There are several unwritten rules that the commandos of Delta Squad learned over their lifetime.
They were created for war, to die for the interests and well-being of those they'd never even laid eyes on.
And certainly never knew.
Naturally, all their life credos related to waging war, planning war, and triumphing in war.
One of those axiomatic truths was the perfectly logical and completely justified requirement to toss a grenade into a compartment first, and then enter themselves, controlling anyone who might have survived.
With the arrival of Sergeant THX-0333 in the squad, the rule got a variation, and the grenade gave way to a flamethrower.
"What a useful little thing," Scorch said thoughtfully, watching burning sentients run out of the junior officers' quarters, whose doorway the flamethrower nozzle had peered into. "I want one of those."
"You're the demolitions man, Six-Two," Fixer reminded him.
"Seems there's another addiction in my life," Scorch chuckled softly.
The Deltas moved forward, clearing their path and stepping over enemy corpses.
There are many ways to defeat an opponent, but the fastest is to destroy them with every weapon at your disposal.
So the Deltas gunned down men and women engulfed in flames, leaving not even a hint of an ambush behind them.
One of them, as if timing the moment when the assault commando's flamethrower mix would run out, lunged at him with a vibroblade.
As if he didn't even feel that he was burning alive.
THX-0333's snow-white Katarn armor harmonized with the raging flames around him.
The enemy attacked without particular finesse, taking advantage of the fact that the other Deltas were firing to kill the dying.
The two clashed in hand-to-hand combat.
The flamethrower fell at THX-0333's feet, and his hand shot up, intercepting the attacker's weapon.
With his burned hand, the enemy grabbed the commando by the helmet, intending to smash it against his knee or pull him forward to stab him with the vibroblade, but the assault commando twisted out of it deftly.
Wrenching the knife-wielding arm, he drove it straight into the attacker's chin, then shoved him away with a kick to the chest.
A triple shot from the Deltas put the madman down.
"Sergeant, you okay?" Boss inquired, seeing THX-0333 frozen in place.
"Yes, Sergeant Boss," he replied, turning. "The flamethrower is no longer combat-capable."
Eyes darted to the weapon.
Indeed.
The burning idiot had crushed several elements on the flamethrower lying under his feet, and now only a fool wanting to burn alive would try to use it.
Boss lifted his gaze to the assault commando and was stunned for a moment.
Diagonal across his helmet ran bloody marks forming the outline of a bloodied palm.
"Just like Sev," Scorch said quietly.
"Cut the chatter, Six-Two," Fixer recovered first, but his voice made it clear he was no less shaken than the rest of the Delta Squad commandos.
"Clear," THX-0333 reported, shifting his DC-17s in blaster rifle configuration across his chest. "Threat eliminated."
"Move out," Boss ordered, suppressing the lump that had risen in his throat.
Just a coincidence.
Just a coincidence.
Vex covered the squad's rear, constantly glancing around and looking up hesitantly.
As if someone she knew might fall from there.
Though, knowing Force-sensitive sentients, it was entirely possible.
Fast but cautious advancement through enemy territory was an art.
Leaving behind the napalm-scorched crew quarters, the Deltas continued forward.
Suddenly, a bulkhead opened that according to the plan was part of the technical compartments.
An armed enemy appeared in the wall to the left of the commando squad leader.
Boss acted without the slightest mental control over his body.
An energy shield flared, deflecting a blaster shot aside.
The barrel of the DS-17s slid through the golden haze.
Two shots — to the body and head — and the Weequay in a semblance of uniform crumpled onto his back.
Boss stepped forward decisively.
A small room filled with shelves of equipment, about two square meters.
Nowhere to hide.
But the second Weequay had found a spot.
Neither the twilight of the closet nor the skill of hiding among the shelves, waiting for the commando to turn his back, saved him.
The visor's infrared scanner found the target.
The blaster carbine spat white-blue flame twice — chest and head hit, target dead.
