Judging by the expression on Commodore Mor's face, he had not yet reached the same conclusions as I had. It was not to say it was disappointing. No, it was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. No one is perfect. Measuring sentients by oneself is a lost cause.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo represented an exception not just among Imperials, but among his own fellow citizens. The Chiss Ascendancy is an intensely militarized state, having been at war, if my memory serves me, throughout its entire existence. There are plenty of military specialists there. But even so, Mitth'raw'nuruodo was a phenomenon among them. This does not change the fact that there were perfectly competent commanders among the Chiss. Just as there were among humans. Among Imperials. Among Dominionists. Among Republicans.
Alexander Mor was no amateur either. But he possessed a certain level of competence and an ability for complex analysis. Just as I did. Just as Mitth'raw'nuruodo did. Just as anyone did. If there were no limits to the worldview of sentients, soldiers would not exist—there would only be generals winning on the battlefield by the force of their thoughts as a result of their brilliant tactics. Therefore, I am quite composed about the fact that subordinates cannot follow the flight of my thoughts on the fly. And that they require a bit more time to arrive at the same conclusions as I.
The speed of assessment and decision-making is what allows the Dominion to stay a step ahead in studying the enemy. It must be understood that the approaches to repelling an attack and conducting an offensive are different. For now, the New Republic and the Alliance are forced to defend against our active measures because they have concentrated—as they did last year—their efforts on other directions and threats. This allows me to hold the strategic initiative in the galaxy. And even then, only as long as suitable conditions exist. And as long as the enemy follows their logic, which I have studied in the past. Should they flip the table instead of playing the cards dealt, I would have to proceed from a catching-up tactic.
This is exactly what Tyber Zann, Cronal, and other leaders of the Zann Consortium are demonstrating. Albeit in a simplified version, but in the confrontation with them, the Dominion had until recently played the role of the New Republic of last year. The lack of information from within, the necessity of analyzing the enemy's strategy based on their offensive tactics—that was what the New Republic felt on its own skin when subjected to my strikes. And yes, I turned the tide of the campaign against the Dominion because I flipped the table. And the cards the enemy held in their hands turned out to be useless. Because their strike force was drawn into a trap. Ground forces were either devoured by clodhoppers on the planet Korva or infected with a deadly plague on the second moon of Tiraggi. The fleet was defeated, though at a high price for me.
Expensive not because I regret the lost ships and the time and money spent on their refitting. We have starships and money. We lost our people and a talented rear admiral. Such things are not easily replaced. Even with thirty thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders.
The Dominion desperately needs an influx of fresh blood—competent Imperial officers. Or Republican. Or from any other state. Race is not important—talent and combat experience are. With the closing of the Dominion's borders, we have redirected all who wish to join us to Makem Te as the only planet freely accessible to other sentients. Previously, Axxila was such a world, but now it lies deep within Dominion territory. And, likely, over time it will lose its status as a planet with an authorized black market. There is no reason to use a world in such a capacity when allowing someone who is not a Dominion citizen to reach it would require letting them past the Perimeter. That is a security threat.
Therefore, we will likely have to speak with Captain Anilex about having the Cavil Corsairs move their illegal trade and import substitution of products not manufactured in the Dominion elsewhere. If only we knew where. Moreover, over time, once the goals of the counterattack on the Zann Consortium are met, we will be perfectly able to establish our own production of most necessary instruments and mechanisms. It requires time. And money. Both of which we have, but our reserves are oriented toward financing the development of the Dominion and strengthening its military-economic industry.
But one way or another, Intelligence is working to fix the personnel shortage problem, surveying planets across the galaxy where Imperial commanders who left the service might have settled. We did manage to acquire Veers. And since then, that has been my greatest success—the Dominion has failed to recruit anyone higher in rank or with greater experience. One can only hope that is only for now.
"There are not that many factions in the galaxy that could give Horn a ship with an active and functional cloaking system," Mor said, intruding on my thoughts.
"But they exist," I said calmly. "Horn has endured enough to change his principles and enter into an alliance with any forces acting against us and possessing the necessary resources."
To the New Republic, Captain Horn is a deserter. To the Alliance… his status is unclear. To any of the Imperial Remnants—an enemy. To the Corellian Diktat—a traitor, a target for arrest and a show trial. But there are dozens, if not hundreds, of other galactic entities that represent a significant force. Aristocratic families, Hapes, the Hutts, pirates and smugglers, Imperial warlords hiding from the rest of the galaxy.
