"And these five are our Padawan Squad?" No matter how hard I tried, the skepticism still leaked out. "Is Yoda mocking us or what?"
"Does it surprise you, Master?" Oli inquired indifferently. "I think, considering that thousands of Jedi and Padawans are fighting in other system armies, and we in 'Ghent', 'Heft', and 'Greck' barely have a hundred, one could have already guessed that..."
"Oli," I addressed my apprentice.
"Yes, Master?"
"Shut your mouth."
"Yes, Master."
"Wonderful."
"You bet, Master."
"Oli?"
"Already silent."
"Thank God..."
"And how!"
"For mother's sake!" I roared, causing the five children wrapped in Jedi cloaks and tunics—three boys and two girls—to turn their attention to us. "Master Fay promised that you had learned control!"
"Control—yes. Keeping my tongue behind my teeth—no," the girl shrugged. Assessing my skepticism-filled expression, she added:
"You don't have to worry—I won't tear the system apart with a sudden Force Storm, but I'm not going to stick my tongue in my as—"
"Oli!"
"Yes?"
"How about I talk to Yoda? I'm sure you're already capable of passing the Jedi Trials and becoming a full-fledged Jedi Knight."
"No way, Master," the girl smirked. "I'm with you until the very end. Consider me your punishment for all your sins. In this life and the last."
"I didn't sin that much!"
"So this is for the future," the girl smiled sweetly, looking at me. For a moment, a duel of gazes reigned between us. However, a winner could not be identified—we were delicately interrupted by a cough behind my back.
"Sovereign," Ahsoka addressed me quietly. "The Padawans are coming toward us..."
"We aren't finished, apprentice," I noted bitingly.
"At any time convenient for you, teacher," the apprentice added with a sweet smile, giving the Togruta the most innocent look I'd ever seen in my life. How do you like that, Puss in Boots from Shrek? "Of course, if at that moment some other pretty creature, painted like a streetwalker, isn't moaning under you."
Ahsoka Tano, taken aback by such eloquence, shifted her gaze to me, then, biting her lip, began to examine the toes of her boots, tucking the thumbs of both hands behind her belt—next to the dangling lightsaber hilts.
Sighing heavily (it seems to be a cruel fate—every Emperor in this galaxy is haunted by disappointment in their apprentices), I scanned the five Jedi larvae, i.e., Padawans, who had lined up before
with me.
Despite the fact that I nearly worked myself to the bone to have as many of the Order's Padawans sent to me as possible, circumstances had not allowed me to meet with them until now. Although, the question of the expediency of their presence in "Ghent" had been raised more than once.
However, I never quite got around to the Jedi small fry. I ordered that a floor in the Citadel be allocated to them, with its own garden and training hall—so that Padawan blood wouldn't grow stagnant. And I very pointedly asked several Jedi hanging around headquarters to keep an eye on the youngsters. Until recently, Etain Tur-Mukan had been handling this. But, for obvious reasons, she had to stop the lessons with the kids—the last thing we needed was for a new generation Jedi-ling to pop out during a sparring match and say hello.
"Master Dougan," smiled a dark-haired girl who looked about twelve or thirteen. "We are glad to see you."
"And you have no idea how glad I am," I replied in a tone full of optimism and universal disappointment. Ugh, how much the current situation reminded me of a scene from the children's movie The Mighty Ducks, where Emilio Estevez's character meets the youth hockey team he's forced to coach against his will. "Padawan Bene, if I'm not mistaken?"
"Yes, Master Dougan," the girl said, blinking.
"Well, and you," I let my gaze rest on a boy quite tall for his twelve years, with a light-brown mane neatly braided into a Padawan tail, "are Whie Malreaux, I take it?"
The boy—who, in the history I knew, was lucky enough to catch a fatal and non-illusory beatdown from our very own Darth Vader in the Jedi Temple along with Bene and the brilliant Cin Drallig during the execution of Order 66—looked me over with a rather unfriendly gaze.
"Why so gloomy?" I inquired.
"Master Drallig said you aren't the best Jedi," the fledgling said. "I didn't think I would have to study under you..."
"Well, relax your cheeks and exhale, or you'll literally burst from self-importance," I advised, looking over all the Padawans. "I am not your teacher. And I'm not your damn mentor. I pulled your Jedi-youth backsides out of the Temple because I don't have enough Jedi in the army. And, admittedly, I asked for those who can think with their own heads, rather than hide behind the opinions of others. By the way, Malreaux," I returned my gaze to the Padawan. "Did Drallig not tell you that it was I who beat him soundly during a training duel?"
"No," Whie shook his head. "But he said that instead of fighting him the first time, you set younglings on him, and the second time he disarmed you and won."
"What a total f—," I caught myself just in time. "I mean, the Troll didn't mention that by the end of the second match he could barely stand, and when I pulled out a second lightsaber, Cin technically folded faster than water down a toilet. Either he got his vaccination wet or caught a case of 'cunning inflammation'—I don't know, he didn't share such intimate details with me. But since the Troll says otherwise... looks like I need to meet him again and drag him by his mane across the entire lobby."
As soon as I shifted my gaze to the second girl in the group, I heard a quiet snort from the previous boy.
"Any questions, Padawan Malreaux?" I inquired.
"None, Master Dougan," he answered hastily, carefully averting his eyes.
"Really now?" My amazement knew no bounds. "Well, in that case, ten laps around the Citadel, Padawan."
"That's over a hundred kilometers," the girl I was now standing in front of whispered softly.
"Want to keep him company, Tallisibeth?" It seemed the girl was frightened by my overly cheerful tone, as she immediately tried to tilt her head so that the blonde hair growing on it would hide her facial expression from me as much as possible.
"Is this some kind of training, Master?" Whie asked gloomily, earning the right to behold my face, which was perfectly surprised and disfigured by a lack of understanding as to why I was still hearing sounds emanating from his mouth.
"Are you still here, Padawan Malreaux?" I asked. Having made sure the boy, letting out a heavy sigh, ran toward the turbolift, I returned to contemplating the last three Padawans.
"So, here we have Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy," I noted, seeing from the wide eyes of the girl and the Padawans standing nearby that I hadn't made any mistakes in the pronunciation of her name. Impressive. "Also known as 'Scout.' Also known as the advocate for the unfairly wronged, Mother of Dragons, and so on and so forth..."
