Jorj Car’das couldn’t call himself a smart man.
But he couldn’t be denied resourcefulness.
Very young, together with his friends, he set off to conquer space.
Naive, striving for knowledge, to grasp the infinite.
The events of five years ago, weeks of captivity among an alien race, had changed him.
Becoming domineering, harsh, demanding, he lost his boyish enthusiasm.
In half a decade, he managed to put together a quite respectable gang of smugglers — almost two hundred individuals scattered across the galaxy, with a dozen freighters — in the depths of the unfolding war, few could boast such scale.
Except maybe the Hutts.
But the disgusting slugs were busy with their own affairs.
The small volume of Car’das’s operations didn’t concern them — for now.
Watching their passivity, Jorj could already picture the faces of the underworld bosses he was preparing to topple from their dominant position in the galaxy.
Back in captivity, Car’das had gained invaluable experience from the alien commanding the defense unit.
Information.
That was what lay behind the powerful of this world.
Thrawn had shown him the power of information, and now Jorj never missed an opportunity to obtain any possible information.
Who knew when it might come in handy?
However, the appearance over Myrkr, where Car’das’s organization had its main base, of a huge warship, was news to him.
He knew the types of every Republic warship and those of their competitors, the Confederacy.
As did everyone in his organization.
This knowledge was necessary to understand who could be buttered up and who should be run from.
But here, Jorj was powerless.
The invasion of strangers, on whose behalf a pleasant-looking Twi’lek spoke, nearly ruined his deal with Booster Terrik.
A fellow Corellian, together with his partner, had interested Jorj with an offer to purchase ancient Jedi artifacts, which, as Jorj already knew, the Order would buy up, albeit secretly, for a huge sum.
Of course, he felt sorry for the pirates the newcomers had wiped out.
But how many times did you have to tell those Zygerrians that haste never leads to anything good?
And so it happened.
Car’das’s gang, Terrik’s crew, and a good dozen others returned their ships to the planet, awaiting further developments.
Myrkr had been used by galactic gentlemen of fortune as a temporary refuge for over a hundred years.
Over time, a small settlement sprang up where various guests could rest, make repairs, or get rid of loot.
Nothing supernatural — a couple of dozen residential modules, a refueling station, a couple of lousy cantinas, and clearings carved out for landing pads, forming a ring around the central building — Car’das’s own residence.
He had put more effort than anyone else into making this planet profitable.
And since his guys had a share here, why not have his own personal dwelling?
Nothing special — a prefab residential module, the space in front of which was covered with the local dirty-yellow sand.
On this sand now trampled all the ship captains, forcibly returned to the planet without exception.
Many had left people on their ships — just in case.
He, like the others, tracked the massive, clearly non-modern transport that had taken one of the free pads.
The two flights of Z-95s escorting it rose into the air and began patrolling the perimeter.
Jorj, among others, pondered who they would be negotiating with.
Unlike the mercenaries — and there was a gang of them, about a dozen, all armed, loudly speculating about who their new masters might be — he did so silently.
Few could afford to build such a ship — it was no less than seven hundred meters long.
And the number of turbolasers suggested it wasn’t a converted transport at all.
Booster Terrik paced impatiently on the sand, every now and then reaching for the blaster in his thigh holster, hearing a stray rustle in the nearby forests.
His partner, like Jorj himself, adopted a wait-and-see position.
The guests didn’t keep them waiting long.
At first, the smuggler thought he had run into Republicans — soldiers clad in snow-white armor, carrying blaster rifles, surrounded the settlement, herding into the center those who had planned to stay on their ships.
But, looking closer, he dismissed his theory.
No, these weren’t the infamous Republic clones.
Droids.
Clad in armor, with jetpacks on their backs, but droids.
Following them were Mandalorians — their armor was unmistakable.
Jorj strained his memory, recalling that there was a group among the Mandalorians — the “Death Watch” that supported the Separatists.
These could well be them — Mandalorians in the company of battle droids (and what make were they, anyway?) was a perfectly explainable reality.
But it wasn’t time to voice his hypothesis yet.
The Twi’lek had been broadcasting from the ship — and, as everyone knew, the CIS didn’t particularly favor natives of Ryloth.
