A group of Republic ARC-170s, in dozens of squadrons, made runs on the lead CIS ships, drenching them in a hurricane of laser cannon fire. The starfighters defending the Confederacy ships were being picked off by the "meat droids" with enviable pedantry, as if it were the Republic that commanded an army of machines.
To supplement the hurricane fire, the clones added volleys of proton torpedoes, which left the vanguard invasion force with no chance at all. In the blink of an eye, two dozen invasion starships were transformed into heaps of scrap metal, blocking the path for the bulk of the fleet.
However, this did not dampen the attackers' fervor; it only briefly slowed their advance toward the intended goal. The shattered hulls of the Confederacy ships drifted, spewing myriads of debris into space that clung to the deflector shields of the combat ships following behind.
The flagship's scanners dispassionately noted as two dozen starships of the vanguard perished one after another. The average lifespan of a Munificent-class frigate in this battle did not exceed ten standard minutes. However, the last of the ships in the first group held out longer than the others. But the same fate awaited it — Republic starfighters surrounded it, mercilessly peppering the ship with bursts of coherent fire. The finishing blow, as before, was delivered by several streaks of the crimson tails of proton torpedoes. And as soon as the starship was torn apart by the shockwave of detonating explosives, the significantly thinned Republic aviation set about finishing off the remnants of the droid air wing.
When the last Vulture of the squadron turned into a dispersing ball of excessively overheated gas, the clones withdrew, leaving the ships of the droids' second invasion echelon to be torn apart by the line ships of the Jedi armada — a single Venator surrounded by a dozen Hammerheads.
Junk, as the Confederacy intelligence had assured him. "Ancient relics dug out of the Order's backrooms, incapable of handling a single CIS ship." That is what he had been told. Now, these "relics" were holding their ground quite decently, and the invasion flotilla was snapping back no less painfully.
Since the moment of the invasion into the Bothawui system, he had not been able to shake the feeling that he had been outplayed. And the battle in the orbit of the Bothans' homeworld was by no means his moment of glory, but quite the opposite...
The Republicans throughout the entire fleet of the 13th Sectorial Army had two squadrons of Hammerheads — and at the moment of the Jedi extermination on Fallien, all of them were based near Rodia. None of these squadrons could have arrived at Bothawui so quickly. Consequently, Confederacy intelligence had screwed up again, and the Rendili shipyards were not under such vigilant control as he had been assured. The Republic had managed to bring at least one more squadron of Hammerheads into service and secretly deliver it here.
Grievous's invasion fleet plowed through the asteroid field surrounding Bothawui-Prime. The vanguard — two full squadrons of Munificents — forced the obstacle first and immediately received a powerful blow from the Republicans; not a single ship could break through the massive ARC-170 air raid.
He could have congratulated the enemy commander on the success — after all, destroying an entire formation of CIS starships without any significant losses to oneself is not something everyone can do. But the General did not utter a word.
Firstly, because the enemy's successes were his failures. And despite the fact that the CIS forces outnumbered the Republic's, this loss would be remembered. After all, even Striklan had been unable to hold his positions and was forced to retreat. What a pity that the remnants of his detachment had not encountered the Separatists here — the rout of the Republic commander, who had held back the CIS forces for a long time, would have been another triumph for the cyborg.
And secondly, the equipment suggested to him that a Jedi was behind this operation. Scanners had already spotted two Jedi interceptors retreating along with the aviation. Delta-7s, otherwise known as Aethersprites... starfighters piloted only by Jedi. And this pair was to become his next trophies.
An unfortunate entry vector calculated by the flagship navigation officer once again confirmed the General's conviction: one should work exclusively with droids. Organics are far too unreliable.
Of course, he could have sent the ships around the plane of the asteroid field, but then the enemy would have time to pull together forces for a counterattack. And Grievous did not want to mess with Bothawui-Prime's planetary shield. His raid was a swift thrust, not a systematic offensive.
Therefore, having divided the fleet into detachments, the cyborg directed the starships through the wide belt of space boulders. He sent two squadrons of frigates first, whose task was to thin out the enemy's vanguard forces and report the disposition to the ships following behind. The Munificents handled the assigned task perfectly. And therefore, the main forces following the vanguard — Recusant-class destroyers, the remaining Munificents surrounding the flagship carrier destroyer Invisible Hand, and five Lucrehulks making up the main strike force of the fleet — already had all the required information about the enemy.
The Republic group used the asteroids as shields, meeting the General's ships with concentrated fire. Ten Hammerheads and one Venator, surrounded by the barely visible dots of starfighters, were already testing the strength of Grievous's ships. However, the distance between the opponents was still too great for aimed fire; therefore, the leading ships of the droid armada, taking advantage of the absence of enemy aviation that had returned to their ships for rotation, launched Vultures. Superiority in starfighters allowed Grievous not to worry about a repetition of the maneuver that had cost him two dozen frigates — now any small Republic forces would be shot down on approach.
It seemed the enemy commander understood this as well, and therefore the Republic starfighters did not rush into battle, surrounding the line ships like annoying gnats. And the latter did not keep them waiting long. As soon as a third of the remaining droid ships cleared the ill-fated asteroid belt, the Republic starships moved to an artillery duel.
Grievous had managed to look into historical reference books and concluded without a doubt that the Republicans had significantly upgraded their Hammerheads. Now these ships were not much inferior in armament to Venators, but significantly lost to them in the number of air wing units. Hence the Jedi's tactic was clear — having destroyed the vanguard with starfighter forces, they shifted to a rigid defense. The Republic starships, whose armament was adapted for firing in the forward hemisphere, could concentrate fire on specific enemy ships. Overlapping each other with deflector fields, they strengthened their anti-turbolaser protection. And the starfighters scurrying everywhere were busy intercepting missiles and droid fighters. Well, one must note — the tactic had a certain logic. But the Jedi had underestimated the number of ships Grievous had brought with him. However, after a few minutes of battle, the General ordered his flagship, which had been moving in the front ranks of the main forces until then, to move into the thick of the formation. Unlike the Jedi, he could afford to put other starships under fire instead of his own. In the end, they were just droids.
The commander of the enemy squadron had correctly identified Grievous's Providence as the source of the greatest threat. Better armed than the Recusants, it had a sizeable air wing and, at the same time, significantly greater firepower than other CIS ships. The clumsy Lucrehulks were not taken into account. Therefore, the Jedi sought primarily to knock out Grievous's ship.
