Well, then.
Life was in full swing. And it was trying to hit me over the head with every swing.
Reviewing the latest incoming information—specifically regarding the Predator-class star destroyer that had so inconveniently appeared in the Republic's hands—I rose from my desk.
The meeting of the Board had stretched into the evening. There had been much debate, but fortunately, no one had spent too much time beating around the bush. The prospects for future actions were outlined, and the personnel policy had settled. I could finally turn my attention to more pressing matters.
"So," I said, looking through the thick transparietal at the lights of the slumbering Crystal City as I addressed those present in my office. "I want to hear about our losses among the commandos."
"Ion Group sustained casualties—one of the soldiers is dead," reported Etain, who also served as Skirata's deputy in the position of commander of the Special Operations Division. "Vevut... everything went off-plan on Darktiil. Only Dek survived from the entire group."
"Effectively," Bultar Swan added, "the squad needs to be formed from scratch."
"However," Larant Tarak added, "the number of clone commandos in our army is limited."
True enough. I'd had to strain myself considerably just to claw even these few away from Coruscant. And despite the fact that Fett clones—who formed the core of the commandos in the Grand Army—were currently being "phased out," it was far too early to talk to Master Zay about taking all the commandos under my command. I needed to wait a while—until the new clones flooded the army as mass replacements. Then I could have a substantive conversation with my fellow Jedi.
In the history I knew, due to the attrition of commandos, the GAR organized training for the most outstanding clones from line units in this profile, seeking to replenish losses. This was handled by the very same Mandalorians who had now joined Shea. And, as official sector command documents reported, due to the mass resignation of instructors and the appearance of new clones, the initiative had fizzled out. Which made sense—why train commandos from Fett clones if they were trying to get rid of them?
"Have we learned anything about the background of these new clones?" I inquired.
"Yes," the Sephi said softly. I turned, glancing at Master Fay. The woman looked calm, yet in the Force, I could still sense the... conflicting feelings tormenting her. Right, right. It had been the same with Luminara, and it seemed she still hadn't recovered from the consequences of my intrusion into her mind. Just like Fay. Well, never mind, lovely elf. You'll live.
"I'd like to hear it."
"The source of the genetic material for them was a Mandalorian mercenary named Montross," Tur-Mukan reported. "They are more aggressive, incredibly inventive. Effectively, they surpass our soldiers. They know no mercy, feel no sympathy. Any order for them is law. Or a contract, if that's more convenient. Essentially, their logic and worldview were inherited from the donor. And he never backed down, seeing every contract through to the end. At any cost, regardless of casualties. Skirata reported that he previously conflicted with Jango Fett in this field. But shortly before Fett began forming a staff of mercenaries to work on the army, Montross disappeared. Rumor has it that Jango had a hand in that."
"Does anyone in this galaxy ever actually finish what they start?" I exhaled a rhetorical question. Seeing that those gathered didn't quite understand me, I waved it off. "Continue, Etain."
"Official documents state they are several times stronger and faster than Fett clones. Given that both donors are ordinary humans, it likely refers to genetic enhancements."
"Which cannot fail to point to potential problems for us," Bultar noted. "Genetically modified bastards compared to regular clones... It's not even funny."
"Yes," I agreed. "You are right... Lady Bultar."
The Devaronian, with a restrained smile, slightly inclined her head.
Turning my back to the gathered Jedi once more, I fell into thought.
Of course, freezing them during the flight from Coruscant to Christophsis, and from there to Zakuul, had been wrong. From a purely human perspective. Honestly, my conscience sometimes gnaws at me for abandoning my original postulates—earning the loyalty of my subordinates through "good deeds." Instead, without moral qualms, I drag them through a mental blender.
What will be the result? An army of Force-sensitive zombies who will serve me unquestioningly? Or will all these convictions I demonstrated to them—projecting my memories into their minds as I did with Luminara, Fay, Tarak, B'ink, and her Padawan, or pushing their own thoughts in the necessary direction of their internal conflict, as happened with Etain, Siri, or Bultar—eventually take hold? There seemed to be nothing dirty, vile, or disgusting in this. But... it still felt as if cats had crapped in my soul.
Indeed. An apprentice of Vitiate with a conscience. Ten hollowed-out Ziosts out of ten.
On Zakuul, besides official meetings and events, there was a lot of "under-the-table" work. Specifically—with the aforementioned Jedi. Mythical reinforcements that had to be brought along to Christophsis.
Why did I subject these specific individuals to special processing one by one? And why does none of the Hands or other associates know about it?
Because you can't put all your eggs in one basket. When you sit down at the gaming table with more experienced pazaak players, it doesn't hurt to have a couple of "Idiots" up your sleeve. Those who know the essence of the game will understand.
And a small group of seemingly unremarkable Jedi was exactly what was needed. Conventionally, the Jedi currently subordinate to me were divided into three groups. Those who had fought with me from the beginning and had already joined me by one means or another. Another layer of the cake that only grows with every turn of history.
And, in fact, none of the members of the first and second groups know about each other. Well, and the third... This is the fresh replenishment, some of whom I appointed as corps commanders only to "throw a bone" to the Council, to show that the newcomers were also involved. I am not confident in them at all.
