The morning turned out to be… rainy.
Watching the raindrops tap against the glass of my "cell"—I couldn't bring myself to call the room in the Temple anything else—I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to find myself a residence on Coruscant. My own secret lair, where I wouldn't have to hide from hundreds of Jedi. Where I could spend the night how I wanted and with whom I wanted.
Squaring my shoulders, I threw my hands behind my head, lost in thought.
I should visit the Moff, feeling out what he and the people behind him want from me. Maybe I'll be able to make some useful acquaintances.
Besides, it's about time to contact the army. Olee arrives in a week, and we'll rush off to search for the Huttlet. Of course, I know where he is, but I shouldn't find him at the first snap of my fingers. Massive searches—that's what I need. Alpha and Balda, clones loyal to me, will keep an eye on the planet Teth to ensure the kidnappers don't slip away, Force forbid, while I handle my business.
The Force… truly a wonderful ally. With its help, my long-forgotten memories surfaced. I only had to concentrate on the information I needed, and after some time in meditation, it would emerge in my memory.
The Emperor noted correctly—a confrontation is not far off. Whether it be Jedi or Imperial Inquisitors, I need trained Force adepts. Those whom I can subject to myself, to my ideas, turn into an extension of my will.
Strange as it may seem, I had several options. Fine, I admit. Only three. But each of them had to be considered before going all out. However, nothing prevents me from working on the first option while I'm busy searching for the Hutt beastling.
Of course, you might say he's a child and has done nothing wrong, that he shouldn't be treated so poorly. But no way. He's a Hutt. And that means, by definition—a bastard, a gangster, and a future criminal.
Ventress will likely be acting against me. "Likely," because she was supposed to be freeing Gunray as well. Но что-то в этой хронологии идет не так, как я помню. Events… are moving a bit faster than I remembered. Am I to blame for this? Perhaps. Even likely.
Does this mean the end of the war could come much earlier than planned? Oh, I wouldn't want that.
I understand myself that I should speed up, but the main "work" takes up too much time. And now there won't be any time at all…
If you call yourself a mushroom, get in the basket.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I looked at the wall chronometer. Four in the morning. I had slept for about five hours, but thanks to meditation, I was able to rest properly. Pulling my armor toward me, I began to dress…
A comlink beeped. Glancing at the display, I noticed the call was coming through the communication channel reserved for Jedi General Rick Dougan. Wait, correction. Senior Jedi General. I'm a Master now, after all. Regardless… I pulled the device to me with the Force.
"Respected Senior Jedi General Dougan, hello," the face of a completely unfamiliar girl looked back at me. She was slightly surprised to see a mask instead of a face. Though, I admit, the girl is quite pretty. Sharp features, a small nose, full lips, a neat hairstyle. "My name is Nora Pifel; I am your personal top manager at Kuat Drive Yards. I have learned that you are now in command of the 13th Sectoral Army. Would you like to meet to discuss new orders?"
Has she lost her mind? It seems Coruscant, like Moscow, never sleeps.
"Respected Nora," I said. "If you are working at four in the morning, that is a great achievement for your bosses."
"Oh, forgive me," the girl placed a hand to her mouth in horror. "I recently took office. I'm arriving on Coruscant today with a shipment for the army; I wanted to ask if you have any preferences regarding types of equipment?"
"It's nothing," I waved it off. "I'm not sleeping anyway. If you can—send me the list of what you are ready to offer, and I will review it."
"Thank you, Master Jedi," the girl smiled. "I have sent you the file. Enjoy your viewing."
The manager disconnected, leaving me alone.
Grunting, I set the file aside. I should first find out how things are going in the army itself before grabbing everything the traders are ready to hawk. Plus, after the purchase of the Marauders, the army's account has grown quite thin. Enough to buy a couple of Acclamators, stuffed to the gills, but not much more. And for me, that's like putting a band-aid on a corpse.
Of course, perhaps I should orient Shae toward purchasing equipment on Kuat? Say, I wouldn't mind if the militia trained and joined the army already provided with Republic-style military equipment. Hmm, good idea. I tapped out a message to the Mandalorian and sent it.
Beyond any doubt, using the Kuat account, I could buy a Venator for the entire army. The only question is how many questions that would raise. And judging by Yoda's stories—oh, quite a few.
Well, let's take a look at the training rooms first. My hands are itching to return to lightsaber practice.
***
Throwing another droid back with the Force, I plunged my blade into its colleague, causing it to fall to pieces. The last opponent rushed me, but the battle had already bored me. Using the Force, I crushed the droid into a metal sphere and tossed it aside.
Droids are not it. I lacked a living opponent. Sophisticated, trained. Machines are for younglings. And I had just spent two hours on a stupid scuffle. What a pity Nadia flew away…
Behind me, from the direction of the training hall entrance, came wide claps of hands. Deactivating the blade, I turned to meet the guest.
"Stunning," standing in the doorway was a Jedi Master, a lightsaber combat instructor. "Let's say you've mastered the youngling program. Not tired of carving droids yet?"
"Master Drallig," I bowed to the approaching instructor. "The hour is early; I didn't find myself a sparring partner."
"Then you didn't look hard enough," the man grunted. "Every youngling knows where my room is. Every Padawan knows that I never refuse a lesson. Но мастер-джедай Дуган, очевидно, не в курсе этого. Maybe it's time to learn anew?"
"You are as incomparably witty as ever," this Jedi had received the nickname "Troll" from his students and trainees for his biting, sometimes even over-the-line, jokes and taunts. However, in the Jedi's own opinion, this was supposed to temper character. And a quite decent prevention against Dun Moch.
"And for you, as I see, the lightning roast didn't do any good," the Jedi snorted. "Movements are still just as wooden. If Dooku were in her place, your feints wouldn't have helped."
"If Dooku were in her place, I wouldn't be working at half-strength," I returned the smirk.
"Seriously?" the instructor circled me during the conversation. It didn't escape me that he had unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and was holding it in his hand. "I've thought about this even more than you can squeeze out of yourself. If not for the Padawan—a pretty little girl—you'd have been finished. And anyway, why did she stick to you like that when you were lying on the floor like bantha fodder? Have you not violated the Jedi Code? They say in some sectors they cut off heads for such things…"
Something inside me snapped. It's not right to insult a girl. Especially when she can't hear it. And especially if she is my apprentice.
"Master Drallig," I activated my blade. "You still have a chance to apologize."
"For what?" the Jedi was sincerely surprised, baring his emerald blade. "For the fact that you're a softie and almost got killed by some Sith understudy? Of course, I'll apologize if you can lay me on my back here," he tapped the floor with his foot. "Until then, you are no one and your name is 'Nothing'! Next time you meet a Sith, send your apprentice—she'll handle it better…"
"I warned you."
With a characteristic crackle, the blades crossed.
***
Lightsaber training began exactly at seven standard time. Master Drallig did not like those who were late. He always arrived early to make fun of those who delayed.
The younglings didn't like the mockery, so they tried to arrive early. Mockery from the master couldn't be avoided in this case either, but it was better to be known as an early bird than a clumsy oaf. Only because of this, the younglings of the Mynock Clan saw this sight this morning. In the training hall, where droids usually showed the little ones the basics of lightsaber mastery, natural chaos reigned. A dozen training droids had been sliced to pieces. On the walls and floor were smoky marks from combat lightsabers.
In the center of the hall itself, showering each other with blows, two were circling in a deadly dance.
The first—the well-known "Troll." He attacked, defended, rolled, delivering truly incredible blows to his opponent, who proved worthy of his attention. Almost immediately, he captured the attention of all twelve younglings. Tall, encased in matte gray-black armor, with a face mask hiding his face, he gripped a sword with an unusual, golden light in the blade. Unlike his opponent, he moved little, trying to conserve his movements. But his sword, wherever the "Troll" began to strike, appeared, parrying the dangerous blows away from the Jedi.
"It's so cool!" one of the girls whispered.
No one answered her. Each member of the clan watched as the Jedi conducted a fierce battle.
***
"Damn, I'm so tired. Does this bastard even know what fatigue is? He's like a machine! Yoda should definitely check him for steroids."
The battle had definitely dragged on. I felt that I could continue the fight—Center of Being had justified itself from the very start. My fencing style created an ideal defense. Drallig, changing his fencing style from time to time, intended to catch me off guard, but to no avail.
The truth revealed itself to me.
