A screaming green light framed the pulsing orange sign above the entrance.
This establishment opened late: closer to midnight.
But on Tammuz, it was already dark enough for Tyberos to figure this crappy dive was ready for new customers.
"First wisdom of the underworld," the commander of Kavil's Corsairs remarked, looking at the young man standing next to him, dressed unremarkably enough for these parts. "'The brighter the sign...'"
"'...the darker the dealings under its roof,'" the other stated in a calm tone. "I'm aware."
"Hmph," Tyberos looked at his companion again. "Aren't you a bit young, son, to know such wisdom?"
No older than twenty-five in appearance, average build, ordinary looks, dressed like a seasoned adventurer — worn pants, a faded short-sleeved shirt, with a vest thrown over it, under which no backup weapon was visible — he gave the impression of a simpleton.
But according to the documents he'd presented — one of the elite agents of Dominion Intelligence.
"Remind me what your name is, son?" Tyberos inquired.
"Bravo-Three, 'old man,'" the agent replied, sizing up his companion with a cold stare. "How much longer are you going to jabber? Or are we going in?"
"You could have said earlier that you missed feminine warmth and the call of the flesh drove you closer to an underground brothel," the commander of Kavil's Corsairs chuckled.
"After jokes like that, gaps appear in teeth," Bravo-Three stated in a tone completely immune to provocation. "Your own still intact, or have you already become a regular at the local dentist's?"
"Are you specifically bred to be this thick-skulled and humorless?" Tyberos inquired.
"You try pushing him to the boiling point," Bravo-Three advised. "Did I mention I didn't get my callsign for my pretty face?"
"Seems like someone else has a better one," Tyberos suggested. "Since you're only third in line. Or maybe the least experienced..."
Instead of answering, Bravo-Three drew his blaster from its holster.
Tyberos raised his eyebrows.
"I wouldn't advise waving guns around in this neighborhood, son. You need to restrain yourself from rash actions."
"I am restraining myself," Bravo-Three noted. "Otherwise I'd have drawn both."
Tyberos appreciated the joke, and the young man's confidence in his abilities, too.
Good man.
"Any desire to become a mercenary?" the commander of Kavil's Corsairs inquired.
"I'm satisfied with my current job," the other replied calmly.
"Well... If you ever change your mind — you know who to contact."
"Absolutely," Bravo-Three said, holstering his weapon. "Are we starting or what?"
Ah, youth, youth...
They have absolutely no appreciation for every day lived and the joy of a life that can be so short.
"Let's work, Bravo-Three," he agreed.
Yes, Kavil's Corsairs also had their own intelligence network — and a rather good one, he had to admit.
But they still hadn't managed to learn the details of the enemy's upcoming operation.
And the fact that the Galactic Alliance would inevitably return to the Tammuz sector was obvious even to an idiot.
The question was only when, with what forces, and what targets they would strike first.
That was why they needed to "talk" to one particular sapient.
That was exactly what Tyberos decided to do when Bravo-Three arrived aboard the Black Pearl, returning from repairs and upgrades.
The young man was undercover as a regular mercenary, but in reality, he was supposed to be rooting out the opposition in the sector.
The Dominion had used those idiots to lure Admiral Arkh's fleet into a trap.
And afterward, with the royal authority, they managed to get rid of them — enemies of the people and all that.
But a couple of the most cunning bastards had survived and gone to ground.
How Dominion Intelligence got to them before the paid informants across the entire sector could tip them off was unclear.
But Tyberos didn't believe in the supernatural, even as a weak Force-sensitive.
He trusted violence, bribery, blackmail, and other ordinary, effective things much more.
The winding labyrinth of corridors included a restaurant, a bar, and a hotel, but calling them that, the establishment's owner, as well as the inspectors from the royal house of Tammuz-an, were clearly looking the other way.
From any point of view — an excellent place if you don't want to be bothered.
In the back alleys of the underworld entertainment district, there was always some anonymity.
Otherwise, such places would lose their customers — and authority and trust in the criminal world are precisely what allow the powerful to move enormous sums of money.
Tyberos turned to the intercom and spoke into the microphone, saying that a couple of clients would like to have a good time.
He even gave the codeword that let the administrator know — these guys hadn't come to eat, drink, and sleep on luxurious beds with soft sheets.
No, the password indicated that the latter was, of course, needed — but with a choice of good company for money.
In the end, the cheapest love is the kind you pay by the hour for.
But the gaunt Duros with a blaster, who unexpectedly appeared in the doorway after his words, ruined the whole game.
"We're closed," the Duros said, running his hand over his blaster's grip meaningfully.
Too arrogant a type.