I highly doubt I can pull any of them to my side, one way or another. Breaking into someone else's brain...
I'm tired of it. Enough.
There are enough of those who are, one way or another, on the side of the Empire. If I lose a dozen or two Jedi—even good combatants—I won't lose any sleep over it.
Let's return to the basics—persuading supporters through my actions and reasoning. There is a greater guarantee of gaining full-fledged associates who will be loyal of their own true will, rather than by the fact of sifting their brains through a fine sieve.
Moreover, among the existing Jedi, there are many who, for one reason or another, went against the official doctrine of the Order. Let's see what can be made of that.
"What will we do?" Etain asked quietly.
A good question. And extremely timely.
"For now—nothing," I decided. "Continue gathering information on the new clones. Are your agents above suspicion?"
"For now—yes," responded Darman's future wife. "But the more we inquire about the new army, the more we put Besany in an awkward position. Intelligence is already interested in her, and although we managed to cover our tracks, still... We cannot be sure it will remain so."
"Besany has done good work."
The girl working in the Grand Army of the Republic's Supply Center, who also happened to be the lover of Ordo Skirata, one of the Nulls, had done us an invaluable service. Because she was able not just to confirm the information I had—that the production site for the new clones, as in canon, was Centax-2, Coruscant's moon. It was Besany who was able to provide a detailed lead on specific sectors of the massive technological complex into which the moon had been transformed, where the cloning laboratories were located. And thanks to her, it became known that this base was far from the only one. Just as it became known that the officially announced figures for clone purchases were nothing more than a screen for the public.
Even with a couple of billion clones, Palpatine couldn't hold the galaxy. The CIS produced their metal dummies by the tens of billions. Meanwhile, propaganda spoke of quadrillions. A simple and easy way to cause quiet panic in the ranks of the public. Thanks to Delta, Omega, and the Nulls for the detailed analysis of the production capacities of the droid factories they had managed to visit.
So, the hundreds of thousands of Arkanian cloning cylinders, modified according to Spaarti technology (and just where did our "partners" get such technology if all that existed—all the finished cylinders—were in my possession?), which were stationed on Centax-2—were by no means the only ones. A small logistics company involved in transporting cargo to the specified moon for the Army's needs had also been noted in other places.
Specifically—on the moon Hesperidium, which was also in the Coruscant system. The resort located there was famous throughout the galaxy—and many wealthy people and senators pampered their bodies on its sandy beaches. Palpatine even had his own residence there.
The news channels had somewhat reservedly covered the fact of the construction of another complex on the moon. Ten times larger than the previous one, though modest in its finish. Officially, it was called a medical boarding house for soldiers and officers of the Grand Army of the Republic. A massive institution, built in less than a month right under the Senate's nose. Closed to outsiders, securely guarded by the updated Coruscant Guard. I suspect that Palpatine's main cloning facilities are located there. Convenient—who counts the number of clones arriving there for rehabilitation or treatment? When they all share one face, Yoda himself couldn't tell who's restoring a ruptured liver and who just came out of the tube yesterday.
But what I least expected was activity on the moons Centax-1 and Centax-3. In the Expanded Universe, they just existed. And everyone was deeply indifferent to them.
But in my reality, according to that same Besany, a no-fly zone had been declared there. And understanding what was happening there without the risk of being caught by the Coruscant cover fleet patrols was impossible. Kira, whom I had sent there on the Fury immediately after the trip to Yavin 4, reported a large number of patrol ships—from picket ships and duty fighters to ultra-modern Predators.
Well, another reason to think about what game Palpatine is playing. And on whose dime. Because bills for the construction of any military facilities in the Coruscant system had not been discussed in the Senate.
Oh, I have a bad feeling about this. Darth Sidious is obscuring things. It seemed your humble servant hadn't interfered much in canonical events. But no, everything is going sideways.
"Have the Nulls take care of her extraction and safety."
The ARCs, despite the official version of working on frontier planets, were operating in the capital. While the possibility of masking their identities as local soldiers still remained.
"Risk everything for one agent?" Larant protested. "An unjustified expenditure of time and resources."
Sensing the burgeoning protest in Etain, I raised a hand, drawing attention to myself.
"Events are developing faster than I expected. Therefore, we should take care to complete all current operations outside the army. And even more so—pull our agents out of harm's way. This," I shook my head warningly, noticing the dissatisfaction on the "gray Padawan's" face, "is not up for discussion. I will be no better than the Council or Palpatine if I allow things to drift and leave my people in danger."
"As you wish," Bultar shrugged. "But I agree with Tarak."
Who would have doubted it.
The Devaronian was one of the few Jedi I'd had to struggle with. Besides her dismissive attitude toward the very fact of the war and the use of Jedi as commanders, she also possessed a foul, sarcastic, and stubborn character. This... made her notable among the general mass of Jedi subordinate to me. Largely for this reason, I had assigned her specifically to work with the commandos. You don't want to mess with them either—they'll bite your arm off to the elbow, punch your face in, and shove a thermal detonator where it shouldn't be according to the general physiological principles of the humanoid races of the Far, Far Away Galaxy.