"Mother of Dragons?" The girl looked up at me. "I don't understand..."
"You'll get used to it," Ahsoka Tano encouraged her in a cheerful tone, putting in her five decicreds.
"Oh, well... okay..." the girl said, embarrassed.
"Am I in the way here?" I had to ask the girls. Oli Starstone pretended she wasn't interested in what was happening at all, though whistling the "Imperial March" was apparently fair game. Seriously... "Alright, kid, of everyone here, I'm most glad to see you."
"Really?" The girl blinked.
"No," I said with no emotion on my face. Seeing her eyes sadden and Ahsoka Tano tense up in the Force, I sighed and put a hand on the girl's shoulder:
"Don't mope, it was a joke."
"Your humor is cruel," Tallisibeth said, pursing her lips.
"You should see how Teacher grinds Dark Side adepts into fine dust," Oli Starstone said dreamily, punching her open palm. "Splat—and you can pick up what's left of Sora Bulq with a rag."
"Really?" the "Scout" gasped.
"Yep," I admitted. "Be a good girl, and I'll teach you too. All of you," I added, raising my voice.
"It won't work," the girl added quietly. "My connection to the Force... is weak."
"And?" I didn't get the joke.
"She's a weakling," added the boy standing next in line. A moment before an invisible force, grabbing him by the legs, dragged the Padawan face-down across all the paths of the garden.
"Master Dougan..." The youngsters were stunned. "What is this?"
"Karma is a mean bitch," I explained. "I hope it's clear that if I hear anyone talking again about who's a weakling and who's a f—ing hero, they won't get off so easily next time?"
"A what-ing hero?" Bene asked.
"Don't mind him," Oli Starstone advised. "Teacher often uses expressions from his native language. We don't understand what most of it means ourselves, but we look smart as if we do. Otherwise, he might get upset..."
Turning to Oli Starstone, I gave her a saccharine smile—just as the boy flying headfirst behind the Padawans' backs began counting the number of bushes with his forehead. Bushes that possessed a large number of thorns. The girl, hands behind her back, smiled insolently, showing with her whole appearance that she was taking out her frustrations on my nerves for all the time we spent apart. Little petty brat. Why didn't you die when you were small?
"Well then," I stopped before the last member of the Padawan Squad. "And who are you, smurf-child?"
Admittedly, seeing such a colorful character before me... and in this part of the galaxy... and with a lightsaber... and as a member of the Jedi Order... Your ways are inscrutable, Force. You are a treacherous thing.
"I don't know what a smurf is," the boy admitted. "But my name is Padawan Nuru Kungurama, I am a Chiss. It's a race in the Unknown Regions..."
"I know where that is, kid," I sighed. Honestly, I could even explain to the boy why his diplomatic mission to the Ascendancy, assigned by the Chancellor himself, had failed. I won't, of course. "And I know what your race is called. Only," I added in Cheun—the native language of the Ascendancy, causing the boy's coal-black eyebrows to shoot up, "I don't understand for the life of me what the hell you're doing here. You had a teacher."
"He..." the boy replied in broken native speech. "Left the Order, and I... am without a mentor... Master Yoda said that from you one can... learn much..."
"Study much," I mechanically corrected the speech error. Thank the Force I had poked around in Thrawn's head during our rendezvous on Zakuul and learned the Chiss languages. "Well, let's see how useful you are."
"I am quite good with a lightsaber," Nuru Kungurama stated confidently in the same dialect.
"A light-stick isn't a panacea yet," I said meaningfully, just as I used the Force to drag the arrogant youth, scratched and extremely frustrated, back to the Padawan formation.
"Well," shifting my gaze to the boy seething with rage, I inquired. "Any more questions about why you should only show off your 'coolness' in your own backyard, sitting on a potty among others like you?"
"Yes, Master Dougan," the boy hissed through his teeth, wiping a drop of blood from a deep scratch on his cheek. "I've learned the lesson."
"Good boy," I praised, fixing my gaze on the Padawan with the face of George Lucas's son. "Who knows, Zett Jukassa, the ability to think before you act might save your life one day."
"Yes, Master," he said.
"Well," I clapped my hands, "now that we've met, let me give you some good news, small fry. From this day forward, you are all under my direct instruction. You probably won't like it, especially considering I'll be assigning you to units I command personally. Unlike the rest of the Grand Army of the Republic, you will not command clones," a dissatisfied grumble was heard. "Clones were created for war, and right now they understand it better than you do. So—be so kind as to listen to them. If you don't like it—I can tell you which ship to take straight to Coruscant."
"But Commander Tano commands the 501st Legion," Esterhazy protested. "Why do we...?"
"Because Commander Tano has been in this war for almost a year and a half, and you—at best—know which end of a blaster to hold so you don't shoot your own head off," I explained. "But don't worry—you'll have a chance to prove your head is for more than just eating. In two hours, all of you," I looked at them one by one with a heavy gaze, "must be waiting for me on board the fleet flagship, the Striking sword."
"Are we going to war?" Zett Jukassa perked up.
"For now," I countered, "you are going to the armory, where they will pick out armor and gear for you to help you last on the battlefield a bit longer than a couple of minutes."
"We are Jedi," Bene reminded me. "We don't need armor and..."
"At the moment, kid," I noted with a yawn, "you are Padawans whose lifespan on the front, according to general Jedi statistics, usually doesn't exceed a few days. And, the Force knows I'll regret this, but a big, bright feeling inside me is campaigning for you to live as long as possible."
"Why?" Nuru Kungurama frowned. "There is no death—there is only the Great Force..."
"However, smurf," I wagged a finger at the talker, "there are reports where your cause of death isn't so easy to write off. And I've become damn lazy lately; I don't have time to compose obituaries. So, do me a favor—stop screwing with my head."
Glancing at my apprentice, who was innocently whistling some tune, I smirked wickedly so that only she and I could see. I think I know which little pain in the ass will be appointed senior over this kindergarten.
***
"Looks more like a dirty dump than an ancient Jedi library," Sariss wrinkled her nose.
"Space City is not just the Order's secret library," Celeste Morne noted pointedly, looking around. Yes, this intersection was just as empty. As were the previous four. Not a trace of inhabitants. "It was a huge metropolis built during the era of the beginning of hyperspace travel. Once, in this city, you could find millions of architectural monuments and artifacts of long-gone times..."
"I'd rather we met some locals here," the apprentice complained. "It's like everyone died out."
