After meeting the young officers, I sat with an impassive face, listening intently to their names.
Through meditation, I had mastered not only someone else’s body but had also stirred my own memories.
So, much of what I knew about the Star Wars universe was again on the surface of my memory.
Teren Rogriss, Treuten Teradoc.
A pair of future Imperial admirals who would become military leaders after the Empire’s fall.
Amis Griff.
Another Imperial admiral.
Garven Dreis.
Ryan Torsil.
And here they’d delivered us future Rebel pilots…
Hearing such names made my eyebrows rise on their own.
Meeting future renowned military figures of the Empire and the Alliance like this, while they were still green boys…
That was priceless!
The only mystery for me remained Mara Cross.
Beat me, but I don’t remember that name.
“Sir,” Rogriss cleared his throat and inquired.
“How did you manage to orient so quickly and open fire on the enemy ships?
A couple of minutes’ delay and that would be it, they would have escaped.” I smiled.
How to explain to the kids that my ships were crewed by professionals drilled to automaticity?
Promising to tell them another time, I changed the subject.
“And what wind brought you to such a wonderful place as Ord Pardron?” “We’re academy graduates,” Mara explained.
“Before graduation, we were offered a transfer to the active fleet.
We agreed.
But instead of real work, we’re stuck with paperwork at headquarters.” “Is that so,” I smirked.
“Already itching for the bridge of a ship?
Can’t wait to spill some Sep blood?” “It’s not that, sir,” Teradoc hesitated.
“We didn’t study to rot in headquarters.” “Then what for?” the Jedi inquired.
The simple question made the kids hesitate.
Finally, Dreis said decisively: “We learned to kill the Republic’s enemies!” The Jedi looked curiously at the former cadets’ faces.
Lacking a more coherent answer, the youths supported their more resourceful comrade.
“You don’t need to study at the academy to kill an enemy,” Dougan said didactically.
“For that, it’s enough to put on armor, pick up a rifle, and join the infantry.” “But, sir…!” Mara nearly jumped out of her seat.
“Don’t interrupt your superior,” the Jedi said didactically and continued his interrupted thought.
“You are fleet officers.
Your boots will tread the decks of ships with crews of a thousand or more.
And your knowledge, your experience, your ability to make decisions could determine the lives of you, your comrade, the entire ship’s crew, and even the fleet.
Fail to fix a short circuit in an engine’s power module, and you’ll die along with its crew.
Miscalculate a course, and your ship will splatter across the surface of the nearest planet.
One careless word during a comm session, and the enemy will capture you, torture you to death, and extract whatever information they need.” The youths sat with their mouths hanging open in astonishment.
Clearly, such thoughts had never entered their bright minds.
“Your desire to take the bridge of your own ship is understandable,” the Jedi assured them.
“But ask yourselves — are you ready to bear responsibility for your decisions?
The result of a thoughtless action could be the deaths of hundreds of your friends…” The cadets sat, crestfallen.
From their frankly embarrassed faces, I could see I’d completely wasted this explanatory conversation.
They still didn’t understand that every wrong action was followed by bitter consequences.
And, given their age, they didn’t want to think about it.
“The General is absolutely right,” Fredd supported me.
“I’ve been fighting since Geonosis.
And I’ve seen the cost of command errors,” the clone stopped short, realizing he’d just given his opinion of the Jedi.
Looking at me, he said: “Sorry, sir, I spoke without thinking.” “But you spoke correctly,” I acknowledged.
“Geonosis showed us all what a lack of proper experience and hasty decisions cost.
Thousands remained there, and any one of them could be sitting with us at this table right now…” “I heard,” Mara said cautiously, “that nearly two hundred Jedi flew to Geonosis, and almost all of them died.
Were they unprepared too?
It was their operation.” “The answer to that question is much deeper than you think,” I admitted.
“Will you tell us?” a spark of curiosity lit up in the girl’s eyes.
“I’ve always wanted to know how Jedi think…” Fortunately, a waiter droid approached the table.
The situation allowed me to avoid answering.
“What else would you like, gentlemen officers?” The metallic servant’s synthesized speech stirred the kids slightly.
The first hesitant orders came.