He could have gotten away with just a control shot to the head.
But Walon Vau taught to act for sure.
The galaxy has many races that look alike but differ in anatomical structure.
You can hit the head but not damage the central brain or nervous system because it's hidden in the chest.
Or vice versa.
Better to control immediately than to take shots in the back later.
And though the Deltas had encountered Weequays many times before, they never deviated from the golden rule of clearance.
Next on the path was a small mess hall.
From there, a short passage led to the ship's bridge.
The door panel slid aside, and two flash-bang grenades flew inside, blinding the enemy.
An explosion, a flash, the room filled with smoke.
The enemy inside panicked, but the Deltas were unstoppable.
They burst inside.
The Katarn systems allowed them to see in the dark, through smoke, and many other environments.
The room assault turned into a systematic clearance.
Using temporary cover from cargo containers, the Deltas executed absolute slaughter with blaster fire.
Blue-white blaster bolts tore through panicking enemies' bodies, reducing their numbers.
A thermal detonator thundered.
A cluster of enemies scattered across the area, splattering everything with their remains and mangled, shrapnel-ridden bodies.
"Check," Boss ordered, firing a short burst at an enemy crawling across the floor.
The Deltas unquestioningly finished off the wounded and miraculously surviving enemies, feeling absolutely nothing for their victims.
Work was work.
Delta Squad was at work.
"Are you always this disrespectful to prisoners?" Vex asked as they crossed the compartment.
"There's a difference between prisoners of war and combatants, ma'am," Boss replied, noticing movement behind transport containers at the far end of a new corridor.
The grenade launcher obediently mounted onto his DC.
"And what's that?" the Twi'lek asked.
"A big one, ma'am."
The rocket-propelled grenade streaked toward its target.
Clearing the improvised barricade, it exploded in mid-air, showering the hidden enemies with a rain of debris and a shockwave.
The shelter was blown to shreds.
The Deltas surged forward with a swift rush toward the enemy firing point, shooting at those who tried to flee it.
They fired without missing, economically, lethally.
Leaping onto a half-meter cube, Fixer finished off any random survivors with three short bursts.
From here, the path led in two directions — right and left.
According to the plan, they needed to move in the first direction — that was the fastest way to reach the bridge.
The opposite path led to senior officer quarters.
Where, undoubtedly, were the personal chambers of the Syndicate invasion force commander.
And not far from them — the path to the central computer controlling everything aboard the battleship.
Without Shadow Guard support, fighting Force-sensitive sentients would be tricky.
Casualties were most likely.
But ignoring either objective would be foolish.
Boss dove back into the information network.
Commando groups and Jensaarai were entering from different penetration points, but they all shared the same overall objective.
The specifics were individual.
They couldn't all land on one front — they'd only get in each other's way in the tight corridors.
Dispersing their forces allowed them to distract the enemy from the main objective of the assault, despite its obviousness.
According to the information, all groups were currently in the superstructure, but in different parts of it.
And Delta was closest to the objective.
Undoubtedly — because of the squad's split and the sacrifice of the Shadow Guards who took the hit on themselves.
The squad leader gave a signal, and the Deltas secured their position.
Vex simply squatted by the wall, clutching her head in her hands.
"This is Boss, Delta Squad — commando on the general tactical frequency of the boarding team commanders." He continued, "We're near primary objective 'Alpha' with the ability to execute objective 'Beta.' Squad is split. Can't complete both tasks. Need support."
"This is Niner, Omega Squad. We're six decks below you; large enemy forces are moving your way. ETA twenty minutes. Moving to follow."
In that time, they could gut the enemy central computer and get the hell out of there.
Though Niner's position was understandable — the specialists in "shadow" operations moved slowly, but they didn't attract enemy or ship system attention.
But that was pointless when you'd boarded a ship by breaching its hull in the middle of a battle.
Only a blind man would miss that.
And the enemy didn't seem to have any of those.