I'll start with why I even learned Center of Being. Neither the previous owner of the body nor the Kun I absorbed, though they knew of such a technique, used it. But out of interest, I asked Nadia about it. And, interestingly, I mastered it. In one go.
Center of Being is a stance in lightsaber combat. It was also sometimes used for meditation. But that's not the point. This form was used to bring the body into an unconscious state, where the organism itself reacted to threats, erecting passive and active defenses. One who has deeply understood this style can almost unconsciously protect themselves from the smoothest accidental attacks and lunges. In my case—an absolutely necessary thing. Experienced fencers honed their mastery for years, training their bodies to react reflexively to danger. I did not possess such luxury. No time for me to train my body.
But I have the rich life experience of a former Sith Lord.
And now Drallig was experiencing all the intricacies of a confrontation with a Master of Niman.
I wasn't controlling my body. The Force was leading me. My brain gave commands, my arms and legs made movements. Ancient knowledge guided me. I parried, counterattacked, forcing the instructor himself to switch to defense. Then, a second later, I was already dodging his lunges. Movements that at the start of the fight were angular and clumsy, time after time, through countless repetitions, accelerated and acquired smooth curves. Our duel turned not into a beating, but into a full-fledged confrontation. Но, сколько бы она ни длилась, я все же понимал, что одного лишь Нимана мне не хватит, чтобы превзойти Драллига. A master of six of the seven existing lightsaber combat forms, he had enough moves in his arsenal to stop me. I don't know how Skywalker will finally get to him during the Temple purge, but the Chosen One with his Shien seems truly stronger than me.
***
There's no sense in taking needless risks: fighting with lightsabers, we couldn't just maim each other, but we could also hit the little ones—there were already about twenty of them crowding at the entrance. Meanwhile, Drallig had gone off in earnest. Catching my fatigue (to the devil with that Yoda! Why did I drop my Force Concealment for the sake of this… Grand Master?), he switched to a more aggressive Shien, seeking to smash through my defense with a series of monstrously powerful blows.
Several times I conciliatoryly broke the distance, thereby allowing him to end the battle, but the instructor had really gone off. Cutting me off from the exit, he pressed my bulk into a corner, showering me with blows. The monstrous kinetic force he put into his sequences and strikes resonated with my internal tension.
I understood that I was losing. And he knew it perfectly well. If I continued merely holding him back, he would finish me.
Gathering the Force, I threw the instructor back several meters.
The two opponents froze facing each other. Spinning the blade in his hand, Drallig smirked and beckoned me with a gesture.
"Don't be a coward," he laughed.
"I didn't even think of it," I deactivated my blade, unmistakably saying that I didn't intend to continue the fight. "The lesson is over, instructor."
The "Troll" watched me for a while, as if doubting whether he should continue the fight or not. Finally, seeing that I was heading toward the exit, the instructor extinguished his lightsaber.
Passing through the ranks of the little ones, I ruffled the hair on one of their heads. His face seemed terribly familiar to me.
"What is your name, little one?"
"Sors Bandeam," the boy said. I felt those words pierce my heart like a red-hot needle. Scenes from the movie flashed before my eyes…
I had heard his voice before. And seen that small round face expressing immeasurable anxiety. Fair-haired, with piercingly blue eyes. He looked only about five or six years old. The war would last another couple of years—the Republic still hadn't moved to a massive offensive. Perhaps I had changed history, but by all appearances, this boy was headed for an encounter with the Force. No one would likely take him as a Padawan—by the end of the war, he still wouldn't have reached the age when they take Padawans. Lord, he's just a child… Dressed in robes not his size, so funny. The hem of the standard Jedi tunic reached his knees, and the sleeves, extremely large for his thin child hands, made him look like a bird.
"Master Skywalker! There are too many of them here! What are we going to do now?" Those would be his last words before Vader activates his lightsaber.
Carrying out my crusade against the Sith, I hadn't considered how I would look into the eyes of those children and Padawans whom the punishing hand of that Jedi bastard would catch…
"I…" my voice faltered. "Master Rick Dougan, kid. Nice to meet you."
"You're the hero of Christophsis!" the boy cried out. His high-pitched child's voice burst into my ears. Tears welled up in my eyes that others couldn't see. A dozen small lights in the Force, they surrounded me, beautiful in their restlessness and purity. They were not to blame for anything. Not one of them had sinned or even thought anything bad. They had an entire life ahead of them, which would be cut short by a crazed non-Master. "But weren't you killed by a Sith?"
I crouched down before the little one, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Here's what I'll tell you, my young friend," I was immediately surrounded by children, blinking their trusting eyes. "I made a mistake, underestimating the enemy. It cost me dearly—I barely survived. But I won't allow that again. I will train ten times more. I will dig so deep into the study of the Force that the Balance Corps will be envious. But no one will ever hurt you."
The little boy stood with his mouth open. He hardly understood what I was saying and why. He didn't know what actually awaited him. But I knew. I can be a bastard and an egoist. The ultimate beast that will plunge the galaxy into another war. But children… I will not allow children to be hurt. No matter if Skywalker is three times a Master and ten times the Chosen One. Even if he has twenty legions. I will save these children.
The words literally stuck in my throat. But I continued to speak.
"I won't let anyone hurt you, do you hear?" the children giggled. Looking at Sors, I forced my feelings to recede with an effort. He'll be seven or eight years old when the Temple is stormed by clones led by the fallen Chosen One. Oh, noooo, forget it. Let them cut down all those radicals and dogmatists who missed the Sith under their own noses. But you won't touch the children.
Ruffling the Padawan's head, I unclipped a comlink from my belt and placed it in the boy's hand. "For the most extreme case!" I said in a stern voice. The boy, mouth open, clutched the comlink in his hand, looking at the children surrounding him.
Then, rising, I pointed a finger at Master Drallig and said:
"And if he laughs at you again, tell me about it. I will return and make him regret it."
"Well, yeah, sure," the Master laughed. "You're barely standing on your feet…"
"Do you know," I addressed the junior Jedi, "why Master Drallig is so angry?"
"Noooooo," the little ones answered me in unison.
"It's just that no one hugs him," I exclaimed. The man looked at me with surprise, wondering if I had lost my mind. Then, when he saw a good dozen small Jedi rushing toward him with outstretched arms, his face was contorted in a grimace.
"We are not finished, Dougan!" the Jedi, knocked off his feet by the younglings, shouted after me. Smiling as I saw the little ones, with their childhood restlessness and love for their neighbor, holding onto the Jedi lying on the floor with both hands, I pulled a hood over my head. "This is unfair!"
Shrugging, I walked down the corridor toward the exit from the Temple.
Of course, it's unfair. I don't even use such a word in this galaxy. After all, my teacher is a Sith.
***
Coruscant's morning traffic jams are, of course, hell. But everything changes when you are delivered to the place by a military gunship. Maneuvering between traffic flows, the LAAT/i raced at the limit of its speed, delivering its sole passenger to the headquarters.
Located in the heart of the galaxy, the First, known as the "Sky Hammer," was one of the largest sectoral armies. Its main task was to guard the Galactic Capital and key sectors of the Core. A secondary role was to provide support to other sectoral armies. For this very reason, the First always had a full complement of ships, clones, and equipment—even with a small reserve.
It was commanded by Moff Trachta from Anaxes. I faced a short flight to the planet that has since ancient times borne the title of "Defender of the Core." The captain of the Tranquility, the cruiser that brought me to Coruscant, a clone named Chedd, kindly agreed to help me. His cruiser was to receive a new assignment—the flight after Gunray turned out to be the first for the ship since leaving the slipways.
I was kindly provided with a cabin in the senior officers' quarters. The flight wasn't that long—only a couple of hours. During that time, I had to set a number of tasks. However, first I had to meditate. Enough sitting around. My Empire needs new recruits.
***
A demanding mental intrusion forced Atroxa to wake up. Opening her eyes, the Lethan oriented herself instantly, recognizing the Master who was gently touching her mind.
An ancient Sith technique that the Emperor had taught her, making her one of his Hands. The Master could choose not to take control of his Hand's body. Telepathic contact, thanks to the Force Bonds formed during training, allowed for the exchange of thoughts and feelings… Evidently, the Master decided to practice this Force ability as well.
His gentle mental touches brought back memories of nights spent together, when he would just as gently touch her velvety skin, and then the wild beast would wake up in him.
"Master," she concentrated, closing her eyes. She imagined an image of Dougan, and he appeared before her, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed under him. "Happy to know that all is well with you. I was worried."
