When Tyra Nomad volunteered to storm the Trade Federation ship along with HK and Maul, she expected support from at least fifty experienced fighters from the Mandalorian clans. She clearly envisioned how they, divided into three squads, would break through hordes of droids straight to the bridge of the Lucrehulk, methodically shooting down piles of iron. How she, surrounded by brothers in arms, would burst into the control room, take the commander hostage, and force him to transfer control of the droids to the Mandalorians.
What could be done, a certain degree of romanticism, due to her young age, still broke through in the mercenary. However, her actions remained effective, regardless of what dreams were born in Nomad's head.
Reality, however, turned out to be much more prosaic. Twelve... Only twelve Mandalorians from different clans boarded the Dawn Eagle, not counting Tyra herself. And not seasoned veterans, but green youths no older than Nomad herself! How could they capture a ship three kilometers long with such forces?
The initial plan, where three squads broke through from three directions to three control points, was quite feasible. But with such numbers...
Fortunately, according to the plan, her squad had a relatively simple route. Many hiding places, few ways for reinforcements to approach, only one hermetic door, and an almost direct path to the reserve bridge. There should have been few active droids in the corridors. The Neimoidians should not have expected such a brazen attack. But even the tin cans used for ship maintenance and regular patrols would be enough. Especially if they brought droidekas to help. Revan and Sevras, however, assured them that such forces were enough, that the corridors were almost unguarded, and that Maul and HK were worth a hundred fighters, and Tyra herself was an excellent shot... but this did not inspire confidence.
But now it was too late to worry. The "Dawn Eagle" was breaking through to its target at full speed. The freighter turned out to be damn maneuverable and nimble, managing to avoid both the laser fire of the Lucrehulk's cannons and the ubiquitous "Vultures." A significant part of this was due to HK-47, who was at the ship's control console. As it turned out, the galaxy's best assassin droid could fly much more effectively than Neimoidian vulture droids. However, HK himself considered this not surprising, as those useless buckets of bolts were no better than the bags of meat that designed them.
The ship lurched from side to side as HK sharply changed course, evading pursuers. Revan finally gave the order to disembark. Tyra and her squad were disembarking first, directly onto the landing deck for the "Vultures." There was no atmosphere on the deck, as droids didn't need to breathe. Fortunately, Mandalorian armor was airtight and could withstand such conditions for about thirty minutes. This time should have been enough to break through to the internal corridors, where the life support system was already working.
The quartet of Mandalorians under Tyra Nomad's command was ready to disembark. Of the temporary subordinates, the mercenary was personally acquainted only with Tala Rau, also an "orphan," raised in the Rau clan, and a clansman of Adek Nomad. Tala was a good shot, especially effective with a long-range rifle. This was of little use in confined and narrow corridors, but the girl also demonstrated impressive accuracy and speed of fire at short distances. Adek, like Tyra herself, had been traveling the galaxy as a mercenary for several years. True, he had not dealt with Hutts, fearing to get involved with the Cartel. The formal independence from major "players" in the mercenary services market did not affect Adek's skills. The guy had not had any mission failures yet.
Nomad knew only what Sevras had told her about the other members of her squad when he helped form the groups.
Varn Daruk was a born Mandalorian and the nephew of Ala Daruk, and he had been taught the traditions of Mandalore from an early age, even despite the prohibitions of Satine Kryze's government. Despite being barely nineteen years old, the guy had already managed to earn some reputation among his clansmen, in particular – thanks to his phenomenal talent as a demolitions expert. According to rumors, the guy literally felt in his gut the proportions in which seemingly harmless household chemicals needed to be mixed to create a real bomb, ready to blow someone's house... or warehouse to smithereens. He was even tried to be recruited into the Watch, but the guy obeyed only the clan leader and flatly refused to betray his family.
The last member of the squad, Pestus Rook, had a rather lanky physique, which was noticeable even in his armor. However, according to the assurances of Sevras Nomad and the head of House Kast, which included the Rook clan, Pestus was an excellent close-quarters fighter, preferring good old vibroblades to blasters. Tyra doubted that such a talent was suitable for a dash through the corridors of a Neimoidian ship, where the enemies were only droids, who did not use cold weapons. However, she was assured that Pestus would cope perfectly and would certainly not be a burden to the squad. The mercenary, without much enthusiasm, agreed.
"Information: Approaching the first landing point," HK informed the "passengers."