Glancing upward, I noticed that the Moff’s expression, as he talked to the clone, had changed for the worse.
Bailur was obviously bored and seemed to be looking for an excuse to get rid of the insistent interlocutor.
His gaze wandered across the interior, demonstrating utter disinterest in the conversation.
“Droid, put all the cadets’ expenses on my tab,” I rose from the table, catching the Moff’s gaze.
Seeing me, he was first astonished, then a smile lit up his face.
With an unambiguous gesture, he invited me upstairs.
“Stay safe, future legends of the galaxy,” I shook each of the boys’ hands, and kissed the girl’s hand.
After that, I walked quickly toward the stairs.
Fredd, following me, said goodbye to the group and headed outside.
* * * “Future legends of the galaxy,” Teradoc snorted.
The guy looked disappointed.
“Is he mocking us?” “Shut up, would you?” Teren was concentrating on his order.
He decided he’d had enough alcohol for the evening.
A small dinner, then back to the barracks.
He needed to get some sleep.
In the morning, he had to report to headquarters and receive his first assignment.
“He was more courteous with us than he had to be,” Mara remarked, watching the departing man.
Then, turning, she added in a half-whisper, “Did you see how surprised he was when he heard your names?” “Really?” Torsil perked up.
“I didn’t notice.
I’d never seen a Jedi this close before.” “As for me,” Griff chimed in, “he was surprised we even had names.
Probably thought we were just numbers, like the clones.” Amis’ words sparked sharp protest among his comrades, and a low-voiced argument flared up between the young officers.
Teren cast a sideways glance at Mara, noticing that the girl couldn’t take her eyes off the Jedi.
She was unlikely to realize she was being watched.
Otherwise, her predatory gaze, her bitten lower lip, and her rapid breathing wouldn’t have betrayed such obvious excitement.
* * * The evening in the cantina, despite the absence of the fleet admiral and his deputies, was still a success.
Gilad was lounging in a luxurious chair, enjoying an alcoholic cocktail.
Across from him sat Aeon Kreeves — the commander of the Victorious.
Together they were engaged in a relaxed conversation, pausing occasionally to order new drinks.
The only high-ranking guest at the establishment was the Moff.
He had visitors.
A tight circle had gathered in a private booth, in the part of the second floor farthest from the stairs.
And for hours now, a private conversation had been going on.
The captain didn’t speculate about the substance of that conversation.
On the base, only the dullest person — or a clone — didn’t suspect what the Moff was really up to.
And in the context of clones, the captain didn’t mean they were any worse than anyone else.
It was just that those guys didn’t care about anything at all except what concerned their service.
If he told his crew, made up entirely of clones, that the Moff was moonlighting on the side, organizing security from available forces for major smuggler or Hutt convoys, every single one of them would say it wasn’t their business.
But it was his business — Gilad’s.
He didn’t want to rot here, a guard for a gathering of merchants waiting in the system for the Moff to allocate them escort forces so the Separatists or pirates wouldn’t pick them off along the way.
Out there, all across the Dafillevean sector, Separatists and pirates were in charge.
Dozens of garrisons were sitting without supplies or reinforcements, because most of the free forces of the 13th Sectoral were working for the Moff on the side.
This arrangement had become possible because all the light cruisers, frigates, patrol ships, and corvettes under Bailur’s command were crewed either by clones — who didn’t ask questions — or by green lieutenants from wealthy families who kept quiet while waiting for new ranks and positions.
No, of course, all this activity was covered by heavy operations across the entire area of responsibility.
Radnor, Mon Gazza, Roon, Molavar, New Cov, Filve…
Battles were being fought for every system.
The combat commanders simply had no time to deal with what was happening here, on Ord Pardron.
They were up to their necks in shit, waiting for help and reinforcements.
Which would probably never come.
At the moment, the 117th Legion was recovering on-planet — a unit that had barely managed to escape from Ukio.
The planet, where the Jedi had conducted negotiations about returning to the Republic, slammed its doors right in the face of the GAR.
The LST Convincing, which was supposed to deliver the 117th Legion to the planet — the legion’s mission was to deploy a full-scale base — was now waiting its turn for repairs.
Although, to be fair, it would be easier to scrap it than to fix it.
