Elara yanked the control levers hard toward herself, and the infiltrator's main engines howled at the very edge of their technical limits. I was slammed back into the rigid copilot's seat with enough force to make me hiss as sharp, cutting pain flared through my chest. My broken ribs immediately reminded me of the recent hit from the Dathomiri nydak, and I hurried to fasten the safety harness across my slightly torn suit.
The ship climbed at a brutally steep angle, punching through the dense layers of Dathomir's crimson atmosphere. On the central viewscreen, sprays of superheated ionized gas scattered in every direction, while from somewhere in the common cabin came two voices loudly cursing space travel in general and Elara's piloting skills in particular. Apparently, Kem and our new passenger had found common ground for "discussion" surprisingly quickly. If only they would stop shouting their slogans so aggressively. Meanwhile, the cockpit smelled distinctly of overheated hull plating, as the forced-cooling systems were barely keeping up with the colossal strain of the emergency ascent.
"The right emitter of the cloaking field is glitching because iron dust settled on the hull, so I have to keep correcting the frequency manually," Elara said tensely, ignoring the commotion behind us and keeping her eyes fixed on the flickering indicators of the navigation panel. "I've started a cyclic signal-suppression protocol and pushed the heat decoys to maximum, but if a scout droid or even a standard Vulture gets within three kilometers, the cloak won't save us anymore."
I shot a quick glance at the tactical radar, where a neat chain of thirty bright red dots had already formed in the upper-left hemisphere, dropping rapidly from orbit straight into our sector. It was the advance screen of General Grievous's reconnaissance drones, descending in a tight search formation and almost certainly sweeping each atmospheric zone with active scanners. Our Sith infiltrator had specialized ion-masking coating that absorbed hostile emissions quite effectively, but with a search net this dense, a simple visual contact or direct reading of our gravitational disturbance could expose us at any second.
"Take us tangent to their course. Use the shadow zone of the nearest moon to mask our thermal trail from the orbital sensors," I ordered, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible so the pain in my ribs would not ruin my breathing. "If they pick up even one directed pulse from our hull, an entire Confederate cruiser will be here in five minutes, and then we're finished."
"Easy to say when you have a nimble scout ship under you instead of a heavy transport, but the local turbulence is tearing the control linkages apart," Elara snapped through clenched teeth, banking sharply left. The hull answered with an ugly metallic groan. "Where exactly are we going next, commander? Give me final jump coordinates right now, or we'll burn up on the way out of this cursed system before we ever shake pursuit."
That was when I realized, with no small amount of irritation, that between the pain shock and our rushed evacuation from the witches' citadel, I had completely forgotten to confirm the exact name of the junkyard planet where the insane Darth Maul was hiding. My patchy memories from my previous life held only the general image of endless mountains of industrial scrap and rusting metal, but no actual navigation data for the ship's computer. I understood perfectly well that we had no time for long reflection — on the radar display, the red drone markers were already beginning to shift formation to cover our trajectory — but I still leaned back against the headrest and took a deep breath of the cockpit's stale air. I needed to drop into deep mental meditation immediately, drawing on the inner reserves of the Dark Side to drag the necessary information from the depths of memory while Elara kept the ship on the edge of a stall.
Closing my eyes, I shut out the growing roar of the turbines and the panicked chirping of warning sensors screaming about critical proximity to the lead Confederate drone.
The focused current of the Force "burned" through my consciousness in the familiar way, making fragments of memory flash before my eyes — including pieces from my previous life, though I still had no idea how that worked. For several tense seconds, I dug through my memories until, at last, I caught the name I needed among hundreds of others.
"Lotho Minor. Tremor sector," I exhaled, opening my eyes sharply and immediately reaching for the navigation console, quickly entering the alphanumeric indexes of that Force-forsaken junk planet. "Plot a route through the old Confederate military corridors. My access codes are still active, so the CIS automated checkpoints won't check our serial number at the intermediate points. Not that we're planning to linger there anyway."
It took us about twenty minutes to carefully slip around the reconnaissance droid net, hiding in the clouds whenever possible. Finally, we broke orbit, and Elara rapidly punched the data into her panel. A moment later, the infiltrator shuddered noticeably as the hyperdrive finished calculating the trajectory and began spooling up the main accelerators.
The starfield beyond the armored glass stretched into long streaks of light, then dissolved into the smooth gray-blue tunnel of hyperspace, returning a measure of quiet and calm to the cockpit. I let out a relieved breath and turned to check on our Dathomiri "ally," who had moved closer to us at some point. Why Kem's company had not suited her remained a mystery.
