Brute (Taalas)
The coordinates Dooku had sent brought my ship alongside the massive silhouette of the Invisible Hand. General Grievous's flagship, compared to the other CIS vessels I had essentially memorized from scratch — studying their names and appearances like cramming for an exam, so as not to embarrass myself — struck even my untrained eye as excessively predatory, even for a warship. But today it radiated something genuinely oppressive. The moment the Kom'rk glided into the hangar and locked into the magnetic clamps, I felt it — that familiar, cloying pressure of the Dark Side.
Something inside me tightened involuntarily. The emotions I had buried so carefully after the chaos on Mandalore began to stir again, responding to a new external irritant. Anger at Dooku for cutting the operation short. Resentment at being pulled around like a puppet on strings. I had to stop on the ramp for a moment, drawing a slow breath of filtered air.
Suppressing emotions down into the depths felt... wrong somehow. That was the Jedi method, wasn't it? The difference was that they were afraid to touch the Dark Side at all, whereas I wasn't. Touch it, use it, then step back to safety — never letting yourself drift close enough to lose control. But true power couldn't be reached that way either.
I knew of another approach, though. I had seen it in the memories of this body — in Taalas's memories. Replace rage and fury with something else entirely, and use that as fuel in battle. Not the mindless berserker who throws himself into a fight for the sake of blood and others' suffering — but someone who fights to protect what matters to him. Or out of love, perhaps. Who knew? I would have to pursue that path eventually, if I wanted to survive in this world, because my current strength still wasn't sufficient. I had thought about this once before, a long time ago, but nothing had come of it then — the essential ingredient had been missing. Attachment, that was it. I had been afraid of that road because it risked making me weaker. But I was still human, and nothing human was entirely foreign to me. Did I really have to go on being a soulless machine that was barely distinguishable from the Jedi? Becoming an emotionally overwrought teenager was absolutely not my style — but this other way...
"Either way, this is not the time or the place!" I stopped myself, because walking into a meeting with the Count while all of this was simmering just below the surface was a liability — he would read every trace of it. I filed the thought away. A note to myself: if I happened to meet someone I actually liked... at least try to be a friend rather than immediately locking every feeling behind a door.
"Master, your 'master' is genuinely pathetic. Can I tell him so to his face and then eat him? We were just getting to the fun part — putting down those miserable Jedi — and he goes and ruins everything..." Kem rumbled threateningly as he followed me off the ramp.
I gave a short, humorless snort and left that without a response, heading toward the lifts. I still hadn't fully adjusted to walking through ships guarded by battle droids. Somewhere deep in the back of my mind, a reflex from a previous life was apparently still very much alive — the instinct that B1 droids in tan plating were enemies. And here they were at practically every turn.
To settle my nerves, I struck up a conversation with a pair of them and told them to fall in alongside me — I had enough access clearance for that much, even if I couldn't commandeer the whole complement. As we walked, I asked them to entertain me with funny stories. In my old world the AI chatbots had told terrible jokes, but B1s were comic relief in Star Wars, right up there with Jar Jar? As it turned out, no — they achieved nothing of the sort, and simply began bickering with each other, each accusing the other of being the stupider one. I dismissed them before long; if the Count had seen that particular procession, I wasn't sure what conclusions he would have drawn. The rest of the walk to Dooku's private quarters passed in complete silence.
When the doors to his reception room slid open without a sound, I found him at the panoramic window. He stood with his back to me, studying the scatter of stars beyond, and there was something almost theatrically deliberate about his posture.
"You arrived on time, Brute," he said without turning. His voice was dry, stripped of any warmth. "Your work on Mandalore was satisfactory. However, you also approached the assignment with a certain... excess of enthusiasm."
I inclined my head in a show of deference. There was nothing to be gained by defending myself — and nothing worth defending.
"My blade and my mind are always at your service, Count. I am here to carry out your will."
Dooku finally turned. His gaze cut straight through me, and I could feel him testing the invisible mental barriers in my mind, probing for weaknesses. Whatever he found appeared to satisfy him.