The ship and its support forces, transporting the legion led by a Jedi — whatever his name was, ah, screw it!
— had been ambushed by two dozen Munificents and one Lucrehulk-class that arrived before them.
The Separatists had gotten their way again, and the planet, like a galactic prostitute, had turned its back on the Republic once more.
The Convincing and its escort of three Consulars and two Peltas came under a barrage of fire.
According to the senior officer of the Convincing, it was a real massacre.
One of the Peltas and the lead Consular were destroyed in the first minutes after exiting hyperspace.
The Convincing, the second Pelta, and the other two Consulars, which followed behind them, literally survived hell.
There wasn’t a safe spot left on the ships.
The Separatists were shooting them up, targeting the bridges and trying to cause as many hull breaches as possible.
Obviously, they planned to board and capture the ships.
But the first officer of the Convincing ordered a retreat.
The battered ships barely made it back into hyperspace.
It was only by a miracle that they limped to Ord Pardron.
The strike cruiser had lost its commander, almost its entire officer corps, and up to three hundred crew members.
And of the legion they were transporting, only an understrength regiment and about fifteen hundred wounded remained.
Equipment, base-building gear…
all of it ended up in open space.
While retreating, the ships had jettisoned everything unnecessary to avoid hull ruptures in hyperspace.
And as a result, the entire army was once again dependent on food supplies from the Core Worlds.
Rare and irregular supplies.
Which the local merchants took advantage of, jacking up prices on the most ordinary goods.
Now the survivors were waiting for the Moff’s decision on their future.
There wasn’t even a way to send the surviving clones to other planets — they simply didn’t have enough ships.
Almost all the combat-capable line ships of the 13th Sectoral were either fighting or guarding a number of strategic worlds like Kamino.
Hell, even in orbit around Kamino, a whole squadron of Venators was sitting idle!
And fifty Acclamators!
Although what they were needed for there was anyone’s guess.
The attack had been repelled, defensive platforms had been delivered to the system.
Why keep a whole fleet in the ass-end of nowhere when it was needed elsewhere?
That was exactly what the two captains were discussing.
“It’s going to get a little easier now,” Aeon assured him.
“Did you see that fleet of Hammerheads?
They took those Munificents apart for spare parts in seconds.” “That ancient junk was lucky to have made it here at all,” Gilad chuckled.
“Don’t say that,” his colleague objected.
“I heard they’ve been seriously upgraded.” “Then they’ll be stripped apart soon,” Pellaeon scoffed, nodding toward the Moff’s booth.
Near it, to his surprise, stood a clone.
Judging by the additional armor elements — a senior clone commander.
The clone, without ceremony, gestured for the clone soldiers standing guard to disappear, then stepped inside.
“Those museum pieces will end up hauling their weight in a convoy.
Although, there’s a silver lining — all our frigates will come back.
We’ll have something to chase the Separatists with on their next raid.” “There’s another catch,” Aeon looked around, making sure no one was eavesdropping.
“Things aren’t so simple with those ships.” “What do you mean?” Gilad didn’t understand.
“Did you hear about the massacre at Christophsis?
When Vice Admiral Akwish’s ships were destroyed?” Gilad nodded.
Another resounding slap in the face for the fleet.
“Well, the locals bought a whole armada of ships — cruisers and corvettes — from Jedi reserve stocks.
They paid mercenaries, and then those ships ground Trench’s blockade squadron into stardust.” “You’re joking,” Gilad tensed.
“There was even a HoloNews report about it.” “And they sold those ships to us?” Gilad assumed.
Buying, even outdated ships, when every vessel counted, was a perfectly reasonable decision.
“Nope,” Aeon smiled.
“Remember I told you I dropped a Jedi off on Christophsis?
And his legion?” “I remember.” “Well then, the grateful citizens of Christophsis gave their ships to that Jedi.” “Hah,” Gilad chuckled.
“To a specific Jedi?
That’s some kind of fiction.” “Don’t say that,” Aeon pulled out a datapad and handed it to his comrade.
“The system is rejoining the Republic, taking on full support for the entire fleet, and even supplying volunteers for a battalion for that Jedi.” “That’s nonsense,” Gilad grimaced.