Varja sat on the floor in the farthest corner of the cockpit, clutching the cargo tie-down brackets in a death grip. She looked pale and completely disoriented. Her wild eyes darted from one blinking console to another, and her lips moved silently, as if she were trying to recite protective spells against this incomprehensible iron machine. Spaceflight and the abundance of advanced technology had clearly driven the young witch into a state of deep mental shock, knocking the earlier arrogance and desire for sabotage right out of her.
No matter. While we were in hyperspace, I would tell Elara about the Tyranids, and for the sake of the joke, I would not clarify that I was talking about Warhammer. Ice Pick would understand everything, of course.
The witch, though…
Heh.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Dropping out of hyperspace in the Lotho Minor system was not exactly pleasant. The planet greeted us with a dense ring of thousands of tons of old space junk, hull fragments, and spent reactor sections. Honestly, though, I was already getting used to this kind of thing.
We had to spend a good half hour maneuvering through that technogenic chaos before the ship could begin descending into the gray atmosphere, saturated with toxic chemicals. The technical description of the world, which I had skimmed on my datapad before landing, proved entirely accurate. Lotho Minor was one continuous nightmare for any sentient being, with very few exceptions. Heavy acid rains constantly lashed the surface, and whenever they struck the hull, the infiltrator's protective coating hissed and blistered. Because of the enormous amount of metallic dust suspended in the air, powerful electromagnetic storms raged almost without pause. Fortunately, none of that applied to the Force, so I was able to point out the approximate location of our client without much difficulty.
"All external sensors are practically blind from the constant static discharge, and radar turns into solid interference beyond two kilometers," Elara reported irritably, gripping the control yoke with both hands as violent gusts of wind tossed the infiltrator from side to side. "Landing directly in the 'canyons' you pointed out is impossible. The scrap mountains around them are constantly shifting and collapsing under their own weight. But… I'm seeing a relatively stable technical platform on the lower scanner. Looks like we'll have to land there and continue on foot. Top-top, yes."
After another couple of minutes of maneuvering, the ship came down on its corrosion-eaten landing struts with a heavy metallic thud. The turbines finally began winding down, releasing a long, fading whistle. I rose from my seat, feeling my broken ribs send a fresh pulse of pain through me with every step, and realized that walking into the depths of the scrap catacombs in this condition would be pure suicide. We had to move immediately, so I decided to use what time remained before departure to perform a proper self-healing ritual through the Dark Side of the Force, even if it required a tremendous effort of will.
I sat cross-legged directly on the metal deck of the hold and focused completely on my physical sensations, consciously directing raw currents of the Force toward the damaged area of my chest. The process was painfully slow, because I had to force the fractured bone tissue to pull together and knit almost manually, accelerating the body's natural regeneration dozens of times over. Kem stood silently nearby, checking the fastening of his heavy sword, while Varja watched in fear as a faint haze of Dark Side energy began forming around my body with a quiet crackle. That inner battle against my own weakness took far too long, so I was finishing the final stages of bone repair on the move, as we left the airlock and started down the rusted service ramp. Fortunately, the ship had enough protective suits, though I doubted even they would protect us for long from the absolute hell happening on the surface of this planet.
We entered the narrow, gloomy scrap canyons, where the walls were made of compressed frames of old droids, bent sheets of hull plating, and piles of shattered industrial plastic that gave off a sharp chemical stink. Varja walked slightly ahead, clutching Mother Talzin's obsidian sphere tightly in both hands. Every so often, it began to pulse faintly with a dull green light, pointing us in the right direction through the endless maze of junk. Convenient, really. It meant I didn't have to keep concentrating to sense where the Dark Side was coming from. I was very curious how they had achieved that effect. I would have to visit their little planet again someday.
My ribs finally finished healing, leaving only a faint numbness in the muscles. I had just finished the final scan and was about to put the medical datapad back into my pouch when my sharpened instincts suddenly made me tense.
From behind the nearest heaps of rusted reactor sections, an entire crowd of locals began emerging with perfect, silent coordination. They had clearly set up an ambush here, hoping for easy prey. They were dirty, thin humanoids from some tribe of local… uh… scavengers, I suppose that was the right word. Their bodies were partially covered with crude homemade cybernetic implants and scraps of filthy cloth, and overall, they did not look like a regular army or disciplined warriors. Still, their rusty vibro-cleavers, improvised plasma torches, and heavy lengths of rebar were a very real threat in these narrow, cluttered passages. Using their numbers and their perfect knowledge of every hidden path through the scrap mountains, they instantly cut off our route of retreat, enclosing our small group in a tight half-circle while letting out wild, triumphant howls. Kem also made a very pleased sound, but they ignored him, which I consider a critical mistake.
We moved quickly through a narrowing rusted corridor, its walls built from deformed heat exchangers and sheets of plating stripped from old transports, while the scavengers pressing behind us began pursuing us in earnest. Behind us, the ugly scrape of rusty metal and the popping bursts of homemade plasma rifles rang out again and again. Their shots left smoking brown scorch marks on the tunnel walls and forced us to keep ducking as molten metal sprayed through the air. To make matters worse, the constant vibration and heavy acid rain above set multi-ton layers of scrap metal shifting overhead. The ceiling groaned ominously, showering our shoulders with flakes of scale and heavy fastening bolts.
At that moment, I clearly understood that we were trapped. The passage ahead was partially blocked by another collapse, and the pressure from the scavengers behind us grew stronger with every second, threatening to become a full encirclement. And there were a lot of them. A damn lot. I would like to remind everyone that even the Jedi were ultimately overwhelmed by the clones through sheer numbers, so while I desperately wanted to rush at these natives with my saber swinging, I managed to restrain myself. Naturally, my first thought was to unleash Force lightning at maximum output and burn the entire aggressive mob with one precise strike. But for once, after thinking before acting, I had to admit that the unstable structure of tons of junk above us could collapse for much less than that. We needed to act carefully.
"Kem, bring down that T-shaped support beam behind us. Witch, you'll use your, hm… 'charms' to shield us from the flying debris. And don't you dare fall behind unless you want to stay here forever," I ordered shortly, adjusting my grip on the inactive hilt of my saber and concentrating the Force at my fingertips for precise work.
The Dashade reacted instantly, driving his heavy fist into the corroded tunnel support with all his strength. The metal split apart with a deafening roar, and a massive slab of compressed junk came crashing down like an avalanche, cutting off our pursuers behind a dense wall of debris. I had to spend a great deal of effort using a short but extremely precise telekinetic shove to redirect the heavy sheets of hull plating falling from above, steering them away from our group. That finished off what little physical strength I still had after the recent healing ritual.
After forcing our way through the last few hundred meters of the half-collapsed passage, we finally emerged into a vast, relatively open space: a gigantic underground cavern inside a mountain of compressed reactors from old warships. The place was drowned in half-darkness, broken only by rare flashes of short-circuiting exposed wiring that, for some reason, was still working. The air was so thick with the smell of old machine oil that I could taste it even through the protective suit.
Then, from the center of that rusted hall, a heavy rhythmic metallic pounding sounded out of the darkness, accompanied by a horrible hydraulic hiss. Slowly, the one we had come all this long and dangerous way for crawled toward us.
Darth Maul stood before me, though his canonical appearance now inspired more disgust than awe. The former Sith was filthy, covered in a layer of soot, and the lower half of his body had been replaced with enormous, crudely welded mechanical legs that resembled spider limbs.
As far as I knew, his mind was completely shattered by years of isolation and the influence of the Dark Side, so I was not even surprised when I saw him twitching his head feverishly from side to side while the same name rasped endlessly from his ulcerated mouth.
"Kenobi… Kenobi…"
The moment his inflamed yellow eyes focused on our group, he instantly took us for another set of enemies come to take his life. With a wild, animal roar, he charged forward, intending to trample the intruders under his heavy steel supports.
Despite the bulk and crude design of his homemade hydraulic chassis, the speed of the half-mechanical monstrosity was incredible. I had barely a fraction of a second to ignite my blade and brace for the impact.
Of course, Kem took the first charge. He stepped forward in silence and blocked two massive iron legs with his heavy vibroblade, but Maul's sheer mass and the kinetic force of the ram were so great that even the huge Dashade was driven back several meters. I tried to move in from the left flank and deliver a quick counterstrike against the vulnerable mounting points, but the sharp twist of my torso sent a dull stab of pain through my chest, confirming that my recently mended ribs were not ready for full-speed lightsaber work. I had to abandon offensive techniques completely and shift into pure defense, barely managing to dodge the sharp steel limbs striking from every direction and throwing showers of sparks from the metal floor with every ugly scrape.
Meanwhile, Varja tried to step back and activate Mother Talzin's obsidian sphere so she could begin the mental suppression ritual from a safe distance. But the chaotic, pulsing Dark Side aura pouring off Maul flooded the entire cavern, apparently shattering her concentration and preventing her from forming a stable stream of green ichor.
Well. She really was rather weak, wasn't she?
