The docking arm between the shuttle and the dreadnought's airlock greeted us with a deafening hiss as the pressure equalized. A moment later, a heavy armored plate slid into recessed grooves with a grinding screech, opening a path into the ancient warship.
Inside, dense, stagnant air awaited us, saturated with the old stink of burnt insulation and machine oil that probably hadn't been changed in several thousand years. Elara immediately coughed, burying her face in the crook of her elbow, while Kem simply inhaled the dry air noisily through his nostrils and gave an approving growl about how "at least it smells like a real war in here." Whatever that was supposed to mean, because there clearly hadn't been any fighting aboard this ship for a very long time.
Shaking my head, I started forward first, and the others reluctantly followed behind me.
We moved through the narrow, angular corridors of the Core Guardian, our boots crunching over flakes of oxidized metal and old paint that had peeled away from the bulkheads under centuries of gravitational strain. The only illumination came from scattered emergency lamps that flickered to life with a dim amber glow as we advanced, responding to signals from Elara's handheld terminal. When we finally reached the command bridge, an enormous semicircular control room opened before us, lined with rows of recessed operator chairs and consoles built directly into the floor.
Honestly, I'd expected the ship to be run entirely by droids, but apparently things here worked differently. Maybe there really was an AI aboard—or at least some stripped-down equivalent—but integrated into the ship itself. Which raised another question: who maintained it from inside? That was something we still had to figure out.
Elara headed straight for the central engineering station, casually brushing aside the surprisingly thin layer of dust coating the controls before connecting her diagnostic tablet to the ship's primary interface. After several minutes of frantic tapping across ancient sensor panels, a deep vibration rolled beneath our feet. Judging by the muttering from my standard-issue ice pick, auxiliary reactors buried somewhere deep inside the giant vessel had reluctantly begun to restart.
The display in front of Elara erupted into cascades of system notifications written in an archaic dialect, and I watched her face rapidly pale in the cold glow of the newly awakened monitor.
"Brutus, I've got two pieces of news for you, and both of them mean we're going to sweat like hell if we want to privatize this tub for ourselves," she said without taking her eyes off the streaming diagnostic logs. "The dreadnought's automation systems are fully functional, and the gun crews are ready to open fire on command. But basic maintenance for a monster like this requires an absurd number of resources. Even in a relatively light engagement, keeping the primary shields and maneuvering engines online will burn through isotopes by the ton, and our reserves aren't exactly impressive right now. And that's not even mentioning modernization."
She glanced sideways at me, clearly trying to judge whether her little compliment would score points.
"No matter how monumentally this thing was built, too much time has passed. Too many new technologies have appeared. Bringing it up to the standards of modern warships would cost a fortune. And if we need to do it secretly..." She let out a tired breath. "Then it'll cost even more."
I stepped closer to the observation screen, studying the colossal scale of my new acquisition and mentally comparing it against the warehouse packed with obviously rare and valuable metals. It was an incredible tool.
One I couldn't openly use. Not yet.
Palpatine almost certainly monitored every disturbance in the Banking Clan's financial flows through hidden agents. The moment I made even a single large-scale purchase of fuel or equipment for the Deep Core; Darth Sidious would flag the anomaly and redirect Republic resources toward investigating it.
So, what was the answer?
Simple. It's easiest to fish in muddy waters. What I needed was a loud, powerful, completely uncontrollable factor operating on the wider galactic stage—something capable of tying the hands of both the Jedi Council and the Sith Lord himself.
Digging through my memories of the canon timeline, I quickly found the perfect candidate.
Darth Maul.
If I remembered correctly, he was currently losing his mind somewhere on a garbage world called… hm… Lotho Minor. Right. I remembered because the name always sounded vaguely connected to lotteries. Fine. That could wait until later.
Right now, we needed to legalize our assets.
"It'd be nice to get our hands on some money sooner rather than later, wouldn't it?" I muttered to myself while weighing the options.
In truth, there were only two.
Either hand everything over to the R.G.A.—they'd expanded enough by now, and we even had a couple of "bankers" among our ranks, though in reality they were little more than clerks—or rely on our respected unwilling ally, Baron Aurelius.
"Elara, are you thinking the same thing I am?"
In an excellent mood, I dropped into the lone captain's chair, leaned back as far as it would go, and folded my hands behind my head.
"What?" she replied absently, not even looking up from digging through the mechanical guts of my new flagship. *
*Flagship only because there weren't any other ships remotely comparable in size yet.
"If we contact someone from here… Honestly, I'm surprised we even have signal out this far. But won't that expose our location to the recipient? You're going to do those 'hacker' tricks of yours and encrypt everything, right?"
