The commander of the Imperial Star Destroyer Marut, a Victory-II-class vessel, sighed as he looked at the selection of uniforms presented to him by the protocol droid.
Captain Oland ran a hand over his face, massaging his tired eyes for a moment, before daring to look again at what lay before him.
Captain Oland (source indicated on the artifact itself).
He stared at one set of service dress for several seconds.
He gave the second set exactly the same amount of evaluation time.
Then he shifted his gaze to the silver PO-series android holding them in its manipulators.
"How long have you served me, my dear friend?" he asked, without the slightest desire to humiliate his mechanical servant.
"Oh, sir, nearly ten years now!" the droid exclaimed.
"Have I taken good care of you?" the captain of the starship asked another question.
"Of course, sir!" The droid was practically bristling with indignation. "How could you think I am in any way dissatisfied with my service to you? You are the best master I have had since the moment I was assembled..."
"More likely the only one," the commander of the Marut sighed sadly. "So you are in working order?"
"Of course, sir!" the protocol android declared proudly. "It is most kind of you to inquire about my technical condition..."
"I just want to know if you'll short-circuit from me asking one question," Oland explained.
"Of course not, sir!" the droid declared proudly. "My systems are among the most reliable and..."
"Good," the Marut's commander sighed resignedly. "Then tell me — what is the difference between those two uniforms you're showing me?"
Strangely enough, the talkative PO-series droid couldn't give an instant answer.
He simply turned the two sets of dress that he had taken from the hanger in the captain's cabin wardrobe a few minutes ago.
Scrutinized them...
"No difference, sir," he rasped, twitching and looking at his master.
And froze in that state.
Judging by the thin wisp of smoke rising from his chassis — his logic analysis module had short-circuited again.
"No one doubted that," Oland said with a bitter smirk, taking the set of clothes from the left manipulator.
Oland shook his head in bewilderment.
"You're absolutely right there, my friend," the officer said. "There is no difference at all."
He changed unhurriedly, then looked at the droid's polished chest plate.
In the slightly distorted reflection, he saw himself.
A man of average height, solidly built, with dark hair and eyes of the same color. Combined with the simple features of his slightly tanned face, they characterized their owner perfectly.
An ordinary, average man.
No frills, no fatal beauty or ugliness.
For as long as he could remember, Oland had never enjoyed wild popularity with the opposite sex.
He was never on the command staff's radar either, despite his diligence and honest service.
He had even become the captain of a Star Destroyer for one simple reason — there was no one else.
His crew were yesterday's greenhorns, forcibly torn from their mothers' skirts and their fathers' pastures.
Trained on an accelerated program, knowing nothing of the true hardships of military service.
Most of the crew, along with the previous captain, had transferred to serve on an Imperial-class Star Destroyer six months ago.
Back then, Imperial Space was literally draining combat-ready and experienced personnel from all the Remnants.
Not that the Moffs and warlords reciprocated — they couldn't care less about the Imperial Ruling Council's attempts to keep up the pretense of a unified Empire by bleeding their own armed forces dry to bolster the metropolis — Orinda and its surroundings — with competent officers.
But they couldn't do otherwise, either; otherwise, all their funding and support from Orinda would have ceased.
Moff Gronn was no exception in this case.
Oland approved of pragmatism.
Furthermore — he considered himself a fairly practical man, able to extract advantage from any given situation.
But Gronn...
He had transferred nearly half his crews to Orinda in exchange for these green youngsters.
Strangely enough — he hadn't even questioned the government (or whoever was pretending to be it): "How am I supposed to defend a sector surrounded by false friends and open enemies when I don't have even half-decent commanders for a dozen Star Destroyers?"
No, Gronn hadn't asked that question.
He kept silent.
He silently did what was demanded of him.
As if he was deliberately weakening his sector against external threats from decidedly unfriendly neighbors.
Yet he could have done the same as the neighboring Tion Hegemony, or any other sector in the Tion Cluster — simply ignored the demand.
However, those sectors could hardly be called part of the Empire anymore.
Yes, the Imperial Fleet was there.
Imperial officers, military personnel, even some stormtroopers were still around.
But in essence, they had all turned into private armies for the wealthy, indulging their egos to satisfy long-held ambitions of a united Tion.
Each in their own way, but all thinking alike — conquer a neighbor, seize their territory, restore the glory of their ancestors.
And none of them cared that Imperial soldiers were dying in their petty squabbles, Imperial equipment was being blown up...
While the Rebels were showing no signs of weakening.
Ah... Those who said the Empire would never again achieve the greatness it had a decade ago were probably right.
And not because the Emperor was dead, and Darth Vader, the Supreme Commander of the Empire, had turned out to be his murderer.
No...
It was simply that everything had rotted.
The Empire had been an indomitable colossus.
Only its legs were made of flawed metal, corroded by the rust of corruption, lawlessness, greed, and tyranny.