"This is Kov, Yayax Squad. Blocked in the hyperdrive compartment, fighting superior enemy forces. Can't provide assistance."
Those were clear.
Not that they'd been counting on them much anyway.
"This is Ordo." Null-11's voice was full of anger, and large-caliber explosions were audible in the background. "Yayax, we're two transitions from you, moving to assist. Get ready — enemy squads with heavy weapons are heading your way. Omega — move up."
"Copy," came Niner's reply.
Boss didn't like to curse.
But that's exactly what he wanted to do right now.
Ordo had just made it clear that rescuing Yayax was more important to him than completing the assigned task.
Why the hell did you even come here, then?
You needed data — well, here it was, right here, just a couple of transitions from Delta's position!
You just needed to get your ass in gear and push through!
"Copy," Boss replied dryly. "No support."
The last part was addressed to his own men.
"Ordo set his priorities?" Scorch asked.
"We're working Beta," Boss said, not wanting to start a philosophical discussion. "Working solo. Quarters first, then central computer. THX-0333, Scorch, cover the rear. Spot any witches — we fall back."
It was clear enough.
The Deltas had finally separated from the Skirata Clan.
They'd just been told that.
"We could split up," Vex said unexpectedly. "I can hack the computer and search the quarters myself. The squad's standard technician can handle the central computer."
"Ma'am, that's not logical," Boss objected, gesturing for the squad to move in the required direction. "We have no support. We could get hit from the rear from the bridge side. Splitting up is a big danger to squad survivability in these conditions."
The plan had assumed the Shadow Guard would handle the assault, but reality had dictated otherwise.
In a normal situation, fighting a similar enemy, the Deltas split up and worked in groups or individually without any problem.
Always — successfully.
But now, with Dathomirian witches all over the ship, it was better to stick together like the whiners from Omega — all together.
Then there was a chance they could fight them off.
A small one, but it existed.
And if so, then...
"This is Protector Sabre De'Luz," a new voice sounded in Boss's helmet. "We're one deck from you, Delta. We'll take the bridge."
"Copy, sir." Well, now he could breathe a little easier. "When can we expect your arrival?"
Instead of an answer, the commando stepped aside, watching the tip of a lightsaber appear in the ceiling.
A second later, a thick "pancake" of deck plating crashed to the floor, with three sentients standing on it.
The Protector and two of his students — a man and a woman.
With a wave of his hand, the man, armored from head to toe, dragged a tattooed Dathomirian witch down from the upper deck.
His blade rose to meet her, and a moment later the woman fell to the deck in two pieces.
"We're already here," the Jensaarai Protector said cheerfully, pointing his hand toward one of the corridors. "That way?"
All three stepped over the enemy's corpse without any reaction, as if it were routine.
Boss felt some respect for this unit.
"Yes, sir," he confirmed the Jensaarai's assumption. "Glad to see you're all right."
A unit of just three sentients...
And yet they'd arrived at the meeting point almost before all the other boarding groups.
Not to mention that they'd moved without any technical aids.
On one hand, they didn't need them.
On the other, that made them untrackable aboard the ship, making it impossible to know if they were still alive.
For some reason, this particular unit was allowed such tactics by the Grand Admiral himself.
They probably had a high degree of trust from the Dominion's Supreme Commander.
"We're pretty thrilled about it ourselves," the Jensaarai said, pulling off his brown cloak, which had been reduced mostly to tatters by hundreds of scorched holes and burns. "And it was almost new... Ah, trouble."
"Teacher?" A tall, dark-haired man looked at his mentor sternly. "It's just a cloak."
"Yes, but my mother gave it to me." A heavy sigh came from under the mask. "I'm going to get an earful..."
Boss turned his head, hearing a barely perceptible chuckle from Vex, who was looking at the Jensaarai.
"What a mama's boy you are, Fodeum," she said with a tired smile on her lips.
"Oh!" the Jensaarai exclaimed joyfully. "Familiar Twi'leks! Joined the commandos?"