As soon as the deflectors were exhausted, the Invisible Hand received several sensitive hits to the hull — the lack of physical protection in the asteroid field was taking its toll. Deflectors could provide protection only from energy weapons, but by no means from stone boulders. And using particle shields would significantly reduce the destroyer's speed.
The ship shuddered once more. This time, according to the scanners, the cause was not an asteroid at all — the enemy had launched missiles. The anti-aircraft systems worked normally, but about ten strike projectiles managed to reach the ship's stern during a turn maneuver. The Providence listed to the starboard side, suddenly losing half its thrust, spinning in a spiral like an ancient bullet from an equally ancient rifle; jets of gas crystallizing in the vacuum spewed from numerous holes in the stern. The rotation accelerated, throwing off the Republic gunners' aim. The Recusants and Munificents, seeing the flagship's plight, slowed their pace like a herd, allowing the Invisible Hand to leave the engagement zone and move under the protection of its own ships' formation.
The ship left the zone of asteroid threat and moved out from under artillery fire, but things did not get better. Surrounded by a good dozen escort frigates, the Hand still took the enemy's blows. Obeying the cyborg's command, the CIS ships rushed to their goal, diverting the enemy's fire to themselves. Unable to finish off the "wounded animal," the enemy's turbolasers could not penetrate the Hand's tough plating and were forced to shift fire to the approaching main forces of the Separatist fleet. The armored plating of the Hand, glowing from the shelling, held, but malfunctions occurred and technical alarm buzzers roared throughout the ship.
Grievous, without looking away from the battlefield, noted that the idea of taking a newly commissioned destroyer into battle had cost him a delay in combat. The Hand should be significantly refined after the mission is completed.
On the flagship's bridge, the overheated Neimoidians were strapped to their chairs at the consoles by a web of emergency harnesses. The air smelled of melting metal and sharp hormonal secretions. Unpredictably changing gravity threatened to add a worse stench: the faces of most of the organic watchmen had already turned a pale pink color instead of a healthy grey-green. The gentlemen officers were nauseous. The organics' weakness caused the General irritation.
The only creature that was not strapped to a chair paced the bridge from corner to corner; a long cloak, reaching to the floor, fell from shoulders as sharp as bare bone. The creature paid no attention to the strikes on the ship's hull and the deck's trembling; the madness of artificial gravity did not interest him; with a metallic clacking that drove the Neimoidians into superstitious fear, his feet measured his steps.
The creature moved on clawed feet of magnetized duranium, capable of grabbing prey and breaking its spine like the paws of a Vratixian blood-adder. The organics present on the deck could not boast of having seen such a thing. Но рассказы о безумственной жестокости генерала Гривуса выходили далеко за пределы зоны влияния КНС.
It was impossible to read his facial expression, as Grievous wore a mask of ceramic armaplast styled like an animal skull. On the other hand, the venom-filled voice hissing through the electronic vocoder put everything in its place.
"Either calibrate the gravity generators or turn them off altogether," the General growled, poking a clawed finger into the chest of the bluish hologram of a cowering Neimoidian engineer. "If you continue in the same vein, you will not live to the moment the Republicans shoot you."
"B-b-but... it's the r'epair droids' job..." the organic tried to justify himself.
"They are droids; threats do not work on them. But it makes sense to threaten you. Which is what I am doing. Is that clear?" The General's face could not express emotions, but his voice, full of venom...
The General turned away from the interlocutor and walked away before the frightened engineer could think of an answer. With long strides, he reached the front of the bridge and froze for a moment, contemplating the picture of the battle. The limb extended toward the front viewport wore an armaplast gauntlet fused with living bone.
"Concentrate fire on the Venator," the unusual creature ordered the senior gunner. The Hand could extract maximum benefit from the situation. While the enemy ship was turned with its nose toward the pressing armada, the Providence could strike the lower part of the ship. And do so with complete impunity. The enemy starfighters would not risk leaving their starships unguarded to finish off the Providence, whose energy protection had failed. Well, and even if their commanders were that stupid — thousands of Vultures awaited them on the flagship's hangar deck. "All batteries — to maximum. Transfer all energy to the guns. Destroy the enemy flagship, and we will be able to cut their forces in two and grind the enemy fleet to powder."
"But... the bow g'uns are already over'loaded," the Neimoidian balanced on the verge of panic. "In l'ess than a m'inute, a critical failure will occur. We n'eed to r'estore the d'eflectors..."
"To the Hutts with the deflectors! Increase fire!"
"But without them we..."
The senior gunner's objection was cut short by an unpleasant wet sound that made every single organic pull their heads into their shoulders. Grievous's armored fist pulled away with a squelch from the mess of bone, flesh, and physiological fluids of the senior gunner. The General fastidiously shook the scraps of the Neimoidian's brain onto the bridge floor. The same fist opened, grabbed the officer's corpse by the collar, and yanked the corpse from the chair, tearing the anti-overload harness. Carelessly, like an annoying piece of lint, the cyborg threw the still-warm corpse to the far end of the bridge.
The skull-mask turned to the junior gunner.
"Congratulations on your unexpected promotion."
The newly minted senior officer's hands were shaking so badly he could barely unbuckle the safety belts. Under the General's watchful gaze, the organic, shaking with fear, made his way to the new console.
"Is the order clear?"
"Y-y-y..." Unable to answer with words, the organic nodded.
"Any objections?"
"N-n-n..." Now the new senior officer shook his head from side to side with all his might.
"Splendid," General Grievous said in an indifferent, cold voice. "Transmit the order to the fleet — concentrate fire on the flagship. Energy — to the forward deflectors. The asteroids are behind us; we have nothing to fear."
***
Durasteel. Ceramic armored duranium. Electric motors and joints.
Inside: the remains of a living creature. He once was one. An outstanding warrior from the planet Kalee. The conqueror of the Huk. Now everything is different.
He does not breathe. He does not eat. He does not know how to laugh or cry. Neither to rejoice nor to regret.
In his past life, he experienced what can be called life. In his past life, he had friends, family, duty. In his past life, he had something to love and something to fear. Now all that is gone.
After the Republic's intervention in the Huk War, where Grievous had broken the back of and practically exterminated the enemy that oppressed his people, the Kaleesh warlord entered the service of the InterGalactic Banking Clan.
A disaster had cost him his body and most of his memories. He lost the ability to breathe; he did not experience feelings and did not need love.