Look at the Zygerrians, who filled their pockets with credits by shipping Ryloth’s inhabitants off to slave markets.
And so, as soon as the entire small population of Myrkr was gathered in one place, surrounded by an impenetrable wall of armed droids and Mandalorians, the very same Twi’lek stepped out from behind the latter.
Blue skin, a slender body, a cute face.
Jorj merely stated the facts.
The girl, dressed in a light jacket and tight leggings, wore two massive blasters on her belt that didn’t match her pretty appearance at all.
“Are you the one who captured us?” Booster asked demandingly.
“I won’t keep you here a minute longer than necessary,” the girl smiled.
“I have a mission on this planet,” she shared.
“And you will help me complete it.” “And then you’ll help us?” one of the mercenaries — a Trandoshan — remarked sarcastically, baring his teeth in a well-known gesture.
“Dibs, I’m first…” The next second, he fell like a log, with a smoking burn on his chest.
Under the silent stare of the crowd, the Twi’lek returned one of her blasters to its holster.
“Anyone else want to chat?” she clarified.
No candidates for corpses were found.
“Well, that’s excellent,” the killer approved.
“Let’s consider that you all agreed to help me and receive a good reward for it.” “What’s the job?” Booster Terrik broke the silence again.
The crowd, stunned by the previous swift execution, recoiled in horror from the Corellian.
This only amused the Twi’lek and drew laughter from the Mandalorians.
Jorj estimated that there were only two dozen of the latter.
But he had no particular desire to start a firefight.
“We’re interested in the local lizards,” the girl said, still smiling charmingly.
Then, looking at the bewildered faces of the gathered gentlemen of fortune, she added: “Ysalamiri.
My master is very interested in them, and is willing to generously reward those who work for him.” “And what if we don’t agree to catch them?” another bounty hunter asked, a friend of the one whose body was cooling on the sand.
Another shot rang out, and the galaxy was rid of one more scumbag.
“It seems the issue of payment is resolved?” the girl clarified.
Seeing no questions, the Twi’lek smiled once more.
“Get to work, boys.” * * * For lack of options, Car’das’s gang joined the ysalamiri hunt.
Honestly, Jorj was only superficially familiar with Myrkr’s fauna.
Mainly because of the vornskrs, which regularly harassed the camp, hoping to profit from the careless.
He had to organize punitive operations, exterminating the predators by the dozens, but the stubborn creatures, whose favorite food was the aforementioned lizards, always returned to their familiar grounds.
Jorj had no idea why the newcomers might need these little lizards.
The smugglers and other mercenaries were exhausting themselves trying to separate the lizards, whose claws were embedded in the trees.
The work was going badly.
The successes of Car’das’s men, who delivered the ysalamiri along with chunks of wood, were all the more noticeable.
What was the point of straining to extract the animal’s claws from the trees if the lizards would die without these perches?
The Twi’lek, observing the process, noticed this and called Jorj over.
“We could just saw down the trees with the same success,” she remarked, pointing at the massive fragments of olbio trees that the members of the Corellian’s gang were delivering.
“We need the lizards, not the wood.” “If you need the lizards alive,” Jorj warned, “you shouldn’t separate them from the trees.
While we’re prying their claws out, we’ll either kill the creatures or cripple them.” “Well, your competitors have no problem extracting the lizards from their perches,” she remarked, pointing at the bounty hunters, each dragging a pair of the slow animals.
Admittedly, the animals looked extremely emaciated.
“But my lizards won’t die in a few days from lack of food,” Jorj retorted and added: “Ysalamiri dig into trees and eat the young bark and shoots.
After that, they move to a new place.” “How fascinating,” the girl smirked.
Turning to the Mandalorian standing nearby, she told him to pass the useful observation on to the other lizard catchers.
“I think my master will pay you well for your foresight.” “Will the payment be the same?” Car’das nodded towards the two corpses, left on the sand as a warning to the others.
The girl followed his gaze and smiled.
“We need loyal and well-versed specialists in their field,” she said.
“Those scum… Consider it a favor I did the galaxy.” “And what kind of specialists are you looking for?” Car’das became interested.
“Pilots, engineers, soldiers,” the girl shrugged.
