"We're here," Walon reported, pointing to the ruins of a once-luxurious residential building located in the very heart of what was once a bustling residential block.
Now, like other dwellings for kilometers around, only ruins lay before Shae's eyes.
Vizla found a certain symbolism in this. Like the planet itself, the former capital was now but a shadow of its former self. A rotting corpse, shrouded in a stench that in the past had been the scent of victory and pride.
"Excellent," Shae forced out, though her mind was elsewhere. "Perimeter?"
"Holding the entire area within three blocks of this location," Kal Skirata reported, standing nearby. "If uninvited guests appear, we'll be the first to know."
"Then—to business," the girl turned her head side to side, her vertebrae cracking. The Mandalorians standing behind her brought their weapons to combat readiness with a quiet noise. Yes, supposedly the negotiations were meant to be peaceful, but... a fool is he who comes to negotiations unprepared.
The boys from Clan Beroya had done an "excellent" job. Despite initial skepticism, they had managed to organize a meeting with representatives of the most influential clans. From those who adhered to ancient traditions. But did not seek to resolve the issue of the pacifists' political course through terror and violence, like the Death Watch, led by the governor of the moon Concordia—Pre Vizsla.
The opposing side hadn't burdened itself with any security—only a couple of people from each clan. No external patrols, no defense systems. Not even droids that, should something happen, could have covered their masters, had Shae's people discovered.
Her people... how much time had passed since she had last said those words. Clan Vizla had ceased to exist nearly four thousand years ago—immediately after she had accepted the Emperor's offer. The Mandalorians had chosen a new path—and she was now observing its results with her own eyes. A tormented planet, broken residents, corruption, lawlessness, terror, official arbitrariness...
No patriot would wish such a thing for their fellow countrymen.
That was why inside these ruins, those who, as she hoped, also cared about the fate of their own world and the Mandalorian heritage, were now waiting for her.
Accompanied by her two closest aides—Kal Skirata and Walon Vau—she approached the entrance door. Despite the decrepitude of most of the structure, repair work was clearly evident here. At least, the door had been installed recently.
A coded knock served as a signal to pass. In the spacious foyer, they were met by several fighters in Mandalorian armor who, after measuring them with glares from head to toe, silently pointed to the passage into the living room.
"Clan Farr," Skirata whispered softly, identifying the fighters. "They are providing security for the meeting. As far as I know, their representative is currently neutral on the issue of interest."
"Weaklings," Walon snorted contemptuously. "Hiding somewhere on the fringes while chaos reigned here."
"Like you," Shae reminded both former instructors of the obvious. In reality, they, like the rest of the current members of her clan, had spent the last few years raising a clone army, not solving the problems of their home world. And no one could blame Clan Farr, which had separated from everyone many centuries ago and settled on Onderon's moon, Dxun. Especially considering these "neutrals" were already Vizla supporters. Only the others shouldn't know about that.
Nor should they know how much she had to intimidate the blue-skinned bitch Vette before she deigned to return Mandalore's loyal warriors.
The path lay through wide corridors, in places so dilapidated that the furnishings of the adjacent room could be seen through the walls. Convenient when you're not planning to fall into an ambush. Most likely, this building had already been used for such meetings more than once. And, judging by the fact that the pacifists were still in power—the gatherings had been useless.
Seeing a pair of massive wooden doors blocking the way, Shae unceremoniously kicked them open, making an effective entrance into the living room.
They were already waiting. In a small hall, around a long oval table placed in the center, several sentients were arranged, every single one dressed in beskar'gam. The rather uniform appearance of the armor of everyone present made Shae exert great effort not to burst into a profanity-laden tirade.
The unification of Mandalorian armor was a relic of the Neo-Crusader era and the Mandalorian Wars. Even in her time, each clan sought to create a unique look for its own armor. But those sitting before her—they were like clones. Every single one in armor barely differing from what the last Mandalore—Jango Fett—wore. Except the colors varied. Just like those who had joined her after the memorable meeting in the Coruscant diner.
As had been agreed, only two people from each clan that deigned to attend the meeting were present—the leader and his aide. Shae had brought two. But not at all to insult those present. A Mandalore always had two closest lieutenants, equal in authority. And, according to tradition, they accompanied their leader everywhere the Path led him.
One glance at the sigil of each of those arranged opposite was enough to understand who was before her.
Sigal Beroya. The boy—the only one not wearing armor. And there was a literal feeling of contempt toward him from the others hanging in the air.
Clan Gendri—descendants of those who tried to find the Mask of Mandalore along with Revan and Canderous Ordo. The legend of their greatness had cooled as much as the surface of the world from which they hadn't pulled their asses for more than a millennium. But, unlike others, they had managed to avoid repression and preserve much of Mandalore's true heritage. Including the Basilisk war droids, outdated by today's standards, which belonged in a museum.
Clan Kadera. Excellent warriors. In the past. Once, representatives of this glorious clan had served under her command. And they would be ashamed of what their descendants were doing. Torian, had he known about the current state of affairs, would be spinning in his grave like a hyperdrive shaft.
Clan Kelborn. Unsurpassed masters of drill. In her time, it was this clan that was the "source" of focus masters among the combined Mandalorian forces. It was thanks to them that under her rule the Mandalorians had once again become a force to be reckoned with.
Clan Wevut. Superb fighters. There were no better snipers among the Mandalorians than the children or adoptees of this ancient line. As far as she knew, they were currently led by a certain Caleb Daark. Cautious, cunning, calculating. He was the first to agree to this meeting. Considering that according to intelligence he could have up to a thousand fighters under his command—one had to keep a sharp eye out.
At the sight of the symbolism of the next pair, Shae felt a desire to put several rounds into them. Clan Lok. Her predecessor as Mandalore was from the Loks. After the Eternal Empire's invasion, he had fiercely resisted and died honorably at the hands of enemy soldiers. But his clan brothers turned out to be not such good continuers of the great Mandalore the Vindicated. When Shae gathered the disparate clans under her banners with a beskar hand and launched an attack on the Eternal Empire's weapons factory, the new head of the clan, Mirli Lok, turned coward, in her ignorance tearing away a lion's share of the forces ready for the offensive. The result—huge losses. Despite support from outside. Later, Lok and their hangers-on—those who survived the vengeance for the betrayal—were forbidden to return here. It appeared it was time to talk sense into them.