"I'm with Mola's squad, supporting them," Vex nodded toward the Delta fighters.
"Ah... where?" The Jensaarai swept his gaze around.
"We ran into witches; they stayed behind to hold them off," Vex explained. "I don't know what happened to him..."
Boss tensed.
Critically important information could be revealed now, potentially sabotaging the execution of a direct order.
And any attempt to carry it out could already jeopardize the entire mission.
The Jensaarai was silent for several seconds, standing like a pillar in the middle of the corridor in the posture of someone listening to something.
Then he shook his head negatively.
"Sorry, Vex, I can't sense anything. Too much Dark Side around."
"I have a bad feeling about this," the girl admitted. "Like something bad is about to happen..."
"Of course it will," the Jensaarai said, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving her a gentle shake. "But not for us — for Silri. We're going in there now." He pointed down the corridor. "And we're going to smash her face in."
"Finally!" the Jensaarai apprentice grumbled. "I can't wait to look that nasty Dathomirian witch in the eyes and scratch them out with my own hands."
Interesting plans for the near future.
Especially considering that the apprentice herself was a Dathomirian witch.
"Sir," Boss said, drawing attention. "The bridge is on the opposite side of the junction."
"Ah! So that means..." The Jensaarai's index finger calmly shifted to point the other direction. ."..we go that way and... Anyway, same plan. Don't worry, Vex. He's a tough son of a bitch — what could some Dathomirian witches possibly do to him?"
"Right," she said with a strained smile. "True enough."
"Let's work," Boss commanded, seeing that the situation was finally ripe for action.
However, there was something to check first.
"THX-0333, Scorch, you've got work coming," he said on a channel audible only to the commandos.
* * *
The blade, wrapped in a greenish glow, sank into his body.
Reynar felt the metal pass through his coated breastplate.
Through his skin.
Deep into his flesh.
Slicing through bone with ease.
Cutting through his right lung.
Then retracing the same path in reverse.
The eyes of the Dathomirian witch standing before him burned with the fire of the Dark Side.
Unbearable yellow light shot through with crimson veins.
A feeling of triumph.
Power.
Superiority.
A breath escaped the Shadow Guard's chest.
But it was accompanied by the salty taste of metal, and dark spots appeared on his visor.
The next moment, a kick sent him flying backward. He wheezed, spitting streams of blood into his helmet, and slammed back-first into the corridor's bulkhead.
Sliding helplessly down the wall, he watched the Dathomirian witch approach him, stepping over the hacked bodies of her sisters-in-arms as if they were nothing.
A triumphant smile played on her lips.
"You're all weaklings!"
Reynar tried to say something, but instead of words, only streams of blood and bubbles came from his throat.
His chest burned with desperate fire.
He wanted to breathe, but the blood in his throat wouldn't let oxygen reach his exhausted body.
"Arrogant men! What are you compared to us?!"
Reynar wanted to argue, remembering how the three of them had killed about fifty Dathomirian witches.
Very strong ones.
Very vicious ones.
Expertly trained.
Even among the Jedi he had killed, not every one could match that level of skill.
Whoever had trained those creatures knew their business.
Just as they'd known what they'd be up against.
Reynar reached for his helmet, feeling the blood inside him creeping up toward his nostrils.
He yanked it off his head and felt the blood spread over his body as the useless piece of metal clattered across the floor.
Right to where his dropped lightsaber lay.
Straining, he forced the blood from his throat, using the Force to seize a moment when his respiratory organs were clear, and sucked in air convulsively.
It hurt.
But it gave him strength.
The lightsaber was back in his hand.
He knew he wasn't much of a fighter with punctured legs, liver, guts, and a collapsed lung.
His left arm hung limp, too.
The medpack built into his armor beeped, reporting that all its supplies were used up, and the injector no longer tried to hit a vein.
An awkward swing of his right hand sent the lightsaber flying toward the Dathomirian witch.