"It's heartening to hear that, Atroxa," the Master smirked. A metallic tone was heard in his telepathic voice. "But I don't think you missed me."
The Twi'lek looked with indifference and surprise (how did he find out about this?) at the peacefully snoring mercenary captain nearby. Tall. Strong. Attractive. Assertive and insatiable. But still—not the Master. Simple entertainment, nothing more. Is it really that important? Atroxa swallowed, recalling Malgus's torments. The Master was displeased with her. That was very bad. Of course, he hadn't forbidden such things explicitly, but… she could have guessed herself.
"Have you begun producing equipment?"—the image of the master pulled her from her thoughts.
"Yes, Master. We are manufacturing up to a thousand units of equipment sets and paratrooper droids per day. HK claims that it's currently inadvisable to start the second and third conveyor lines of the Forge until the station has finished its own assembly. And that's another half year."
"Tolerable," the Jedi admitted. "I have a new assignment for you."
"I am completely at your disposal," Atroxa answered readily. "How can I be of service?"
"You will go to the planet Suzephi. There you will find Force-sensitive individuals. They will either join us or die. Use any means."
"Yes, my Master. I will not fail you!"—the Lethan assured him fervently.
"And one more thing, Atroxa," the Jedi added after a pause. "No one has the right to touch my Hand."
"I understand you, Master."
The Jedi broke the connection. Painfully this time. The Lethan felt the Force lash her nerves like a whip. Unable to hold back, she sobbed. Then, rising, she began to pack…
"Hey," the mercenary stirred nearby. "Where are you going? We wanted to continue in the morning…"
He reached out, stroking her lekku. He tried to arouse desire in her to lure her back to bed, but…
"No one should touch the Emperor's Hand," she said, turning away from her lover. For a moment he looked at her, not understanding what was happening. Then, when Atroxa began to crush his bones with the Force, he screamed, but the Lethan broke his neck, ending the torment.
No one.
***
He was meditating, locked in his cabin aboard his old flagship. The Ravaging Hand. A ship with which he had gone through much. And which he had finally reclaimed. The ship, hidden in the depths of the New Forge, was undergoing repairs and would soon be able to set off for the stars. He just needed to find a suitable crew. Turning it into something like the Emperor's dreadnoughts, automated, dependent on droids… He didn't want that. He had to form a crew loyal to him personally. To avoid incidents.
You might say Sith don't meditate. That is not true. Over the millennia, Malgus had managed to partake of Jedi teachings. And he had been able to adopt some experience from the enemy.
Malgus felt an intrusion into his mind. Authoritative, uncompromising. And familiar to the shiver in his spine. Rage filled the Sith.
"Master," he said. A projection of the Jedi's figure appeared in his brain. Judging by the pose—he was also meditating.
"Malgus,"—the Jedi's whisper appeared in his head. — "Not tired of being in secondary roles?"
The Sith suppressed his rage with an effort.
"I am following your instructions, milord."
"Then the time has come to reclaim control over Sith Space,"—Malgus felt his blood boil at what he heard. Korriban. Ziost. Rhelg…
"Sith Space must once again become inaccessible to the galaxy, Malgus,"—the Jedi instructed. — "Soon cargo ships with our new servants will arrive in the system. Some of them you will find useful for restoring Sith worlds."
"Yes, my Master."
Malgus jumped to his feet. Surveying the cabin, he turned to the stand where his armor hung. Time to get to work—he had been resting too long as it was.
***
"Nadia?"
The Jedi opened her eyes. Still feeling herself in the passenger cabin of the Haor Chall Engineering flagship transport, she nevertheless felt threads of the Force reaching out to her. Sleep vanished.
The girl slipped from under the blanket, pulling her lightsaber to her. A sense of danger, of intrusion, did not leave her. An attack? In hyperspace? They were about to arrive at the first point of their stop—the Lehon system, from where the convoy would depart escorted by one of Malgus's Sith dreadnoughts.
The girl's consciousness felt a foreign presence in alarm. However, almost immediately, the Sarkhai girl recognized her interlocutor. Extinguishing the lightsaber, she folded her hands before her face, allowing herself to plunge into a meditation characteristic of Consuls. Thoughts cleared, sensations sharpened. She felt the rays of the Force emitted toward her and allowed them to connect with her, embracing them with her own radiation.
"Master,"—she allowed herself to send a wave of warmth in response. — "Is everything alright with you?"
"I'm fine,"—the Jedi's image was smiling. From him came a reciprocal feeling of care and tenderness. — "There are amendments to our plan."
"As you command, Master."
"One of the transports and all the Xi Char on it should be handed over to Malgus. The second—left at HK's disposal. The third—still goes to Zakuul."
"I hear and obey, Master."
The girl set the lightsaber aside with a smile. Sleep wouldn't come anyway; she should inform the Prelate of the changes in the plan. Grell stretched, allowing the Force to invigorate her muscles.
The bulkhead separating the refresher from the main living module moved aside, letting the Jedi girl walk inside with a light step. The lighting flared up, highlighting the enviable figure of the Sarkhai Jedi in the large mirror.
"Nadia…"
This time the Jedi's voice seemed like a whisper to her… Slightly embarrassed, but interested.
"I'm still here…"
"I know, Master."
With a deft movement of her hands, Nadia sent her negligee to the floor.
***
Another gunship delivered me to a massive building of permacrete. Leaving the vehicle, I presented my command cylinder to the guard at the entrance.
"Everything is in order, sir," said the clone sergeant commanding the patrol. Handing me back the cylinder, he said: "You need the second floor—the Moff's office is there."
"Thank you," I returned the cylinder to my belt pocket. I walked past the clones, catching a phrase dropped by one of them out of the corner of my ear.
"First time I've seen a Jedi in armor."
"Didn't you recognize him? That's the one who gave the tinies a thrashing on Christophsis and Ukio."
"No way? Tell me!"
Leaving behind the stairs and the gossiping clones, I reached the desired door. I was met by a man with rank plaques of a Captain. Listening to me coldly, he politely suggested waiting.
"Sir, Moff Trachta is busy right now. He's in a meeting. Would it be convenient for you if I inform you when he is free?"
"I'll wait," I plopped into a chair, a couple of which stood obligingly around a small table in the reception area. The man shrugged, returning to studying documents on his work computer.
I, in turn, remembering the information passed to me by Pifel, immersed myself in studying the details of military novelties…
About an hour later, the door across from me opened, letting out a middle-aged man with sharp features. A notable hairstyle—shaved sides of the head with dark, medium-length hair combed back in the center. Either a mohawk had fallen over, or who the hell knows what kind of fashion.
He placed several information chips on his assistant's desk.
"Send this to the sectoral armies. A new CIS ship."
"Moff Trachta," the adjutant rose. "Jedi Master Dougan is here to see you."
I rose, standing almost half a head taller than the Moff. Surveying me with an evaluative look, he nodded silently, as if saying, well, come on then, since you're here.
We proceeded into his office. Without much ceremony, Trachta returned to his desk.
"We welcome the hero of Christophsis," he raised his right fist over his head. "How can we, ordinary soldiers, help a genius of war?"
"A nice start."
"Is this some kind of test for newcomers?" I sat in a comfortable chair across from the Moff. Trachta, smiling, raised his hands conciliatoryly.
"It's not me. It's the holonews."
"Ah, yeah, sure," I smirked under the mask. The Moff, filling glasses with amber liquid, handed me one. I refused, pushing the glass away. The Moff, emptying the first into himself, shrugged and partook of the second.
"So, what have you come with, Senior Jedi General Dougan?"
"I have been assigned command of the 13th Sectoral…"
"I sincerely sympathize," Trachta pursed his lips. "Ord Pardron… what a dump. And the area of responsibility is no better. And after Bylur… It's completely barren there. And those wishing to take the commander's post are fewer than nobody. No one wants to ruin their career."
"Exactly. I checked the army's account the other day. It's painful to look at without tears."
"That's shitty," the Moff switched to "thou" without introduction. "But don't lose heart. Sectoral command is currently conducting an audit. Once they finish, you'll be allocated additional sums. You won't be fighting with a bare ass, after all."
"I have around two hundred million in the account."
Trachta, who had brought a mug of caf to his lips, sputtered.
"Is that a joke?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then you're in total deep shit, my friend," Trachta turned to a computer terminal. "Through the global network, we can access your army's reports. Insert the cylinder into the slot."