Sharratt. Technical sciences, particularly cybernetics, did not enjoy great popularity among Mandalorians. And yet, this clan had managed to stand out among the rest precisely for its technical achievements. The combat simulator they created and tested on Nar Shaddaa was worth something on its own. Eh, it wouldn't hurt to have it now. For raising the youth—the best means.
Clan Evod. It was led by a woman, which could be understood by the characteristic decorative elements of her armor. And besides, intelligence reported that the leader of this least glorious clan was an offshoot of Beroya. Curious. And yet these two didn't even glance at each other. Apparently, close relatives with extremely strained relations. Skirata said the Evods had settled on the planet Vlemoth Port and practically hadn't stuck their noses out of there.
Clan Chorn. Loyal and brave warriors. A true standard for any boy from Mandalore.
Ordo. Is there even one representative of Mandalorian society not familiar with this name? If so, Shae was not acquainted with such ignoramuses.
Only a few figures remained. Two of whom were mere teenagers. By galactic standards—teenagers. For Mandalore—young warriors. And judging by the fact that both behaved quite arrogantly toward more experienced warriors—the boys clearly knew their worth. By the color of the armor of one of them, and by the tensing aides, she realized she wasn't mistaken in guessing who was hiding under that helmet, clearly too large for him, and the blue paint.
But the last pair—the only owners of armor somewhat different from the rest—caught Shae's attention thoroughly. And it wasn't even that, while examining her opponents in total silence, she allowed them to examine her.
She had seen this armor before. Only then it had a completely different sign.
"Greetings to those assembled," she said, sitting down opposite. The clan leaders followed her example. Their aides, as well as Vau and Skirata, took positions behind their chiefs.
"Your request for a meeting caught us by surprise, Kal," the leader of Clan Lok said.
The conversation was conducted exclusively in Mando'a. Using other languages for conversations with compatriots was a grave insult to anyone who followed the Path.
"Circumstances are such that a Gathering of clan leaders is required," her lieutenant said. "The fate of Mandalore and every Mando is being decided now."
"Your words are a good ten years out of date," Caleb Daark lamented.
"On the contrary," Kal shook his head. "Now we are threatened by a much more terrible fate than living under the heel of pacifism."
"It couldn't get much worse," the leader of Clan Evod smirked. "You've brought even those who long ago strayed from the Path to this Gathering, hiding like womp rats on..."
"Enough," Shae drew attention to herself. They looked at her with surprise. Well, of course. Officially, Beroya had called the clans at the request of Skirata—one of the respected Mando. "Snarling like the last jackals over pieces of rotten carrion."
"This will be fun," Daark leaned back in his chair, meaningfully toyed with a vibroknife. Unlike many other races, Mandalorian leaders—at least those who didn't shun wearing beskar'gam—didn't disarm when meeting. Because according to a fine old tradition, peace negotiations could easily escalate into abundant bloodletting. She remembered that after the death of her predecessor—Mandalore the Vindicated—it was in this way Shae was able to subject most of the clans to herself. A pity only that not all.
"You wear our armor, but we do not know you," the leader of Clan Kadera added. "By what right are you present here?"
"By the right of first among equals," Shae smirked. Not bothering with further explanations, she removed her helmet. A long-standing tradition obliged the other attendees to follow her example—as a sign of respect. No wonder only Skirata, Vau, and Farr rid themselves of this part of the armor.
"It's been a long time since I've heard anything like that," the Mandalorian from Rekkiad smirked.
"As it has for everyone present," his colleague from Clan Lok supported him. "It is the right of the Mandalore to be first among all leaders. But not some..."
"I wouldn't advise further tarnishing your clan's already sullied reputation," Shae smirked. Seeing that those present still didn't understand her, she added. "Evidently, modern Mandalorians have short memories. Otherwise, I simply cannot imagine for what reason the Ash'ad showed up at this gathering."
The representative of Clan Lok instantly jumped from his seat. A huge vibroknife was in his hand in an imperceptible movement, and he leaned across the table to strike...
However, instead, Vizla herself rose to meet the opponent, twisted his hand gripping the weapon, jerked the man toward her, forcing him to stretch out on the table. Ignoring his angry shouts, she, using the edge of the tabletop as a fulcrum, broke the man's arm at the elbow, after which, catching the dropped blade, delivered one precise but strong blow into the armpit of the Clan Lok leader. The cloth armor didn't withstand the abuse and opened access for the weapon to the man's tender innards. A moment—and a fountain of blood gushed from the severed aorta, instantly staining the table and some of the participants. Among others, blood splatters generously showered the face and gray-blue armor of Torch.
"I should have done this back on Onderon myself," she commented on her action, ignoring the blasters of the other Mandalorians pointed at her face. However, the tension that arose in the room did not escape her eyes.
"What is it?" she asked with a slight look of surprise on her face.
"He was our friend," Caleb Daark said with a clearly audible threat in his voice.
"If the Ash'ad are your friends," she shrugged, "then I will kill every one."
"You have delivered a serious insult to Clan Lok," the last representative of this part of Mandalorian society spoke up. "Once the clan finds out..."
"...I will kill every one of you," Shae finished for her. "More than three and a half thousand years ago, I called all Mandalorians under my banners to strike a strategic enemy objective. Clan Lok refused to obey me, for which they and all their descendants were forever branded. The Ash'ad are someone else. Not Mandalorians. Traitors. A pity only that the clumsy fool to whom I entrusted the task of finishing off your ancestors didn't fully complete his job."
"It couldn't have been you!" shrieked the second from Clan Lok. "More than three thousand years have passed!"
"Interrupt me one more time," Shae demonstratively removed the vibroknife from the mortal wound, with a light movement flicked the blood droplets from the blade toward the opponent, "and I will cut your heart out of your still-living body. Understood?"
Satisfied with the silence, Vizla, spinning the trophy in her hand, returned it to its place with displeasure, muttering "They still haven't learned to pick decent equipment."
