Omega Squad obeyed the clan leader's order to participate in the battle as a boarding group.
Yayax Squad did too.
Those white-glove boys were back in a war they'd been dragged into against their will.
And they were grumbling something in their own defense.
Delta Squad, though... they simply returned to service.
"Are all these guys' stuff as old as this tub, or is there something more modern?" Scorch inquired, looking at the transport before the trio of commandos.
The Katarn-class boarding shuttle, sitting on the landing pad, looked like it had just been caught in a turbolaser barrage that had singed it from bow to stern.
"Six-two," Fixer, once again feeling the weight of military service, switched to his customary way of addressing his comrades by the last digits of their numbers.
"Yes, Fixer?" Scorch responded.
"Less talking," the Delta Squad second-in-command ordered, nodding toward the Imperial assault commando standing next to the ship. "We're not on an outing."
"I was just trying to lighten the mood," the squad's demolitions expert took up his usual refrain.
"Scorch, Fixer." Boss's voice was just as quiet and calm. "Both of you — shut your mouths before I do it for you."
The brothers-in-arms exchanged a meaningful glance.
Despite Boss being a born leader, he was relatively taciturn, and often, when he spoke, it was to give an order to his squad.
Like now.
But his comrades didn't challenge his position.
Boss had earned the respect and loyalty of his Delta Squad comrades and had done everything to repay their faith in him with strong, effective leadership.
He cared deeply for his squadmates and, like most other clone commandos, considered his team his brothers.
And damn good brothers.
They had been through hell and high water, visited hell and come back — without losing a single trooper from their squad.
Except Sev.
The commandos would never forget Kashyyyk and Grand Master Yoda's order to abandon their fallen brother.
Especially Boss, to whom Sev was closer than the others.
And why hide it — Sev was the soul of the squad, and his loss had changed many of them.
Who would have thought that returning to service would be like finding a second wind.
One that plunged them back into the past, shedding the husk of mercenary life and becoming again what Sergeant Walon Vau had trained them to be: the best of the best.
'I truly pity any enemy unlucky enough to face Delta Squad in battle.'
That's what Vau once said about them.
And if the sergeant were with them now, and could hear their stories, he would surely say they hadn't screwed up anywhere.
Many other Mandalorian instructors on Kamino considered Vau harsh, even cruel, a sadist in the flesh.
A fair number of clone commandos shared that opinion.
Delta Squad could take on anyone one-on-one who tried to insult the old son of a bitch without cause and trample his pride into the dirt.
Because, unlike most of the other Mandalorian instructors who had made the GAR's commandos what they were, only Vau still hadn't come to terms with the loss of his trooper.
Almost thirty years had passed, and the old son of a bitch was still searching for Sev, lost on Kashyyyk.
Even when the Deltas themselves had given up, he kept looking, reminding them of himself from time to time.
"Delta Squad?" The assault commando's voice was as colorless as it always is for soldiers whose faces are hidden by good armor.
"Do you see any other three hotheads in old armor here ready to show you how to kick some scum's ass?" Scorch inquired, punching his fist against his armor.
"Six-two," Fixer reminded him.
"Understood. Shutting up."
"That's right, we're the Deltas," Boss confirmed. "We were ordered to report to this hangar for equipment. We were told we'd be operating with some of yours, Sergeant..."
"Sergeant THX-0333, commander of the Fourth Special Squad of the Dominion Assault Commandos, Sergeant IC-1138," the faceless soldier replied, introducing himself.
The Deltas exchanged glances.
Mythosaurs dancing.
"Boss," the Delta commander specified his name. "I have a name, son."
"Whatever's convenient, sir," THX-0333 replied, pointing at the ship behind him. "Will the Katarn do for the job?"
A hint as to whether the commandos had forgotten how to handle these things after years of desertion.
A Katarn-class boarding shuttle.
"Is there anything that hasn't been through a sarlacc's backside before they handed it to us?" Scorch inquired.
"Six-two..."
"I was just asking."
"It'll do, Sergeant," Boss said. "It's coated in stealth alloy, isn't it?"
"From the cutter on the nose to the stabilizers on the tail, sir," THX-033 confirmed. "Upgraded for covert insertion. Your equipment and weapons of choice are on board."
"If they've melted down Katarn-class armor for night ops just to decorate this obsolete piece of junk, I'm going to blow their asses sky-high," Scorch grumbled, being the last one up the ramp and aboard the boarding shuttle.