"That's the truth," Celeste Morne said quietly.
To be dishonest and say that life flickered anywhere on the huge space station would be to lie to herself. Because, despite the massive buildings and the numerous smoothly operating equipment, the station known as "Space City" was dead.
No, no one had slaughtered the locals. There were no corpses, no traces of combat in the streets. It seemed as if the place had simply died out. And the corpses had disappeared on their own...
It was a bit unsettling.
Like traveling through a crypt.
However, a mission is a mission.
A long time ago, the Jedi Order sought to acquire numerous academies or vaults where their knowledge could be accumulated in case the irreparable happened again and the Jedi once more vanished from the face of the galaxy. This had happened more than once, and it was doubtful that the upcoming extermination would be the last.
The Emperor sought to bleed the Order white by taking from it those who were either smart enough or hopelessly stupid enough to change their worldviews. This would certainly deal a great blow to the Jedi Order, but it would not lead to their total extermination. However, one could not hope that the Sith would be so fastidious.
To Celeste Morne, many points of Dougan's plan seemed overly optimistic, even naive in places. She didn't know modern Jedi, but they were unlikely to be any different from those she worked with before her immersion in stasis. She wasn't going to compare the combat skills of two generations—that was a thankless task. But she could bet that, as they had many times before, the High Council preferred to rest on its laurels, remembering and preparing for past wars. Meanwhile, the Sith were evolving, throwing all their efforts into the war to come.
She had replayed the Emperor's plan in her head more than once or twice, applying it to the information she knew from the HoloNet, and she couldn't deny the fact that modern Jedi... to put it mildly, didn't measure up to those she was acquainted with in her time. Guardians of peace, defenders of democracy... though essentially chain dogs of a Senate that had become utterly thieving and bloated under the weight of corruption and lazy idle celebration. Exactly what those who created the True Covenant feared so much.
The decay of the Republic had reached its maximum. A systemic crisis had struck literally every aspect of galactic life. It was no wonder the Sith cancer had grown on such fertile soil.
The Sith are not the cause of this war. They are merely a catalyst for discontent. War would have broken out in any case—if not now, then in ten or a hundred years—there's no great difference. It's just that now the Sith have gained not a numerical, but a qualitative advantage in society—the Jedi were firmly associated as proponents of a rotting regime. And among the inhabitants of the galaxy, there will be trillions of sentients who will gladly accept the changes—a new power, strong and ruthless toward the old ways. Which automatically puts the Jedi outside the law, turning them into enemies.
It's all sad—watching from the side as that for which you gave your whole life perishes. But, at the same time, the girl admitted that the current Jedi Order was but a pale shadow of the one she once served.
Perhaps Dougan is right—and one should return to the basics. Not hide behind dogmas, repeating them until they become an eyesore. But absorb something new.
For herself, Celeste Morne had already decided that most Dark Side techniques, as well as the Sith worldview, were not her path. But, the Unifying Force... that was something new. Something that looked far more complete than two separate paths. You don't have to stand right next to a fire to understand that heat comes from it and it smells of burning. You can understand that by looking from the side...
At the edge of her consciousness, she recognized a spark of the Force. Powerful enough to understand—it belonged not to an ordinary sentient, but to a gifted one.
Sariss, without wasting a second, ignited her weapon.
"Lady Morne..." the girl began.
"Yes, I felt it too," Celeste Morne agreed, taking her weapon from her belt. But she didn't want to release the golden blade from the hilt. The clash with the Jedi on Telos proved that her initial point of view—not to raise weapons against fellow members of the Order—was worth nothing. Because modern Jedi are incapable of thinking, of analyzing those who stand before them. It felt as if the philosophy of the Shadow corps had permeated the entire Order—everything that isn't absolute Light is Darkness. And subject to destruction.
And yet she hoped that not every first Force adept she met who had trained in the Order would be just as categorical and stupid.
"Stop," a young man demanded in a resonant voice, appearing a few meters in front of them. He slipped out from behind a large container to the right of their path. "You shall go no further."
"A Jedi!" Sariss rejoiced, twirling her lightsaber in front of her. "How long I have waited for this..."
"Get out of here, Sith spawn!" the young man demanded, activating his own weapon with the green blade color traditional for Jedi. "And you shall keep your lives."
"Listen," Celeste Morne said conciliatorily. "We do not want a battle..."
"Speak for yourself, Master," Sariss said bitingly. "I don't mind at all."
"The worse for you," the Jedi noted coldly. "You both die here!"
"Are you sure you're a Jedi?" Celeste Morne inquired gloomily. Yes, in her time, this didn't happen.
"I am Jedi Knight Eydan Boc," the young man introduced himself loudly. "The High Council entrusted me with guarding the library, and you..."
A massive fist, which could never belong to a humanoid, punched through the Jedi's chest in the place where the heart was located in humans or near-human races. The bewildered and doomed Jedi, staring at the bloody limb sticking out of his chest, only rolled his eyes in shock. This continued for a few seconds before the muscles of the Jedi's body relaxed. The lightsaber hilt fell from his hand with a hollow sound, landing with a thud on the pavement.
"How un-aesthetic," Celeste Morne winced, watching life leave the Jedi. The young man's eyes rolled back, never to open again. Khem Val, tearing his hand out of the corpse, licked his lips carnivorously, looking at the fresh meat.
"Are you really going to let him eat that Jedi's corpse?" Sariss asked with a shudder, hiding her own weapon.
"Would you prefer the Dashade feast on one of us?" Celeste Morne asked, watching as the monsters—the second one materialized nearby, dropping his Force Cloak—began tearing off pieces of still-warm meat and sending them into their fanged maws.
"No, of course not," the former Sith minion was stunned. "It's just... it's somehow... inhuman."
"This world has finally gone mad," Celeste Morne sighed. "Sith are lecturing Jedi on morality... O times, o customs..."
***
The bridge of Nial Declann's new flagship met me and my retinue with an aura of a working atmosphere. The traditionally "Venator-style" bridge was filled with clones and crew members scurrying across the metal floor toward their objectives. Small flaws and shortcomings caught the eye—the absence of several ceiling tiles, inactive control panels being installed before my eyes, a few workers from the shipyards—of course, if one could call a couple of outdated space docks used by Coruscant's provisional government as assembly points for the Valiant-class Star Destroyers that.
