Ten years, three months, and two days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, third month, and second day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and twenty-two days since arrival).
Jedi Master Bre'ano Umakk snapped his eyes open the moment Jehane Cross entered the room.
The chamber, resembling a cell in some monastery, had been carved into the heart of the rock upon which, as it turned out, the Jedi Temple rested.
"Master," the special agent addressed the Mon Calamari. "The agents sent word that—"
"The time has come, Agent Cross," the former Jedi rose to his feet, channeling the Force through his body to warm his muscles after a long meditation. "You may signal your comrades to organize the diversions and seize control of the Imperial Palace's computers."
"Looks like it," the agent agreed, tapping a finger on the screen of the personal datapad he had brought with him. A coded message rippled through the planet's emergency broadcast network. But there was something else that had brought him to the former Jedi Master's "cell." "Scouts report that for the Imperials—and across all of Coruscant where there's power—holovisions have triggered all at once. The Republican President is broadcasting a grand victory over the Pentastar Alignment. In the Battle of Balmorra, the Republicans managed to crush Grand Moff Kaine's fleet, kill Kaine himself, and capture his Super Star Destroyer and several other ships. They've also driven Alignment forces out of the Humbarine sector and intend to continue their liberation march, wiping out the Imperials."
"Violence only begets violence," the Mon Calamari said philosophically. "That is why the Jedi considered themselves guardians of peace."
"Didn't stop them from participating in wars," Cross smirked mirthlessly.
"Double standards are inherent to many sentients," Umakk noted. "Regardless of their religious or political preferences."
"And what about the Force?" the agent inquired. "Isn't it supposed to, you know, guide and suggest things?"
"There are many philosophical interpretations of the nature of the Force, my friend," Umakk stated. "Unfortunately, not all sensitive to it understand that it is merely a tool. Not a manual. I have studied ancient records found on Ossus. In the past, the Jedi were not so categorical in their use of the Force. They accepted it as a necessary side of their existence. But they did not treat its nudges as target designations for action. The Order moved further from its foundations with every generation. Until it reached extinction."
"So, the old Jedi were smarter," Cross huffed. "Because if agents and soldiers listened to their blasters—to shoot or not to shoot—they'd never achieve victory."
"Yes, the comparison is similar," the former Jedi agreed.
He looked with interest at the screen of the datapad Jehane was holding.
The scout glanced at the screen, which showed an image of President Fey'lya and a human male sitting beside him, dressed in simple robes with a peaceful expression on his face.
The agent had muted the sound, but that didn't stop the Mon Calamari from reading the scrolling ticker.
"How interesting," he said. "I know that face…"
"The 'face'?" Jehane repeated. "I hadn't noticed you had trouble with Basic. People say 'I know that man.'"
"I do not know this man," the Mon Calamari cut him off. "But I know the face of the one it belonged to."
Cross looked at his companion incredulously.
It seemed the Jedi had finally lost his mind…
"His name was Falon Grey," the Mon Calamari explained. "He was a Jedi Knight, a former padawan of Rahm Kota. He survived Order Sixty-Six and hid on Dantooine. We… hardly spoke."
"Why?"
"We diverged in our own ideas about the nature of the Force and the path the renewed Jedi Order should take," the Mon Calamari explained, taking the datapad. "I do not know how, but the Imperials tracked him down. And killed him. They used Force-sensitive stormtroopers…"
"And you didn't help your fellow Jedi?" Jehane clarified, looking at his companion with even greater suspicion.
"He was not my comrade," Bre'ano countered. "Nor my ally. I was protecting the Jedi legacy, the truth that would lead them into the future. And I lived far enough away from him. He… was just hiding and wanted a better life. But the kind of life Jedi lived during the Galactic Republic, shortly before its fall. When I arrived at the battlefield, I saw the Imperials had killed him. There was no point in staying. I left. Just as I left that time Darth Vader came to Dantooine to destroy the resistance cells."
"And I thought it was every Jedi's sacred duty to challenge Vader to a duel and make him repent for what he'd done."
"Yes, perhaps that is the duty of the Jedi," Umakk agreed. "But after Order Sixty-Six, we were no longer Jedi. To call ourselves that is merely to cling to a past that no longer exists. Or to simplify the explanation of what you spent most of your life on. Either way, I am no match for Vader. As are most Jedi. No matter how we imagine otherwise. To fight him is noble. Но foolish. The teaching of the Force lives as long as there is at least one who understands it."
"One could think you were just a coward," the thought flashed through the agent's mind.
"That is not Falon Grey," the Mon Calamari shook his head.
"But it says," Jehane pointed to the caption on the screen, "that it's him. In the flesh."
"Perhaps someone who decided to take his name, and happens to look very much like him," the Mon Calamari examined the image with curiosity. "Perhaps a clone… Yes, most likely. See," he pointed to the blush on the embarrassed man's cheeks, "he is confused and feels shame for being called that. He tries to object, but President Fey'lya cuts him off. Though it is thought impossible, history proves otherwise. Can you turn on the sound?"
"No problem. If you want, you can watch the address from the beginning. I'm recording it for detailed analysis."
"Thank you, I am interested in this fragment."
Jehane fulfilled the former Jedi's request.
"…would also like to report that this victory for the New Republic is not the only one," the pompous Bothan—leader of the New Republic—declared. "After we expelled radical elements from our society and became truly free, I would like to announce that the New Republic declares the restoration of the Jedi Order! Under the leadership of Master Falon Grey," the Bothan pointed to the man sitting beside him. "A wise and righteous Jedi who did not disgrace himself with depraved acts, unlike Luke Skywalker."
"Oh, you believe that Luke Skywalker, who was previously a hero of the Alliance to Restore the Republic and positioned himself as the last surviving Jedi, has disgraced himself?" the off-screen host asked in surprise.
"I do not deny that Luke Skywalker and other heroes of the Alliance have many merits," Fey'lya stated. "But at the same time, I wish to note that for many years I have observed how victories over the Empire have gone to these 'heroes' heads.' They became increasingly authoritarian, doing what they thought was right for themselves, rather than for the New Republic. As a result, the government did its best to cover their actions. Look no further than that stunt by General Solo, who decided to prevent the marriage of Princess Leia Organa to Crown Prince Isolder of the Hapes Consortium. That political marriage could have strengthened our state in every sense. Instead, at the time, we got another 'supposed ally.' Who abandoned the New Republic as soon as Leia Organa-Solo admitted her radical views to herself and left with the others to found the Alliance."
"Let's return to the Jedi Order," the host suggested. "Do you believe there are still Jedi in the galaxy who will join Master Grey?"
"There are Jedi in the galaxy, though they are few," Grey said quietly. "I am certain they are ready to remember their oath and stand for peace and justice in the galaxy, joining me and the New Republic."
"Aren't your words a bit too optimistic, Master Jedi?" the host inquired.
"No," the President of the New Republic answered for the Jedi. "If the Jedi are true to their oath—to guard and protect the Republic—they will stand with us. As loyal assistants and pillars of the democratic regime, subordinate to the Senate and the President of the New Republic. If not, then, with great regret, I will be forced to conclude that there is a grain of truth in the Imperial propaganda that told the people of the galaxy the Jedi started the Clone Wars and tried to take control of the Senate, the Republic's armed forces, and kill then-Supreme Chancellor Palpatine because he represented a life philosophy unfriendly to the Jedi. In that case, such elements represent a great danger to the New Republic. And we will never tolerate them acting without coordination with us. Our Jedi Order will set as one of its goals the discovery of such traitors to their oaths and bringing them to account. A fair and just trial, instead of the show executions Luke Skywalker held for the Emperor and Darth Vader aboard the second Death Star."
"Quite a bold statement, President Fey'lya," the host remarked. "Don't you think…"
"Thank you, that is enough," Bre'ano Umakk said. "I have heard enough. There is no need for the rest."
"A rather sharp statement," Jehane expressed his opinion.
"Which sends an unambiguous message to former Jedi," the Mon Calamari clarified. "'Either join the New Republic, or you will be targets for a new Jedi hunt.'"
"It seems to me that against the backdrop of such a statement, your message will look rather pale," Jehane said. "And less imperative to force the Jedi out of hiding."
Instead of answering, the Mon Calamari pulled out his holoprojector and played a pre-recorded message.
The one that was to be broadcast by the Jedi Temple's transmitter to the entire galaxy, using HoloNet relays.
"Jedi, and other Force-sensitive sentients! I call upon you all to unite for the sake of the galaxy's future and to gather for a meeting to discuss our differences and stand as a united front against an encroaching threat of galactic proportions. We offer you a home, the opportunity to live without fear of further persecution, and the resurrection of our teaching as it was intended by the ancient founders of the Jedi Order," the Mon Calamari's recording played, followed by the name of the planet and its coordinates where all interested were to arrive by a specific time.
"Yes," the Mon Calamari agreed. "It is not quite what is needed. I will re-record the message. Even better—I will broadcast live."
Jehane's mouth dropped open in shock.
"You've gone mad, Master!" he said. "The enemy won't be able to track a coded signal, but a broadcast on Coruscant—that's a given. They'll be here within minutes of you going on the air. It's an entire garrison! They'll send significant forces to surround the Temple and take it by storm. Do you want a repeat of Operation Knightfall? My people won't be enough to protect you and ensure an escape."
"I know," the Mon Calamari replied quietly. "Now I understand what I had to do on Coruscant. As soon as the broadcast begins, you must be outside the Temple and retreating to where you will be safe."
No, this Jedi had definitely lost his mind.
***
"That's it," Mr. Pent leaned back in his operator's chair, blissfully closing his eyes and staring at the ceiling. "The slicer has done his job. The slicer can rest. Wake me up tomorrow—I'm sleeping."
His blue hair, which he cut in a regulatory style (unlike his original's mane), made him look like a dim lightbulb in that position.
Lieutenant Colonel Tierce approached the slicer.
"Did you launch the program, Mr. Pent?" the commander of the Dominion Guard asked dryly.
The movement of eyes under the eyelids made it clear the young man had not yet begun fulfilling his wish.
"I'm sleeping," the clone acted out.
"I asked a question."
"Everything is done. Let me sleep," the slicer said grumpily. "I worked with the HoloNet code for almost twenty-four hours straight. And this isn't some portable datapad's operating system for you. This is trillions of lines of code written over millennia. A Huttish assortment created by the hands—skilled and growing from somewhere other than shoulders—of thousands of programmers. Not to mention that I slogged through the viral software of Republican special forces, copied it, adapted it to our search program, tested it, and launched it! And it, cobbled together in a hurry, works! If I don't sleep and get away from the programmer's horror I've seen, my brains are going to flatten out. I'll be drooling all over the place here."
Grodin, without even turning his head, raised a hand so it could be seen by his own clones standing behind him.
Sign language once again helped him relay the command, and the clones set to work, dispersing across the entire operations zone.
Some began working within the room, others at different ends of the station.
But the work was the same.
They were covering their tracks.
And leaving someone else's.
"How long must we stay here to receive a response from the search program?" Tierce asked, relentless in his desire to obtain every piece of data on the mission's progress and results.
"May a rancor be your relative, Lieutenant Colonel!" the programmer jumped up from his workstation in irritation and stared at the guardsman. "My eyelids are closing from exhaustion and—"
Pent fell silent, looking first at his companion.
the strong face of a man who had wiped out an enemy squad single-handedly radiated not a shred of sympathy.
"Does the broadcast of President Fey'lya's speech across the galaxy reliably mask our search query?" the commander of the Dominion Guard continued his questioning.
In a tone so polite it would have started an ice age on Kashyyyk.
"Yes," Pent felt himself involuntarily pulling together, straightening up as if at an inspection. "I set the search query to be transmitted with the same intensity as the Republican big shot's broadcast. Judging by the traces of recent code intrusion I found, Republican specialists went through the program specifically to ensure uninterrupted broadcasting to every holoreceiver in the galaxy."
"Is the broadcast happening even on Dominion territory?"
"Nope," it seemed the danger had passed. "We have software filters on our relays. We weed out everything not transmitted on our frequencies and from our planets. This program the Republicans implemented is entirely and completely calculated for civilian receivers that don't have sixth-generation software protection against external control. So, I took advantage of their work and hitched our signal to their broadcast. Besides transmitting it independently from here in a parallel data stream."
"So we have two broadcasts?"
"Well… effectively, yes," Pent scratched the back of his head. "I just thought that since the Republicans found someone smart who can write control code for remote activation of holoreceivers with sixth-generation protection—and those are Imperial standards—then why not use their new toy to try and reach that stubborn piece of rock?"
The Lieutenant Colonel said nothing.
"If a response comes from only one search program—the one using the remote-access code for Imperial technology—then we'll know the equipment on the ship was forcibly shut down. If it comes from both—it will simply mean the Imperials didn't try hard enough to find that ship earlier."
"Aha," Pent replied in a slightly disconcerted tone. "I didn't expect you to understand that right away…"
"Set President Fey'lya's broadcast and both your search queries to automatic," Tierce ordered.
"But… why?" Pent didn't understand.
Then his gaze fell on the Lieutenant Colonel's clones busy with the relay center's equipment.
"Um," the slicer drawled. "Do you know what your subordinates are doing, Lieutenant Colonel?"
"Their jobs," Grodin explained impassively. "You should follow their example."
"Are they copying data from the servers?" Pent looked at the guardsman suspiciously.
"No," Tierce replied, without even looking back. "They are taking backup versions of the HoloNet software along with the storage media—the backup servers. You, in addition to what I've already said, must check every server for tracking devices. The faster you do it, the sooner you sleep."
Pent opened his mouth to object, but seeing the ruthlessness on the guardsman's face, he realized all objections were pointless.
"Well… fine, sure," he sighed. "I'll go work. But it would be much easier if the local operators helped me."
"They are currently unavailable," Tierce cut him off. "Manage on your own, Mr. Pent. And in the shortest time possible. We must leave the station as quickly as possible."
The slicer gave a long yawn, only bothering to cover his mouth with a hand at the last moment.
"As always," he said, smacking his lips. "You know… I was thinking. Since we're taking the backup servers, maybe we should grab a couple of the workstations? With those, we won't need to wait for a response at this station at all—we can set up a 'receiving side' in any corner of the galaxy. I just need to do something to the equipment…"
"Proceed, Mr. Pent," Lieutenant Colonel Tierce agreed after a moment's thought.
***
As soon as the thermal paste burned through the emergency airlock's lock, the doors slid apart, allowing the Fourth Special Storm Commando Detachment to begin its work.
The wide stream of fire launched first into the short corridor by THX-0333 licked the surface of the interior plating, melting plastic elements and thin metal.
Through the roar of the raging flames, the screams of enemy soldiers and crew members could be heard—those who had reflexively decided to resist the storming units.
The problem was that the armored chunks of the ship left from the Galactic Traveler had no artificial gravity.
And the enemy could use no cover.
Except perhaps to entrench themselves in doorways or behind protruding bulkheads.
But the Mon Calamari design had played a big joke on them.
Smooth walls and floors, fluid transitions and ceilings, an absence of sharp angles and junctions, as well as parts of the structure and framing protruding into the corridors—the reason the enemy failed to drown the attackers in blood.
THX-0333 shut off the flamethrower.
A quick assessment of the situation showed a scorched corridor ahead, where charred bodies and bits of soot floated.
"Assault."
The four soldiers of the special unit, stepping heavily in magnetic-soled boots, moved forward slowly.
Meter by meter.
Section by section.
Every locked room was scanned for an airtight seal.
If confirmed, a breach of the locking device followed, after which the flamethrower's nozzle was inserted.
No hand grenades, which would have no great throwing range or necessary trajectory due to the lack of artificial gravity.
No protracted blaster firefights.
No hand-to-hand combat.
The Fourth Special Detachment went straight through.
Even without the support of droidekas and droids.
The former, though they had magnetic grippers on their limbs, were not the best assistants where they couldn't move in their rolled-up ball state.
The latter were pointless to use in space without gravity.
The storm commandos worked in their accustomed heavy atmosphere.
Despite the destruction of the flagship, life remained inside the wreckage.
Built with a modular type of assembly and containing many armored capsules, this ship—like other Mon Calamari–pattern starships—had reactors spread throughout the hull.
Evidently, some of them remained active and provided the survivors with everything they needed.
Light, heat, oxygen.
But not gravity.
Clearing this armored capsule took a great deal of time.
But in the end, they were able to locate and seize control of the ship's central computer.
The databases on it had been wiped.
Whether this process could be reversed would be decided by the relevant specialists.
THX-0333 himself considered it a great stroke of luck to have found partial technical plans of the ship: someone from the crew had left a technical datapad with such vital data in a cabin.
Now there remained the problem of only one, but quite important section, which remained outside the control of the storm commandos in this fragment of the enemy flagship.
The bridge.
It was protected by a heavy armored bulkhead, blocking access to control instruments and external access to the section.
Evidently, the Mon Calamari shipbuilders had learned lessons from past assaults.
And now, if the bridge was locked, getting onto it without punching through a bulkhead equal in thickness to an armored capsule's hull was impossible.
However, such radical solutions were not the habit of the shipbuilders from the planet Dac.
Smoothly gliding from one section adjacent to the corridor leading to the bridge to another, THX-0333 braked, grabbing a technical ladder with his hand.
Its position did not match identical ones he had seen in other parts of the section.
According to the builders' design, it was supposed to help technicians gain access to technical corridors and tunnels directly from the hallway.
The commando correctly identified by the broken seal that the mechanism had already been used.
Tracing the possible path with his gaze, he also discovered that one of the technical hatches leading into the central sections of the armored capsule was open: the fastening screws were missing.
Someone had gone this way.
The size of the technical hatch, and accordingly the tunnel behind it, allowed a sentient in a light emergency vacuum suit to squeeze through.
That meant it could be done in armor too.
But first, the tunnel had to be checked for potential danger.
"I need a 'creeper'," he reported via comlink to the soldiers of his squad. "With a magnet."
Within a couple of minutes, one was placed in his hand…
A MSE-6 mouse droid.
The simplest, smallest, most inconspicuous, and most familiar service droid.
"Control transferred to helmet visor," the squad technician reported. "Magnetic pad set to medium."
"Acknowledged."
THX-0333 slid the panel aside and activated the droid, sliding it inside.
The apparatus, controlled by a simple electronic brain, used the magnetic pad located under its base to press itself against the lower surface of the technical tunnel.
Thereby ensuring traction for its wheels on the metal surface of the tunnel.
With artificial gravity, such manipulations are unnecessary—the droid works reliably under the influence of gravity.
The mouse droid illuminated the technical tunnel with its scanners, after which a blinking icon for remote visual control appeared on the visor of THX-0333's helmet.
Activating it, the commando took a comfortable position, not bothering to worry about his safety.
The soldiers had already switched to guarding their commander, and an "accident" like an enemy soldier appearing out of nowhere and wounding the sergeant would not happen.
The "creeper" was a jury-rigged modification of a simple mouse droid.
THX-0333 had built it from a broken droid for the purpose of remote detection of the enemy or tracking hazards.
A simple and cheap means for checking technical crawlspaces for mines, traps, or ambushes.
The development needed field testing.
And the ruins of the Galactic Traveler were perfectly suited for it.
Traces of movement through the technical tunnel were practically indistinguishable under current conditions.
The lack of gravity had lifted what little dust there was into the air, so noticing something on the floor was pointless.
THX-0333 was more interested in the technical cables, ties, and structural braces.
They were placed to suspend communications in a state of rest, but were no longer needed.
And whoever had moved this way had not been careful about preserving technical solutions.
THX-0333 understood what the technical tunnel had been needed for.
Judging by the direction in which the braces had been cut, whoever was moving this way was crossing to the bridge.
Unable to get there otherwise, they had taken the bypass.
A logical action.
Soon, the "creeper" found a light source coming from a ventilation grate in the floor.
Which pointed unambiguously to a simple fact—the droid had reached the desired compartment.
Below it was the bridge.
THX-0333 did not intend to detonate the droid, as had been done before.
First, he needed to assess the situation inside the compartment.
To do this, he adjusted the extendable holocamera so that it could observe what was happening below it.
The technical hatch, unlike the ventilation grates, though it consisted of latticed metal, had its own peculiarity.
The space between the slats was not intended for air movement and therefore turned out to be filled with transparisteel.
The result was a combined airtight hatch.
Through which a most curious sight of what was happening on the bridge of the enemy flagship opened to the "creeper," and accordingly to THX-0333…
Or rather—of what was left of it.
"Contact the Guardian," THX-0333 ordered, breaking visual contact with the droid. "I have a report for Captain Pellaeon."
***
Darth Maul looked with undisguised contempt at the fifty sentients now standing and sitting before him, locked in the local mess hall during the work of Tierce's guardsman group.
He did not even intend to hide his attitude toward these weak, frightened, and frankly pathetic creatures.
But he also understood that under the helmet of his uniform, they could not see the manifestation of his emotions.
And they could not even hear them—the helmet's vocoder masked any inflections in his voice, turning contempt into the mundane speech widely known in the galaxy thanks to the notorious Imperial stormtroopers.
"Listen closely," he said. "No one will repeat this. The New Republic, for the sake of its plans, has struck the Intergalactic Communications Center to take control of the central HoloNet hub. This is not the first time such a thing has happened—the previous time was during the Clone Wars. Your management did not care for proper protection of such valuable equipment and its personnel. The result," he pointed a masked gauntlet at the bodies in body bags lying in the food-freezing zone, "you see for yourselves. The mercenaries who were supposed to guard you were wiped out by Republican special operations forces."
"And you—wiped them out!" someone from the crowd said.
It cost Maul nothing to find out who it was—he only had to call upon the Force as an ally and read the emotions of these sentients.
But he didn't care.
"Does anyone feel sorry for them?" the Zabrak inquired. "I don't. They attacked the weak—you. And killed your guards, taking your hub under their control. We did the same. In your place, this should be viewed as a hostage rescue. Or am I wrong?"
The answer didn't concern him either.
He didn't care about these sentients and their fate.
Judging by the fact that no one present even tried to express an opinion—they were in agreement on this matter…
"Are you trying to say you flew here to liberate us from captivity?" the same dissatisfied voice. "You were planning to do the same thing yourselves! If they hadn't killed the mercenaries, you would have done it yourselves."
"But we didn't," Maul smirked. "History has no subjunctive mood. Nor respect for mercenaries. But I am not here to waste my time on such talk. The one by whose order we came here has tasked us with evacuating your team from here."
"For what purpose?"
This guy was starting to get annoying.
Darth Maul opened himself to the Force.
And instantly found the sentient who was the source of the malice and irritation being projected toward the Shadow Guard.
"What do you want from us?"
Yes, the voice matched the caught emanations.
Maul threw his right hand forward, clenching it into a fist and releasing the Force, directing it at the restless one.
The latter suddenly soared to the very ceiling of the mess hall, rolling bulging eyes and clawing at his throat with his nails.
"To begin with—not to be interrupted with your petty remarks," he explained. "Everything that concerns you—will be voiced. If it hasn't been voiced—it means you don't need to know it. Is that clear to everyone?"
Silent but affirmatively nodding heads.
The Zabrak turned so he could view the troublemaker "in all his glory."
Human.
Fat.
Unpleasant face.
A second or even third chin.
Not a trace of intellect on his face.
"Is this your director?" he clarified with those present.
And again—affirmative nods of the head.
"A hollow man," Maul waved a hand aside and the fat man's body slammed into the metal wall at high speed.
There was the crunch of bones.
The body that slumped to the floor did not move.
And it's hard to do that when the back of the head is crushed into the skull.
"Whoever feels sorry for him—you can do the same as you did for the dead mercenaries: pack the corpse in a bag," Darth Maul suggested.
No one even moved.
It seemed the local management was very much "loved" here.
Since even trash like the mercenaries had been packed into body bags, but the immediate superior—was not.
"Now let's return to what is truly important," the Zabrak said. "This station—is mined. The Republican special forces planned to blow it up to hide the traces of their intrusion into the HoloNet…"
In fact, the mining was being done by Lieutenant Colonel Tierce's soldiers, which was why the station workers had been gathered in one place.
But the captives didn't need to know that at all.
"Why do that?" someone was horrified. "We don't know anything, no corporate secrets!"
"They wanted to crash the HoloNet!" a second assumption was born.
Possibly even a correct one.
"Nonsense! There are backup lines, other centers. Yes, there will be a communications collapse for a certain time, but in a couple of days everything will work."
"What days? Months! The backup servers and other 'hubs' have been mothballed for at least half a century, if not more!"
"A real circus," Darth Maul thought, looking at the sentients arguing among themselves.
"My command has an offer for you," he continued, drowning out the noise with the power of his voice. "Since your own management doesn't care about you and couldn't come up with any protection for you besides fifty second-rate mercenaries, and the Republicans weren't going to stand on ceremony with you at all, I have the right to offer you work for those I represent."
"And who is that?" a timid voice came from the crowd.
"You'll find out if you want to work for us," Maul answered evasively. "You are offered large salaries—much more than you received here. Complete safety under our wing. The specifics of the work will be the same as here. But with strict discipline and execution."
The crowd buzzed, talking among themselves.
"We're just simple operators of a relay hub," another said. "And not the best ones at that."
"We were hired because almost all of us are former students who don't have much work experience—and therefore, we can be paid the minimum," another explanation was born.
Darth Maul moved his hand aside and, using the Force, with the screech and groan of metal, crushed the serving table into a small ball.
The chatter among those present stopped at once.
"Everyone who wants to work for us—will get off this station," he explained. "The rest—will blow up with the charges. Now, must I repeat the question?"
It wasn't needed.
There were no idiots among the operators.
All forty-nine survivors agreed.
***
When Lieutenant Colonel Tierce finished his report, received instructions for further actions, and his hologram faded, all that remained was to "check the box" next to another item of the plan.
And "close" a few more positions.
After some time, when it occurred to the management of the Intergalactic Communications Center that something strange was happening with their central hub on Praesitlyn, they would undoubtedly try to contact the communication center abandoned by all living beings.
Failing to get confirmation—they would set out on reconnaissance.
And there, many surprises awaited them.
Which would move my plan forward in its further implementation.
Sending the guardsmen and Mr. Pent to Praesitlyn to use Fey'lya's broadcast for my own purposes—that was not the ultimate goal.
The real goal was much larger.
More global.
"HoloNet" is not just a name.
It is much more complex.
"HoloNet" is the largest communications system in the galaxy, ensuring the transfer of information from planets in one part of the galaxy to another.
By means of telecommunications equipment—transmitters, relays, and other tools that had been sown throughout interstellar space over tens of thousands of years.
Each of more than a thousand galactic sectors has a vast number of telecommunications devices—receivers and transmitters—at its disposal.
These, in turn, allow for the transmission of signals within a sector in real-time.
To send a signal outside the sector, even to neighboring administrative unions, a much more powerful transceiver is needed—a relay.
It is through this that all the sector's information flows pass, as well as those beyond its borders.
We used this feature last year to block the exchange of information between the planets we attacked.
But even a relay doesn't work on its own.
When one sectoral transceiver fails, information flows are redistributed through the nearest equivalent in a neighboring sector.
This increases the information-transfer time.
Sometimes—very, very substantially.
But this doesn't happen on its own.
All information traffic between sectoral relays passes through Praesitlyn—the servers of the Intergalactic Communications Center, which the New Republic recently took under direct control, secretly and not without bloodshed.
Thus, they ensured President Fey'lya's broadcast to the entire galaxy in real-time.
And the cunning Bothan managed to bring his truth to both Imperials and Republicans.
Not to mention other territories, with the exception of the Dominion.
Thanks to the work of Mr. Gent's clones and the sectoral relays stolen from the New Republic last year, we have secured our own closed broadcasting system, filtering out information communications we don't need, and sometimes simply espionage ones.
The HoloNet has existed for thousands of years and was used by citizens of the Galactic Republic as well as the residents of its successor state, the Galactic Empire.
After the Battle of Endor, the New Republic, the successor government created by the Rebel Alliance, took formal control of the HoloNet and began to relax Imperial restrictions and censorship.
Since the main active hub of the HoloNet was located in the Sluis sector, after it left the New Republic, the HoloNet turned into a neutral information network.
Under the control of the Sluis sector government.
The indigenous people of Sluis Van are not aggressive or vengeful by nature, but this did not stop them from maintaining their neutrality not so much with the forces of the tiny remnants of their own military, but by keeping a hand on the "pulse" of the global information network.
The functioning of which is important for everyone in the galaxy.
The HoloNet ensures not only communication and news broadcasting but also participates in stock-exchange trading, interstellar economics, and ensures communication for the military and industrialists.
Not to mention everything else.
A direct attack on the Sluis sector would clearly lead to the destruction of the Intergalactic Communications Center and the paralysis of most of the galaxy for a long time.
Why most, and not all?
Because the Empire has its own communications network spread exclusively within Imperial Space and the Imperial Remnants.
It is simply called the "Imperial network."
It's somewhat like an extremely simple social network from my past life and, during the reign of the Galactic Empire, was no more than an internal service for citizens to communicate.
Not particularly popular, by the way.
But now it's gaining momentum and is the main source of internal Imperial propaganda.
This means of communication didn't "take off" largely for the same reason the New Republic (and the Rebel Alliance before it) failed to totally control the information space with the introduction of its own equivalent many years ago.
The New Republic currently also has its own internal communications network—the "New Republic HoloNet."
Active as early as the year of the Battle of Endor, this network became the source of information about the destruction of the second Death Star across all HoloNet transceivers on Coruscant.
Which led to a local uprising of the locals against Imperial rule on the capital planet.
Quickly and bloodily suppressed by the Imperial government.
It continued to serve as the official broadcasting system for the New Republic when it came to power on Coruscant and in most of the galaxy.
At the moment, it is used in the same capacity exclusively as the official propaganda organ of the Fey'lya government.
But in any case—neither the Imperial nor the Republican equivalents are able to compete with the HoloNet.
Simply because the population of the galaxy is accustomed to the most widespread broadcasting network, not to artisanal crafts.
And there are actually many of them.
For example, at one time a private broadcasting network known as the "Baobab HoloNet" was widely known in the galaxy.
Created by an enthusiast scientist from a noble family, it emerged in the times after the fall of the Old Republic and the rise of the Empire.
Baobab wanted to create an alternative to the HoloNet, which was controlled by Imperial forces and broadcast only propaganda, showing the Empire in a positive light.
However, after the fall of the Empire, Baobab's alternative was largely abandoned and forgotten as larger media outlets—the galactic HoloNet—resumed regular broadcasting free of Imperial influence.
By the way, the same sentient created the galaxy's largest archive of knowledge, known as the "Baobab Archive," which is able to compete with most libraries and scientific funds in the galaxy.
During the Mandalorian Wars, the planet Taris had its own broadcasting network, isolated from the galactic HoloNet and not allowing direct transmission of galactic information directly to the inhabitants of Taris, which continues its work to this day.
Cloud City on Bespin also had its own broadcasting network, similar to the one on Taris.
Corellia has its own broadcasting network, as do the Tapani sector, the Hutts, the Hapans, the Corporate Sector…
In remote sectors touched by the benefits of civilization, there also existed their own internal networks based on the transmission of information using a sectoral relay, but not allowing the direct transmission of information from the HoloNet to consumers.
There was always a certain buffer that filtered out everything "unnecessary"—in the local government's opinion.
This phenomenon is quite frequent, so there are no surprises regarding how the population of the Dominion calmly accepted information isolation and the work of censorship.
Yes, not without certain ferment among the citizens, but the situation is controlled.
The HoloNet, or rather its weakening, interested me mostly from a military and counter-propaganda point of view.
Coordination of armed forces at the front is the key to success.
And collecting information, even from open sources, which Bothan spies are so famous for, is an entirely separate art form.
Fey'lya has gone on the warpath.
Well, our armored train has also been brought out from the siding and put under steam, undergoing final maintenance.
The management of the Intergalactic Communications Center will undoubtedly soon come to its senses and realize there are problems.
Here, an allowance must be made for the fact that Fey'lya's broadcasts will initially be perceived exclusively as copying my propaganda speeches.
And they will realize the situation is much worse in a few standard days.
When Fey'lya's clips continue to burst into the galaxy's information space.
On a regular basis.
And then they will set out for Praesitlyn.
To investigate what is happening.
They will certainly set out—because they won't be able to contact the center via communication channels.
And when they arrive there—they will find "a lot of interesting things."
Which will finally and irrevocably break the Sluissi's relationship with the New Republic.
Not to mention what awaits the rest of the galaxy.
At the moment, I need the HoloNet to function as it is.
Too much is tied to it.
And after the Intergalactic Communications Center is destroyed, nothing will be able to stop the victorious march of the Dominion's regular fleet.
"Grand Admiral, sir," Captain Pellaeon's voice came from my apartment's intercom. "The assault teams report the complete clearing of the ships from enemy resistance."
"Results?"
"We have taken control of all twelve Star Destroyers hit by ion cannons," the commander of the Guardian reported. "All the Quasar Fires have also been captured. The greatest resistance was offered on the damaged escort frigates, but they also submitted. Technical teams state that the ships' key systems are functional, and they will soon be ready for a hyperspace jump to our base at Horrn."
"Contact Commodore Brandei," I directed. "We need escort ships, ferry personnel, and transports with spare parts and technical personnel led by Chief Engineer Reyes at Horrn by the time we arrive. Inform them of the malfunction of the captured ships."
"It will be done, sir," Pellaeon replied.
"Are there any prisoners?"
"Two hundred thousand sentients, sir. Most of the destroyer crews, almost everyone on the escort carriers. On the escort frigates, the crews fought to the last."
He suddenly fell silent.
"Sir, an urgent message has come from the clearing teams," so the storm commandos had checked in. Good. "Survivors have been found on the bridge and in the hangar in the wreckage of the Galactic Traveler. Two groups. There are critically wounded among one of them."
As if there were any doubt.
"General Solo, Lando Calrissian, and their mutual Wookiee friend named Chewbacca?" I clarified.
"The identity of the first is confirmed—the search teams found him and the bridge watch locked in the armored capsule of the battle bridge," Pellaeon said. "The other two cannot be identified, but pilots report a damaged Corellian freighter in the enemy flagship's hangar, identified as the Millennium Falcon. Its power output is minimal; there are hull deformations. The ship is not fit for interstellar flight. Two life forms are registered on board—a human and a Wookiee."
"In that case—it is them," I decided.
Regarding the durability of Han Solo's ship, I have no doubt that Calrissian and the Wookiee are intentionally portraying themselves as captives doomed to a slow death.
Based on data from the Galactic Traveler's central computer, at least this ship was built on the modular scheme of the Imperial approach to shipbuilding.
And it consists of a set of armored capsules—bridge, hangar, reactor section, battery decks…
There are systems for maintaining an emergency supply of oxygen, allowing survivors to hold out until help arrives.
In fact, the ship broke apart into these armored capsules after the Guardian's salvos from pistol distance.
From the intercept of enemy communications, we knew Solo was on the flagship and Calrissian and Chewbacca were on the Falcon.
The latter were responsible for the destruction of our Dragon-Eleven, as it was by their targeting system that the proton torpedoes from the Galactic Traveler were guided.
"Have we finished the evacuation from the wreckage of the Venator?" I clarified.
"Yes, sir. Everyone—living and dead—has been brought to our ships. From the former, control teams have been formed for the ferry crews of droids managing the captured warships. All valuable equipment from the wreckage has been dismantled by repair droids and delivered to the Super Star Destroyer's cargo hangar."
"Order the Guardian's gunners to destroy the wreckage of Dragon-Eleven," I directed.
"As you say, sir," Pellaeon replied. "What is the decision regarding the survivors on the Galactic Traveler?"
A good question.
At the moment, I have no great desire to interact with these sentients.
Furthermore, under current conditions, there is no need to bring them aboard the Guardian.
This crowd has a habit of sniffing out secrets and turning even visually acquired knowledge to their advantage.
And one look even at the Guardian's corridors will make it clear what kind of ship it is—and none of our enemies in the galaxy still know exactly which Super Star Destroyer destroyed Admiral Ackbar's fleet.
Not to mention that the observation skills of this trio will allow them to identify a range of our modernizations.
Including automated defense turrets, force fields, and systems lockouts for non-crew members.
As well as the reduced size of the latter.
"Drop an emergency beacon," I ordered. "If those star cruisers that 'missed' due to our actions with the gravity trawls need them, Solo and the others will be found. Don't forget to seed the wreckage of the Republican ships with buzz droids of the Morrt project."
If no one comes to Solo and his friends' aid in the near future—so be it.
However, I am certain Bel Iblis himself is on the way with half the Alliance fleet, expecting if not to destroy us in the original trap, then at least to finish us off after a heavy battle.
One could, of course, destroy his reinforcements as well, but unnecessary risk is not our way.
It is not worth groundlessly changing the plan for another slaughter.
Which will happen regardless.
But on our terms.
Without agents on Lantilles and a precise understanding of what forces Bel Iblis can bring against us, I do not want to risk it.
"Understood, sir," Captain Pellaeon confirmed his understanding of the order. "We will be ready to jump in ten minutes."
"And one last thing, Captain," I remembered. "Provide me with a full recording of the President of the New Republic's speech. And something else. Reprogram the emergency beacon's signal with the following text…"
***