The only thing I am certain of is that Horn could not have fallen so far as to cooperate with Imperials directly. But at the same time, we must not forget that Luke Skywalker himself was captured at Sluis Van using a stealth ship. Most likely by the Emperor's servants. The very one who developed a habit of using the gifted to advance his plans for galactic hegemony. And not always openly. Recall that Executor Sedriss attempted to use Han Solo to destroy Honoghr. Blatantly. In the dark. And Cronal manages the Zann Consortium, conducting it as he or his master sees fit. Only the disruption of the HoloNet allows hope that we have a time window to turn the situation upside down in our interests.
Too many unknowns make it necessary to act more cautiously than before. Too many conditions must be met for the game of the dead Grand Admiral and the Dominion's isolationism to remain as such for as long as possible.
"In all this time, three sentients on one ship, even if not the smallest, must have consumed a significant amount of supplies," Alexander mused.
"That is true," I agreed. "But ordinary starships are not equipped with cloaking systems. It may be a raider or a specialized vessel designed for such long-term operations."
I had several hypotheses regarding where, from whom, when, for what, and under what circumstances Corran Horn might have obtained a cloaked starship. And they crossed directly with how deftly he had managed to use Morut Dul's forces to attack the Chimaera during our last visit to the Kessel system.
"However, if that is so, and Corran Horn, his wife, and father-in-law are still within the Kessel star system, it is strange that we were still unable to detect his engine trails before he engaged the cloak," Commodore Mor continued voicing correct thoughts.
"Technology exists that allows the masking of engine operation traces," I reminded him.
"Quite expensive," Mor noted.
"Just like the scanners that allow tracking ion emissions and classifying specific starship types by them," I thought simultaneously with his last words.
"So, it can be concluded that our runaway Jedi's employer possesses not just access to cloaking technology, but significant financial resources," I said.
"Forgive my bluntness, sir," Mor grimaced. "But isn't that a rather large investment in a single Republican, even a Jedi, just so he could fly in and save his family from the clutches of the Dominion?"
"And that," I smiled, "is the right question, Commodore. Can you answer it yourself?"
Alexander wrinkled his brow, symbolizing the thinking process occurring in his skull.
"Assuming no one would give him a ship worth tens, if not hundreds, of millions of credits to save his family," he muttered. "Most likely, the mission he was assigned only intersected with the final goal… Unless, of course, Horn stole the starship."
"Yes, the latter is the simplest explanation," I agreed. "However, that hypothesis can be tested later. For cloaked special-purpose starships are usually not kept in places where they are easily stolen from under the owners' noses, don't you find, Commodore?"
"Certainly." Mor massaged his temples vigorously, staring at the metal tabletop between us. "He was given the ship… but not primarily to save his family… He ended up at Kessel… somehow managed to involve Morut Dul's fleet…"
"Exactly how—is known to us for certain," I reminded him. "Morut Dul gave us nothing except that Horn promised a vast sum of money for help in this undertaking."
"So he still had money for bribes," Mor grunted. "Knowing types like Dul, they wouldn't lift a finger without a decent down payment before a mission."
"He did," I confirmed. "Several million peggats, which Dul magnanimously surrendered to the Dominion's disposal."
Though it did not save him or his henchmen from the fate of being eaten by spice spiders.
"Then the idea that Horn stole the ship is definitely wrong," Mor concluded. "A rare and valuable ship, vast sums to bribe the enemy… too good to be true. He had a patron—and not a poor one. So his goal was quite significant."
"And profitable," I prompted, looking out the viewport at the scenery outside.
The Maw Cluster, despite its terrifying destructive power, still looks magnificent. A sort of cosmic object of art… Curious.
"Yes." Mor did not catch the hint in my words. "No one would ever invest such money if the prize wasn't substantial. And the currency of the bribe might point to Hutt Space… Peggats are their currency…"
"Or," I countered calmly, "to those who do business with the Hutts. Very, very closely."
The Commodore reflected for a few more seconds before looking me straight in the eye.
"Kessel," he said. "Horn's employer or ally sent him as a testing stone to interest the local bandits serving Dul with his possession of funds. And also so he could assist in seizing the system and the source of glitterstim."
"Bravo, Commodore," I praised. "Exactly so. We are not the only clever ones to seize Kessel for the sake of controlling the glitterstim market."
"A spy with a mountain of money, a legend about saving a wife and father-in-law who are widely known among criminals, and on top of that, possessing Jedi abilities and combat experience," the Commodore evaluated Horn. "Yes, such a man can infiltrate trust, intimidate, and bribe."