Seeing the astonishment on her interlocutor’s face, she added: “My master has ambitious plans, deep pockets, and his own view on the structure of the galaxy.” “Before, when people who disagreed with the structure of the galaxy got help from the Mandalorians, the galaxy drowned in blood,” the Corellian recalled.
The girl smiled again.
“You just need to choose whose side you and your people will be on,” she reminded.
Glancing at her chronometer, she returned her attention to the man.
“You don’t have much time left to think.
Get back to work, Jorj Car’das.
The sun is still high.” * * * When the Eagle arrived at its next destination, the Borodino was already waiting for it.
The dreadnought wasn’t hiding, drifting like a silver block on the orbit of a forest-covered planet.
Both ships exchanged greeting messages and took up synchronized orbits.
A thin stream of cargo traffic from the first Star Destroyer was supplemented by a carousel of shuttles and freighters from its sister ship, the Eagle.
Perhaps this planet was hosting such a large company of guests for the first time in four thousand years.
But before, on this very planetoid, the fates of the galaxy had been decided.
It was symbolic that it was here that the master ordered the foundation of his army to be laid.
Yavin 4.
Vette would recognize this planet out of thousands.
The place where Revan resurrected the Emperor.
The place where the Hero of Tython put an end to Revan himself.
The place from which the victorious march of the new Empire would begin.
“The Borodino has landed a ground team,” Lew, as always, had prudently gathered information.
“They are clearing the area and eliminating the local fauna.” “Equipment?” Vette inquired.
“The deal went through,” the Mandalorian confirmed.
“The equipment, the installation instructions — we have everything.
The Borodino is unloading the containers, but they don’t have enough ships.” “I think,” the Twi’lek looked meaningfully at Car’das and Terrik standing nearby, “we can help them.” Both Corellians, not tempting fate in the person of the blue-skinned warrior, made the only right decision.
“Credits don’t smell,” Terrik declared.
Jorj was inclined to agree with his fellow countryman.
After the exhausting work on Myrkr, they received offers they couldn’t refuse.
Those who refused were fed to the vornskrs.
Jorj and his gang, Terrik and his partner, and a good dozen others who agreed, joined the Twi’lek, who still hadn’t revealed her name.
Though, it didn’t matter.
Few could boast that their accounts were credited with a six-figure sum just from catching lizards.
Of course, Jorj understood that this was just a test.
A sort of advance to check the mercantilism of his new subordinates.
They were now heading to the Smuggler’s Run, but no longer as free fortune hunters, but as heralds of a new master.
In the smuggler world, fools don’t live long.
Those who took the money and didn’t return would be found by the Mandalorians.
And made a living example.
Whoever their mysterious employer was, he wasn’t afraid of conflict with the Hutts and, apparently, had deep pockets.
Jorj was curious who it could be.
A senator who fancied himself the new master of life?
Or another criminal consortium?
However, as Jorj’s life experience showed, as long as his pockets were full of credits, it wasn’t worth asking unnecessary questions.
“Well then, gentlemen,” the Twi’lek rubbed her hands together in anticipation.
“Let’s begin.” * * * Splitting the void of space with its wedge-shaped hull, the Tsesarevich dropped into normal space.
The dreadnought instantly bristled with dozens of cannons, ready to repel any possible attack.
But the ship was surrounded only by the void of space and the light reflected from the surface of the target planet.
“No ships,” Ashara shook her head.
However much the Sith Lady resisted, a separate task was found for the fallen Jedi.
And, it must be admitted, unlike Malgus’s assignment, the Togruta liked her mission.
Despite offers from other Hands, she took no living crew members on her mission.
Only Skywalker droids and R3-T7.
The little astromech droid, after a complete overhaul, had proven simply indispensable to her at the base on Odessen.
A jack of all trades, he could replace most of the loafers Hart had hired.
Gleaming with a new silver-gold finish, the astromech handled the most complex tasks the Togruta could entrust to him.
Bringing the ancient, giant military tactical holoprojector—which took up a good third of the free space in the War Room—online was entirely the astromech’s doing, no matter how much the noisy Rodian engineers argued, suggesting they dismantle the archaic device and sell it to some collector.
The girl thanked the Force that the astromech had been returned to Odessen after Dougan’s landing on Christophsis.