“The Senate won’t tolerate that.
Some system dictating terms.” “Look further down,” Kreeves poked his finger at a block of fresh HoloNews.
“The Senate passed a bill in its first reading.
Even without the Christophsis senator present.
So now, in the ‘Iron Spear,’ we have a Jedi with a personal fleet.” “This is ridiculous,” Pellaeon stated his opinion.
“The Senate doesn’t do anything for nothing.” “Well, read further down,” Kreeves was smiling.
“‘Christophsis is supplying the Grand Army of the Republic with strategically vital metals and ammunition components at record-low prices,'” he read the first line.
“‘The Christoph system, liberated from CIS occupation, has announced reduced purchase prices for the Republic on strategically vital metal ores and Nergon-14, which are essential for us to continue the war,'” Pellaeon delved into the news feed.
“‘Despite the price reduction for the Republic, the system’s government is still making a fortune in profit, which they intend to direct toward rebuilding their planet after the recent occupation.'” “See?” Aeon nodded.
“Not really…” Gilad admitted.
“That Jedi is their national hero on that planet,” Kreevs explained.
“At first glance — just a kid, but it seems there’s something to him.
They practically worship him.
I think Christophsis deliberately buttered up the Senate by lowering purchase prices to push their bill through.” Gilad, acknowledging that his colleague’s reasoning had merit, leaned back on the sofa, took a sip of his drink, and cast a lazy glance around the cantina.
And nearly choked on his liquor when he saw a striking figure in armor and a black cloak step into the Moff’s booth.
Was that a mercenary?
“Hutt,” Aeon had also noticed the newcomer.
Carefully nodding toward the new arrival, he said quietly, “And that’s the Jedi who crushed Trench at Christophsis.” Gilad looked at his friend with fresh eyes.
“I didn’t know he was so young.” “You should have seen his operation to break the blockade the first time,” Kreeves said dreamily.
For a moment he rolled his eyes, then said, “Let’s call over a couple more space wolves to wet our whistles…” * * * Rurkh Bailur rubbed his hands together — the general’s appearance among his guests had clearly caused a stir.
The Jedi was too young to understand the subtleties of politics.
But, as people were saying, capable enough to participate in a campaign.
Well, a valuable acquisition.
Especially with those ships of his.
Under the protection of a whole fleet, he could run convoys for his new clients all the way to Hutt space.
And make some very serious money for the protection.
A pity only that his fleet didn’t consist of clones.
The Moff inwardly winced, remembering the directive from sector command — to fill out the ships with personnel and small craft.
How much money would he have made if he could put clones and clone commanders on those ships?!
So obedient, and not asking questions…
Only this Nyx kept droning on like a broken record that he was supposed to command a legion.
And no matter what, give him that legion.
And the answer that there simply were no legions — for some reason, it didn’t satisfy the clone.
Still, why shouldn’t the Jedi carry out an escort mission?
It just needed to be set up properly.
“Hello, Moff!” the Jedi nodded.
“Glad to welcome you to our company.
Gentlemen,” Rurkh, demonstratively ignoring the persistent clone, sitting on a luxurious leather sofa, turned to his companions, “Allow me to introduce Jedi General Rick Dougan!” The merchants sitting nearby bowed restrainedly, waiting with anxious eyes for the Moff’s next move.
“They’re scared,” Bailur thought with pleasure, “that’s good.
They’ll be more agreeable.” Rurkh offered the Jedi a seat.
The latter, however, redirected the offer to the clone.
Who didn’t play hard to get and plopped down on the sofa opposite the Moff.
“So,” Rurkh spread his hands.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your resounding victory at Christophsis.” “Thank you, Moff,” the Jedi smiled.
Rurkh noted with inner triumph that the young man — hell, practically a boy — was uncomfortable in their company.
But never mind, he’d have to endure it and do his duty — since he couldn’t get rid of the clone right away, he’d do it gradually.
“I actually wanted to talk to you about quartering my men in the barracks.” “It will be arranged,” the Moff promised.
“Let’s return to this conversation tomorrow, but for now…” “No, today,” the Jedi replied unexpectedly sharply.
The Moff, preparing to shift his attention to the merchants, was slightly taken aback.
