Lying in my quarters aboard my new flagship—a Hammerhead-class cruiser named the Wanderer—I lay on the hard bunk, eyes closed, letting the Force flow through me.
I was releasing the tension of the past few days, finally allowing my body to relax.
There was no need to chase someone, rush somewhere, constantly expect an attack.
Now, only the lights of hyperspace and the upcoming leave on Ord Pardron awaited.
Not everyone appreciated the Elder’s actions.
Transferring to a Jedi general more than fifty ships, not inferior to the Acclamator in either strength or speed.
That would sting anyone.
Four cruisers—Courageous, Majestic, Inflexible, Fearless—and the most damaged Warrior remained in orbit of Christophsis, along with the entire fleet of Thrantas.
I had to make a grand gesture to the “donors” and return part of the ships.
After all, five cruisers and thirty-five corvettes were a force the CIS would have to reckon with.
And they would think seven times before planning another attack on the planet.
Bailur was already rubbing his hands, deciding where to allocate the ships.
Just think—he’d already found crews and commanders.
A savvy guy.
But the Hammerheads wouldn’t fly anywhere except with my fleet.
Senator Fren Eisel—the nephew of the Elder who had been elected ruler of the planet—saw to that.
Something like a presidential republic was taking shape on Christophsis.
The newly minted senator had been telling a reporter about this and many other things a week ago—the same reporter who had aired the scandalous interview with Elder Eisel two weeks prior.
The second interview, with the system’s newly appointed representative to the Senate, stirred up the HoloNet news feeds.
Adding dividends to my popularity, in the form of public fame.
A Jedi who made the population of an entire star system fall in love with him… Recalling what had happened, I just smiled.
Everything had turned out as well as possible.
The grateful natives would eat out of the liberator hero’s hand.
And smart people who wanted to end up on top would always offer their services.
The Eisels were one of the minor oligarchic families.
They simply hadn’t had time to flee.
They sat through the entire occupation without a peep.
But afterwards, when the Separatist forces were finally defeated, they contacted me.
Well, I thought that Zho Ptar, whose brains had been soaked by Force Persuasion, would have to bleat in front of the holocameras.
But everything resolved much more simply.
I admit, the guys are true patriots of their system.
The battles had barely died down, and they were already asking for support to become the new government.
I agreed to support them in exchange for my own demands.
We were both satisfied.
Shirano and practically the entire contingent of Rendilians were not opposed to taking new citizenship.
In fact, all power in the system belonged to the Self-Defense Fleet, led by Shirano, and the Self-Defense Forces, led by Shea.
They would keep an eye on the nominal government.
Whose tasks were only to get their percentage from profitable contracts and not forget to take care of the planet.
Whatever pragmatic plans I had for Christophsis, they would fall apart if the planet continued to lie in ruins.
Now, thanks to propaganda and my actions on the planet, my legion was literally bursting with militiamen.
As I was leaving, I literally had to beg half a million men and women aged 15 to 50 to stay on the planet.
In the depths of each Hammerhead, a battalion was flying to the sector army headquarters.
And only ten cruisers carried clones.
I had lost more than half of my guys.
But the rest were battle-hardened monsters who feared nothing.
We had almost no GAR equipment left—and what remained, I wrote off as scrap.
Vizla would find use for that property.
After all, they had to train the Self-Defense Forces on something.
They still had to supply me with trained and drilled militiamen.
Of whom there were another two and a half regiments on the remaining Hammerheads.
Of course, they were armed with whatever was available—Republican weapons, to avoid problems, I had strictly allocated only to the clones.
The clones… I had given Alpha my word that I would tell him everything, but after arriving at the base.
I had shared general information—about Palpatine, the clone army, the upcoming Sith coup, and the building of a resistance stronghold.
The clone seemed to believe me.
So, perhaps, under cover, I could scan him and find out if that damned chip was there or not.
On Ord Pardron, I had a lot of routine work ahead.
I didn’t even want to think about it.
