One of Coruscant's industrial districts appeared deserted at first glance. However, one of its buildings concealed something else behind its walls…
"The Force is with us, my Lord," Dooku knelt before him.
"Rise, Darth Tyranus," Sidious said, waving a hand benevolently.
"As soon as I received your message, I hurried to Coruscant."
"Good. I am pleased with your actions; however, we must move on to the next stage of the plan. The Jedi are once again losing the initiative. The Confederacy far surpasses the Republic in military power. Strategically, the Jedi are losing, despite their local tactical successes. It seems they managed to defeat Grievous?"
"That was a one-off, Lord Sidious…"
"Nevertheless, we must adhere to the plan. The best option would be to destabilize the situation in Hutt Space. These vast territories will absorb the CIS's major forces…"
"But how can this be done? The Hutts are neutral and are unlikely to side with the Republic," the Count of Serenno said, his voice betraying a hint of doubt.
"We cannot directly influence the Hutts, who remain neutral. And they themselves possess sufficient forces to repel any attack. Therefore, Count, you will have to organize the kidnapping of Jabba the Hutt's son."
"How will that help us?"
Palpatine smiled.
"Jabba will most likely turn to the Republic for help. The Jedi will intervene…"
The Chancellor had been mulling over this decision for a long time. Jabba's request would allow him to swiftly implement his plan to eliminate yet another potential ally of the Jedi—once the appropriate accusation is brought against them, of course. In the long run, it would also become one of his carefully calculated strikes and counterstrikes—the very maneuvers that preserve the fragile balance of power in the war, until the Jedi become so vulnerable that he can decide to bring the conflict to an end. And put an end to their rule itself.
"The Jedi are unlikely to refrain from immediate action when they learn of the child's disappearance. I'll take care of that. Jabba may be the embodiment of vice, but the child… the child is still innocent. It's remarkable how the social status and moral character of a parent determine society's willingness—or unwillingness—to help their offspring."
Sidious laughed softly.
"Oh, those Jedi! They are far too selective in choosing the objects of their vaunted compassion!"
Palpatine expected everything to proceed according to plan, and that the Huttling, having played its role, would be returned to its parent safe and sound. After all, Rotta was also a potential ally in the future.
"I will attend to this matter immediately," Dooku bowed once more, then hurried toward his ship.
The Jedi would have to rescue Jabba's son; after all, they were far better at such things… But if something were to happen to the poor child…
Watching the head of the CIS yacht depart, Palpatine laughed again—this time more sincerely.
Well then, even I myself have fallen into that banal trap all politicians succumb to sooner or later: repeating lies so often that they begin to believe them themselves.
Turning away, he headed for his secret chambers, continuing to ponder his next steps.
There will always be innocent victims in war—but the war must continue nonetheless. And Jabba will fight even more fiercely against the Republic if something happens to his son. It's unusual, and… still, sometimes it's strange to play both sides—as though you sympathize equally with each of them…
***
I had just stepped onto the bridge when Second Lieutenant Mirro caught my attention.
"Sir, we have a message from headquarters!"
"Oh, great."
More precisely—finally.
"What is it, Christen?"
"Sir, it's… a new assignment for us."
"Bring it up on the tactical table."
Approaching it, I immersed myself in reading.
"Pzob?" I asked questioningly, and Sumeragi immediately began reading the briefing aloud.
"The planet Pzob, located in the K-749 system, Herios Sector, in the southeastern part of the Outer Rim… approximately two thousand light-years from Rothana. It is a remote world, far from most major hyperspace routes. The planet is covered with dense forests, and its climate, flora, and fauna are somewhat reminiscent of the planet Ithor. Most of the vegetation is dark or blue-green. The climate is temperate, and the atmosphere is suitable for breathing by most oxygen-breathing species. It was colonized about three hundred years ago. The planet is inhabited by Gamorreans."
And what are we supposed to do in that shithole? My mentor often used Pzob in one of his sayings… how did it go again? Right! "I can fly into a black hole, but not to Pzob."
"So what's the essence of the mission?"
"According to intelligence reports, the CIS intends to recruit mercenary regiments on the planet. By various estimates, the Separatists could gain up to two hundred thousand fighters…"
Hmm… I tried to recall everything I knew about Gamorreans, and my memory didn't fail me—apparently, I hadn't skipped that lecture after all. Still, I'd also had the opportunity to observe these individuals in person.