This time, no one said a word to him.
Because even the Deltas would have been against such waste.
However, the first glance at the shuttle's interior made it clear that someone had worked on it thoroughly.
This shuttle, despite its fairly modest technical specifications, was named after a well-known predatory beast from the planet Kashyyyk, famed for its agility and deadliness.
At the dawn of the Galactic Empire, they were used by Imperial squadrons stationed in the galaxy's peripheral regions to transport soldiers and capture ships that refused to stop.
For boarding operations, the shuttle had a special plasma cutter in its nose section. The device could quickly burn a solid hole in the hull of an unarmored ship. The size of the melted opening was large enough for an armed and armored soldier to crawl through. The time required to burn through depended on the ship type, but averaged about two minutes.
However, Fixer needed only one look at the cutter's equipment to understand: they wouldn't need two minutes to cut through a ship's armor, even if it was a beskar alloy.
Ten seconds, and a hole big enough for any commando was ready.
Because half of this shuttle was taken up by the power plant for the cutter.
With hand on heart, it could be said that this wasn't a ship with a cutter, but a cutter that had hull and engines bolted around it.
Since the shuttle was designed for short-range flights, it lacked a hyperdrive but was equipped with good engines. Powerful engines were always important on assault shuttles, as they allowed the vessel to quickly cross a dangerous, exposed stretch and dock with the target.
"They were supposed to carry fifty fighters in here," Fixer recalled, pointing to the very small troop compartment.
Just enough for a small boarding party — ten men maximum.
"Modification," TNH-0333 explained. "Improved engines, armor, automatic missile interception system, strong shields, two twin laser rapid-fire cannons — one in the nose, one on the stern. Crew: one pilot. All defense is fully automated, but crew members can fire from the side cannons."
In simpler terms, everything was designed so they could approach the target as stealthily as possible and go beat up the bad guys.
Without dying in the process.
"And here are the upgrades," Scorch said like a child, approaching the equipment crates.
He deftly flipped the lid off one, stared inside for a couple of seconds, then closed it.
He thought for a second, then opened it again.
"Boss, Fixer, tell me I'm not seeing things," he clarified.
"If you are, it's a group hallucination," Fixer confirmed, opening the crate prepared for him. "These guys actually still have Katarn armor..."
"And not the first, second, or third model, but the fourth — the best one!" Scorch said, pulling a brand-new chest piece from the crate. "No, wait, I thought too highly of them. This isn't new..."
"Well, obviously," Boss looked at the TNH-0333 standing nearby. "The Empire would choke on spending a hundred thousand credits per Katarn suit instead of the cheap armor they dress their dolls in."
The commander of the Fourth Special Squad remained silent.
Yes, everyone present undoubtedly knew that the last model in the Katarn line was the armor designated "seven," but in the commandos' opinion, it was inferior to the more widespread variants.
Besides, special forces had never worn it — only operatives from Galactic Empire Intelligence.
Katarn-class armor.
Although several variations of this armor existed, some features remained unchanged.
The Katarn-class helmet had a built-in internal display that projected all necessary tactical data for the clone — such as target location and distance, the wearer's health, and suit shield strength — directly onto the visor.
This was why Katarns were easily identifiable by the blue light emanating from inside the helmet.
It could also connect to other systems via an internal communication antenna, allowing every squad member to track their comrades' health and location.
Specialized internal sensors could determine the make, model, and relative accuracy of every weapon the commando used, and could adjust the reticle format for different weapons.
The helmet had a built-in filtration system that could extract oxygen from a toxic environment.
The visor was designed to include electro-binocular and night vision modes. The helmet system also monitored the suit's environmental characteristics and had a tactical spotlight.
The main armor components had an enhanced duraplast coating for protection against blaster fire and other common anti-personnel weapons.
Its design included a climate control system that ensured the wearer's body could withstand extreme heat and cold.
The suit, like standard infantry armor, could be fully sealed, allowing a commando to survive in a vacuum for up to twenty standard minutes. However, thanks to the armor's modular system, this could be easily increased with an additional breathing mixture tank.
The armor's knuckle plate had a retractable vibroblade used for close-quarters and stealth engagements.
It also contained numerous sensors, including auditory and environmental sensors.
Additionally, a durable, never-failing chronometer was implanted in the forearm guard.