"Etain," I addressed the girl. "We will not disband Vevut squad. Let the commandos rest after their missions. The fun is about to begin—and I will need those boys like air. Ideally, I would like a commando squad attached to every corps—better yet, to every legion. Of course, this won't be quick—but you'd better talk to Zay in advance, telling him we are ready to take them all for ourselves. The more soldiers we save from a sad fate, the longer they will live."
"Rick," Fay addressed me softly. At first, I was a bit taken aback by such an address. Но, then, realizing the Sephi had seen several centuries of actual life, I decided such a liberty was forgivable for her. "Do you truly believe it is a wise idea—to stop the clones' aging? Even without a guarantee that they will join us?"
"The mere fact that they won't die within a few years after their service," Tur-Mukan intervened passionately, "already makes the option of joining the Empire far more attractive. You simply don't interact with the soldiers much, Master Fay. You don't understand how much they fear being unneeded and an early death due to aging."
"And I entirely agree with that point of view," I added. "Clones were created for war. And if they see no other life and are ready to serve us—so be it. For its part, the Empire guarantees them the right to citizenship and the corresponding legalization of rights. Something the Republic never bothered to do."
"And how does your approach differ from what the Republic is doing?" Bultar asked with anger in her voice. "Here they are rightless slaves. There—slaves with rights."
"Fundamentally incorrect. In the Empire—they are citizens. Even if bred in an incubator."
"I would argue that," Tarak said, clearly intending to follow through on her suggestion. But now was not the time.
"Let's move on to business," I returned to the desk. "How is our Project Honoghr coming along?"
"Our people have prepared the captured Lucrehulk," the Devaronian reported, clearly displeased by the change of subject. But, my little domestic hellspawn—who on my side of the table cares about your opinion?.. "The chemicals and everything else on the list are on board. It took some work to find the coordinates of the world, but thanks to Jabba—he enlightened us. So, although Admiral Declann is unhappy that we are taking a ship from him—'for a top-secret mission behind enemy lines'—the battleship is ready to crash into the planet."
"Excellent," I smiled.
Yes, perhaps it is low from the perspective of human morality—to destroy someone else's world just so that its population, trampled into the mud and despair, would gratefully kiss the hand of help you extend. And, choking on tears of happiness and competing to sing songs of eternal love for their savior, who will arrive there some time later. He will extend a full plate of food, promise to relocate them to another planetoid in exchange for this doomed world (through the efforts of Ms. Jenna Zan Arbor). And he will ask for only one thing in return—to serve until the end of their days. Faithfully and truly.
Sparing no effort. Applying their skills as spies, saboteurs, and assassins for the sake of the Empire's prosperity.
A perfectly fair price for saving an entire people.
More accurately—two. But that's not the point. The scheme is the same. Only the executors are different.
"When does the operation begin?" I asked Etain.
"Tomorrow the Lucrehulk departs for Geonosis to load the droids," she reported. Obviously, she didn't check anything—keeping records of such... events, let's call them that, was fraught with potential consequences. A datapad gets lost, someone loyal to the Republic finds it—and that's it, time to prepare a wooden overcoat. "After that, the ship heads to Honoghr and..."
We were interrupted by the sound of my personal holocommunicator coming from my bracer.
"That's all for today, you're dismissed," I ordered. Watching as the girls, under the dissatisfied and grumbling mutterings of both Dashade, disappeared behind the doors, I gestured for both monsters to leave the office. As soon as the door panel clicked into place, I sealed the room.
Connecting the comlink to the encryption device, I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the connection to be established.
Finally, after a few minutes, a miniature figure of a Zabrak appeared before my eyes.
"Master," the red-faced one looked at me with adoration, bowing low in a sign of boundless devotion.
"Maul," the exchange of pleasantries could be considered finished. "Do you wish to please me with good news?"
"Exactly so, my Lord," a predatory smile appeared on the face of Darth Sidious's former apprentice.
***
"Duchess Satine is in our power," Darth Maul said. "Mandalore's armed forces have been completely annihilated. The planet, and indeed the entire sector, is in our power. Losses..."
"I don't care how many of your scum died," the Emperor stated. "How strong is the terror you've orchestrated?"
"Total destruction in Sundari, on Concordia," Maul began to list. "Multiple hostage takings, looting, killing of civilians throughout the sector."
"And how did Death Watch react to this?"
"As you ordered—I threatened to kill the Duchess if they did not join us."
"So, the 'watchmen' are openly helping you?"
"Not all," Maul shook his horned head. "Most of them joined the militia in Keldabe, which we still haven't been able to take. All our efforts—both ground assaults and air raids—run into their heavy equipment—Canderous tanks. Though they are few, every assault attempt costs us thousands of deaths."
"Bo-Katan?"
"She is on the side of the militia. But spies report that the Duchess's sister is at odds with the underground leader and is ready to leave them with a small group of her supporters."
"Do not be fooled by a perceived rift in their ranks," the Emperor counseled. "The militia should not concern you—your task is of a completely different nature. Bo-Katan expects help from a Jedi you know well."
Maul felt rage boiling within him.
"Kenobi," the Zabrak said the ill-fated name as if spitting it out.