I followed Trachta's advice. The Moff ran briefly over the keys and turned the screen toward me.
"I would even say you're even deeper."
For convenience, the data in the reports was divided by a dash into "Assigned by establishment" and "Actually available."
Well, let's do the math.
Of the three hundred capital ships assigned to the army, only 76 were in the assets. This included Venators, Acclamators, three dozen Dreadnaughts, and twenty of my Hammerheads. As a separate layer—twenty-three Arquitens-class light cruisers. Against the assigned 70. Clicking a hyperlink, I saw the report for last month. The second battle for Ryloth had deprived us of a massive squadron—of the ships of the 13th Sectoral alone, twenty-seven units were destroyed or decommissioned. "Horror"-"horror"-"hor-ror"…
Two hundred forty Consulars and forty-four Peltas had in fact turned into forty and nineteen respectively.
Starfighters—a third of the assigned. Even less.
Attack shuttles—well, at least here it's by the norm.
Having finished reading the fleet summary, Trachta exhaled loudly.
I switched the tab, tracking summaries for the ground forces.
Each sectoral included four full-strength clone corps. 147,456 line infantry soldiers. At the same time, each corps was separately provided with heavy equipment with crews, repair units, and logistical support. On the plus side: the army had almost a fivefold supply of construction modules—those from which positional fortifications and garrison bases are formed. And more than double the filling for combat equipment. Walkers, artillery, speeders, self-propelled guns, repulsor tanks, armored personnel carriers… We have more than enough of all this for the amount of line infantry I had.
But unlike other armies, due to the large theater of military operations, the 13th, like some other armies, was supposed to have six full-strength corps in its assets.
"There won't even be two here," Trachta grimaced. "Where did he put all the units? In the third month of the war, the 13th was better provided for than any of the Southern armies—your completeness reached 70%."
I told the Moff the story of the attempt to break the blockade of Christophsis. Having heard me out, Trachta grimaced as if he had swallowed a local equivalent of a lemon.
"Knowing what I know now, I would have killed him on the spot," the Moff admitted. "How is the army still managing to defend itself?"
"That's why we were sitting on a small patch, squeezed by the Confederates," I realized. "I'll check the chronicle of army orders further, of course, but I have a feeling there were quite a few zerg-rushes like the Christophsian one."
"Zerg-what?" I caught the Moff's interested look.
"It's a term," I started to explain. "I heard it on a wild planet. That's what they call stupid and reckless attacks across a front without the slightest hope of victory."
"Hm, interesting."
Trachta leaned back in his chair, pinching the lower part of his chin. Then he slammed his palm on the desk.
"Sky Hammer is currently the most complete army. We have almost 90% of the nominal. I think I can help you."
Before I could ask how, the Moff was already buried in his own army's reports.
"Look, I won't exactly be patted on the head for this, but we'll all be washing in blood if the CIS breaks your ranks and rushes down the Corellian Run into the center of the galaxy."
"Hm, actually there are the 16th and 2nd sectorals after us."
"Believe me," the Moff said graciously. "If you are swept away, the Mid Rim will have it so hard that I'll be crucified if I could have, but didn't, provide you with support. But I'll say it right away—don't expect big handouts. We have Foerost right next to us—it eats up almost all my line forces. And we're short on officers. Clones—plenty, but as for competent organics…"
"And what's going on at Foerost? I heard the planet is blockaded, but without details."
"Ah, that…" Trachta grimaced once more. "Another headache. Foerost is located a hundred light-years from Coruscant, on the Koros Trunk between Kuat and Kaikielius. The Techno Union's largest shipyards are located there. But most importantly—there are huge reserves of resources: they literally scoop out the planet's depths. And use them to build a fleet. We missed the fact that literally a year before the war started, the Techno Union reinforced the shipyards. And as a result—we are forced to organize a blockade. At the moment, the enemy possesses more than a thousand warships. We, however, can boast only seven hundred. For now, that is enough to keep the Seps blockaded. Но они каждый день строят новые корабли — быстрее, чем мы можем им противопоставить. We don't have enough strength to break through their defensive ring, and even if we did break through, they have extreme planetary defense—only scrap metal would be left of the breakthrough fleet. Verified," the Moff grimaced. "On the positive side—they aren't doing great with breaking the blockade either. We brought in two Kuati Mandator-class ships. These monsters reliably blockade the CIS ships. They are slow, of course, but for a blockade, it's not critical. So, it can be stated that a certain parity of forces has been established."
"I see." A memory stirred in my mind. The Seps will build a huge fleet by the end of the siege and walk through the Republic worlds like a knife through butter.
"Well, let's return to the help…"
"And what can the First Sectoral allocate? What can I count on?" I asked with a smirk.
"So… a reinforcement from Kuat has just arrived. Twelve Venators… Well, I can allocate at most three to you—don't take offense. And as many Arquitens-class light cruisers."
I frowned. "Shitty. A bit small. But on the other hand, it's something."
"Only three? No possibility to help out more?"
"No offense, but no. Venators are a valuable commodity. Light cruisers too. I myself will receive forty-eight units in the next three months—and thirty of them will go to Foerost."
"Still… three ships is small."
"Nothing can be done," Trachta spread his hands. "Let's try to compensate for this with other ships. For example, Acclamators. Hm… You are incredibly lucky, my friend. I can allocate eight Acclamators to you. True, they are, shall we say, an acquired taste."
"Meaning?"
"Look," Trachta highlighted eight ships in the fleet lists. "In the first months of the war, they tried to modernize the Acclamators for two purposes. First of all—by dismantling part of the internal space, they expanded the air wing. Now it holds about four hundred starfighters. But now any thought of landing and transporting heavy equipment is out of the question. Of course, the armament remained the same as on the base model; they even added anti-aircraft in the aft hemisphere."
"Interesting. Considering Rendili is ready to release the first Hammerhead squadrons in the near future, by supplementing one or two flotillas with such ersatz-carriers, one can get a good strike formation."
"I'll take them."
"Well, of course," Trachta smirked. "By the way, isn't Captain Pellaeon with his Leveler cooling his heels in your fleet?"
"A familiar figure. What's wrong?"
"It's just that his Acclamator is one of three that received the second modernization—up-armed with strike missiles. I've accumulated three of the same—we tried to use them in the siege of Foerost. A stupid idea. Under massive fire—they burn like matches. Of twenty, only three hulls were managed to be pulled out. They were being repaired at Kuat for about two months, and just now—they've been returned."
"You understand that I'll take everything that doesn't fall apart in the air. The main thing—more."
Trachta roared with laughter.
"You're a sharp one. However, I can please you even more. Remember how before the second attack on Ryloth, thirty Dreadnaughts were brought to you? I can offer you five more—Rendili sold them to us at the beginning of the war. Sectoral command purchased them while there was a total mess with ships. And as soon as Acclamators and Venators started joining the army—they hurried to move them into reserve. Most, of course, were wrecked during that time. I remember reading a report—they bought three hundred ships, and only fifty returned. The crews on them are huge, and the ships themselves are sturdy. They can be assigned to planetary defense. The air wing on them is small—only two squadrons—but even that is better than nothing."
"I'll take them."
Truly—where was there to go? Dreadnaughts are indeed sturdy ships. Shields and armor—on level. Only armament and speed are lacking. But for a blockade or, conversely, defense—just the thing.
"I can share plenty of starfighters—I have a reserve of almost two thousand; I ordered with a surplus, considering Foerost. Of course, not ARC-170s, not Etas, and not Deltas. V-19 Torrent. Eight hundred units won't be extra for you."
"Of course they won't—I don't really have any starfighters at all."
"Hm… Well, all the ships I send you will be normally equipped with starfighters and a double norm of ammunition."
"Alright, I'll take those too. Anything else?"
"Unfortunately, that's all… However," the Moff ran through the lists, highlighting ships. "I'll gift you a dozen Consulars of various modifications, and, believe it or not—I'm tearing it from my heart—seven Pelta-class medical frigates."
"Generous," I evaluated. "More than I could have expected. Many thanks."
"We're doing a common cause," the officer waved it off. "Though, wait a minute. There's one more option. In immeasurably distant times—one of the strongest ships in the Republic fleet."
"What kind of vessel?"
"Ah…" the Moff waved a hand, "once—a Valor-class cruiser."