Tyra perked up. There was no point in checking her equipment, as everything had already been checked a hundred times, but her hand still twitched towards her wrist computer to make sure the jetpack was working.
"Everyone prepare!" Nomad barked in a commanding voice.
The fighters had long been ready, so they just adjusted their grip on their blasters and headed for the cargo bay. There, the squad had to wait until R2 pumped out the atmosphere to avoid a pressure drop when the ramp opened.
A minute of agonizing waiting. The armor was already isolated, which meant the countdown for penetration had begun. The ship shook, apparently HK had to lower the "Eagle" onto the deck much more sharply than planned.
"Important information: Ten seconds to disembark! Go, bags of meat!" the assassin droid's synthesized voice sounded in the squad's helmets.
The Mandalorians under Tyra's command briskly poured out, and a moment later, the freighter that had brought them to their location tore away from the deck and rushed further along the landing deck to the second landing point.
The hangar was empty. Only the turrets destroyed by the "Eagle" on approach indicated that there was any security here at all. Or rather, there was. Only a couple of dozen inactive "Vultures" were present in the hangar, which the Mandalorians decided not to ignore. Two dozen were a drop in the ocean compared to the number of flying droids currently trying to tear the defenders of Mandalore to shreds. And even a couple of active "Vultures" would be enough for the infiltration group to seriously spoil their day. After all, the aerial laser cannons on the flyers were much more powerful than the E-5 rifles with which the B-1 "dummies" were armed, and the Mandalorians might not survive a sudden shot in the back. So it was worth taking precautions.
A small charge of baradium explosives turned a potential threat into a puddle of molten metal. The absence of atmosphere reduced the risk of toxic contamination, and the charged particle field that formed during the detonation of the explosive and limited the blast radius was the reason for choosing baradium explosives for this mission.
Using jetpacks, the group quickly reached the desired hatch leading to the internal corridors. There was no control console for the locking mechanism outside, but this was expected.
"To cover!" Tyra Nomad ordered, while Varn Daruk attached an explosive charge to the hatch doors.
An explosion. The hatch was blown out of its opening not only by the explosion but also by the stream of air that burst out of the opened corridor. A couple of B-1 droids were unlucky enough to be nearby, which were thrown into the hangar right under the Mandalorians' blaster fire.
Emergency bulkheads quickly sealed off the damaged section from the rest of the ship, preventing atmospheric leakage. This finally gave the squad a chance to get into the internal corridors. Tala Rau and Adek Nomad went first.
"Clear," Tyra's clansman announced to everyone, having confirmed the absence of threats.
Varn, Pestus, and Tyra joined the vanguard. The armor's autonomy reserve was only for fifteen minutes, and it was worth hurrying.
"Rook, to the terminal. Play with the bulkheads and create a gateway for us," Nomad ordered.
"Received," Pestus nodded and began hacking the ship's systems.
Universal decoder modules, or so-called "Computer Spikes," were not as effective as droids for hacking terminals, but they still helped save time in dealing with network defenses. It was a pity that the "Spikes" were essentially disposable, literally burning out their insides during a brief "overclock" of the built-in processor to parameters comparable to the computational matrix of a full astromech. It was not always enough time for hacking before the device failed, so sometimes several "spikes" had to be used in succession. Tyra was nervous, mentally counting down the seconds without even checking the oxygen supply status displayed on her visor. Outwardly, Nomad remained calm, but the nervous twitching of her fingers, clutching the foregrip of her trusty rifle, gave her away. It was the girl's first time as a commander, and she really didn't want to lose the whole group due to a miscalculation of time.
Fortunately, the Neimoidian defenses surrendered on the first "spike."
Pestus isolated the adjacent section of the deck behind a bulkhead, pumped out the atmosphere, and let the squad in. Then he restored the air supply.
Freed from the time crunch due to the limited air supply, the Mandalorians felt more confident and, covering each other, began to quickly advance towards the droid control center, which was their main objective.
The insignificant resistance of the security systems and rare patrols of several B-1s did not slow down the squad's pace at all. The Mandalorians acted clearly and cohesively, as if they had been together for more than a year.
Tyra confidently led the squad, reacting in time to changes in the situation and the appearance of enemies by changing formations and combat tactics. Despite a slight headache, caused, in Nomad's opinion, by a lack of oxygen at the beginning of the operation, Tyra's thoughts were clearer than ever before. For the first time, she was so focused on the mission. Information from her comrades was taken into account, quickly analyzed, and used to develop the best course of action. The fighters also seemed to have subtly changed, concentrating their attention on their surroundings. Every order was executed precisely, without unnecessary questions. The squad acted as a single organism, which only reinforced Tyra's confidence in success.