"Exactly so, Maul," the Lord smiled. "You have a chance to settle the score with him. Take the opportunity."
"By all means, my Lord," the raging sentient said with a promising snarl. "Kenobi will die."
"His fate does not concern me," the man shook his head. "You must finish the Duchess before his eyes. Without fail."
"Have no doubt," Maul said, anticipating the triumph of his revenge.
"After that, you will leave your most odious followers on Mandalore. All the filth, all those who hinder you or cause problems."
"I will do so," Maul hesitated. "But for what purpose?"
"Mandalore is only a step on your path of ascent to the heights of power in the criminal world," the Emperor said. "There you will satisfy your revenge—break Kenobi's heart by killing his beloved before his very eyes. You have nothing more to do there."
"I thought Mandalore would become the center of my criminal empire..."
"Your Empire?" the man asked with a chuckle.
"Forgive me, my Lord," the Zabrak bowed low, pursing his lips. "I forgot myself... Your criminal empire."
"Remember your place, Maul," the Emperor advised. "You are only a nominal figure in this complex combination. The true master of all this rabble is I."
"Yes, my Lord. But why must I leave this planet? The sector?"
"If you try to contradict me one more time," the Emperor said threateningly, "all that will be left of you is what a cleaning droid can collect in a medicine vial."
"Forgive me..."
"That's the second 'strike,' Maul. A third will mean the end of your worthless life. Now," the man folded his hands before him. "After you finish with Kenobi, you and your people must head to the planet Emberlene."
"Of course, my Lord. But for what?"
"You will land on the surface. And no matter how many lives it costs you—capture the planet. There are vast riches there. They will all belong to your organization."
"Thank you."
"That is not all," the Emperor raised an index finger. "You must personally destroy all the rulers of the planet, all the top leadership of the armed forces, sparing, let's say, only... Sparing no one. They will be angrier and more compliant. And one last thing. After the looting, you will burn all the cities on the planet."
Hmm... Maul felt a hidden lust at the thought of destroying the civilian population. A perfect mission. After all, if on Mandalore the master had asked him not to overindulge in atrocities, here—he was explicitly asking for it. Ordering it, even.
"It will be done, my Lord."
"And yes," the man said, as if remembering. "That planet has a fairly strong army and well-trained... special forces units. If I were you, I wouldn't be stingy about bringing limited forces."
"Without a doubt, my Lord," Maul smirked. "I will carry out all your instructions. There will be no wounded."
Without saying goodbye, the Emperor cut the connection.
Sighing—as with Darth Sidious, communicating with his new master was not easy—Maul turned off the holocommunicator.
Surveying the empty throne room, where just a few days ago a bloody battle with the Duchess's guards had taken place, the Zabrak remembered with a smile how many Mandalorians he had killed since the invasion of this planet began.
Dozens? Hundreds?
Who was counting.
However, everything had turned out perfectly.
Xizor had fulfilled his part of the agreement—the Pyke Syndicate faithfully served the Shadow Collective, pouring in their substantial funds and regiments of mercenaries. All this proved useful, as the seizure of Mandalore was costing the young criminal organization very, very dearly.
The seizure of the sector began as a routine smuggler operation. Dozens of hardened black-market traders flooded the sector's market with dozens of relatively cheap and completely low-quality goods. Thousands of cases of poisoning, deaths among both adults and children of all possible races living in the sector—that was the true reason Duchess Satine returned home.
And before she even had time to give orders to combat the smugglers, a massive, motley fleet of criminals appeared in the sector.
The planet's defenses were crushed in a matter of days. Though the Mandalorian fleet was not as large as the Republic's, they fought bravely. And, what became a very big surprise—skillfully. Maul lost dozens of ships before his forces could call themselves masters of Mandalore's orbit. Notably, almost immediately after the start of the ground military operation, technicians were able to track a distress signal originating from the palace communications center. And the recipient was none other than the Republic military headquarters on Ord Mantell. Where, according to his spies, Kenobi was located.
Only fear of his new master prevented Maul from throwing all his forces into an assault on the Republic base. Revenge demanded bloodshed. And, to be honest, he was ready to sacrifice all his followers, all the military forces available to Black Sun and the Pykes, to break the not-so-strong defenses of that system. Just to cross blades with Kenobi. Once more.
However, he recognized that the master's plan far more met the long-term plans of the Empire. In which Maul's rematch was but a grain, so insignificant it was impossible to see.
The true plan, and the Zabrak had already come to terms with this, was known only to the master. Maul's role in it was not that large, but significant.
Seizing power over the criminal underbelly of Republic society was an inexhaustible source of power, wealth, and manpower. There are always those ready to become victims of racketeers, drug traffickers, and other scum. Not to mention the sentients who dream of seeing themselves as miniature gears in the maws of a massive criminal machine.
Realizing this, Maul postponed his revenge for a better moment. Kenobi would arrive in his hands himself. He just had to wait.
And waiting he knew how to do. Like no one else.
However, he still couldn't understand why the master had forbidden him from expanding his influence into Hutt Space.
After all, by subduing the third significant force in the galaxy among criminal clans, he could easily compete with any armies—Separatist or Republican. The Hutts possessed an army and fleet only slightly inferior to what the Pykes and Black Sun provided him. With such power, he would be invincible.