However, none of this spoiled the overall impression of the ship—mighty, perfectly armed, and devilishly dangerous. Yes, a fine choice of starship for a fleet flagship.
"Grand Moff," Admiral Nial Declann, commander of the Rapier Fleet, appeared nearby. "Glad to welcome you aboard the flagship."
"Glad to be here, Admiral," I shook the hand extended to me. "How do you like the starship?"
"It's no Telos, of course," the officer smiled. "The compartment sizes and ceiling heights are different, naturally. But better than a Venator, and, forgive me, a Hammerhead-class cruiser."
"No need to apologize," I waved it off. "These aren't my children; we fight with what we've got. Is the fleet fully manned?"
"Yes, sir," the Admiral gestured for us to proceed to the tactical compartment located to the right of the main bridge entrance. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he hesitated. "Are all of these with you, sir?"
"Yep," I looked at the crowd behind my back and smirked. "A picture-perfect scene—'Daddy and his brood.'"
"That's quite a lot of Jedi for one ship," the Admiral scratched the back of his head. "But it's not for me to tell you, sir."
"Don't worry, Nial," I smiled, saying it so my companions could hear me. "Force willing, some of them will be flying home in coffins."
Meeting eyes with Ahsoka Tano, who was blinking her eyelashes rapidly, I nodded for them all to go into the tactical room. No point standing in the doorway, blocking traffic.
"Sir," the black man whispered, lowering his voice. "Can they even be trusted?"
"Not an iota, Admiral," I admitted. "The redhead pretending to be my adjutant," I pointed to Mara Cross, who was silently observing the surroundings of the tactical terminal, "dreams of seizing power on her home planet using someone else's hands. The apprentice," a nod toward Oli Starstone, "dreams of sleeping with me and strangling everyone who did it before her..."
"Strange Jedi ways," the Admiral huffed. "And the second teenage girl, the Togruta?"
"That one is actually from the category of those who succeeded," I noted tiredly, catching the officer's surprised look. "Those five who are still knee-high to a grasshopper dream of becoming Jedi."
"And the generals?" He nodded toward the lift cabin that arrived next. "Ehm... sir, forgive the impertinent question, but do we have a combat operation, or a party with pazaak and Twi'leks?"
"God knows," I sighed, "Nial, I didn't do it on purpose."
The Admiral, watching as Aayla Secura, Xiaan Amersu, Racha Sitra, B'ink Utrila and her Padawan Rennax Omani, Larant Tarak, and their accompanying clone commanders headed into the tactical room, turned his head toward me with a hint of disbelief written on his face.
"Sir, don't take this as rudeness, but it seems to me you should, at least for appearances, occasionally involve someone other than sexy girls for joint operations."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not judging, but... rumors have already started that you have a weakness for Aliens..."
"Those aren't rumors," I sighed sadly. "I have an unattainable dream—to sleep with every beautiful representative of the galaxy..."
"But then the galaxy would consist of your descendants, which is problematic in terms of genetic diversity," the officer stroked his chin.
"That's why I try to limit myself to Twi'leks," I patted the Admiral on the shoulder. "Even if I don't pull out in time—nature won't allow descendants to appear."
"True enough," Nial Declann said thoughtfully. "But there's always the chance of catching a bouquet of venereal diseases..."
"Remind me to be less candid with you, Admiral," I said with a chuckle.
"Forgive me, sir," the Admiral was taken aback. "It's not every day one can just chat with their Emperor..."
"It's fine, Declann," I smirked. "But you're right about one thing—I'm definitely short on male friends."
"If you ever decide to sit over a mug of luma and talk about who's better—Zeltrons or Twi'leks, you know my comlink frequency," the Admiral smiled somewhat shyly.
"Deal," I laughed. Then, lowering my voice, I inquired. "Is the Defender on board?"
"Yes sir," the fleet commander became strictly serious. "I ordered the right side hangar to be set aside for your needs—your corvette and your team of technicians and pilots are stationed there."
"The X-Wings?"
"The whole squadron is loaded and stationed in the hangar. Security is appropriate."
"Well, that's wonderful," I concluded. "By the way, what name did you give the destroyer?"
"None, sir," the Admiral admitted. "That is the prerogative of those senior to me in rank."
"That won't do," I stated firmly. "The ship needs its own name. And a motto wouldn't hurt..."
"One way or another—it's an Imperial starship," the Admiral reminded me. "So, I would be honored if you gave it a name."
"Do you think the name 'Spirit of Fire' would suit our new flagship?" I recalled a glorious ship from another fictional universe.
"A wonderful name, sir," through the Force I sensed the Admiral's absolute sincerity. "Perhaps you have a suitable motto as well?"
"Strangely enough—yes, I have one," I nodded, reciting a phrase in Latin from memory. "Exitus Acta Probat."
"I am not familiar with that language, sir," Nial Declann admitted. "What does it mean?"
"The end justifies the means," I translated the UNSC ship's motto.
Nial Declann was silent for a moment, mulling over his thoughts. Then, he nodded in agreement.
"Better than anything I could think of, Emperor."
"Well," I sighed. "Since the formalities are over, let's go into the hall; they're probably waiting for us."
***
Scouts say that clones in the Grand Army of the Republic do not laugh. Supposedly, this is because most of them have inhibitor chips in their heads that turn the brothers into organic robots whenever their real commanders wish.
Though, in Tako's opinion, this was all fiction. All of them—the GAR clones and the Imperial stormtroopers—came from the same donor. Who, again, according to rumors, was killed by Jedi. But among the stormtroopers, the donor's fate interested no one. Unlike the fates of other brothers.
"Remind me, please," asked Alex, commander of the 2nd Imperial stormtrooper corps, "what did you answer Grand Admiral Thrawn when he asked if we were ready to carry out any order coming from the Emperor?"
"I said we would carry it out with honor," Tako turned the helmet he had removed from his head, looking into the blackening eye sockets.
"And if you knew where they'd send us, would you have answered the same way?" inquired Misk, commander of the 3rd stormtrooper corps.
"I think so," Tako answered distractedly. Though he perfectly understood that this wasn't actually true. But he couldn't just go and agree with his colleagues' opinion that the task assigned to them was complete crap.
"Then why are you standing there?" Alex asked with a laugh, slapping him on the backplate. "Don't stall—you'll freeze."