"Especially if we recall the fact that Horn, as part of Rogue Squadron, once visited Kessel and demonstrated his principled stance on certain matters," I said, recalling the episode of the then Rebel Alliance recruiting hardened criminals on Kessel to destabilize the Imperial regime on Coruscant.
Honestly, I do not recall that action bringing great dividends to the rebels. But as for problems…
"But Morut Dul's regime fell," Mor continued. "And the system, Kessel, and the Garrison Moon are controlled by us."
"True," I confirmed. "And your Interdictors blocked the long-range communication systems, which prevented Horn from informing his allies and employers of how strong we are here."
"Yes," Commodore Mor agreed with me. "But at the same time, if Horn's employers have informants within the Alliance—and they surely do—they might have figured out exactly where you headed after the destruction of General Solo's fleet near Lantilles. We do not have that many bases in this region."
Also true. With the exception of Kessel and Tammuz-an, which is formally under our protectorate, we have nowhere to go. Unless to Trogan, Columex, or Makem Te. But those are planets with decent defense and impressive merchant space traffic. Hiding the arrival of an entire Dominion fleet led by the Guardian in any of those systems is impossible. And after a battle, starships need somewhere to repair the damage received in combat.
"The choice is limited."
"You spoke of expecting uninvited guests," Mor reminded me.
"That is correct."
"Did you mean Horn's employers?"
"They and the Alliance will arrive at Kessel almost simultaneously," I explained, recalling the latest data from spy droids scattered since the time of the battle for Honoghr across all regional hyperspace routes of the Kessel sector and its immediate neighboring space.
"From which it can be concluded that the enemy has an approximate idea of the forces that might oppose them here," Alexander said.
"Yes," I confirmed. "They know about the number of ships and defensive structures of Kessel that I allowed them to know."
Mor fell silent, digesting the information. The time gap between Solo's rescue and the collapse of the HoloNet—thanks to Fey'lya for doing that before me, I won't have to wash myself of the accusation of seizing the Intergalactic Communications Center on Praesitlyn in the foreseeable future—is small. But as Commodore Mor correctly noted, the enemy undoubtedly has agents in the Alliance. As well as in the New Republic. They must, if I correctly understand the identity of those who provided Horn with the cloaked ship. Because they are, as I understand it, controlled by Emperor Palpatine or his proxies.
In any case, the denouement is not long in coming.
"One way or another, we will only be able to obtain more accurate information about Horn's mission, intentions, and the forces of his employers moving toward Kessel through interrogations of Corran Horn," Commodore Mor reacted to my pensive silence.
"I do not think it will be productive," I answered the naval commander in a phlegmatic tone. "But we will not neglect the good old methods of obtaining information either. Especially in the current circumstances, when nothing has been heard for quite a long time from Agent Bravo-11, who was sent to infiltrate the structure of Horn's suspected employers."
"Of course, sir," he agreed. "But… you spoke of expecting an attack. How do you intend to catch Horn? We have no means of tracking cloaked starships of any type."
Well, evidently he felt it necessary to remind me of postulates that are already known. It was not a nitpick. It is the duty of a subordinate in rank—to inform his commander of possible problems and miscalculations, threats and troubles.
"Very simple, Commodore," perhaps I should eliminate such expressions from my speech. They all too often cause a nervous tic in my interlocutors. "Thanks to your skillful actions, we have cut off dozens, if not hundreds, of incorrect ways to solve our problem. And now we possess the only correct one that we can use to guaranteed find Corran Horn and his family."
Mor sighed heavily. It seemed he was simply tired of searching for answers between the lines.
"May I inquire what that method will be?" he asked in a tone that made it clear the Commodore wasn't particularly counting on a direct answer.
"Certainly." Judging by his arched eyebrows, the man clearly hadn't expected that. "The Emperor and Darth Vader gave us a clear instruction on finding runaway Jedi who do not wish to be discovered."
Mor remained silent. But from his facial expression, I realized he had guessed what I meant.
"To find one Jedi, we must use another," I said, more for formality than clarity. "Or, not quite a Jedi. Или—not a Jedi at all. Any variant will suit us."
***
It was quite a bang. I have to give credit. Like a giant coughing.
"POOOOOOOH!!!"
After Vex pressed the trigger of the Plex for the second time, she felt her feet lift off the grassy field.
"Weeeeeeeee-hooo!!!"
Vex had not planned to provide a shrill a cappella accompaniment to her own flight. But since when does this universe do what she wants? Physics is a science that conscience, insolence, and, well, the laws of the universe do not allow one to cheat. With a cry of surprise, fear, and anger at the creators of the grenade launcher, the Twi'lek was thrown onto her back.