Obscuro reached out with the Force to control its flight, but it was no use — the witch simply cut through the hilt.
She seized the moment and struck the cylinder, shattering it into pieces.
Her smile twisted into a snarl.
A step. Another step.
Reynar, gasping again, tried to use the Force, but his clouded mind couldn't bend the Dark Side to his will.
The sword with green lights on it rose into the air and...
The next instant — a crimson flash, a Force push, and a headless body flew to the side.
The blade sank hilt-deep into the deck.
"Made it," Darth Maul said, collapsing to his knees, barely catching himself with one arm to avoid face-planting the deck. "Hang on, you bastard, I'm..."
The sounds of the straining servos in his artificial legs reached his ears as if through water.
The scorched fabric on them exposed mangled mechanisms, sporadically sparking with shorts.
The Zabrak tore a spare medpack from his belt and, with weakening hands, removed Reynar's identical but battle-damaged one.
On the second try, as bloody circles already danced before Reynar's eyes, he slotted it into the mount and activated it.
His own primary one seemed to be out, too...
Sensitivity returned to his right hand as the injections began entering his vein one after another.
His heart, whose drumbeat had nearly faded, started pounding with renewed strength as adrenaline coursed through his veins.
Obscuro screamed from the pain throughout his body, spat a fountain of blood, then whistled as he inhaled, coughed, spat out bloody foam, inhaled again, vomited again...
Pulling a canister of bacta from the spare medpack container, he tore off his breastplate and sprayed the contents directly into the wound.
Then hemostatic foam, which crusted in the entry wound channel.
But his back was nearly impossible to reach.
"I hate those freaks," Darth Maul rasped, grabbing canisters and helping address the problem. "I'll rip the head off whoever trained them so well. Bastards..."
"What about Strina?" Reynar asked, spitting most of the blood from his airways.
"Dead," the Zabrak said, leaning against the adjacent wall, overcoming his exhaustion, and waving a hand toward the corridor junction where the battle had started. "Everyone there is dead."
"They know how to mask themselves," Reynar said, recalling exactly how their comrade had died.
All the physical-weapon wielders had simply vanished from sight in an instant.
And even using the Force, it was nearly impossible to track them, given the Dark Side aura permeating everything around.
Strina fell after two stabbing blows to the back.
After killing four suspiciously powerful opponents, he fell.
Reynar had hoped the wound wasn't fatal.
But he'd been wrong.
Obscuro looked into the distance, toward where the battle had begun.
The corridor, littered with the bodies of dozens of Dathomirian witches, was scored by lightsabers, deformed by Force techniques, and scorched by the electrical discharges exchanged by both sides.
And in the middle of this chaos lay a body in black armor, looking forlorn.
Strina.
A loyal friend and comrade, covering their backs while Maul and Reynar cut the she-devils to pieces.
He had died — and they had nearly died too.
But it wasn't over yet.
The Shadow Guard had merely run into a squad of Dathomirian witches heading for various sections of the superstructure to repel the Dominion boarding parties.
At the cost of one comrade's life, they had allowed the other squads to operate without the threat of strong enemy soldiers interfering.
Obscuro listened to the Force.
All around — only death and pain.
Already done, happening now, and yet to come.
No sense of how to proceed.
Were there still enemies?
Where were they?
How soon would they arrive here?
"Can you walk?" Obscuro asked, seeing Maul, after resting a bit, start fixing something in his right artificial leg.
"Yes," he answered after a couple of seconds. "We need to get out of here. Is any squad nearby? We need cover for our retreat."
It didn't sound like cowardice.
It was a logical move.
Two wounded Shadow Guards weren't the dream team needed to fight more Dathomirian witches.
And judging by the fact that Maul was also bleeding from under his armor, he was in pretty bad shape too.
Reynar looked at the cracked screen of his wrist computer and shook his head.
"I can't..."