Tako just shook his head. Freezing on this planet was practically impossible. But dying of boredom—yes. On the other hand, the 11th and 12th corps under the command of Marshals Smoke and Anton were far less lucky—they were dropped on some god-forsaken ice planet called Hoth to build an Imperial outpost in the heart of enemy territory. However, they were covered by the Emperor's Ghost Squadron under Admiral Modus—the Emperor's personal fleet. Rumor had it that one of the Imperial Knights had even joined that expedition. But all of that was just rumors. You wouldn't find out the facts anyway—even if you asked Smoke and Anton personally. Spreading details about one's service—especially secret missions—was not done among Imperial stormtroopers. The Imperial Security Bureau and its military counterintelligence units also earned their rations.
Probably the brothers serving in the Grand Army of the Republic would have appreciated the humor of the situation.
The deployment site for the first three Imperial stormtrooper corps at the moment was the planet Kinuin.
A place forgotten by all religions in Wild Space. A life-sustaining planet of a purely terrestrial type with an oxygen atmosphere, devoid of inhabitants. It would seem—why is there no life here?
A mystery greater than what the hell nearly a hundred thousand Imperial stormtroopers were doing here. Though, the latter was actually known.
Setting up a transit base for the Imperial fleet.
Creating a bridgehead necessary for the movement of transport caravans from the central systems of the Empire to the fringes of the known galaxy.
For now, a powerful outpost was to be created here, where a whole corps and a cover squadron were to be left stationed—symbols of the Empire's power in these restless territories.
Tako did not delve into the subtleties of the commanders' strategy. That was outside his competence.
But, based on the tasks set before him and the other corps commanders, he imagined what was happening.
The Empire was paving its way to the edge of the inhabited systems. Granted, the Mordelle sector was nearby, where forces under the command of Lady Ventress and Captain Draigon Allous were located. But those territories were near planets captured by the Confederacy.
Apparently, the command of the Imperial armed forces was looking for secret paths. Primarily because of the need for weapon supplies, in particular—products of the Incom Corporation.
Therefore, stormtroopers and other armed formations loyal to the Empire had to dig into the ground on Kinuin, Zonju V, Iminusof, Delrakkin, Subterrel, Kal'Shebbol, Westar, and Marix Minor. Of course, this chain of fringe worlds was not the last on the path of convoys destined to move toward Ryloth, bypassing planets such as Skynara, Karazak, Drexel, Doom-Bradden, and Orvax IV, which, in fact, although located in the territory of the notorious Galactic Republic, were undoubtedly under the power of the Empire—surely, otherwise the secret convoy routes would not pass through these systems. Unfortunately, knowing this for sure while being here was not possible. As such, communication between the Empire and the worlds, races, and armed units loyal to it on the territory of the known galaxy was absent. True, somewhere out there among their blood brothers, the Emperor was currently located. And he surely knew how to plan a secret operation so as not to reveal his true plans. A sentient who created a huge state virtually from scratch cannot make mistakes.
Units of the 2nd and 3rd Imperial stormtrooper corps were currently heading to the last two worlds within Wild Space and the Unknown Regions—Zonju V and Iminusof—to begin building garrisons there. They were delivered here on combat ships of the fleet, and medium transport ships of Haor Chall Engineering subsequently brought construction materials and equipment. But no one intended to keep them in orbit—every soldier understood that the few combat and transport starships the Empire had were now worth their weight in Aurodium. Marshals Misk and Alex, as well as their soldiers, were waiting for the ships of the first, but clearly not the last, transport convoy of the Incom Corporation to head to their planets and continue the assigned task. Well, to keep them from wagging their tongues too much, Tako, without overthinking it, suggested they join the construction work.
The main part of the base—a spacious underground complex—had already been built by construction droids pr...
produced by Incom Corporation and Haor Chall Engineering. Stormtrooper engineering units were currently busy laying communications and setting up defensive systems. In a couple of months at most, this base would take on its full form. Just as intended.
Taka surveyed the desolate landscapes of Kinuin once again. Yes, by the Hutt, it was good here. Quiet, peaceful. Perhaps he should suggest to command that, in addition to the military base, they establish a civilian settlement here.
Even if they were just clones, soldiers of the Empire, each of his fighters was also a citizen of his country. With all the ensuing rights and duties.
And also—needs. Purely biological ones included. Yes, decisively, this place lacked a small civilian settlement where the boys could spend their evenings in conversation and friendly gatherings with the locals. And not just gatherings.
Tako knew for a fact that many of his fighters had girlfriends on the side. This was quite logical, considering how long the 1st Corps had been stationed on Zakuul. Where at one time no other sentients existed except for Twi'leks. Yes, he remembered the time when nearly eight thousand Twi'leks arrived on Zakuul—slaves liberated by the Emperor, who were traded left and right in the known galaxy. At first, of course, the fighters didn't realize what a gift they had received—after all, out of eight thousand, nearly six thousand were girls. For clones, who were seeing not just members of another race for the first time, but females as well, the latter became guides into the world of real human life.
"Marshal Taka," a soldier in standard armor, with communications unit markings, materialized nearby. Yes, Imperial stormtroopers, unlike their Republican brethren, were not organized into uniform, mono-tasked corps—scouts, paratroopers, infantry. Each Imperial corps, despite being named "assault," contained various units—signalmen, engineers, tank drivers, and other technicians. Deployed on any planet, an Imperial assault corps possessed scout fighters, its own artillery, heavy machinery, and equipment for long-range and field communications. However, the experience of recent months showed that the army and navy would undergo certain changes many times more until the final table of organization for the branches of service was approved. This bothered the fighters little—their business was war, and organizational matters could be handled by sentients with ranks higher than their own.
"Speak," Tako demanded.
"A convoy and escort squadron have exited hyperspace. Captain Draigon Allous reports that transports have arrived with him to carry the corps of Marshals Misk and Alex," the signalman reported. However, Tako could already see the wedge-shaped hulls of former Republic Acclamators in the sky, which served as military transports for lack of anything better. True, those same scouts were wagging their tongues that soon the fleet would see similar starships of actual Imperial construction. But, who knows when that will be.
"Understood," the marshal said. Looking at his two comrades, on whose faces cheerful smiles wandered, the clone ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. "Good luck to you on the new planets."
"Let's hope there are Twi'leks there," Alex smirked. Misk supported him with a friendly chuckle.
"Yeah, keep hoping," Tako thought grimly. He, at least, had looked at the galactic atlas.