"The Confederacy Senate on Raxus is preparing to vote on the Military Ministry Powers Expansion Act. The corporations are demanding greater control over budgets to accelerate fleet production. Formally, you are being appointed as a Special Security Attaché — a junior diplomatic post. Your task is to ensure the session proceeds without incident."
I gave an almost imperceptible nod. That sounded like a considerable amount of tedious work: coordinating security details, reviewing protocol compliance, checking clearances — most of it would fall on me, if the political structure I had read about in a paid HoloNet article some time ago hadn't changed significantly. Sending a Force-sensitive to such an assignment would be an unreasonable waste of a valuable asset — to put it formally, in keeping with the tone of my new position. Though Dooku wasn't angry enough with me to bury me somewhere pointless without a real purpose attached.
"I assume, however," I began carefully, "that 'security' as you define it involves rather more than checking the perimeter?"
The Count allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his features — I caught it clearly in the reflection of the window. "You are perceptive. Among the senators, certain... unacceptable wavering has emerged. A number of individuals with a considerably problematic outlook, led by Mina Bonteri, have decided that the war is too costly and that the influence of the Trade Federation and the Techno Union has grown excessive. They are obstructing the passage of the bill. These particular... voices will need to be silenced. Permanently — or at the very least, persuaded to change their position quite dramatically. Be subtle about it, Brute. Grievous is far too blunt for work of this kind, and Ventress is occupied elsewhere. I need someone who can play upon others' fears without snapping the strings before their time. After all, no one wants unnecessary casualties among their own allies."
And there it was — the real assignment. Eliminate or intimidate the opposition while maintaining the appearance of a democratic process. Dooku didn't want to dirty his hands with an outright political assassination that might convulse Raxus, so he was asking his reliable Brute to "deal with it" in Brute's particular style. A convenient accident, or a sufficiently compelling threat that couldn't be traced back to him — that was clearly the expectation. Well. I had some ideas already, though I'd need to learn considerably more about this faction and exactly who was in it.
"Understood, Count. The opposition will come to appreciate the futility of their resistance," I answered without hesitation — a thoroughly clichéd line, but delivered smoothly — already sketching out in broad strokes how to turn this assignment to my advantage.
"Good. To support you in your duties and maintain the appropriate standing, I am assigning you a squad of MagnaGuards." Dooku gestured to one side, where four IG-100 series droids — if I was remembering their designation correctly — stood motionless in the shadows. Their photoreceptor eyes ignited with a flat red glow in the darkness. "They will serve as your honor escort, and in due time they will serve me as a measure of your capabilities. Please try not to lose them."
A textbook gift with strings attached. MagnaGuards were serious opponents even for a Jedi — especially when there were several of them. And that particular phrase, "try not to lose them," meant precisely one thing: if I ever needed to quietly, shall we say, scratch my nose without an audience, Dooku would know about it within three seconds in meticulous detail — where, at what hour, and with what force. The old man had clearly decided that I'd been disappearing off his radar too often on Mandalore, and was taking precautions.
Though, thinking about it, he would actually have been more suspicious if a Sith like me hadn't made at least some attempt to keep secrets from him — which was more or less what I was openly telegraphing to him right now. He was undoubtedly watching through the security feeds. If I hadn't pushed back even slightly, he would have convinced himself he simply couldn't figure out where exactly I was deceiving him, and started digging far deeper than I could afford.
"Most generous of you," I said, meeting the blank lenses of the droids without acknowledging his comment about "testing my capabilities." "I will depart for Raxus immediately."
"Do not disappoint me, Brute," Dooku said, turning at last to settle behind his desk and begin sorting through the documents laid there.
The audience was over.
Stepping out of the Count's office, I went directly to the hangar. The footsteps of my new "bodyguards" struck the metal decking in a flat, maddening rhythm behind me — less like an escort and more like a prison detail. Four MagnaGuards was admittedly a status statement, but it also made operating freely considerably more complicated. I needed to lay the groundwork for my own moves before the Kom'rk even entered Raxus's atmosphere.