Streams of icy rain immediately poured onto her face, disgorged by clouds stretched across the sky by natural winds. A roar and a light show followed—lightning struck the observation towers, melting metal and killing everything alive at the criminal observation posts.
"Could you have included a warning label: 'Do not use if you weigh less than a hundred kilos?!'" she screamed, looking into the night sky, casting aside the empty launcher of the Plex grenade launcher.
Specifically—its fourth model. Looking exactly like its distant ancestor, the PLX-1, which became famous back during the Clone Wars.
The PLX-4 is the latest known model of the famous Plex series. This launcher, like its ancestors—the first and second versions of the all-destroying weapon—is designed according to a standard layout and intended for shoulder-firing. The developers decided to abandon the complex and bulky design of the PLX-2M. Vex didn't have to carry a heavy launcher on her belt and shoulder.
But credit must be given to the creators of this Plex: they managed to preserve all the advantages of using modern guided rockets and even added a new anti-aircraft guided rocket to the ammunition range. This was in addition to the unguided rockets intended for firing at targets at short range within the launcher operator's direct line of sight. Guided rockets track a target by its repulsor signature and are primarily used for destroying repulsor armor. But even if a repulsor tank turns off its engine and repulsor projectors, the rocket will still notice and identify it by comparing the tank's silhouette with silhouettes in its own database. And the last type of ammunition—the Erudite anti-aircraft guided rockets—turns the anti-tank grenade launcher into an effective man-portable air-defense system.
As it turned out, operating this type of launcher required certain skills and special training. An uneducated shooter could only effectively use the unguided rockets. Which is exactly what she did. And she cursed the moment in time when Merr-Sonn Munitions invented this hellish launcher. And the moment she didn't refuse to fire it. And the moment launchers of this series entered service with the Imperial armed forces at all. And when they ended up in the Dominion's arsenal.
"I'll see those 'Oh, it's not scary, just use your arm, honey' in the grave!" Vex continued to spit venomous words, pulling out her blaster pistol from under her.
She wasn't doing this out of boredom. Problems had arisen before her just seconds after the first launcher shot had blown up the guardhouse and the second had taken out not only the main gates but ten meters of wall. The problem had dark-gray skin clearly visible in the starlight, a large vibroknife, and an ugly grimace.
"What a face you have, Noghri!" Vex declared, aiming her blaster pistol at the enemy.
Which, of course, did not help her. Because it was snatched from her hand by another Noghri who had come at her from behind her head, remaining outside her field of vision.
"Bad business," the girl managed, seeing that the traitors to the Noghri people—given away by their light-gray skin—did not intend to take her prisoner and swung their terrifying blades.
With a whistle that seemed more deafening than the roar of the shootout at the residence and the explosions of thermal detonators, something black flashed before her face. The Noghri who had seized her blaster gasped and collapsed onto the soft grass of the planet hospitable to scum. The second, who had swung a knife at her, was thrown back by a powerful lunge of a black hand, as if woven from the night itself.
"Traitor!" the black Noghri snarled aggressively, looming over his fallen foe.
"But free from the Empire!" the gray-skinned one only had time to meow in response before the death commando slit his throat.
"Hey!" Vex addressed him anxiously, reclaiming her blaster. "What about interrogating the prisoner?"
The black-skinned Noghri looked at her as if he were a void demon from the legends of the first Twi'lek space travelers.
"Why?" he asked with a heavy accent.
"Well, at least to learn the reasons why these Noghri serve the Zann Consortium," Vex said, the first thing that came to her mind.
"Everything is clear," the black-skinned Noghri shook his head. "There is only the Overclan. And the will of our master, the Grand Admiral. Do not wish to know the reason for a Noghri's treason. Kill Noghri traitors. No questions."
With those words, he dissolved into the night.
"Brilliant," Vex grumbled, looking at the local governor's residence catching fire, in the courtyard of which a fierce battle was raging between dozens of fighters in black armor, unconditionally killing the Zann Consortium thugs. "Turns out we don't just have Noghri cleaners, but had our own squad of storm commandos on hand? Or maybe someone should have given a spanking to Sing, who was supposed to be covering me?"
She heard a blaster shot behind her. And almost immediately after it—another. Then something heavy fell. Vex turned, thrusting her blaster forward. But she only saw the two bodies of Zann Consortium fighters, with holes melted by blaster bolts in the back of their heads. Evidently the nearest patrol had rushed to the gates by the shortest path and had been finished off…
"Don't thank me, girl," Aurra Sing's mocking whisper came through the comlink.
