades."
"Last time I saw a Jedi here was about a month ago," Pellaeon recalled.
"Is there really no one to report this to?" Dougan wondered. "I doubt sectoral command would approve."
"All of this has broad patronage in the Senate," Darill explained. "The previous head of intelligence was working in that direction."
"And what then?" The clone, apparently, had also figured out what was what.
"His ship never reached sectoral command," the admiral spread his hands. "And no traces."
The Jedi downed his spirits in one gulp, grimacing. Returning the glass to the table, he looked around at those present.
"Gentlemen, would you like to visit my flagship?"