He hated the Republic and the Jedi, who were responsible for his people's debt yoke.
He did not remember the details of his life before serving the CIS — he had no such memories left. But now he is not burdened by biological limits.
Now he has a purpose.
It is built into him at the level of microchips and software algorithms that control his mechanical body.
He is built to bring fear. Something resembling a skeleton is equipped with limbs whose design is taken from the legendary Krath war droids. His face and appearance were born of a child's nightmare. More than once, meeting Jedi face-to-face on the battlefield, he saw fear in their eyes. An animalistic, convulsive fear that broke their vaunted will and endurance.
He is built to suppress. The ceramic armaplast armor protecting him is capable of withstanding a direct hit from a light starfighter's laser cannon. His indestructible hands are ten times stronger than a human's. They are moved by electronic reflexes; in a sudden movement, they turn into a barely visible flicker. More than one or two Jedi, not to mention clones, were torn to pieces by his hands. And the more he killed, the more unbearable the thirst for even more killing became.
The touch of the hilts of the Jedi lightsabers who died by his hand with palms of armaplast and durasteel evoked something in his brain resembling joy.
But only resembling it.
The General remembered joy. He remembered anger and rage. He remembered regret and sorrow. Distantly, like the sensation of the wind on a sunny day.
He just didn't experience them. Not anymore.
He was not intended for that.
His task is Jedi extermination. Every one of these pompous, arrogant bastards will fall by his hand. Neither Durge nor anyone else can compare to him in efficiency.
The Confederacy leadership had allocated him a huge fleet — a hundred and fifty ships. He was to move like a white-hot blade through the front lines of the 13th Sectorial Army, destroying pockets of resistance.
Then, according to the plan, his armada would invade the Both system. Dooku had strongly urged not to stand on ceremony with the Bothans — the ears and eyes of Republic intelligence. The invasion fleet would carry out an orbital bombardment. Never before had the Separatists had occasion to so openly destroy others' worlds. Но сегодня граф сделал исключение… The Bothans were destined for an unenviable fate — the survivors would envy the dead. For existing on a life-stripped planet is not given to every species. Especially not to the soft-handed Bothans...
Eleven enemy ships are nothing. No matter how strong the Republican ships were, his armada outnumbered them.
Grievous, from on board the flagship Invisible Hand, watched with a smirk as more and more Separatist ships crawled out of the asteroid field behind the first dozen Munificents. Having rid themselves of the danger of the asteroids, they covered the enemy with a merciless downpour.
Sixty frigates, forty Recusants, ten Lucrehulks... the inclination of Bothawui-Prime's axis, which forced the Separatist armada to move to the planet by the shortest route, irritated the General. He did not like instructions given to him by the CIS leadership, since all this had only political motives. The real military effectiveness of the Confederacy troops was much greater than that with which the offensives were carried out. The cyborg had repeatedly pointed out to Count Dooku the possibility of victory where many CIS generals were ordered to retreat... But the man only waved him away like an annoying insect, claiming that everything was going strictly according to plan. But whose?
For the same reason, the General disliked organics. Stupid, shallow, fearful... it was hundreds of times easier with droids.
"Mast'er?" the thin voice of a Neimoidian communications officer interrupted the General's pacing. The cyborg's reflections were broken. "We are being hailed from the Deliverance. They are proposing we c'ease fire and surrender..."
The dark-yellow eyes in the slits of the skull-mask narrowed. The General studied the sweat-covered face of the crew member. Then, when the latter was already sweating so much that a puddle of sticky sweat had formed under him, Grievous moved his gaze to the tactical display.
Surrender? On the verge of triumph? What nonsense. Но пауза в сражении позволит турболазерам остыть и даст инженерам шанс обуздать генераторы искусственной гравитации. To continue the battle with minimal chances of victory, and considering the unpleasant consequences of traversing the asteroid field, every chance counts.
"Confirm receipt of the message. Prepare to cease fire."
"A-a-at once, mast'er," the newly minted gunner was still shaking. But even on his distorted face, a smile was visible. Disgusting. Do they really think he will surrender the entire fleet to the Republicans?
"Cease fire."
The plasma streaks connecting the Hand and the strike group ships disappeared. Following orders from the flagship, the other ships also stopped firing, but not their movement toward the intended goal — the Bothans' homeworld. The Republicans, as if in a silent dance, were pulling back, yielding space to the invasion ships.
"Next m'essage, mast'er. It's the command'er of the Serenity."
Grievous nodded. He didn't care. Even the Supreme Chancellor himself.
"Activate it. And fix the guns' operation before I throw everyone overboard."
Above the holographic projection of the external communication appeared the ethereal ghost of a young man of medium height and build, unremarkable in a uniform with Commodore's rank insignia. And if it were not for the cold confidence in his gaze, his polite, unremarkable face would not remain in the interlocutor's memory.
"General Grievous," the young man said abruptly. "I cannot say that I enjoy your company. My name is Oswald Teshik. I am the commander of the 'Shield' squadron."
"How interesting," the cyborg snorted. "And where are Admiral Striklan and his battered fleet? I counted on finishing off that bastard here, in the Both system."
"The Rear Admiral and his ships are where they are supposed to be," the officer noted evasively and, without changing his intonation, continued. "The commander of the 'Iron Lance' Sectorial Army, Senior Jedi General Dougan, in order to avoid bloodshed, proposes that you surrender your flagship and order your..."
"Surrender?" the General's vocoder issued a quite recognizable chuckle. Absurd. His armada had defeated the Republic grouping at Monastery, forcing the last fifteen ships of Admiral Striklan — battered Acclamators and equally ruined Venators numbering three — to retreat from the system. And now, securing his victory, he had come to the Bothans' homeworld. Despite the losses, he outnumbered the enemy ships almost sixfold — and that's only as far as starships are concerned. The advantage in starfighters was simply devastating. With this lull, the Republic was digging its own grave.
"I ask you to thoroughly consider the proposal, General, as the commander will not make it a second time. Honorable captivity is better than an inglorious death. Think of the lives of your crew."
With a glacial gaze, Grievous scanned the bridge, packed with Neimoidians shaking with fear. Lives? Of the crew? It wasn't even funny.
"What are you talking about?"
The young officer was not surprised; rather, he was confirmed in his previously made decision.
"Is that your answer?"