Suddenly, a worsening headache shot through her temple like a red-hot needle, and then the mercenary's intuition literally howled about danger.
"Squad, stop! Silence!" Nomad barked, duplicating the order with a gesture.
The group froze, pressing themselves against the protrusions along the walls, and listened intently.
The speakers of the Mandalorian helmets amplified a barely discernible ringing and clanking, as if something metallic was rolling across the deck.
"Droidekas! Take defensive positions!" Tyra quickly oriented herself.
The squad retreated slightly back, to a recently passed junction. In this place, it was possible to at least get out of the enemy's line of fire and hide behind the corner of the next corridor, and if necessary, retreat along two different routes. Daruk had managed to leave a couple of explosive surprises in the enemy's presumed path. Tala, meanwhile, switched her rifle to single-shot mode with enhanced charges.
The deadly creations of the coliids did not take long to appear, and the first droidekas showed themselves from around the far turn. Four droids had not even fully deployed before they were blown to pieces by the explosion of a high-explosive charge thoughtfully left in their path. However, this did not stop another six, who were rolling behind. Protective screens flared up, and then a hurricane of laser fire flew towards the Mandalorians.
"We need to retreat! Don't even stick your heads out!" Tala Rau said with annoyance, having only managed to fire twice.
"We can't. The fate of Mandalore depends on our success," Tyra shook her head, feeling her headache intensify.
"If only we could distract them for a couple of seconds," Daruk muttered, tossing a thermal detonator in his hand.
Tyra, hiding behind the same corner as Varn, gripped her carbine tighter.
"Get ready. On the count of three," she slapped her partner on the shoulder and moved closer to the corner.
"What?" Daruk didn't understand his commander's idea at first, but quickly caught on and confirmed his readiness.
Tyra took several deep breaths. The headache receded into the background, giving way to concentration and clarity of thought.
"Three!" Nomad roared and lunged out from behind cover.
A stream of plasma charges erupted from her carbine, heading towards the shielded droidekas. The enemy, of course, did not ignore such a convenient target, concentrating fire on the Mandalorian. The droids' blasters sent charge after charge towards the armored Tyra, shifting their fire to follow the unexpectedly fast target moving across the corridor towards the opposite corner where the second part of the Mandalorian squad was entrenched.
Tracer fire zipped past the Mandalorian, miraculously missing her. It seemed to Tyra that she had forgotten how to breathe, how to blink, how to think. All her will, her entire essence was concentrated on one goal – to distract, to give a chance, to win. The scarlet charges of the droidekas seemed to move slower than usual, giving the girl a chance to dodge.
The fire shifted with Tyra, allowing Varn to peek out and throw the detonator. As if sensing the girl's thoughts, Daruk swung and showed himself slightly from around the corner, attracting the droids' attention. He wouldn't make it, Tyra understood this clearly, assessing the changed situation in an instant. At the same second, from the other side of the passage, Adek and Tala opened fire, forcing the droidekas' targeting systems to change their priority targets.
Tyra tilted her head slightly to the left, letting another shot pass by, another charge grazed her pauldron. She had to put her carbine in the path of the third shot so that the charge wouldn't hit the joint of the armor plates directly, threatening to fry her internal organs. But with such density of fire, it was impossible to dodge all the shots. Nomad had only managed two steps before a charge hit her right thigh. The armor held, but the impact was significant, causing the girl to stumble and begin to fall forward uncontrollably.
Two hits to the chest plate, her vision darkened. The roar of an explosion reached the fading consciousness from somewhere far away. Tyra felt an incredible lightness, as if her body had become weightless and was floating somewhere upwards. This was not like the consequences of pain shock from a wound or fainting from overexertion, as Tyra was well familiar with these sensations. Now, the mercenary was experiencing something new.
"Hutt! Hold on, blue-skin!" Adek's voice suddenly sounded with a strange echo.
The next moment, as if from the outside, she saw her clansman's hand grip her pauldron and drag her unconscious body to cover. A charge from one of the damaged droids, which had survived the thermal detonator explosion, was flying towards him.
"Watch out!" the thought flashed in Tyra's consciousness, but no words were spoken.