Gamorreans are pig-like humanoids from the jungle-covered planet of Gamorr in the Outer Rim. Yes, yes—those very same green half-pigs from Jabba's palace. Their attitude toward violence has made them excellent bodyguards for crime bosses throughout the galaxy. The species is widely known for its physical strength and military prowess. In battle, they prefer to use large, heavy weapons, such as giant swords and axes. Most Gamorreans believe that ranged weapons are for cowards.
Just like orcs—damn them…
For centuries, Gamorrean civilization has witnessed endless wars between its rulers. Males devote most of their time to military affairs, while females are engaged in agriculture, hunting, weaving, and weapon making.
At first glance, they look like barbarians, but I'm used to viewing things from different angles and not judging by appearances alone. That applies to these "piggies" as well. The stereotype paints Gamorreans as mindless, bloodthirsty creatures devoid of cultural values. In reality, the species doesn't particularly care what others think, as long as they're paid for their work and given ample opportunity to chop, smash, and cut. The average Gamorrean stands about 1.8 meters tall, and even the most frail individuals weigh at least a hundred kilograms. Their thick green skin serves as natural protection. Small, close-set eyes, a broad snout, tusks, and short horns give them a fearsome appearance.
Due to their physiology, Gamorreans cannot speak Basic and are forced to use only their native language. From the age of three, they begin training their children to perform social roles. Childhood for Gamorreans ends at six, when they become adolescents, and by thirteen they are already considered full-fledged adults. Physically, Gamorreans are capable of living up to forty-five years, but harsh reality rarely grants them that luxury…
In our case, two hundred thousand ferocious warriors who prefer close combat with vibroaxes of their own design could become a very serious nuisance. Even armor won't save you—the sheer force of the blow is enough. And against non-clones, it's completely imba: when a huge, grunting, snarling mass comes charging at you, swinging a massive chunk of metal, your knees start shaking all on their own.
"It's strange that the CIS managed to suppress the hostility between the different tribes. Usually, there's constant warfare among them. At least on Gamorr," Santorini muttered.
"It's actually quite simple," I replied. "They probably promised them a truly massive fight, offering not only credits but also goods that normally never reach them due to the planet's remoteness. I think the Gamorreans fell for it easily enough."
After a brief pause, I gave the order:
"Lichtendal. Inform the others of the new course."
"Yes, sir."
***
Two days later, we entered the orbit of Pzob. Above the planet hovered "not-a-donut" of the Lucrehulk, and between it and the planet several C-9979 barges were circulating. As it later turned out, the container ship was unarmed—well, a couple of dozen turrets don't really count. We discovered that only after we shot it down. Reflexes, damn it. Ah well.
Before taking any further action, we gathered for a briefing.
"Sir, the scan shows a large concentration of organics and several droids at these three locations on the planet. Apparently, the CIS has just begun loading the mercenaries."
"What shall we do, General?"
"We need to act quickly. However, we don't have enough forces to eliminate all of them."
"Why not?"
"Hmm. If we split our units into three groups, we won't have sufficient strength to encircle and destroy them. They definitely won't surrender."
"Who said anything about a ground operation?"
"Sir?"
"We'll divide our fighters and bombers into two groups. They'll strike this point and this one," I said, indicating the map. "The third will be handled by Resolute."
"A bombing raid, sir?"
"Exactly."
"General, is it possible there are civilians in the bombardment zones—women and children?" Colonel Paris asked unexpectedly.
"It's possible. The troops were gathered gradually, perhaps over several weeks, and the warriors themselves are unlikely to be involved in cooking."
"Then… I refuse to carry out such an order."
The last thing I need right now is fucking idealists…
"No problem. Major Barvel, take command of the air group. Colonel, you are temporarily relieved of duty."
***
Brang Skvirg, chieftain and head of the kurultai—the Great Military Council—lifted his gaze to the sky along with the others. A massive, angular ship glided slowly overhead.
Druk Shragg, the leader of another tribe, ran up to him.
"Brang, whose ship is that? The droids'?" he grunted.
"I don't know."
At that moment, bright flashes—visible even in daylight—peeled away from the ship. The chieftains never saw what happened next…