"Not at all," Grievous drew himself up to his full height; when he did so, he added another half-meter to his already impressive stature. "I have a counter-proposal," glancing at the monitor, he noted with pleasure that most of his fleet had already cleared the asteroid belt. Excellent. He could surround the Republic upstart and tear his ships to hell. "Prepare for battle and boarding. As soon as I step on board your flagship, I will crush your skull with my own hands," the General clacked his armored fingers with a laugh, clenching them into a fist.
Behind his back, some Neimoidian sobbed quietly. Without looking, the General grabbed his head with his hand and slammed it into the control panel. Coward and weakling.
"May I use your definition, sir? Absurd."
"Then tell that command of yours that if my ships do not land a force on Bothawui-Prime within an hour," the General narrowed his eyes, "I will break through to the planet and slaughter all its inhabitants. And the execution will be broadcast on the HoloNet. Am I understood?"
The young man didn't even blink.
"What makes you think you will succeed?"
Dull sentient.
"I outnumber you, human," the cyborg answered fastidiously. What kind of idiots are in the command of this army? For what purpose put an idiot in command of a squadron?
"Ah!" the young officer repeated without expression. "You mean that..."
He leaned back, clearly addressing someone outside the projection zone.
"Contact the 'Blade' and 'Mace' squadrons."
Then, returning his gaze to Grievous, he allowed himself a smile, seeing the latter's confusion.
"You must be mistaken, General," Teshik's words were now propped with venom. "Count again..."
The sensors shrieked in alarm. Almost simultaneously, the Invisible Hand took several significant hits in a row, from which Grievous himself barely kept his feet.
"Mast'er, n'ew R'epublic'an sh'ips have arr'ived!" one of the Neimoidian officers screamed hysterically.
With a furious roar, the cyborg covered the distance to the control panel, greedily peering at the sensor readings.
The enemy grouping had qualitatively strengthened due to one massive hyperspace jump.
In the ecliptic plane, cutting through the vacuum and showering the Confederacy ships with streams of plasma and strike missiles, perfectly fresh Republic forces, unbattered by the confrontation, slid out. Two Acclamators surrounded by a dense ring of twenty Hammerheads.
Now the enemy had deployed in full force. Teshik's squadron and the twenty-two line ships that had joined it, like ancient boxers, took the blow of the pressing second-wave ships — the last Munificents and the Hand that had joined them. The crimson salvos of the CIS ships dissipated against the deflector fields strengthened by the reinforcements. In response, the Republicans answered with hurricane fire that had a mediocre result.
In the very first minute of the new ships' appearance, Grievous's armada lost six Munificents and one Recusant, which flared up like a blinding sun. A second later, they silently disappeared in the thermonuclear fire of detonating reactors.
"The redirection of energy has borne fruit," the General noted with grim triumph. Yes, Teshik had two new squadrons of battleships. So what? Their aviation was not enough to break through the thousands of Vultures Grievous kept around his armada for protection. And the additional energy directed to the forward deflectors minimized the enemy's results. Of course, frigates blew up from time to time, unable to withstand the shelling, but their place was taken by the Recusants emerging from the asteroid belt. And very soon the Lucrehulks would crawl out.
Grievous made the decision to adjust his plan. The frigates, supported by the Vultures, would finish off Teshik's ships, while the Lucrehulks, right in the Republicans' view, would carry out a bombardment of Bothawui-Prime and land a multi-million force on it.
"Transmit the order to the fleet..." the voice came from the cyborg's mechanical vocoder.
***
Throwing the starfighter into another barrel roll, I let a burst of crimson laser bolts from a droid fighter pass aside from my Delta-7, which prolonged my existence for an indefinite time.
"Flying is for droids," I hissed through my teeth, remembering Kenobi.
"Master," the voice of my headache — I mean, Padawan Olee — responded in the headphones. "You're doing great. Но по количеству сбитых «стервятников» я все же веду…"
"Yeah," I yanked the stick toward me, forcing the Aethersprite to perform a loop in the vacuum and get on my pursuer's tail. A press of the trigger — and there, another droid turned into a cloud of debris and red-hot eyes. "Not leading anymore."
"That's not fair!" the girl exclaimed. "On the simulator you did much worse..."
"So that's where the dog is buried," I gasped. "You dragged me to fight on starfighters knowing I showed myself worse than you on the trainer?"
A momentary silence was a much more eloquent answer than the subsequent words.
"Me? What? Hm, no. Master, I would never..."
"Oh, I'll have to conduct some disciplinary moments again"...
It seems I'm a shitty teacher. Because the child — I mean, the Padawan — is getting out of hand before my eyes. Little of her former modesty and tact remained — no, of course, "in public" she continues to be restrained and sensible. But alone with me she changes sharply. As if I'm not her mentor, but a friend, or something...
Of course, I'm to blame myself. I set the direction of the Padawanhood not as "teacher and student," but rather as "big brother and little sister." Which is now coming back to haunt me. I look at Olee's behavior, and a comparison with the cartoon Ahsoka spins in my head. Some kind of crap...
In general, how did it happen that I let myself be dragged to the "miracles on the turns"...
No sooner had the planning for the "meeting" with Grievous ended and the officers rushed to execute the plan at the "run" command, this little thing, who will surely drive me to the grave someday, pestered me with requests to join the squadrons in the space battle.
Besides the usual "Puss in Boots eyes" trick, more convincing arguments were used, like one Jedi at the controls of a starfighter is worth an entire squadron, and it's not right to wear out boot soles on the bridge when we can help by shooting down the "little ones"...
To be honest, I wasn't averse to flying a starfighter myself. Until now, everything had been limited to piloting the Defender, but even there, most of the process is replaced by algorithms created for the user's convenience. And the corvette had not been in a space battle, of course, so I hadn't tested my ship on "manual control."
In reality, behind me was only experience playing flight simulators. I don't remember the names of those simulators anymore, but still, I had some kind of base. As I thought then.
Therefore, I don't know if it was the survival instinct or the Force that made me go practice on the onboard simulator. As it turns out, on board there are a good dozen devices for pilots on which they can hone their skills in controlling one transport or another.
Appearance-wise — a simple cockpit, resembling the one from a Nu-class shuttle. Designed for two sentients. You can set a training flight for your beloved self, or an imitation for a "lead-wingman" pair. A handy thing.
You put a virtual reality helmet on your head (I had to get rid of my mask for a while), the control handles are standard for all GAR equipment — fortunately, it's developed by almost one supplier. You set the parameters — which ship you dream of flying, from an assault shuttle to an ARC, choose the program — from a simple flight to a battle, launch it — and off you go to conquer virtual space.