"We came to have a good time. We need a good end," he repeated the password.
The Duros's gray fingers tightened on his blaster.
"And I said we're closed. Need an end — hold each other. I'm sure you'll..."
Everything happened so fast that even Tyberos was stunned.
Bravo-Three, without any preamble, kicked the Duros in the chest, sending him flying into the small guard booth, his head smacking against the wall, and he slumped down like a surprised sack of bones.
"No," his voice was cold — like the durasteel of the combat knife he pressed under the Duros's chin, taking his blaster. "You're clearly not up to speed. Your establishment is open. That's what the sign says. So we're going in. You don't mind, do you?"
The Duros hesitated, his mouth opening — maybe that's what saved his life.
If he'd tried to object or resist, his carotid artery would have gotten acquainted with the excellent edge of a combat knife.
The idiot just stayed silent.
Bravo-Three, still controlling his neck, placed his other hand on his forehead and smacked his head against the wall a couple of times, not too hard.
"Has your ability to speak returned?" he inquired solicitously, looking into the Duros's red eyes.
"Always happy to see new customers," the Duros forced out, his lower jaw trembling.
"Will you open the passage yourself, or should I rattle your brains again?" Bravo-Three asked.
"I... I already remembered how it's done!" the Duros assured him, pointing at a panel under the counter next to where he usually spent his time on duty. "You need to press the blue button..."
Tyberos pressed the button, and the heavy door opposite the entrance opened, inviting anyone who wished to proceed.
"I promise to leave a few positive reviews on your website," Bravo-Three assured the Duros.
"We... we don't have a website," the Duros trembled.
"A major oversight in this day and age," Tyberos snorted.
"Do you have a complaint book?" Bravo-Three asked. "I want to leave a couple of scathing comments so your establishment improves."
"T-there isn't one e-either..."
A characteristic crunch of a breaking bone sounded.
The Duros squealed.
"Pass this on to your boss," Bravo-Three ordered. "Tell him he's violating several laws. And since there's no complaint book, the reviews will have to be left the old army way..."
Before the Duros could say anything, the Dominion agent hit him with a one-two — in the solar plexus and the jaw.
The guard went limp and passed out.
"And I thought you only did desk work," Tyberos commented on what had happened.
"That's where I learned," Bravo-Three replied imperturbably. "You have no idea how much ingenuity, dexterity, and strength it takes to handle a stapler."
Both stepped over the threshold, moving deeper into the establishment.
The owner could have, honestly, splurged on better security, considering what he was into.
Tyberos and Bravo-Three walked through the deserted restaurant, where there wasn't even a single customer — even the waiter droids were deactivated, lined up against the wall.
The droid bartender was busy polishing glasses and paid them no attention — a cheap machine that only responded to those who approached the counter within a meter.
"What's going on here?" the establishment's owner, who was also the head chef, squeezed through the kitchen door; the smell of exotic spices and burnt fat disappeared as a fat Neimoidian slithered into the bar. "Who the hell are you? I didn't invite you here. Go..."
He stopped when Bravo-Three's combat knife embedded itself in the doorframe next to his head.
"Happiness loves silence," Tyberos told him confidentially, stepping closer and wrapping a muscular arm around the trembling scumbag. "Come on, let's have a drink and talk."
"Everything's on the house today," Bravo-Three assured the owner, quickly glancing into the kitchen to confirm there was no threat there.
The Neimoidian smelled unpleasantly of fear, sweat, and cowardice, so much so that he couldn't even get onto the bar stool on his first try.
Or the second.
On the third, he started to manage something, but the round, soft seat couldn't handle the bastard's weight and slid down the metal guide, digging into the Neimoidian's flesh.
He didn't even squeak, but started sweating much more.
"I see a rear breach isn't such a rare thing for you," Tyberos began a heart-to-heart conversation, refusing the bartender's services and pouring himself a drink into a suspiciously clean glass. Taking a sip, he poured the rest onto the droid bartender. "Didn't they tell you at the factory that watering down already cheap, crappy swill that can make you go blind is a crime against the laws of robotics?"
The droid's photoreceptors flashed, but it said nothing.
Probably just not programmed to give explanations on that matter.
"T-take whatever you want and..."
"How generous of you," Bravo-Three stated, approaching the doorway leading toward the hotel. "Do you offer this kind of service to all your clients, or only by special arrangement?"
"I d-d-don't know what you're talking about!"
"Really?" Tyberos was surprised. "It seems to me you speak Basic better than your kin. A tonsil operation? Tongue control courses from the best mistresses of the Outer Rim?"
"I... I... I..."
Tyberos hit the Neimoidian in the chest without a wind-up, making him choke on the air leaving his lungs.