And I didn't need to look far for examples.
It was no secret to anyone that Moff Gronn, in the past and up until recent events, had been in league with the local criminal element and existed thanks to their funding.
It wouldn't have hurt him one bit to refuse to provide his military to Imperial Space.
These rotations had been pointless anyway — the Empire was drowning in its war against the New Republic and the Alliance.
It wasn't so noticeable yet — there were still resources.
But anyone who had been following open-source operational reports before the HoloNet went down could see that the offensive potential of the Empire and the Alignment had run its course.
They hadn't managed to break through to Carida and acquire the army trained for them there.
They hadn't crushed the New Republic at Balmorra, nor captured its industry and war machines, from a confrontation with which, according to rumors, Grand Admiral Thrawn himself had fled.
It truly wouldn't have cost Gronn anything to refuse.
But no...
Not only had he sent three-quarters of his entire fleet goodness knows where, while Lianne needed help, but upon their return he hadn't explained anything to anyone either.
He acted as if it was all as it should be.
Rumors circulated among the commanders of the remaining starships in Allied Tion that Gronn had simply traded his Star Destroyers for those fifty legions of stormtroopers he had quartered on the planets of his sector.
And as a bonus, he got old Interceptor IV-class frigates, which were only valued by pirates and various scum.
Honestly...
It was a questionable decision.
No, on one hand, it was a winning decision.
Some kind of transports had appeared, after all.
And the stormtroopers who had instantly taken control of numerous planets where independence was being whispered about — that was also a valuable acquisition, and a necessary one.
But why in blazes, tell me, would you buy an army when you've only got a handful of ships?
It didn't make sense.
Sure, you could have asked the Caridans for forty legions of stormtroopers instead of fifty-one.
Yes, you'd have paid a bit less...
But with those funds, you could have looked for starships on the black market to reinforce the remaining Victories.
Three Star Destroyers and a few patrol ships just couldn't control an entire sector!
No wonder Mi-Ha Hutt and his Black Sun were crawling out of every crevice!
And dispersing them had been a problem even before; now it was practically an impossible operation.
Because that fleet was gone.
Even what had been there.
Moff Gronn's shortsightedness had sealed the fate of Allied Tion.
The Moff had apparently decided that fifty-one legions of stormtroopers and three Victory-class Star Destroyers, plus a few smaller tubs, would be enough to crack down on the criminal element.
Naturally — to squeeze more money out of them.
But it had turned out much worse.
The transport ships (try as he might, Oland couldn't bring himself to call the Interceptors warships) that had delivered the stormtroopers to the planets had been destroyed by pirates and mercenaries from Mi-Ha Hutt.
As had the Moff's own residence.
And the Moff himself.
The only positive thing Oland could see in all this was that, along with the residence and the Moff, those incompetent, thieving officials who had profited from every financial stream entering Allied Tion had burned and died in the flames and explosions.
But...
Honestly, he wasn't very fond of the outcome they had reached either.
The criminals were no longer openly afraid of the military.
And the ship commanders, no longer hiding it, were discussing among themselves the possibility of a military coup against the adjutant of the late Moff Gronn.
Who had formally become Gronn's successor — until Orinda sent someone else here.
If they got around to it in time, of course.
Oland's colleagues were already practically tasting power in their hands — each of them commanded a starship with enormous combat strength.
They had already earmarked planets and star systems they intended to take under their own protectorate.
And Oland had no doubt they would get them.
Just as he had no doubt that Mi-Ha Hutt had certainly found the right credit chip to reach their hearts.
What was happening in the sector was the perfect moment to strike at Lieutenant Mac and those who remained loyal to him.
There weren't such formidable forces left on Jaminere.
And besides the Marut, no other ship was protecting the capital.
The stormtrooper garrisons were cut off from each other and from central supply.
They'd hold out for a month, two, three...
But in the end, they would either surrender or simply die in battle against the forces of the Black Sun.
Oland watched this in silence — even among the commanders of other Victories like his own, who were his equals in rank, he commanded neither respect nor authority.
They simply weren't going to consider him, offering him such things.
Because they knew perfectly well that he would oppose such a division anyway.
And, honestly, Oland would have done just that.
He found all this behind-the-scenes scheming among Imperials disgusting.
It was disgusting and bitter to realize that the teachings in school and the Military Academy — about how rotten the Old Republic was, how it collapsed under the weight of its politicians' ambitions — differed little from what was happening to the Empire.
Yes, Orinda could declare all it wanted that the Empire was still unified and combat-ready — and could even prove it with another military campaign against the Rebels.
But a fact remained a fact.
These were the death throes of a once-great state.
And very soon, either the Tion Hegemony, or the Alliance, or someone else (like that same Mi-Ha Hutt) would get full information about what was happening in Allied Tion.
And the moment they realized the sector couldn't even field its remaining three Victory IIs against an attacker, they would be torn apart.