It was there, in the confined space of the simulator, that I was convinced of the correctness of Sidious's choice. Yes, droids are the best weapon against a Jedi. A machine does not experience emotions that a gifted one can pick up. Consequently, foresight doesn't work properly.
The simulator squeezed the life out of me for four solid hours under Olee's embarrassed chuckles. I crashed into asteroids, nose-dived the Aethersprite on the runway, exploded while landing. Not to mention the fact that I was constantly shot down and rammed by the damn virtual opponents. Everyone who felt like it — from pirates to Vultures.
Every failure cost me a bit of calm and self-esteem. I can be infinitely good at lightsaber combat, but in flying starfighters, the Padawan could give me a head start. And such a head start that I definitely wouldn't catch her.
"Master, maybe you really should stay on board?" the little brat suggested, looking at me pacing nervously in the corridors after the simulator. "Not everyone can fly like Skywalker... See, even Obi-Wan doesn't like to fly..."
"What a little bitch," I thought. "Comparing me to that damn stump. If only you knew how that Sith will fly masterfully in the future despite cut-off arms and legs...".
The latter irritated me the most. No, Vader even with cut-off legs was one of the best pilots, and I'm alive, damn it, and healthy, the apprentice of the greatest Sith in the Universe, and I can't even wag the wings without losing control! It's infuriating. It burns like a furious fire. When you are compared with someone. And the comparison is not in your favor.
"Yeah," I said as indifferently as possible. "Well, since Skywalker is better than me, maybe you'll become his student?"
"He has Ahsoka," Olee sighed. Then, catching herself, she rattled on. "I didn't mean it that way, Master. You are better than Skywalker; you fought Sith and won..."
"I hate children!" the thought came to mind. Clearly, she blurted it out without thinking. But the cup of my patience is filling up. I hate being worse than someone.
"See you in the hangar," I said dryly when we reached a fork. I headed to my quarters, leaving the girl alone in the middle of the corridor, thanking the Force that she didn't follow.
I was walking toward my cabin, immersed in dark thoughts.
I cannot be worse than this incomplete one. I have all my arms and legs in place; I'm a Master, the commander of a sectorial army. Damn it, I have an army and fleet under my command that can easily kick the ass of any oversector! My Hands are the best mercenaries, Jedi, Sith of the last five thousand years...
And still, Skywalker's name is like a trigger for me. Comparison with him is like a slap in the face for me. Even though my brain understands I'm better, the emotions make themselves known. Where is it from? I can't understand.
I generally didn't care about the adventures of Skywalker and his girl. They didn't intersect with my plans, which meant they weren't dangerous. By the time the Chosen One's mind goes, I'll already be ruling half the galaxy. And no matter how Sidious boasts — my teacher is cooler.
Which means I should be cooler too. Stronger, faster, more skillful. Having assimilated Kun's knowledge, I could kick any Jedi's ass without even breaking a sweat. Of course, I shouldn't stick my nose up yet — I'm sure that those same Council members would give me a run for my money. Yoda fought Sidious on equal terms, and the latter, for a second, is the strongest Sith in the galaxy for the last thousand years for sure.
Knowing the Force's perverse sense of humor, I wouldn't be surprised if I eventually have to fight Skywalker, and Sidious, and half the Council. I won't take them with Niman alone. I defeated Sora Bulq only thanks to Juyo elements I looked up in the Defender's database. But learning from records alone... I can understand a Force technique, I can reproduce it. Но для сражений на световых мечах нужен живой противник. Skillful, but living.
Or... it dawned on me. Not quite living. A Force ghost like Kun will suffice. Find, suppress, absorb... Having assimilated his knowledge, like Kun's knowledge, I will become stronger. With a minimum of time for studying new things. It will be enough just to "remember" it...
Hm... Absorbing Kun, I didn't choose which of the knowledge would become mine. I soaked them all up. And, if memory serves, Kun owned his own ship and participated in space battles as a pilot.
I didn't notice myself reaching the cabin. Locking the door behind me, I sat on the floor, crossing my legs in the "lotus" position, and opened myself to the Great Force.
Be worse than the Chosen One? To hell with that.
***
"Attention everyone, this is Black-One!" While the starfighter's reactor was warming up and an R2-series astromech was diagnosing systems, I was broadcasting for the starfighter pilots on a general frequency. "Our task is to strike the enemy vanguard. Let's arrange a crush for them at the exit from the asteroid field. Hit them with everything we can. Do not spare missiles and torpedoes. As soon as we pound their vanguard — retreat to defend the ships."
"Copy that."
"Task is clear."
"Red Squadron is ready..."
Confirmations poured in one after another.
My hands rested on the starfighter's control handles. Electronics beeped, occasionally showing confirmations of the readiness of one Aethersprite component or another. The Jedi ship, painted in a black-and-silver color that was slowly migrating from the 204th Legion to all parts of the army, quivered on its supports, ready to break away and fly into weightlessness.
Nearby stood a second one, Black-Two. Behind the callsign was my Padawan's identity, who remained silent while I prepared my starfighter for flight. To be honest, after the meditation and soaking up another portion of Kun's knowledge, the stinging sense of offense had passed. As befits a Sith apprentice, I became completely indifferent to who and how compares me. There is a task that must be performed. And which will be realized regardless of whether I am worse or better than Skywalker. In the end, I can always kill him by siccing my Hands on the bastard. Or by frying him with lightning when he puts on his lovely suit for catching electricity.
A message from the astrodroid flashed on the monitor: "Starfighter in full combat readiness."
"Well then," I retracted the supports, letting the little ship hover on the anti-gravity cushion. Pushing the control handle away from me, I slightly tilted the starfighter's nose and, giving a small acceleration, guided it out of the hangar. "Let's go fry some droids"...
***
I won't say that Kun's "memories" were outdated, but for modern combat they were clearly not enough to call myself an ace. Yes, I was no longer lost in the jumble of handles, toggles, and buttons on the dashboard. And my maneuvers did not cause me disgust.
But taking over someone else's experience in using the Force and piloting skills are still different things. Piloting required a lot of training, and consequently, God grant I survive this battle, and to my lightsaber and Force training, piloting lessons will be added.
I consciously avoided spinning near asteroids or pressing against starship hulls. I didn't need to.