"You see, my green-skinned, strange-eyed friend," Tyberos addressed him, "the years go by, but the old bantha poodoo somehow doesn't rot. It just gets fatter. Stinks when the wind is right... You catch my drift?"
"N-no," the Neimoidian's fat chin trembled. "I'm just a simple restaurant owner..."
"How odd," Bravo-Three said, perching himself on a table next to the bar counter to be to the right of the establishment's owner. "On Maridun, you weren't nearly as cowardly, General Durd."
The Neimoidian's eyes darted toward the Dominion agent.
"You didn't think we'd forgotten about you, did you?" Bravo-Three asked. "Separatist general, developer and tester of a very terrible weapon. Prisoner of a Republic prison, a beggared merchant who fled after the Rebel Alliance's attack on the Kessel prison. Tell me, General, what's it like to go from a glorious warrior, however despicable, to a snitch for the Galactic Alliance and an accomplice of the opposition in the Tammuz sector?"
"I... I don't know what you're talking about!" The Neimoidian's little eyes darted around. "I am Durd Lok, a simple businessman and..."
"And one of the crime bosses the Rebel Alliance freed from Kessel," Bravo-III continued, refreshing his memory. "Your real name is General Lok Durd. Imagination isn't your strong suit, I'll grant you. But thirty years ago, you were the one tasked with field-testing the defoliator — a devastating weapon designed to destroy organic matter. During those tests, your army was routed by Jedi, your weapon was damaged, and you were taken prisoner. You stood trial and were sent to Kessel. There, with money and connections, you managed to carve out some authority within Black Sun. That got you on the list of criminals liberated from Kessel a few years back — criminals meant to sabotage Coruscant from within and pave the way for the New Republic to take it. Once you reached the Imperial Center, you used your connections to flee to the Tammuz sector, where you became the leader of an underground group tied to the pirate Gih Kibo Ren-Cha. You and your people helped the local opposition try to seize power from the legitimate government of Tammuz-an a few years ago. But it didn't work out. You went underground, and agents of the Galactic Alliance found you. Separatists aren't exactly welcome around here, even thirty years later. So they forced you to cooperate and help the Galactic Alliance fleet take the sector. Through your 'clients' among the local government officials, you learned about Kavil's Corsairs' base on Chuzall. The enemy fleet arrived there, walked into a trap, and was completely destroyed."
CIS Defoliator.
"How did you...?" The Neimoidian's fat cheeks quivered with fear as he tried to slip away.
No luck — he tripped over the foot Tyberos had stuck out.
CIS General Lok Durd.
"What a disappointment," Tyberos commented, shooting a quick glance at Bravo-III. "Now I see why the CIS lost."
The agent was clearly experienced, having fed Tyberos just enough information to arouse no suspicion whatsoever.
Even though Bravo-III had left out the local wannabe revolutionary's entire backstory.
He yanked the rotund Neimoidian to his feet, noting that his synthetic muscles and cybernetically reinforced bones handled the former Separatist general's weight with ease — nearly three times his own.
"We were used!" the Neimoidian wailed. "The CIS was just a toy in the hands of the Sith. We were all fooled. Such a disgrace! I wanted to leave my past behind and go into honest business..."
"Save your breath," Bravo-III advised. "The Galactic Alliance special forces currently in your 'pleasure rooms' won't be coming to your rescue. It's unlikely they can even walk anywhere except to the bathroom anymore."
Tyberos seized the moment and gave the agent a thumbs-up.
Good one. Gotta remember that.
"Let's keep this simple," Bravo-III said, pulling up a chair and sitting the Neimoidian — wounded in the rear by his own furniture — down on it, bringing his eyes level with the latter's face. "There are two ways to resolve this situation. Way one — Captain Tyberos, whose men suffered because of your rotten intel," he pointed at the commander of Kavil's Corsairs, "is reasonably hot-tempered, vengeful, and loves the skulls of his enemies."
"More skulls for the skull throne," Tyberos intoned in a deathly voice, playing along, cracking his knuckles theatrically, quoting some book. "They say Neimoidian heads burst like rotten fruit from a single blow..."
"I'll hand you over to Tyberos if you stand there blinking like a B-1 in front of a code lock," Bravo-III promised. "But there's another option."
"And what would that be?" the Neimoidian asked, drenched in sweat, his little eyes darting faster than podracers.
"You come with me," Bravo-III explained. "And you work where, how, and for whom you're told, General Lok Durd."
"Yes, yes, yes, of course," the former Separatist commander shook his fat head. "I'll do it. Just let me live."
"If you want my opinion, I'm against it," Tyberos declared. "You can't even use him to feed the Galactic Alliance fresh disinformation now."