But what truly set the Katarn apart from other suits created for the clone army was the presence of a deflector shield — admittedly weak, but still capable of withstanding a few shots.
The backpack, which had become the distinctive feature of the commandos, was traditionally designed for storing ammunition, detonators, explosives, rations, and medical equipment.
Unlike the infantry version, it could be reconfigured for many different missions, such as an extra oxygen tank for aquatic and space environments, a large bacta dispenser for enhanced healing, or even an external communication system for long-range contact.
The backpack had a display showing the last two digits of the individual commando's identification number.
But now it was empty.
However, it hadn't been difficult for the Deltas to put their numbers back in their proper place.
Yes, they themselves were currently in the time-tested Katarns they had deserted in many years ago.
But since then, many systems had worn out and had to be repaired with jury-rigged methods.
No one would admit it, of course, but seeing fully functional Katarns that had been provided to them "for free" the Deltas weren't just happy; they were indescribably happy.
"Why, this is just a celebration," the usually silent Fixer said, pulling a weapon from the weapon crate with delight.
The DC-17m IWS and the DC-15s blaster pistol.
"Not new," Boss emphasized, examining the standard-issue weapon of the Grand Army of the Republic commandos. "Same as the armor — taken from storage."
"But at the same time," Fixer had already conducted a lightning-fast weapon check, "in working order. Good storage. Sergeant," he looked at TNH-0333, "if it's not a secret — why don't your Assault Commandos use this armor? It's far better than the crap you're wearing into attack."
"Seems like they should have plenty of this stuff," Scorch said. "They could have outfitted a dozen legions with it, counting all the Katarn sets the commandos had."
"The armor is standardized," TNH-0333 explained. "We don't have personnel who meet all the necessary parameters to use this armor."
"They could have split it up," Scorch pressed. "It's easily adaptable to almost any body type. I've seen Rebels wearing this armor — partial sets, though."
"That's why they ran around in 'partial sets,'" Fixer explained. "Same principle as with other types of clone armor. Break up a set, and protection drops drastically. Remember those idiots running around during the Clone Wars in armor assembled from different 'phases'?"
"Don't tell the Nulls about that," Scorch snorted, remembering that the Nulls were exactly the ones who often did that.
"Preparation is complete," Boss ordered, spinning his new DC-15 in his hand and holstering it. "Three hours until the assembly deadline. We're ready to move out, Sergeant. When will your men arrive? It'd be good to coordinate and go over a few tactical plans. Share experience."
TNH-0333 simply lifted a flamethrower from a standing container, at the sight of which Scorch let out an admiring whistle.
"I am the Fourth Special Squad of the Assault Commandos, Sergeant Boss," TNH-0333 replied in a calm tone. "The others didn't survive their combat missions. For reinforcement, we'll be assigned BX-series commando droids."
The clones exchanged glances.
"We don't work with tin cans," Boss cut him off. "Is it possible to fill out your squad with other Assault Commandos?"
Fighting side by side with droids wasn't a good idea.
And fighting with a hastily assembled squad wasn't a brilliant tactical decision either, which wouldn't bring anything good.
But it was better than fighting with droids.
"No, sir. They're selected from the 501st Legion, but it suffered heavy losses in the last battle."
The situation was becoming less than acceptable.
"So we'll be operating as a four-man team," Boss decided. "I'm sorry about your men, Sergeant. But for the duration of this operation, I'll be commanding the mixed squad."
"No objections, Sergeant Boss," TNH-0333 replied.
"So either you're too good, or they were bad," Scorch voiced his opinion about the fighters of the Fourth Special Squad, packing more explosives into his backpack.
"My men were the best of the best," TNH-0333 countered. "As of now, I'm the only one of Colonel Selid's clones who survived. The squad's replacements fought to the limit of their abilities, but the squad suffers regular casualties during mission execution."
Boss gave an almost imperceptible, approving nod.
He understood the sergeant's feelings better than anyone else present — you could only speak well of your men.
A good commander never complains about his subordinates — otherwise, he's admitting his own helplessness.
TNH-0333 didn't come across as a weakling.
Perhaps he was simply a bit luckier than his fallen brothers.
"Also a clone, right?" Fixer asked quietly.
"Affirmative."
"Then you're among your own, brother," Boss extended his hand to TNH-0333, who, after a brief hesitation, shook it. "Since we still have some time before deployment, can you tell me where I can find some paint and a decent mechanic? With all due respect, Sergeant, a modified Katarn is still better than what you're wearing now. And one more question, Sergeant."