But one thing I knew for sure—the legion deserved some leave.
At least a week of R&R.
Didn’t the guys deserve a break after such a meat grinder?
Though… from a legal standpoint, clones were completely rightsless beings.
Property of the Jedi Order.
Or the Republic—I didn’t remember exactly when the Jedi handed the army over to the politicians.
I also needed to find time to slip away to Odessen.
I hadn’t bothered to acquire encryption equipment, so I had no desire to risk maintaining a holocall with the base.
Glancing at the chronometer, I figured I could sleep for about six hours.
Half an hour before arriving at headquarters, the system would wake me up.
* * * Captain Aeon Kreeves, standing on the bridge of his Acclamator, silently watched as the Separatists once again slapped the Republic’s forces in the face.
Though he appeared unemotional from the outside, inside he wanted to grind his teeth in helpless rage.
Aeon remembered the golden rule of command: “Don’t lose control.” In any situation.
It was terribly frustrating that, yet again for the umpteenth time in the past week, CIS mobile groups were making their raids on the sector army headquarters.
Yes, Ord Pardron had its own defense—a massive orbital station and a rapid reaction group of brand-new Venators.
But the war was mercilessly draining resources.
The destruction of the relief force for Christophsis had caused a terrible shortage of combat starships.
Now, the planet was guarded by only one Venator—the Moff’s personal flagship—and a couple of Acclamators: his own, the Victorious, and the recently arrived (though, truth be told, exiled, after his ordeal in the Phat system) Equalizer under Gilad Pellaeon.
Unlike the neighboring 12th Army, with its bustling Lantilles, Ord Pardron couldn’t boast orbital stations, platforms, or docks.
Despite its proximity to the Corellian Trade Route, the commercial vein in the sector wasn’t exactly gushing.
Of course, the proximity to Hutt Space created a certain commercial prospect.
But the Hutts weren’t known for the cleanliness of their deals and transports.
A small contingent of the Judicial Forces had chased local smugglers and pirates before the War, but without much success.
Some blamed the later Moff Bailur, some blamed the Corps itself.
Pirates had become more active with the start of the war.
Requests for help, distress signals from nearby systems, kept coming to the orbital base.
Smugglers, semi-legal traders, along with law-abiding merchants traveling the Corellian Trade Route, came under attack.
GAR command had sent down a task to the “Iron Spear” headquarters—deal with the pirates, ensure the safety of trade routes.
But so far, all the Moff had achieved was that traders started using the Ord Pardron system as a temporary haven.
No one had canceled the primary task of ensuring Kamino’s security.
That was why most of the ships entering the army left almost immediately, without lingering here.
The Moff didn’t risk incurring the displeasure of the Chancellor and the Senate, so the Kamino orbital group already numbered nearly a hundred new Venators and twice as many Acclamators.
And this while the other “hot spots” of the army were literally suffocating from a lack of ships.
The Ord Pardron system was literally teeming with ships of all descriptions seeking refuge from the ubiquitous pirates.
Not designed for such a flow of ships, the station was effectively creating a “traffic jam,” forcing ships to spend days in the system until their turn came.
It would seem that a small squadron, the powerful cover of a Valor-class orbital station—like the one that defended Carida—should have made the enemy think twice about whether to stick their nose into the headquarters system of the 13th Sector Army.
But after the first couple of raids, the pirates and the CIS realized that the defense forces of Ord Pardron could not protect the entire system, limited only to the planetary orbit.
Therefore, their raiding groups reaped their bloody harvest from civilians, destroying their starships on the system’s periphery, and slipping away as soon as patrol fighters or ships reached them.
The Separatists operated in small forces of three to four ships, primarily Munificent-class frigates.
These former bank escort ships had very serious armament, deadly dangerous for unarmed transports.
Especially annoying were the thousands of droid starfighters, like a swarm destroying small freighters and unarmed vessels.
The pirates, on the other hand, used obscure modifications of former civilian starships that would bolt at the sight of ARC-170 patrols.