Seeing that she didn't intend to attack, the Mandalorians present lowered their weapons and took their seats. Apparently, they figured she would be satisfied with one corpse.
Then, sweeping her gaze over the remaining ones, she smirked.
"If anyone still hasn't understood, I am Shae Vizla. The last of Clan Vizla. Called Torch. Mandalore the Avenger."
"That cannot be!" the leader of Clan Kadera jumped from his seat.
"If so, you are nearly four thousand years old," Caleb Daark said. "No one lives that long. Especially Mandalorian leaders."
"You can think whatever you like," Shae nodded to Skirata. The middle-aged clone instructor, approaching the table, laid out a piece of armor that until now had been in his backpack.
"If any of you have forgotten, this is the Mask of Mandalore. The helmet of the first leader of all Mandalorians," she explained, pointing to the corresponding element, well-known to every native of Mandalore. In her time. "And its possessor is the true leader of our people."
"That trinket," one of the two Mandalorians who had been silent until now entered the conversation, "means nothing. Only the possessor of the legendary Darksaber can claim the right to lead Mandalore."
"What a coincidence," Shae smirked, "that I have it. Do I not, Pre Vizsla?"
Silence reigned in the living room for some time. Exactly until the named Mandalorian bared his head.
"You can call yourself whatever you like," he hissed through his teeth. "But Mandalore will not follow a self-proclaimed leader."
"As it did not follow Mandalore the Resurrector?" Torch clarified. Noticing the clan leaders glancing at each other, she explained. "Jango Fett died in the Petranaki Arena more than a year ago. And now the one posing as him is recruiting our youth under the banners of the Mandalorian Supercommando. Only to secure the support of the Confederacy with their help and seize Mandalore by force. If you didn't know this—you're even stupider than I thought."
"Have you come here to insult us?" the governor of Concordia spat. "Aren't you taking too much upon yourself, pretender?"
"You are trying my patience, outcast," Shae said tiredly. "The fact that I didn't blow your head off, forcing your friend—the former owner of MandalMotors—to use his brains, doesn't mean I am closing my eyes to you and your Death Watch's antics."
"Is it true, Pre?" the leader of Clan Gendri asked with suspicion. "Are you connected to Death Watch?"
However, Shae did not intend to allow this brat to say a single word in his own defense.
"You're as short-sighted as nuna," she shook her head. "The one whose ancestors in their ignorance tried to call themselves by my clan's name is not just connected to the 'Watchers.' He, like his father rotting in the ground, is their leader."
"Pre," the air felt palpably like the prelude to a storm. The Mandalorians, who already disliked Death Watch for carrying out terrorist attacks and keeping the residents in fear, now found themselves for the first time so close not just to a rank-and-file member of the group, but to their very leader, with whom scores could be settled. "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
If the governor of Concordia had said anything intelligible now, Shae's actions to undermine his authority would not have succeeded. But the head of the "Watchers" was too stupid to fight for power with someone he clearly wasn't fit to hold a candle to.
"You will all serve me," Pre said grimly, drawing the hilt of a lightsaber from the scabbard behind his back. With a sound uncharacteristic of this weapon, a black blade with a white edge burst from Pre's hands. "I am the owner of the Darksaber!"
"Not for long," Shae assured him. Taking advantage of the fact that he was distracted by her, the red-haired beauty did not keep him waiting.
Kicking the corpse of the Clan Lok leader toward the new opponent with all her strength, she bought herself a few seconds, which Pre spent on bisecting the torso and throwing one of the parts aside.
A pair of crimson blaster bolts fired from her favorite weapon, modernized to modern technical requirements, pierced the cloth armor in the shoulder joint area, forcing Vizsla to drop his precious blade.
His aide rushed to pick up the attribute of power, but Shae was faster. With a powerful blow of her armored knee to Bo-Katan's face, she threw the latter aside, simultaneously closing with Pre.
The governor of Mandalore's moon tried to oppose her onslaught, but defending without hands... In his place, Shae certainly could have. But this pathetic excuse for a Mandalorian...
It all ended quickly, and no less bloodily than with the previous opponent. Blocking the leg with which the enemy tried to kick her in the face, Shae, releasing a sharply honed blade of beskar, drove it up to the hilt into the man's groin area. There was no need to aim—knowing anatomy was enough. The thinnest dagger pierced the armor lining, slicing Pre's flesh and loins.
He barely managed to shriek when the cold weapon turned his circulatory system in that area of the body into a shapeless bleeding mass.
Pulling out the dagger, Shae delivered a coup de grâce with a habitual movement, driving the weapon under Vizsla's lower jaw, piercing his tongue, palate, and plunging into the brain tissues.
And only after that, having wiped the weapon on the fancy cloak of the enemy choking on his own blood, Mandalore the Avenger returned to those assembled.
Tossing the Darksaber hilt onto the table, she looked at the faces, impenetrable under the helmets, one by one, lingering on each for no more than a few seconds. Finally, the leaders, stunned by the slaughter, bared their heads one after another.
"This is how it should have been done right away," Shae said. "So, before you is an ancient attribute of power on Mandalore, and this stupid trinket of yours. They both belong to me. Does any of you wish to challenge me and dispute my legitimate right to call myself Mandalore the Avenger?"
Deprived of their helmets, they could no longer avoid meeting her eyes. And therefore, they only glanced at each other in bewilderment.
"My clan supports Shae Vizla, Mandalore the Avenger," the boy from Clan Beroya said loudly and clearly.
"Clan Farr is on the side of Mandalore the Avenger," Atin rose.
"Clan Skirata is at the service of my Mandalore." Kal bowed respectfully. Though he didn't have to. He had already proven his loyalty.
"Clan Vau joins."
"Clan Ordo will follow its Mandalore..."
"Gendri will count it an honor..."
"Kadera with joy..."
"Clan Sharratt bows..."
"Clan Evod will be glad..."
"Clan Chorn triumphs..."
Only three remained silent.
"Clan Lok," Shae looked at the aide of the leader she had killed. Formally, it was he who now represented his people. "I, having declared you Ash'ad, give you a chance to return to our society. Do you agree to kneel before me?"