"Yes, Sergeant Boss?"
Boss detached a small unit from the left vambrace of his old suit and attached it to his new armor.
The other soldiers, chuckling, followed their commander's example.
Undoubtedly, they would have done it themselves, but it was better to have all the preparation supervised by the commander.
"Have you ever worked with a Separatist energy shield?" Boss clarified, activating a golden energy field in front of him.
"No, sir. They weren't considered for additional armament due to the Imperial armor's low radiation protection."
"In a Katarn, you don't need to worry about that," at Boss's signal, Fixer, letting out a heavy sigh, pulled a spare projector from his backpack and handed it to the newcomer.
"Sergeant," Scorch drew attention to himself, pointing at three figures in completely black armor, unlike any commando armor, and a Twi'lek girl chatting with one of them. "Who are they?"
TNH-0333 measured the approaching Shadow Guards with his gaze and calmly added:
"Reinforcements."
"Hi," the Twi'lek girl waved her hand. "My name's Vex. Why are you guys so serious? I promise — it'll be fun."
The Delta Squad exchanged glances.
Fun or not — at least "not easy" was guaranteed.
* * *
Inside his meditative sphere, Darth Ziilenlos could only tell through the Force that everything was going according to plan.
He reached forward, toward his distant goal.
The tracking artifact, one of the few he had dragged with him into his carbonite sleep, was telling him what he needed.
Until recently.
Now, it was as if someone had shielded the ancient invention from the Force, creating something like a bubble that repelled it.
In the past, he would have been confused by such an experience.
He would have surely thought the artifact had been discovered and uncompromisingly destroyed by an enemy.
But now, having encountered creatures called ysalamiri, everything fell into place.
The ancient Sith opened his eyes, allowing the Force and his mind to resynchronize with his body.
His senses were regaining their hold on him, flooding his consciousness with extraneous information.
He felt the weak vibration of the decks and bulkheads — a clear sign that his flagship was moving toward its target.
Their pulse matched the rhythm of his own heartbeat, which was pumping blood through his blood vessels in rhythmic thrusts.
But it didn't last long.
His body fell out of resonance with the ship, and the Force once again constricted into the point that he was in the galaxy.
Constricted and vanished.
Even if you're nearly four thousand years old, you shouldn't act recklessly or arrogantly.
Especially when there's a mad Sith in the galaxy who, like the Sith before him, had been meticulously gathering a legacy for centuries.
Ziilenlos could only guess at Palpatine's ability level, but at the same time, he perfectly understood that he didn't possess the full picture.
No matter how many questions he asked, how many of Palpatine's agents he tortured, how much he tracked his activity in the galaxy, the ancient Sith couldn't say with certainty which of them was stronger.
But he did know exactly one thing: on his side was the best weapon of the Dark Side of the Force.
Cunning and cold calculation.
Palpatine had power, had the Force, had the great minds of the modern age, but thanks to the chaos unfolding in the galaxy, he was vulnerable.
The wider you cast your net in the murky waters of a mountain river, the greater the chance it will tear.
And if a year ago Ziilenlos was only planning to fend off the Sith and his fleet's attacks, suspecting he couldn't defeat his rival, then now...
Your strategy needed adjustment if you wanted to win.
Especially when a promising ally becomes a burden, incapable of acting according to circumstances.
Such "allies" were more dangerous than even the most powerful and seasoned enemies.
Such "comrades-in-arms" could cloud your vision with their stupid grudges, revanchism, and failure to understand the true nature of things.
At moments like this, you needed to learn from your enemies.
And observing from the shadows was the best thing the current situation could offer him.
Observe, analyze, adjust his plans.
Study his enemies.
Hinder them.
Pit them against each other.
Divide his allies.
All this, Darth Ziilenlos could do better than anyone else in the galaxy.
All it took was to get out of the impenetrable shell of the Silri Syndicate, creatively rework its frankly stupid schemes, and provide sufficiently logical justifications for the necessary decisions.
And thus, the largest state in the galaxy had collapsed.
Not only had it split, but its rulers hated each other, ideologically turning their populations toward a similar rejection.
And it hadn't even required getting his hands dirty — it was enough to push the one who was already their enemy in the right direction, albeit in a painstaking manner.
All that was needed was to place the appropriate signs, add motivation, escalate the situation — and even the smartest enemy did what he considered absolutely right.