A memory stirred in my mind. "No way? Does a ship never go for scrap in the Republic?" "It's called the Telos," the Moff turned on the holoprojector. And a three-dimensional hologram of a ship familiar to me from the MMORPG appeared before my eyes. "Now—it's junk, frankly speaking. Once—a Jedi flagship, a capital heavy cruiser. When the Order sold off its ancient fleet, they forgot about it. It's still floating in the orbit of the nearest Grizmalt with a minimal crew. Armament—crap, but armor—whoa. There's more durasteel there than on modern Venators. Hammerheads are under your command, right?" he recalled. Receiving an affirmative answer, he continued: "Well then, it'll be your heavy cruiser. You'll have to invest a lot, of course—forty million or more. The ship is a beauty, of course—it should take a hit properly, but it's just easier for us to build a brand new Venator than to restore this archival exhibit."
Looking at the ship, I grimaced inwardly. I never liked Republic ships from the Cold War era. They were somehow... civilian, or something. Massive, poorly armed compared to Imperial equivalents…
"Will it even reach the shipyards?" I smirked.
"Why?" Trachta was surprised. "Grizmalt has a decent ship repair shipyard—a Rendili branch. Though they mainly do civilian liners. But they are part of the army's military suppliers, so they have access to military orders. If there were money… You aren't exactly rolling in it. Soon a Senate session on additional funding for the army should take place. If the politicians don't muddy the water as usual, we'll get a decent increase. However," the Moff leaned toward me, "you could look for sponsors—for example, Kuat from time to time provides military equipment to the Core Worlds out of charity. Maybe you should try too?"
"I was advised to seek help from the Christophsis government," I smirked. The Moff didn't even suspect how he had helped me.
"All the more reason!" Trachta clapped his hands. "Intelligence reports they've ordered a huge fleet from Rendili—Hammerheads are being churned out there faster than my cook whips up food in the kitchen. Fifty new ships in a month or two will already leave the slipways. By all appearances—Christophsis's pockets are not shallow."
I sighed.
"You talked me into it. I'll take the Telos."
"Well, that's wonderful," Trachta poured himself a new glass of whiskey. "I wonder at you Jedi. You purchased an entire army but didn't bother with a fleet."
"I'd have tossed in a few ideas if I'd known about the order," I returned the joke. "But truly—many thanks to you. Thanks to you, four dozen new ships will appear in my fleet."
"Well, I wanted to give you a clone corps too, but if you don't want…"
"Stop-stop-stop," I protested. "You didn't say about the infantry. What kind of corps?"
"Composite. Gathered from the entire second generation of clones—fresh from the Kaminoan training center. Line infantry. No frills. We don't need it for now—we aren't conducting many ground battles…"
"They'll do," I waved. "I'll distribute the reinforcement among experienced units—they'll bring the newcomers up to speed. Maybe losses won't be as huge as at the start of the war."
"It's your business," Trachta warned. "You are the commander… By the way. I heard Christophsis is tossing volunteers your way."
"That's true," I nodded. "Currently about three regiments are scattered across planets. Experience—minimal. Mostly—former insurgents."
"Count it as a legion in the assets," the Moff estimated. "Of course, compared to clones—they are some soldiers. Но на худой конец… So, we've talked your ear off," Trachta copied the data onto a separate pad. "Hand this to my office—my adjutant will allocate the ships and clones to you. And I have another meeting. Soon you'll hate them yourself."
"Thanks again, Trachta," I rose, shaking the hand extended to me. "I'll owe you."
"Nonsense," the Moff waved it off. "We're doing a common cause," he reminded. "When you're driving the Seps to the very borders of the galaxy—fire a couple of salvos for me too."
"Certainly."
***
The junior officers gathered in the Wanderer's operations center were animatedly discussing the latest news.
"Do you even believe what's happening?" Alif asked his friends. "Our general—has become commander of a sectoral army!"
"Does it surprise you?" Teradoc inquired. "He swatted the Moff like a fly—Senate intelligence is still making a stir on the ships. They've already arrested two Acclamator commanders—they were carrying spice in the holds. What a disgrace. On warships, at that."
"Actually," Teren noted, "his victory—is our promotions. Or did you not realize who provided you with new bars?!"
His comrades lowered their eyes in embarrassment. In essence, behind them were two military operations—Ukio and Rodia. Plus the anti-corruption conspiracy against the Moff, in which their role was not just small—but immeasurably insignificant. And yesterday's midshipmen had at once become Lieutenants. Regarding Teren, there were no big moves in rank—the bars remained the same. But the departmental gratitude and a large cash bonus warmed his heart and pocket. At his age, he commanded a capital cruiser—few seniors in rank can boast that. Therefore, while sincerely happy for his friends, he didn't feel left out. It was enough that the new commander of the Hammer squadron, which included his Wanderer, nine more Hammerheads, and the Leveler—Commodore Pellaeon (he certainly got his fill from the personnel service)—had taken him under his wing, frequently talking with the young Lieutenant about tactics and strategy. Commodore Kreevzs received command of the Anvil squadron—the second ten Hammerheads and his former Leveler.
Senior Jedi General Dougan, though on Coruscant, nevertheless did not relax control over the forces assigned to him. Just the other day, Pellaeon had triumphantly crushed a CIS expeditionary force consisting of three Lucrehulks and a dozen Munificents. The Hammer squadron demonstratively left the system, leaving only previously requisitioned merchant ships in orbit. And as soon as the Seps tried to retaliate on the planet for the Viceroy's capture, the Hammer ships returned to the system. In the resulting slaughter, they lost two ships—the Progenitor and the Hound. The Voice of Katarr received serious damage and was almost abandoned by the crew. But the arrived reinforcement—the Christophsis fleet—helped save the ship. Now Pellaeon was busy receiving three Hammerheads from the Christophsis fleet in exchange for the damaged ones. The Voice, like the Warrior damaged during the breakthrough of the Christoph system blockade, was stripped for parts for other ships of the fleet.
The army headquarters was feverishly tallying reports requested by the General. Numbers of troops and equipment. Fuel. Spare parts. The previous leadership was little interested in this, and the work of the staff officers had been invisible. Now, however…
But Mara had gathered them not for that. One way or another, they all belonged to the Hammer squadron—like Nyx, who was absent from the meeting. No one reported the reasons for his absence. But judging by the fact that the order to assemble came from Pellaeon, Mara was in no mood for jokes right now.
"In short, our squadron has been ordered to conduct a search for the kidnapped son of the criminal boss Jabba—from Tatooine," the girl said. Hearing this, Garven grunted contemptuously.
"They are criminals!" Rainah Torsill, standing nearby, rolled his eyes. "Why should we be dealing with this?"
"Because the General ordered us to," Teren cut off. "And it's unlikely he's doing this out of the goodness of his heart."
"Well, yeah," the pilots agreed. "True enough."
"Is everyone finished?" Mara inquired. "Our squadron is being assigned a section of the Triellus Trade Route—from Formos to Syvris. We should comb through all abandoned outposts, uninhabited planetoids, and the like. Ground reconnaissance—is up to Nyx and the 204th Legion. We—deliver to the site and provide cover. Most likely, Separatists are involved, so a couple of cruisers nearby won't hurt our boys."
"And why are you telling this only to us?" Teradoc inquired. "There are other ship commanders. For example, my Pelta is unlikely to take part in the search at all."
"Well…" Mara drawled. "The General specifically insisted that there be a hospital ship with the squadron. And Commodore Pellaeon will inform the other captains. But first we need to offer him at least some material on the search. I definitely can't handle it alone—we need a brainstorming session here."
"Great," Teradoc folded his arms. "I wouldn't want to get caught in Separatist fire on this unarmed vessel."
"What's stopping you from asking us to cover you?" Garven asked, pointing at his fellow pilot.
"Your sneaky mugs disturb me," the Lieutenant mocked them. "You'll be begging for med-stimulants again."
"Hey, that only happened a couple of times!" Torsill livened up. "We were patrolling the three nearest systems tirelessly—we got a bit tired."
"Right," Mara grabbed the last speaker by the ear without a second thought, like a primary school teacher. "I'm going to write a report on you right now, and for the next couple of years you'll be piloting nothing but a tub on the Far Rim. We are the flagship, after all! Can you be at least a little responsible?"
***
There is nothing more exciting than watching the rest of the fleet form around your temporary flagship.
"Sir," the Captain of the Salvation approached me. "The ships are ready for jump. Three Venators, eleven Acclamators, three Arquitens cruisers, five Dreadnaughts, ten Consulars, and seven Peltas. All clone captains have reported receiving cargo. The Dreadnaughts are reminding us about their delay en route."