The problem was that every standard communications channel aboard the flagship was monitored as thoroughly as Gunray's personal terminal. (Author's note: Nute Gunray — Viceroy of the Trade Federation.)
"Kem, I need to check something in our ship's navigation systems. Have the MagnaGuards wait outside," I said over my shoulder.
The droids halted. Their red photoreceptors blinked, and then the one who appeared to be the squad leader produced a series of mechanical clicks before speaking in a heavy, synthesized baritone: "We are required to maintain close proximity for your protection, Lord Brute."
"The only threat to me in the Confederacy flagship's hangar is your excessive diligence. Take positions at the entrance. That is an order." I let a thread of the Force into my voice — not to compel these machines, since they were beyond that, but more out of habit. Dooku hadn't prohibited me from commanding them, and hadn't explicitly told me to keep them at my side at all times, so there shouldn't be an issue. In fact, he would have been far more concerned if a Sith of my standing hadn't tried to keep at least some of his affairs private — which I was quite openly signaling to him right now. If I hadn't, he would have decided he simply couldn't identify where the deception was happening and started digging far deeper than was good for me.
The droids nodded in unison and took up positions at the hangar's blast doors. Kem snorted and brushed past them, nearly clipping one with his shoulder. "Scrap metal," he announced with evident contempt — but the guards ignored him entirely, and he followed me aboard with a disappointed growl after the failed provocation.
Once inside the Kom'rk, I sealed the ramp immediately. Time was short. I needed operatives — and they couldn't be anyone connected to Dooku, Vizsla, or the Trade Federation. What I needed were the kind of people commonly referred to as bounty hunters: professionals who asked no questions and would take any job if the pay was right.
I sat down at the terminal and plugged in a special chip that specialists back on Riflor had stripped down to components and rebuilt with several custom modules installed. It was the fastest and most secure way to connect to the R.G.A.'s communications network.
"Right. Let's see who's currently operating in the Outer Rim and isn't averse to dirty but non-lethal work," I muttered, launching an encrypted search.
The screen populated with a list of outfits. Most I dismissed immediately: some were too loud and sloppy, others were — judging by their reputation — full-on psychopaths, and a third category was in Jabba's pocket, which meant they'd sell me out the moment a better offer came along. Finally, I found a group calling themselves the Gray Shadows. Former security operatives from systems the Republic had simply abandoned to pirate raids years ago. Professionals with grudges against the entire galaxy, and — most importantly — with their own internal code of conduct, which reduced to one simple rule: "We don't care who the client is, not even if they're an anonymous tip from the HoloNet. You pay, we deliver."
Hiring them directly would be foolish. If Dooku ever traced the contact, he'd follow the money. The payment needed to be routed in a way that implicated someone else.
I opened an encrypted archive containing data I had borrowed — loosely speaking — from Trade Federation financial ledgers through one of their compromised factors on Mandalore. Nute Gunray and his associates were, as far as I could tell, pathologically obsessed with record-keeping, even when it came to bribery. Getting access to their shadow channels had simply been a matter of time and correctly applied Force pressure. They maintained thousands of black accounts for bribing Republic senators and funding questionable operations — I had only accessed a portion of them. But using one to hire operatives who would attack a Confederacy senator would provide perfect cover.
"Account number 88-412... Personal discretionary funds from the Viceroy for 'representative expenses' to CIS agents on Mandalore. It appears that Viceroy Nute Gunray will be sponsoring my little plan today, and his people won't even notice where the money went — since they won't remember discussing any of this with me." I allowed myself a quiet smile and began typing quickly.
The scheme would be multi-layered: funds from the Federation account travel to a shell company on Nar Shaddaa, then to a bank on a neutral planet, and only then arrive in pieces at the intended accounts — in this case, the mercenaries'. It could theoretically be traced, but it would take months to untangle, by which point the situation on Raxus would have changed three times over and no trail would lead back to me.
The connection established. A face appeared on the screen, obscured by static and sealed behind a blank helmet. "We're listening. Are you the client? Speak quickly."