"Never, you vile bitch," hissed the last of the Loks.
"So be it," she shrugged. Literally in the same second, the young Mandalorian, dressed in armor clearly from someone else's shoulder, with an imperceptible movement stuck his vibroknife into the neck of the Clan Lok representative. The blade penetrated under the helmet with surgical precision, slicing the cloth armor of the undersuit, cut the skin and muscles, crushed the cervical vertebrae, and ended its swift journey in the opponent's cranium.
"Clan Fett," he pulled off his helmet, revealing his face to those present, "joins Mandalore the Avenger."
"You're even recruiting children," Bo-Katan said in a voice full of venom, ridding herself of her helmet with the shattered visor lenses. "This pup shouldn't even have been present here."
"And yet," Walon remarked, "he is the last in his clan. And the fact that he is only eleven doesn't deprive him of the right to lead his people."
"A clan of one person?" Kryze laughed, wiping the blood oozing from her forehead, cut in several places.
"Of two," another figure rose next to Boba—just as small, one could even say tiny. If the armor looked ridiculous on Fett, on her it was funny. The girl, meanwhile, darting her eyes, took her... well let it be, friend, by the hand, looking at the new leader of Death Watch with defiance.
"Only you remain, Bo-Katan," Skirata concluded.
"I am not the leader of my clan," she smirked. "Ask Satine that question."
"You're the head of Death Watch now," Shae reminded her, nodding at the corpse of her former boss. "Don't thank me, by the way."
"You killed Pre for mere membership in the 'Watch,'" she smirked. "And now you're offering me to make it my own clan?"
"I want you to tell your people," Vizla said in a level voice. "Your patron's plan will not be realized. The CIS will not lead you to power. Only under my leadership will Mandalore return to its roots and restore its former greatness and glory. All who join me will be pardoned for their past sins against the Mandalorian people."
"And those who do not wish to do so?" the duchess's sister asked with a squint.
"Like Clan Lok, they will be declared Ash'ad. And a hunt will be announced for you," Shae shrugged.
"Does that mean you're letting me go?" there was a great deal of skepticism in the "Watcher's" voice.
"If besides terrible lightsaber fencing you haven't learned to communicate telepathically in the 'Watch,'" Torch smirked, "then you will have to deliver my words in person. I expect an answer by noon tomorrow."
"Then, I should hurry," Bo-Katan stated, having leaned over to pick up the corpse of her dead commander.
"Leave him here," Shae ordered. "Tomorrow morning the people of Mandalore will behold his body impaled on a stake."
"Barbarism," Bo-Katan threw out.
"Ancient tradition," Shae countered. "Get out of my sight. And I expect an answer by tomorrow noon. If no answer is received, you are all my personal enemies. And as you see," she nodded toward the two drained corpses, "I deal with such small fry very quickly."
"The answer will be on time," Kryze said confidently, sidling between Walon Vau's figure to the exit.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Shae, once again glancing at those assembled, smiled crookedly.
"So, let's move on to the details," she unceremoniously returned to the table, looking at the slightly bewildered clan leaders. Either the presence of two corpses in the room bothered them, or the abundance of blood, but no one was going to speak first. She had to take the initiative into her own hands. "What forces can I count on by uniting your clans?"
Those gathered glanced at each other. The number of fighters under each of them was not particularly publicized. Precisely because, in case of civil strife, everyone wanted to keep an ace up their sleeve.
"We can field up to three thousand fighters," Daark started first. Brave guy. Have to remember that. The others, clearly embarrassed by his initiative, also named approximate numbers, ranging from five hundred to two thousand Mando. Total—about fifteen thousand soldiers. Not bad.
"The Duchess has more than thirty thousand soldiers in various units at her disposal," Sigal said softly.
"And they are armed with relatively new weapons," the leader of Clan Gendri noted.
"That's not a problem," Shae shook her head. "My ally can provide us with the necessary number of blasters and heavy weapons. The only question is the delivery times."
"It will be difficult to bring weapons into the sector, even by smuggling," the representative of Clan Chorn stroked his chin. "Though customs sleeps and dreams of getting money for cargo past declarations, but weapons... No, they will never go for that."
No one had bothered to introduce themselves. Well, she would have to beat respect for the Mandalore into them by force. For now, Shae decided to call them by their clan names for convenience.
"We shouldn't forget that the majority of the population supports the Kryze government," Kadera added. "Though Mandalore is in crisis, the Duchess is still popular and can find a large number of supporters among the citizens."
"In the event that the people are not disappointed in her ability to effectively fight crises," Shae stated. The clan leaders looked at her questionably. "Crime across the galaxy is gaining strength. It won't be long before they realize what a choice morsel our sector is. And then we will strike. Devastation and panic during an armed criminal invasion will facilitate the delivery of the equipment and ammunition we need."
"But if we allow this, how can we look into the eyes of our citizens who will be subjected to criminal occupation?" Evod was indignant.
"Did I say I would allow occupation?" Shae wondered. "No, we will use her failures on the field of criminal invasion to arm our supporters. And as soon as that is executed—we will strike them. Not a single criminal bastard can compare with the sons of Mandalore in combat effectiveness."
"So, Mandalore, you are suggesting taking a wait-and-see position, allowing the criminal scum to overthrow the Duchess, after which, seize power?"
"Exactly," Shae said unperturbedly. She perfectly understood their feelings. Sacrificing even a small amount to get everything... Risky and extremely... not in the spirit of modern Mandalorians.
"The Jedi and the Republic will intervene," Boba Fett said disapprovingly.
"Agreed," Caleb Daark supported him. "Though Satine currently adheres to neutrality, in the face of the threat of losing power she will go to any lengths to stay afloat. It's no coincidence that after Death Watch's attempt to capture her, she fled to Coruscant. My people report that she is seeking support among the senators..."
"My ally will not allow the Order or the Republic to intervene," Shae categorically countered. "All Kryze can count on is the support of individual members of the Order. But not a full-scale invasion. Well, we can deal with a couple of Jedi without any problems."
"You are so sure of that..."
"More than," Shae smirked. If there was one thing she didn't doubt, it was the attack on Mandalore. All that remained was to wait for the Duchess's return...