Having jumped into the system, the pirates would attack, and upon encountering resistance from the duty ships, would flee back home.
The Separatists, however, did not shy away from brief skirmishes.
And so now, four Separatist frigates were preparing to slip out of the system, having done their dirty work.
They were finishing off a small convoy of Corellian-built heavy freighters.
The Equalizer and the Victorious were rushing at maximum speed to the conflict site, hoping that at least this time they could get even with the enemy for weeks of humiliation and endless slaps of transports being destroyed in the system.
The situation was, to put it mildly, abysmal.
Especially considering that on both Republic ships there were fifty former cadets from Judicial Forces training institutions, who were to continue serving as midshipmen on ships of the 13th Sector Army.
And these twenty-year-old youngsters were now watching as the Republic once again received a slap from its enemy.
The same enemy that the HoloNet news feeds portrayed as incapable of an adequate response.
Hutt’s breath!
Such a blow to the reputation… The last of the three transports burst into a yellowish explosion.
That was it; the quartet of frigates prepared to jump to lightspeed.
“A large group of ships is emerging from hyperspace,” one of the clone operators reported.
Aeon swore quietly.
The Separatists had called in reinforcements, apparently deciding that Ord Pardron would finally suffer the fate of being attacked by a full-fledged fleet, as had happened with some sector bases.
And now a couple of Acclamators would be flattened across the system… “Warn the base and the Swift,” Kreeves ordered for communication with the flagship.
But expectations were not met.
Peering at the viewscreen, the captain was astonished to see an entire fleet materialize in front of the CIS ships.
Not looking like typical Republic cruisers, they nevertheless opened fire on the Confederacy’s starships.
“The ships are transmitting Republic identification codes, sir,” the same operator reported.
“It’s Jedi Knight Rick Dougan from Christophsis.” Kreeves’s lips spread into a satisfied smile.
Twenty-two Republic ships against four CIS ships.
“Cadets,” he called out loudly, drawing the attention of the future midshipmen standing behind him.
“Now you will see how the enemy gets a good lesson for the future…” The ships’ actions showed a coordination that was still lacking on GAR vessels.
In groups of four to five ships, the newcomers—in which Aeon recognized ancient Hammerheads—concentrated their turbolaser salvos.
Almost instantly, the Munificent shields collapsed, after which the crimson salvos of the cruisers tore open the armored hulls of the frigates, turning them into miniature supernovas.
One after another, all four ships became a sea of debris.
The cadets behind Kreeves buzzed, sharing their impressions of what they had just witnessed.
Aeon understood their state of mind.
The 13th Sector Army, despite fighting across its entire vast territory, couldn’t boast many resounding victories.
Taking Christophsis was one of the few successes of late.
Returning Ukio to the Republic could also count as a success — rumor had it the Jedi Order had a hand in that.
True, all their successes had come to nothing — about a week ago, the planet had rejoined the CIS, once again depriving the GAR and the 13th Sector Army of a valuable food source.
Still, Kreeves forced himself to smile, right now it was worth enjoying the victory.
“Send out rescue parties,” the captain ordered.
The last thing they needed was those damned merchants starting to complain.
* * * To be honest, the time of my absence from Ord Pardron had done the planet good.
A large number of new structures had appeared around the base — mostly the outer perimeter of the base itself, with many hundreds of barracks to house personnel.
Arsenals, hangars for vehicles, fighter revetments, headquarters sections…
The base territory was no longer just a cave in the rock, but also a huge gray-steel fence enclosing a giant area.
At a glance — no less than half the area of the Jedi Temple.
And at a respectful distance from the base, Pardron City was taking shape.
Before the war, few civilians lived on the planet — something around a hundred thousand people.
They answered to the base commandant of the Justiciars.
Now, the affairs of the planet, as well as the entire zone of responsibility, were handled by Moff Bailur.
Perhaps it was the oppression by pirates and separatists that gave rise to a centralized civilian settlement, instead of hundreds of villages scattered across the planetary sphere.
