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 the Arrival.)
Jedi Master Bre'ano Umakk sharply opened his eyes the moment Jahan Cross entered the room.
It resembled a cell in a monastery, carved into the rock mass on which, it turned out, the Jedi Temple rested.
"Master," the special agent addressed the Mon Calamari. "A message came from the agents 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 long meditation. "You can signal your comrades to organize diversions and take control of the computational machines in the Imperial Palace."
"It appears so," the agent agreed, tapping his fingernail on the screen of the personal datapad he had brought with him. The coded message spread through the planet's emergency broadcast network. But there was something else for which he had stopped by the former Jedi Master's "cell."
"Scouts report that all across Imperial territory, and indeed all of Coruscant where energy is available, holoscreens activated simultaneously. The Republican President is broadcasting about a grand victory over the Pentastar Alignment. At the Battle of Balmorra, the Republicans managed to defeat Grand Moff Kaine's fleet, kill him, capture his Super Star Destroyer and several other ships. They also drove the Alignment forces out of the Humbarine sector and intend to continue their liberation campaign, destroying the Imperials."
"Violence only begets violence," the Mon Calamari said philosophically. "That is why the Jedi considered themselves keepers of peace."
"Which didn't stop them from taking part in wars," Cross grinned without humor.
"Double standards are inherent in many sentients," Umakk observed. "Regardless of their religious and political preferences."
"And what about the Force?" the agent inquired. "Shouldn't it, like, guide, hint, and so on?"
"There are many philosophical interpretations of the nature of the Force, my friend," Umakk stated. "Unfortunately, not all who are sensitive to it understand that it is merely a tool. Not a guide. I studied ancient records found on Ossus. In the past, Jedi were not so categorical in their use of the Force. They accepted it as a necessary aspect of their existence. But they did not consider its hints as directives for action. With each generation, the Order drifted from its foundations. Until it came to extinction."
"So, it turns out Jedi were smarter in the past," Cross snorted. "Because if agents and soldiers listened to their blasters—whether to shoot or not—they would never achieve victories."
"Yes, these comparisons are similar," the former Jedi agreed.
He looked with interest at the screen of the datapad that Jahan held.
The scout looked at the screen, which showed an image of President Fey'lya and a human man sitting next to him, in simple clothes with a peaceful expression.
The agent had turned off the audio, which did not prevent the Mon Calamari from reading the "crawler."
"How interesting," he said. "I know that face..."
"'Face'?" Jahan repeated. "I didn't realize you had trouble with Basic. They say 'I know this man.'"
"I don't know this man," the Mon Calamari cut him off. "But I know the face of the one it belonged to."
Cross looked at his interlocutor with disbelief.
It seemed the Jedi had clearly gone off his...
"His name was Falon Grey," the Mon Calamari explained. "He was a Jedi Knight, former Padawan of Rahm Kota. He survived Order 66 and went into hiding on Dantooine. We... practically never communicated."
"Why?"
"We diverged in our own conceptions of the nature of the Force and the path the renewed Jedi Order should take," the Mon Calamari explained, taking possession of the datapad. "I don't know how, but the Imperials tracked him down. And killed him. They used Force-sensitive stormtroopers..."
"And you didn't help your fellow Jedi?" Jahan clarified, now even more suspicious of his interlocutor.
"He was not my comrade," Bre'ano objected. "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. As for him... he was just hiding and wanted a better life. But the way Jedi lived during the time of the Galactic Republic, shortly before its fall. When I arrived at the battlefield, I saw that the Imperials had killed him. There was no point in staying. I left. Just as I left that time when Darth Vader came to Dantooine to destroy the resistance cells."
"And I thought it was the sacred duty of every Jedi to challenge Vader to a duel and make him repent for what he did."
"Yes, perhaps that is the duty of Jedi," Umakk agreed. "But after Order 66, we were no longer Jedi. And calling ourselves that is just clinging to a past that no longer exists. Or, at least, for simplifying 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 might think otherwise. Fighting him is noble. But foolish. The teachings of the Force live on as long as there is at least one who understands them."
One would think you simply chickened out, crossed the agent's mind.
"That is not Falon Grey," the Mon Calamari shook his head.
"But it says so," Jahan pointed to the caption on the screen, "that it's him. In the flesh."
"Perhaps someone who decided to take his name and looks very much like him," the Mon Calamari examined the image with curiosity. "Perhaps a clone... Yes, most likely. See," he pointed at the blush on the cheeks of the embarrassed man, "he is embarrassed and feels shame for calling himself that. He tries to object, but President Fey'lya cuts him off. Even though it is considered impossible, history proves otherwise. Can you turn on the audio?"