"You win," Vex grumbled. "I won't."
***
Reynar felt absolutely nothing as his lightsaber blade, turned into a deadly energy mill, crushed flesh around its owner. One spark after another faded in the Force, and the number of corpses surrounding the Shadow Guard grew rapidly. Humans. Zabrak. Weequay. Gamorreans. Zanibar. Nautolans. Devaronians… He stopped distinguishing the sentients he killed, turning into a tool of inevitable death.
Darth Maul, like a lawnmower, tore through the crowd of sentients who had suddenly realized their mortality and the hopelessness of their situation, moving from his landing site toward the single entrance. The double-bladed lightsaber passed through fabric, flesh, and armor with practically no resistance.
A powerful gust of air tugged at his cloak, but the former Inquisitor stood his ground, only noting out of the corner of his eye how Streen, freezing for a moment, using his ability to control the weather, had instantly caused hundreds of half-drunk sentients and pieces of furniture to be in the immediate vicinity of where the first detonator had fallen.
Reynar reacted to the Force's warning of danger and shielded himself with the Force, a fat Gamorrean, and a heavy artificial stone table from the blast wave of the second grenade. For good measure, he directed a stream of the Force at the ammunition's location to lessen the consequences of the destruction. Fire licked the stone and the blast wave smashed it into crumbs. The green-skinned alien was scorched and lost both arms. All this only half-dampened the blast wave. The Shadow Guard turned the rest of the deadly area of compressed air, rapidly spreading from the epicenter of the detonation, into a push that allowed him to instantly be next to the initiator of all this chaos.
And at that same moment, he and Captain Oland were doused in a spray of blood, physiological fluids, and body parts. Looking toward the mound of bodies mangled by the explosion of the first detonator, Reynar confirmed that Streen was safe. But he was severely exhausted—it could be seen by how much slower his violet lightsaber blade hacked the remaining concussed fighters of the criminal community.
"H-how?" he heard the stuttering question of the commander of the Marut. "E-everything here should have been blown apart!"
"That is not part of our plan," Reynar cut him off, grabbing the officer by the tunic. "If you want revenge—fight with us. If not…"
"I'm with you," the man answered firmly, large drops of someone else's blood turning into characteristic streaks on his face.
He seized the blaster of one of the bandits and, in the second it took Reynar to smash several Zanibar against the walls with a Force Wave, brought it to a combat-ready state and opened fire. As Obscuro had expected, Oland was killing those criminals who were near the captured Imperials. The latter, as if the slaughter had given them strength, demanded to be released and threatened to unleash their rage on the man-eaters. Some were unlucky—the pale-skinned humanoids finished them before rushing to attack or attempting to flee the throne room.
"Vermin!" Oland screamed behind Reynar's back.
The Shadow Guard turned, simultaneously seizing the nearest Devaronian with the Force, changing his vertical position to horizontal and sending him horns-first into the fat belly of a Trandoshan running at the man. The Devaronian's curved horns emerged from the lizard's back. Oland fell to his knees next to one of the bonfires. Above him, naked, with traces of torture and abuse, looking more like the result of non-stop beatings than a human body, hung a woman whose throat had been slit with one powerful stroke. Through the cut, despite the fountains of blood, Reynar saw whitish neck vertebrae.
Squelching sounds to his right caught his attention. Looking there, he saw how the blood-drenched Imperial, not caring where he hit, was turning the skull of a Zanibar into a mess of tissue and bone with his blaster handle and fists. Next to him lay a blood-stained curved blade.
"I!"—Splosh!—"Hate!"—Splosh-squelch!—"You!"—Squelch-squelch!
Obscuro reflected a blaster bolt fired at him, returning it to the shooter, and noted with satisfaction that Darth Maul was near the entrance, having become an insurmountable obstacle in the path of those fleeing. His lightsaber blades flashed at superhuman speeds, severing arms, legs, heads, slicing weapons and humanoid bodies. The Zabrak, drowning in the emanations of the Dark Side of the Force, made no distinction between those who stood before him. He decapitated and dismembered, moving from one corner of the entrance to the other, killing anyone who tried to pass him.
"Enough!" Reynar barked into the ear of Oland, who was mired in the Zanibar's brains, jerking him by the shoulder.