The next moment, a directed blast first bulged, then tore the ceiling paneling to shreds ten meters from them.
Massive chunks of metal and wires crashed down from above, spreading the rumble of their fall through the area.
From the dust and smoke of the explosion, weapons at the ready, two figures in Katarn armor emerged.
One with a bloody handprint on his helmet, the second with black patterns on his armor.
"Sergeant THX-0333, sir, sir," came the voice of the one with the handprint. "We've come for you."
Reynar just waved a hand weakly.
Maul didn't even deign to respond, closing his eyes as if he wanted to sleep and forget the whole nightmare they had created here.
"And it looks like we'll live through today," the second one joked, pulling out a first-aid kit. "Because Lady Vex wouldn't forgive us for bad news about your condition."
All Reynar could muster was a pathetic grimace-smile.
He simply didn't have the strength for more.
"Silri," Reynar suddenly thought. They had, of course, chopped the witches into salad, but the main objective was still unmet.
The Shadow Guard was supposed to capture the Syndicate's commander, who was clearly aboard the starship.
But Obscuro doubted that he and Maul were good fighters for that mission right now.
They'd be lucky not to die of blood poisoning or blood loss themselves.
"Her squad is already being handled by the Jensaarai, sir," Scorch reported, setting aside his weapon and applying the necessary substance to Reynar's wounds. "Don't worry about anything."
"We'll get you to a safe place," THX-0333 assured, intending to treat Maul's wounds, but the Zabrak pushed him away.
Staggering, he got to his feet.
Leaning against the wall, he slowly trudged toward Strina's body.
"We're taking him with us," he said hoarsely.
"We need to get you out first," Scorch muttered, bandaging Reynar's wounds. "We can pick up the bodies later..."
"No, commando," Obscuro said. "No..."
The commandos didn't answer.
The commandos understood.
* * *
Blaster fire merged into a single stream.
The approaches to the hyperdrive bay had become a killing field for anyone caught in the crossfire of three commando squads at once.
Yayax and Bardan Jusik held the defense at the approach.
Omega and Venku Skirata struck the enemy from the flank.
The Nulls, together with two Jedi, attacked from the rear.
Fifty enemy fighters, prepared to storm the captured bay with heavy blasters and repeaters, suddenly found that they were not the formidable force.
Four commandos from Yayax selflessly held their assault until payback arrived.
Nothing would save the enemy once Clan Skirata and their allies entered the fray.
Jaden knocked out one Weequay with a kick and impaled a second with his lightsaber.
Arligan Zey, slaying an enemy beside him, looked at the young man questioningly but didn't ask.
Not the time.
Not the place.
Meanwhile, Korr set aside his emotions and feelings, giving himself entirely to the battle.
Just as Master Windu had taught him.
Parrying enemy thrusts and spinning in place, he avoided blaster fire.
Suddenly feeling cornered, the Syndicate fighters didn't panic as often happened.
They organized resistance.
Jaden severed the barrel of a heavy blaster that had been pinning down half the Nulls, then swiftly drove his knee into the gunner's face.
The enemy managed to raise his hands and block the blow to his scarred face.
But it didn't save him from the backhand.
Confused, the Weequay had nothing to counter when Jaden pierced his throat with a precise strike.
Nearby, Arligan Zey knocked out another enemy with a punch, then crossed out his life with a slash of his blade.
A blaster burst swept down the corridor, and both Jedi had to take cover behind a protruding bulkhead.
After waiting a second and trusting the Force, Jaden lunged from cover, but Arligan's firm grip pulled him back.
And at that same moment, three heavy blasters tore through the spot where the young Jedi would have been.
What's more, the volume of fire in their direction increased several times, preventing them from breaking out and getting back into the fight.
"Why did you do that?" Jaden didn't understand.
"Otherwise you'd have been shot."
"The Force is with me!"
"As it is with me. But it tells me to wait, not to throw myself at heavy blasters. We're not the only ones fighting here."