"No problem. If you want, you can watch the speech from the beginning. I'm recording it for detailed analysis."
"Thank you, I'm interested in this fragment."
Jahan complied with the former Jedi's request.
."..I would also like to announce that this victory of the New Republic is not the only one," declared the Bith, puffed up with his own importance—the leader of the New Republic. "After we expelled radical elements from our society and became truly free, I would like to announce that the New Republic declares the reestablishment of the Jedi Order! Under the leadership of Master Falon Grey," the Bith indicated the man sitting next to him. "A wise and righteous Jedi who did not disgrace himself with corrupt actions, like Luke Skywalker."
"Oh, do you consider that Luke Skywalker, who was once a hero of the Alliance to Restore the Republic and positioned himself as the only 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 want to note that over many years, I have observed how victories over the Empire have gone to the heads of these so-called 'heroes.' They became increasingly authoritarian, doing what they thought was right for themselves, not for the New Republic. As a result, the government covered up their actions as best it could. Take, for example, that stunt by General Solo, who decided to prevent Princess Leia Organa from marrying Crown Prince Isolder from the Hapes Consortium? This political marriage could have strengthened our state in every way. And in the end, we got another 'so-called ally' at that time. Who abandoned the New Republic as soon as Leia Organa-Solo admitted to herself her radical views and left with others to found the Alliance."
"Let's return to the Jedi Order," the host suggested. "Do you think there are still Jedi in the galaxy who will join Master Grey?"
"In the galaxy, though few in number, there are still Jedi," Grey said softly. "I am confident that they are ready to remember their oath and rise to defend peace and justice in the galaxy, joining me and the New Republic."
"Aren't your words a bit too optimistic, Jedi Master?" the host inquired.
"No," the president of the New Republic answered for the Jedi. "If the Jedi are true to their oath—to protect and defend the Republic—then they will side with us. As faithful assistants and pillars of a democratic regime that answers to the Senate and the President of the New Republic. If not, then I will be forced to state with great regret that there is a grain of truth in the Imperial propaganda that told the galaxy's population that 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 philosophy of life unfriendly to the Jedi. In that case, such elements pose a great danger to the New Republic. And we will never tolerate them acting without our coordination. Our Jedi Order will set one of its goals as detecting such oathbreakers and bringing them to justice. An honest and fair trial, instead of the show executions that Luke Skywalker performed on the Emperor and Darth Vader aboard the second Death Star."
"A rather bold statement, President Fey'lya," the host assessed. "Don't you think..."
"Thank you, that's enough," Bre'ano Umakk said. "I have heard enough. There is no need for the rest."
"A rather sharp statement," Jahan expressed his opinion.
"Which gives former Jedi an unambiguous message," the Mon Calamari clarified. "'Either join the New Republic, or become targets for a new Jedi hunt.'"
"It seems to me that against the backdrop of such a statement, your message will look rather pale," Jahan said. "And less imperative to get the Jedi to come out of hiding."
Instead of answering, the Mon Calamari took out his holo-projector and played a pre-recorded message.
Which was to be broadcast by the Jedi Temple's transmitter across the entire galaxy, using the HoloNet relays.
"'Jedi, and other Force-sensitive beings! I call upon you all to unite for the future of the galaxy and come to a meeting to discuss our differences and stand as a united front against the looming threat of galactic scale. We offer you a home, the chance to no longer fear further persecution, and the resurrection of our teachings as they were intended by the ancient founders of the Jedi Order,' the recording of the Mon Calamari played, after which the name of a planet and its coordinates were given, where all who wished were to arrive by a specific time period."
"Yes," the Mon Calamari agreed. "That's not quite what's needed. I'll re-record the message. Or better yet—I'll broadcast it live."
Jahan's mouth dropped open in astonishment.
"Have you lost your mind, Master!" he exclaimed. "The enemy won't be able to track a coded signal, but a broadcast on Coruscant—that's for certain. They'll be here within minutes of you going on air. It's a whole garrison! They'll send significant forces to cordon off 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 secure an escape."
"I know," the Mon Calamari replied quietly. "Now I understand what I had to do on Coruscant. As soon as the broadcast starts, you must be outside the Temple and retreat to where you will be safe."
* * *
No, this Jedi had definitely lost his mind.
"That's it," Mr. Pent leaned back in the operator's chair, blissfully closing his eyes, staring at the ceiling. "The Slicer has done its job. The Slicer can rest. Wake me tomorrow—I'm going to sleep."