Pardron City.
A grand name, certainly.
But in essence, it was a small town, though it had already acquired its own spaceport and supporting infrastructure.
To the delight of the soldiers from the base, the town already had a dozen or two cantinas and houses of ill repute.
A couple of large stores.
A small cultural district with a holotheater.
Despite the lack of skyscrapers — though I’d already noticed a couple of spots where they were clearly planned to be built — the town had its own unique charm, unlike the glitz of the Core Worlds’ cities.
Flying over the town in a shuttle, I made a mental note to visit there.
But for now — military matters.
I needed to report my arrival to the Moff, quarter my troops, and wrangle at least a short leave.
“I’ve seen better backwaters,” Kira remarked.
In the Force, the girl radiated slight irritation, a contrast that resonated against the serenity coming from Grell beside her.
“It’s actually our home,” Balda, bringing up the rear of the procession, said, offended.
“Not that we chose it, of course…” “We haven’t seen your base yet,” Alpha jabbed.
“Maybe it’s even worse.” The two girls exchanged glances and laughed.
“Keep telling yourselves that, guys,” Grell said through her laughter.
“You’ll get plenty of rest at our base.” “There are just no brothels there,” I reminded them.
“And you’re not allowed alcohol yet anyway.
You’re only ten years old!” With jokes and banter, our procession reached the army headquarters.
Stepping aside to let a clone in brand-new armor pass, wearing the insignia of a Senior Clone Commander, we ducked under the building’s arches, leaving the beginning rain behind us.
* * * Watching the strange procession leave, Senior Clone Commander Nyx couldn’t help but note their overall color scheme.
They were clearly led by a Jedi — judging by the lightsaber clipped to his belt.
An extremely strange Jedi.
In armor, with a face mask attached to the opposite side of his belt from the saber.
Over the armor was draped a matte-black cloak with silver trim.
Behind him walked two girls, dressed in gray-olive armor over black undersuits.
Armed with a pair of blasters, they gave the impression of bodyguards or mercenaries.
And the cloaks worn over their armor, the same as the Jedi’s, made it clear they were merely subordinates, matching their boss’s overall style.
Bringing up the rear was a pair of clones, not dressed in standard Phase-1 armor.
Though it wasn’t so much the armor that stood out as the black-painted armor elements with silver trim.
On the left side of each clone’s chest was some kind of insignia, but Nyx hadn’t had time to make them out.
He had arrived on Ord Pardron this morning.
His training on Kamino was complete.
Long, grueling drills on a special program had allowed him to rise above his initial position — battalion commander — and take command of an entire legion.
His instructors singled him out for his tactical mind, resourcefulness, and reticence.
Walon Vau praised him for his assertiveness, strength of character, sense of justice, and ruthlessness.
The instructor said he would have made an excellent commando, but Nyx had chosen a different path.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to catch the Moff.
First, the adjutant fed the clone stock excuses, until, finally enraged by the delay, Nyx promised to cut out his eye if he didn’t tell him where the Moff was.
The adjutant, a puny little thing, deigned to tell him.
Now, the Senior Clone Commander was making his way to the improvised Officers’ Club — a cantina on the base grounds where off-duty officers of the 13th Sector Army liked to spend their time.
Nyx had heard about this place in less than half a day.
A place where you could get anything you wanted — from booze to drugs and prostitutes.
Disgusting.
A warrior’s duty was to fight to the last drop of blood.
Not to party while war raged all around.
Especially not in the 13th Sector Army’s position — the enemy was pressing from all sides; clones, his brothers, were dying by the thousands…
No, this wouldn’t do.
He would get a legion under his command and depart to fight for the Republic…
What was this now?
A group of clones was coming toward him, escorting a Kerkoidian in handcuffs.
Holding their DCs at the ready, a platoon of clones moved slowly along the path toward the detention block.
But that wasn’t what caught the Senior Clone Commander’s attention.
“Sergeant,” calling out to the platoon leader, the clone beckoned him over.