And whether you remained loyal to your Oath or not — you couldn't change that.
Because nobody cared.
The commanders of the Arkanian Dragon and the Violator, the other two Victories, if they fought at all, would only fight for the planets they had chosen as their own protectorates.
No one cared about the sector.
Just as no one cared about the stormtrooper legions who would not break their Oath (at least until they were broken by hunger and disease) and would defend the planets they were stationed on to the last.
And every single one of them would either die or go over to the enemy.
Because there was only one way to defend a sector — and it required a unified command and a few more Star Destroyers.
Even if the Marut remained true to its Oath, nothing good would come of it.
They would either be destroyed or boarded.
Oland even had an idea who it would be.
The Arkanian Dragon or the Violator.
Either of the other two Victories left in the sector.
Physically, not under the banners of the Empire.
Neither of their commanders would miss a chance to double their strength.
Or miss a chance to remove a ship from the path of a criminal gang aiming to seize control of the sector's leadership.
They were lying low now because the HoloNet's collapse had made everyone, without exception, stop and think about what was happening.
But as soon as they figured out the situation — that would be it.
Oland believed in the Empire.
Like any man raised on Imperial propaganda.
But he believed even more in numbers.
Which were telling a grim story.
Even if Lieutenant Mac held onto control of the stormtrooper garrisons, he wouldn't last long.
He didn't have the ships to deal with the pirates and keep the sector in his hands.
Even the Marut alone wouldn't be enough — the criminals had far greater forces.
And sending the only defense of Jaminere into battle somewhere in the sector meant dooming the capital to a criminal strike.
And sitting in orbit over the capital world meant allowing the enemy to methodically grind down the garrisons stationed throughout the sector, subjugating one world after another.
It was highly unlikely Orinda would send them help.
They had their own war to fight.
And dealing with crime, as in the Empire's final years, was supposed to be the responsibility of regional governments...
And...
Honestly, Oland couldn't see a way out of this situation.
Staying loyal to the sector government meant getting into a battle they couldn't win.
One ship was far too little to hold an entire sector.
Especially if the Arkanian Dragon and the Violator sided with any force fighting against the government.
And that wasn't an "if.".. It was a "when!"
Both Destroyers had already stopped responding to patrol duties and their own call signs.
Meaning they had either left the sector, or, as the local informants whispered, had gone over to Mi-Ha Hutt's service.
And he was making his move to acquire the third Destroyer without a fight or losses.
After that, nothing would be able to frighten him.
This was a dead end.
And no way out of the situation seemed to be forthcoming.
Well, there was one, of course.
He could spit on everything happening in the sector and run off to wherever his eyes led him, disappear into the galaxy while the HoloNet was down.
Let them all sort out the mess they had made themselves.
But his conscience wouldn't allow him to do that.
A dilemma...
Conscience...
Oland smirked wryly.
A conscience on someone going to meet the gangster responsible for Moff Gronn's murder?
Not even funny.
But Oland simply couldn't see another way out.
He had no intention of serving criminals.
Fighting for a lost cause...
He had to, but he didn't really feel like dying...
Alternatives weren't exactly plentiful.
Oland adjusted his new uniform.
He looked at his distorted reflection on the protocol droid's chest plate.
"Sorry I never got around to fixing you," he said, patting the droid on its metal head. "Some other time," he promised with a cheerless smirk. "Probably."
Securing his standard-issue sidearm to his belt, he looked at the equipment laid out before him.
"Not much," he sighed, pocketing what might work during negotiations.
But probably wouldn't.
No, Oland wasn't a coward.
He was just tired of banging his head against the wall of indifference and negligence that reigned in the Empire.
When everyone around you couldn't care less, they just wanted to line their pockets and run off to some tropical world to live happily ever after, while your conscience and your Oath wouldn't let you let things slide and demanded you do something...
You just burn out.
Meeting his first officer at the shuttle ramp, Oland tried to keep his regulation-compliant, impassive expression on his face.
"Keep track of my comlink," he ordered. "If it stops functioning — the Marut is to get out of Allied Tion. All of you along with it. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The young lieutenant, the first officer, looked more frightened than surprised by such a strange order. "But... Where are we supposed to go?"
His voice trembled.
Because he had never even stood a watch without his captain before.
And now... This.
"If only I knew," Oland sighed.
Because everywhere was essentially the same...
"Try to get through to Makem Te," Oland said. "I think it's a trade world of the Dominion. However they've secured their borders, merchant ships still fly in and out intact... As a precaution, once you enter the comm system's range, report that you're ready to surrender the ship in exchange for your lives and monetary compensation. I doubt they'll refuse."
It was a good thing there was no ISB or stormtroopers on board.
Otherwise, his path would have ended here and now.
"Surrender the Marut?" The lieutenant's eyes were bulging faster than a Jawa stripping a droid in the desert. "To the Dominion? But they're traitors! Outcasts! Deserters! Enemies of the Empire, even if not officially declared! Contact with them is forbidden!"