However, as if hearing her, Adek ducked, avoiding a possibly fatal wound. Nomad hadn't even had time to rejoice for her clansman when she was pulled somewhere away, as if being drawn into some whirlpool of impenetrable darkness, losing her breath and deafened by a cacophony of indistinguishable sounds. Someone's whisper, someone's screams, the clanging of metal, the roar of shots – all of it seemed to come from all sides at once, mixing into a single noise, resembling the hundredfold amplified roar of ocean waves during a storm, which Tyra had once heard. Completely losing orientation in space, the Chiss girl tried to find some landmark, when suddenly she saw a bright flash to the side. Trying to turn, Tyra reached for the light source with all her being. In the jumble of sounds, a voice suddenly stood out clearly. Very familiar... but at the same time, a strange voice.
"...Acceptable risk... The fire won't be as intense..."
She knew this voice... But she had never heard it before... She had a strong feeling that the words belonged to someone close, but he... doesn't speak with such a voice... At the same time, it is definitely his true voice! Deep...
"...Let this giant be our star..."
Enchanting...
"...Fire!..."
Authoritative...
Suddenly, Tyra realized what seemed strange to her. The fact was that this voice had not sounded in this galaxy for a long time. A bright flash plunged Nomad into an ocean of white light for a time. What was strange was that the light was not bright, sharp, or blinding. And as sharply as it appeared, the whiteness disappeared, melting away like weightless mist.
The outlines of an unfamiliar planet emerged around her. Tyra seemed to be hovering over a group of people. A vaguely familiar man and several of his companions were surrounded by hostile... Jedi? And the man himself, like those standing with him, preparing for battle, was among the Knights of the Order, judging by their clothing and characteristic weapons. The conversation was heated, but Tyra could not make out the words... until suddenly the man leaned down and picked up an object from the ground. Nomad looked closer and, to her surprise, recognized a Mandalorian mask in the unknown artifact.
And in the next moment, a thunderous voice, chilling to the bone, emanated, as Tyra understood, from the man holding the mask.
"I don't know your name... but I will continue your work. I will not take off this mask until justice prevails. Until the Mandalorians are defeated once and for all. Thus swears... Revan!"
She understood why the man was vaguely familiar and why his voice was familiar. The same intonations and gestures, but performed by a younger... no, not just younger, but reborn Revan, she had been observing for several months.
"Revan..." Nomad whispered in shock, realizing what scene she had just witnessed.
A new flash returned her to Mandalore, where the battle was raging. A single damaged cruiser, in a cunning maneuver, using one of the enemy ships as cover, was virtually with impunity shooting down another. The girl felt that someone on board this cruiser had noticed her and bristled with invisible protection, preventing her from approaching. But she wanted to help...
"Tira! Wake up! Damn it!" Adek's voice sounded as if through thick fabric.
What was happening to her? What had happened? Where was she?
Tira took a convulsive breath, feeling that there was no air left in her lungs, and if she didn't take advantage of the opportunity now, there would be no point in breathing.
Along with the life-giving air came pain. A burning pain in her thigh, shoulder, and chest prevented her from moving, and a sharply intensified migraine, which turned into the sensation of her brain burning in red-hot steel, almost made the girl lose consciousness.
"Finally!" Adek exhaled with relief at Tira's hoarse groan.
"Where... am I..." Nomad rasped barely audibly, trying to open her eyes.
It was too bright around. Or at least, that's how it seemed to the girl.
"Quiet. Don't rush. Can you move? Several droidica charges hit you. The armor on your thigh and chest is pierced, but fortunately, the under-armor absorbed most of the energy. You'll get a couple of burns, you lucky blue-skinned beast," her clanmate said with a slight smirk in his voice, showing relief.
Tira finally managed to blink and focus her vision on the companions bending over her. And not noticing the usual visor interface, she suddenly realized that her helmet had been removed. And while her clanmate, like her close friend Tala, knew about Tira's unusual appearance, Varn and Pestus must have been very surprised.
However, after a brief look around, Nomad noticed that the men from the Daruk and Ruk clans were calmly standing nearby, controlling the corridors and covering their comrades while they provided assistance.
"Calm down, relax, blue-skinned one," Rau grinned, noticing Tira's frightened touch to her bare cheek.
"A foundling is a foundling. It doesn't matter what they look like," Adek shrugged.