As soon as he obeyed, Nyx poked a finger at his chest plate.
Like the armor of those two clones, the armor elements were painted matte black with silver trim.
But at least the infantrymen were wearing standard Phase-1 armor.
On the clone’s chest was a clearly visible pentagonal emblem with silver edges.
At the top of the emblem was a regular silver hexagon with a snow-white eight-pointed star.
Below the hexagon was a circle with four diagonal bands, in the center of which a white number “204” stood out.
“Who are you people, and why is your armor repainted?
What is this non-regulation emblem?” Like his instructor, the clone poked his interlocutor in the chest plate with each question, putting force behind it.
The sergeant silently endured his superior’s outburst, then said with dignity: “We are soldiers of the 204th Legion, sir,” the clone-sergeant introduced himself and his men.
“And this,” he touched the left side of his chest plate with feeling, “is our emblem.
If you have a complaint, take it up with Jedi General Rick Dougan, our commander.
And now,” the clone took his rifle in hand, saluting his senior, “allow us to escort the captured separatist general to the guardhouse.” * * * The Officers’ Club, as they grandly called the spacious two-story cantina with a panoramic roof, greeted us with loud music.
The dim lighting atmosphere in the establishment gave me the feeling of that very place where Obi-Wan had cut off a thug’s arm in “A New Hope.” Scanning the cantina with my eyes, I easily found the Moff’s colorful figure.
His adjutant, some timid little fellow, had ratted out his boss to us.
And, apparently, not just to us.
Looking closely at the faces and insignia, I noted with surprise that the cantina had a certain gradation for its clientele.
The lower floor was occupied by junior army and navy ranks.
At a dozen tables sat representatives of the junior command staff.
And also a rather sizable group of young ensigns, enthusiastically surrendering to the power of alcohol.
As it happened, the youngsters had occupied all the space near the stairs.
Eyeing their behavior and the volume of bottles on the tables, I realized with a sigh that a drunken brawl was inevitable.
But the second floor — the domain of senior command staff — army leadership, captains of capital ships…
Though I also spotted a couple of civilians there, whose mercantile class was unmistakable even behind expensive clothes.
Weightily and decorously, the father-commanders sat on leather sofas, sipping bright liquids from glasses.
The two floors were connected by a wide staircase, which, like a social elevator, divided the patrons into social groups of privileged individuals and workhorses.
Though, looking closer, I realized that more than the stairs, the floors were separated by a thick transparent ceiling-floor that muffled sound.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure in snow-white armor, briskly and actively ascending between the floors.
The figure radiated an aura of contempt and impatience, extreme irritation.
The evening was ceasing to be languid.
“Thanks, guys, I’ll take it from here.
Go to the legion, make sure everyone — including the militia — gets food in the mess hall,” I ordered the clones.
Without any sentimentality, the ARCs left the establishment.
Left alone (both Hands had gone to the quarters assigned to our legion’s command staff), I headed unhurriedly toward the Moff.
Bailur, like some petty tyrant, had concentrated all power in his hands.
Now you couldn’t even get barracks for a legion without his approval.
The question was, what did he need a headquarters for?
“I’m telling you,” a pleasant female voice reached my ear, slightly drawling from drink.
“That was a demonstration battle.
You can’t time an exit from hyperspace that perfectly.” The source of these conclusions was a girl.
Twenty to twenty-two years old, short in stature, with a pretty face and dark red hair hidden under a headpiece.
The girl’s eyes sparkled as she addressed half a dozen of her comrades.
They occupied one of the tables, nearest to the stairs.
And judging by the abundance of empty bottles on the tabletop, the kids had a good reason to celebrate.
“They just put on a show for us,” the girl continued.
“Mara,” one of the guys sitting at the table named her, “calm down.” The speaker shot her comrade a look full of indignation.
“Treuten, I don’t like being led around by the nose!
We came to fight, not to watch demonstrations…” At that point, I became interested, so, sharply changing my route, I sat down next to one of the clone lieutenants, lazily sipping from a mug…
what was that, caf?