***
The only window in the tactical room was currently veiled by the white-blue haze of hyperspace, which added the colors of the surrounding environment to the grayness of the modest, literally ascetic, space of the tactical room.
Unlike most Republic ships, the tactical room of my new flagship was equipped with a large holoprojector—like the command ships of the Empire, around which seating was arranged—simple metal office chairs. Which were currently entirely occupied by those present—Jedi and clones.
"Well then, Admiral," Nial, sitting to my right, stood up, "the time has come. What news do you have for us?"
"The Blade Fleet is fully restored," the Admiral reported the obvious. "The flagship is the Valiant-class Star Destroyer Spirit of Fire. The formation includes fifty Hammerhead-class cruisers, twenty Marauder-class corvettes, five Pelta-class frigates, ten Arquitens-class light cruisers, and twenty Consular-class cruisers modernized into point-defense frigates. All ships are fully manned with personnel, an air wing, and all necessary supporting equipment."
"In the rear echelon," Mara Cross added, "are twenty Acclamator-class assault cruisers with soldiers of the 5th Assault Corps, 6th Landing Corps, 7th Air Corps, 8th Infantry Corps, 178th Reconnaissance Corps, 190th Assault Corps, 212th Reconnaissance Corps, and 327th Star Corps. Total—two hundred ninety-four thousand nine hundred twelve fighters. Not counting the clone commando squads, of course, moving to the objective independently."
"I beg your pardon," Racha Sitra drew attention to herself. "But what is our objective that requires such an armada?"
"Nearly a hundred starships," Xiaan Amersu shook her head. "Almost three hundred thousand clones..."
"And all units are veterans through and through," Master Utrila squinted. "Master Dougan?"
Exchanging a glance with Larant Tarak, I nodded. Let her report.
"Our objective—" the thin fingers of the green-skinned Twi'lek ran across the keyboard. "The planet Daalang. Located at the intersection of hyperspace routes such as the Bothan Run and Gamorr Run, it is a major economic and logistical hub in the Daalang sector. Currently, the planet is a fortified outpost for pirates allied with the Separatists. The enemy possesses significant forces—up to one million battle droids and heavy machinery. Furthermore, we expect significant resistance from the pirates themselves, of whom there are about one hundred thousand on the planet according to intelligence."
"Quite a lot," Aayla assessed. "What forces does the enemy have in space?"
"Up to two hundred Munificent-class star frigates," Larant reported. "They are distributed in equal parts across Daalang, Deneb, Aridus, and Gamorr, on whose surfaces the enemy has fairly strong groupings—from one hundred to five hundred thousand droids. The plan is to break through the enemy's orbital defense without losing the momentum of the offensive, drop a landing force on their heads, and after the arrival of the ships from the rear—continue the offensive toward the final goal on this hyperspace route with an exit onto the Corellian Run. Gamorr is a Separatist base with far greater forces than those we might encounter on Daalang. About three hundred starships, mostly Lucrehulk-class battleships, Recusant-class light destroyers, and Kontos-class palace ships—the latter once formed the backbone of the Trade Federation fleet but were relegated to the armed reserve with the appearance of the Recusant-class light destroyers we know so well. However, after the demonstrative walkout by the leadership of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, the latter lost a number of Munificent-class star frigates as well as several shipyards, which in turn forced the enemy to pull all sorts of old junk out of storage. Commodore Sagoro Autem has already reported to command that mercenaries in outdated ships are operating in the area of responsibility of the Heft systems army. Incidentally, on Daalang we are to face the Sabaoth mercenary squadron, which significantly complicated our lives during the First Battle of Geonosis."
"I thought they were all destroyed," Racha Sitra said.
"I wish that were so," I agreed. "But unfortunately, it's otherwise. Sabaoth, though they lost a significant part of their forces and personnel, fairly quickly found themselves back in the saddle—largely due to pirates and other scum. They are the ones currently responsible for attacks on merchant ships on the Corellian Trade Route. Thanks to Daalang's advantageous location at the intersection of hyperspace routes, they manage to plague absolutely everyone—us, the Hutts, the Toydarians, and peaceful traders."
"But we didn't plan to attack Daalang before," Xiaan Amersu recalled. "To strike them, yes, but with such massive forces..."
"The strategic situation has complicated sharply," I explained. "Daalang is our first objective. As soon as we deal with Sabaoth and seize the system's space, we will land troops on the surface. Rear Admiral Kreeves with his ships will take orbit over Daalang, after which we will continue our voyage along the local hyperspace routes, destroying the enemy at Deneb, Lorans, and Aridus, with a subsequent exit to the Separatist base on Gamorr. Rear Admiral Zsinj will meanwhile establish himself on New Cov, after which he will launch an offensive on Kalarba and Milagro. Master Gallia's starships—most likely Commodore Teren Rogriss's strike squadron—will seize Bannistar Station in the Hevvrol sector for us, which will finally deblock the forces of the seventh systems army and, for us, give access to a powerful refueling hub in an entire supersector, which, considering our factories on Melida/Daan, will allow us to maintain the operational speed of subsequent offensives in this region of the galaxy."
"Forgive me, Master Dougan," Racha Sitra drew attention. "But Bannistar Station is neutral territory..."
"...which the Separatists use quite freely to refuel their ships," Admiral Declann noted. "Before the battle for New Cov, more than forty of their starships received fuel at Bannistar, and at rather low prices too."
"If that isn't proof of their loyalty to the Separatists," Larant supported, "then I don't even know what else is required."
"One way or another," I summarized. "We are striking these planets. In the final perspective, our combined grouping must reach Allantin IV, thereby deblocking the shipyard."
"So all this is for the sake of the Allantin shipyards?" Rennax Omani was surprised. The blue-haired girl, catching a dozen angry looks at once, hastily shrank back. "Forgive me for interfering."
"It's quite alright, Padawan Omani. Right questions are always in place," I reassured the girl. "Yes, the final result of this entire operation is the restoration of our control over the Allantin IV shipyards. Even if they are considerably ruined by the Separatists—nonetheless, they still retain enough capacity that we will find useful, given the encirclement."
"But the planet is in Master Allie's area of responsibility," Kungurama joined the conversation, deciding that since the blue-haired Padawan's audacity had gone unpunished. "Can we really...?"