You'd have to be a complete idiot who understands absolutely nothing to ever trust someone whose intel cost you an entire battle group again.
The Alliance isn't exactly known for its brains, but surely they turn them on eventually? Right?
"He's made his choice," Bravo-III stated. "And he's coming with me. Get your things, Lok Durd. We're leaving Tammuz-an."
"Step over here," Tyberos said, pulling the agent aside by the sleeve, since he'd been promised something quite different — and informed of their mission's objectives.
"What game are you playing, Bravo-III?" he asked, lowering his voice. "I lost a lot of good men in that ambush. All because of that slimy piece of garbage who not only fed the Alliance bad intel but gave them precise data on our minefield. Let's not make this complicated..."
"Let's not," Bravo-III agreed, and Tyberos felt a blaster barrel press into his abdominal muscles. "Orders are: this fat sack of shit is coming with me. The Dominion needs him."
"So you're not even planning to use him as a disinformation channel," Tyberos realized.
Otherwise, hauling the fat man off-world would be completely pointless.
Especially after the Noghri had wiped out the group of Republic saboteurs sent here to destabilize the planet and stir up popular discontent.
"What kind of games are you and Thrawn playing?" Tyberos asked. "Why do you need a rotten Separatist whose only achievement is a failed operation with a half-baked anti-organic weapon?"
"If I tell you, I'll have to kill you, Captain," Bravo-III replied calmly. "Sure you want to know?"
"Very," Tyberos assured him. "I've got, you know, heightened resistance to energy weapons. 'IsoTech-Dominion' worked hard on that. Special fibers woven into the muscle frame, and so on..."
"Yes, I'm aware," Bravo-III said. "That's why what's aimed at your gut isn't a blaster — it's a disintegrator. Your fancy hide isn't rated for that, Captain Tyberos. But you're welcome to field-test it. Lady Kratalla would be thrilled to get new data on her experimental project."
Tyberos snorted.
"That's not how business is done, Agent. I wasn't even needed for this in the first place," he shook his head.
"On the contrary," Bravo-III replied. "Surveillance cameras, street informants, bystanders — they all saw your flashy outfit and memorable, stylish mask. Once Lok Durd disappears and the government announces its successful crackdown on the opposition — aka the terrorists — Kavil's Corsairs will reap all the benefits. Plus a multi-million credit bounty from the local government. If you ask me, that's fair compensation."
"For the organization, maybe. But not for me... I, you know, like to see things through to the end."
"Which is precisely why I suggest you head down to the basement," Bravo-III said. "Our dear fat Separatist wasn't just aiding the local regime fighters. He was also in the slave trade. A first-rate operation, I must say. And for the opposition leader, he ordered something special."
"But we shortened that leader by a head a couple of hours ago," Tyberos recalled, not taking his optical sensors off Bravo-III's face. "Which means the slaves are without a master now, aren't they?"
"There is no slavery in the Dominion."
"We're not in the Dominion."
"But you live by our rules, Captain. And Tammuz-an is leaning toward Dominion jurisdiction. Sure you want to take that risk?"
"I'm sure I want to visit that basement and see the poor victims of the slave trade with my own eyes," Tyberos declared, noting that from the corridor leading to the rooms, Noghri dressed like Jawas were emerging.
Dominion Liquidators, who for the past few days had been drenching the Tammuz sector in blood, mercilessly carrying out the royal house's will to destroy the opposition — the guise the traitors had been hiding behind.
"Go ahead, Captain," the disintegrator stopped pressing into his abs. "I'm sure a truly royal reward awaits you. Considering I was never here, you have excellent chances to reap all the fruits of an uncompromising fight against lawlessness in this filthy place."
"Then why can I still see you?" Tyberos grinned.
An old gladiator habit of provoking an opponent, deeply ingrained in his psyche.
"Just close your eyes for a second," Bravo-III suggested.
"I prefer to keep them open when someone's holding a disintegrator on me..."
"Up to you..."
It was as if miniature suns exploded inside the restaurant, and the commander of Kavil's Corsairs felt the ground give way beneath him.
It took a moment for his vision to recover from the flash-bang grenades.
But when Tyberos came to, the first thing he saw was a bottle of good Corellian whiskey and a basket of sweets sitting on the table — right next to where the former Separatist had been sitting.
"Show-off," Tyberos muttered, reading the note on the card lying on the table.
"Have fun. And don't cross the line, Captain. Otherwise we'll meet again — but not as friends. Bravo-III."
Looking at the tiny cut on his bicep, Tyberos checked the chronometer built into his mask.
He'd been out for half an hour.
Uh-huh... Charming friendship.