What did this boy think he was doing?
“My men have spent almost four months in wretched conditions,” Dougan continued.
“And it’s night outside.
We’re all tired and want to rest.
While we’re talking, shuttles are transporting my battalions to the planet.” “You should have notified me in advance,” the Moff grimaced.
What did he care about some clones?
They died by the millions every day.
And so what?
Let them sleep a day or two somewhere, nothing would happen to them.
“It will be extremely difficult to find a quartermaster now…” “I sent the request a week ago,” metal crept into the boy’s voice.
“Right after I received the order to return to my duty station.” “So,” Bailur concluded, “it didn’t reach me.
You know, the cadets at the Academy of Judicial Forces handle the paperwork — they must have messed something up.” “But that doesn’t change the situation,” the Jedi insisted.
“We need barracks.” What a little bastard!
Who did he think he was?
Rurkh irritably thought about how he’d spent the last hour buttering up those two Hutt big shots, telling them how he had everything under control, how he was ready to help them with a convoy.
They’d almost shelled out ten million dataries, known as credits, when this snot-nosed kid ruined his whole image.
“What you need first, my friend, is a quartermaster,” the Moff strained with all his might to maintain a friendly tone.
“He’ll tell you which barracks are empty…” “They’re all empty!” the clone unexpectedly spoke up.
“On the planet, there are only elements of the 117th Legion — in barracks E, and parts of the garrison — they’re in barracks A.
After the departure of the 611th, 804th, and 156th Legions, barracks B, C, and D are free.” Hearing this, the Jedi frowned.
Without taking his wary eyes off the Moff, he said, “You see, we can take any of the three barracks.
You just need to give the order…” “You bastard,” the Moff thought about the Jedi.
The boy had apparently forgotten who he was talking to.
Well, no matter.
That was fixable.
Rurkh thought with satisfaction that the Jedi had just made himself an enemy of the Moff.
And with his connections, this upstart would quickly meet his end.
“Take Barracks D,” he ordered.
The boy quickly stood up, preparing to leave the meeting.
“Get a good night’s sleep and rest — tomorrow at noon you need to be at a briefing at headquarters.
You and your fleet have a vital mission.” “Sir, my men are exhausted, and the ships just came out of combat,” the boy backed down in the verbal sparring, allowing the Moff to take the dominant position in the conversation.
“We’re understrength in personnel…” “General,” the Moff said in an icy tone.
“You have a whole night ahead of you.
Sort out your unit’s problems.
By tomorrow afternoon, your men and your ships must be ready to escort the convoys,” he nodded toward the civilians, “through enemy territory.” For a moment, the Jedi was taken aback.
The Moff saw the confusion on his face.
But almost immediately, he regained his previous composure.
“As you command, Moff Bailur,” the boy stood up, bowed, and turned to leave.
“And one more thing, General,” Rurkh decided to solve two problems at once.
“You need an experienced commander for your legion — Senior Clone-Commander Nyx is at your service.” The clone, like his new commander, got to his feet, adjusting his helmet more comfortably.
And together, the pair left the booth.
Rurkh watched them go.
He had just gotten rid of his headache — the Jedi and the persistent clone.
A pity about the boy’s ships, though — the Hammerhead cruisers weren’t just ancient history; they were the glory of the Republic.
But the Moff didn’t like people who contradicted him.
The boy, like the clone, had only themselves to blame for what would happen to them.
Command demanded decisive action.
Who else, if not the hero of Christophsis, should charge into battle and seize victory?
“Moff,” one of the merchants called out.
“Can he be trusted?” “The Jedi?” Rurkh was surprised.
“Not for a moment.
Keep the true contents of your holds to yourselves, and everything will go as agreed.
And now, about my commission…” * * * “What a tool,” I said as soon as I left the Moff’s booth.
The clone following me was silent.
For some reason, I wanted a cigarette.
My nerves were acting up.
I was itching to go back there and just smack the bastard hard enough to knock his head off his shoulders.
“We weren’t properly introduced,” I extended my hand to the clone.
“Jedi Knight Rick Dougan.” “Senior Clone-Commander Nyx,” he shook my hand.