"Good, Chedd," I smiled. "Tell the fleet to transition to light speed."
"Yes, Commander," the clone captain saluted, heading for the operators.
I remained alone, admiring the sight of my new ships disappearing into hyperspace. A minute later, the stars stretched into dazzling strings before our ship as well.
Unlike the rest of the fleet, my destination was not Ord Pardron at all. I had to linger in the Core Worlds.
First stop—Grizmalt. That was where the Tranquility was heading. I had to see Commodore Bill Dabrin—honorable commander of the Telos—in person. By all appearances, he had been the ship's only captain lately—during the Stark Hyperspace War, the Republic had tried to put the Telos in order, found a crew… But the most that came of it was an updated power grid and, partially, equipment. Neither the air wing nor the artillery had seen an upgrade.
I had already managed to talk with the captain via holocomm. Just as I had with the representatives of the Rendili shipbuilders, who were delighted by the sudden windfall—fifty million credits from a numbered account. A total modernization of the ship according to modern standards was intended. The Rendilians, having learned from a mediator from Christophsis that the ship would enter the active army and was unlikely to remain rusting in orbit, approached the matter with worthy scope.
First of all, I had to finish with my Hands.
Recalling the last communication session, I admit I felt my heart beat faster. Who knew the girl was so hot…
Ri-i-ight! I forced myself to drive away thoughts of Nadia. I had to first concentrate on fulfilling paramount tasks. The Empire does not tolerate failures.
And the Sarkhai… by all appearances, she is not at all against getting to know her Master better.
***
The sound of the comlink caught Ashara at the most inopportune moment. Levitating a huge piece of a collapsed roof, she was holding it in its place intended by the architect's design while paratrooper droids, repurposed as low-skilled construction workers, filled the cracks with permacrete foam. And only then did the girl direct the Force into the indicated spot, eliminating cracks and permacrete chips at the molecular level, returning the material to its original solidity and strength.
Force Forging is a painstaking and exhausting process. But here, the Force itself seemed to support her, allowing her to restore the long-destroyed Temple. However, built for centuries, it required only minimal corrections. Ancient Jedi had worked hard, applying Force Forging just like her to create the Temple's walls and ceilings. The Twi'lek only had to follow the example of the ancients.
It wasn't even worth trying to restore the patterns that once covered the Jedi Temple's rooms. Time, wars, and neglect had destroyed them forever. Therefore, the best she could do for the ancient Jedi abode was to restore the destroyed and strengthen the dilapidated.
Waiting for the fragment to harden, she took a holographic comlink from her bosom and activated it.
"Ashara,"—before her stood a miniature figure of the Sith Emperor's apprentice.
"Master,"—she said without a hint of piety.
"How is your mission progressing?"
He's interested? Truly?
"The Temple took some serious damage," she admitted. "But thanks to the ship's supplies and the remains of combat machines, I am successfully restoring it."
"Even so?" the Jedi was surprised. "That is commendable. Perhaps I should choose a time and visit you on Tython."
"I would be immeasurably glad," the girl said in a neutral tone.
"Do you need anything else?"
"Construction droids wouldn't hurt," the fallen Jedi girl admitted. "I've gained access to the Temple's central computer. With proper skill and resources—we can restore the Temple and its surroundings within six months."
"Not lonely there in solitude?"
"Everything suits me, Master," the girl tilted her head.
"What do we know about the planet?"
"There are no travelers here," the girl said. "The system is completely uninhabited. Some discomfort was caused by the local aborigines—Flesh Raiders—but I've resolved that problem."
"Interesting, how?" the Jedi smiled.
"Killed half of all the leaders," Ashara answered simply. "And promised to kill the rest if they didn't become my servants. So I already have a couple of thousand unskilled workers."
"Tough," the Jedi evaluated. "But effective. Did you limit yourself only to the Jedi Temple?"
"Aborigines under droid guard are conducting excavations at the sites of former Je'daii temples," the Twi'lek reported. "So far—nothing but ruins."
"You've done excellent work, Ashara," the man evaluated. "I will send additional forces to you."
"As you wish," she bowed her head.
Then, seeing that the Jedi had not broken the connection, she asked:
"What is all this for, Master? After all, we aren't planning to train Jedi."
"We aren't," Dougan confirmed. "The first ones here weren't Jedi at all. I am interested in Je'daii knowledge. It is their ideas that will become the basis for our new Order."
"Have you already thought of a name for it?" the girl grew interested.
"Not like I've completely thought of one," the Jedi hesitated. "What do you say to 'Imperial Knights'?"
The Twi'lek was taken aback. Since when was anyone interested in her opinion? After all, she was a mere subordinate…
"I… I like it, Master."
"Wonderful," the Jedi approved. "For now, we'll call the Order that. By the way, I recall the banners of the Order and the Republic flying at the Temple… I'm sending you a banner I've developed. You should hang it on our new Academy as a symbol of a new beginning."
"It will be done, my Master," the Twi'lek bowed her head. The figure dissolved, and instead, an image of a pentagonal standard appeared… Memories pricked her brain. A banner quite similar to the flags of the Order of Revan, against which her former teacher and lover had led a military campaign. Was there some hidden meaning in this? Regardless, it wasn't important. She was a mere subordinate.
"Hey, you," she stopped a passing Flesh Raider with the Force. The degraded descendant of the Rakata race looked at her with frightened eyes, baring a mouth full of sharp teeth. "I need your best artists to depict this flag. And just try to draw it crooked—I'll disembowel you personally."
Watching the aborigine flee with all his might, Ashara felt a light euphoria from the Jedi's encouragement. Maybe he's not as bad as he seemed to her before.
***
Standing by the window of the Great Temple's upper ward, Vette enjoyed the view before her with the help of a monocular.
Hundreds of bare-chested men of strong build were sparring with each other. Practicing moves on each other, on the ground covered with local foliage, they seemed not to feel fatigue.
They are the glorious legacy of Mandalore. They are a weapon in their Master's hands. They will bring peace and tranquility to his new Empire. Each of them is guaranteed a future. For the glory of the Master—they will crush all his enemies. That's what the Farr Clan instructors taught them. True Mandalorians.
Even if their brothers—the clones—are against them, they must fulfill the order.
"They are magnificent, aren't they?" the Kaminoan standing nearby watched her charges' actions intently.
"You've worked hard, Ko Sai," the Twi'lek admitted. "Your growth algorithm… it's something. Fifteen days—and an adult individual is ready for training. Another five—and all knowledge from the curriculum is mastered. In less than a month—a clone is ready for battle."
"Thank your employer for that," Ko admitted. "His approach with these animals…"
"Lizards," Vette corrected the Kaminoan. "Ysalamiri are lizards."
"Wonderful creatures," the clone engineer smiled. "Kamino could have used them to increase clone output by hundreds of times. The Republic could have won…"
"Unfortunately," Vette admitted, "my employer is not interested in that. HIS army—serves only his goals."
"Prime Minister Lama Su asked me to convey," the Kaminoan said, "that starting from the third generation, clones correspond to your employer's expectations."
"That's wonderful," Vette smiled. "You are getting double pay for the same product."
"Such are the terms of cooperation," the Kaminoan reminded. "The Prime Minister is also concerned about Kamino's security when your employer's plan begins to be implemented."
"We remember our duties," Vette grunted. "You'd better have brought out more incubators; a thousand units is almost a mockery."
"We can't bring out more for now without the threat of disclosure," Ko explained. "The Republic pedantically tracks any movement of equipment and DNA samples."
"Well," Vette smiled. "My employer is glad for that too."
"Why are you using samples from the same donor as the Republic?" Ko Sai inquired.
Vette didn't have time to answer her—the comlink in her pocket began to play.
"It's my employer," the girl grunted. "Want to ask him?"
"I'll abstain," the Kaminoan hurried toward the exit.
Ensuring the long-legged one had left the Great Audience Chamber, the Twi'lek opened the communication channel.
"My Master," she bowed. "Glad to see you in good health."
"Pleasant to hear that from you, Vette," the man echoed. "How is your mission progressing?"
"Production is established," she admitted. "The first thousand soldiers have already moved to practical training. The second line is on the way. Ko Sai has deployed a full cycle in the Great Temple. No cases of psychosis or madness. The lizards have settled in here like natives."