His blue hair, which he cut in the style of a regulation haircut (unlike his original's mane), in that position made him look like a dim light bulb.
Lieutenant Colonel Tierce approached the "Slicer."
"Have you launched the program, Mr. Pent?" the commander of the Dominion Guard inquired dryly.
From the movement of his eyes under his eyelids, it was clear that the young man had not yet begun to fulfill his wish.
"I'm sleeping," the clone said petulantly.
"I asked a question."
"It's all done. Let me sleep," the Slicer said displeased. "I've been working continuously on the HoloNet code for almost a day. And this isn't some portable datapad operating system. It's trillions of lines of code written over millennia. A Hutt's assortment, cobbled together by the hands of thousands of programmers—some talented, others not so much. Not to mention that I dug through the Republican special forces' viral software, copied it, adapted it to our search program, tested it, and launched it! And it works, cobbled together in haste on my knee! If I don't sleep and recover from that programmer's nightmare I saw, my brain folds will flatten out. I'll be drooling all over the place here."
Grodin, without even turning his head, raised his hand so that his own clones standing behind him could see it.
Sign language once again helped him convey the command, and the clones set to work, spreading out across the entire operations area.
Some began working inside this room, others at other ends of the station.
But the work was the same.
They were covering their tracks.
And leaving others'.
"How long do we need to stay here to get a response from the search program?" asked Tierce, unyielding in his desire to obtain absolutely all data on the mission's progress and results.
"Rancor damn it, Lieutenant Colonel!" the programmer jumped up from the workstation in irritation and stared at the guardsman. "My eyelids are closing from exhaustion and..."
Pent fell silent, first looking at his interlocutor.
The resolute face of the man who had single-handedly wiped out an enemy squad did not radiate even the slightest sympathy.
"The broadcast of President Fey'lya's speech across the galaxy reliably masks our search query?" the commander of the Dominion Guard continued to ask his questions.
In a tone so polite that it could start an ice age on Kashyyyk.
"Yes," Pent felt that against his will he had even pulled himself together, standing at attention as if on a parade ground. "I set up the search query so that it is transmitted with the same intensity as the broadcast of the Republican head honcho. Judging by the fact that I found traces of a recent intrusion into the code, Republican specialists deliberately tinkered with the program to ensure uninterrupted broadcasting to all holo-receivers in the galaxy."
"And even on Dominion territory, the broadcast is occurring?"
"Nope," he said; it seemed the danger had passed. "We have software filters on our relays. We filter out everything that isn't transmitted on our frequencies and from our planets. This program that the Republicans implanted is entirely designed exclusively for civilian receivers that don't have sixth-generation software protection against external control. So, I used their work and attached our signal to their broadcast. Besides also broadcasting it myself from here as a parallel information stream."
"So in the end, we have two broadcasts?"
"Well... effectively, yes," Pent scratched the back of his head. "I just thought, since the Republicans found someone smart enough to write control code for remote activation of holo-receivers with sixth-generation protection—and those are Imperial standards—then why not use their novelty to try to reach that stubborn piece of rock?"
The Lieutenant Colonel was silent.
"If the response comes from only one search program—the one that uses remote access code to Imperial technology—then we'll know that the equipment on the ship was forcibly shut down. If from both search programs, then that the Imperials just didn't try hard enough to find that ship earlier."
"Yeah," Pent replied in a somewhat disconcerted tone. "I didn't expect you to catch on so quickly..."
"Set the operation of Fey'lya's broadcast and both of your search queries to automatic mode," ordered Tierce.
"Uh... Why?" Pent didn't understand.
Then his gaze fell on the Lieutenant Colonel's clones bustling around the relay center equipment.
"Um-m-m," the Slicer drawled. "And do you know what your subordinates are doing, Lieutenant Colonel?"
"Their job," Grodin explained imperturbably. "You need to follow their example as well."
"Are they copying information from the servers?" Pent looked at the guardsman suspiciously.
"No," replied Tierce, without even looking back. "They are taking backup versions of the HoloNet software along with the carrier objects—the backup servers. As for you, in addition to what I already said, you need to check each server for tracking devices. The faster you do this, the faster you'll get to sleep."
Pent opened his mouth to object, but seeing the guardsman's unceremonious expression, he realized that all objections were pointless.
"Well... fine, of course," he sighed. "I'll go work. But it would be much easier if the local operators helped me."
"They are unavailable right now," Tierce cut him off. "Manage on your own, Mr. Pent. And—in the shortest possible time. We must leave the station as quickly as possible."
The Slicer let out a long yawn, only bothering to cover his mouth with his hand at the last moment.
"As always," he said, smacking his lips. "You know... I've been thinking. Since we're taking the backup servers, maybe we could grab a couple of working machines? With them, we won't need to wait for a response at this station at all—we can set up a 'receiving end' in any corner of the galaxy. I just need to do something with the equipment..."
* * *
"Go ahead, Mr. Pent," Lieutenant Colonel Tierce agreed after a short pause for thought.
As soon as the thermite paste burned through the lock of the emergency airlock, the doors slid apart, allowing the Fourth Special Squad of Assault Commandos to begin their work.
A wide stream of fire, which TNK-0333 first launched into the short corridor, licked the surface of the inner plating, melting through plastic elements and thin metal.
Through the roar of the raging flame, the screams of enemy fighters and crew members could be heard, who out of habit decided to resist the assaulting forces.
The problem was that the armored sections of the ship remaining from the Galactic Traveler had no artificial gravity.
And the enemy could use no cover.
Except perhaps to secure themselves in doorways or behind protruding bulkheads.
But the Mon Calamari design played a cruel trick on them.
Smooth walls and floors, gentle transitions and decks, the absence of sharp corners and junctions, as well as inwardly protruding structural elements and framework—this was the reason why the enemy failed to drown the attackers in blood.
TNK-0333 switched off the flamethrower.
A quick situational check showed a smoke-filled corridor ahead, in which charred bodies and soot particles floated.
"Assault."
The four fighters of the special unit, stepping heavily in magnetic-soled boots, slowly moved forward.
Meter by meter.
Compartment by compartment.
Each sealed room was scanned for airtightness.
If airtightness was confirmed, the locking mechanism was blown, after which a flamethrower nozzle was inserted inside.
No hand grenades, which would lack throwing range and proper trajectory due to the absence of artificial gravity.
No prolonged blaster exchanges.
No hand-to-hand combat.
The Fourth Special Squad was going straight through.
Even without support from droidekas and droids.
The former, even though they had magnetic grips on their limbs, were still not the best helpers where they couldn't move in their rolled-up wheel state.
The latter were completely pointless to use in a space without gravity.
The Assault Commandos worked in their familiar heavy atmosphere.
Despite the destruction of the flagship, life still remained inside the wreckage.
Built with a modular assembly type, having many armored capsules inside, this ship, like other Mon Calamari-style starships, had reactors distributed throughout the hull.
Obviously, some of them were still active and provided the survivors with everything necessary.
Light, heat, oxygen.
But it wasn't gravity.
It took a considerable amount of time to clear this armored capsule.
In the end, however, they were able to locate and take control of the ship's central computer.
The databases on it had been wiped clean.
Whether this process could be reversed or not would be up to the specialists.
TNH-0333 himself considered the discovery of partial technical plans for the ship a stroke of luck: someone from the crew had left a technical datapad with such vital data in their quarters.
Now there was only one problem left to solve — a single, but fairly important compartment that remained outside the control of the Assault Commandos in this wreck of an enemy flagship.
The bridge.
It was protected by a heavy armored bulkhead that blocked access to the control instruments and the compartment's external access points.
Clearly, the Mon Calamarian shipbuilders had learned from past boarding actions.
Now, if the bridge was sealed off, reaching it without breaching a bulkhead as thick as the capsule's hull armor was impossible.
Still, such radical solutions weren't typical of the shipwrights from the planet Dac.
Gliding smoothly from one compartment adjacent to the corridor leading to the bridge into another, TNH-0333 stopped, grabbing a technical ladder with one hand.
Its position didn't match the similar ones he'd seen in other parts of the section.
According to the builders' design, it was supposed to help technicians access service corridors and tunnels directly from the main corridor.
The commando correctly identified from the broken seal that the mechanism had already been used.
Following the possible path with his eyes, he also noticed that one of the service hatches leading to the central sections of the armored capsule was open — the retaining screws were missing.
Someone had come this way.
The size of the service hatch, and consequently the tunnel behind it, would allow a sentient in a light emergency suit to squeeze through.
Which meant it would be possible in armor, too.
But first, the tunnel needed to be checked for potential danger.
"I need a 'Scout'," he reported via comlink to his squad members. "With a magnet."
Within a couple of minutes, a...
Mouse droid was placed in his hand.
The simplest kind — small, unobtrusive, a service droid so common it was easy to overlook.
"Control transferred to the helmet visor," the squad's technician reported. "Magnetic cushion set to medium mode."
"Received."
TNH-0333 slid the panel aside and activated the droid, pushing it inside.
The device, controlled by its simple electronic brain, used the magnetic cushion mounted under its chassis to press itself against the upper surface of the service tunnel.
This provided traction for its wheels against the metal surface.
With artificial gravity active, such maneuvers would be unnecessary — the droid would work reliably under normal gravity.
The mouse droid illuminated the service tunnel with its scanners, and a blinking icon for remote visual control appeared on TNH-0333's helmet visor.
Activating it, the commando settled into a comfortable position, unconcerned about his own safety.
His men had already switched to guarding the commander; a 'surprise' like an enemy fighter appearing from nowhere and wounding the sergeant wasn't going to happen.
The 'Scout' was a crude modification of a standard mouse droid.
TNH-0333 had built it from a broken droid for remote enemy detection or hazard tracking.
For checking service passages for mines, traps, or ambushes — a simple, cheap solution.
The design needed field testing.
And the wreck of the Galactic Traveler was perfect for that.
Tracks through the service tunnel were practically invisible under current conditions.
The lack of gravity had lifted the sparse dust into the air, so looking for anything on the floor was pointless.
TNH-0333 was more interested in the technical cables, tie-wraps, and structural struts.
They were placed to suspend the comms in a static state, but now they were unnecessary.
And whoever had moved this way hadn't bothered to preserve the technical solutions.
TNH-0333 understood why the service tunnel had been used.
Judging by the direction in which the tie-wraps had been cut, whoever had come this way was heading for the bridge.
Unable to reach it any other way, they'd taken the bypass.
A logical move.
Soon, the 'Scout' detected a light source coming from a ventilation grating in the floor.
Which clearly pointed to one simple fact — the droid had reached the target compartment.
Below it lay the bridge.
TNH-0333 had no intention of detonating the droid, as he'd done before.
First, he needed to assess the situation inside the compartment.
To do this, he adjusted the extending holocamera so it could observe what was happening below.
The service hatch, unlike the ventilation grates, was made of a latticed metal but had its own peculiarity.
The spaces between the bars weren't intended for airflow, so they were filled with transparisteel.
It was a combined, airtight hatch.
Through it, the 'Scout' and consequently TNH-0333 — revealed a very interesting picture of what was happening on the bridge of the enemy flagship...
Or rather, what was left of it.
"Contact the Guardian," TNH-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 currently standing and sitting before him, locked in the local mess hall for the duration of the operation by Tierce's Guard troopers.
He didn't even bother hiding his attitude toward these weak, frightened, and frankly pathetic creatures.
But he also understood that, beneath the helmet of his uniform, they couldn't see his emotions.
They couldn't even hear them — the helmet's vocoder suppressed any intonation in his voice, turning contempt into the ordinary, flat speech made famous throughout the galaxy by the notorious Imperial stormtroopers.
"Listen carefully," he said. "No one will repeat this. The New Republic, in pursuit of its own plans, struck the Intergalactic Communications Center to take control of the central HoloNet node. This isn't the first time — the last was during the Clone Wars. Your management failed to provide adequate security for such valuable equipment and its personnel. The result," he pointed a gauntleted hand at the body bags lying in the freezer section, "you can all see for yourselves. The mercenaries who were supposed to protect you were wiped out by Republic special forces."
"And you wiped them out!" someone in the crowd said.
It would have cost Maul nothing to find out who — just reach out with the Force and read these sentients' emotions.
But he didn't care.
"Anyone feel sorry for them?" the Zabrak inquired. "I don't. They attacked the weak — you. They killed your security and took control of your node. We did the same thing. In your position, you should consider that a hostage rescue. Or am I wrong?"
He didn't care about the answer, either.
He couldn't care less about these sentients and their fate.
Judging by the fact that no one present even tried to voice an opinion on the matter, they were in agreement...
"So you're saying you came to free us from captivity?" the same dissatisfied voice cut in. "You were planning to do the same thing yourselves! If the mercenaries hadn't killed them, you would have."
"Except we didn't," Maul snorted. "History has no subjunctive mood. Nor does it have respect for mercenaries. But I'm not here to waste my time on conversations like this. The one whose orders brought us here tasked us with evacuating your team."
"For what purpose?"
This guy was starting to get on his nerves.
Darth Maul opened himself to the Force.
And instantly found the sentient who was the source of the anger and irritation being projected toward the Shadow Guard.
"What do you want from us?"
Yes, the voice matched the emanations he was sensing.
Maul thrust out his right hand, clenching it into a fist as he released the Force, directing it at the troublemaker.
The man shot straight up to the mess hall ceiling, his eyes bulging, his fingernails clawing at his throat.
"First — don't interrupt me with your petty remarks," Maul explained. "Everything that concerns you will be stated. If it hasn't been said, that means you don't need to know it. Understood?"
Silent, but affirmatively nodding heads.
The Zabrak turned to get a 'good look' at the disturber of the peace.
A human.
A fat man.
An unpleasant face.
A double or even triple chin.
Not a trace of intelligence on his face.
"Is this your director?" he asked the others.
Again — affirmative nods.
"A hollow man." Maul waved his hand to the side, and the fat man's body slammed into the metal wall at high speed.
Bones crunched.
The body that hit the floor didn't move.
Hard to do when the back of your skull has been crushed into your cranium.
"Anyone who feels sorry for him can do what you did for the dead mercenaries: bag the body," Darth Maul offered.
No one moved.
Seems the local management was very 'well-loved' here.
They'd bagged even scum like mercenaries, but not their own boss.
"Now, back to what's truly important," the Zabrak said. "This station is rigged to explode. Republic special forces planned to blow it up to cover their tracks into the HoloNet..."
In reality, Lieutenant Colonel Tierce's men had done the rigging, which was why all the station workers had been gathered in one place.
But the prisoners didn't need to know that.
"Why would they do that?" someone gasped. "We don't know anything! No corporate secrets!"
"They wanted to collapse the HoloNet!" a second guess surfaced.
Possibly even the right one.
"Nonsense! There are backup lines, other centers. Yes, there'll be a communications blackout for a while, but after a couple of days, everything will be back up."
"What days? Months! The backup servers and other hubs have been mothballed for at least fifty years, maybe more!"
"A real circus," Darth Maul thought, watching the sentients argue among themselves.
"My command has a proposal for you," he continued, drowning out the noise with the Force. "Since your own management doesn't care about you and could only come up with a half-baked defense of fifty second-rate mercenaries, and the Republicans weren't going to stand on ceremony with you at all, I am authorized to offer you work for those I represent."
"And who might that be?" a timid voice came from the crowd.
"You'll find out if you want to work for us," Maul replied evasively. "You're being offered substantial salaries — much higher than what you were getting here. Complete security under our wing. The work will be the same as here. But with strict discipline and obedience."
The crowd buzzed, talking among themselves.
"We're just ordinary relay node operators," another one spoke up. "And not even the best ones."
"We were hired because practically all of us are former students with no real work experience — which means they could pay us the minimum," another explanation surfaced.
Darth Maul extended his arm to the side and, using the Force, compressed the serving counter into a small ball of screeching, groaning metal.
The commotion among those present stopped instantly.
"Anyone who wants to work for us will get off this station," he explained. "The rest will be blown up with the charges. So, do I need to repeat the question?"
It wasn't necessary.
No idiots were found among the operators.
All forty-nine survivors agreed.
* * *
When Lieutenant Colonel Tierce finished his report, received his orders for further action, and his hologram faded, all that remained was to 'check the box' next to another item on the plan.
And 'close out' a few more positions.
After some time, when the leadership of the Intergalactic Communications Center realized something strange was happening with their central node on Praesitlyn, they would undoubtedly try to contact the now-abandoned communications center.
Getting no response, they would send a reconnaissance team.
And there, they would find plenty of surprises.
Which would advance my plan further.
Sending Guardsmen and Mr. Pent to Praesitlyn to use Fey'lya's broadcast for my own purposes was not the end goal.
The real goal was much larger.
More global.
'HoloNet' isn't just a name.
It's far more complex.
The HoloNet is the largest communications system in the galaxy, enabling the transmission of information from planets in one part of the galaxy to another.
Via telecommunications equipment — transmitters, relays, and other tools seeded throughout interstellar space over tens of thousands of years.
Each of the galaxy's more than a thousand sectors possesses a vast number of telecommunications devices — receivers and transmitters.
These, in turn, allow real-time signal transmission within a sector.
To send a signal beyond the sector, even to neighboring administrative unions, a much more powerful transceiver — a relay — is required.
All information flows within a sector, and beyond it, pass through this relay.
We used this feature last year to block information exchange between the planets we were attacking.
But even a relay doesn't work on its own.
When one sectoral transceiver fails, information flows are redistributed through the nearest equivalent in the neighboring sector.
This increases information transmission time.
Sometimes — very significantly.
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 had recently secretly, and not without bloodshed, taken under its direct control.
This was how they enabled President Fey'lya's broadcast to the entire galaxy in real time.
The cunning Bothan had managed to get his truth out to both Imperials and Republicans.
Not to mention other territories, except the Dominion.
Thanks to the work of Mr. Ghent's clones and the sectoral relays stolen from the New Republic last year, we had secured our own closed broadcast system, filtering out unwanted information — and sometimes outright spy communications.
The HoloNet has existed for millennia and was used by both the citizens of the Galactic Republic and the inhabitants 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 loosening Imperial restrictions and censorship.
Since the main active HoloNet node was located in the Sluis sector, after it seceded from the New Republic, the HoloNet became a neutral information network.
Controlled by the government of the Sluis sector.
The native inhabitants of Sluis Van are not aggressive or vengeful by nature, but that didn't stop them from maintaining their neutrality not so much through the strength of their tiny remaining armed forces, but by keeping their finger on the pulse of the global information network.
Whose functioning is vital for everyone in the galaxy.
The HoloNet provides not only communication and news broadcasts but also participates in stock exchange trading, the interstellar economy, and ensures communication for the military and industrialists.
Not to mention everything else.
A direct attack on the Sluis sector would clearly have led 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, exclusively distributed within Imperial Space and the Imperial Remnants.
It's called the 'Imperial Network'.
Somewhat similar to a very simple social network from my past life, during the reign of the Galactic Empire it was nothing more than an internal service for citizen communication.
Not particularly popular, by the way.
But now it's gaining momentum and is the main source of internal Imperial propaganda.
This communication tool 'didn't take off' largely for the same reason that the New Republic (and before it, the Rebel Alliance) failed to totally control the information space by introducing its own analog many years ago.
The New Republic currently also has its own internal communication 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 against Imperial authority on the capital planet.
Quickly and bloodily suppressed by the Imperial government.
It continued to serve as the official broadcast system for the New Republic when it came to power on Coruscant and in most of the galaxy.
Currently, it is used in the same capacity, exclusively as an official propaganda organ of Fey'lya's government.
But in any case, neither the Imperial nor the Republican analogs can compete with the HoloNet.
Simply because the galaxy's population is accustomed to the most widespread broadcasting network, not to makeshift imitations.
Of which, there are actually quite a few.
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 time 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, painting 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, Imperial-influence-free broadcasting.
Incidentally, the same sentient created the galaxy's largest knowledge archive, known as the 'Baobab Archive', which could rival most of the libraries and scientific foundations in the galaxy.
During the Mandalorian Wars, the planet Taris had its own broadcast network, isolated from the galactic HoloNet and not allowing direct transmission of galactic information to Taris's inhabitants, which continues to function to this day.
Cloud City on Bespin also had its own broadcast network, similar to the one on Taris.
Corellia has its own network, as do the Tapani sector, the Hutts, the Hapans, the Corporate Sector...
In the remote sectors touched by the benefits of civilization, there also existed their own internal networks, based on information transmission using a sectoral relay, but not allowing direct information transmission from the HoloNet to consumers.
There was always a certain buffer that filtered out everything 'unnecessary' according to the local government.
This phenomenon is quite common, so there's no surprise that the Dominion's population took the information isolation and the work of censorship calmly.
Yes, not without some unrest among the citizens, but the situation is under control.
The HoloNet — or rather, its weakening — interested me primarily from a military and counter-propaganda perspective.
Coordinating armed forces on the front line is the key to success.
And information gathering, even from open sources, which Bothan spies are so famous for, is a whole separate art form.
Fey'lya had taken the warpath.
Well, our armored train had also been brought out of the siding and put under steam, undergoing its final maintenance.
The leadership of the Intergalactic Communications Center would undoubtedly soon wake up and realize there were problems.
Here, it's necessary to make allowances for the fact that initially, Fey'lya's broadcasts would be perceived solely as a copy of my propaganda speeches.
They would realize the situation was much worse after a few standard days.
When Fey'lya's videos continued to burst into the galaxy's information space.
On a regular basis.
And then they would head to Praesitlyn.
To investigate what was happening.
They would certainly go — because they wouldn't be able to contact the center via communication channels.
And when they arrived, they would find 'plenty of interesting things.'
Which would finally and irrevocably rupture relations between the Sluis sector and the New Republic.
Not to mention what awaited the rest of the galaxy.
At the moment, I need the HoloNet to function as it is.
Too much depends on it.
And after the Intergalactic Communications Center is destroyed, nothing will be able to stop the triumphant march of the Dominion's regular fleet.
"Grand Admiral, sir," the voice of Captain Pellaeon came from the intercom in my quarters. "Assault squads report complete clearance of the ships from enemy resistance."
"Results?"
"We have secured control of all twelve Star Destroyers hit by ion cannon fire," the commander of the Guardian reported. "All Quasar Fires have also been captured. The heaviest resistance was encountered on the damaged escort frigates, but they have also been subdued. Engineering teams report that the ships' key systems are functional, and they will soon be ready for a hyperspace jump to our base at Horn."
"Contact Commodore Brandei," I ordered. "We will need escort ships, personnel for the transfer, and transports with spare parts and technical staff led by Chief Engineer Reyes at Horn by the time we arrive. Inform them of the captured ships' malfunctions."
"It will be done, sir," Pellaeon acknowledged.
"Are there any prisoners?"
"Two hundred thousand sentients, sir. The majority are from the Star Destroyer crews, and almost all from the escort carriers. On the escort frigates, the crews fought to the last."
He fell silent abruptly.
"Sir, an urgent message from the cleanup squads," meaning the assault commandos had made contact. Good. "Survivors have been found in the wreckage of the Galactic Traveler — on the bridge and in the hangar. Two groups. One of them has critically wounded."
Who would have guessed.
"General Solo, Lando Calrissian, and their mutual Wookiee friend named Chewbacca?" I clarified.
"The first one has been confirmed — search teams found him and the bridge watch locked inside the command bunker's armor capsule," said Pellaeon. "The other two couldn't be identified, but the pilots report a damaged Corellian freighter in the enemy flagship's hangar, identified as the Millennium Falcon. Power output on it is minimal; there are hull deformations. The ship is unfit for interstellar travel. Two life forms are registered aboard — a human and a Wookiee."
"Then it's them," I decided.
I have no doubt about the durability of Han Solo's ship, and that Calrissian and the Wookiee are deliberately playing the part of prisoners doomed to a slow death.
Based on the data retrieved from the Galactic Traveler's central computer, the ship was built on a modular scheme, following the Imperial approach to shipbuilding.
It's a collection of armor capsules — bridge, hangar, reactor compartment, battery decks...
It has emergency oxygen reserve systems that allow the survivors to hold out until help arrives.
In fact, the ship broke apart into those armor capsules after the Guardian's salvos at point-blank range.
From intercepted enemy communications, we knew Solo was on the flagship, and Calrissian and Chewbacca were on the Falcon.
The latter two were responsible for destroying our Dragon-Eleven, since the proton torpedoes from the Galactic Traveler followed their targeting system.
"Are we done evacuating the Venator wreckage?" I clarified.
"Yes, sir. All personnel — living and dead — have been transported to our ships. Control teams have been formed from the living to oversee the drone transfer crews piloting the captured starships. All valuable equipment from the wreckage has been dismantled by repair droids and delivered to the super star destroyer's cargo hold."
"Order the Guardian's gunners to destroy the Dragon-Eleven wreckage," I commanded.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon replied. "What's the decision on the survivors aboard the Galactic Traveler?"
Good question.
I have very little desire to talk to those individuals right now.
Especially since, under the current circumstances, there's no need to bring them aboard the Guardian.
These people have a habit of sniffing out secrets and using any knowledge — even visual — to their advantage.
A single glance at the Guardian's corridors would reveal what kind of ship this is — and none of our enemies in the galaxy yet know which super star destroyer destroyed Admiral Ackbar's fleet.
Not to mention that the observational skills of that trio would let them identify a number of our upgrades.
Including the automated defense turrets, the force fields, the system locks for non-crew members.
And also the reduced crew count.
"Drop an emergency beacon," I ordered. "If those star cruisers that 'missed' us because of our gravity-trawl actions want them, they'll find Solo and the others. Don't forget to seed the Republic ship wreckage with buzz droids from Project Morrt."
If no one comes for Solo and his friends in time, then so be it.
Although I'm sure Bel Iblis himself is on the way with half the Alliance fleet, hoping to either destroy us in the initial trap or at least finish us off after a heavy battle.
We could destroy his reinforcements too, of course, but unnecessary risk isn't our way.
There's no reason to alter the plan for another bloodbath.
Which will happen anyway.
But on our terms.
Without assets on Lantilles and with no clear picture of the forces Bel Iblis might be bringing against us, I don't want to take the risk.
"Understood, sir," Captain Pellaeon confirmed. "We'll be ready to jump in ten minutes."
"One last thing, Captain," I added. "Give me a full recording of the New Republic President's speech. And something else. Reprogram the emergency beacon signal with the following message..."