I'm a starfighter, and consequently — those bastard-looking Vultures are my target. Olee, following me as if on a leash, drenched the droids with green fire with passion, ending the existence of one after another. Primarily, I tried not to get in the way and didn't seek to die.
Along with Blue Squadron, for the first half of the battle — until Grievous's vanguard choked on our proton torpedoes — Olee and I hung in the space between the two squadrons, intercepting droids breaking through to our ships from time to time. Hunting for "loners" or small groups was easier than for the guys from other squadrons — they broke through as if through hell, sliding between the energy tracers of anti-aircraft artillery, maneuvering in the folds of the enemy ships' plating, managing not only to survive but also to significantly thin out the enemy aviation. And the starships also got their fair share.
As soon as the last vanguard frigate scattered its debris in a silent explosion, the thinned Republic starfighter flotilla withdrew to the Shield squadron ships. Most of the V-wings and ARCs went for rotation — that's what they call landing a small ship for refueling and restocking armament.
Olee and I, along with a dozen relatively "full" squadrons, covered this "shift change," fighting off the remaining Vultures that, left without mother ships, had moved to a "to the death" battle mode.
In one of the sectorial command reports, I read that CIS droid fighters are assigned strictly to specific ships. For example, unlike organics, Confederacy starfighters cannot "land" on any ship other than the one from which they took off. Simply put, having launched from a Recusant, a Vulture will not land for refueling on a Munificent or another Recusant — it is prohibited by the ship's program. This is done so that it's easier to calculate the losses of each starship after the battle — statistics are sacred for droids.
And this same protocol worked against the CIS if the carrier ship died in battle and its air wing survived. In that case, the droid fighters attacked the nearest enemy target. Should such "orphans" survive the battle and live, they were taken on board a special transport where their memories were wiped and they were sent on board another ship, but now as a "new" unit.
Yes, the memory wiping procedure — that is what will never give droids the opportunity to self-develop into a personality and use accumulated experience against a human or their other enemies. In my situation, thanks to regular memory wiping, the CIS droid fighters always fight by the same program, which the clones have already learned by heart after so much time waging battles. Hence the fantastic numbers of shot-down "clankers" — an average pilot can finish off up to two or three dozen enemy starfighters in a battle.
Meanwhile, the picture of the battle was unfolding, to put it mildly, depressingly.
The enemy vanguard — two dozen Munificent-class frigates — no longer posed a danger to us, turned into either scrap metal or helplessly drifting remains. But following them, a second wave was approaching.
And now it was no longer a joke.
The Munificents we knew well, but from the second wave of attackers, were swiftly breaking out of the asteroid field, showering the Deliverance and its assigned ships with hurricane fire. The arrival of the Blade and Mace squadrons allowed us to simultaneously turn the last of the Munificents in Grievous's fleet to dust.
Following them, like hyenas arriving to feast on the battlefield, the Recusants appeared before the Republic starships. The Munificents from the second detachment that remained in relative integrity moved apart, yielding place to unbattered, fresh ships that were to complete our rout. Grievous had adopted my own tactic — grouped the ships closer to each other so that the deflector shields of adjacent destroyers overlapped, strengthening the overall protection. And, having transferred energy from all deflectors to the forward ones, the cyborg had turned his army into something like a Teutonic "boar's head" that was pushing back my cruisers.
It seemed that the battered Republic ships, partially stripped of artillery, smoking from many fires and holes, were barely holding back the armada of Vultures that the droid ships had released from their depths. A small detachment of ships — a dozen Recusants and all the Lucrehulks — were about to emerge from the asteroid belt, and then two things were inevitable — the rout of my three squadrons and the occupation of Bothawui. Though what occupation. A massacre awaits the Bothans...
But only if I lose, naturally. And as it happens, I have no intention of doing that.
"Black-One to Black-Three," I activated the communication channel with the Defender.
"On the line, Jedi Master," the mechanical voice of the Iokath drone responded. "Has our time come?"
"Keep away from the transmitter, clanker," Alpha's voice intervened in the airwaves. "Sir, the ships are in position, waiting for the signal."
"Proceed," I commanded. "And I authorize you to twist off Kenny's arm if he interrupts the conversation again."
"Hear that, metalhead?" the second ARC chuckled. "You'll be heading to the scrapheap soon."
"You just try it, organism," the Iokath drone retorted cynically, backing his words with the characteristic sound of a plasma cannon's servo. "As long as I'm at the controls of this corvette, I decide when your stomach contents end up on the outside. Jump!"
The exclamations of objection from both ARCs serving as crew members on my corvette were cut short as the ship moved to faster-than-light speed. Smirking, I turned to the astrodroid.
"Send a message to our forces at Kothlis: 'Advance'."
The droid chirped in response, confirming the execution of the assignment. Automatically scanning the screen with the question "Do we even have forces at Kothlis?", I ignored the inquisitive bucket of bolts.
"Well then," I said, returning to the general communication channel. "All starfighters, we are moving to the offensive."
***
If he had teeth, Grievous would have ground them. But all he could do was shower curses on the Jedi's deviousness.
Their reinforcement had made a jump from the Kothlis system, as indicated by the entry vector into the system. Only a few light years from Bothawui-Prime, this industrial planet was for the Bothans a source of industrial goods and immense capital.
The CIS leaders had planned to strike this planet too, but Count Dooku had voiced his significant opinion. Despite its seeming peacefulness, the planet had a powerful defense. And the General of the droid army did not want to deal with ion cannons, which, according to the former Jedi, bolstered the defense.
Above the asteroid belt plane, coming into the right flank of the Recusant strike detachment, thirty corvettes dropped out of hyperspace, which the cyborg recognized with surprise as Sienar's Marauders.
"Raise shields!" the General roared, opening a communication channel with the droid commanders of the Recusants. But it turned out to be too late.
Grievous could only state that the disposition chosen by the opponent was perfect. The massive missile-turbolaser fire of the Marauders was literally mowing down the CIS ships. In the first minutes of the battle, two dozen Confederacy destroyers were knocked out with critical damage incompatible with further mission continuation. And the armada of Vultures thrown into pursuit of the retreating Republic ships practically dissolved in the bluish flashes of baradium warhead bursts of strike missiles.
The Invisible Hand's particle shields absorbed the enemy fire, to which, after some time, Admiral Striklan's aforementioned ships were added. Surrounding the corvettes with their armored bulks, they strengthened the already devastating onslaught on the CIS ships, turning the remnants of the armada into scrap metal.