He'd been taken down with the same crap he'd used against that clone of Galen Marek.
Goddamn spy.
Crushing the card, he saw text on the back, written in the same handwriting.
"Get your men on alert, Captain. Rear Admiral Kalian will contact you. There's a new job for Kavil's Corsairs. Lots of thick skulls to crack. Bravo-III."
Looked like after writing the first message, Bravo-III had received further instructions and left them this way.
Oh well.
"May the Force help you if you lied about that basement," Tyberos muttered, heading for the kitchen entrance.
According to the building plans, the stairs to the basement were right there.
A fairly standard pneumatic door, locked with a mechanical lock that he simply crushed with his gauntlets.
Sliding the bulkhead aside, he peered at the "merchandise" inside.
The dim light didn't offer much clarity, but that's why he wore a mask with multiple vision modes.
"May the Force turn me into a Jedi," he said in admiration, looking at a good dozen young girls cowering against the wall.
All of them bore signs of beatings and torture.
Domestication through violence.
They all looked at him like animals backed into a corner...
Well, factually speaking, they were backed into a corner, sitting on a foul-smelling, clearly unclean mattress.
At least the bastard had kept a sanitation station in the corner, otherwise the stench would have been...
"Please," a girl sitting in front spoke up — pink-skinned with purple hair. "Don't hurt us. We'll obey. We'll do whatever you say. Tell Master Lok we won't try to run away again. Please, give us water and food..."
You absolute bastard, Bravo-III!
He'd buggered off to avoid dealing with the slave girls himself!
Now Kavil's Corsairs would have to handle this mess — notify the Dominion diplomatic mission on Tammuz-an through official channels, give tedious explanations...
Intelligence could have solved all the girls' problems with a snap of their fingers, but "I was never here."
Tyberos walked up to the most talkative of the ten young Zeltron girls sitting before him.
He crouched down, making the girls let out a chorus of frightened gasps, instinctively pressing closer together.
"My name is Captain Tyberos," he introduced himself. "I command Kavil's Corsairs, a mercenary organization. The ones who captured you are dead. No one will hurt you anymore..."
She didn't meet his eyes.
She looked off to the side; Tyberos thought he'd seen that look far too many times.
More than once, Kavil's Corsairs had found slaves in the sector.
And it was always the same.
"Will we be let go?" a plaintive little voice came from the group.
"No offense," Tyberos said, removing his mask and wrinkling his nose. "But first you'll get cleaned up and given proper medical attention. Then all the bureaucratic procedures will kick in, and," he met their frightened gazes, "yes, you'll eventually be let go. You can go wherever you want. Word of honor. As a mercenary, I always keep it — it's my reputation, after all."
"Um..." the bold Zeltron girl looked him straight in the eye. "Can we stay with you for now, Captain? So no one hurts us..."
Don't get your hopes up, kid.
Belatedly, Tyberos remembered that immature Zeltron girls were extremely impressionable.
And "clingy."
That's why they were made into slaves — something in their brains short-circuited after being bought on the market. For some reason, they considered their new master the owner. In most cases, their minds straightened out after a while, but by then, they'd formed emotional attachments.
Where a Twi'lek might hold a grudge, the hedonists from Zeltros craved exciting adventures and only saw the optimistic outcome of every shitty situation.
No, sure, he'd dreamed of having an easygoing girl by his side, but this was too much.
He needed to shut this down right away, disillusion them before their brains shorted out.
But how to do that without creating problems?
Hmm... What if he reached out to the Force? It always helped the Jedi with tricky questions, didn't it?
Strangely enough, the Force gave him an answer very, very quickly.
"I'm the best of the best gladiator and mercenary who doesn't know the meaning of the word love," Tyberos snorted, sensing that the girls were terrified of even a hint of physical superiority over them — they'd been thoroughly beaten in this basement, after all. "And picky, too. I already had one clingy woman, and I'm not touching that crap again. As it happens, only the winner of a beauty queen contest — the best of the best — can stay with me. So... Wait. Why are you all getting so excited, girls?"
"But we are," the boldest Zeltron said with a guilty, slightly strained smile, "the winners of the beauty contest among Zeltron settlements across the galaxy. We were flying to the finals when... So we're staying, right?"
"Yes! You said yourself that winners can stay! A man can't go back on his word!"
Voices flooded his ears all at once, paralyzing his thought processes.
Hey, Force, what kind of setup was that?
'I was just trying to make a joke!,' Tyberos thought.
"Captain, why are you winking at us?" the boldest Zeltron asked, giving him a charming smile.
"It's a nervous tic," Tyberos said with a strained smile, pushing his melancholy aside. After all, why not?