He convinced himself that he had made that decision himself.
He found clues where they had been left for him.
Let alone those who were unburdened by intellect.
Darth Ziilenlos had learned much, but still not enough to destroy his enemy and all other opponents with a precise strike.
He needed a little more time.
Why enemy?
Because there couldn't be two Darths in the galaxy.
The Dark Side was competition.
The weak would fall, the strong would rise.
The madman with vast resources had to be destroyed.
And there was no better way to do it than to weaken all enemies by making them war with each other.
Let them savor spilling each other's guts and blood.
Grow weaker, lose focus, relax.
Then he would strike.
But not now.
His agitation was growing, though there was still enough time before the coming battle.
His crew was guiding the flagship through the monotonous veil of hyperspace, and the ancient Sith, this time, was highly excited.
The sensations from these sharp experiences were unlike any other sensations from mental or physical pleasures.
He was anticipating the confrontation for which he was born.
A game of holochess against an opponent who was his equal in cunning and ingenuity.
Almost his equal.
Darth Ziilenlos rose from his chair, his back cracking as he straightened it.
He had spent too much time in one position; he needed to stretch.
But that could wait.
The Sith left the sphere, approached a table with soft drinks, and filled his glass.
Some people valued wines, some whiskey, and some — the scents of simple pleasures they had been denied for millennia.
He looked at the ship's chronometer display.
It was still early.
There was still time.
Not much, but there was.
His move needed to be made only when the noose around his enemy's neck was already tight, and he himself was foolish enough not to notice it.
Enemies never noticed when they stepped into a deadly trap just one step away from their cherished triumph.
He had done it hundreds of times in the past, drowning his enemies in blood.
The current game was all the more interesting, where sometimes he himself was the very prey that escaped.
And left the tempting trap empty of his carcass, granting someone else the right to take the victim's place.
It was so simple — to manipulate the narrow-minded, the embittered, the beings stricken with a sense of their own greatness.
They themselves were happy to be deceived by their own expectations, as if this tactical masochism gave them pleasure.
No one in this time was capable of formulating strategic plans and following them.
Everyone wanted a quick triumph.
Glory.
Everyone tried to assert themselves from a position of strength, relying only on the number of their soldiers, ships, and the volume of their broadside.
Pathetic creatures.
The main weapon in war was the mind.
And the ability to use it in such a way that even the greatest defeats resulted only in minimal losses.
Like now, for example.
The trap was set, and the battle would soon begin.
The very battle that would free his hands and allow him to move on to more pressing matters and plans.
Deliverance from all shackles.
Darth Ziilenlos activated his comlink and relayed an order to his flagship's commander.
The rest was a small matter.
He only needed to focus and relay the same thing to those he could trust.
The battle was about to begin.
And he wouldn't have much time to do what he had gotten involved with the Silri Syndicate for in the first place.
Betrayal was the way of the Dark Side.
One of its greatest weapons.
The Sith of the past had honed this blade to a deadly sharpness.
He, however, had elevated betrayal to a standard.
Betrayal and calculation.
No one in this galaxy could resist such a threat for too long.
No one.
Darth Ziilenlos sank into a free chair.
The ancient Sith began to savor his drink, feeling the necessary changes taking place aboard his flagship.
Let them kill each other, tear out each other's throats, weaken or destroy their forces.
He would be satisfied with any outcome of these events.
Such was the way of the Dark Side of the Force.
* * *
"It looks like they want to buy our loyalty," said Fi, closing the weapons crate.
"Because that's exactly what's happening," replied Niner, struggling with his own backpack — it was pulling the commando backward.
The sergeant carried twice the usual twenty-five kilos, but a spare pocket never weighs you down.
The Omegas knew that better than anyone.
"Either way, it'd be stupid to refuse gifts like these," Darman remarked, examining a Katarn suit.
Niner wanted to laugh, but that gesture would only bring them a lot of problems.
You don't laugh at a brother.
"Everyone wants new toys," he said conciliatorily, watching Atin pack his backpack with technical gadgets. "But Kal always said you should only rely on proven weapons. I'm not saying this stuff isn't top-notch — the storage was in the best traditions and by the manual — but I'm not going to rely on chance."
"Sounds logical," said Corr.
But, like Darman, he didn't stop stuffing his backpack with explosives.
They had fought as a four-man team once.