Grievous did not need to turn to the sensors for analysis — he saw for himself that the fifteen Acclamators and the trio of Venators had signs of recent damage repair. Fresh patches in place of holes, a large number of inactive artillery knocked out during the battle for Monastery... But the Republic destroyers had not appeared here for that.
Their hangars, covered by shimmering power curtains, released hundreds of starfighters and bombers, which, with a short leap toward the armada's rearguard, completed the slaughter.
With all the rage available to him, the General struck the display of the nearest terminal, turning it into a heap of ruins.
"Defensive Order 34," Grievous snapped to the crew, barely restraining himself from tearing each of them to pieces. "We are exiting the battle. Plot a course to Mimban"...
***
"That was even too easy," Martio Batch, commander of the 'Arrow 5' detachment, grimaced. Standing in the small bridge of the flagship Marauder, he watched the debris of Separatist frigates enter the atmosphere of backwater Dressel in a fiery rain.
The commander was not mistaken. The enemy had only four Munificent-class frigates in this system. The Banking Clan ships offered resistance, but they could not stand up under coordinated missile-turbolaser fire. However, Martio figured that the forces of his 'Arrow 5' would have been enough to rout this grouping. Why send an entire squadron of twenty-one pendants on a routine task if light forces are enough to gain mastery? However, he guessed that the army commander was playing it safe by sending a hastily assembled unit with excessive firepower. And the landing force had to be protected too.
Batch figured that the detachment under his command could well take care of itself. Corvettes, in essence, are raiders whose tactic is 'hit and run.' No CIS ship class below a cruiser is insured against their missile armament. Three escort squadrons, powerful armament that not every line ship is entitled to... Yes, truly, the ship was designed exclusively for war. And every detail of it is thought out.
"Captain Batch," a tiny holographic image of Commodore Tigellinus appeared on the panel. "Organize patrolling and a blockade of the system," Martio nodded in confirmation of the received order.
"It will be done," he voiced his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the Commodore's strike cruiser, hovering its arrow-shaped hull over the corvettes' current position, continuously released squadrons of starfighters and gunships into the vacuum. The Hammerheads accompanying it were spreading in a thin layer over the planet's orbit, spitting out their starfighters on the fly. A full and unconditional blockade of Dressel. Cruisers as nodal elements of the blockade, surrounded by maneuverable light starfighter forces... Yes, no droid from among those who landed on the surface will escape such a mousetrap. However, Martio was ready to bet his monthly pay that any de-blockading attempts by the CIS would also turn into a hot slaughter of the clankers. "In half an hour we will take control of all entry vectors into the system."
"Excellent, Captain Batch," a cold aristocratic tone answered from the flagship. "General Kota and his ground forces will carry out a landing operation, and we can consider the battle won."
"Exactly so, sir," Martio nodded to the hologram. The interlocutor paused for a moment. Then, looking at the subordinate, he asked. "Don't you find that we brought excessive force to capture such an insignificant section of the front?"
"That is the order, sir," the captain shrugged. Indeed. The Jedi ordered; what's the point in discussing orders?
"Indeed," the Commodore smiled with only his lips. He touched an invisible key on his side, and the hologram vanished.
Martio exhaled loudly. The clones standing at a distance from him paid absolutely no attention to his actions. The captain closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. Considering himself a by no means unremarkable man, Batch could not get rid of the thought that all these appointments to the newly formed squadrons were made with a large credit of trust.
Jedi, of course, are some commanders; clones would have successfully replaced many of them. Their mystical Force supposedly gave them the ability to foresee the future. Few in the fleet believed in that — after all, not a few Jedi had fallen in battles. If they had the gift of foresight, could they not have protected themselves?
But specifically this Jedi, under whose command he now had to serve... Captain Batch would never admit to anyone that this man (and was he a man at all?) in black armor inspired superstitious terror in him.
Jedi are a thing unto themselves. Everyone in the fleet knew that Jedi listen to their Force and take little interest in the fates of ordinary people. This one, on the other hand... Within twenty sectorial armies, he found ordinary officers, not the most unremarkable, to whom he entrusted command. Was it about their merits in the service of the Republic? Martio didn't think so. Their victories and achievements were too insignificant (in the context of the galaxy). Но там, на совещании, джедай говорил, что под его командованием — лучшие офицеры Республиканского флота.
Of course, this could also be encouraging motivation from the Jedi before the upcoming battles, but...
Was there a more effective Jedi in all twenty sectorial armies? Of course, the legends of this war, Skywalker and Kenobi, became famous thanks to the Republic's media holdings. But Dougan... A Jedi to whom an entire star system had sworn allegiance, so rich that it is capable of building a huge fleet? Whose volunteers with a fanatical gaze rush to the front line, while other Republic residents prefer to sit in cozy homes, in comfort, having entrusted their protection and security to clones grown for that and those who put on a naval uniform? No, there was decidedly something more here than simple charisma and luck.
That same Skywalker pulled off even larger operations — Jabiim alone is worth a lot. He had conducted hundreds of operations in the Mid and Outer Rim but had not achieved what Dougan could. And the latter acts as if he's doing everything right... and makes only those decisions that carry the right outcome. The one that brings staggering victories. And every action of his, as Martio had noticed, the Jedi backs with words. RIGHT words.
The steadfastness of the statement with which the Jedi uttered his words made Martio doubt the contrived nature of the Jedi's abilities. Rick Dougan KNEW that the best officers were before him. And therefore, he took care in advance that they serve under his command.
At these thoughts, Martio felt a chill on his skin, making him shiver. If Jedi really see the future, know what will happen, then why didn't they prevent this war? Why did they let the Confederacy do it?
And in the context of this question, the captain arrived at only two answers. Either not all Jedi see the future as clearly as Dougan, or...
At the thought of this, Batch wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Could it be that this war is exactly what the Force-sensitive individuals are after? And the lives of millions are for them just a bargaining chip?! After all, as the Jedi claim — no one dies, but only returns to the Force. Which is what the Jedi serve...
One way or another, Martio Batch did not intend to be a victim for the sake of goals he did not need. And therefore — it's worth sticking to the side that does everything right.
***
The speeder hover-taxi parked carefully between two landing beacons. Kira noted with a slight surprise that despite the years that had passed, the equipment still worked.
The droid driver, having received payment for the work performed, flew away into the never-sleeping, multi-colored with lights and riotous life of sentients atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa.