Good work deserves good rest!
"Are you sad?" all the girls looked upset at once. "Why are you crying, Captain?"
"These are tears of joy," he assured them.
He'd dreamed of a couple of Zeltron girls, but this was a whole ten...
Five-time combo!
Maybe he should try his luck at the slot machines?
* * *
"Ground units are deploying," General Cain reported. "Heavy fighting underway. The enemy is fielding more and more droid units. Outdated designs and experimental models that never entered service."
I looked at the tactical display showing images of droids that looked like Droidekas and protocol droids.
But in one case, they were modifications on the Droideka platform; in the other, far from cheap copies of the C-3PO.
The base on Egon-IX had shown us surprises once again, bringing to light something long forgotten and scrapped.
Or something deliberately hidden from the public as effective but not meant for widespread knowledge.
"Analysts are to identify structural weak points and send recommendations to ground units," I ordered.
"Working on it, sir," Pellaeon reported.
Good, they were being proactive.
Meant we thought alike.
Something I'd never managed to get from the real Pellaeon.
"Thirty percent of the 501st Corps is already on the surface," General Cain clarified. "Should I order the AT-ATs to deploy?"
"The lake shore is under our control," I pointed out. "On the island, units that size will only get in the way. Send in heavy weapons teams for reinforcement. Are all our Force-sensitives on the surface?"
"Yes, sir. They're at the most dangerous point — pushing toward the main entrance," Cain said. "On the right flank, the best stormtroopers are operating — Torrent Company. On the left, Assault Commandos and Delta Squad are providing support."
"Feed the central computer false data about the dangerous sectors on the left and center," I figured out. "You're betting on Torrent Company breaking through to the entrance?"
"Yes, sir," confirmed General Maximilian Cain. "Our scanners can't penetrate the above-ground section of the base. We don't know what's inside. Torrent Company has always overcome obstacles and delivered results. I took that risk to weaken the enemy's position at the right entrance."
And thereby let the stormtroopers break through the weakened defenses on that flank with a surprise attack.
Cain understood perfectly that we weren't fighting a sophisticated AI, just a programmed central computer.
Maybe a tactical droid.
And it assessed danger not by the quality of individual soldiers, but by the presence of special units.
Everything was done correctly.
We couldn't let the base seal itself off once it figured out what we were doing.
Something was happening inside, since the central computer had switched to a delaying tactic.
We needed to hurry.
The longer we wasted time on the surface, the greater the chance we'd have to blow the above-ground section to get inside.
We couldn't jeopardize the larger operation, couldn't retreat, couldn't delegate to anyone else.
There was something here besides frozen commandos.
Something very important to the Empire.
And, damn it, I wanted to know what it was!
* * *
The landing barge touched down on the island's surface, lowering its ramp with a light clatter.
"Forward!" the sergeant's order came. "Take cover at point twenty-seven, suppression fire."
The squad ST-7711 belonged to was the first out of the landing bay.
Soldiers in white armor, weapons at the ready, surged forward, crossing the distance to the low, crumbling permacrete wall in seconds.
To the left, an AT-ST stomped past, its transmission roaring and laser fire streaming from its cannons.
The 501st Guard Assault Legion was attacking the base on Egon-IX.
ST-7711 chose a position, bending his knees to minimize his silhouette against the enemy.
Raising a modified DLT-19 heavy blaster rifle, he sighted the nearest enemy battle droid.
A three-round burst was enough to turn the B-2 into a pile of useless scrap.
Crimson flashes of boosted artificial tibanna tore into the enemy at long range.
In the Dominion Stormtrooper Corps, as in the Empire, the standard stormtrooper weapon was the E-11, designed for close to medium range, where it was unmatched against living targets.
But today, they were fighting droids, so the armories had issued different, more powerful weapons.
Natural tibanna wasn't used in it — the consumption rate was too high, and the weapon was "tuned" specifically for artificial tibanna.
The Dominion was working on creating more optimal weapons for its units, but so far, nothing better than Imperial models had been found.
They'd have to search or develop from scratch, since personnel armament had been a critical issue in the Empire, and stormtroopers were issued the best mass-produced models.
Though that wasn't what ST-7711 was concerned with at the moment.
The stormtrooper was firing at targets, noting that his weapon was more powerful for destroying enemy targets than the DC-15s issued to rear-echelon Defense Force units.
Droids popped like soap bubbles, allowing the 501st to advance toward the underground base's entrance quickly and with minimal losses.
AT-RTs, along with their larger "brethren" the AT-STs, supported the stormtroopers, saturating enemy positions with lasers, missiles, and proton mines, but the enemy battle droids kept coming.