***
"It's not your fault, Aubrie," Anakin said, placing a hand on his Padawan's shoulder. A small gesture of encouragement on his part. Even if he felt it wasn't necessary... But the Force suggested it would be right.
The girl sat on the edge of a hospital bed in the Republic forces' medical facility, silently staring at the dead body. Pierced by a good dozen blaster bolts and rocket shrapnel, it had stilled in its suffering quite recently, like many before it. But this was a completely different situation. For the first time in the entire battle for Agamar, they had managed to cheat death. With their last strength, they had snatched a young consciousness from the shackles of the Force, returning it to a fragile body.
A victory, from whatever side you looked at it. Except there were no guarantees that Hanna would ever emerge from the coma. And if she recovered, how would she live on? A disfigured face, an arm torn off at the shoulder, a shattered spine. The Force is capable of much, but to perform a miracle...
Anakin thought with a shudder that it would have been better if Aubrie hadn't succeeded. She had saved Obi-Wan's new apprentice's life... and at the same time condemned her to an existence as a prisoner of medical machines. A dubious victory over death. Had he been in her place, he would have given everything to die. Such a thing was not life, but merely a mortal existence...
It would have been more merciful to let her die.
Wyn had been lucky with her previous teacher—Master Sirrus had done much to reveal her talent as a healer. Though not skilled in it himself, he had strived for Aubrie to become better than he was. He had made every possible effort—even finding a way to approach Master Windu, persuading him to train his protégé. Except Jabiim had appeared on Padawan Wyn's life path, making its own corrections to both the girl's plans and her fate.
And now her fate was in his hands. War, battles, attacks and defense—this was now her life. Instead of knowledge about healing, she was absorbing the skill of wielding a lightsaber. The fate of a single Jedi had been rewritten, its course changed to the exact opposite. Instead of saving others' lives, she was forced to take them. And she did it successfully. True, not forgetting what she had studied earlier. Anakin mentally thanked the late Master Simms for this—the healer's skills were needed no less often than the art of lightsaber combat.
It was incredibly sad that now they had proven insufficient to fully save another sentient's life.
Aubrie sighed heavily.
Everything with the girl was quite... ambiguous. She was sensitive, attentive, caring. She knew her limit—and didn't strive to become the best. At least—not now. Not after Jabiim, which had clearly shown that there is no honor in one's own greatness when your brothers and sisters are dying around you, and the echo of deaths in the Force doesn't cease for a second; she had closed herself off, privately stewing in her own emotions and feelings. No one in the Temple had wished to help her. No one spoke to her, investigated her anxieties, or dispelled her grief for fallen comrades.
No one, except him. To whom but Anakin—one of the three surviving Jedi on Jabiim—were her experiences understandable? No wonder that, having become his apprentice, the girl had become... a bit more emotional. The veil of stoicism and detachment with which she had fenced herself off had cracked. And all that pain and suffering she had stored up inside was now coming out. It wasn't the Dark Side—Anakin would break the face of anyone who said so. The girl had become close to him during this time. And for the first time, he felt that he mattered to someone in this Order. Not as the "Chosen One," into whose mouth everyone without exception looked and tried to forge a weapon of the Light. No. As an ordinary sentient who, despite all the Order's teaching, still had his right to feelings and emotions. The main thing was not to give those around him a reason to understand this. Not to allow the Jedi to break through the mask he put on every time he had to communicate with Obi-Wan or anyone from the Order. Only in the company of Aubrie and the clones did Anakin feel... alive. And he cherished everyone in this small circle of trust. Especially Aubrie, his apprentice. His... real apprentice. Chosen on a friend's advice and his own initiative, rather than imposed by the Council—the old senile men for whom the death or injury of another Jedi was merely "the Will of the Force."
The young girl sat silently, motionless as a statue. Not a single muscle twitched on her face, but her clenched, white-knuckled fingers betrayed the passions boiling within her. Not to mention that one only had to turn to the Force to feel the emotions overwhelming this fragile creature.
Which, like twins, reflected Skywalker's own mood. This was... something new for both of them. It was as if their emotions and feelings had become one. He could always catch her thoughts and mood, and she—his. Yes, it wasn't full telepathy—one could only make out fragments... But even this was a huge step forward. A leap, even—considering how rarely such a bond forms between Jedi.
Aubrie controlled herself. She didn't slip into hysterics or tantrums, didn't make scenes. She radiated a sadness caused by her treatment's less-than-fruitful outcome. She felt shame and anger at herself for not being able to do more. She was offended that she hadn't been near this child, and had used her healing abilities only when Hanna had practically merged with the Force. However, all this remained deep inside, practically not breaking out. Her will, which could rival durasteel in strength, kept her emotions in check. Looking at such control, Anakin could only express his admiration.
In the Order, they said that apprentice and teacher unconsciously influence each other, and the learning process goes both ways. He shared everything he knew with the girl. And at the same time, infected by her example, bit by bit, he strengthened the cage in which his own dragon of rage slumbered.
From a certain point of view, Anakin considered Aubrie an exemplary Jedi. One of those who don't walk around with an impenetrable pazaak face as if they know all the mysteries of the universe. She was perfectly aware of her level of knowledge and sought to learn, to perceive the new. But not with the greed with which a traveler in the sands of Tatooine slakes his thirst after a long trek. Rather with the stoicism of an aristocrat tasting a new dish and not forgetting his manners.
And right now, Skywalker felt the girl was on the edge. Failure had undermined her confidence in her strength. And she was as if standing on the edge of a cliff—one wrong move, and Wyn would plummet into the abyss.
And Anakin couldn't allow that. He didn't have the right.
He was her teacher. And friend. The former slave couldn't reject the only person in whom he saw a kindred spirit.
"Indeed," said Obi-Wan, who was also present, stroking his beard. "The fault is not yours. Perhaps in the Temple they can help her better..."
"Yes, the fault is not mine," Aubrie said in a quiet but hate-filled tone, shifting her gaze to the Master. "But it is yours."
"Mine?" Kenobi was surprised. As always, when Anakin, being his apprentice, pointed out his unforgivable mistakes. And... today one of the most depressing ones had occurred.