The little one turned out to be a pleasant conversationalist and quickly established a rapport with the base commander.
“R3,” the Togruta addressed the astromech.
“Mask the ship and take us into orbit.” The droid, connected through the information output to the dreadnought’s central computer, whistled a response and began transmitting electronic commands.
Soon, a cloaking field concealed the ship.
“Shall we land on the planet?” the girl suggested.
The astromech beeped contentedly, sending out another batch of orders.
The extreme automation of Sith dreadnoughts made having a crew a superfluous luxury.
R3, equipped with the most advanced heuristic processes, handled this task successfully.
But unfortunately, for full functionality, the dreadnought still needed a living crew.
During her time in the Imperial fleet, each Harrower could boast of carrying a hundred and fifty fighters, bombers, and shuttles on board.
The ship required a huge contingent of pilots and support personnel.
Unfortunately, Vitiate’s engineers had never been able to rid the ship of the need for living pilots.
Partly, of course, the Skywalkers could pilot shuttles, but maneuvering support from them was like using a bantha as a hound.
By the most conservative estimates, the ship required about four hundred crew members, of which only a hundred were command and control personnel.
Three hundred other sentients were that infamous aviation crew.
Having left the shipyards of the long-defunct Sith company that built the Harrowers, the dreadnought required 2,400 crew members and could transport just over seven thousand passengers to any point in the galaxy.
Each ship of the Emperor’s Ghost squadron had its own military contingent of 5,000 Skywalkers, whose tasks included boarding and counter-boarding missions.
As for the payload… well, the modernization had done it good—the ship could now transport up to fifteen thousand people with full combat gear and support equipment.
A reserve for the future, no doubt.
But the Togruta’s mission was not to destroy any planet.
She had returned to the homeworld of the Jedi.
Tython.
The ancient homeworld of the Jedi.
Thousands of years had passed since the ancestors of the Republic’s guardians settled here.
For centuries, the Sith dreamed of storming their enemies’ home and holding a bloody feast.
But they couldn’t finish what they started.
Darth Angral nearly succeeded, but the Hero of Tython stopped him.
A Jedi Knight who became the Order’s blade against the Sith Empire.
The man who slew Vitiate, his servant Revan, Vitiate’s true incarnation—Valkorion—and his children.
True, in his pursuit of peace in the galaxy, he himself didn’t notice how he became what he fought against.
The Emperor of the Eternal Alliance… a state that could have become the strongest in the galaxy.
But the Jedi lost everything.
First the Eternal Fleet.
Then the Republic’s support.
Even controlling the home of the Eternal Fleet—the planet Iokath—the Hero of Tython couldn’t stop what was fated.
Too humane to take the Republic and the Jedi by the throat, he doomed himself to destruction.
The Sith Empire, supporting its ally, lost most of its strength and, in the end, collapsed, burying forever the Togruta’s idea of a state that absorbed the best aspects of the Republic and the Empire.
At first, she thought the Hero of Tython could make this a reality… The girl nearly decided to leave her master to join the former Jedi… In the last days of his Empire, Valkorion and his servants found them.
The girl didn’t regret her choice.
The years of wandering with Lord Kallig ended as they began.
She found someone who would truly embody her ideals.
As a Padawan, Ashara was away from Tython when the Devastator arrived—perhaps the most successful superweapon the Republic had ever produced.
Combining numerous developments from Republic scientists, stolen by Darth Angral’s spies, this Harrower could turn any planet into a scorched planetoid.
Sometimes the Togruta wondered why the ostensibly peaceful Republic developed such a terrifying weapon.
But she found no answer.
Though right now, it would have come in handy.
The most humane one.
For instance, the Prison Planet.
By ionizing a planet’s atmosphere, this weapon turned any technology into useless scrap.
And, she had to admit—pulling such a trick on the main worlds of the CIS and the Republic could have ended the war in a short period.
But unfortunately, all samples of this humane weapon were lost—the prototype was destroyed by the Jedi, and the Devastator was blown up by Kira and the Hero of Tython.
However, the Emperor’s apprentice had at his disposal the Silencer—a flagship Harrower capable of destroying even the largest ships with its super-powerful cannon.
But her task was different.
Three dozen shuttles emerged from the hangars, carrying their contingent to the surface of Tython.