“A pleasure, General.” “Likewise, Commander,” through the Force, I could feel someone on the second floor watching me.
Concentrating, I noticed my acquaintance sitting in the distance — Captain Aeon Kreeves, who, seeing that I’d noticed him, made an inviting gesture.
He was sitting at a table with half a dozen fleet and army officers, nursing their drinks.
“Come on, Nyx,” I called the clone.
“Looks like someone wants to chat with us…” * * * When everyone had settled into comfortable chairs, Aeon introduced the Jedi to the officers at the table: “Gentlemen, allow me to present Jedi Knight Dougan, the liberator of Christophsis.” “A pleasure to meet you,” the Jedi smiled at the assembled group.
“In turn, let me introduce Senior Clone-Commander Nyx — he’s the new addition to our illustrious 204th Legion.” Hearing the legion’s name, the clone looked warily at the Jedi but said nothing.
The newcomers sat down at the table, across from the officers.
“Rear Admiral Ilizo Var,” Kreeves introduced an older man with a short beard.
“Responsible for the defense of the Ord Pardron system.
Captain Gilad Pellaeon — commander of the Equalizer.
Captain Fev Darill,” a short man with a thin mustache and a bald head nodded briefly.
“He’s our intelligence.
Major Ronett Dialo — personnel and logistics,” a stocky colonel, whose uniform was straining over a mountain of muscle, shook the Jedi’s hand.
In his signature style — full strength.
The Jedi didn’t even flinch.
At Aeon’s gesture, the waiter — this time, a living human — quickly filled the glasses.
Nyx politely declined.
After a few drinks, the conversation shifted to more grounded matters.
“What’s the news on the military situation?” the Jedi asked.
“I’ve been…
out of touch lately.” Aeon glanced at Darill.
The man leaned over and activated a datapad lying on the table, on which a map of the galaxy appeared.
“Our situation isn’t as good as the HoloNews makes it sound,” the captain pointed to several spots on the map.
“The GAR has laid siege to several key worlds: Cato Neimoidia, Scipio, Castell, and Foerost.
But it hasn’t gone beyond a blockade.
The CIS doesn’t have enough strength to lift the siege, and we don’t have enough for a decisive offensive.
The Separatists are attacking the major hyperspace routes — if they capture even one or two lanes, we’ll be in serious trouble.
The CIS will be able to deliver reinforcements dozens of times faster than we can.
The Confederacy controls Yag’Dhul and Sluis Van, and with them, a significant portion of the Rimma Trade Route and the Corellian Trade Route.
You could say the southern part of the Rimma is already in the CIS’s pocket.” “Not bad,” the Jedi assessed.
“But what about our army?” “It’s even worse here,” Gilad chimed in.
“The CIS has controlled the Abrion sector — with its agricultural worlds — practically since the beginning of the war.
That’s how they were able to strike through the Rishi Maze at Kamino.
Fortunately, that direction has now been blocked by our significant forces.
We’re largely cut off from our forces that landed on planets at the start of the war.
Molavar, Shimia, Filve, and a dozen others — almost all our clone units are cut off from supply lines, blockaded.
We don’t have the strength to relieve our troops, so we do what we can — hold the line.
But it gets harder every month.
Supply lines are disrupted.
And what sector command sends us is a drop in the bucket.
If this keeps up, the CIS will capture all the resource planets, and we’ll simply starve.” “Well, that’s a long way off,” Dialo said with a laugh.
“But the situation really is dire.
Instead of equipment and ammunition, we have to send transports for food.
And supplies from the Core Worlds aren’t as substantial as we’d like.
Plus, pirates and raiders regularly attack our supply ships.
And we don’t have enough forces to defend them.
Eh, if only Ukio hadn’t surrendered to the CIS…” “Basically,” Var interjected, “the only thing saving us is that the CIS isn’t launching a large-scale offensive.
With our forces and equipment, we’d be crushed.” “The CIS doesn’t have time for that right now,” the Jedi countered.
“They weren’t ready for us to have an army and a fleet.
They’re having to restructure for wartime needs themselves.
Their hopes for a quick victory over the Judicial Forces and the Jedi didn’t pan out.
The CIS’s victories were only possible because of a massive concentration of army and fleet on a specific front.