After stoically enduring my question, the girl let out a heavy sigh and shot me such a deeply judgmental look that the answer was obvious.
Apparently, she'd already handled it.
Not wanting to distract her further, I turned my attention to configuring the Core Guardian's communications array instead, which took me… let's say, quite a while. Technology and I have never exactly gotten along. Especially ancient technology, even if the interface itself looked deceptively simple.
"I'm listening."
The moment Aurelius saw my smug grin, he winced like a man suffering from a toothache, but to his credit, he didn't cut the transmission. He simply waited patiently for me to speak.
"I've acquired… a considerable number of assets in various precious metals. Most likely genuinely precious ones, though they still need proper evaluation. I'd like to ask for your assistance with a small business arrangement."
I paused deliberately.
"Let's say that in a couple of days, one of my people delivers several crates for appraisal. You'll sell them quietly and attract as little attention to the operation as possible. We can negotiate your percentage once we know exactly what we've found."
As the details sank in, the baron no longer looked quite so miserable. If anything, he even perked up a little. Still, he wisely refrained from asking unnecessary questions. He merely nodded once, gave a curt, "Understood. I'll await delivery," and terminated the transmission.
Naturally, this wasn't the kind of conversation you wanted to have over an open comm channel. Alongside the ore, I'd also send information regarding the promissory notes currently in my possession. That part would become the R.G.A.'s responsibility.
It would also serve as a useful test.
I'd hand them all the information I had, including these coordinates, and let them sort things out with Aurelius themselves. Surely someone among them understood economics far better than I did.
Of course, leaving everything entirely to chance wasn't ideal. I intended to evaluate the effectiveness of their work afterward.
This would be the final test before the active phase of the plan began.
XXXXXXXXXX
We descended aboard a cargo lift that groaned and shuddered every time it passed between decks, until it finally stopped at the level of a massive engineering hangar. Here, among towering stacks of containers coated in a thin layer of dust—the ship's purification systems were apparently still functioning at a minimal level—and rows of stripped-down starfighters of obsolete designs, a predatory, angular silhouette rested beneath a static containment field in the farthest corner.
According to the ship's logs, it was a mothballed Sith infiltrator: a reconnaissance craft coated in a special ion-masking alloy capable of absorbing virtually all emissions.
I stepped closer, running my hand along the cold, dark metal of the fuselage.
For me personally, this beauty was worth far more than the entire automated cruiser housing it.
After a basic diagnostic sweep and interior inspection, it turned out that the infiltrator's stealth systems operated on some kind of "spectral displacement principles," whatever the hell that actually meant. That part still needed testing, but at least theoretically, modern Republic and CIS sensors—calibrated to detect conventional thermal signatures—should be completely incapable of tracking this красавица through space.
At least, that was what Elara assured me after reviewing the specifications. She wasn't exactly an expert on spacecraft, but she still understood them far better than I did.
Put simply, this little ship gave me complete freedom of movement across the galaxy right under the noses of the warring factions, allowing me to begin the operation to recruit Maul with virtually no risk of detection.
Still, one thing at a time.
If I went after him now, I'd almost certainly end up in a brutal fight. As far as I knew, Maul currently resembled a feral animal more than a rational being. Which honestly wasn't surprising. If you'd literally been cut in half and survived purely through hatred and the Dark Side, you'd probably end up insane too.
What impressed me far more was that he'd eventually managed to regain control of himself at all—at least enough to direct those darker impulses toward actual goals.
But that came later.
Right now, if I wanted to turn Sidious's former apprentice into an effective weapon capable of tearing apart the plans of both his former masters, I first needed to restore his shattered mind.
As far as I knew, the only force in the galaxy capable of performing that kind of mental reconstruction—without already being my enemy—was Mother Talzin.
Unfortunately, the Nightsisters of Dathomir were not exactly famous for altruism.
If memory served, they despised both Sith and Jedi with equal passion, which meant showing up empty-handed would be roughly equivalent to volunteering as ingredients for their witchcraft rituals. Or whatever it was they did with handsome men like me.
Even if death by snu-snu probably ranked among the better possible outcomes, it still wasn't part of my immediate plans.
So, in search of suitable bait for the Dathomiri witches—and absolutely not out of juvenile curiosity—I boarded my new ship, coordinated the flight path with Elara, and headed back toward the station. Along the way, I tested the infiltrator's systems, which at the very least remained invisible to the sensors of the ancient autonomous vessel. Not exactly definitive proof, of course, but still promising.
The warehouse contained several sealed storage chambers. Two of them had been crudely broken open long ago and were nearly empty.
Those immediately caught my attention.
Even during my first pass through the area, I'd sensed something familiar coming from inside.