The planet, where the Sith had once indeed carried out a massacre, bore the imprints of the Dark Side, but not so critical that the Light Side was lost to this world.
The planet, of course, did not possess the harmonious balance of the Force that Odessen could boast, but it was still close to it in its saturation of the Dark and Light sides.
The Jedi ancestors valued this world precisely for its balance of the Dark and Light sides.
Over time, everything changed.
Light gained a dominant role on the planet, perverting the tenets of the ancient researchers of the Force.
Now, the planet seemed to be returning to its roots.
The Togruta wasn’t surprised to learn that Dougan’s goal was the recreation of the Jedi Academy on Tython.
The Emperor’s apprentice was interested in all the structures on the planet.
The Togruta’s responsibility was to clear the rubble, guard the buildings, and protect discovered artifacts.
Reading between the lines, the Jedi had extensive plans for the planet, and therefore Zavros’s mission was only the beginning of something larger.
The fallen Jedi understood that without special equipment and trained personnel, it could take years to restore the grandeur that had once existed on the planet.
Still, she wasn’t about to argue with orders.
The planet and the destroyer’s holds contained everything needed to create a mobile base.
Ordering R3 to land at a spot she indicated, she eagerly slipped out of the shuttle, running out onto the area covered with a thick layer of sand in front of the Temple.
The Jedi had left this planet tens of thousands of years ago, abandoning the concept of the Balance of the Force and succumbing solely to the Light Side.
But as soon as the Sith invaded Coruscant and destroyed the Order’s stronghold, the Jedi returned here.
She herself wasn’t yet born when the Jedi began resettling Tython.
Traditions held that the Order’s Council had meditated for a week before choosing a new home for the Jedi.
Guided by the Jedi Code, which called for not clinging to attachments, the Jedi didn’t copy the old ziggurat from Coruscant.
Instead, they borrowed Alderaanian architecture, erecting three massive dome-shaped bastions.
The girl looked at the still sturdy, though time-worn, buildings with hidden longing.
The central dome bore traces of cracks from hits by Sith munitions.
The two smaller domes, which she remembered housed the Temple’s main defense system, appeared more intact.
“Set up a perimeter.
Ensure the safety of the shuttles and buildings,” the girl ordered the approaching ‘Praetorian’—the ground contingent commander.
Bulkier than the others, painted black, the droid confirmed the order with a short voice command.
Contacting his subordinates, he organized the landing of the remaining shuttles with the Skywalkers.
Watching as small squads of Skywalkers scattered in different directions, the girl gestured for one of the squads to head inside the Temple.
Moving after them, the Togruta noted with a pang in her heart the time-worn pedestals where large carved wooden statues had once stood, revealing the interior of the complex’s main dome.
Bereft of any decoration or adornment, the main entrance to the Jedi abode resembled the maw of a huge animal, ready to swallow anyone who dared enter.
At the threshold, doubts stopped her.
She heard the clanking of metal from the reconnaissance squad and understood there was no danger inside.
It was something else.
Was she, a fallen Jedi, a minion of one of the Dark Council, the cause of more than one Jedi’s death, worthy of entering this sacred place?
How would the Force react to that?
But the Force was silent.
The girl, inhaling deeply, stepped under the roof of the ancient Jedi sanctuary.
* * * The New Forge greeted them with an oppressive silence.
Dozens of corridors, filled with light and devoid of the slightest hint of life.
No droids, no sentients.
Only the oppressive feeling of the Dark Side.
So palpable, as if it hung in the air.
Every room gleamed with brightness, lacking the dust and mustiness that might be expected from an abandoned, unused complex.
Atroxa felt the Dark Side flowing through her veins, kindling instincts, stirring her blood, calling for battle.
Malgus, walking beside her, felt the same.
The Lethan could literally feel the Sith seething inside with dark emotions.
His respirator drew in air with such force, as if trying to absorb the very emanations of the Dark Side.
The contingent of assault droids following behind them slowly but surely dispersed through the station’s rooms, taking control of more and more of the Forge’s territory.
Encountering not the slightest resistance, the armed squad from the Victory slowly but surely advanced toward the heart of the former Foundry.
“Any ideas how this happened?” the girl inquired.