Then Fi got wounded, and Corr took his place.
Temporarily, of course.
But now they were all on duty.
And Omega Squad numbered five clone commandos.
"I'd still swap our night armor for the standard set," Atin said, looking at his brothers.
Against the background of the black Katarn-class boarding shuttle, they practically blended in.
Only the internal illumination of their visors gave away their presence.
And their legs, visible against the deck.
"Operating as a five-man team," Niner outlined the general plan. "Corr and Darman — you're on breaching bulkheads and airlocks. Atin," the Omegas' tech specialist tore himself away from his mission of filling his backpack with vitally essential gadgets. "Hack everything you can hack. Fi and I will handle the front and flanks."
"You didn't have to repeat that," Fi smirked. "We haven't been out of action long enough to forget standard tactics."
"Either way," Niner lowered his voice, addressing his brothers, "Ordo asked us to retrieve everything that might indicate the Silri Syndicate's involvement in the activities on Mandalore."
"You think their commanders are stupid enough to carry all their plans around with them?" Atin clarified.
"I'd bet on it," Corr declared.
"Commanders don't tend to keep their plans in different places," Darman agreed. "If there's some overall strategy, it's clearly kept closer to the enemy commander."
"If this operation is just a simple raid, it's unlikely such a smart enemy would bring along something he doesn't need," Niner countered.
"Sounds logical," Fi checked how the concealed blade extended from his gauntlet.
"The Nulls will be doing the same thing we are," Niner informed them. "We take the flagship, the Deltas together with Dominion commandos and the Nulls. Objective is to capture all available intel. Yayax is storming the hyperdrive and the engine room. We'll get the intel on the enemy ship at the start of the assault — if it's a type the Dominion has encountered before. If not, we improvise on the fly."
"Just like the Deltas," Fi grumbled.
Niner left his comment unanswered.
"Isn't that a lot of commandos for one vessel?" asked Korr.
"We used to manage with just four," Atin agreed. "And here there'll be nearly two dozen of us. Is anyone else even going to participate in the assault?"
Ordo had agreed to cooperate with the Dominion.
But within foreseeable limits.
Therefore, for the Omegas and the other members of Clan Skirata, there was no "us."
There existed "we" and "they."
Until an order came to think otherwise.
"Enemy command staff?" Darman clarified.
"Priority is capture," said Niner. "If that's impossible, eliminate on the spot. But another group, the Jensaarai, will be handling them."
And there were five of them in the Omega Squad. With variations in equipment, of course.
"Well, this is all fine and good, of course," said Darman. "But, if I remember that semblance of a briefing they gave us correctly, there might be dark Jedi on the ships."
Few besides the Deltas, of course, liked that the task of assaulting the enemy ship was "assigned" only to the commanders.
It was assumed they would relay all the details to the squad fighters.
But for a clan that was one family, such a, shall we say, "cold" attitude was alarming.
"And we," Atin demonstrated the Geonosian sonic blaster, "have toys like this."
"I don't even want to know where they got them," Darman shuddered. "Sarge," he addressed Niner, "is it too late to ask to have Venku attached to our squad? Having a Jedi of our own at hand would be more convenient."
The Omega commander met his brother's gaze.
He understood his brother's concerns for his son perfectly well, but at the same time realized you couldn't go against orders:
"Venku, Gotab, and Zey will be on the same ship we are," Niner said. "They, the Jensaarai, and those two bruisers in black who arrived an hour ago, are going after the enemy Force-users."
"I don't like this," Darman grumbled.
"No one does," Niner agreed. "But I still hold out hope that Ordo can convince Thrawn and our Jedi will go with our squads. Blue is on good terms with logic. So, let's hope..."
* * *
I stroked the ysalamiri's nape.
"That sounds logical, Mister Skirata," I said. "Your Jedi are being assigned to your own squads for reinforcement."
"You speak as if you expected to be approached with this request," the Skirata clan leader snorted.
"Lieutenant Colonel Tierce," I called my adjutant.
The former guardsman handed the datapad to Null-11 without a word.
Ordo Skirata ran his eyes over the text, then shifted his gaze to me:
"Venku, Bardan, Arligan… They are also reserved for the operation, Grand Admiral?"
"Yes," I replied. "They await your decision."
"I'm supposed to assign them to our squads?" Ordo clarified.
"Precisely. Working with hastily assembled teams has a great many problems. No one knows the strengths and weaknesses of your comrades better than you. Who can reinforce which squads — that is solely for you to decide."