The final assault on the droid fortifications. With new forces—the latest batches of the fresh clone line that had arrived under their command to replace the battered units Obi-Wan had sent to the Outer Rim—the four Jedi: two teachers, two Padawans, had rushed forward. And they had achieved victory.
But at what cost...
More than half the clones from the reinforcements—and that was a full corps in place of the pathetic remnants of the 7th Air—had died or received mortal wounds. In a fierce fight, the Jedi had managed to destroy the CIS command—a new model of tactical droid. Hanna had been able to capture him, cutting off the machine's arms and legs. It wasn't her fault that, yielding to the joy of victory, she didn't see the B-2 super battle droids that had arrived to save their master.
"You allowed her to rush ahead," Aubrie said reproachfully. "She was storming their headquarters alone, with a squad of clones!"
"She disobeyed an order," Kenobi noted sternly. "I made it clear her place was in the rearguard. No one could have known she would take a unit from the reserve and want to burst in..."
"You should have guessed!" Aubrie said with a breaking voice. "She's a child... a child in a terrible war. And Hanna wanted to please you, to earn respect in your eyes..."
"I am not Anakin to approve of such antics," Kenobi cut her off. The former slave looked at his former teacher in surprise, not saying a word. "We will end this here. Padawan Wyn, prepare Padawan Ding's body for transport to the medical frigate."
With these words, the commander of the Third Systems Army left the hospital area. Leaving the two Jedi in extremely contradictory feelings.
"I just can't believe it," Aubrie's voice trembled. Considering everything she had been through, Anakin simply couldn't imagine how deep a soul wound what had happened to Kenobi's Padawan had inflicted on her, for her to give way to her feelings. "He's so... cold. Master, does he really not care that his Padawan will remain an invalid for the rest of her life?"
"Aubrie..." Skywalker wanted to say something, but faltered, feeling that denying the obvious would deprive him not only of his apprentice's trust but also distort his own worldview. It would make him one of those Jedi who easily relate to the death of their friends and comrades. He wanted to say that Kenobi wasn't actually a callous jerk who didn't care about his own Padawan. That he too felt bitterness at Hanna's loss. That he would mourn her injuries and would never turn away, but would visit at every convenient opportunity...
But he couldn't lie. Not after those ten years he had spent side-by-side with this Jedi. Not after all those losses Kenobi had treated stoically, with casual Jedi unconcern. Not after the High Council had thanked him for "excellent work." Anakin, present during that communication session, couldn't help but be struck by the hypocrisy and detachment of the Council, which had decided that the loss of almost an entire corps and the disability of a very young Padawan was a "high but acceptable price." The price of peace and order on Agamar.
An ordinary planet, of which there are billions in the galaxy. Even if all Jedi, Padawans, and younglings give their lives to return planets to the Republic, the fighting will go on for more than one generation. Fighting to sacrifice oneself.
Anakin shook his head, throwing off the delusion.
Ritual sacrifices were not his way. He had already brought many offerings to the Order to achieve his goal. And in return, he only felt a bitter aftertaste.
"Kenobi," he felt his throat rasp. "He's a complicated man. Neither you nor I will be able to understand him completely. Not in this life."
"Why, Master?"
Indeed? Why was Kenobi like this? Why, when communicating with him, did the opinion form that he was an organic droid, incapable of feelings and emotions? Not...
Great Force! The answer was right on the surface. Anakin had simply been blind enough not to see it.
"Because, Aubrie, Obi-Wan is a hypocrite," Anakin said, and to his surprise, felt a bit lighter. It was as if the lump of indignation and irritation that had been maturing inside him since Qui-Gon's death had finally found its outlet. Like then—on Tatooine, when he killed the entire tribe of Tuskens who had tormented his mother.
Seeing the lack of understanding and surprise on his apprentice's face, Anakin added with greater confidence:
"They are all hypocrites," he said, referring to the High Council of the Order. "Every Master... They insist a Jedi must reject emotions because they lead to the Dark Side. They say there are no attachments because it's not the Jedi way. And at the same time, every one of them considers it his duty to break these prohibitions."
"Even Obi-Wan?" Aubrie was surprised.
"Especially him," there was bile in Anakin's voice. "He taught me that Jedi must not love because it breeds jealousy, which leads to the Dark Side. And at the same time, he himself has broken this rule more than once. Like most Jedi I know. Aayla Secura. Kit Fisto. Quinlan Vos. Master Tholme. Master Mundi has a countless number of wives..."
"I heard the Council allowed him that because..."
"Because they have double standards," Anakin interrupted her. With every word of accusation toward the Jedi, he felt lighter. And he didn't intend to stop. "If they allowed one Master to start a family because of procreation problems on his planet, then why is it a prohibition for other Jedi? Is it not because the Council rewrites the rules for themselves and those they like? They forbade Obi-Wan's teacher to instruct me—because he held views different from their own. Kenobi himself in his youth was fond of his friend—Siri Tachi. And he broke off relations with her because it called into question his further advancement within the walls of the Order..."
"How do you know this?" though she radiated surprise in the Force, Anakin felt the Padawan believed him. And this question was not a doubt in his correctness. Merely a desire to know more about the one sending them into battle.
"No romance in the Temple goes without rumors," he explained. "Kenobi once told me that behind my desire to shield Senator Amidala from the influence of the current head of the InterGalactic Banking Clan was banal jealousy—because I've known her for a long time, practically since childhood, and I... believed him. And I didn't doubt his wisdom until I found out he had a romance with Master Tachi. They whispered about it in the Temple when she transferred to serve in the Tenth Systems Army. I merely kept my ears open."
"But perhaps Kenobi was warning you against what he himself overcame in his youth?" Aubrie suggested. Though her emotions said she was merely trying to find an answer that wouldn't tear the pattern of her representation of the High Council. That same one into which she had been prophesied a path almost since birth.
"And I thought the same," Skywalker admitted. "Until Obi-Wan went against the Council's will, went to Mandalore to prevent an assassination attempt on Duchess Satine. He delivered her to Coruscant, saved her from several attempts on her life, made considerable efforts to justify her before the Senate and prevent a Grand Army of the Republic invasion of Mandalore."