The outdated designs weren't hard to destroy, so the stormtroopers held their line.
Dashing to new cover under fire from his comrades, ST-7711 blew a B-2's "head" off with a single shot, then shouldered the now-harmless chassis, shoving it off the rise and into the path of other battle droids.
Three openings — the base's entrances — were currently filled with rows of war machines firing at the stormtroopers and armored vehicles.
Many of them looked like armed protocol droids, but they were no less dangerous than the combat models.
A rocket exploded two meters from him, the shockwave hurling the stormtrooper sideways.
He twisted as he fell, rolling to soften the impact with the rocky island surface.
His weapon was undamaged, so getting back to his feet, he fired a burst from a semi-kneeling position, taking down two outdated battle droids.
A short dash to the next cover — and now he was laying down suppression fire, allowing his battle-brothers to close in and intensify the pressure on the enemy.
Droids felt no fear, so without orders, they wouldn't flee.
Stormtroopers were human; they knew what fear was.
But they wouldn't flee either. Even if ordered to retreat. A Dominion stormtrooper doesn't run — he withdraws, regroups, and attacks again with twice the force.
"One hundred meters, three o'clock, turret," came the warning from the company sniper positioned behind the attacking units.
ST-7711 spotted an emplacement resembling a Droideka, spitting precise shots from a single cannon.
A Droideka sniper.
A powerful and dangerous weapon from the Clone Wars.
One of those could halt an entire squad's advance.
Every shot meant a dead stormtrooper.
ST-7711 took cover behind a boulder, following the company commander's order to go to ground and minimize losses.
But with recon droids circling the battlefield, every soldier knew the enemy's position.
ST-7711 saw the sniper trying to take out the enemy emplacement that had slowed the company's advance.
But the blaster shots only left deep gouges in the armor, failing to damage the mechanism.
"Requesting support!" the sergeant's voice rang out. "Point two-seven, east. Droideka sniper."
I hadn't had to wait long — the nearest AT-ST swiveled its chassis, ceasing its dispersal of other battle droids and switching to support the stormtroopers in the needed direction.
Two volleys were enough to tear the sniper droideka to pieces and leave a crater about a meter and a half deep in its place.
"Point two-seven, take cover," the sergeant ordered.
Yes, that was an excellent position.
The squad moved in bounds to the new, more advantageous position, instantly bristling with fire from every barrel, not allowing themselves to be driven off the foothold they'd seized.
"Attention, Torrent Company," came the company commander's voice. "New hostile identified. TaggeCo combat droids, Z-X3. Uploading acquired data."
Z-X3 Combat Droid.
Tiny letters ran before my eyes, though they didn't obstruct the battlefield view.
The Z-X3 was designed for operation in extreme conditions too dangerous for organic stormtroopers of the Galactic Empire — specifically, heavy irradiation or zero gravity.
The Z-X3 droids stood 1.9 meters tall, humanoid, and were stylistically modeled after the stormtroopers they were meant to support on the battlefield.
The Z-X3 lacked integrated weaponry, instead typically carrying a blaster rifle or attaching an AAP-IV blaster box — a chest-mounted weapon — to its torso.
The droid also boasted enhanced physical strength and a high level of intelligence, distinct from any central computer.
Hand-to-hand combat is not recommended.
The droid's schematic indicates its weakest structural points.
Good intel.
Switching to precision fire mode, ST-7711 fired at the right side of the nearest Z-X3's chest.
The rifle's powerful shot pierced the reddish armor, damaging the droid's power cell.
The explosion tore it to pieces and knocked over three identical machines nearby.
ST-7711's comrades finished off the fallen droids with well-aimed shots.
Another crater — fifteen meters closer to the entrance than their current position.
From there to the side corridor, where the flow of combat droids was already thinning, only a few meters remained.
A fold in the terrain allowed them to cover one of the flanks.
"Moving to point seven-three," the sergeant thought the same. "ST-7711 — you're point. The rest — suppressive fire."
ST-7711 followed the order.
He reached the new point at a sprint, then opened suppressive fire, destroying two B-2s with a side shot.
He had to duck into the crater to escape return fire.
The stormtrooper shifted position inside the crater, peered out, assessing the situation.
The side entrance was close — and there were almost no droids there, all shifted to the central front where a large walker unit was breaking through.
There were plenty here too, but the snipers, heavy hardware, and ST-7711's company's determination were paying off.
Right now, they were the closest to breaching inside.
ST-7711 laid down suppressive fire, picking off isolated droids and providing cover for his men, when he saw the massive doors of the side entrance beginning to close.
He also spotted a control panel, beside which stood a droid that looked like a metal skeleton — it was controlling the sealing of the blast doors on this section of the front.