Skirata didn't think long.
"Venku goes with the Omega squad," he decided. "Bardan with Yayax. Arligan… We'll take him with the Nulls."
"That works for me," I nodded, continuing to gaze at the massive station, the Mercenaries' Spine.
The checkpoint, the only road into Karthakk that we had left for the enemy.
This is where it will all happen.
"In that case, I'm departing for the squad," Ordo returned the personal device to Grodin.
"Don't let me keep you," I replied. "One small request, Mister Skirata."
Ordo, who was already about to put on his Phase I armor helmet, froze, devouring me with his gaze.
"Sir?"
"There is a young Jedi at my disposal. I would like him to be placed under the command of Arligan Zey for the duration of the operation."
"The reason?" Null-11 inquired suspiciously.
"Jedi work best in a team with each other," I said. "My other subordinates… are not quite Jedi. I wouldn't want philosophical and ideological conflicts during the operation."
"Yes, sir," the clan leader agreed after a moment's thought. "That is acceptable."
"Then I won't keep you any longer."
"Yes, sir."
When Ordo Skirata left the bridge of the camouflaged Guardian, Grodin, standing beside me, said:
"You knew it would be like this."
"I had well-founded assumptions that it would turn out this way," I clarified. "These people have lived as one collective for a long time. Certain social and family bonds have formed between them."
"By offering Ordo the chance to assign the Jedi himself, you gauged how close those particular Jedi are to him?"
"Psychology, Lieutenant Colonel," I explained. "Venku Skirata is Darman's son. Ordo, as the head of a large family, made the best move — he placed the son under the father's stewardship. This would remove responsibility from him for any potential injury or failure by Venku during the operation. Darman, for his part, will be absolutely certain that his son is always under his supervision."
"Bardan Jusik and Arligan Zey are also important people to them."
"And that revealed itself in the distribution," I nodded. "Yayax and Jusik are the closest allies of Clan Skirata. Null-11 took care of them appropriately. Those who can trust each other with their backs will fight most effectively."
"Skirata could have put Jusik in his own squad," Tierce reminded.
"There's a conflict between them," I said. "Bardan Jusik has a certain negative attitude towards using clones as soldiers. Ordo knows this. Given the Skirata clan's general rejection of Jedi morality, Null-11 decided it was better to have an unstable element in the company of those he knows, rather than in the company of the Deltas, whom he trusts less. And since the squad transferred to our service — he trusts them practically not at all."
"Null-11 took Arligan Zey under his personal supervision for the same reason," Grodin voiced thoughts that aligned with my own.
"Precisely. Zey was absent for a long time and didn't maintain contact with Clan Skirata. Null-11 doesn't know what to expect from him. But he has a precise idea of Zey's limit of capabilities. If Arligan tries to play his own game, the Nulls will neutralize him."
"Thus we observe Ordo's clear position regarding his kin and allies," Tierce pronounced. "The Delta Squad commandos are no longer in their circle of trust."
"Exactly," I said. "Therefore, for their support, I've sent our best commando and the Shadow Guard. They, along with Fodeum Sabre De'Luz's guardian squad, are targeting the enemy commander. The Deltas will not forget the trust shown to them. And they will appreciate it accordingly. No matter how this battle ends, we will gain at least one commando squad and at least Arligan Zey at our disposal."
And consequently, not at the snap of fingers, but we will obtain the matrices for our new, improved Orun Va, commando clones from Boba Fett's DNA.
There's no point in driving clones to mental scanning at gunpoint right now — it will only scare them off, make them think all we need is the contents of their brains.
But that's only half the truth.
I need them.
And those clones they helped to escape and with whom they are still in contact.
One way or another, the "old guard" will return to service.
"You intend to win Zey over to our side with the help of Jaden Korr?" Tierce clarified.
"Korr is nothing more than an intermediate link," I explained. "He is young, and therefore impulsive. During the battle, he will show who his teacher is. Given Master Windu's authority among the Jedi, we have an excellent opportunity to win over not only Arligan Zey, but through him, the Altisian Jedi as well."
"Understood, sir," Tierce nodded. "Major Kreb reports readiness to commence the mission."
"Excellent," the ysalamiri squirmed, exposing its belly. "Make sure Dia Passik is brought to the bridge before the battle begins. We'll be recruiting her too."
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