But they can’t develop the offensive now.
They need time.
We should use that to retake some key worlds in the sector — to reinforce the rear.” The assembled men exchanged glances.
The Jedi had astutely noted their own thoughts.
Kreeves exchanged a look with Pellaeon.
Could it be that the Jedi was the one they needed?
“Having our own resource base would let us stop worrying about food for the army,” the clone said, looking at the map.
He explained for those present.
“Rapid clone growth leads to a high metabolism — as a result, we eat more than regular people.” “Yes,” Dialo confirmed.
“Thankfully, we managed to stock up on equipment and supplies in the first months of the war — before the Separatists and pirates became total assholes.” “Surely we’re not so short on ships that we can’t scatter that rabble?” the Jedi asked in surprise.
“A couple of raids would be enough to drive them off.” “I’m afraid, honored Jedi,” Var noted, “we don’t have enough ships.
The Moff has concentrated most of the line fleet on certain…
tasks,” the admiral grimaced as if from a toothache as he said the last word.
And the light forces are busy…
guarding trade convoys.
The special emphasis the elderly commander placed on the ships’ activities did not escape the Jedi.
Aeon noticed a flicker of irritation cross the temple knight’s face.
Most likely, even if he didn’t know exactly what the Moff was doing, he suspected.
“At the moment, you have the largest forces at your disposal,” Pellaeon explained.
“The ships are there,” the Jedi smiled.
“But I have a severe shortage of junior and senior command staff.
The ship crews are made up of former Rendili military personnel — those the Christophsis government managed to poach with generous pay.
But almost all the captains and senior officers left the bridges as soon as they were paid off.
To plug the gaps, I’ve had to do some active shuffling.” “Well…” Dialo drawled.
“We’re not exactly flush with officers.
A hundred cadets arrived this month, but more than half have already been assigned to the light forces.
We can’t even recall them — they’re on raids.
At best, there are maybe a couple dozen officers on the planet right now — those recovering from the Convincing and Academy graduates…” “I met a group of midshipmen downstairs,” the Jedi recalled.
“I think they wouldn’t mind doing something useful.” “Sector Command Directive orders the Convincing to be written off,” the intelligence officer suddenly said.
Those present looked at him, and he just shrugged.
“It’ll be announced tomorrow.
Secrecy, gentlemen,” he explained his silence.
“But for the common cause, why not?” “The crew of that ship could merge into our fleet,” Nyx suggested.
The Jedi nodded in agreement with his subordinate.
“But we have no small craft at all,” he said.
“The Hammerheads can’t boast a large air wing.” “I don’t think that will be a problem,” Admiral Var said.
“I’ll order some reserves transferred to you.” “I think Commodore Gastano won’t refuse to lead your squadron,” Dialo smiled.
“He’s recovering at the medical station near Naboo,” Pellaeon recalled.
“If so,” the Jedi said, “then he won’t make it in time to join us.
Tomorrow we’re leaving for a convoy.
We’ll be escorting a caravan.” “There are no fleet transport convoys scheduled for tomorrow,” Dialo objected.
Then, meeting Darill’s eyes, the major fell silent.
Kreeves and Pellaeon pretended to be interested in the contents of their glasses.
Admiral Var looked away, watching the Moff in his private booth engaged in an animated conversation.
The Jedi followed his gaze and was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “And no one has tried to fight this?” Kreeves sighed with relief.
The Jedi understood everything.
And, so to speak, had picked up the scent.
“We have extremely few Jedi in our army,” the admiral explained.
“And those that are here are tied up in blockades.” “The last time I saw a Jedi here was about a month ago,” Pellaeon recalled.
“Surely someone can report this?” Dougan was surprised.
“Sector command is unlikely to approve.” “All of this has broad patronage in the Senate,” Darill explained.
“The previous head of intelligence was working in this direction.” “And then?” The clone apparently also figured out what was going on.
“His ship never made it to sector command,” the admiral spread his hands.
“And no trace was ever found.” The Jedi downed his drink in one gulp, grimacing.
Putting the glass back on the table, he scanned those present with his eyes.
“Gentlemen, would you care to pay a visit to my flagship?”
It all helps promote the story.