"Moreover—we must," I noted. "The enemy is perfectly satisfied with the fact that we are fighting them within our own territory. A strike by Ghent (army) forces in a place where no one particularly expects them will be quite a surprise for the enemy."
"But what will the possession of a shipyard that still needs to be restored give us?" Master Utrila frowned. "If I remember correctly—we have the battle for Saleucami ahead of us. Wouldn't it be more profitable to go on the defensive now and then deliver a sudden strike there?"
"In fact, the strategy is designed for exactly that," I assured. "The enemy, learning of attacks by such large forces in the area of the Corellian Run, will either move part of their forces from Saleucami to support their outposts in our area of responsibility, or lose their allies one by one. One way or another, Separatist forces in the nearby sectors will weaken significantly. And their lack of advance information about the reasons for the redeployment of as many as eight corps will make the Separatist command quite nervous. Actually, to avoid leaks, the flight objective was only announced in hyperspace."
"Are we not trusted?" Racha Sitra frowned. Indignation coming from her and most of the Padawans could be felt in the Force.
"No," I assured. "The operational situation simply required it. The Separatists have received information more than once by tapping into our communication channels. So, we have to minimize it in open and even official sources. The most important data will now be transmitted to the executors directly via couriers. Even if our commandos won't particularly like it, such is the price of secrecy for the upcoming attacks."
For a moment, a rather heavy silence hung in the room. It was broken by Tallisibeth Esterhazy.
"Master Dougan," she raised her hand, drawing attention. "If we are striking south of Daalang, why are we not taking into account that the Separatists might strike us from the direction of Nixor and Nant'ri? There are significant forces of Separatist allies on Emberlene..."
"As far as I know," I prevaricated slightly. Known, yeah. I gave the order myself. "Not long ago, Emberlene was pillaged. Their army and navy are destroyed, and those that remain do not pose any serious threat to us."
"But then why don't we send troops to occupy these planets?" Marshal Hellagen inquired. Like the other clone commanders, he casually occupied a seat on the right side of the terminal from me. While the Jedi were positioned on the left. "Is there no danger that the enemy might use the vacant territories for their own advancement toward our borders?"
"It is precisely for this case that we are leaving the Anvil Fleet in orbit of Daalang," Secura reminded. "Admiral Kreeves is competent enough to hold out until reserves arrive in case of an attack."
"And the commando squads—thanks to Master Yoda, we have so many of them now that you can't figure out where to put them all," I said, though a plan for the use of commandos had already practically formed in my head, "will conduct reconnaissance on these planets. If everything is as we assume, then Admiral Kreeves will use the reserves and occupy the planets with the subsequent creation of fortified points on them."
"But Ord Pardron and Christophsis are more than a day's journey away," the "Scout" insisted.
"The Hutts will provide us with reinforcements," I explained. "Raids from Daalang primarily harm their economy. As soon as we strike and throw the enemy out of there, I will speak with them so that our troops are provided with comprehensive support. If that is all..."
"Pardon me, sir," Marshal Sinilian, commander of the 212th Reconnaissance Corps, drew attention. "But you haven't said which corps will storm specific planets."
Judging by the tense silence of the other marshals present here, they were interested in the same question. Only Sinilian, as the commander of the scouts, had enough healthy curiosity to ask about it directly.
"It's simple, Marshal," I smiled, not even intending to answer the question asked. "We will descend upon Daalang with all available forces. The main thing is to engage in battle, and we'll figure out the rest."
***
"It looks like," Cad said slowly, "things are bad."
The Umbaran, looking at her night guests—a Duros and a very young man, dressed like brigands from ancient legends—only shook her head. And these are the spies of the Empire? They look more like vagabonds from the Corellian Trade Route.
They met after midnight—when Al Comlin was able to leave his residence without much effort and head to the meeting place.
Admittedly, the senator intended to see a pair of cutthroats, but certainly not two mercenaries. Somehow this didn't fit with the aura of wealth and prosperity of the Empire that Bana Breemu spoke of when making him the offer to take Mahtee Dunn's place. Shortly before the latter's death.
Al still didn't know for sure whether the Empire had planned the murder of the former senator of Umbara, or if it was a coincidence. But the fact remains—after Mahtee Dunn's death, Al was able to push his candidacy first into the Senate. And then push the idea of seceding from the Republic into the minds of Umbara's ruling levels, an idea that had been floating in Umbaran society for quite some time.
To speak frankly, Comlin owed his career growth to the Empire. Because a young aristocrat from the thirteenth level, even with not very trivial telepathic abilities (a common thing in their world), simply lacked the experience and knowledge for such backroom intrigues—to jump straight to the third level. Leaving far behind many of his much more influential and skilled competitors.
Imperial agents did everything for him. They liquidated the uncooperative, greased the palms of the greedy, and intimidated the zealous. And the road to the highest levels of Umbaran society was open to him.
Al did not boast of his position and achievements. He understood perfectly well that if the Emperor, whom he had never seen in person, wanted it—all the power the Umbaran senator possessed would turn to dust. He would lose his position, at best crashing back down to the thirteenth level. And that was effectively a disgrace from which one could not wash oneself clean.
The society of Umbara's indigenous population had anciently included a system of levels—castes, the number of which approached a hundred. As it should be—the most despised were at the bottom. The top ten levels possessed such immense power that many could not even dream of. Primarily, only members of families with levels from tenth to first inclusive could leave the planet. But there were few such families—just over a dozen. Therefore, few had seen Umbarans outside their home world. And in the galaxy, only one Umbaran was widely known—Sly Moore. Chancellor Palpatine's confidante. She was honored and respected on Umbara. Set as an example. And this made young aristocrats almost grit their teeth.
Exactly how Sly achieved her position, no one knew. And possessing compromising information on one's compatriots was a long-standing national pastime for their people. Because sometimes only blackmail, intimidation, threats, and other wonderful backroom games could give an Umbaran the opportunity to rise a level higher.
And many young aristocrats of Umbara wanted to repeat Sly Moore's success. But they didn't know how. And because of this, they raged pointlessly. Out of habit, devouring competitors at home.
Al Comlin found his way up. Cooperation with the Empire gave him a career boost. And his cautious game in the Separatist Congress was the guarantee that the second part of the deal would be fulfilled. When it was all over, the rulers of Umbara—members of the highest caste level, the Rootai, who were revered at home like kings and gods—would fade into oblivion. Vacating power for him.
