Judging by Commodore Mor's expression, he still hadn't arrived at the same conclusions as I had. Not that this is disappointing. No, it's a perfectly ordinary occurrence. No one is perfect. Measuring other beings by oneself is the last thing to do.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo was an exception not just among Imperials, but even among his own fellow citizens. And the Chiss Ascendancy is an extremely militarized state, at war, if my memory serves me, throughout its entire existence. There are plenty of military specialists there. But still, Mitth'raw'nuruodo was a "phenomenon" even among them. That doesn't change the fact that there were quite competent military leaders among the Chiss. As among humans. Among Imperials. Among Dominionites. Among Republicans.
Alexander Mor is no mediocrity either. But he has a certain level of competence and ability for complex analysis. As do I. As does Mitth'raw'nuruodo. As does anyone. If there were no limits to a being's worldview, soldiers wouldn't exist — there would only be generals winning on the battlefield through the power of thought as a result of their "brilliant" tactics. So I take it quite calmly that subordinates can't keep up with my "train of thought" on the fly. And that they need a little more time to arrive at the same conclusions as I do. The speed of assessing a situation and making a decision is what allows the Dominion to stay one step ahead in studying the enemy.
You need to understand that approaches to repelling an attack and conducting an offensive are different. For now, the New Republic and the Alliance are forced to defend against our active operations because they have concentrated (as they did last year) their efforts on other fronts and threats. This allows me to have strategic initiative in the galaxy. And even that, only as long as favorable conditions exist. And as long as the enemy follows the logic I've studied in the past. As soon as they flip the table instead of playing the cards they're dealt — then I'll have to adopt a "catch-up" tactic. Which, accordingly, is demonstrated by the example of Tyber Zann, Cronal, and other leaders of the Zann Consortium. Even if in a simplified form, until recently the Dominion played the role of last year's New Republic in opposing them.
The lack of inside information, the forced analysis of the enemy's strategy based on their offensive tactics — that's what the New Republic felt in its "skin" when it was subjected to my strikes. And yes, I turned the tide of the campaign against the Dominion because I "flipped the table." And the "cards" the enemy held turned out useless. Because their striking fist was drawn into a trap. The ground forces were either devoured by clodhoppers on the planet Korva, or infected with a deadly plague on the second moon of Tiraggi. The fleet was defeated, albeit at a costly price for me. Costly not because I regret the lost ships and the time and money spent on their refitting. We have starships and money. We lost our people and a talented rear admiral. Such things cannot be simply replaced. Even with thirty thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders.
The Dominion desperately needs an influx of fresh blood — competent officers of the Empire. Or the Republic. Or any other state. Race doesn't matter — talent and combat experience do. With the closing of the Dominion's borders, we redirected all those wishing to join us to Makem Te, as the only planet accessible for free visitation by other beings. Previously, Axxila was also such a planet, but now that world is deep within Dominion territory. And it will likely lose its status as a planet with a permitted black market over time. Because there's no point in using a world in that capacity when, for someone who is not a Dominion citizen to reach it, they would have to be let through the "Perimeter." That's a security threat. So, most likely, we'll have to talk to Captain Anilex about having the Kavil's Corsairs relocate their illegal trade and "import substitution" of products not produced in the Dominion somewhere else. If only we knew where. And besides, over time, after the goals of the counterattack against the Zann Consortium are achieved, we may well be able to set up our own production of most necessary devices and mechanisms.
Time is needed. And money. Which we have, but the reserves are oriented toward financing the Dominion's development and strengthening its military-economic industry. But, one way or another, intelligence is working to correct the problem of personnel shortage, surveying planets of the galaxy where Imperial commanders who left service might have settled. We managed to acquire Veers. And since then, that's been my biggest success — no one higher in rank or with more experience has been recruited to the Dominion. One can only hope that this is "so far."
"There aren't that many factions in the galaxy that could give Horn a ship with an active and functional cloaking system," Mor said, intruding into my thoughts.
"But they exist," I said calmly. "Horn has been through enough to abandon his principles and ally with any forces that act against us and have the necessary resources. For the New Republic, Captain Horn is a deserter. For the Alliance... his status is unclear. For any of the Imperial Remnants — an enemy. For the Corellian Diktat — a traitor, a target for arrest and a show trial. But there are dozens, if not hundreds, of other galactic polities that represent a significant force in one way or another. Aristocratic families, Hapes, the Hutts, pirates and smugglers, Imperial warlords hiding from most of the galaxy."