The room contained dozens of small pedestals where the most valuable objects had once been stored beneath autonomous stasis fields. Judging by the remnants and the lingering atmosphere saturating the chamber, this place had originally housed Sith artifacts.
Why some unknown Sith had taken only part of the collection while leaving behind crates of precious metals was impossible to know now.
Maybe he would've cleaned the place out entirely, but his ship couldn't carry everything. Maybe he'd been rushing off on a mission and didn't want the enemy claiming these treasures if he failed. Then maybe he died somewhere afterward, and all knowledge of this place vanished with him.
Either way, I was interested in what the ancient Sith had decided wasn't worth taking.
To be precise, there were only four items left.
The first was a heavy metal case sealed with a mechanical lock engraved with Sith runes. Standard hydraulic tools couldn't force it open. Only after calling on the Force and carefully manipulating the inner mechanisms by hand—listening to the dry clicks of ancient locking pins—did I finally manage to unlock it.
Inside the container, buried beneath a layer of dry protective filler, lay an old tome on dark alchemy. Judging by the annotations, it contained formulas related to the biological modification of living tissue.
The remaining pedestals held three large, uncut Force crystals pulsing with a faint crimson glow.
While I worked on disabling the stasis fields surrounding the crystals, Kem examined the opened case with obvious disgust, inhaled sharply through his nose, and muttered something about how "those pages stink of rotten Sith tricks," adding that he even recognized some of them.
For my predecessor—and honestly, for me as well—this occult garbage had little practical value.
But for the Nightsisters' blood magic, artifacts like these were priceless and extraordinarily rare resources. In theory, valuable enough to purchase Mother Talzin's loyalty.
Maybe I was indulging in wishful thinking.
But what other options did I have?
Go beg Exar Kun to lend me a holocron? Sure. Then he'd probably ask where his "vessel" was, since I'd promised to bring one and never delivered.
So, the rough outline of the plan looked something like this:
Bribe the witches with rare artifacts and materials. Restore Maul's mind. Then point him—preferably with my assistance—straight at Sidious and let him drown the galaxy in blood while the Sith Lord scrambles to contain the disaster.
Actually, I should probably verify whether the half-mad Zabrak even knows his former master's real identity. If he does, then in a worst-case scenario, exposing Sidious could become an excellent way to throw the Republic into chaos.
Though ideally, I'd rather not resort to that option too early.
I already had a much more refined plan for dealing with that situation.
So, after confirming that Elara had transmitted all relevant information about my future plans to the R.G.A., I boarded the Sith infiltrator once more—still undecided on a name for the ship—and picked up our Ice Pick from the autonomous vessel. Elara had already finished rewriting its systems and hardening it against intrusion attempts as much as possible.
Naturally, she'd also transferred the new active access codes and all related operational data to the R.G.A. for future use.
Let them handle the organizational side of things themselves.
I was far more useful in the field.
Flying somewhere dangerous. Causing problems. Reinforcing critical operations. Handling missions where people were likely to die.
But managing a massive organization?
Absolutely not.
Better to remain their symbol—and keep an eye on things to make sure nobody steered the whole enterprise in the wrong direction.
XXXXXXXX
After completing the second round of loading, I finally squeezed back into the infiltrator's narrow cockpit, while Kem shoved his massive frame into the adjacent crash couch with a dull growl, making the old metal braces creak pitifully under his weight. Unfortunately, Elara preferred her calculations to our company, remaining in the small common cabin and continuing to pick apart her datapads.
My fingers settled awkwardly onto the central console, activating the ship's reactors. The engines answered with a deep, vibrating hum that rolled through the entire hull from the nose section to the main engine nozzles. Thankfully, every switch and button was clearly labeled. After a few tense seconds, the ancient onboard systems finally displayed a steady green readiness signal.
I smoothly pushed the accelerator lever forward, and the infiltrator gently detached from the platform's magnetic clamps, slowly drifting out through the opened hangar doors of the Core Guardian and into the raging sea of cosmic radiation beyond. Warning symbols instantly flared across the main display, reporting critical gravitational stress caused by the dangerous proximity of two dying stars whose invisible pull threatened to tear apart any careless vessel.
Without wasting time, I flipped a cluster of switches on the upper panel, activating the specialized stealth field that completely masked all thermal, electromagnetic, and ionic emissions from our engines. At that moment, I imagined the ship must have simply vanished from the sensors of the Phantom shuttle and the station's monitoring systems alike, dissolving into empty space as though it had never existed at all. I twisted the controls hard, guiding the invisible scout ship through a narrow safe corridor in the dense asteroid field. Then, after loading the route calculations and waiting for the navigation system to generate a viable path, I yanked the hyperdrive lever with an almost perfectly steady hand.