However, the master had a completely different vision of the situation.
And Maul had to obey.
He did not want to experience the weight of the Emperor's wrath.
Not again.
Sith Lords of the past could only dream of such influence—for now, it was not inferior to that which his previous teacher possessed. Mandalore, under his full subjection, could become the weapon Maul wanted to turn against his previous teacher.
Therefore, he was frankly disappointed that among this once proud and warlike people, there were only a paltry few thousand who wanted to join him. But at least Death Watch could get them into proper shape for the next actions.
Considering Mandalore as the capital of his future criminal empire, Maul was well aware that this dreary planet could give him much more than just deposits of beskar.
Since the beginning of the Duchess's reign, the planet had become the political center for all those systems that, after the start of the war, had taken a position of neutrality, not joining either of the warring sides. And that meant hundreds of worlds outside the Mandalorian sector.
And this was done not because Satine Kryze's pacifist ideas resonated in the minds of the rulers there. Not at all. It was just that these systems... were weak.
Their armies were so pathetic that conquering the planets required little force or time. Some were conquered in a few days, others—in hours. And only Mandalore continued to defend itself.
The center of resistance became the ancient capital—Keldabe. It was there that all those who, as before, represented the cream of the Mandalorian people gathered. Ruthless and perfectly trained warriors whose lot was to bring death to everyone around them. And they washed in blood all whom the Zabrak sent to take the city with professional ease.
They were led into battle by Mandalore the Avenger—someone who had taken upon themselves the ancient title of leader of this people. She was able to reach the hearts of even those Mandalorians who had long since left their homeland. And, despite a well-organized patrol service in the system, whole convoys of ammunition and gear broke through to the planet's surface from time to time. Several of these were successfully shot down and boarded.
And then, for the first time, Maul's soldiers knew true fear. Because the captured ships were delivering more than just weapons to the planet. They also carried former bounty hunters who had once left this inhospitable world. For decades, they had perfected their skill at killing sentients, performing thousands of various assassinations in the Celestial River. And now all their art was unleashed in a bloody lesson for the Shadow Collective.
Yes, none of the captured ships reached the surface. And none of their crew members survived. But they took thousands of Maul's men and dozens of ships with them to the grave. Blowing up the ammunition-filled holds of XS-class light Corellian freighters seemed to be the highest value for those who remained on board as the last ones.
One way or another, Mandalore would now submit to him. To Maul. And consequently—to his master, the Emperor. He just needed to concentrate more forces to crush the resistance.
An orbital strike on Keldabe would have worked. Но, the damned Mandalorians, without a shred of conscience, used those same freighters to destroy all the capital ships of the Shadow Collective fleet as soon as they moved into position. How they found out about it remained a mystery.
As did the reason why the master ordered him to leave the rabble on the planet after Kenobi's revenge. The bloodiest criminals he had under his command. And to move to the other side of the galaxy...
Without wasting a second, Maul used a portable datapad to dive into the information space of the HoloNet. As Darth Sidious's apprentice, he had acted on another's orders. The Emperor also didn't particularly strive to clarify his plans to him. As is expected in the relationship between a master... and his hound.
Scrolling through search query pages, Maul caught himself thinking that previously he would have been insulted by the role assigned to him. A sentient on errands. A beast unleashed from a chain.
Insulting for one who once called himself a Sith Lord.
But...
Those times were far behind. Now, he was no more than someone else's unquestioning servant, who...
Reading the page with the desired information, Maul felt a chill run down his spine.
Emberlene. Arrive, loot, burn...
This... would not be so easy.
In fact, not easy at all. Perhaps much harder than anything Maul had ever done.
Because Emberlene was the home of the Mistryl Shadow Guards.
During his training under Darth Sidious, Maul had absorbed a lot of information about the galaxy. To operate successfully from the shadows, every Sith must understand the actual state of affairs in the galaxy. Know who can be bought, who can be intimidated, and who—broken.
Emberlene, long ruled by a government called the Eleven Elders, was a rich and prosperous world. In its darkest corners, intrigues were woven that were in no way inferior to those in the Galactic Senate. And for the most optimal elimination of political competitors on the planet, the Mistryl existed.
An order of women warriors, excellent spies, saboteurs, assassins, and bodyguards. Unlike the Sun Guard, which was in the service of the Sith, the Mistryl were a less famous faction. Few know about them, for their services are far from cheap. Maul wouldn't even have remembered what was so remarkable about Emberlene if he hadn't caught a mention of the Sun Guard as the eternal adversaries of the Mistryl.
He had to strain his memory to recall that besides the very modest contingent of Mistryl, the Guard also included an assault corps—less qualified but no less deadly fighters, primarily used for guarding strategic facilities or as a strike force.
The question remained—for what purpose did the Emperor require the destruction of this world. After all, he had decreed—spare no one.
The answer was found after several hours of painstaking searching in the galactic information network.
It turns out that with the start of the War, Emberlene had supported the CIS. And, without further ado, had conducted raids on the planets of its neighbors. Some were conquered, but most were completely looted, and the population—sold in slave markets.