"Ordinary business for a Jedi Master..."
"Listen to the Force, Aubrie," Anakin grimaced. Yes, how could he have forgotten. She was also stubborn. Like himself. Truly, two of a kind. "Do you not feel that all this is merely tinsel to hide the obvious? Obi-Wan continues to love the Duchess—from the very moment he saved her life as a Padawan."
"Oh," was all the Padawan could manage, clearly disconcerted by such a statement. "It can't be that the Council didn't know this..."
"They knew, they know, and they continue to hide it," Anakin said with a touch of anger. "They hide a lot from us—the ordinary Jedi. They hid the creation of the clone army. The construction of the fleet and combat equipment for them. They protect the Republic, which is rotting before our eyes. All these squabbles in the Senate, where each of the representatives tries to snatch as much as possible for himself, not caring about those lives being lost on the battlefields."
"The Senate uses us," Wyn concluded, noting Anakin's own thoughts with surprising accuracy. "They've fenced themselves off from the galaxy with the Order and the Grand Army because... they're afraid? But of what?"
"Not 'what'," Anakin corrected her. "'Who'. The Chancellor."
"What?!"
"I'm acquainted with him," Skywalker explained. "We're old friends. And in all these years he has never asked for anything in return for those tips and wisdom he shared with me. He supported me in any situation—even when the Order condemned my actions. You remember how much indignation my decision to evacuate from Jabiim caused, leaving those useless loyalists there? Only the Chancellor was able to stop those rumors. He is a force to be reckoned with by both the Order and the entire Republic."
"They won't," Aubrie stated. "The Chancellor is getting more and more powers against the background of the war. Most don't see that this is a return of original duties for this position. Such as they were even a thousand years ago."
"Yes, they only see the strengthening of power," Anakin confirmed. "And... they're afraid of it. They're afraid to their knees that one day he will become more powerful than all of them and will be able to put an end to these squabbles. Neither the Senate nor the Order needs the order Chancellor Palpatine is bringing now."
"If they welcomed it, the Republic wouldn't have met this war in such a sorry state."
"I think about that too," Anakin agreed. "Because it's no coincidence that for the protection of the Republic, the Order created a clone army. The Council clearly knew something, so—they decided to play it safe."
"If the Masters saw the future, this war," Aubrie frowned, "then why did they order so few clones? All last year we were literally bleeding from a lack of soldiers..."
"Look at now, though," Anakin smiled. "When the Chancellor took this under his control. Can one say that modern clones are inferior to those we fought with at the beginning? No. They surpass them by far. But why then did the Order, possessing the most extensive database in the galaxy, not order an army on Arkania? Instead—sending their representative to Kamino?"
"I... don't know," Aubrie admitted.
Skywalker took a deep breath. The thoughts that had tormented him lately finally took the form of a logical chain. Where everything is interconnected. And the answer is extremely simple.
"What if the Order was preparing not for a war with the Separatists," he said, lowering his voice. "What if they saw not an approaching war, but a weakening of their own influence in the galaxy?"
"No!" Aubrie stated decisively, jumping up from her seat. "Master... are you talking about a mutiny?!"
"Exactly," Anakin sighed in relief. Palpatine's words had long gnawed at his conscience. And his thoughts, like a working nuclear reactor, had reached critical mass. He was simply obliged to share all this with someone.
He couldn't talk to Rex or any other clone from the 501st. Simply because they wouldn't understand him—clones were created only for service, and certainly not for conducting discussions. He couldn't talk to Obi-Wan for obvious reasons.
Only Aubrie remained.
"I'm only assuming," he explained. "That everything is not what it seems. It seems to me the Jedi are involved in some kind of clever political game. And I'm not sure that the Council will ever put any of us—the ordinary Jedi—in the loop of what's happening..."
"Even twenty-four hours ago your statements wouldn't have found a response from me," she admitted. "But after what Master Kenobi said..."
An awkward silence hung. Each thought about their own thing, but the general emotional background remained unified.
As, in their last meeting, the Chancellor had helped him shed the blinkers from his eyes, so now Anakin was helping his apprentice free herself from the Order's feigned righteousness. He was helping her free herself from the dogmas, rules, and double standards clouding her vision.
Like him, Aubrie had to understand that the Jedi were not as simple as they wanted to seem. Behind the show of benevolence and the desire to help their neighbor, much more was hidden...
The Council, and possibly the entire Order, was not interested in the swiftest resolution of the conflict. Everything suited them—battles, the death of millions of sentients, the death of thousands of Jedi... Anything, just to not allow a regime change under which the Order rose from the darkness of centuries and won untold riches, fame, and honor among politicians.
Resources put into fanning the war were the fuel that supported the flame of confrontation with the Separatists. No, Anakin didn't think they should surrender to the mercy of this bunch of corrupt traders. And he didn't even consider the option of peace negotiations. The war could only end in one way—victory for the Republic. Under the management of a strong and independent Chancellor Palpatine. Only he would be able to bring order to this ruin.
The war had exposed the Republic's pitfalls. It had opened deep abscesses poisoning its body. And now it was the cleansing flame of war that must rid the state to which Anakin had sworn allegiance of its vices.
Can the Jedi and the army created by their order handle this? Possibly. Rex and his guys were good men who would always cover and support. But they were property, created by the Order's decision. Rightless slaves destined to fight for others' ideals.
Inside, the flame of dormant rage was flaring up.
Slaves.
His soldiers were slaves of the Order, of the Republic... of all those who hid behind the clones' backs, sitting in cozy houses, drinking caf and discussing exactly how the enemy would be defeated. Even the CIS didn't stoop to such baseness—fighting with the hands of slaves. Only the Hutts allowed that—vile creatures under whose rule Tatooine was—the planet where he lived for a long time. The place where his mother died...
"I believe our cause is just," Anakin said. "Though I don't trust the High Council, we must continue to fight for the Republic. For the Chancellor. For peace and order in the galaxy..."