Realizing that in ordinary close combat the insane Zabrak would simply wear us down and tear us apart with his mechanical legs, I decided on a very risky and very harsh move that demanded maximum precision. During Maul's next leap, I deliberately let his attack graze me, allowing the iron leg to tear through the outer fabric of my jumpsuit. In return, I got close enough to his central distribution node at the hip. With one sharp swing, I cut through an entire bundle of wires, then concentrated the Force into a narrow, pinpoint impulse and deliberately shorted them together in all the wrong ways.
A loud electrical crack split the air, followed by a bright blue flash of a short circuit. All of the hydraulic drives locked up at once, paralyzing his massive body for several crucial seconds. Without wasting a moment, I poured all my remaining physical strength into one powerful telekinetic shove from above, slamming the disoriented, wheezing Zabrak down against the filthy floor plates and completely depriving him of the chance to rise.
"Now! Activate that damned sphere before his backup batteries restart the power system and he starts tearing everything apart again!" I shouted hoarsely at Varja, holding the convulsing Sith down with the Force at the absolute limit of my abilities.
If she was going to betray us, it would probably happen right now.
But… no. It would not. I may not have been some master of mental manipulation, but lately I had grown very close to that side of my Force abilities. I would even say it had become one of my strengths, second only to throwing electricity at everything. The only problem was that it was almost useless instantly, in the middle of combat. But if I had time, if the target was not too far away, and especially if they were listening to me speak…
In short, this not-very-experienced "witch" had not suspected a thing. She would only understand when she returned to Talzin, who would most likely remove my very small "suggestion." Until then, she almost certainly would not betray us.
Just as I expected, the girl raised her hands without hesitation, and the obsidian artifact in her fingers finally flared with thick, pulsing green smoke. It streamed in one solid current straight into the fallen Zabrak's head.
Maul let out a long, fading rasp. The fury in his eyes slowly dimmed, and the mad muttering stopped. Then his body finally went limp, and he sank into deep unconsciousness. The mental ritual had completely shut down his damaged mind for later restoration. Varja herself collapsed to her knees afterward, utterly exhausted, breathing heavily and bracing her hands against the rusted casing of the nearest reactor.
Interesting. I had thought the artifact already contained the necessary charge. I suppose if we had been dealing with a more experienced and more treacherous "witch," she might have tried to convince me to use the artifact myself, then stabbed me in the back. Especially in the chaos of battle.
"Excellent work. Now we take this half-finished product and get out of here before the rest of the charming locals come running because of all the noise from our extended discussion," I said, deactivating my lightsaber and feeling an unpleasant cramp begin to seize the muscles in my back from the strain.
Kem hummed in satisfaction, then pulled several thick industrial high-voltage cables from the pack on his back and quickly, expertly began tying down Maul's massive mechanical limbs so he would not surprise us during transport. After loading the unconscious body of the former Sith onto a grav-platform we found nearby, we slowly and carefully began the return journey through the acidic drizzle of Lotho Minor, choosing the least populated maintenance corridors we could find.
When we finally reached the infiltrator — or rather, when Elara picked us up, since the path back to her old "parking spot" had been blocked by a collapse — and locked our valuable prisoner in the guarded cargo bay, I immediately headed to the pilot cabin. Our Ice Pick had already completed the preflight check of all major systems. I had just managed to settle into my usual passenger seat, intending to order immediate takeoff, when the central onboard terminal connected to the secure communications network suddenly erupted with a series of high-priority encrypted alerts.
A hologram appeared, showing a middle-aged man whose gaze could have frozen blood even across hundreds of light-years. He wore a standard uniform with the insignia of a CIS officer, but considering the frequency he was using to contact me and the raised Rotfront fist in greeting, it was obvious he was one of the R.G.A.'s agents. I did not know him personally, though I had received recent transmissions mentioning a significant increase in their numbers.
"Comrade Brutus," he said in a detached, cold tone, though I could not help smirking at the form of address I had taught them, "we have a critical situation that threatens your entire operation and makes further presence in the sector deadly. Information has just arrived from CIS central command that General Grievous received an emergency directive from someone higher up — and I can vouch that it was definitely not Dooku — according to which the entire fleet assigned to him is moving to fully blockade the Lotho Minor sector."
He glanced briefly over his shoulder and continued quickly.
"They are initiating an absolute quarantine. No civilian or military vessel is to leave the planet under the pretext of 'eliminating a contamination source.' Someone leaked exact data about your true objective to the highest levels of command, and now every exit is being sealed by Confederate heavy cruisers. Be careful. Good luck."