So the Emperor promised through the mouth of Bana Breemu. And as the former senator from the Humbarine sector assured, service to the Emperor was rewarded. Al believed her. But he checked her words. And found them worthy—after all, hundreds of warships didn't just appear out of nowhere in the war-torn and Separatist-ravaged Breemu sector—yes, even if they were outdated Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers, they very effectively threw the CIS out of the sector. Whose worlds almost immediately bristled with hundreds of orbital defense platforms. And numerous mercenaries from the Ailon Nova Guard died by the thousands but liberated the sector from Count Dooku's mechanical soldiers. Al had an idea of how much Ailon services cost. And he didn't wonder where a senator who had lost everything got billions.
He liked Bana's example—she remained the last representative of the aristocracy of her sector. No wonder she had effectively become the ruler of Humbarine, which in the past was an economically prosperous sector. Kuat can once again bite its elbows because its old competitor is gaining strength again.
Al wanted the same thing all politicians wanted. Power.
But by virtue of his convictions, he understood that he would not be able to achieve the highest steps of the hierarchy without bloodshed. Because he wanted the best for his people—development and prosperity. The caste system of the Umbarans and the closed nature of their society did not allow them to enter the galactic market of weapons and technology—and on Umbara, the latter were some of the best in the entire Republic. A strong decision at the top was required for Umbara's products to flood beyond the planet. And for billions of credits to return.
If becoming an agent of the Empire in the camp of the Confederacy was necessary for such a thing—he agreed.
And judging by the disconcerted faces of both spies, he realized that the information he provided was not just valuable. It was priceless.
"Destroying HoloNet stations is a rather serious business," the man said, scratching his chin. "Not easy..."
"The coordinates of all major relays are known," Al noted. "Without relays in the Mid Rim region, both the worlds there and the Outer Rim territories will find themselves in an information vacuum."
"Yes," the Duros agreed nasally. "Planetary relays in the Expansion Region are not powerful enough to reach the Outer Rim relays."
"That is what Count Dooku's calculation is based on," the senator reported. "The Confederacy of Independent Systems, relying on its own network of Shadowfeed relays, will not lose the initiative..."
"While Republic troops will only be able to rely on their own forces—within a single sector, as the main relays are located on the sector capital planets," the Duros concluded. "Strike in one sector—and in the neighboring one, they won't even hear the call for help."
"How did the CIS senators agree to this?" the human boy exclaimed.
"We won't be left without communications," Comlin shrugged. "Mobile relays are certainly an expensive pleasure, but Count Dooku assured that in the end, it would serve the cause of liberating the Confederacy worlds."
"Well, yeah," the Duros squinted. "Right now the Republic has crawled onto many Confederacy worlds..."
"And according to intelligence—plans to strike Saleucami, Mygeeto, and Felucia," Comlin recalled the backroom talk of the senators. "This message alone forced most of the senators of the Separatist Congress to vote 'yes'."
"Shit," the Duros repeated. "Hutt with the communications—destroying the relays will effectively disrupt navigation between the Expansion Region and the Mid Rim on the main hyperspace routes."
"That was also mentioned," Al confirmed. "It will be extremely difficult for the Republic to deliver reinforcements—they'll have to jump from one system to another to recalibrate their own hyperdrives to the signals of hyperspace beacons. This will significantly increase the arrival time of starships outside specific sectors. Well, we won't have such problems..."
"'We'?" the human flared up. "Whose side are you on anyway?"
"On my own," Al said coldly. "It's just that right now it aligns with the Empire's policy."
"Dangerous talk," the human chuckled. "Aren't you afraid that if you send the Empire to the frost, the next day there won't be Republic hypocrites in orbit of Umbara, but Imperial dreadnoughts, and your Shadow World will turn into a charred piece of slag?"
"Empty threats," Al waved his hand. "Umbara, in my person, will support the Empire as long as the Empire does not act to our detriment. I have already reported this to the Emperor through trusted people and received preliminary consent."
"Such clever-assed allies should meet the dawn under the explosions of nuclear munitions," the human said, pursing his lips.
"Be quiet," the Duros asked. "The Empire is grateful to you for the assistance provided."
Al gave a perfunctory smile. Squinting slightly, he tried to peer into the minds of his new acquaintances. And if the human boy was just a raging storehouse of youthful maximalism and didn't have many thoughts in his head, then the Duros... However. How is such a thing even possible?
"I don't advise poking around in my brain, Senator," the blue-skinned alien advised hoarsely, demonstratively twirling a thin ice pick in his hand. "I'm not encountering your race for the first time. And I have telepathic blockers in my arsenal."
"They only work for a few minutes at most," the senator said, suppressing a yawn. Yes, it was late; it was time to return to the residence. "Then your brains will become just as pliable as everyone else's."
"To slit your throat or shove a knife up to the hilt in your eye, I need about three seconds," the Duros smiled. Nodding toward his partner, he added, "He needs two."
"And I thought you were more of a professional than your subordinate," Comlin admitted, deciding it was best not to go into confrontation with the Empire's representatives. After all—the second part of the deal had not yet been fulfilled by the Imperials.
"He just has the fastest hands in the entire Outer Rim," the Duros shrugged.
"And trained ones," the boy added with a slight touch of offense, showing his hands, which he kept in the slash pockets of his pants. "The Pantora Assembly has already been convinced of that. Posthumously."
"Yes, I heard about that," Al added significantly. No wonder—the death of all members of Pantora's ruling body at once had alarmed many senators—both in the Republic and in the Confederacy. And so far, no one had any doubt that it was an accident... But if the Empire is capable of such actions... Likely, Mahtee Dunn's death was not a simple accident after all. "On that note, I hope that's all for us? My wives are surely waiting for me..."
"One last thing, Senator," the human spoke sharply. "How much time do we have before the attack on the relays begins? We still need to drop by a couple of places..."
"There is no time to spare," Senator Comlin said indifferently. "The attack on the relays began immediately after the conclusion of the Congress meeting. All Republic forces in the Mid and Outer Rim are already cut off from the civilized part of the galaxy. They just don't know it yet."
"Those Separatist little cocks," the human said angrily, spitting heavily in front of him. Al, watching as the spit, caught by the wind that had been blowing in the Imperials' faces for half an hour, spread across the edge of the human's cloak, decided that this guy's hands might indeed be fast and trained, but he was a lousy marksman.
And how do such people manage to serve the Empire?