Although the Chiss understood that for the people she had become a part of, the original race of creatures accepted into the clan truly didn't matter, her past spent in the Dominion trying to hide her origin still reminded her of itself, and the girl tried not to show her appearance outside the clan.
Tira nodded gratefully, but immediately hissed in pain.
"Lie down for a couple of minutes. The stimulants and painkillers will take effect soon," Adek said.
"We can't lie around. We have a mission!" Tira hissed back.
"We've lost the element of surprise anyway. We had to drag you for ten minutes."
Tira looked around. Indeed, the corridor was different.
"Now we'll play on scattering their forces and attention. The other two groups should have started by now, so the merchants will have more to worry about."
As expected, Adek took command when Tira lost consciousness. She vaguely remembered what had happened... a strange dream or hallucination... But there was no time to rest. It was time to move on.
Wincing from the pain, Tira still managed to get up and sit, pushing away Adek's hand, which tried to stop her from making sudden movements.
"How are you feeling?" Tala asked.
"Give me my helmet," Tira grumbled in response.
Grinning, Adek handed the girl the mentioned piece of equipment.
"Why are you standing around? Let's go! The droids won't deactivate themselves," the Mandalorian commanded cheerfully, having already gotten to her feet and put her helmet back in place.
Meanwhile, two decks above, a battle was raging. Or rather, it was hard to call it a battle. From the outside, it looked more like the methodical destruction of defective droids, even though the unfortunate B-1s were not defective. But Mola cared little about that. Revan's apprentice was not wasting time, actively improving his skills and absorbing his mentor's wisdom with all the fanatical zeal he was capable of. And it paid off.
Droids had never posed a threat to the young Sith before, but after several months of training with Revan, Mola dealt with the mechanical opponents almost playfully. Even the droidicas that rolled in to help their brethren lasted only a few seconds longer than the B-1s.
The Mandalorians who followed Mola, assigned to help him, were practically idle and genuinely wondered why they were assigned to this machine for destroying droids in a Zabrak's body. They had known before that those gifted with lightsabers were dangerous opponents, but the visual demonstration made them think about many things... and gain respect for Fett, who managed to deal with several such monsters at once.
Mola reveled in it. The dark side fed him, giving him a sense of power and impunity, but the Zabrak, at his teacher's instruction, did not let it cloud his mind. The feeling of control over the power that the Force gave him was even more pleasant than the intoxicating haze of Darkness. Never before had Mola been able to use combat precognition with such ease and accuracy, deflecting the droids' shots. Before, he had to concentrate, exert power, walk on the edge. Now, the Zabrak felt the currents of the Force and followed them, an unstoppable avalanche sweeping away any obstacle in his path to the goal.
And yet, he got too carried away. A new batch of droids fell victim to the scarlet lightsaber, and the remaining couple of droidicas were covered by a ceiling panel, overloading their shields. Inspired by his success, the Zabrak threw his staff, cutting both of them in half. Only he didn't notice that another squad of B-1s had just appeared from around the corner. The Mandalorians noticed them first and opened fire, covering the group leader, but a couple of shots still managed to fly towards the unarmed Zabrak.
The lightsaber had not yet returned to its owner's hands, but he had already turned towards the threat at the limit of his speed. The Mandalorians prepared to provide medical assistance to the temporary group leader soon, but something happened that they did not expect at all.
The Zabrak dodged aside with unimaginable speed, letting the shots pass by, and caught the last one in his open palm. To the Mandalorians' surprise, Mol did not cry out in pain, and his hand did not turn into a scorched stump, smelling of burnt meat. No. The charge from the E-5 seemed to simply dissipate, causing no visible harm. Only a light smoke emanated from the Zabrak's glove-covered hand.
Mol burst into mad laughter and, catching his staff on the fly, rushed towards the droids that had survived the Mandalorians' fire.
He did it! He was able to use the technique his mentor had shown him! The most difficult to perform and requiring extreme concentration Force technique had yielded to Mol! He had become stronger. He had not made a mistake with his choice of side and had taken a step closer to the promised power! Revan would help him achieve greatness! And one day, Mol would surpass him!
By this time, the last group of Mandalorians, which included a remarkable assassin droid, was approaching the bridge, the doors of which were already blocked and secured.
"Irritated remark: Stupid bags of meat are trying to hide behind useless doors again," HK-47 declared, his red optics flashing.
"Double doors made of reinforced durasteel. A blaster won't take them, and it'll take too long to cut through," one of the Mandalorians stated, approaching the doors and examining them.