"And you're ready to continue obeying the Council's orders, commanding soldiers created for an unclear purpose by their order?" Aubrie was surprised. "The clones will follow their command's orders. Are you sure that one day the Council, having found out you know too much, won't order them to go against you? Just as they declared a hunt for Quinlan Vos and all those who went against their will?"
"Rex... won't betray."
"Of course he won't betray," Aubrie pursed her lips. "He'll just follow an order..."
And yet he was lucky with his Padawan. Strong and capable, she looked at the heart of the problem, without any pity turning facts to the surface. Even despite the fact that Anakin himself was afraid to even think about it. To imagine that the 501st Legion could turn against him... No, he didn't even want to think that one day he might raise his blade against those he trusted. Against... friends.
"We can't... I can't not trust them," his voice lost its strength.
"Are you ready to risk everything for the assumption that someone will be loyal to you, and only because you are loyal to them?" Aubrie exclaimed, without wanting to, having stirred an barely healed wound.
Reason fought with feelings. As it had when he and Padmé were united in marriage on Naboo...
A year and a bit ago, he didn't understand how wrong it was. A former slave who became the husband of one of the most influential women in the Senate. Youthful infatuation, jealousy, attachment, puppy-like delight.
Now all this was merely an ephemeral substance, so elusive that all that remained was to throw up his hands. Cross out the page of his past life and live on.
Being a slave, he dreamed of breaking beyond Tatooine. To explore space, to perceive the new. But the meeting with the Jedi, Padmé... changed everything.
He wanted more.
He wanted to become stronger, to earn recognition and approval from those around him. He wanted to be a hero who could crush mountains and restore justice in such Force-forgotten places as Tatooine.
And he also wanted love. Reciprocal, passionate.
Youth told him that Padmé was the shining angel he had seen in Watto's shop at that very significant moment in his life, after which fate took a sharp turn. So much so that not a single boy on Tatooine could have imagined it.
And so, ten years after their first meeting, he saw her again. His queen from moist teenage fantasies. Every day of their separation he had thought of her, imagining their reunion.
Padmé...
Until recently, memories of her had filled all his thoughts. He lived to become equal to her. To achieve more. To be better. To be the best of all. He wanted her to be proud of him—not as she usually did, with a polite cold smile and pseudo-maternal approval.
He wanted reciprocal passion and feelings. But Padmé remained deaf to him. Sometimes Anakin thought that if she were sensitive to the Force, she could have become a worthy apprentice for Obi-Wan. Two equally cold, emotionally poor sentients. Incapable of stepping over the rules and doing what they want.
The former queen had already proven to him what her love was worth.
The secret marriage—her moment of weakness. Though she had never spoken of it before—until Rush Clovis reappeared in her life. And from that moment everything went completely wrong. More and more often she spoke about the marriage weighing on her because it had to be hidden, to hide from others.
She was ashamed of him. Because he's a Jedi? So she said. So she lied. There is nothing shameful about your husband being a Jedi. The strongest of all. This is something to be proud of. To admire. To look at your spouse with blind adoration.
She was revolted by the fact that he was a former slave. This thought had reached Anakin only recently. Here, on Agamar, when he first noticed that he and Aubrie think alike. The apprentice didn't despise his past. She wasn't ashamed to call him her teacher. The denial of who you were before entering the Temple—possibly the only good thing in the entire Order.
No one cares about what happened before. But who you are now...
And now... Now he didn't see a future for them.
Not after the "break" Padmé had asked for. Not after weeks of silence on her part and ignoring his calls.
And then, with a heavy heart, subduing his anger, incinerating his soul, burning the last bridges connecting him to carefree youth, he finally admitted: he and Padmé were not made for each other. Their marriage was a mistake. A youthful infatuation that hadn't lasted a year. He was a bright fire, a flame that goes forward and destroys any resistance to its plans.
She was a cold icicle, beautiful from the outside, but prickly and freezing if taken in hand.
Too many differences and contradictions to continue trying to resuscitate this rapidly plummeting marriage. Even now, when the pain of separation had subsided and his maximalist views had partially receded, he couldn't admit to himself that he even partially met Padmé's requests. She was an aristocrat living in luxury, with one vote in the Senate deciding the fates of trillions of sentients. He was a simple and modest lad from Tatooine, by the will of the Force having become a General in the service of the Republic. Nothing would equalize them in society—even if they opened up. Even if he fought all his life, he could never provide her with that gloss and luxury in which she lives now. Anakin felt the cage of his dragon slightly weaken.
Luxury... By the most modest estimates, the cost of Padmé's residence would be enough to buy a whole fleet of Venators. But. She hadn't done it. And she wasn't even going to.
They were not parts of a single whole, as Anakin had thought before. To complement your spouse, you need common hobbies, views on life. A common worldview. And what do a pacifist senator and a Jedi Knight who fights on the battlefields, in blood, dirt, and the innards of his soldiers, have in common?
Nothing. Padmé would never understand what he had to go through to end this war.
And he would never accept her desires to negotiate with the Separatists and butter up the bankers.
So happiness with Padmé was an unattainable dream. Aubrie had said correctly—one cannot count on being loyal only because you were loyal. Padmé remains loyal to the Republic—as she understands it.
He, though...
He is loyal to the Chancellor. His only friend among the politicians.
"You're right," he said. "The clones... are not those who can be trusted. At least—not these."
"That means..."
For the first time, Anakin paid attention to Aubrie not as his apprentice, but as a girl... Slender, pretty, alive...
Thinking like him, supporting him. And, judging by the fact that she hadn't run to report his reflections to Obi-Wan—loyal.
Under other circumstances...
On the other hand, who will forbid them? Two possibly only thinking Jedi in the entire galaxy?
"Yes," he said firmly. "I will talk to Kenobi. We will replace the 501st Legion with clones loyal to the Chancellor. Only in them can we be sure."
Hearing a heavy sigh from the Padawan, Anakin felt the emotions of joy and relief emanating from her. As if a mountain had fallen from her shoulders. And she would never have to take on this burden again.
"Whatever happens," he said. "Whatever the Council, the Jedi, or the Senate plans. We—you and I—will remain loyal to the Chancellor. Always."
"Yes, Master."
"Call me Anakin," Skywalker smiled. "We are all we have for each other."