"The job is straightforward," I said, my voice filtered through the vocoder, wearing the Mandalorian helmet Vizsla had given me. "Planet Raxus Secundus. The government district. The target is a sitting Confederacy senator — I'll confirm the identity later. The attack needs to be visible. Significant noise, a few shots in the air, an apparent kidnapping attempt. But the senator walks away unharmed. Not a scratch. Is that understood?"
The mercenary on the other end was quiet for a moment. "Attacking a senator in the CIS capital? High risk. Security there is solid."
"The risk is paid at triple rate," I cut in. "I'll repeat: you are not actually killing anyone. You are creating a threat. At a specific time, at a specific location. I will transmit the route later. Your job is to hold for three minutes until a 'rescuer' arrives, then disengage and lose any pursuit. Extraction plan follows separately."
"Three minutes of staged combat at triple rate?" The mercenary's voice warmed noticeably. "We're in. When do we receive the details?"
"Within a couple of days. And remember — if a single hair on the target's head is damaged, there will be no payment. There won't be much of you either."
This was walking on very thin ice. I had just hired people to stage an attack on a planet I was officially assigned to protect, using my own allies' money, to deceive my own handler and build trust with his internal opposition — who might not even think of themselves as such. If even one piece of this mechanism misfired — if a mercenary turned out to be too jumpy and actually put a bolt through the senator — things would get complicated, though I could always improvise: finish off the "assassins" myself and tell Dooku they were carrying out his orders all along.
"I smell something... mm..." Kem, who had been watching from the side, tilted his head. "You smell like a man who's lighting a fire in a hangar full of fuel. This sounds entertaining. When does the slaughter begin?"
"For the love of — relax, Kem. If everything goes according to plan, the only thing we'll be killing on Raxus is Dooku's credibility. And if I have to draw a lightsaber at all, it'll only be to look like a hero in front of the people I intend to use."
I wiped all traces of the session from the terminal, pulled the chip, disconnected the proxy relay that would prevent Dooku from tracing this transmission in real time, and exhaled slowly. Taalas — the original — would have approved of this, if he'd still been around. He had always had a taste for layered intrigue. But for me this was something more than a complex plan — it was an attempt to find people who actually believed in the Confederacy's founding ideals, rather than simply watching Gunray's ledgers. From what I remembered, Mina Bonteri's faction represented the only real chance of transforming the CIS from a coalition of corporate interests into something that could actually be governed without choking on its own rot — and eventually reformed into something better.
I stood and headed for the exit. "Time, Kem. Our iron companions have been waiting long enough."
The ramp descended. The MagnaGuards stood exactly where I had left them, motionless. If they were capable of thinking, they might have wondered what I had been doing inside for ten minutes. But they were instruments. As was I — for now.
"We're lifting off," I said, and despite the distance, the droids heard perfectly. In two synchronized bounds they were inside, arranging themselves in two lines along the walls near the exit. It would be satisfying to engineer a rough landing and let the turbulence sort them out... No. Too obvious.
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Only when the silhouette of the Invisible Hand had begun to shrink in the viewport did it fully settle over me — there was no going back now. An invisible line had been crossed: either I would succeed, or Dooku or Sidious would kill me — or try to kill me — the moment they understood who was behind what I was planning to do. Palpatine knew a great deal, and his intelligence networks stretched across the entire galaxy. But I was hardly without resources of my own — at the very minimum, I knew who he really was, which was the strongest card in my hand. If my back was ever truly against the wall, I wouldn't hesitate to play it openly. There was no fear, exactly — only the tight, electric sensation of standing at the start of something with no margin for error. A new game had begun, and the opening move was mine.
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Author's Note: Getting ahead of some questions — no, a romantic subplot with Mina Bonteri was never planned and won't be happening. But those early thoughts of the protagonist at the beginning of the chapter were included deliberately. I'm quietly laying the groundwork for a new character who will hopefully add some variety — Kem's campaign, while he has his own brutal charm, doesn't leave much room for dialogue or deeper story interaction. So, I've decided to create someone new from scratch for the romantic arc, which will also give the protagonist space to develop his abilities ahead of the confrontations with the galaxy's most powerful Force-users that are coming.