"That is pleasant to hear," the Jedi approved. "You reported on recruitment…"
"We have more than two hundred smuggler crews in our assets," she boasted. "Trusted agents continue hiring and recruitment."
"Are they truly worthy of trust?"
"No more than every smuggler is," the girl admitted. "But we are unlikely to find better candidates. As well as agents."
"Well then… a fleet of freighters is being built for us on Corellia. I'll let you know when you can send your recruits for the ships."
"Accepted," the girl assured him. "Master, there is information you should know about."
"I'm listening."
"While clearing the territory of temples and buildings, we made several finds."
"Continue."
"On the lower levels of the Wulvamander Temple, we found a strange little creature," the girl said. "It killed five Mandalorians before we managed to stop it."
"What kind of beast is it?"
"Jedi Master Ikrit," the Twi'lek reported. "Under torture, he told us he arrived here over three hundred years ago to free the souls of Massassi children. But he couldn't do it, and therefore went into hibernation."
"Amusing," the Jedi smirked. "Where is he now?"
"Placed in a stasis capsule on the lower levels of the Great Temple. Where the Massassi you finished off in the Great Audience Chamber used to be."
"Good," the Jedi praised. "Excellent work. I'll deal with Ikrit myself. Continue maintaining the system's isolation until further instructions."
"Yes, Master," the Twi'lek agreed. "But..."
"Something else, Vette?" the Master asked impatiently.
"Yes, my Lord," the Twi'lek looked at her master imploringly. "We found the Hero of Tython's fortress…"
***
The elevator doors opened, letting Commodore Bill Dabrin onto the bridge. The first officer—a completely green youth from some noble family on Corulag—had only been in office for a month. The boy's parents had sent him to cool his heels on the Telos's bridge while the war went on. The ship, too clumsy and outdated, was little suited for modern combat. The officers serving aboard it faithfully received their pay, providing nominal security for Grizmalt. And just now, one of the Jedi had finally remembered the heavy cruiser.
"What do we have, Morgan?" Dabrin inquired. The First Officer walked behind him, checking with a pad. Despite the fact that Lieutenant El Morgan only had the Academy behind him, he had taken office with zeal. And he didn't give the thinning crew any slack.
"All reactors are started. Control found no failures. We'll make two orbits around the planet and enter the dock. Currently conducting an inspection of the lower decks. The team is worn out, licking the hangar deck clean," he lamented. "Why did a Jedi feel like dealing with the Telos just now?"
"I know no more than you, son," Dabrin admitted. "I thought it was a joke when command passed down the order. Но джедай уже арендовал док. There's panic at the shipyards—Rendili representatives are scurrying as if their backsides were toasted with plasma. Control reported they are assembling a second norm of repairmen for us."
"Wow," the First Officer whistled. Even one norm of a repair team is thousands of people of hundreds of profiles. And two is outright luxury. Not to mention the colossal costs. "Have the Jedi really stirred?"
"I was whispered that wealthy people from the Outer Rim are paying for everything," the Commodore shared information. "Evidently, flirting with the Jedi."
"Interesting," drawled the First Officer. "It seems we are truly departing for the active fleet."
"Medium repair first," Dabrin reminded. "New guns, full crew… The flight deck, finally, will stop languishing. In the entire CIS fleet, no competitor will be found for our Telos."
"Don't bet on it."
Bill's high spirits couldn't be spoiled even by the pessimistic remarks of the young First Officer. Finally, after thousands of years of downtime, the Telos would once again return to the defense of the Republic.
The ship was designed by Rendilian shipbuilders during the First Galactic War. For its time—a true giant. Gun batteries in the central part, along the sides, and at the stern created an impenetrable fire screen for large and light enemy ships. The bridge was shifted to the stern, protruded over the main hull, and provided a kingly view of the battlefield. The lower tower, like a giant fin, housed seven engines, accelerating the cruiser to crazy speed. Along the sides—capacious hangars where once two or even three hundred fighters could be based. Currently, there were only a couple of squadrons of ancient Talon-class fighters there—they were last given maintenance about 300 years ago, and had been gathering dust as museum junk ever since. They wouldn't even let them be decommissioned. For there was nothing to replace them with.
The aft hangar could well accommodate a couple of modern Consulars or Peltas. But no one had checked that—since the last war with the New Sith, the hangar hadn't been repaired, so even the atmospheric shields there didn't work.
Once the cruiser's hull was painted white with red stripes. Now they were just scuffed elements of armor with faded traces of former grandeur.
Bill's distant ancestor had commanded one of these during the Second Galactic War. Family chronicles had so inspired him in his youth that Dabrin had chosen a career on the bridge of the last heavy cruiser of the once-huge Jedi fleet.
At the time of the Great Galactic War, this type of cruiser was the strongest in the Republic fleet, significantly surpassing other ships. Unlike its opponents, it did not have continuous armor. Only critically important parts—the bridge, battery decks, hangars, living decks, reactor zone, engines, hyperdrives—had protection of half-meter selected armor. Due to this, despite its monstrous appearance and apparent clumsiness, the Telos could surprise its opponent with speed, maneuverability, and a good broadside of turbolasers, proton torpedoes, and strike missiles.
He had given thirty years to the bridge of this ship. And soon he would have to lead it into battle.
Bill inhaled the bridge's air with a full chest. Before his eyes, a Venator in Republic colors split space.
"Sir," the comms officer's voice was stunned. "The cruiser Salvation has contacted us. Aboard them is Senior Jedi General Dougan. They ask to receive his shuttle."
Dabrin straightened his uniform.
"Direct them to the hangar on the port side. The starboard one's armored door has been stuck for five years already anyway."
***
When the tour of the Telos was coming to an end, I felt mixed emotions. The ship is undoubtedly impressive. The Rendilian design—space and comfort—was recognizable immediately. And even externally, the vessel still pleased the eye.
But inside… It was easier to list what was working.
The ship's deflector shield didn't work in principle. Since participating in the battles at Ruusan.
However, the inspection commission from Rendili StarDrive had already prepared an estimate for repair. A huge one. Eighty-three million. By all appearances, the ship's malfunctions had been known for a long time—the only question was money.
Honestly—if funding depended on me—no way would I have given that much money for this vessel. But the estimate had already been countersigned by the Christophsis government, so I only had to listen to the speech of the local Rendili representative about what a great thing the residents of the Christoph system are doing in the name of supporting the Republic fleet.
Having spent almost the entire daylight day on pleasantries with the local establishment, I shook everyone's hand and retired.
Time for the next meeting.
***
"Interesting," the CEO of Incom Corporation, Kat Dalig, looked at me with polite interest. "I didn't think such an offer could come from a Jedi."
We were sitting in his office, more resembling a living room, the size of the Telos's bridge. But furniture—very little. This made it uncomfortable, but didn't prevent enjoying caf. For Dalig. I, however, limited myself to simple conversation. There was no desire to show my disfigured face.
"I like to surprise my partners," I admitted.
"And you already consider me a partner?" Kat smirked. "It seems I haven't given an answer yet."
"But we both know you will," I voiced. "And a positive one, at that."
"Really? Excuse me, I'm not a Jedi; the future is not known to me."
I shook my head negatively.
"It's not even about foresight, Mr. Dalig. You're a businessman, and I'm not bad at building logical chains."
"I'll be glad to listen."
"Well then, let me tell you," I looked the man straight in the eyes. "Currently you only have three market segments. Speeders and light equipment. Bounty hunters and ARCs. If you look at your quarterly reports, you can notice that the first direction is not as profitable as it might seem. After all, there are more than a hundred small and medium corporations established in this market in the galaxy. The Z-95 in all its modifications is not a bad machine. A solid middling, something the army purchased successfully. Until the ubiquitous Kuat and Slayn & Korpil intervened. Let's admit that their fighters are either faster than yours or have additional advantages—deflectors, for example. ARC-170s in any case few fighters will replace. But already now the Republic is increasingly filling its hangars with V-wings, W-wings. Have you seen the Eta-2 prototypes? Jedi absolutely love them."
"All this is known to me," the CEO noted. "Tell me what I don't know yet."