The only thing I'm sure of — Horn couldn't have fallen so low as to cooperate with Imperials directly. But at the same time, it shouldn't be forgotten that even Luke Skywalker was captured on Sluis Van using an invisible ship. Most likely — by servants of the Emperor. The same Emperor who developed a habit of using the gifted to advance his plans for galactic hegemony. And not always openly. Just remember that Executor Sedriss tried to use Han Solo to destroy Honoghr. Blatantly. Secretly. And Cronal controls the Zann Consortium, conducting it as he or his master pleases. And only the disruption of the HoloNet's operation allows us to hope that we have a time gap to turn the situation upside down in our interests. Too many unknowns, which force us to act more cautiously than before. Too many conditions must be met for "the game of the dead Grand Admiral and the isolationism of the Dominion" to continue as such for as long as possible.
"In all this time, three beings on one ship, even if not the smallest, must have consumed a considerable amount of supplies," Alexander said thoughtfully.
"That's true," I agreed. "But ordinary starships aren't equipped with cloaking systems. It might be a raider or a specialized vessel designed for such long-duration operations."
I had several hypotheses regarding where, from whom, when, why, and under what circumstances Corran Horn could have obtained a cloaked starship. And they directly intersected with how skillfully he managed to use Morut Dul's forces for the attack on the Chimaera during our last visit to the Kessel system.
"However, if that is the case, and Corran Horn, his wife, and father-in-law are still in the Kessel star system, it's strange that we still couldn't detect traces of his engine before he activated the cloak," Commodore Mor continued voicing the right thoughts.
"There is technology that can mask engine signature traces," I reminded him.
"Quite expensive," Mor noted.
As are scanners that can track ion emissions and classify specific types of starships from them, I thought simultaneously with the last.
"So we can conclude that the employer of our fugitive Jedi has not just access to cloaking technology but also significant financial resources," I said.
"Forgive my bluntness, sir," Mor grimaced. "But isn't that too big an investment in one Republican, even a Jedi, just for him to fly in and rescue his family from the 'clutches of the Dominion'?"
"And that," I smiled, "is the right question, Commodore. Can you answer it yourself?"
Alexander furrowed his brow, signifying the thought process occurring in his skull.
"Let's assume that no one would give him a ship worth tens or even hundreds of millions of credits just for a family rescue," he muttered. "Most likely, the mission they assigned him only overlapped with the ultimate goal... Of course, if Horn didn't simply steal the starship."
"Yes, the latter is the simplest," I agreed. "However, that hypothesis can be tested later. Because cloaked special-purpose starships usually aren't found in places where they can be easily stolen from under their owners' noses, don't you think, Commodore?"
"Of course," Mor massaged his temples vigorously, staring at the metal tabletop between us. "They gave him the ship... But not primarily for the family rescue... He ended up on Kessel... Somehow managed to involve Morut Dul's fleet..."
"How exactly — we know for certain," I reminded him. "Morut Dul told us nothing except that Horn promised a huge sum of money for help with this operation."
"So he still had money for bribes," Mor grumbled. "Knowing people like Dul, they won't lift a finger without a decent advance before a mission."
"It existed," I confirmed. "Several million peggats, which Dul nobly transferred to the Dominion's disposal. Though that didn't save him and his henchmen from being eaten by spice spiders."
"Then the idea that Horn stole the ship is definitely wrong," Mor concluded. "A rare and valuable ship, enormous money for bribing the enemy... Too good to be true. He had a patron — and not a poor one. So his goal must have been quite significant."
"And profitable," I prompted, looking through the porthole at the scenery beyond. No, the Maw Cluster, despite its terrifying destructive power, is still magnificent. A kind of cosmic art object... Curious.
"Yes," Mor didn't catch the hint in my words. "No one would ever invest that much money unless the payoff was substantial. And the currency of the bribe might point to Hutt Space... Peggats are their currency..."
"Or," I calmly countered, "to those who do business with the Hutts. Very, very closely."
The commodore thought for a few more seconds, then looked me straight in the eye.
"Kessel," he said. "Horn's employer or ally sent him as a stalking horse to interest the local bandits serving Dul in his possession of money. And also so that he would help capture the system and the source of glitzerstim."
"Bravo, Commodore," I praised him. "Exactly. We're not the only ones smart enough to capture Kessel for control of the glitzerstim market."
"A spy with loads of money, a legend about saving his wife and father-in-law, who are widely known among criminals, and also possessing Jedi abilities and combat experience," the commodore assessed Horn. "Yes, such a man can infiltrate trust, intimidate, and bribe."