"So what?" Oland shrugged. "At least they won't shoot you as deserters. And they won't send you to war for someone else's mansions, hiding behind patriotic slogans about the glory of the Empire. You have your whole life ahead of you, Lieutenant. Don't give it up for people who don't give a damn about it."
"So maybe... we should run to the New Republic or the Alliance instead?" the lieutenant asked quietly.
"What's the point?" the Destroyer commander asked. "It's all the same as the Empire, just with different names. The same goes for the Tion Hegemony — except there, they'd execute you over the old feud between native Tionese and 'outsiders.' I'd advise finding some little world far from the galactic center, settling down there, and living, escaping from this blasted galactic politics. All these Republics, Alliances, Dominions... No one gives a damn — everyone acts in their own self-interest. Serving them is foolish. But at least the Dominion definitely won't put you on trial and will give you money for the ship. Either way, Lieutenant, the choice is yours. As is the responsibility for the crew's lives. If I could do more, I would. Good luck."
He shook the lieutenant's hand and climbed into the pilot's seat.
Starting up all the systems of the Lambda-class shuttle, he guided the ship out of the hangar bay, away from the Destroyer.
What did he want?
For it all to end.
But on his own terms.
Why did he have that strange feeling again, of being in the wrong place at the completely wrong time?
He should be used to it by now...
* * *
Vex was the first to notice the Imperial military shuttle approaching, since she was positioned just half a kilometer from the governor's residence on Corlax IV.
The scanner — completely illegal in most worlds under any regime — showed only one person inside: the pilot himself.
And he flew his craft confidently and very fast, making a targeted shot practically impossible.
But he didn't use any unexpected maneuvers and kept his altitude steady.
He wasn't afraid of an ambush. Good.
The Twi'lek tapped her finger against the comlink button twice, lightly.
A similar double beep answered; Reyn confirmed the signal was received.
And if he received it, then the rest of the squad had too — that went without saying.
Wherever they might be.
This fundamentally set Vex's work as Reyn's partner apart from her similar work with Fodeum.
The latter had always at least shared the initial plan with her — in detail.
Reyn preferred to plan and keep the scheme to himself, discussing only his partner's role and participation.
Everything else, the Shadow Guard left solely to his own judgment and discretion.
Vex didn't know if it was because he didn't trust her, or if this was simply the way he was most accustomed to carrying out the tasks assigned by command, but she didn't argue.
She didn't have the kind of trait that would make prudence override common sense.
Arguing and aggressively flirting when it was possible and appropriate — sure, go ahead.
But not when there was a mission involving a threat to her life and her partner's life.
Her partner.
Someone close...
The girl shook her head, throwing aside the thoughts that were unnecessary at the moment.
Her job was observation.
She started looking for other vehicles moving in the planned direction.
No one.
Vex waited a little longer, then slowly began making her way to the rendezvous point.
Like everyone else on the mission, she was packed into assault armor.
Though it had nothing to do with the Stormtrooper Corps.
Or the usual white-and-black coloring.
Or the appearance well known to the entire galaxy.
Regular guard armor — the kind worn by the faceless guys guarding the Grand Admiral, the Grand Moff, the Moffs, and other influential beings of the Dominion, as well as strategically important installations.
Which ones exactly — Vex didn't know.
But it was made to a special order — directly for the Shadow Guard.
Even though the girl wasn't a wielder of a lightsaber or the charismatic ability to scatter enemies with the power of thought, she still got a set of this armor.
Matte black, with a spacious mantle of fabric armor, easily withstanding a shot from a light firearm and even a lightsaber or similar sophisticated weaponry.
The secret was a coating of some special material that Reyn called "cortosis."
Vex had only ever heard of it before — from Fodeum.
He once mentioned that his family was in the business of crafting armor using similar material, but he never went into details — how, who exactly, for what purposes it was made.
But Vex wasn't concerned with that now.
Except for the helmet — which was incredibly difficult to make for Togrutas and Twi'leks, and didn't have any commercial demand anyway — she now looked like a real Shadow Guard.
Probably a sign of recognition for her merits.
Or maybe this operation simply needed as much protection as possible, more than any other.
But either way, she liked the new set of armor.
And right now, specifically — because it blended perfectly with the local thick twilight.
For the operation, Vex was armed to the teeth: a blaster carbine, a blaster pistol, spare power cells, gas cartridges for both, and she'd even brought a couple of thermal detonators.
Which hung at her belt and were terribly inconvenient for the freedom of movement the Twi'lek was so used to.
They were uncomfortable to carry, constantly threatening to give away her position, protruding under the armor's fabric as two small hemispheres.
Honestly, she'd brought them just in case.
Because she understood a basic truth.
If she had to use them, it meant the operation had gone off-plan, failed, and the strike team was in deep shit up to their necks with the Hutts.