The Imperial, as if maddened, swiped at him, continuing to insanely turn the woman's killer into mincemeat. Reynar did not stand on ceremony. He slapped the man so hard he flew off the cooling body of his opponent. Oland jumped to his feet, thrusting his blaster toward the Guard. His blaster was instantly cut through by Obscuro's crimson lightsaber blade.
"I said ENOUGH!" Reynar released a sobering Force Lightning at the man, making him scream.
Thrown aside, the Imperial stirred, coming to his senses with a groan after the delirium. Reynar felt his confusion and the mounting rage clouding the man's eyes.
"Fight!" he shouted, seeing a massive Barabel running at him. "Do not turn into a beast!"
"Just hope he doesn't follow Maul's example," Reynar thought, crossing his blade with the reptile's sword.
In the next moment, with an uncharacteristic hum, the crimson blade vanished, and the cold-weapon's blade nearly took his head off.
"Cortosis!" Reynar realized.
A lightsaber was useless here. Obscuro did not risk his second blade and jumped back, opening space between him and his rival. The reptile rushed him, swinging the sword over his head, intending to cleave the human from top to bottom. Reynar did not take chances and struck him with Force Lightning. The lizard shrieked but continued its movement toward the human. Obscuro changed tactics and threw the opponent away from him with a Push, making him tumble over his back. When he stopped and raised his head, it was taken off by the violet blade of Streen, who appeared nearby.
The man was retreating under the pressure of opponents who did not care about losses. Но he did it wisely, leaving behind only the racks with the captured Imperials, whom he occasionally freed during his retreat before making a short but furious counter-lunge. This allowed the prisoner to crawl, run, or roll behind the Shadow Guard's back. A few seconds to recover from the shock and join the work, finding a weapon. This occasionally reduced the number of attackers crowding the former gas explorer.
Reynar saw Orsan lock in hand-to-hand combat with a tall Trandoshan trying to intimidate the man, baring a sharp-toothed maw. The struggle was over a disintegrator rifle—the ultimate weapon in a confined space. A kick to the ribs forced the Imperial to stop fighting. The Trandoshan jerked the stock toward himself, aiming the weapon. Reynar called upon the Force. In the next moment, the disintegrator fell into Oland's hands, as he watched with wide eyes how the lizard's head turned left until the neck vertebrae clearly snapped.
From the direction of the entrance, weak lightning sparked. That meant Maul was running out of steam. He was a combatant, not an expert in Force control. If he had switched to the latter, it meant even he was beginning to tire of the non-stop dance of death. Reynar rushed to the rescue, using the Force for a powerful Push off the floor surface. Like a ballistic missile, he soared upward, then crashed down, releasing the accumulated Force around him. The ring of criminals closing around the Zabrak, completely having forgotten what a self-preservation instinct was in their narcotic delirium, flew apart like fragments of a blown-up starfighter.
The Zabrak, whose blade was on the floor, kicked another Barabel in the chest with Force and strength, smashing the opponent's sturdy skeleton and sending him flying with the squelching sound of a metal limb emerging from the sternum. Another cortosis-coated blade lay nearby. Reynar restarted his lightsaber and then hacked into a crowd of Rodians, reflecting their shots and severing everything he could reach.
A bright green-and-purple flash from a disintegrator sliced across his visor, but Reynar didn't even pay it any mind. It was clear the shot wasn't from close range. With an armored fist, he knocked out the front teeth of a Zanibar who had stood in his way, making him cough up toothy phlegm. With his next action, the former Inquisitor took off his head.
With a deafening roar, a Wookiee attacked him from the side. Knocked off his feet, Reynar was pinned to the wall. The Herculean build of the native of Kashyyyk (yes, even among the furry victims of slavery, there are monsters) tried to crush his ribs. And he was succeeding—Obscuro saw red damage marks appearing on the cuirass on the internal surface of his visor. But he had dropped his lightsaber during the collision.
Kicking the Wookiee in the groin, the Guard forced him to open his embrace and bend at the waist from the extremely painful sensation. There was no time to look around and search for the saber. Therefore, Reynar, taking advantage of the Wookiee's hands being below his hairy torso, simply drove his thumbs into his eyes. The Wookiee roared like a rancor castrated without anesthesia. He tried to jerk and get off those "hooks," but Reynar did not allow it. He called upon the Dark Side for help. Mixing it with the adrenaline boiling in his blood, the man sharply spread his arms.
Tearing the eye sockets and breaching the integrity of the opponent's skull. The Wookiee roared and choked on the blood spraying in all directions, forgotten by his tormentor. That was enough for Reynar to break off a metal leg from the nearest table and drive its sharp edge right under the chin of the Kashyyyk native. With gurgling sounds, the Wookiee fell. Reynar finally found his blade hilt and returned it to his hand with a mental command.