"As far as I know, next year Incom won't be able to participate in the tender. Your competitors from Kuat will take the main niche. A contract for ARC supply—that's all you'll have left. And even then, I judge by previous purchases of my army—and after half a year of war, the massive purchase of ARCs ceased. Currently—it's just inertia, the mental rigidity of many Moffs who don't want to reform their ARC squadrons, which are suffering considerable losses. And it's not even that the machine has flaws," Kat raised his eyebrows. "But that current command is incorrectly applying these beautiful ships. They perish in battles by the hundreds, used as ordinary line fighters. Although, in their essence—they are heavy assault craft, bombers. Kuati V-wings appear more and more often on the decks of new ships—it's convenient, especially when the capital ships, equipment, and weapons are produced by that very same Kuat. A small example. Aboard the Venator on which I arrived here, the air wing is represented by V-wings or V-19 Torrent fighters, also known as W-wings, in the amount of 16 squadrons each. And, for dessert, completely free of charge, half a squadron of Eta-2 fighters was placed on the ship. Kuat is giving them to Jedi for testing instead of Delta-7s. I'm not a pro in fighter combat, but the clones like the new machine."
"I'm getting the impression you've decided to gloat," the head of the corporation sighed tiredly.
"Not at all. I only demonstrated the degree of my awareness to you."
"I know all this without you," the man sighed. "The Z-95 production lines are practically stopped—of thirty lines, only five are working now, and those mostly for the private market. That's why I agreed to a meeting with you—your representative promised large cash infusions if we find a common language with you."
"And what if I tell you that, with a small technical alliance, your developments in the field of T-16 civilian skyhoppers, Z-95 fighters, and ARC-170s can turn into a beautiful product. A heavy, maneuverable fighter, a worthy replacement for ARCs, a fine competitor for all the others."
"Really," Dalig smirked. "Tell me what we haven't tried."
"You are a businessman, and a fine engineer," I added a bit of flattery. "Just imagine the concept—a fighter that will take the simplicity of the interface from its predecessor T-16, the fuselage from the Z-95, heavy guns at the wingtips and the possibility of their deployment from the ARCs. A small magazine of proton torpedoes."
I'm a poor artist, but with the help of a graphic editor and a stylus, I was still able to sketch a concept art familiar to every Star Wars fan to the depth of their heart. Two blown-up Death Stars out of two.
"Cross-shaped planes?" the man clarified with me. "They will disturb aerodynamics at low speeds in the atmosphere…"
"Fold them. You'll get the same Z-95 silhouette. Which the enemy won't recognize until the very end—until the fighter gives him a salvo from four medium or heavy cannons. How long will your competitors' starfighters withstand such fire? And what if we also add a couple of missiles to the planes, like the ones droids use? Complement it with a deflector shield—and it will dance among squadrons of enemies, under the fire of their guns, mocking them, and carving them out like a wild predator among domestic banthas. I guarantee you that in six months this fighter will win space superiority, and its opponents…"
"I'm afraid this project is not destined to see the light in the next 10 years," the Incom CEO smirked sadly. "Even if we create blueprints, the fighter will come out… extremely expensive. Two or three hundred thousand credits. Before we can cheapen production, more than one year will pass. Tests, trials are needed. No supercomputer can do that. And for that, our customer must turn out to be indecently rich. And besides, Incom does not possess missile technologies—for us, that's a new direction. And engines better than those on the ARCs, we simply don't have. This project in its mass and dimensions won't be inferior to its predecessor. With low speed, it will turn from predator to prey. Furthermore, you didn't say a word about rear hemisphere protection—deflectors alone won't last long. An ARC has weapons under a gunner's control. If we add it—the fighter will become just a slow-moving bantha."
"Why do we need such a heavy gun? I criticize it on ARCs and don't welcome it here. A twin-barrel rapid-fire laser cannon, the control of which we will entrust to an astromech droid, will be enough. No extra crew members. The droid will handle cover and minor repairs itself. We'll shift the duties of a tail gunner and co-pilot to the machine. We save mass and dimensions."
"Still," Kat shook his head. "Missiles, engines… no, the project is good, but not for us. Millions will go on prototypes alone…"
***
Talk about a Doubting Thomas. I felt anger boiling up inside me. Why does Force Persuasion work on Sienar and others after the first disputes, but not on this no-name (well, ask yourselves—who knows the name of the head of Incom? No one!)? I allowed the Force to flow into my words, creeping into his brain. I increased the pressure on his perception, forcing him to perceive me as a friend… it worked with Sienar, and it should with him too… I just need to push…
"Let's consider that if you replace the rear gun on the ARCs I'll be purchasing for my army with rapid-fire laser cannons, I'll fund the project I want."
"I think that is possible," Kat agreed. "But problems still remain. Engines, missiles… on Fresia, we haven't dealt with that."
"Oh, don't worry, my friend," I smiled. With the help of the Force, I was finally able to break his will. All that remained was to overcome his instinctive fears about Incom's lack of competitiveness. "It seems I have friends who will help you with missile armament and new engines. Would you not agree to move part of the conveyor lines to a planet I will indicate—your new secret ally and sponsor? I don't want our competitors to learn about the new weapon prematurely."
"I would only be happy for that," Kat smiled. "Of course, if you take the costs for moving the design group and conveyors upon yourself."
"That is such a trifle," I smiled. "As a sign of goodwill, the 13th Sectoral Army will officially purchase a large volume of modified ARCs from you. Well, and unofficially… You won't refuse if Incom shares listed on the exchange belong to me?"
"Not at all, Master Jedi," Kat smiled. Calculations were already happening in his head. Forty-five percent of the shares, which I decided to purchase from my secret accounts, would replenish the corporation's budget by several trillion credits. A more than generous step from a little-known ally. "Allow me to assure you of the sincere pleasure with which I meet our secret cooperation."
"Yes, and another thing, colleague. You have a division involved in producing construction robots, right?"
"That's just a related firm," Kat smirked. "Incom Automata. A subsidiary."
"Wonderful. I will need a large volume of construction droids. With a transport ship, of course."
"We'll organize it within a couple of weeks," the CEO promised. "Our transports are operated by droid pilots—should I program them for a flight to Ord Pardron?"
"Oh, no need. Better send me the control frequency—I'll set the coordinates myself."
Leaving Fresia a few hours later, I watched as a huge Incom transport ship (of course, not the giants Kuat uses to deliver equipment to the armies), loaded with a thousand unmodified ARCs, took course for Ord Pardron. Re-arming the new machines takes time. And the army needed starfighters right now.
However, as well as people. I need to contact Christophsis, fortunately Vizla has already returned. There is an interesting task for her.
***
A holocall caught the director of the private military company Nuodo Private Security, Rivas Nuodo, at an unpleasant moment. The Duros was enjoying himself in one of the cantinas on Coruscant's lower levels with a couple of young slave girls who, for small fees by capital standards, sometimes brightened one or several evenings for him.
His company included dozens of branches on different planets. Providing armed security services, they were formerly all mercenaries, with questionable reputations. But they knew their business well. A couple of times they had been hired by planetary governments—to train their local troops, or conversely—to resolve an issue with neighbors. His company was not ashamed of a single completed order. Perhaps because there were many Mandalorians seasoned in this business in the company's ranks. Since their planet set a course for pacifism, true warriors had fled from there. Only the terrorists of Death Watch still sought to prove something to someone.
They didn't have wide popularity—after all, the market is overfilled with such services—but people in the know always had coordinates to contact them.
Gesturing for the slave girls to be silent, he chose a more decent background and activated the communication channel.
"Rivas Nuodo, how can I be of service?"
An attractive human woman was looking at him. Dark red hair, a stern look. The edge of armor was visible, and the Duros could swear it was Mandalorian. Но лишних вопросов не задавал.
"My name is Shae Vizla; I command the Christophsis self-defense forces. Rivas Nuodo, I'm offering you a contract to train the Christophsis ground militia. If you manage—the naval people will also be generous."
"An interesting offer," the Duros said in his velvety voice. "Contract price?"
"We have almost two million recruits," the woman smirked. "Handle them—you'll get a hundred credits for each."
The Duros whistled. That's a huge pile of money! Even for half that sum, he could buy himself a small moon and build an entire military town on it. And then people would certainly hear of his company. Even his cousin—Cad Bane—won't be able to reproach Rivas with having supposedly lost his touch.
"Acceptable," he spread his lips in a smile, "but weaponry and ammunition are at the client's expense."
"Of course, mercenary," the woman returned the smile. "I expect you and your people in a week on Christophsis. But first, there's a little job for you on Coruscant. I'm sending the details of the assignment."
"Okay, boss," Rivas received the file and disconnected the call without looking.
Looking at the Twi'lek girls sitting silently across, he spread in a smile.
"Come here and make a future millionaire the happiest."
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan