Ten years, four months, and ten days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, fourth month, and tenth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year and twenty-fifth day since the Arrival.)
The intercom sounded above his head.
"Hey, how long are you going to lounge around? We're about to arrive at our destination. Get your ass out of that rack — the troopers are getting bored without you."
The voice undeniably belonged to a man Galen had known for years.
Or thought he had known.
The man reached for the microphone activation key.
For a moment, he looked at his hand.
Outwardly, the left one was no different from the right...
If you didn't know it was now made of metal and servos, covered in synth-skin, with an electric current from a power pack running through it instead of blood.
"General," the voice came out hoarse, alien, as if belonging to another person. "The troopers can manage without me."
"Yeah, right," Rahm Kota snorted in response. "Get your gear on. Be on the landing pad in ten minutes. The special forces boys are waiting. Time to start the assault."
Galen got up from the bed, sitting on its edge only after Kota's voice died away.
He remained in that position for a while longer, gloomily hanging his head, his hands on his knees.
Then, realizing the old Jedi wouldn't leave him alone anyway, he began to dress.
It took a short time, after which he left the cabin and walked down the corridor towards the turbolift that would take him to the cruiser's hangar bay.
To the entire galaxy, Galen Marek, the secret apprentice of Darth Vader, died long ago on board the first Death Star.
In a way, it was true.
Galen was just a copy, brought into existence because the Sith Lord simply couldn't leave a dead man where he belonged.
The clone remembered almost all of his original's life, and now thought with disgust and a shudder that he himself was beginning to turn into the very person he had hated more than anything.
And yet, if none of what happened on Juno's flagship had occurred, he would be sitting right now somewhere next to his beloved, listening to her talk about tactics and strategy, stroking her head...
As it always was — she talked, and he listened.
He never interrupted, because he hung on her every word.
And now that will never happen.
Instead, Juno is dead.
The Dominion won that battle, the mercenaries killed his love, and that pale-skinned bastard took his arm.
The hopes placed on him are long in the past.
The Alliance wanted him to train a new generation of Jedi.
To become a symbol for their own version of the Order.
But what could he teach them?
A cripple with an artificial arm, a massive amount of cybernetics in his body, who couldn't even save his beloved?
How many hopes were shattered simply by his one decision to follow Juno to the Thanium Worlds?
The vision of the future he had over ten years ago — the death of the Eclipse — had come true.
No matter how he tried to avoid the unfavorable outcome, the result was always the same.
Juno is dead.
He became a cripple.
A little more, and he'd need a life-support suit, like the one that made Darth Vader 'famous' across the galaxy.
A month ago, he was the strongest Jedi in the service of the reconstituted Alliance.
Now, Galen had become an ordinary servant, an errand boy, something like Kota's assistant, who had been hastily recalled from Sullust to the front lines because two entire fleets had been destroyed — in the Thanium Worlds and the Kessel system.
A cripple in the old man's service...
Without losing his Jedi skills, he felt uncertainty about his place in the Force.
Who was he, anyway, to think he could bypass what was foreordained by the energy that permeates all existence?
Yes, he could easily and effortlessly awaken the power of the Dark Side, but it was no longer that power, that crushing torrent he had channeled in the past.
Galen felt uncertain in his ability to keep even the remnants of his power under control.
He couldn't use most of his Force techniques with Lightning anymore — because they required two hands.
If he channeled the Force through his left, all the circuits would just be fried, and the prosthesis would become a burden.
Even now, he was something like a fifth leg on a bantha.
No matter how hard the Alliance's best technicians tried, 'playing around' with materials and weight distribution, the left side weighed him down.
It affected his fighting style too.
Now, he resembled most a wounded beast dragging a lame leg.
How much more could he have achieved if fate, that villainess, hadn't intervened so cruelly and stripped him of everything he had, only to remake him anew!
Galen walked towards the landing bay.
'But is this walking?' he wondered.
The prosthesis had changed his body's balance.
The center of gravity was shifted to the left.
If he didn't control it, one day he might catch himself moving straight into the left wall.
He was literally 'drifting'.
Like a ship that keeps losing the same engine because its owner is too stingy to buy quality parts for the exhaust flow synchronizer.
The pointed mechanical fingers lacked sensitivity, forcing Galen to almost constantly resort to using the Force to control the process.
He had undergone dozens of adjustments to fix the discomfort of the new limb.
The techs just threw up their hands — they assured him they had set everything up as if he didn't have a prosthesis.
But Galen knew there was a difference between his real hand and the artificial contraption he was forced to use.
No matter how many tests he ran, he always came to the conclusion that the durasteel limb felt foreign to him.
Phantom pains in the destroyed shoulder joint sometimes drove him insane.
Kota suggested viewing the prosthesis and other cybernetics as an opportunity to strengthen himself.
Yes, Galen could certainly adjust the metal arm to be strong enough to crush a metal pipe or break the neck of the man who made him a cripple.
Even to punch through the head of the mercenary who stole his ship — another, last significant anchor keeping Galen balanced with his past life.
But what for?
The Force already gave him that ability, especially during fits of rage, as had happened before.
Even crippled, he was stronger than all those Jedi standing guard for the Alliance.
Perhaps even stronger than Luke Skywalker and his sister.
Stronger than Kyle Katarn.
But Galen wasn't planning on testing that.
And the nightmares, from which he woke up screaming, as if feeling his arm return, had turned his sleep into an ordeal.
He couldn't get a proper rest, because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Juno's glazed-over eyes.
Felt her dead body.
Tormented himself with the thought that if he had been a little faster.
A little stronger.
Ignored one or several of the thugs.
Then he would certainly have been there, on the bridge, much sooner than he actually was!
He could have intervened!
He could have fixed everything!
He could have saved...
But the Force stubbornly didn't give him that chance.
He was disfigured and traumatized.
His former lightness was gone, just as all the joy of life was gone.
Ram advised looking to the future.
Reminded him of the Jedi attitude towards attachments.
Galen listened to him, but didn't hear.
Didn't want to hear.
Didn't want to be a Jedi.
His entire existence was tied exclusively to Juno, and now she wasn't with him either.
Galen turned a corner, bumping his left shoulder into a technician coming the other way.
The Sullustan, knocked to the deck by the clone, blinked his large eyes, not understanding what had happened.
Seeing who had put him on his rear, he squeaked an apology, but Galen wasn't even listening.
His injury once again served as a constant reminder of his own vulnerability.
And clumsiness.
Lost in thought, he had stopped controlling himself and knocked down an ally due to his body's balance issues.
This incident reminded him again how difficult it was to move even in a simple situation.
Not to mention moving with his former ease and grace in battle.
Yes, essentially the prosthesis didn't weigh him down that much, didn't critically alter his body's balance, but that's how a common man might reason.
For someone sensitive to the Force, all these discomforts were more significant and meaningful.
For those like him, Jedi, body balance and reaction speed mean almost everything in battle.
That big guy with the mask wasn't even in Galen's league when it came to swordsmanship or controlling the Force.
But he managed to defeat him.
Easily.
Defeat and cripple, disfigure for life.
Do it in such a way that the doctors couldn't even think about reattaching his arm.
The enemy literally shattered his shoulder joint.
Tore muscles and tendons, severed arteries and veins.
Disfigured everything so badly that...
Maybe if a medical team had been on board the Millennium Falcon, they could have done it right.
But only Alliance heroes were there.
Who just bandaged the wound.
Stopped the bleeding.
Saved his life...
But is this a life?!
Even if Kota said that in time he would learn, get used to it, adapt, and be able to benefit from what he had become now.
What he had become.
Galen thought he could have handled this if Juno had been nearby, whose presence always made him feel better.
But she is dead.
Galen stopped at the opening leading to the landing bay and pressed his forehead against the cold bulkhead, ignoring the frightened expressions and emotions of the crew members scurrying past.
They weren't important.
Not important at all.
He was suffocating.
A panic attack — another kind of suffering he had gained along with the prosthetics and the nightmares.
Juno is dead.
And so is the meaning of his life.
Kota is a friend, but he can't replace his beloved.
Nothing will replace it.
Nothing can displace the pain he lives with from now on.
Perhaps revenge for him becoming a cripple will somehow dull all these hateful sensations...
Allow him to come to terms with what happened.
Help turn the page in his life's book.
Give him a hint on how to live on.
But that's not certain.
Galen.
Gathering his strength, he stepped through the hatch.
* * *
Incredible, but true.
After so many weeks in the apartments on board the Guardian, to return to the surface, to see sunlight through the armored transparisteel panels, to feel its warmth on his skin...
Breathing not the sterile atmosphere of a warship, but the bouquet of a planet's smells, feeling the breeze on your skin...
It was oddly unfamiliar.
Unpleasant, even.
The mind's tricky little twists.
Being aboard a steel monster felt too comfortable.
With my eyes closed, I stood facing the large window in the residence that had once belonged to Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel.
I occupied his office.
His quarters, which took up an entire floor if you counted all the adjacent and service rooms.
Now everything here — from floor to ceiling — had been repurposed, and the garish luxury was removed from sight.
The art objects Krennel had plundered from the Hegemony's inhabitants and piled around himself like he'd slathered himself in oil had been scanned and added to my collection.
The originals themselves were returned to the people and displayed in museums on Ciutric-IV and several other planets.
The prince-admiral had confiscated most of them from the ruling elite who disagreed with his governing policies.
They hadn't exactly agreed with my demands either, so they were exiled beyond the Dominion's borders during the early stages of its formation.
Their property was forfeited to the state.
Their luxurious mansions were converted into cadet-style orphanages, where all of the Dominion's homeless children were gathered for upbringing.
Petty thieves left without parental care, those frankly abandoned, the unwanted...
Children who would have died or joined teenage gangs were now under the state's supervision.
They would be raised in the best traditions of loyalty to the Dominion.
And, after cadet training, they would go on to receive a specialty depending on their preferences and talents.
In a galaxy home to trillions of sentient beings, it had somehow been forgotten that children are the future of the state.
Not even of a nation, not of a race — after all, dozens, maybe even thousands of representatives of different species, subspecies, or clans can live within the territory of a galactic state.
Children are what the state must care for with its fullest attention.
If you let children admire idols who corrupt constructive labor — in twenty years, there will be a shortage of skilled workers, doctors, scientists, and soldiers.
If you lure people into prestigious professions only with high salaries, you get managers, not specialists.
People who come in to work their required hours, then abandon unfinished tasks without a second thought and go home.
Because they come to earn money.
So either you have to shell out for overtime to ensure everything is done accurately and on time, or you need to think about why you've been letting children's upbringing drift, instead of instilling in them a love for their homeland and building a proper system of priorities in their young minds.
Yes, you can debate endlessly about how you can't force this or that on the younger generation.
You can't dictate your will, because everyone has the right to self-determination throughout their life.
Because you're supposed to accept the child's desires, when their developing body, fluctuating psyche, and raging hormones are in a state of growth.
You shouldn't show them hobbies, sports, the creative process; you should show them what clubs and pastimes exist, hoping that sooner or later they'll find something they like enough to want to take up, say, painting, fixing equipment, playing ball, model aircraft building, animal care, or something else.
You just have to hand them a datapad so they'll sit still and not interfere with their parents' business.
After all, it's simpler.
'They'll grow up and find themselves.'
But, in that case, don't be surprised when, thirty years down the line, instead of a child who's found their feet, the parents get an infantile 'big kid' who doesn't know what to do with themselves.
Because they can't do anything.
They never strived for anything.
They just want to be left alone, given a datapad, and not bothered with questions like, 'When will you find a job?'
Unfortunately, even the Dominion, with its military dictatorship, can't turn the situation around here and now for all parents and children across the dozens of sectors within our borders.
All we can do right now is popularize the work of soldiers, engineers, builders, and other working professions.
We're popularizing hard and responsible work in our advertising, attracting citizens' attention with carefully planned campaigns and motivational advertising drives.
Amusing...
But I think I've found the reason why, in this galaxy, there aren't that many skilled military specialists and shipbuilders (and not just them, to be honest).
This is a lifelong job.
Hard, sometimes thankless work that only pays off when the project is truly worth it.
In reality, though... Most give up after the first failures.
So it is for many.
It's the same in a lot of industries, not just military shipbuilding.
An interesting fact.
The majority of the galaxy's planetary population doesn't care who rules them or how.
As long as there's work, affordable food, and no blatant tyranny from the authorities against the people.
At least people — they definitely don't care.
A fair number of alien races don't care either.
Galactic-scale infantilism.
Here's another argument for the theory of why the galaxy didn't entirely and completely side with the Rebel Alliance after the Battle of Endor.
First came the most oppressed and those offended by the tyranny and stupidity of Imperial officials.
Then those who figured out that a democracy would make it much easier to act in their own interests.
And then everyone else followed.
That's why part of the galaxy still supports Imperial rule.
A generation — maybe even several — has already grown up and matured, having lived their conscious lives under the Empire.
Under its laws and orders.
Freedom is frightening.
But what frightens the lost generation most of all.
Only war awaits us ahead.
And we won't always have enough clones or veterans of past wars to plug every hole in personnel or every shortage of skilled labor.
They'll be replaced by graduates of cadet schools.
Children raised in a sphere of patriotic education, who know from a young age that it was the state's will that saved their lives, gave them an education, and everything they have.
The Dominion is a thorn in the side.
And if you don't take care of your own future yourself, there won't be any future at all.
There are no foreign policy allies — only partners with whom you share common interests, one way or another.
In preserving and prospering your own state, a ruler can only rely on the support of his own people.
Children are the foundation of the state's future.
And if the state doesn't take up their upbringing, dumping all the work of developing its future citizens onto parents who themselves were raised God knows how and by God knows whom, then at best, after a few generations, you'll get — if not a population of sheep — then certainly a giant systemic crisis across all levels of authority.
Because poorly raised children will one day become workers and leaders.
At all levels.
The galaxy has already gone through systemic crises like this many times, which ended with the death of states.
The Old Republic and the Galactic Empire are direct examples of that.
What they call 'recent history.'
So, no matter how much it might bother some in the Dominion, working with children and their patriotic education — real education, not just 'for show' will only gain momentum.
The Empire won't let you lie: if you don't fill your children's heads with thoughts useful to the state, someone else will do it for you.
Many of the galaxy's problems could have been avoided if a certain farm boy from Tatooine named Luke Skywalker had enrolled in the Imperial Military Academy and never heard the motivational brainwashing speeches of some old Jedi who wasn't even a role model himself.
The tragedy of Anakin Skywalker is an example to learn from.
When you entrust a child's upbringing to someone who doesn't know a Hutt about it, who can't answer a curious young man's questions, eventually you get Darth Sidious.
And he finds the key to the heart of the future Emperor's Executioner.
A guardsman entered the office.
"Has Mr. Pent arrived?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," the soldier in the blue-black armor reported. "He's awaiting your orders in the reception area."
"Let him in," I ordered, returning to my desk.
When the clone of the best slicer in the galaxy sat down in the chair opposite me, I asked only one question:
"Mr. Pent, is the Dominion HoloNet system ready for operation and broadcasting across the territories of the sectors designated by headquarters as targets for the second phase of our counteroffensive?"
In reality, it was a much larger coverage area.
All territories between the Dominion and the sectors under Alliance control.
But those were trifles not worth focusing on in a single question.
Mr. Pent replied with just one phrase:
"Yes, Grand Admiral."
Which meant we were ready to begin the psychological preparation of our future population for annexation.
"Proceed," I ordered.
It was the same as with the children.
If you can't provide your population with properly presented news about the galaxy, those who need your population to think in a certain way will do it for you.
The Zann Consortium is no longer able to take care of its satellite sectors.
And I need those sectors.
Preferably without a fight.
But everyone knows perfect plans don't exist.
So the Armed Forces are preparing too.
We don't have much time left to win and consolidate our new borders.
* * *
On the landing deck, the special forces squad commander was already waiting with his subordinates.
Galen nodded to the man in greeting.
They had worked together many times before and knew each other personally.
Fezra Fuon.
A former fighter in Kota's militia.
An experienced warrior.
A talented commander.
One of the few fighters who had managed to survive the destruction of Juno's forces in the Thanium Worlds.
And only because they had been on the planets the Dominion attacked.
With the fall of the Thanium Worlds, the special forces went underground.
It took them just a few days to organize a real hell for the new masters of the sector.
They destroyed several units of enemy mercenaries involved in occupying the worlds.
Blew up a couple of garrisons.
But they hastily retreated from the planet as soon as Dominion assault commandos arrived on their trail.
In the shortest possible time, the underground was discovered, destroyed, and a significant portion of the partisan units were wiped out.
Fezra and the remnants of his men had only managed to escape the Thanium Worlds thanks to smugglers loyal to democracy, who evacuated everyone who hadn't surrendered to the new ruling regime.
But almost immediately after that, the loopholes the illegal traders used were sealed off by new minefields.
The Thanium Worlds were once again cut off from the rest of the galaxy.
Right under the Alliance's nose, a foothold of enemies had appeared.
And, unfortunately, the Alliance could do nothing about it — not when the Imperial Space had launched a massive counteroffensive, seeking once again to drive Alliance forces off Lantillis, Tanaab, and the nearby star systems.
General Bel Iblis was desperately holding off the attacks, understanding that the enemy's forces were running out.
The Imperials were throwing more and more of their reserves into the meat grinder of war.
And soon they would be gone.
Already running out.
The Alliance, meanwhile, was preparing its own reserves, intending to go on the counteroffensive as soon as the enemy was exhausted and bled dry.
Soon.
"The squad is ready, Galen," Fuon reported. "Just waiting for the jump to finish and the order to attack."
Galen looked at the special forces soldiers standing behind their commander.
Every single one was ready to fight for the right cause and, if necessary for the triumph of democracy, to die.
Galen nodded silently.
"Prepare for landing."
He had nothing more to say to these men.
* * *
The Tatooine, a Star Cruiser — third in the series of the newest MC90-type ships recently launched from the slipways — emerged from hyperspace and began its approach to the asteroid belt.
The only notable feature in this Force-forsaken part of the Belderone sector.
The ship unerringly set course for a medium-sized asteroid, seemingly unremarkable.
Except for the fact that inside it was a prison facility built by the Empire.
And considered abandoned.
A prison asteroid in the Belderone sector.
In the past, Alliance heroes like Han Solo and Luke Skywalker had already visited this place, traditionally turning the facility upside down for the sake of a higher purpose.
Intelligence believed the Empire had abandoned this prison asteroid, as it almost always did after its secret prisons were attacked by freedom fighters.
But it turned out things weren't as they seemed.
Still, the asteroid might have been abandoned, but everything changed with the Dominion's appearance in the Thanium Worlds sector, which bordered the Belderone sector.
Alliance intelligence had figured out that mercenary ships in the Dominion's service were actively operating in the Belderone sector.
It had taken a long time to track their movements using their agents.
Which weren't that plentiful to begin with.
Galen watched the space object growing in the viewport, beginning to make out artificial structures on its surface.
Kyle Katarn had managed to detect Dominion reconnaissance activity. Barely bothering to hide itself, it was working with planetary leaders, negotiating the annexation of their systems to the new state.
For the Alliance, this would mean a serious blow.
Because the Belderone sector was not just a neighbor of the Thanium sector, and consequently of the Alliance.
Vital regional hyperspace routes like the Salin Corridor passed right through it.
If it gained control over it, the Dominion, in its favored manner, would seal off all entrances and exits to the sector with minefields.
But something else was worse.
Belderone lay on the Perlemian Trade Route — the main artery that served as the Alliance's supply line from Dac to the forward base on Lantillis and Tanaab.
The Belderone sector.
If the Dominion took control of this territory, they could cut the Perlemian Trade Route.
Which was absolutely not allowed.
Judging by the fact that Dominion mercenary ships were lurking in this system, it could be assumed that something important was here.
Also, remembering the words of the local government, which had rudely refused to cooperate with the Alliance, pointing out that they had committed an act of aggression against the neighboring Thanium Worlds sector, the obvious conclusion suggested itself.
The Dominion was capturing Belderone.
Not by military force, but peacefully.
Using the Alliance's provoked aggression, outright lies, and much more as arguments.
They were undoubtedly killing dissidents, bribing corrupt politicians, and so on.
The usual way of doing business for former Imperials.
The Alliance, understanding that as soon as Belderone and the Dominion signed a treaty of alliance — and all the prospects for that already existed — any attempt to defend against them would be doomed.
Everyone in the Alliance knew what the Dominion had done to Juno's fleet with minefields.
Exactly the same thing would happen if they tried to break through the territory of the Belderone sector to reclaim the right to use the Perlemian Trade Route for their own purposes.
The Alliance could not allow its main logistics artery to be severed on any terms.
That was precisely why Alliance forces had invaded the Belderone sector.
There were only two main axes of attack.
The first was what General Kota was doing.
Attacking the system with the asteroid belt.
The second was the attacks of General Solo, operating from the deck of his restored flagship, the Galactic Traveler.
Galen wasn't interested in how the latter had managed to piece it together, literally from scraps.
What interested him far more was the fact that the data obtained by Kyle Katarn mentioned shipments guarded by a Providence-class carrier/destroyer.
Completely black.
Like the one that took part in the attack on Juno's fleet.
The reasons for its appearance in this system, the Tatooine, along with a dozen escort frigates from the screening and support forces, was precisely what he was supposed to investigate immediately.
There was, of course, a hypothesis.
It was far too suspicious that Dominion mercenaries were suddenly appearing at the base of an old Imperial prison.
And with transport ships.
According to Alliance intelligence, some of the latter were clearly transporting prisoners.
It was entirely possible that the Dominion had decided to use the Empire's old resources to hold prisoners of war here.
If so, this raid was worth it.
The Alliance, having lost so much, could use a successful rescue operation and the return of its soldiers, who by fate's will had ended up in Dominion captivity.
As they approached the asteroid, the Tatooine, with precise shots and the activity of its starfighters, suppressed the prison complex's defense systems long before they could harm the liberating ships.
"Galen," Rahm Kota's voice came through the comlink. "Sensors show that this Hutts-pile of asteroids is absolutely packed with rhydonium."
"What of it?" the clone didn't understand.
"Just that if something here goes off properly, there's a high probability that every single prison asteroid within a hundred units will blow sky-high!"
"Prisons?" the clone clarified, frowning.
"That's right, kid," Kota said with a sigh. "This asteroid isn't the only one. We've found at least two dozen of them. And in each one — at least a couple of thousand sentients, if the scanners are to be believed. I'm recalling the starfighters and stopping the bombardment, sending additional special forces teams to each prison. You're going to have to work hard to take your asteroid. We're getting everyone out of here — we'll figure out this devilish trap after everyone is safe. No other way."
"Got it," Galen replied.
Turning his head towards the special forces squad commander, he asked out of pure politeness:
"Your men ready for this, Lieutenant?"
For his courageous actions, Fuon had received a well-deserved promotion, a just decision by the command.
His special forces squad was not short on accolades either, but they were valued not for the chance to show off medals on dress uniforms, but for the effectiveness on the battlefield that the enemy could not counter.
"Alliance Special Forces, always at the tip of the spear, sir," the man said with a humorless snort.
Yeah, there was nothing to laugh about.
One careless move, and all the prison asteroids would vaporize, turning into stardust.
And tens of thousands of prisoners would never return to their families.
They'd be with their loved ones who had been and were still waiting for them.
The landing shuttle flew through the atmospheric shield of the airlock.
As soon as the troop bay doors swung open, Galen was the first one out.
His first act was to deflect shots from VX-model infiltrator droids, which were apparently acting as wardens.
Avoiding hits to his body, Galen rushed forward, parrying an attempt to kill him.
A short bolt of lightning from his right hand threw the guard droid backward, pinning it to the hull of a starfighter.
Which was yet another confirmation that the prison belonged to the Dominion.
An Eta-II Dominion.
A ship launched years ago by Kuat Drive Yards, but modified by the Dominion to remove the astromech from the design — its role was taken over by a nav computer.
And a slightly altered rear section indicated the presence of a built-in hyperdrive.
The absence of rings for breaking the light barrier anywhere nearby also supported that.
But those were details few needed.
There was a whole squadron of those starfighters.
But, for some reason, they radiated danger.
It took the troopers a few minutes to clear the landing zones.
Hot on the heels of the advance team, another shuttle flew into the hangar, troopers spilling out of it.
But no one announced a break.
Despite sensing life within the asteroid, Galen didn't feel any aggression or other negative emotions directed at him or the other Alliance fighters.
Which was strange.
Soldiers, even a little, are angry at those who attack them.
If, of course, they're alive.
The picture formed in his head pretty quickly.
If these prison asteroids could explode, then the Dominion considered it unnecessary to station live guards here.
The droids did everything; their losses wouldn't be missed if the prison needed to be blown up.
Consequently, they needed to capture this and the other asteroids as quickly as possible.
There was bound to be some kind of self-destruct system.
And Galen prayed to the Force that the droids didn't have a protocol to blow the prison the moment enemy troops landed.
By general logic, a droid soldier should first take all possible measures to repel an attack, and only if further defense was impossible — resort to extreme measures.
Galen understood that.
As did the other troopers.
It took them another minute to clear the floor.
Apparently, besides the airlock and a few staging blocks, storage areas, and a droid charging zone, there was nothing much else here.
But a staircase descended into the depths of the asteroid, occupying the northwest corner of the main level.
It was built very cunningly: each flight rose to the middle of the next level, then made a sharp turn.
A wall was built between the flights so that you couldn't see what was happening on the next one from the one below.
The steps themselves were made of metal, and, like everything inside the asteroid, looked very old, literally dilapidated.
In his life, Galen had seen plenty of Imperial prisons.
With a high degree of probability, you could say it was standard layout, designed to make it as difficult as possible for prisoners to escape.
Despite the unknown lurking around every corner, they had to move very, very fast.
Even though the special forces were confident that the self-destruct system was in the command room, captured right after the hangar, Galen didn't believe in such luck.
He didn't really believe in anything anymore.
Especially when it comes to the Dominion.
Finally, after five minutes that felt like an eternity, they reached the lower level and a cramped chamber.
The cells ran in two rows down the center of the corridor on each floor.
On either side, wide galleries separated the cell walls from the galleries that stretched across the entire asteroid along the outer walls.
The passage from the chamber into the corridor was blocked by a grate with thick durasteel bars, through which the entire prison corridor was perfectly visible.
It also let the guards inside the block spot Galen as he cracked the grate without the slightest hesitation.
The droids opened fire.
The clone dove inside, hit the floor, tumbled past a pair of BX units, and took them both out the moment the opportunity arose.
After that, he moved on to parrying enemy shots.
Behind him, the commandos flooded into the corridor.
The droids, apparently realizing their end was near, began ruthlessly executing the prisoners.
Galen couldn't stomach that.
He lunged forward, slicing through metal hulls left and right, destroying every opponent that crossed his path.
Galen dove into the nearest doorway, having previously blown the grated cell door off its hinges.
Here he wasn't afraid of hitting anyone — they were all already dead anyway.
But for him, it was a chance to catch his breath.
* * *
A sprint to the left, drop to the wall.
The corner of the nearest cell conveniently shielded this spot from the prison guards' fire.
Carefully creep up to the grate, dart into the center of the cell, lean out, and send another burst at the guards.
Then jump back, duck — crimson blobs of plasma chewed into the wall behind him, left scorch marks on the bars.
Fezra ran his hand over the thermal detonator at his belt with a sigh of disappointment.
Under normal circumstances, he would have hurled it at the enemy without a second thought.
But he didn't know how the interested mass of prisoners would react to that.
The prisoners were shouting and cheering each other on, as well as their attackers.
Their uniforms and chevrons had already been identified.
The prisoners recognized their rescuers, and vice versa.
Behind the prison bars were Alliance fighters.
Fezra recognized practically all of them.
These guys had been part of the crews of Admiral Eclipse's fleet ships and were officially listed as missing in action, since their fate after that battle on the borders of the Thanium Worlds sector had been unknown.
A crackle, a new wail of blaster fire, and the hum of Galen's lightsabers as he fought his way forward.
Cut off from the main commando force by an inexplicably appearing BX droid reinforcement.
How fortunate that these things had remained relics of the Clone Wars and were encountered so rarely even now.
Right now, there were hundreds of them on this prison level alone.
And they moved fast.
They mercilessly whittled down the numbers of Alliance special forces, but died by the dozens themselves.
Which meant a new wave of the assault.
Fuon burst out of cover and joined the firefight.
His shots only left marks on the wall behind which one of the droids was hiding.
But the heavier fire from the soldier armed with a manual heavy repeater burned straight through it.
Chunks of rock flew in all directions, and the cunning droid collapsed to the floor as the advance resumed.
One BX unit toppled onto its back as the lightsaber severed its head from its body.
A second tried to keep its balance, flailing its arms, only to take a hit to the chest that sent it flying back into the gallery.
A third caught a wound in the shoulder, followed by a finishing shot to its stupid face.
A fourth, after taking down one of the fighters, was literally torn apart by crossfire.
Galen moved forward like a machine mowing down weeds in farmland.
The number of droids on this level dwindled until the last BX unit was reduced to a heap of scrap metal.
"Free the prisoners," Galen ordered.
Voices of approval rang out from behind the bars, cries of encouragement for the courageous soldiers who, whether with plasma cutters, miniature charges, or just a blast from a blaster, were burning through the locks on the grates.
A flood of prisoners poured into the main corridor, joyful at the realization that their imprisonment was finally over.
Fezra was slapped on the shoulder and back, had his hand shaken, was smiled at and thanked in a hundred different tones.
Not just him — every soldier who had taken part in liberating their captured comrades.
The joy of freedom was dizzying.
Captain Fuon ordered the prisoners to be moved upstairs.
Just because they had captured the prison didn't mean all their hardships were over.
The threat of detonation still existed.
And it would always exist as long as you were up against an aggressive and cunning enemy.
Scanning for Galen, Fezra found him standing in front of the farthest cell.
He squeezed past the crowds of jubilant freedmen and reached the squad commander.
"We need to get out of here, Galen," he reminded him.
"First we need to decide what to do with him," the other replied in a hollow voice, pointing into the cell.
The special forces squad commander shifted his focus.
Against the far wall of the cell lay an old, dirty, and in places threadbare mattress serving as a bed.
On it sat a man, his gaze fixed on the beings who had come to "visit" him.
A beard of medium length, overgrown hair, a worn-out New Republic officer's uniform.
And the calm, calculating stare of a predator whose prey had seemingly dropped in for a visit.
He wasn't young, but he wasn't old either.
His body was lean and clearly prepared for the challenges of reality.
This wasn't an ordinary soldier.
Not even an ordinary officer.
This was a specialist.
Just like Fuon himself.
That was clear from a single look into his eyes, which seemed to be calculating the actions of those watching him.
The way he straightened up upon seeing who seemed to him to be an Imperial pilot spoke of his courage.
"And who are you?"
"Alliance Special Forces," Fezra introduced them with a general phrase.
You should never give more than the bare minimum.
Especially when you don't know who's in front of you — friend or foe.
"I see," the New Republic officer's voice sounded tired. "And what are you doing?"
"We're liberating a prison," Fezra explained.
For some reason, Galen wasn't about to join the conversation.
He looked as if he suddenly couldn't care less.
He just turned and walked away, frowning as though he had just remembered he'd left his droid charging at home.
"I see," the prisoner replied in the same colorless tone.
But from the nuances of his intonation, Fuon understood that the inmate actually had no idea what was going on.
What planet was he even from?
How long had he been here?
"No one's staying here," Fuon explained. "We're taking you, and if you want, we'll hand you over to the New Republic authorities."
"I see," he said just as dryly. "I'll go with you on one condition — you answer a few of my questions."
No, seriously?
He's willing to stay alone on this prison asteroid, and he's still making conditions?
"Is there something wrong with your head?" Fezra couldn't hold back. "This is a rescue operation, damn it. Everything around here could turn to dust from Dominion traps. And right now you feel like talking?"
"Forgive me, but I've been cut off from what's happening in the galaxy for quite a while," a guilty smile appeared on the man's face. "When they brought your guys in, I just listened to what they were saying to each other from the cells… Did the New Republic really fall apart?"
"The Alliance split from the New Republic, to be precise," the commando clarified. "That was quite a while ago, a few months back…"
"Months," the man said with sorrow. "I thought it had been several years since they dragged me here."
"Years?" Fezra asked. "Sir, who exactly are you, and why were you kept here that long?"
"Kept because my plan to lure out the Iceheart with the most tempting bait for her turned out to be a dead end," the man said sadly. "I was taken prisoner. Tortured. Broken. They tried to brainwash me and recruit me into their service. And then, when they realized they couldn't do anything with me, they threw me in here. This is a prison for the exchange pool, Captain. Consider that you've saved your authorities a fair number of credits by freeing the prisoners…"
"Yeah, they'll probably shake my hand and pat me on the back for that," Fezra snorted. "But the question remains the same: who are you, sir?"
"I must have changed so much you didn't recognize me right away," the man said with a sad smile, brushing long strands of hair from his face. "I am General Crix Madine. I would be grateful if you would deliver me to your command."
"Oh, well, this is quite something," was all that flashed through the special forces squad commander's mind.