"Need to tie you on or something," the man thought, igniting both crimson blades at once.
He attacked the crowd of twenty to thirty sentients from the rear, who were crowding Streen and the people he had saved. Without compunction, without compassion or pity, the Shadow Advisor dismembered his enemies as fast as he could. After a few seconds, his blade crossed with Streen's in the heat of the moment, throwing him aside. But the hilt immediately returned to its owner.
"Is everything all right?" Reynar asked, seeing that Streen was clutching his right side with his left hand.
"They got me with a cortosis blade," he answered.
Though his voice was calm and unperturbed, pain and the effort he was making to stay on his feet were reflected in the Force.
"What are these creatures?" Reynar voiced a rhetorical question, looking at the severed body of a Barabel lying a couple of meters from him.
Apparently, it was Streen's doing.
"These are Barabel hunters," explained Darth Maul, who had approached and was tearing a cracked helmet from his head. "Mercenaries who hunted Jedi."
"Never seen any like them," Reynar shook his head, looking over the battlefield the throne room had become.
A thick layer of corpses and their parts, blood and other things littered everything the eye could catch. Fortunately, the night vision mode built into the helmet allowed him to see in the dark without great difficulty.
"There wasn't much use for them," Maul said contemptuously. "In the very first battle with a group of Jedi apprentices, only three or five survived out of a hundred. I trained them myself while in Palpatine's service. He ordered the rest killed. Someone from his countless Hands did it. Or Vader himself as a warm-up. These ones, it seems, imagined themselves their descendants."
"Where is the Weequay who commanded them?" Reynar looked around again, searching for the leader. His gaze stopped on a gloomy dark passage in the wall behind the podium where the governor's chair had previously stood.
"Left through a secret passage." Maul kicked someone's head in a rage, sending it flying like a ball. "I'm in pursuit."
"Their leader left through the tunnel with a dozen and a half heavily armed guards," Captain Oland declared, approaching the Guards.
He demonstratively laid his weapon on the floor, looking at the bleeding survivors of the Imperials who were trying to help each other, glancing at him and the others with fear and suspicion. These ones did not lower their weapons. Reynar identified them as commandos or stormtroopers—too sturdy a build and characteristic economical movements for Imperial Starfleet naval officers.
Maul, without saying a word, without even hinting that he didn't intend to take the Imperial's word for it, headed for the opening, going from a walk to a run. In a couple of seconds, he had already disappeared into the secret passage.
"He doesn't trust us," Captain Oland stated, looking at Reynar. "You… You're from the Emperor's Guard?"
"No," Reynar answered. "The Dominion. Shadow Guard."
The Imperials looked at each other. They said nothing, but words are not needed when eloquent expressions are written on exhausted faces. A coughing chuckle came from under Streen's helmet. The man, no longer pretending, dropped to one knee and began to tear off his breastplate. Reynar, also silently, unhooked a portable medkit from his belt. With a strong movement, he tore the fabric at the wound site and washed away the dirt and blood with a disinfectant solution. After which he began to spray aerosol on the tissues and…
"Forgive me, not like that," he heard a voice.
Turning his head, he saw a non-commando. A middle-aged man, with a clearly broken leg, from whose thigh a piece of flesh had been cut, leaned on a sturdy commando's shoulder. The place where the skin had been cut from him was bleeding but was tied with a makeshift tourniquet closer to the groin area. Clearly, this one was not a fighter.
"I am a ship's doctor," he explained. "Treating a puncture wound will not save your friend's life. Allow me—I will help."
"You have wounds yourself," Reynar said.
"I've tied the artery, I'll hold out," the man made an attempt to smile. "But your friend's time is running out."
"Proceed, Doctor," Reynar handed him his field medkit, borrowed a second from Streen, casting a glance at the secret passage from which no one had yet emerged. This unknown was tense—despite him feeling that Maul was safe and sound. "Is anything else needed?"
"Standard field Imperial med-kits," the medic identified the medical case as the commando sat him down next to Streen. "No, everything is here. But, if possible—a bit more light. I may have to stitch the wound inside. Too much blood…"
Reynar pulled several chemical light sticks from his belt.
"If you have to—go," rumbled the giant who had delivered the medic to the wounded man. "Doc knows his business. Your boy will live. I promise."