"Yes, exactly! We can relieve our allies by drawing their fire!"
A kind smile appeared on Zey's face.
"Were you trained in the Jedi Order?" Zey asked diplomatically.
"No," Korr replied, breathing heavily from the intense combat. "I'm too young for that. I was born under the Empire."
"I see traces of Jedi training in your actions," Arligan insisted. "You can't learn that from stories or books."
"A family friend trained me," Korr said, not liking having a conversation in the middle of a battle.
It wasn't encouraging when a blaster was melting a metal girder just centimeters from his shoulder.
"He taught you excellent swordsmanship," Zey noted. "There weren't that many swordsmen of that level in the Order. And those who survived Order 66 — even fewer."
"Why don't you just ask directly?" Korr snapped, looking the older Jedi challengingly in the eyes. "What's with all this dodging in the style of 'You know and I know, but until you say it yourself, I'll torment you with hints'?"
"My apologies. It's... traces of old pain. I'm afraid to hear something that contradicts my assumptions about your mentor's identity."
"I was trained by Master Mace Windu."
The tension in Zey's body and face vanished as if by magic.
He even seemed to soften somehow.
"So he's alive," the Jedi said with relief. "And I take it that since you're on the Dominion's side, so is he?"
"That's how it worked out. We saw Master Umakk's message, then met a Dominion agent squad on Coruscant, things started spinning..." Jaden described the situation briefly. "And now I'm here, more or less 'on loan' to the Jensaarai. I barely managed to convince Thrawn to let me participate in the battle. After all, it was pointless to come out of the shadows just to sit back while other allies fought."
"Other allies?" Zey was surprised.
"Of course," Jaden nodded toward the clones laying down suppressive fire. "The commandos."
"What makes you think they're allies of the Dominion?"
Korr was taken aback.
"We're, uh, on the same side, aren't we?"
"You think so?" Zey let out a short chuckle, then nodded toward the positions the Nulls were holding. "Tell me, Jedi Korr, how many Nulls do you see before you?"
"Six," Jaden turned his wrist toward the older Jedi, showing him six green markers in that area. "Exactly as many as there should be."
Zey looked toward the Nulls, who were alternately firing at the enemy in pairs, then smiled.
"And what does the Force tell you, young Jedi?" he asked. "Or, at least, what do your eyes tell you?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Any equipment can be fooled," Arligan explained. "And the Nulls are the best at it. During the Clone Wars, in the second year of the conflict, they learned that General Grievous had a base on Utapau."
"The place where they eventually found him," the Jedi frowned.
"Yes, but only two years later," Zey said. "Do you know why they kept quiet all that time?"
"I have no idea."
"They decided the information had come to them 'too easily,'" Arligan said. "And they took it upon themselves to conceal the information until the end of the war."
"Why are you telling me this?" the shadow on the young Jedi's face deepened. "Everyone has sins in their past. But right now we're on the same side..."
"Yes, and that's exactly why you're rushing forward, throwing yourself at the enemy — to protect them from wounds and death," Zey nodded. "Admirable, noble, in the best Jedi traditions. Only the Nulls do things their own way. They're here because our goals align. But I think they just needed to get aboard a specific starship to carry out their own plans and intentions."
"I heard you served with these clones thirty years ago," Jaden pursed his lips. "Don't you trust them?"
"Not an ounce," Zey admitted. "These clones never liked and still don't like Jedi, except for those in their inner circle. They're loyal to no one but their sergeant — Kal Skirata. And they're here exclusively, as I understand it, to learn something that will shed light on his death. And for that, they're currently simulating a frenzy of activity by destroying an enemy heavy infantry squad."
"Simulating?"
"Let's start with the fact that there are only four Nulls here right now," said Arligan Zey, flicking his wrist to deflect an incoming thermal detonator. "Count them."
Jaden seized the moment and reached out with the Force.
Correct.
Only two pairs of Null-class clones were active from cover, not three.