In theory, the operation was supposed to run on the rebels' favorite motto: "Hit and run."
It had taken a lot of work to secretly infiltrate the Allied Tion, gather intel (yes, Dominion agents did that part, but it still needed double-checking), covertly move into position, and track the Imperial commander of a Star Destroyer.
The last one, who had arrived to pay homage to Mi-Ha Hutt.
Two others were already fully implementing the "Zann Consortium's" plans to subjugate the Allied Tion sector under the direct control of criminals.
The HoloNet's inaction played right into their hands.
As did the lack of strong backup in the form of combat starships for "Lieutenant Mac."
The Hutt could conquer the sector's planets one after another, siccing his mercenaries and criminal scum on the Stormtrooper legions stationed across the planets.
Those who had remained loyal to Jaminere and the successor of "Moff Gronn," despite everything.
Before landing on the planet, Reyn had specifically warned each participant: one extra shot, and it was all for nothing.
So far, the operation was going according to plan, and Vex actively disliked that.
She'd been in dozens of similar jobs and had learned that nothing ever went the way it was supposed to.
The most likely complication should be a secret arrival of a much larger number of the Hutt's fighters at the rendezvous point.
That would seriously complicate things.
Retreating under fire would be no fun at all, and it was guaranteed that if they failed, everything planned as a countermeasure to the sector's capture would go straight to bantha shit, and they'd have to find other ways to approach the criminal leader who never stuck his nose out of his secret base.
Vex listened to the night.
For some reason, she felt like saying a phrase that had popped into her head from nowhere about bad feelings, but that would be a lie.
She didn't have any bad feelings.
It was Fodeum and Reyn, and people like them, who had feelings, premonitions, sensations, fears.
Not her.
She could only rely on her experience.
And worry about the mission's outcome.
"Is the little girl worried?" she heard a snake-like hiss from the comlink — the voice of the most vile and disgusting creature in the galaxy.
"Shove your antenna deep into your head, you reptile," the girl replied, watching to make sure there was no ambush around the rendezvous point. "Deep enough that it pokes out of your chin."
In response, she only got a satisfied chuckle from Aurra Sing.
No, everything was fine — the enemy patrols had passed this spot without leaving any alarms or mines.
She dropped into a crevice, narrow only in appearance.
But once you descended lower than the thick vegetation, you ended up in a deep and wide pit.
They were already waiting for her there.
The girl crouched between Reyn and "Lieutenant Mac," who were studying a tactical hologram of the governor's residence, shielded by an Obscuro cloak.
The governor who had sold out to the criminals among the first.
Across from them, hugging her "Night Sting" rifle in a dreamily pensive pose, sat the pain of her intense jealousy — Aurra Sing.
To her left — two more Guardsmen, their helmets at their feet.
The pensive and silent Stryn, whose unfocused gaze said that soon things would get serious, and the weather was about to change.
His teacher — Darth Maul — calmly surveyed several dark-furred Death Commandos from the Noghri people, who were sitting in a separate group.
Sparing with words, they were checking their black-as-night combat suits of fabric armor that practically blended with their fur.
Squinting, Vex could make out numerous pockets on their suits, filled with obsidian knives, detonators, power cells and gas cartridges, smoke grenades, and...
To her shame, the girl couldn't identify most of the silent killers' equipment.
Just as she couldn't recall ever seeing Noghri this old before.
The color of their fur gave away the commandos' age.
The older a Noghri was, the darker their fur.
The few Noghri she had dealt with before were clearly young beings with grayish or dark grayish fur.
But if "black" ones had shown up here...
"Captain Oland has arrived," Vex said in a whisper, addressing Reyn and "Lieutenant Mac."
"We know," the latter replied. "Lady Sing put a tracking beacon on his Lambda."
The girl looked at the pale-faced mercenary.
She responded with a dazzling smile, not hiding her mockery.
"So I was prancing around the residence through wet grass for two hours for nothing?" Vex hissed at her partner.
"No," Reyn replied. "Everything's going according to plan. We could track the ship, but not the number of people in it. Now we're sure Oland arrived in grand solitude."
"What difference does it make?" Darth Maul spoke up. "We'll just kill them all."
"That's not the plan," "Lieutenant Mac" cut him off. "We need the ringleader."
"Your plan is not that," the Zabrak said with disgust. "Mine is to kill as many of them as possible."
"Killing is good," Sing purred, moving closer to the red-and-black Zabrak.
"Get out of my sight, woman," Maul replied with disgust. "I don't wish to breathe the same air as you."
Sing just barely snorted and returned to her original position.
"We know the patrol routes, we know the composition and armament of the guards," Reyn said. "Now we need to find out how many Noghri are here, taken prisoner by the Zann Consortium and working for them."
"There are no Noghri taken prisoner," one of the "black" ones suddenly spoke. "There are only traitors. Whom we will kill. Noghri are a Noghri problem. You — don't risk it. Your task is different."