The private landing pad she had arrived at met her with emptiness and faded panels, behind which Republic banners once proudly hung.
The Hero of Tython had received the fortress on the Hutts' homeworld as a thank-you for resolving the crisis with the Hutt cartel. Years later, Kira remembered with a smirk the attempt by Toborro the Hutt to build a superpower capable of competing with the Republic or the Empire. The plan, which rested on a single foundation — the exclusive extraction of Isotope-5 by the Hutts — had failed miserably.
The vague attempt to claim a section of the galaxy by the Hutts had led only to strained relations with two other superpowers. And as a result — only through the efforts of the Jedi did the Republic not go on another crusade against the aliens.
And now, thousands of years later, she stood again on the threshold of her beloved's secret fortress-home. The Hutts, not prone to nostalgia, had fairly soon forgotten about the merits of the Jedi and his companions. Therefore, now before her, no luxurious dwelling, elite apartments shone... Standing under the vaults of eight lighting columns arranged in a semi-circle, she looked at the walls and doors, mercilessly distorted by time.
She did not know how the Emperor's apprentice could have learned the location of the Hero's fortresses. But the fact remains.
Vette, by chance or by the Force's command, had stumbled upon the shelter on Yavin 4. Kira could only restrain her horror reading the Twi'lek's report to Dougan about the discovery of a camouflaged temple complex.
The stronghold, as personal shelters were called in that era, was the personal apartments of the fallen Revan. The shadow of a once-great Force adept, obsessed with the idea of finally destroying the Emperor, he had turned Yavin 4 into his headquarters. Throughout the planet, ancient temples and shrines became the site of hundreds of rituals. Armies of Shadow-loyal Massassi, Jedi, and Sith hid in the planet's forests... Had the Shadow conceived something constructive, his resources would have been enough to build his own state. But he hungered for something else. The rebirth of the Emperor threatened the extinction of the entire galaxy — and as subsequent events showed, it nearly led to it.
The Hero of Tython struck down the Shadow. The loyalists, Revanites, saw in this a kind of symbol; therefore, it's no wonder that subsequently, many of them joined the Alliance.
But then, when Revan released the Emperor's spirit and became one with the Force himself, he gave the Hero the location of his shelter. Hidden by a Rakata cloaking screen, protected by all possible types of weapons, the shelter was unreachable for anyone but its master.
The future Alliance commander had gone there alone. Not one of the companions was invited to follow him. Therefore, what happened there over those two days that the Hero spent on the mountain peak, wandering among ancient structures, remained a mystery. But his return to the camp was accompanied by a powerful explosion at the site where the stronghold was located. No one guessed that the Hero could have cheated, preserved the fortress.
Kira did not even allow the thought that it could be a coincidence. That the fortress on the mountain peak, hidden by a cloaking field, was just a fluke. No. The Hero had deceived her and the others. He had hidden from the companions something he preferred to take with him to the grave.
Over the years lived, albeit mostly in suspended animation, Kira had learned to no longer give vent to her feelings. But now... The Hero was the only one who had never lied to her. But it turns out even her beloved had his secrets.
Dougan had forbidden any visits to the fortress and warned against attempts to infiltrate them. An unambiguous indication of the shelter's importance.
The second discovery was made by Nadia. During her stay on Coruscant, the Sarkhai had found out the fate of the legendary Jedi's very first stronghold.
Once, Coruscant had escaped the fate of experiencing for itself the Republic's own super-weapon — the Prison Planet. In gratitude for saving the Republic capital, the Hero, then still a young Jedi Knight, had received a luxurious penthouse as property.
House 100 on Republic Street in the Embassy District. Once — one of Coruscant's elite housing complexes. Business moguls, politicians, and other wealthiest and most significant people from across the galaxy sought to acquire housing in one of the first hundred complexes. The architects did not intend to continue building on this street further, but judging by the fact that now the most significant housing of those in power bears the number 500 — something clearly went wrong.
Over four thousand years, House 100 had turned into a middle-class elite dwelling. But the luxurious two-story penthouse with its own landing pad and stunning views of Coruscant remained unreachable for those wishing to acquire it. No one had ever seen its residents, but all required payments were always made correctly, which did not allow those who wanted to to take away the house. And the atmospheric deflector shield that protected any Coruscant skyscrapers from the crazy wind did not let uninvited guests in.
Nadia had also received the access codes that allowed her to penetrate under the deflector shield dome and launch the shelter's central computer. And again, without unlocking the front door, the Hand had retreated.
And now the stronghold on Nar Shaddaa.
Despite the planet's reputation, the fortress did not even have passive protection, not to mention a guard. However, security measures in the capital of Hutt space could rival those of Coruscant, which means as long as the property has an owner, no one will infiltrate it.
Flying around the stronghold in a taxi, the Jedi had not been able to find any traces of break-in attempts. Even the transpari-steel windows — those too remained intact. As if four thousand years had not passed...
Kira entered the access code Dougan had given her into the control panel. The computer did not react for a while, then the heavy doors of the central entrance slid apart with a light hiss, allowing her eyes to scan the impenetrable blackness. The hilt of the blade fell into her hand itself, and the golden blade burst forth, dispersing the darkness.
Behind her back, quiet exclamations were heard. Kira rolled her eyes, scolding herself for the loss of control.
Damn Dougan.
The Emperor's apprentice had assigned her as ballast for this mission two Twi'lek slaves who had fallen to him after the deal with the Hutts. Kira did not know the details, but she bet the slaves were not part of an official agreement between the Republic and the Hutts.
Rick wanted both girls, modestly calling themselves "masseuses," to go with her to Nar Shaddaa and take part in the de-mothballing of the fortress. And despite her objections, he did not accept a refusal.
And now two pretty airheads, dressed in light armored jumpsuits with blasters comical bulging on their hips, were following her. As if in case of a serious mess they would be able to do something? They were afraid of just the sight of a sword...
The Force suggested to her that the return here would not be without adventures. Kira did not know the reason why she was the only one of all the Hands to receive an order not just to check, but to reactivate the stronghold. Could Rick have known that from the moment it came to belong to the Hero, the house on Nar Shaddaa was a love nest for the future Alliance commander and his beloved?
"Do not enter," she threw over her shoulder. It was all she needed, to spoil the Emperor's apprentice's personal toys. "Both of you stay on the comm — report anything suspicious to me."
Without waiting for both to answer, the Jedi activated the flashlight on her collarbone and stepped into the darkness.
***
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