Caf in a cantina?
Seriously?
Seeing me, the clone tried to salute, evidently noticing my affiliation with the Order, but I stopped him with a gesture.
Waving to the bartender and ordering myself some caf as well, I began listening to the continuation of the conversation with interest.
Sitting just a couple of meters from the group, I also briefly observed another scene.
The clone in armor, with the insignia of a Senior Commander, was saying something to the Moff in a restrained but furious manner.
The latter, lazily glancing around at his civilian companions from time to time, was clearly not happy with the conversation.
“We haven’t even received our assignments yet!” another ensign — slightly plump, with funny youthful mustache — retorted to the girl.
“What war are you talking about?” “The one the Jedi dragged us into!” the girl answered hotly.
Perhaps even too loudly.
Patrons at neighboring tables noticed the noisy group.
“Let’s keep it down,” suggested a fourth member of the team, a boy with curly blond hair, wearing fighter pilot stripes on his uniform.
A silent brunet, modestly sipping a cocktail through a straw, nodded in support.
The young ensign, with an aristocratic face, fine features, and short-cropped hair, stood up, interrupting his comrades’ argument.
The group fell silent, sipping alcohol from their cups.
“Let’s not quarrel,” the ensign suggested.
In an exemplary uniform, clean-shaven, he gave the impression of the most sensible person in the whole group.
Raising his glass, he proposed a toast.
“To our baptism by fire!” “To our baptism by fire!” his comrades echoed.
Finally, my caf arrived, along with a couple of cookies.
The clone lieutenant, as if apologizing for the youngsters, lowered his voice and said: “Forgive them, sir,” glancing at the ensigns with a certain sympathy, the clone returned to our conversation.
“They were on a combat ship for the first time today.” “Seriously?” I smirked.
“Yes, sir,” the clone nodded.
“I’m the commander of Blue Squadron of ARC-170s, Lieutenant Fredd, from the cruiser ‘Equalizer.’ Captain Pellaeon commands her.
And this group of greenhorns are our cadets.” In the back of my memory, the name of the cruiser’s commander stirred.
A very familiar name.
And a very promising name, I had to say.
“Well then,” I smirked.
“I guess they really do have something to celebrate.” Glancing at the youths and meeting the red-haired beauty’s eyes, I turned away, clicking for a waiter droid.
I was damned hungry.
And I didn’t want to talk to the Moff on an empty stomach.
The Force suggested that after talking to the Moff, my appetite would disappear.
* * * Teren Rogriss, a graduate of the Judicial Forces Academy, was one of fifty ensign interns invited to intern aboard the strike cruiser “Equalizer.” A first combat sortie, and here — a victory.
Before their eyes, the Republic fleet had destroyed a CIS battle group.
Wasn’t that a reason to celebrate a successful start to military service?
For almost a month, all one hundred of them — academy cadets — had languished here on the planet, carrying out minor errands and analyzing thousands of reports.
Now the internship was over.
Their entire group — ensigns — would receive assignments to combat ships and throw themselves into battle.
Their group of classmates — six academy students — weren’t the most outstanding.
The outstanding ones were those fifty who had interned on the Moff’s flagship.
Scions of wealthy families.
Those who hadn’t lifted a finger at the academy.
But they had honors patents and lieutenant ranks.
The instructors called Teren and his comrades “solid mediocrities.” “You’ll never become admirals,” they’d said.
“But the fleet’s best ships will be under your command.” Good executors — that was the maximum their mentors had predicted for them.
Teren looked at his comrades.
He was the unofficial leader of their group.
But each member was an interesting personality in their own right.
Mara Cross — an impulsive red-haired beauty.
Tough, unscrupulous.
She told everyone she aimed for a staff position, but her results in capital ship command disciplines…
to put it mildly, could put many to shame.
But regular disciplinary violations, a quarrelsome nature, and an intolerance for compromise prevented her from rising high.