Mistryl tactics were noteworthy. First of all, before the invasion of the main forces, they sent in their spies and assassins to eliminate the centralized government and the command of the enemy's armed forces. And only after that, while the enemy was demoralized and disorganized, did the main forces enter the battle.
A perfect enemy. One who could have become an ally, under certain circumstances.
However... The Lord demanded total destruction on the planet. Was he eliminating a potential threat? Most likely. Or else...
Crushing the datapad in his hand, Maul threw it away from him in irritation.
To the Hutts with it. Such reasoning would only lead to trouble.
He was a faithful hound. And he was obliged to serve his master.
"Xizor," he activated his comlink. "How are things in the prison block?"
"Are you sure you're not a Jedi?" the Falleen chuckled. "I was just about to call you. We have a guest in Block C. Dressed like a Mandalorian, but I'd bet my pheromone gland that he's a Jedi."
Maul felt molten metal course through his veins.
"Do not interfere with him freeing the Duchess," he ordered. "Cordon off the prison, the spaceport, and all possible escape routes. Once they reach the exit—bag them all and bring them to me. Take them alive. I will deal with this problem myself."
"As you say, boss," Xizor said indifferently. "You wanted something else?"
"Yes," a bloody veil of the preceding meeting with Kenobi clouded his vision. "Have Ziton Moj prepare his most desperate thugs—they will stay on Mandalore. The rest of you—prepare for departure."
"Where are we flying, chief?"
"For riches," the Zabrak almost growled. "And glory."
***
If there is a center to this galaxy, and judging by the latest astronavigational charts—there is, then Tatooine is the most remote place from it.
At least—that's what the locals say, who in their whole lives haven't ventured further than the Dune Sea, and whose entire lives are spent in endless work with moisture-vaporating mechanisms. Yes, sometimes—watching the Boonta Eve races.
Unlike most of the indigenous inhabitants of this god-forsaken place of all possible religions, Billy knew for certain that there were places in the Celestial River much further than Tatooine. And, under a certain light—worse.
However, nowhere did they cook as poorly and disgustingly as in the local Mos Espa joint, bearing the proud name "Akima's Tavern."
A small, stuffy room, completely devoid of air conditioning systems, so dilapidated in appearance that it seemed as if the first colonists had built it. Some... well—many years ago.
In history, Billy—a twenty-year-old lad who had left the Kidd family home more than five years ago on the ship of a Gand bounty hunter—was not strong. Nor in grammar, sense of style, personal hygiene, and many other things.
Everything Billy's interests revolved around was the mechanism of the pair of blasters in his thigh holsters. And the simple math based on how many credits he would earn for this or that Bounty Hunters Guild contract.
However, now, finding himself under the awning of this catering establishment, the young bounty hunter, who already had several serious contracts and a small but still reputation in the Guild behind him, occupied his gray brain matter with a much more pressing problem.
"Who the hell is this Akima, mother of a Bothan with a black hole between her legs?" the lad muttered, biting his lower lip.
His mind, strengthened by years of wandering across various planets, helpfully threw up options for the mythical "Akima's" possible ethnic origin. However, the flight of fancy, where "Akima" was already recorded as the bastard of a proud and warlike Tusken tribal leader who fell in love with a beautiful girl from a moisture farm and kidnapped his beloved in the dead of night in the name of the high, bright, and pure love that only the callous heart of a raider was capable of, was ruthlessly shattered by the coarse and by no means literary speech of a local farmer crawling out of the establishment on his eyebrows.
Casting a bleary gaze at the young hunter, the local listened to Billy's voiced thoughts for quite a while. Noticing the wary interest in his person, Kidd, smiling his trademark charming smile of rapidly yellowing and cavity-ridden teeth, decided to get information from someone who had clearly been here more than once.
"Hey there, clodhopper," he winked at the moisture farmer. Despite the fact that the latter was at least two heads taller than the hunter himself and over a hundred kilograms heavier, the young bounty hunter didn't even think that his trademark greeting might not please a representative of the Mos Espa local alcoholic elite. "Can you tell me who the tavern's named after?"
"What did you call me?" Reeking of rotgut mixed with the aftertaste of recent vomit, the local was clearly not in the mood for an intellectual conversation. The local's scowling look and clenched fists spoke to this extremely obvious fact for any sentient endowed with the ability to think. Even the spit that nearly landed on Kidd's greasy pants could have told the young man that a substantive gentlemanly conversation would not happen with this specific representative of the human race. Not in the next couple of days—for sure.
Had Billy been a little older and with a larger baggage of knowledge, he would undoubtedly have understood this. And perhaps he would have managed to avoid the subsequent events.
But at twenty, in the backside of every Tatooine boy, there itches an unceasing war horn of adventure and the desire to get involved in an unforgivably global story that will result in a fundamental review of life values, a romantic line with potential incest, and beating the crap out of an elderly disabled father who can only breathe with a respirator. But who is still capable of delivering magical thrashings. He is the biological father, after all.
Billy was no exception.
"Clodhopper," the young hunter said, giving his companion another smile. "That's because you herd..."