And it was said with such indifference that goosebumps almost ran down Vex's spine.
"Some kind of hired killer club out for a walk," she whispered. "So what are me and Stryn even doing here?"
"It's going to rain soon," he snapped out of his trance, looking at the gathered group. "I made sure there would be lots of lightning. When it's needed, I'll strike the observation towers with it and kill the sentries."
"All right, the little gas-wizard has also soaked up the spirit of your friendly community," Vex commented.
"It's the job," Reyn shrugged, looking away guiltily. "That's what the Shadow Guard was created for..."
And I thought it was formed to counter the Jedi and Palpatine's Dark Side Elite, Vex thought. But not for cold-blooded murders of ordinary people. Shouldn't that be done by scouts or the Death Commandos from the Noghri Overclan?
"Two minutes to move to positions," "Lieutenant Mac" said. "We give the captain another ten minutes after he goes inside. Then we start the operation — everyone in their own zone of responsibility. I remind you — we storm no earlier than when the rain starts, the lightning strikes, and the rocket launchers knock out the guard control point and the residence gates. Don't spare the rank and file. You know our targets. The Noghri will cover the rocket launcher and lure out the traitors."
Silent agreement to begin an operation to kill hundreds of beings.
"Wait," Vex spoke up. "Rocket launchers? Seriously? Who's the idiot who's going to stand in the middle of a sea of grass and aim at armored main gates in plain view of all the enemy guards?"
Reyn looked at her.
She looked at the other Shadow Guards.
They looked at her.
She looked at the Noghri.
They were busily double-checking how easily the blades came out of their sheaths...
"Wait a minute!" Vex's eyes widened with understanding. "No, no, no! I didn't sign up for this! I weigh like forty kilos, you know?! No, I am not going to fire a rocket launcher!"
"But you're the only one who knows the patrol schedule and the best way to approach the residence," "Lieutenant Mac" objected reasonably, looking at her with an unyielding gaze.
"Ah... I see," the girl drawled. "So that's why I was freezing out there... Well, if the Noghri are covering me, then I'm not worried... About close combat. But what about snipers and repeater operators?"
"Don't be a coward, girl," she heard Aurra Sing's voice. "I'm covering you today."
"Well, now I'm really scared for myself," Vex shuddered.
But who cared about her prejudices?
* * *
After Alexander Mor finished his thorough but brief report on the essence of what was happening in the Kessel system, I couldn't help but think.
It's not often you have to ponder mysteries on the edge of the supernatural.
And it had nothing to do with Kessel or the Garrison Moon.
Things there were happening just as previously planned.
Atmosphere generators were in place; the sealing of living areas was either completed or in its final stage.
Repairs and construction of defensive structures and quarters for personnel, the garrison, pilots, technicians, spare equipment, provisions, and so on — were underway.
It wasn't a fast process, no matter how much one might wish it.
But still, we were faced with a mystery that needed solving as quickly as possible.
"Your search activities have not led to the discovery of Corran Horn's ship," I said slowly.
Repeating in a thoughtful tone what Alexander Mor had essentially already stated on this matter.
"That is correct, sir," he confirmed. "Scanning, reconnaissance, mathematical modeling of possible trajectories, patrols — nothing gives us an understanding of where his ship disappeared to. Among the subordinates, the prevailing opinion is that he either vanished into a black hole or was destroyed along with his family during the battle for Kessel."
"In the first case, you should have detected an ion engine trail leading towards any of the black holes in the Cluster," I said, watching Mor's reaction.
"We checked that theory first thing, Grand Admiral," the officer admitted. "Many hotheads tried to escape from Kessel using the black holes as a gravity source for a slingshot maneuver."
Yes, that was a desperate move.
"Rogue Squadron" once used it in the Battle of Ossus.
With unfortunate consequences for themselves.
We figured out the maneuver and intercepted them, drastically reducing the number of famed Republic pilots.
"But there isn't the slightest ion trace indicating the ship's movement towards the black holes," Mor explained. "We also worked through hypotheses that he could have engaged acceleration and then coasted in any direction by inertia. We surveyed every trajectory suitable for escaping the system out to a distance of one light-year from Kessel. Nothing. There are very few places left where he could be hiding. Of course, if he's alive, sir. Because he's not in space. Either he knows how to teleport."
And therefore, if we follow this logic, he can't be in Daala's possession either.
An interesting theory.
But we'll test it in a completely different way.
"Is that so?" I clarified. "And what are your hypotheses?"
"Possibly he reached the surface of Kessel or the Garrison Moon. And is hiding in the tunnels."
"You've already voiced that theory," I reminded him. "And it hasn't been confirmed. It seems to me that Horn is not on Kessel or the Garrison Moon."
If they had reached them, they would have had to leave the ship somewhere before escaping underground.
Which we would have certainly found.
Or the place where it was destroyed.
But there's nothing like that.
No trace of Horn or his family.