Treuten Teradoc.
Always polite, calm, rational, excessively pragmatic.
He seemed unfazed by what was happening.
But he was the group’s safety valve, stopping them in time from actions that could have unpleasant consequences.
Amis Griff.
A joker and the soul of the company.
He tried to turn any conflict into a joke.
Not always successfully.
At just over twenty, he looked older than his peers.
And he was craftier.
Garven Dreis.
A born commander of anything that flew faster than a corvette and was smaller than a patrol ship.
A pure fighter pilot.
And, oddly enough, the team’s diplomat.
Only he could find the right words to reconcile his comrades in a conflict.
Ryan Torsil.
Always Dreis’s silent friend.
The same reckless small craft enthusiast.
And also a programmer from heaven.
Word had it he’d earned money for academy tuition through electronic piracy.
No one had ever been able to prove it.
Rogriss considered himself the group’s strategist.
His analytical mind, though inferior to Mara’s abilities, kept him in control always and in everything.
And that had allowed him, the only one in the entire group, to earn lieutenant’s stripes.
And, though he hadn’t told his comrades yet, he’d also received an assignment.
Unlike his friends, who faced an unenviable role at headquarters.
The newly minted lieutenant was thinking that, in general, he could eventually request his comrades be transferred to his ship — a brand new medical “Pelta.” And spare them the fate of staff rats.
He was just about to announce this when his pre-prepared speech was interrupted by the appearance of a stranger.
The man in the black cloak immediately caught Teren’s attention.
He wasn’t wearing standard uniform, but the guards at the entrance hadn’t even stopped him.
No, he’d walked into the cantina with his own security — the lieutenant had noticed a couple of brutes in unfamiliar armor before they left.
That meant only one thing — this man wielded great power.
Enough to disturb the Moff’s peace.
And, judging by his glances, it was the Moff and his entourage that the man was interested in.
Only one conclusion suggested itself.
This man was a Jedi.
And he had arrived recently.
Otherwise, the cadets would have seen him before.
In the time they’d been here, almost all the Jedi generals attached to the 13th Sector Army had been to headquarters and were known to the young lieutenant by sight.
The Jedi calmly settled a couple of meters away from them, one table over, engaging in an easy conversation with a clone pilot.
He glanced over at their table a couple of times, right when Mara was making drunken criticism of the GAR and the Jedi.
However, Teren didn’t miss that once, the beauty, the object of the entire course’s desire, met eyes with the Jedi.
And had been watching him ever since.
Sideways, briefly, but she didn’t look away.
“Guys,” she finally said.
“There’s a Jedi in the cantina.” The group stirred.
All sorts of rumors circulated about Jedi.
From kidnapping children to their supernatural abilities.
Word had it Jedi could turn invisible and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.
“Where?” Torsil perked up, turning his head.
Mara whispered the direction.
“Oh, Hutt,” Griff muttered, hiding his face in his hands.
“No way!” Dreis responded.
“That’s a Jedi?” Indeed, his comrade’s doubts were understandable.
This character didn’t look like a Jedi.
Armed to the teeth in armor that, by Teren’s estimation, cost no less than tens of thousands of credits, he looked more like a mercenary.
But the ensign preferred to trust his instincts.
“Be right back!” Mara exclaimed, shooting away from the table like lightning.
The nimble beauty left the table without a trace of shyness and headed straight for the Jedi.
“She’s crazy,” Teradoc shook his head.
“He’s a general!
He’ll brush her off like an annoy—” The ensign didn’t finish.
Before the eyes of all five, the girl, after exchanging a few words with the Jedi, sat down next to him.
The stunned friends could only watch as the impulsive beauty carried on a conversation.
Though, a couple of minutes later, she was already waving them over, beckoning her comrades to join.
The Jedi, pausing his meal, glanced at the group and also waved, saying, join us.
“If we get kicked out of the fleet,” Dreis warned, “I’ll strangle her.” The other four boys supported him with silence.
It all helps promote the story.