The computer identified the doors' material.
Beskar.
This was bad.
Instantly calculating the effort required to breach meter-thick blast doors, the stormtrooper contacted the sergeant.
"ST-7711 here. Side entrance is sealing. No external panel," which meant only one thing: it could only be opened from the inside.
Or with a very large weapon, which might damage the passage to the base itself and whatever lay within.
"ST-7711 — push forward and seize control of the access route," the sergeant ordered, giving the only correct command in this situation.
Already running, ST-7711 saw that every single entrance group was closing without exception.
The base was going into self-isolation.
Clearly, the central computer had tried to repel the ground assault, and when it realized its error was fatal, it had resorted to extreme measures.
Or, more logically — it was tying up ground forces, delaying them to prepare for self-destruction.
The four commandos from Delta Squad, pushing toward the third entrance, were probably thinking the same thing.
And along the front, scattering combat droids left and right, lightsabers flashing, the Force-users were hurrying.
Flames roared, war machines exploded into pieces, thermal detonators fell, but the advance was stalling.
The droids didn't retreat a single step.
ST-7711 ran forward, noting that he had just under a meter left to slip inside the base and countermand the order.
The third set of doors slammed shut with a crash — the commandos hadn't managed to cover the hundred meters in time, but they were already rushing for the central ones.
What happened next, ST-7711 didn't see — he dropped onto the polished permacrete and, thanks to momentum, slid inside.
The beskar panels closed a centimeter behind his helmet.
With a sideways roll, the stormtrooper bled off his momentum, dropped to one knee, and opened fire on an unfamiliar droid configuration.
It looked like someone had forgotten to put its outer plating on.
The first shot hit, tearing off its right limb — it lunged at ST-7711.
The stormtrooper blocked its left-limb vibroblade strike with his rifle, kicked the droid in the chest, re-gripped his weapon, and pulled the trigger — nothing.
The rifle was damaged.
Using it as a club, since the enemy wouldn't let him reach his blaster pistol, ST-7711 dodged a knife thrust and a kick, swept the droid's legs, and smashed the monolithic stock straight into its ugly head, shattering the yellow photoreceptors.
The first blow did its job — the droid was blind.
But still functional.
ST-7711 landed two heavy hits, gritting his teeth as his right thigh was slashed open by vibroblades.
He limped away from the enemy, moving closer to the door control panel.
Standard terminal.
ST-7711 confirmed the enemy droid was safely out of range, then executed a kill-shot to the head, destroying it for good.
Watching his back, he activated the door-release mechanisms and heard the crash of the armor plates sliding apart.
He'd already spotted the first commando's figure slipping through the gap when pain seared through his lower abdomen.
Then the same blow struck his chest, robbing him of the ability to speak, inhale, or exhale.
A bloody spit — the contents of his throat at that moment — splattered across his helmet's visor.
His legs seemed to cease to exist, though he saw them when he lowered his head.
Along with several long vibroblades protruding from his stomach, having pierced straight through his cuirass.
Identical to the blades the droid he'd killed had used.
The commando opened fire into the corridor, behind ST-7711, and he felt a powerful impact in his back that knocked him off the blades and onto the floor.
Falling, the stormtrooper saw the commando lock blades with an exact copy of the incomplete droid he'd shot.
His body treacherously refused to obey; he couldn't help — couldn't fire himself, couldn't toss the commando the weapon he'd knocked loose.
Couldn't even speak — blood from his ruptured internal organs poured from his throat into his helmet.
But worse — right beside the control panel, another ugly droid appeared as if from thin air and began countermanding ST-7711's order.
The beskar panels began closing again, having let only one man with lightsabers and three more commandos inside.
This coincided with the first commando driving his vibroblade into the droid's head, while the second, operating the mechanisms, exploded from a precise shot to the head.
A second later, the beskar doors sealed shut.
The light in the tunnel died — only four blue HUDs and two crimson lightsabers approaching ST-7711.
"Scorch, medkit, now," he heard a voice cutting through the cotton. "Chest, abdomen, internal bleeding. Fixer — he wrecked the console, fix it..."
"You're thinking about the wrong things, commandos," came the voice of the man with the lightsabers. "This stormtrooper is already dead. And we've got bigger problems."
"Fierfek!" the commando cursed. "Defensive positions! Scorch, do your job!"
His crimson blade extended like a pointer into the depths of the tunnel.
ST-7711's brain, agonizing from oxygen deprivation, veiled over with the haze of oblivion.
All colors vanished except impenetrable blackness.
ST-7711 no longer saw the hundreds of yellow lights igniting in the tunnel's absolute darkness.