No trace of his destruction.
No trace of his flight into a black hole.
He's still in the system.
Hiding, hoping to wait until we relax our draconian security measures.
And then he'll slip away.
The usual tactic of an operative used to setting ambushes.
But by a twist of fate, he himself had become the prey.
He's waiting for us to get tired of it.
Such naivety.
I will not get tired.
"From what we've been able to check, he's not on the planet or the moon," Mor reminded cautiously. "I didn't have enough people under my command to survey the depths of both astronomical objects."
"Well then," I said. "At the moment, you have three legions of stormtroopers at your disposal, stationed on the Guardian. Along with their support droids, including reconnaissance units. We will send them to the Garrison Moon to check every inch of that celestial body. Kessel, like its moon, are very valuable and ancient astronomical objects. Especially being in such a unique place as the Maw Cluster. Since we, the Dominion, are here forever, we might as well pass the time while we await our uninvited guests and search for Horn and his family by keeping the soldiers busy with useful work. At the same time — we'll let our stormtroopers gain experience in surveying underground tunnels."
"All that's left is to find volunteers willing to risk their lives and figure out what's down there in the depths of Kessel," Mor grumbled.
His indignation was understandable.
He was a combat officer who, against his will, had ended up in the position of commandant of an entire star system.
While other officers were fighting, he was forced to deal with building defenses.
Which, actually, fell under the competence of engineering units.
But that was just a detail.
"Don't worry about volunteers, Commodore," I advised. "Two hundred thousand are already ready. And another million are on the way."
Alexander Mor looked at me uncomprehendingly.
"Before our stormtroopers start surveying the Garrison Moon, they will escort Republic prisoners of war to Kessel," I explained. "Who will very soon be made an offer they can't refuse."
"I understand, sir," but his voice said otherwise. "It's just... How do you intend to find Horn's ship?"
"And why would I need to find it?" I asked with genuine surprise. "We will find Corran Horn himself. And we will very politely, correctly, and thoroughly inquire who gave him a camouflaged ship."
Mor's face fell as if he were a religious man who had just heard blasphemy from a priest's lips.
As if he hadn't come to the same conclusion himself.
* * *
Oland entered the residence accompanied by several guards, almost screwing up his plan right from the start.
As he had expected — he had to hand over his blaster immediately.
But when the fighters started talking about a personal search, the officer broke out in a cold sweat.
Because he had never been interested in that kind of procedure — in the Empire, everyone relied on scanners.
Especially regarding officers.
But a personal body search — that was something else...
"Let him through," the senior member of his escort ordered the mercenary who had decided to frisk the Star Destroyer commander. "The boss is waiting. Don't drag it out. Our Imperial isn't stupid enough to try anything inside our lair. There's almost a battalion of guards and Noghri here," he said confidentially. "I think you understand what will happen to you if you decide to joke around, don't you, Imperial?"
"Nothing good," Oland replied to the questioning look. "But you're right. I'm not here to joke."
"Well, that's just fine and dandy," the man snorted, nodding towards the central corridor. "Let's go, Imperial."
They led him through a maze of corridors, where he could see for himself that the once-Imperial government building had turned into a lair of hardened bandits.
And anarchists.
At least, that's what the colorful graffiti on the walls proclaimed.
A complete fall of morals and culture.
A faceless and insane mob that had gotten their hands on power.
These types are out to destroy, not to build.
Others would build for them.
The less free and less aggressive.
They led him to a small throne room, where governors and moffs usually threw parties, receptions, and other official and unofficial meetings.
They let him inside, and he found himself in a smoke-filled hall.
As far as the eye could see, there were half-drunk mercenaries and cutthroats everywhere, surrounded by available women.
The apotheosis of planetary control.
Dubious-quality drinks, insincere merriment, and women with long-since tarnished reputations, spicing up an ordinary drinking session.
And this filth intended to control a sector?
Disgusting.
They'd steal it, sell it, loot it, and plunge it into an abyss of ruin.
The door clicked softly behind him, muffling the sounds from outside, but they were compensated for by the noise inside.
Yet Oland himself felt an unnatural calm and silence settle within him.
Except for the pounding of his heart.
What he saw finally convinced the man that he had chosen the right path.
There was no one to pity here.
They were all part of the same pack.
They pushed him towards a dais where the governor's chair had once stood.
It had been torn from its mounts and thrown into some right corner.
Judging by the characteristic sounds coming from there, it was being used for something other than its intended purpose.
Bacchanalia.
Revolting.
The man walked forward calmly — proud and unbroken — trying to pick out the fat bulk of the Hutt in the crowd.
But he couldn't do it.
Because the Hutt wasn't there.
They were leading him to some Weequay bandit who, by all appearances, was running this gang.
"Little Imperial!" someone nearby roared with laughter.
A pale-skinned, emaciated wretch in rags hung onto him, reeking of what seemed like a mixture of nuclear fuel, engine oil, vomit, and Gamorrean entrails.