Examining the Forge’s architecture, she couldn’t help but admit that the interior matched the common opinion of the Rakata as an aggressive, warlike race that once controlled most of the known galaxy.
Devoid of decorative excess, the station literally screamed to its visitors that it was built for war and tolerated no weakness from its masters.
“Revan suspected that the Foundry was something more than a droid factory,” Malgus replied.
“After capturing the station, we found many reports from his people describing the Foundry’s negative impact on them.
Depression, aggression, destructive behavior… Revan was by no means a fool.
As with the Forge, he understood that the Foundry was destructive to everyone except its masters.
The more actively you use them, the more they use you.” “Surely Revan, with his Force, couldn’t handle the Foundry?” the Twi’lek girl smirked.
“Vitiate never admitted it,” Malgus continued, “but I always suspected that all the time Revan was his prisoner, the Emperor did to him exactly what he did to us after the fall of the Eternal Alliance.” “You’re saying he turned Revan into his Hand?” “I’m saying he succeeded once,” Malgus cut in.
“I studied Revan.
His records here, at the Foundry, notes in the Emperor’s treasuries, Nyriss’s observations… Arrogance led him and his friend into Vitiate’s clutches.
May the Force judge me, but if what Revan did in the Republic—the Star Forge, his own Empire—wasn’t the Emperor’s plan.
Of course, the Jedi Archives could shed light on many of his actions, but the Order chose to forget him, erase him from history.” “But, nevertheless, he captured the Foundry,” the girl reminded.
“And planned to destroy the Empire with a robotic army.” “Threats to the Empire always made Vitiate act ruthlessly, without regard for losses, using every available force,” the Sith reminded.
“And this time, the Empire’s response to perhaps the most serious threat was the Dark Council’s intervention and sending just a small squad to eliminate Revan?
Don’t make me laugh, Atroxa,” Malgus shook his head.
“In the three hundred years he was the Emperor’s prisoner, Revan fell and again became his obedient servant.
Could he have hidden his thoughts from the strongest adept of the Dark Side of the Force for three hundred years?
No, he couldn’t.
None of us could.
Revan was only a man, and his will was in Vitiate’s hands for three hundred years.
No,” the Sith stopped at a junction, deciding which way to go.
“I’m more inclined to believe Revan planned to exterminate the Empire’s population to please the Emperor.” “That can’t be true,” Atroxa pointed randomly to the right corridor.
Malgus directed the droid squad into the left one.
“Revan escaped the Foundry and threw all his efforts into bringing back the Emperor’s spirit,” Malgus countered.
“Isn’t that proof of his loyalty?” The Lady Sith fell silent, pondering his words.
Meanwhile, their procession reached a massive armored bulkhead, which, unlike the previous ones, did not open as they approached.
Malgus, familiar with many of the Foundry’s systems, directed streams of the Dark Side at the door’s lock, which, once saturated, disengaged with a metallic clang, allowing the half-meter-thick doors to slide apart, letting the Sith inside.
Framed left and right by a colonnade of massive pipelines, the passage over an impenetrable void plunging into the station’s depths led them to a wide semicircular platform, from which a ramp led to a second level, framed by wide panoramic screens through which the Sith saw a quartet of Harrowers.
Three surrounded the last one.
Between the ships, white figures of Skywalkers scurried about, performing repairs on Malgus’s captured former flagship.
The Smiting Hand resembled a huge hive swarming with drones.
“Perhaps,” Atroxa said with a smile, “from here we’ll return, having gained one ship.” “Ominous forewarning.
If you return,” boomed a synthesized metallic voice from hidden speakers.
Malgus went cold, remembering who that mechanical voice belonged to.
With a frightening clang, the armored doors slammed shut, crushing several Skywalkers.
Malgus and Atroxa, back to back, ignited their lightsabers, expecting an attack.
The pair of assault droids remaining with them collapsed in an instant, felled by precise shots from a far corner of the Forge’s control room.
Then, in a combat stance, holding a blaster rifle and keeping the Sith in his sights, a rust-red droid stepped into the light.
“Gloomy triumph.
Welcome, meatbags,” said HK-47.
The red light of his optical sensors flashed, boding no good.
“Start talking.”
It all helps promote the story.