In five years of wandering the galaxy, Billy had never once managed to finish his joke. It was insanely funny, but for a number of reasons, no one who heard its beginning from the mouth of a kid who still had blue milk wet on his lips possessed the patience.
And Billy, to his shame, did not possess the reaction speed required for a hunter. Occasionally, colleagues in the trade told him that this was the reason why in his young years he had already acquired seventeen descendants. But Billy believed in his lucky star, thinking that one day it would lead him to big money and fame.
For now, his life path led him to an unending stream of alimony and the sophisticated attempts of each of the seventeen "loved and only" ones to find and marry the particularly accurate marksman.
This time, reaction failed Kidd, forgetting to respond to the massive fist that knocked him off his feet, throwing him to the opposite side of the narrow street. A pair of brand-new blasters, falling from their designated parking spots on the young mercenary's thighs, followed their owner, sent on a short flight by a careless kick from the farmer's boot, the size of which was not inferior to the other proportions of the moisture farmer's body.
Seeing that the twenty-year-old human projectile hit the mark exactly, dismantling a small table on the outer boundaries of a neighboring tavern and splashing bits of half-eaten roast on a customer, the laborer, pleased with his accuracy and the strength that hadn't faded over the years or under the weight of alcohol intoxication, moved slowly down the street, whistling a cheerful song. Usually, it was performed by farmers who organized raids on Tusken raiders in the event of a victory that could only end in the full-scale extermination of another Tusken enclave. Truth be told, Mos Espa hadn't heard anything like it for the last ten years—the last time the farmers decided to give the Tuskens a "surprise," severed moisture farmer limbs were found around the outskirts for a long time.
However, this particular farmer decided that performing such a hit in the current situation was more than appropriate. After all, it's not every day you give another sentient enough acceleration to overcome gravity in a local interval of time.
"So who are you?" the owner of the table asked Billy with a slight accent, as Billy rubbed a lump on the back of his head.
Casting a glance at him—the slight concussion briefly returned the boy to the real world—the young man decided that the Duros in the wide-brimmed hat with a toothpick in his teeth did not represent a particular threat. Despite the fact that his breakfast had not been fully consumed.
"And by the way—it was tasty," Billy thought to himself, flicking off and immediately popping a piece of gravy into his mouth while simultaneously cleaning it off his collar.
Rising to his feet, he brushed the dust off himself, after which, picking up the blasters, he spun them theatrically, sliding his index fingers into the trigger guards. This continued for about three seconds, after which, with movements practiced during many hours of rehearsals in front of a mirror, the young man returned both his weapons to their designated places.
"I'm Billy Kidd," he introduced himself politely. "Bounty hunter..."
"No way," the Duros said unperturbedly, taking a sip of a soft drink from a glass. "I never would have thought."
"Looks are deceiving," the lad smirked. "By the way, I have the fastest and most trained hand in the entire Outer Rim."
"In decent male company, one doesn't talk about such things, kid," the Duros noted, taking a large gulp. "It's fraught, you know..."
"Oh, come on, pops," Billy smiled. "How would you know how bounty hunters behave? You're just a clodhopper."
The new acquaintance, shifting the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, unperturbedly continued to sip his drink.
An awkward silence hung in the air.
Chewing his lips, Billy still risked asking a question:
"And you're a clodhopper because..."
"...I herd, as you're joking," the Duros finished unperturbedly, showing not the slightest interest in the boy.
"You've already heard that joke?"
"It grew a beard before I started peeing standing up," the alien shared details from his personal life. At the same time, he didn't take his eyes off a section of the street behind the young bounty hunter. "And yes, it hasn't been funny for the last twenty years."
"Hm," Billy chewed his lips again. Not knowing what to do next—continue the conversation, pay for the destroyed table and interrupted meal, or just leave quietly. Therefore, using his brains once more, Billy made the most optimal decision.
"Do you happen to know who Akima is?" he asked the Duros, who impressed him as the most competent interlocutor of all those he'd had the opportunity to communicate with in the last few minutes.
"Not Akim, but Akima," he corrected him.
"Oh, I see," Billy drawled. "I thought the place across the street was called 'Akima's Tavern'."
"Since its opening, its name has been 'Akima's Tavern'," the Duros enlightened him. "The owner just isn't very strong in grammar."
"And what is this Akima so famous for that they named a tavern after her?" the young bounty hunter asked curiously.
The Duros looked at him with an unblinking gaze.
"She served the pilots of the starships landing here for over thirty years," the Duros explained with a slight smile, draining his glass. "So they named it in honor of her good deeds."
"I didn't know," Billy admitted. "Five years ago, there was no diner here named after a waitress who worked here for thirty years..."
"She wasn't a waitress," the Duros chuckled. "And the name 'Tavern' wasn't chosen by chance."
"I'm getting completely confused," Billy admitted, frowning. "Not a waitress, but served pilots... A mechanic, maybe?"
"You're a real genius of wit," the Duros burst out laughing. After laughing for a couple of minutes, he spat out the toothpick and looked at the young boy with interest.
"Any more guesses?"
"A dispatcher at the spaceport?" Billy tried his luck again.
"I'm amazed you haven't been killed yet," the Duros shook his head. "With a wit like that, you should have been shot in your first firefight. Akima was a whore! And a so indiscriminate and cheap one that by the end of her career, she had collected every kind of intimate disease, which is what she died of. Simultaneously passing this 'bouquet' to the future owner of the diner. To keep from kicking the bucket, he had to sell his freighter with a load of spice. With the money left over from the local quack's treatment, he opened this place. Well, the name," the Duros smirked obscenely. "There isn't a man in Mos Espa who hasn't been in Akima. For old time's sake, they go into 'Akima's' too."
"Complicated," Billy scratched the back of his head. "How do you know all this?"
"The more you know, the longer you live," the Duros puzzled the mercenary, rising from his chair. "Well, friend, I have business. But you're amusing. Want some advice?"
"Yes, of course," Kidd said, habitually chewing his lips.
"If you feel the contract has gone off-plan, shoot first," the Duros's voice held seriousness.
"Oh, I have no problem with shooting," the Tatooine boy began to demure. "I have the fastest and most trained hand..."
"Puzzled remark," a mechanical voice rang out almost right in Billy's ear. It sounded so unexpectedly and sharply that he jumped aside with a cry. "Is this meatbag suggesting you engage in sodomy, Bane?"
"Poor my optical sensor," a second droid standing next to the first said. "If so, I will never sit on a chair after you again, Bane. I don't need venereal corrosion."
Casting a keen glance at them, Billy noted that the arriving pair of droids looked... colorful.
The first was a tall protocol droid of a model unknown to Billy, painted in a faded crimson-sand color. Its yellow optical sensors carefully scanned the young bounty hunter from head to toe, as if trying to remember him in the smallest detail. In its hands, it held a massive blaster rifle, which puzzled Kidd even more.
The second was undoubtedly an assault droid. Its sandy coloring literally blended with the Tatooine landscapes. And if not for its glowing vertical rectangular optical sensor, Billy could have sworn he would never have spotted it in this planet's conditions outside the city. And the shoulder-mounted weapon unequivocally indicated that the mechanical soldier was clearly not created for a shared tea party.
"You're in bad company," he complained to the Duros. "And the droids are kind of weird..."
"Insidious suggestion," the first one responded. "Do you want me to show you, meatbag, how sentients hydro-dominate and roll?"
Billy understood little, but guessed from the droid's tone that he shouldn't agree to such a demonstration. Despite the pose of the latter, who literally seemed to be begging Kidd to do the opposite with his whole appearance.
"Stop intimidating the boy, HK," the Duros's voice, however, seemed calm. "Just a local... bounty hunter."
"Really?" the second robot became animated. "I could shoot him from the other end of this star system."
"Broken hunks of junk," Billy muttered. Seeing the barrel of the first droid's blaster rifle under his nose, he raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Sorry, clodhopper, I didn't think you were so sensitive..."
"Logical analysis," the droid responded. "You are so dim-witted, meatbag, that it is surprising you grew to such an age. I resolutely condemn those who managed to preserve your life."
"Stop scaring the kid," the Duros said peaceably, placing a hand on the droid's weapon and leading it away from the line of fire, thereby saving the young man from the fate of having his brains scattered. "He already fouled his pants when you first appeared."
"Not true," Billy scowled, immediately trying to justify himself. "I'm an experienced bounty hunter. I know when to let them close, and when..."
"Stop it," the Duros noted peaceably. "No time for bill-clicking. We found out what's what, and that's fine. Any problems?"
"There were," the second droid admitted, "not everyone wanted to join us."
"Joyful remark. But now all the dissenters have joined their ancestors. Personally, that pleases me most of all."
"Indeed," the Duros sobbed with laughter. "Good thing you didn't kill everyone..."
In the next minute, a blast of monstrous force rang out and a spacious building at the far end of Mos Espa ceased to exist; the roofs of nearby houses were instantly blown off, fragments of transparietal from which flew around the neighborhood with a screech and a characteristic sound.
"What is that?" A mixture of surprise and irritation appeared in the Duros's voice.
"Patient reminder," a mockery sounded in the artificial voice. "I told you that not all of them agreed to work for us."
"We had to minimize information leakage," another voice echoed him.
"You almost leveled Mos Espa," the Duros grumbled. "No worthwhile bounty hunter who respects their reputation will agree to work with us again."
"Mocking remark," and the first of the two droids seemed to be having the time of his life. "You seem to have found one already. An excellent target. Hey, meatbag, there's an offer to make some money."
"I'm in," Billy agreed without hesitation. "I could use the credits."
The Duros only smiled meaningfully.
"Well, how can I refuse such a master of his own hand," the Duros chuckled, extending his right hand. "Cad Bane."
"Billy Kidd," the young bounty hunter replied to the greeting. "I have the fastest and most trained hand in the entire Outer Rim."
"Dubious merit," the second droid noted. Then, looking around at those present, Bane commanded:
"Let's go! And god help you if we have to blow up a building again because of your 'screw-up'."
"Stating the fact," the first droid noted. "We will have to, Bane. How else can one live without the fun of meatbag chunks flying in all directions?"
Feeling the chill down his spine only intensify, Billy realized for the first time in his life that he'd have been better off not explaining the ill-fated joke about the "clodhopper."
***