"You're with us too, right?" the man's eyes gleamed unnaturally, marking him as a seasoned drug addict.
"Come on, I'll show you a girl," the junkie tugged at his sleeve. "One of yours. A lady officer! A commander! A pretty one! Yummy!"
Oland stopped dead in his tracks.
He turned his gaze in the direction the wretch was pulling him.
It took him a moment to realize who they were talking about.
But even when her eyes met his, there wasn't a flicker of recognition or understanding in them.
But he recognized the tormented woman.
The First Officer from the Trespasser.
A woman who, like him, had risen from the bottom.
And had been an honest officer, devoted to the Empire.
Obviously, the traitorous commanders had gotten rid of her, and of others like her who had principles, handing them over to the bandits for sport.
And it wasn't about what was terrifying for any woman, unacceptable, immoral, psyche-shattering, turning into a lifelong trauma.
It was probably even good that she didn't understand what was happening.
Her mind had left her before they had strung her up on an improvised pyre that the militants had decided to build.
They intended to roast a man.
And eat him.
Oland shuddered.
Only now, realizing the horror of what was happening, he thought to look closely at what sort of beings surrounded him.
Humans and other mercenaries, yes, they were here.
But the overwhelming majority were the most repulsive humanoids in the galaxy, among those the commander of the Maruta knew about.
Lipless mouths with large teeth.
Elongated skulls.
Lean builds.
Zanibar.
Cannibals.
Oland's gaze darted around the hall.
He saw dozens of stakes on which people were suspended.
From their builds — Imperial Helldivers or stormtroopers.
Zanibar scurried around them, chanting some kind of songs.
Some were already being pierced with knives, bleeding them, as the cannibals tied them to poles to carry to the bonfires.
"Like it?" the leader of his escort-convoy whispered in his ear. "Our best wars. Zanibar. Before devouring an enemy, they perform rituals to appease their gods and something about energy. If you don't join us, you'll end up on a stake. Move, Imperial."
It felt like a cold spike had been driven between his ribs, but the captain managed to control his voice.
"Bastards," he said hoarsely. "Brutes! Barbarians! I hate you!"
"What did you say?" the ragged man's eyes flashed hostilely.
The beings nearest him also stopped their merrymaking, turning their attention to the insolent Imperial. Silence fell in the hall.
"Looks like we won't reach an agreement," the Weequay declaimed.
"But I didn't come to talk to you," Oland's voice rang with fury. "I want Mi-Ha Hutt!"
"And who do you think you are, that the boss himself should talk to you?" the Weequay snorted. "Small fry. They only wanted to talk to you because they didn't want to waste time on your little ship and its crew of weaklings. But since you're so bold, our soldiers will snack on you now, and then kill your crew..."
"Like hell," Oland hissed.
More than half an hour had passed since he left the Maruta. The crew must already be on edge.
The captain slapped the first who rushed at him and kicked him away. His hands instinctively reached inside his jacket.
"Back, you scum!" he roared, pulling out first one, then another thermal detonator. Not as bulky as the stormtroopers' cylindrical. But the explosive inside them was also more powerful. Expensive, but priceless.
"None of you are leaving here, filth," said the commander of the Maruta, pressing the activation buttons with his thumbs. And he threw them in opposite directions, into the crowds of Zanibar.
The only drawback of these munitions — a fifteen-second delay on the fuse.
The stupefied crowd couldn't grasp what was happening, drunkenly giggling at the Imperial who had thrown "non-working smoke canisters" at them.
The commander of the Maruta ripped his comlink from his belt, threw it on the floor and crushed it with his heel, signaling the crew that it was time to scram. Then he assumed a combat stance. Though he hadn't fought since the Academy, he'd definitely take a couple of these vermin with him to the next world. If it existed, of course.
"Come on, you bastards," he offered to the nearest bandit, who stared at him with a face twisted in terror. "Didn't blow up your boss, so I'll kill as many of you as I can."
And then something happened that he least expected.
A crash rang out somewhere, followed by the sounds of blasters. From the darkness of the throne room's ceiling, several shadows literally woven from blackness dropped into the crowd of criminals. The half-drunk criminals retreated from them, curiously examining the uninvited guests. Each one was dressed in black armor, faceless helmets with crimson visors and flowing cloaks, as if chosen by design. With a hiss and hum, crimson and violet lightsabers cut through the twilight of the criminal orgy. Then a voice rang out, distorted by the helmet's vocoder, but no less thunderous for it.
"In the name of the Dominion — the hour of justice has come."
The lightsabers instantly turned into fiery lace, death mills crashing into the half-drunk, stupefied crowd. The death-harvester began its work, shredding the crowd of criminals, and the ceremonial hall turned into an orchestral one. Where the Shadow Guard displayed their favorite repertoire.
A drama with elements of tragedy entitled: 'Suffering and Death.'