"Especially given the fact that Horn, as part of Rogue Squadron, had previously visited Kessel and demonstrated his principled stance on certain matters," I said, recalling the episode when the then Alliance to Restore the Republic recruited hardened criminals on Kessel to destabilize the Imperial regime on Coruscant. Frankly, I don't remember that operation bringing much profit to the rebels. But problems...
"But Morut Dul's regime fell," Mor continued. "And we control the system, Kessel, and the Garrison moon."
"Correct," I confirmed. "And your Interdictors blocked long-range communication, preventing Horn from telling his allies/employers how strong we are here."
"Yes," Commodore Mor agreed with me. "But at the same time, if Horn's employers have informants within the Alliance, and they certainly do, they might have figured out where you headed after the defeat of General Solo's fleet near Lantilles. We don't have that many bases in this region."
That's also true. Except for Kessel and the formally protectorate Tammaz-an, we have nowhere to go. Perhaps Trogan, Columex, or Makem Te. But those are planets with decent defenses and substantial trade traffic of space transports. Hiding the arrival of an entire Dominion fleet led by the Guardian in any of these systems is impossible. And starships need somewhere to repair battle damage after combat.
"Yes, the choice is limited."
"You said we are expecting uninvited guests," Mor reminded.
"That's right."
"You meant Horn's employers?"
"They and the Alliance will arrive at Kessel almost simultaneously," I explained, recalling the latest data from spy droids scattered since the battle for Honoghr across all regional hyperspace routes of the Kessel sector and its nearest adjacent space.
"From which we can conclude that the enemy has a rough idea of the forces that can oppose them here," Alexander said.
"Yes," I confirmed. "They know about the number of ships and defensive structures on Kessel that I allowed them to know."
Mor fell silent, digesting the information.
The time gap between Solo's rescue and the collapse of the HoloNet (thank you, Fey'lya, for doing that before me — I won't have to wash myself of accusations of capturing the Intergalactic Communications Center on Praesitlyn in the foreseeable future) is small. But, as Commodore Mor correctly noted, the enemy undoubtedly has agents in the Alliance. As well as in the New Republic. They must have, if I correctly understand the identity of those who provided Horn with a cloaked ship. Because they, as I understand, are controlled by Emperor Palpatine or his proxies. However, the denouement won't be long in coming.
"One way or another, we can only obtain more accurate information about Horn's mission, the intentions and forces of his employers moving toward Kessel, through interrogating Corran Horn," Commodore Mor reacted to my pensive silence.
"I don't think it will be productive," I replied to the fleet commander in a phlegmatic tone. "But we won't neglect the good old methods of obtaining information either."
Especially in the current circumstances, when no word has been heard from Agent Bravo-Eleven, sent to infiltrate the structure of Horn's presumed employers, for quite a long time.
"Of course, sir," he agreed. "But... you said we are expecting an attack. How do you intend to catch Horn? We don't have the means to track cloaked starships of any type."
Well, obviously he deemed it necessary to remind me of postulates that are already known. This isn't a nitpick. It's the duty of a lower-ranking officer — to inform his commander of potential problems and miscalculations, threats and troubles.
"Very simple, Commodore," perhaps I should exclude such phrases from my speech. They too often cause a nervous tic in my interlocutors. "Thanks to your skillful actions, we have cut off dozens, if not hundreds, of incorrect approaches to solving our problem. And now we have the only correct one, which we can use to guarantee finding Corran Horn and his family."
Mor heaved a heavy sigh. He seemed simply tired of looking for answers between the lines.
"May I ask you what that method will be?" he asked in a tone that made it clear the commodore didn't particularly expect a direct answer.
"Of course," judging by his raised eyebrows, the man clearly hadn't expected that. "The Emperor and Darth Vader gave us a clear instruction on finding Jedi fugitives who don't want to be found."
Mor remained silent. But from his expression, I understood he had guessed what I was referring to.
PLX-4 — the last known model of grenade launcher from the legendary PLX series, which soldiers had nicknamed "Plex."
This grenade launcher, like its predecessors — the first and second versions of the all-destroying weapon — was built on a standard layout and designed for shoulder-fired use.
The developers had decided to abandon the complex and bulky design of the PLX-2M model.
And Vex didn't have to lug a heavy launcher on her belt and shoulder.
But credit where credit was due to the creators of this "Plex": they managed to preserve all the advantages of using modern guided missiles (rocket-propelled grenades) and had even added a new guided anti-air missile to the ammunition lineup.
In addition to unguided rockets, intended for engaging targets at short range within the grenadier's direct line of sight.
The guided missiles locked onto targets by their repulsor signature and were primarily used to destroy repulsor armored vehicles.
But even if a repulsor tank shut down its engine and repulsor projectors, the missile would still spot and identify it by matching the tank's silhouette against the silhouettes in its own database.
And the last type of ammunition — "Erudite" anti-air guided missiles — turned the anti-tank grenade launcher into an effective man-portable surface-to-air missile system.
As it turned out, operating this type of grenade launcher required certain skills and special training.
A poorly trained shooter could only use unguided rockets somewhat effectively — the ones without a guidance system.
Which was exactly what she'd done.
And she cursed the moment in time when Mer-Sonna Munitions Corporation had invented this godforsaken grenade launcher.
And the moment she hadn't refused to fire it.
And the moment these series of grenade launchers had been put into service with the Imperial armed forces in the first place.
And when they'd ended up in the Dominion's arsenal.
"Screw your 'Don't worry, it's not scary, just work the action, honey'!" Vex spat venom, pulling a blaster pistol out from under herself.
She wasn't doing it for fun.
Problems had cropped up just seconds after the first grenade-launcher shot had blown apart the guardhouse, and the second — not just the main gates, but a good ten meters of wall.
The problem had dark-gray skin that was clearly visible in the starlight, a big vibroblade, and an ugly grimace.
"What a face you've got, Noghri!" Vex blurted, aiming her blaster pistol at the enemy.
Which, of course, didn't help her.
Because it was snatched out of her hand by another Noghri, who had come up from behind her head, staying outside her field of vision.
"This is bad," was all the girl managed, seeing that the traitors of the Noghri people (their light-gray skin gave them away) had no intention of taking her prisoner and were swinging their terrible blades.
With a whistle that seemed more deafening than the roar of the firefight at the residence and the explosions of thermal detonators, something black flashed before her face.
The Noghri who'd grabbed her blaster wheezed and collapsed onto the soft grass of a planet that was all too hospitable to scumbags.
The second, who'd swung a knife at her, was thrown backward by a powerful yank of a black arm that seemed woven from the night itself.
"Traitor!" the "black" Noghri meowed aggressively, towering over his fallen enemy.
"At least I'm free of the Empire!" the gray-skinned one just barely meowed back, before the death commando slit his throat.
"Hey!" Vex called out to him anxiously, reclaiming her blaster. "What about interrogating the prisoner?"
The black-skinned Noghri looked at her as if he were a void demon from the legends of the first Twi'lek space travelers.
"Why?" he asked with a heavy accent.
"Well, at least to find out why these Noghri are serving the Zann Consortium," Vex blurted the first thing that came to mind.
"All the same," the black-skinned Noghri shook his head negatively. "There is only the Overclan. And the will of our master, the Grand Admiral. Not want to know reason for Noghri betrayal. Kill Noghri traitors. No questions."
With that, he vanished into the night.
"Great," Vex grumbled, watching the residence of the local governor catch fire in its courtyard, where a fierce battle raged between dozens of fighters in black armor who were mercilessly killing Zann Consortium thugs. "So, it turns out we not only have Noghri cleaners, but also our own assault commando squad on hand? Or maybe I should've given a good beating to Sing, who was supposed to be covering me?"
She heard a blaster shot behind her.
And almost immediately — another one.
Then something heavy crashed down.
Vex turned, leveling her blaster.
But all she saw were two bodies of Zann Consortium fighters, with melted holes in the backs of their heads from blaster bolts.
Apparently, the nearest patrol had rushed to the gates by the shortest route and been taken out...
"Don't thank me, girl," Aurra Sing's mocking whisper came through the comlink.
"Fine," Vex muttered. "I won't."
* * *
Reynar felt absolutely nothing as his lightsaber, transformed into a deadly energy blender, tore through flesh around its owner.
In the Force, one light after another flickered out, and the number of corpses around the Shadow Guard grew like wildfire.
Humans.
Zabraks.
Weequays.
Gamorreans.
Zanibar.
Nautolans.
Devaronians...
He stopped distinguishing the sentients he killed, becoming an instrument of inevitable death.
Darth Maul, like a lawnmower, cut through the crowd of sentients suddenly aware of their own mortality and the hopelessness of their situation, from his landing point toward the single entrance.
The double-bladed lightsaber passed through fabric, flesh, and armor, meeting almost no resistance.
A powerful gust of air tugged at his cloak, but the former inquisitor held his ground, only noting from the corner of his eye how Stryn, freezing for a moment, used his ability to control the weather to instantly send hundreds of half-drunk sentients and pieces of furniture into close proximity with where the first detonator had landed.
Reynar reacted to the Force's warning of danger and shielded himself with the Force, a bulky Gamorrean, and a heavy table made of artificial stone from the blast wave of the second grenade.
And for good measure, he channeled a stream of Force toward the explosive's location to mitigate the damage.
The stone was licked by flames and shattered into crumbs by the shockwave.
The green-skinned alien was burned and lost both arms.
And all that only halved the shockwave.
The remaining part of the deadly area of compressed air, rapidly expanding from the epicenter of the detonation, the Shadow Guard turned into a push that allowed him to instantly appear next to the instigator of all this chaos.
And at the same moment, he and Captain Oland were drenched in a spray of blood, bodily fluids, and chunks of flesh.
Looking toward the mound of bodies mangled by the first detonator's blast, Reynar confirmed Stryn was safe.
But he was clearly exhausted — the visible sluggishness of his violet lightsaber blade as it cut through the remaining stunned criminals told that story.
"H-how?" he heard the stammering question from the "Maruta" commander. "Th-this place was supposed to be blown to bits!"
"That's not part of our plan," Reynar cut him off, grabbing the officer by his tunic. "If you want revenge, fight with us. If not..."
"I'm with you," the man replied firmly. Large droplets of someone else's blood on his face were forming characteristic streaks.
He grabbed a blaster from one of the thugs, and in the second it took Reynar to crush several Zanibar against the walls with a Force Wave, he got it combat-ready and opened fire.
As Obscuro had assumed, Oland was killing those criminals who were near the captured Imperials.
The latter, as if the slaughter had given them strength, demanded to be released and threatened to rain down their wrath on the cannibals.
Some were unlucky — the pale-skinned humanoids had killed them before charging to attack or trying to flee the throne room.
"Animals!" Oland roared behind Reynar.
The Shadow Guard turned, simultaneously grabbing the nearest Devaronian with the Force, shifting his vertical position to horizontal, and sending him horns-first straight into the fat belly of a charging Trandoshan.
The Devaronian's curved horns exited the lizard's back.
Oland collapsed to his knees beside one of the braziers.
Above him, naked, bearing the marks of torture and violence, looking more like the result of relentless beatings than a human body, hung a woman whose throat had been cut with one strong slash.
Through the gash, despite the fountains of blood, Reynar could see whitish cervical vertebrae.
His attention was drawn to a squelching sound to his right.
Looking over, he saw a blood-soaked Imperial, not caring where he struck, turning a Zanibar's skull into a mess of tissue and bone with the butt of his blaster and his fists.
Beside him lay a bloody curved blade.
"No! — Splat! — You! — Splat-squelch. — Won't! — Squelch-squelch! — Look!"
Obscuro deflected a blaster bolt fired at him, sending it back to the shooter, and noted with satisfaction that Darth Maul had made it to the entrance, becoming an insurmountable obstacle on the escapees' path.
His lightsabers flickered at inhuman speeds, severing arms, legs, heads, cutting through weapons and humanoid bodies.
The Zabrak, drowning in the emanations of the Dark Side of the Force, made no distinction among those before him.
He beheaded and dismembered, moving from one corner of the entrance to the other, killing anyone who tried to get past him.
"Enough!" Reynar barked into Oland's ear, who was up to his elbows in Zanibar brains, yanking him by the shoulder.
The Imperial, as if insane, waved him off, continuing to madly turn the woman's killer into mincemeat.
Reynar didn't stand on ceremony.
He slapped the man so hard that he flew off the opponent's cooling body.
Oland jumped to his feet, pointing his blaster at the Guard.
His blaster was cut in half by Obscuro's crimson lightsaber blade in the same instant.
"I said ENOUGH!" Reynar released a sobering Force Lightning into the man, making him scream.
The Imperial, thrown aside, stirred, groaning as he came to his senses after the haze.
Reynar felt his confusion and the rising rage clouding the man's eyes.
"Fight!" he shouted, seeing a massive Barabel charging at him. "Don't become a beast!"
The main thing is he doesn't take Maul's example, Reynar thought, crossing his blade with the reptile's sword.
And the next instant, with an uncharacteristic hum, the crimson blade disappeared, and the cold weapon's edge nearly took off his head.
Cortosis! Reynar realized.
A lightsaber was useless here.
Obscuro didn't risk his second blade and leaped backward, creating distance with his opponent.
The reptile lunged at him, swinging its sword overhead, intending to split the human from top to bottom.
Reynar didn't take chances and hit it with Force Lightning.
The lizard shrieked but kept moving toward the human.
Obscuro changed tactics and pushed the enemy away with a Force Push, sending it tumbling backward.
When it stopped and lifted its head, a violet blade belonging to Stryn, who had appeared beside him, took it off.
The man was retreating under the onslaught of opponents who didn't care about losses.
But he was doing it smartly, leaving behind him only the racks with captured Imperials, whom he freed every now and then during his retreat, after which he made a short but fierce counter-attack.
This allowed a prisoner to crawl, run, or roll behind the Shadow Guard.
A few seconds to recover from the shock and get to work, finding a weapon.
This gradually reduced the number of attackers pressing down on the former gas reconnaissance operator.
Reynar saw Orsan locked in hand-to-hand combat with a hulking Trandoshan trying to intimidate the human by baring its sharp-toothed maw.
The struggle was over a disintegration rifle — the ultimate weapon in an enclosed space.
A kick to the ribs made the Imperial let go.
The Trandoshan yanked the stock toward itself, leveling the weapon.
Reynar called on the Force.
In the next moment, the disintegrator fell into Oland's hands, who was watching wide-eyed as the lizard's head twisted left until its neck vertebrae cracked audibly.
From the entrance side, weak Force Lightning sparked.
That meant Maul was running out of steam.
He was a brawler, not an expert in Force manipulation.
If he'd fallen back on that, it meant even he was getting tired of the unending dance of death.
Reynar rushed to help, using the Force for a powerful push off the floor.
Like a ballistic missile, he shot upward, then plunged down, releasing the Force he'd built up around him.
The closing ring of criminals around the Zabrak, who had completely forgotten about self-preservation in their drug-fueled delirium, scattered like shrapnel from an exploded starfighter.
The Zabrak, whose blade had fallen to the floor, kicked another Barabel in the chest with Force and might, cracking the enemy's sturdy skeleton and, with a squelch of metal limb exiting the sternum, sent it flying.
Another cortosis-coated blade lay nearby.
Reynar reignited his lightsaber, then waded into a crowd of Rodians, deflecting their shots and cutting off everything he could reach.
A bright green-and-purple flash from the disintegrator cut across his visor, but Reynar didn't even pay attention.
Because it was obviously not aimed close to him.
With his armored fist, he knocked out the front teeth of a Zanibar that got in his way, making it cough up dental "phlegm."
His next move was to cut off its head.
With a deafening roar, a Wookiee attacked him from the side.
Knocked off his feet, Reynar was pinned against the wall.
The massive build of the Kashyyyk native (yes, even among the hairy victims of slavery, there were freaks) was trying to crush his ribs.
And it was succeeding — Obscuro saw red damage markers appearing on his breastplate's inner visor display.
But he'd dropped his lightsaber during the collision.
Kicking the Wookiee in the groin, the Guard made it loosen its grip and double over from the excruciating pain.
There was no time to look around and search for the saber.
So Reynar, taking advantage of the fact that the Wookiee's arms were below its hairy torso, simply drove his thumbs into its eyes.
The Wookiee roared like a rancor castrated without anesthesia.
It tried to twitch and get off these "hooks," but Reynar wouldn't let that happen.
He called on the Dark Side for help.
Mixing it with the adrenaline boiling in his blood, the human sharply pulled his hands apart.
Tearing out the eye sockets and breaking the integrity of the enemy's skull.
The Wookiee roared and choked on the blood gushing in all directions, forgetting about its attacker.
That was enough for Reynar to rip out a metal table leg from the nearest table and drive its sharp edge straight under the chin of the Kashyyyk native.
With gurgling sounds, the Wookiee fell.
Reynar finally found the hilt of his lightsaber and returned it to his hand with a mental command.
I ought to leash you or something, the man thought, igniting both crimson blades at once.
He fell upon the rear of a crowd of twenty to thirty sentients who were pressing down on Stryn and the people he'd saved.
Without a shred of conscience, without compassion or mercy, the Shadow Councilor dismembered his enemies as fast as he could.
After a few seconds, in the heat of battle, his blade clashed with Stryn's, sending him flying sideways.
But the hilt immediately returned to its owner.
"You okay?" Reynar asked, seeing Stryn clutching his right side with his left hand.
"Got hit with a cortosis blade," he replied.
Though his voice was calm and unflappable, the Force reflected the pain and effort he was exerting to stay on his feet.
"What kind of creatures are these?" Reynar voiced a rhetorical question, looking at the chopped-up body of a Barabel lying a couple of meters from him.
Judging by the look of it — Stryn had done the job.
"These are Barabel hunters," explained Darth Maul, who had just approached, tearing a cracked helmet from his head. "Mercenaries who hunted Jedi."
"I've never seen any like them," Reynar shook his head, surveying the battlefield that the throne room had become.
A thick layer of corpses and their parts, blood, and other matter covered everything his eyes could see.
Thankfully, the night-vision mode built into his helmet let him see in the dark without much trouble.
"They weren't much use anyway," Maul said contemptuously. "In the very first battle against a group of Jedi apprentices, only three or five survived out of a hundred. I trained them myself in Palpatine's service. He ordered the rest killed. Which was done by one of his countless Hands. Or by Vader himself as a warm-up. These, apparently, fancied themselves their descendants."
"Where's the Weequay who commanded them?" Reynar glanced around again, looking for the leader.
His gaze stopped on a gloomy, dark passage in the wall behind the podium where the governor's chair had once stood.
"He escaped through a secret passage," Maul viciously kicked someone's head, sending it flying like a ball. "I'm going after him."
"Their leader went into the tunnel with about ten to fifteen heavily armed guards," Captain Oland declared, approaching the Guards.
He demonstratively placed his weapon on the ground, looking at the surviving Imperials who were bleeding and trying to help each other, watching him and the others with fear and suspicion.
These ones didn't lower their weapons.
Reynar identified them as infantry or stormtroopers — too solid a build and characteristically economical movements for fleet officers of the Imperial Navy.
Maul, without a word, without even hinting that he trusted the Imperial on his word, headed into the opening, breaking into a run from a walk.
Within a couple of seconds, he was out of sight in the secret passage.
"Doesn't trust us," Captain Oland pronounced, looking at Reynar. "Are you... Are you from the Imperial Guard?"
"No," Reynar replied. "Dominion. Shadow Guard."
The Imperials exchanged glances.
They said nothing, but words weren't needed when eloquent expressions were written on their exhausted faces.
A coughing laugh sounded from under Stryn's helmet.
The man, no longer pretending, dropped to one knee and began tearing off his chestplate.
Reynar, also silent, detached a portable medkit from his belt.
With a sharp motion, he tore the fabric at the wound site and wiped the dirt and blood from the wound's edge with a disinfectant solution.
Then he started spraying aerosol on the tissue and...
"Sorry, not like that," he heard a voice.
Turning his head, he saw someone who was clearly not a paratrooper.
A middle-aged man with a clearly broken leg, from whose thigh a piece of flesh had been cut, was leaning on the shoulder of a sturdy trooper.
Where the skin had been cut away was bleeding, but closer to the groin area it was tied off with a makeshift tourniquet.
Judging by everything — this one was definitely not a fighter.
"I'm a ship's doctor," he explained. "Treating a stab wound like that won't save your friend's life. Allow me to help."
"You're wounded yourself," Reynar said.
"I tied off the artery, I'll hold out," the man attempted a smile. "And your friend has less and less time."
"Get to it, Doctor," Reynar handed him his field medkit, took a second one from Stryn, and cast a glance at the secret passage, from which no one had yet emerged. This uncertainty bothered him — even though he could sense that Maul was alive and unharmed. "Need anything else?"
"Standard Imperial field medical kits," the medic, whom the trooper had seated next to Stryn, identified the purpose of the medical case. "No, everything's here. But, if possible — a little more light. I might have to stitch the wound from the inside. Too much blood..."
Reynar pulled out several chemical light sticks from his belt.
"If you need to go, go," the giant who'd brought the medic to the wounded man rumbled. "Doc knows his job. Your guy will live. Promise."
The trooper silently and unequivocally extended his hand forward, looking Obscuro straight in the visor.
The Guard handed him the chemical light sources.
The fighter immediately and deftly snapped them in half, arranging them around the area to create a fairly decent source of omnidirectional light.
Reynar himself couldn't have done better.
But he also hadn't taken survival courses on Carida.
This guy clearly knew what he was doing.
"Move it," the trooper said loudly, addressing several other surviving fighters. "Find weapons. Secure the perimeter. Hold out until evacuation. Look for our own survivors."
He looked at Reynar with a silent question in his eyes.
Reynar nodded affirmatively.
"Finish off the enemies," he gave the order and was the first to start searching the bodies of the dead.
Obscuro noted how the man moved unnaturally when bending over.
He remembered that when giving orders, the trooper had spoken while breathing shallowly but frequently.
The words came out on the exhale, like shots from a blaster.
Broken ribs, Reynar understood.
The trooper, and indeed all the surviving Imperials...
"Doctor, if the medicine will help the others, distribute it," he said, casting a glance at the grim Imperials, whose bodies also bore traces of Zanibar "sampling."
"Oh..." the medic, who was packing Stryn's wound, looked slightly surprised but didn't argue. "Sergeant, check the men. Categorize them — I'll examine the severe cases right after this guy. Please remove your helmet, sentient. I need to see that you're conscious."
With Reynar's permission, Stryn complied.
"Look at me," the medic cooed as if talking to a child, injecting drugs into Maul's partner's side. "Describe your condition, your sensations. Now, raise your arm at the elbow — I need to know for sure you haven't passed out while I'm performing the intervention..."
Reynar looked toward the gaping rectangular void of the secret passage in the throne room wall.
Then at Stryn, pale from heavy blood loss.
Then back at the passage...
"Don't worry," he heard the voice of Captain Oland, who had approached the Guard. "He'll be fine. We'll cover him if anything happens. And we won't abandon him if we need to fall back. If my destroyer were still in orbit, I'd call in an evacuation transport and have your friend patched up in the ship's infirmary. Same for," he looked at the Imperials who were either searching the bodies of the dead or standing frozen on guard, "these poor souls. I'd strangle whoever sold them out to the Zanibar as snacks! Monsters! What kind of monsters are they‽ And this is supposed to be the Empire‽"
As if to justify why the Imperials might have abandoned the battlefield, thermal detonators thundered somewhere inside the building, followed by the fierce crackle of blaster fire.
Field agents of the Dominion Intelligence Directorate, disguised as Assault Commandos, were clearing the objective, destroying every enemy in their path.
He could wait for them to arrive and then move out after Maul.
But the Zabrak was clearly going to have a hard time against the dozen heavily armed fighters Oland had seen.
But could he be trusted?
Reynar looked at the surviving Imperials.
Grim determination in their eyes.
A desire to avenge what had been done to them.
And not the slightest hint that they were willing to trade Stryn's life for their own.
And besides, Oland...
He'd come to meet the criminals with a pair of super-powered thermal detonators, ready to kill as many of them as possible at the cost of his own life.
He hadn't crushed his comlink for nothing — it was probably a signal for the Marut to flee orbit.
"The Empire is dead, Captain," Reynar replied, unhooking a spare comlink from his belt. "All that's left is a rotting carcass that everyone's trying to sell to the highest bidder at any butcher's shop. Use the comlink and call in an evacuation transport from the destroyer. Save your people. We'll talk when we've finished clearing this place."
He would have called a shuttle himself, but it would take at least ten to fifteen minutes to arrive.
In that time, the target could get away if "Lieutenant Mac" and Darth Maul couldn't handle their task.
"My destroyer left as soon as I broke my comlink," Oland explained. "That was the order I gave..."
"The Marut is in orbit," Reynar cut him off. "It won't be able to make a hyperjump until this is all over."
"What do you mean?" Oland was taken aback.
Then a bitter smirk crossed his face.
"Well, of course. The Dominion seized my ship when the assault on the planet began... Pointless losses..."
"Your ship and its crew are alive and well," Reynar interrupted his companion's speech again. "The systems were just disabled, and the main computer initiated a full diagnostic."
"That's impossible!" Oland argued.
The state of shock wouldn't let him understand that something unrelated to his orders could be happening on his ship.
"Only the captain can give such an order!"
"And Dominion intelligence operatives," Reynar corrected, looking the commander of the Victory II straight in the eye. "Wait for my return. Then you can make whatever decision you want. No one will hold you here. I only care about the wounded."
"Yes, sir," the destroyer commander said, pressing his lips together and nodding. "You can count on us."
Without taking the last word in the conversation, Reynar rushed off in pursuit.
The Force told him he wouldn't make it in time for the operation's climax.
But at the same time, he didn't feel the alarm of failure or the sensation of his comrades dying.
This was all strange.
Very strange.