When you see them for the first time, it's hard to get used to that armor color scheme and tell who's who.
And trust in an ally — isn't that the main thing?
"I commanded the Old Republic's special operations forces," Zey said. "I've seen what these squads can do. Each one of them alone carried out missions far more dangerous than this. Clearing enemy-held ships, destroying terrorist groups, sabotaging droid factories... At the very start of the Clone Wars, six Nulls dug into their barracks so well that the only way to smoke them out was to bomb the whole place to Hutt. By luck or not, an alternative to such a simple solution was found. Take my word for it — if these guys wanted to quickly clear the flagship and hand it over to the Dominion with Silri tied up in a bow, they'd already be picking out a knot for her packaging and signing a card."
"They're stalling for time?" Korr clarified.
"Kom'rk and Jaing are missing," Arligan said. "So you understand, they were the ones who located Grievous two years before reporting it. Some of the best reconnaissance operatives I've ever known. So yes, the Nulls, and by their orders the other squads except, I think, the Deltas, are just stalling so those two can do what they're doing now."
"And they're missing now," Jaden paled. "But their beacon signals are active."
"Of course. They're with some of the Nulls. It creates the illusion that they're all in one place."
"Have we been betrayed, Jedi Zey?"
"No," he replied calmly. "Not yet. But it's not certain. So, my young friend, don't strain yourself trying to be a hero. You might have time. Better to save your strength."
"Because we'll need it again, won't we?"
"I really hope it doesn't come to that. But everything is the will of the Force. And I'm not one of those who see the future clearly."
* * *
"Sir," Captain Pellaeon approached my chair with a datapad, as always. "Scouts report that the Keldabe II-class battleships are disabled. We can proceed with the landing."
"We can," I agreed, looking at the silent Dia Passik through the reflection in the viewport. "But we won't. Not yet."
The Twi'lek raised her head and looked at me with undisguised surprise, as if I had said something illogical.
"Direct the 501st Legion squads to capture the New Republic escort frigates," I ordered.
"Yes, sir."
Once Pellaeon had stepped away, Passik asked:
"And what's the point? Battleships are more valuable as trophies than escort frigates."
"The question hasn't been about needing trophies for a long time," I said. "We have enough ships. Nebulon-B-class vessels interest me from a different perspective."
"And, of course, you won't tell me which one?"
"Why not?" I asked. "One of them clearly carries an influential Bothan close to Fey'lya. Since Bothans love themselves too much to commit suicide, he's patiently waiting to be captured."
"And what do you need him for?" Passik asked.
"There's something that requires verifying the connection between the destruction of one planet and President Fey'lya," I said, thinking of the Caamas Document, which had long been awaiting its moment.
After all, it wasn't the Bothan clans involved in the destruction of the Caamasi homeland who had searched for and secretly purchased it, but the councilor himself, wasn't it?
The names on that list were extremely interesting.
I'd like to delve into this matter as quickly and as informed as possible.
After all, there are the executors, and there are the clients, aren't there?
And I doubt the executors listed in the Caamas Document only worked that one time.
They had performed so well, been so perfectly concealed, that no one but the Emperor knew their names and identities.
Until recently.
One name from that list had already revealed itself in the present — a Bothan admiral who commanded the secret attack on me at Soulex.
Too bad he didn't survive.
I suspect that Fey'lya or the Bothan clans are still using the executors of the Caamasi tragedy for their dirty work.
The secret attack on Karthakk is a perfect excuse to pull another asset out of the bag.
If the Bothans are commanded by someone from the Caamas Document list, then a perfectly logical pattern will emerge.
One that has the potential to disprove the Bothan lie that they don't know the identities of those who destroyed Caamas's planetary shield.
In the end, the defeat that Silri's ally has doomed her to should bear excellent strategic fruit, not just another victory over the enemy.
And if I'm wrong...
Well, the absence of a result is also a result.
Proof by contradiction has never been abolished.
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