Well, what can I say? I hate spaceflight.
Beyond the panoramic canopy, the familiar blackness of space dissolved into the shimmering blue-gray haze of hyperspace. The tunnel's flowing light wrapped smoothly around the hull while the onboard computer displayed our estimated arrival time to Dathomir, confirming that the engines were functioning within normal parameters and that the navigation systems had successfully plotted a route around major gravitational anomalies.
I leaned back into the rigid pilot's chair and finally allowed myself to relax my stiff shoulders a little, mentally reviewing recent events and analyzing our first tangible successes.
So far, everything was unfolding almost perfectly in our favor. Every major piece on the galactic chessboard had moved exactly as I expected. Count Dooku had completely swallowed the hastily invented legend about the mythical "Prophecy of the Void" and was almost certainly wasting valuable agents and resources searching for a nonexistent artifact in some forgotten sectors of the galaxy. The InterGalactic Banking Clan, with a little help from Orelius, would soon be firmly in our grip thanks to ancient but still extremely useful blackmail material, guaranteeing the R.G.A. a constant flow of untraceable credits and heavy equipment. Our base in the Deep Core remained completely secure beneath the guns of the reprogrammed automated dreadnought, which meant the first phase of preparations for overthrowing the Confederacy's leadership had already begun successfully.
Behind me, Kem shifted heavily in his seat, trying to find room for his enormous knees inside the cramped cockpit of the reconnaissance vessel. He let out a loud breath and stared at the blinking indicators on the technical panel.
"This metal box flies smoothly enough, Master, but this silence of space is already driving me insane," the Dashade rumbled, lazily scratching at the plating of the passenger couch with one claw. "At least on Dathomir there'll be someone to carve apart, right? Or are we once again going to sit around trading scraps of rusty gold and ancient papers that already make my jaw ache just thinking about them?"
"You'll have plenty to do on Dathomir, Kem. The locals hate uninvited guests and test every outsider with exceptional brutality," I replied without turning around, simultaneously checking a small instruction manual on my datapad and adjusting coolant flow to the generator's right field circuit. "Just don't start swinging that cleaver of yours before I give the order. At least not until I finish bargaining with their chief witch. Otherwise, we'll have to fight our way off that planet through every hostile creature in their wilderness."
The Dashade grunted in agreement and closed his yellow eyes, instantly slipping into that strange half-sleep state of his where he still somehow remained fully ready to spring into combat at the slightest sound.
Meanwhile, I returned to studying the infiltrator's technical logs, checking the stability of the stealth systems that were currently absorbing even the smallest thermal and radiation traces from our reactor.
Suddenly, the routine flight status was interrupted by strange behavior from the auxiliary navigation console to my left. The narrow panel, built by ancient Imperial engineers, was directly linked to a specialized gyroscopic system designed to react to fluctuations in local mental fields and concentrations of the Force in surrounding space.
Listen to me talking like an expert now, huh? Amazing what reading a few smart books can do.
The panel emitted a faint metallic chirp resembling a malfunctioning pressure sensor, while crimson symbols written in the formal Sith dialect began flashing chaotically across the matte display.
I stiffened instantly, leaning closer to the monitor and rapidly scanning the incoming telemetry data, which at first glance looked like nothing more than a systems glitch caused by centuries of storage. But the physical readings told a different story.
The external sensors had detected a brief yet impossibly dense surge of Dark Side energy originating somewhere in the Outer Rim. The pulse was so powerful that even the hyperspace tunnel failed to fully dampen it, causing the analog gauges to freeze at their maximum readings for a split second.
Cold sweat instantly formed on my forehead as I realized the true meaning behind that fleeting disturbance in the galaxy's energy field.
My recent actions in the Deep Core — accessing ancient command codes, restarting the Core Guardian's reactors, activating the infiltrator's systems — had inevitably created ripples in the Force. Tiny ones, perhaps, barely noticeable to most living beings.
But there was at least one man in the galaxy paranoid and sensitive enough to notice even such a faint disturbance at the edge of his perception.
Right now, somewhere inside his vast office on Coruscant, Darth Sidious had almost certainly paused in the middle of reviewing yet another ministerial report and turned toward the darkness outside his window, carefully analyzing the sudden tremor in the Force. Chancellor Palpatine had spent far too many years constructing his perfect Clone Wars scenario to ignore strange anomalies emerging from a long-dead and abandoned sector.
The Sith Lord had just realized that a new piece had suddenly appeared on his carefully arranged chessboard — a piece completely outside his control, one that obeyed neither his will nor the rules of his game.