The commando silently and meaningfully held out his hand, looking Obscuro straight in the visor. The Guard passed him the chemical lighting devices. The fighter then deftly snapped them in half, laying them around so that a perfectly decent source of all-around light was achieved. Reynar himself wouldn't have managed better. But he hadn't undergone survival courses on Carida. And this guy—clearly knew what he was doing.
"Hurry up," the commando said loudly, addressing several other surviving fighters. "Find weapons. Take the perimeter. Defend until evacuation. Search for our survivors."
He looked at Reynar with a silent question in his eyes. The latter nodded affirmatively.
"Finish off the enemies," he ordered and was the first to begin searching the corpses of the killed.
Obscuro noted how he acted unnaturally when bending. He recalled that when giving orders, the commando spoke with shallow but frequent breaths. The words came out on the exhale like blaster shots.
"Broken ribs," Reynar realized. For the commando and all the Imperials who had survived.
"Doctor, if the medicine will help the others, distribute it," he said, casting a glance at the grim Imperials, on whose bodies traces of Zanibar "sampling" could also be seen.
"Oh…" the medic, packing Streen's wound, looked a bit surprised but did not object. "Sergeant, check the men. Categorize them—I'll examine the heavy cases immediately after this boy. Remove the helmet, please, sentient. I must see that you are conscious."
With Reynar's permission, Streen complied.
"Look at me," the medic cooed, as if talking to a child, injecting drugs into Maul's partner's side. "Describe your state, your sensations. Here, lift your arm at the elbow—I must know for sure that you haven't passed out while I perform the procedure…"
Reynar looked toward the gaping rectangular void of the secret passage in the throne room wall. Then at Streen, pale from heavy blood loss. Again at the passage…
"Do not worry," he heard the voice of Captain Oland, who had approached the Guard. "He will be fine. We will—cover if anything happens. And we won't leave him if we have to retreat. If my destroyer remained in orbit, I would have called for an evacuation transport and your friend would have been patched up in the ship's sickbay. As would," he looked at those searching the bodies of the killed or the Imperials standing guard, "these poor souls. I would strangle those who gave them to the Zanibars for snacks! Vermin! What vermin?! And this is the Empire?!"
As if in justification of the reason why Imperials might leave the battlefield, thermal detonators boomed somewhere in the building and a fierce blaster firefight broke out. Field agents of Dominion Intelligence, posing as storm commandos, were clearing the facility, destroying any opponent in their path.
He could wait for their arrival and head after Maul. But it would clearly not be easy for him against the dozen heavily armed fighters Oland had seen. But could he be trusted? Reynar looked at the surviving Imperials. Grim determination in their eyes. A desire for revenge for what had been done to them. And not the slightest hint that they were ready to trade Streen's life for their own. And besides, Oland… he had come to the meeting with criminals with a pair of super-powerful thermal detonators to kill as many of them as possible at the cost of his life. He hadn't crushed his comlink for no reason—it was likely a signal for the Marut to flee orbit.
"The Empire is dead, Captain," Reynar answered, unhooking a spare comlink from his belt. "Only a rotting carcass remains, which they are trying to profitably sell to any butcher. Use the comlink and call for an evacuation transport from the destroyer. Save your people. We will talk when we've cleared everything here."
He would have called a shuttle himself, but its descent would take ten to fifteen minutes minimum. In that time, the target might escape if "Lieutenant Mac" and Darth Maul did not succeed in their task.
"My destroyer left as soon as I broke my comlink," Oland explained. "That was the order I gave…"
"The Marut is in orbit," Reynar interrupted him. "It cannot perform a hyperspace jump until everything is over."
"What?!" Oland was stunned. Then a bitter smirk appeared on his face. "Well, of course. The Dominion seized my ship at the start of the assault on the planet… Pointless losses…"
"Your ship and its crew are alive and well," Reynar interrupted his interlocutor again. "The systems have simply been disabled and the central computer has gone into full diagnostics."
"Impossible!" Oland argued.
The shock state did not allow him to understand that something not connected to his orders could be happening on his ship.
"Only the captain can give such an order!"
"And Dominion agents," Reynar corrected, looking the commander of the Victory II-class ship straight in the eye. "Wait for my return. And then you can make any decision you want. No one will hold you back. I only care about the wounded."
"Yes, sir," the destroyer commander nodded, pursing his lips. "You can count on us."
Without leaving the right of the last word in the dialogue, Reynar rushed in pursuit. The Force told him that he was not in time for the operation's denouement. But meanwhile, he felt no anxiety of failure or sense of comrades' deaths. It was all very strange. Very strange indeed.