"Request: Is there any baradium explosive left?" HK asked simply.
"Um, yes... But there are few hiding places here..."
"Demand: Hand over the explosives to me. Urgent recommendation: Retreat to the adjacent corridor, seal your armor, you have two minutes," the assassin droid informed the squad.
"But..." one of the soldiers wanted to object, but his companion standing next to him nudged him in the ribs and whispered something about "Aden ani'la beskar'kyr'am."
"Threat: At this moment, you are becoming an obstacle to the completion of the task set by the Master. Warning: You have five seconds to hand over the required ammunition to me," HK stepped back demonstratively and raised his blasters, not aiming them at the target, however... yet.
Some of the soldiers reacted to the blatant threat, raising their weapons, but suddenly realized that the droid was covered by a companion who had not moved, and the machine had deliberately shifted to make the shooters' task as difficult as possible.
Those who were more experienced immediately understood that this droid was not to be trifled with. The mechanical killer dealt with the enemies they encountered with terrifying efficiency, while also making sarcastic comments like "A pointless waste of metal" or "Your skills aren't even worth the dust that has accumulated on your processor." And this was said about droidicas... He didn't even deign to pay attention to ordinary B-1s, concisely shooting them in the head.
Therefore, after careful consideration, the Mandalorian hurried to give HK the required explosives.
"Satisfied: You can think when you want to. Order: Now, to cover, bags of meat!"
The soldiers hurried to obey the order, and the droid himself examined the doors more closely, calculating the point most vulnerable to detonation, located away from the reinforced elements of the frame. The power of a thermobaric charge based on a baradium bomb would have been enough to burn through the cruiser's hull plating, let alone the doors.
Leaving the thermal damage zone, HK activated the detonator. As expected, a melted opening appeared in the doors, large enough for an adult human to squeeze through. For the droid, it was a full passage. So, without waiting for the edges to cool, HK burst into the bridge, where disoriented Neimoidians were coughing from the toxic smoke and trying to give orders to the few droids that were supposed to guard the bridge and assist in controlling the ship. However, there was no one to give orders to after a couple of seconds. HK shot the droids first. To save time, as the Master's deadline for the operation was approaching, he had to throw the last thermal detonator at the droidicas, as it was impossible to quickly deal with their shields.
Next to receive their portion of plasma were two moaning Neimoidians who were unlucky enough to be near the doors at the moment of the explosion.
"Condescendingly: Attention, bags of meat! Since the Master ordered at least half of your command staff to be delivered to Mandalore for trial, I am forced to spare the lives of six of you. Threateningly: And therefore, the other six are of no value to me," HK stated, quickly counting the surviving Neimoidians, having prudently ignored those already killed by the explosion.
"Wh-what do you think you're doing!" the most insolent of the merchant officers clearly voiced.
The answer was a blaster shot, which made a scorched hole around the edges in the skull of the insolent (un)intelligent being.
"Provocative remark: Five more, please," HK "asked" cheerfully.
By this time, the Mandalorians had also made their way to the bridge, which finally convinced the already terrified Neimoidians that their situation was dire.
"Polite request: I need six volunteers who can provide useful information to my Master regarding your failed operation to capture Mandalore," HK began.
"We haven't lost yet!" another dead man fell to the floor.
"Satisfied: One more extra bag of meat. We are moving towards the goal!"
"Hmm, effective," one of the Mandalorians remarked in a whisper.
"Polite explanation: So, I'm waiting for six volunteers ready to share information, or four more idiots who want to end their pathetic existence."
Silence fell on the bridge. Even those Neimoidians who were convulsively coughing, having inhaled toxic smoke, hurried to shut their mouths and now only shuddered, suppressing spasms.
"Disappointed: What, no one?"
"We don't know anything..." a shot interrupted another "smart one" who decided that HK would listen to any excuses or heroic pronouncements of patriots ready for sacrifice.
"With anticipation: So, three more? Or will there still be six who will save us time?"
No one dared to say a word.
"Enthusiastically: Then we'll play my favorite game!" the droid declared.
The blood ran cold in the veins of those present at such a joyful announcement.
"With excitement: So, a counting rhyme! A Zabrak came out of the fog, took a sword out of his pocket," HK began to say, moving the blaster barrel from one potential victim to another.
The Neimoidians began to look around frantically for support from their compatriots, and when the blaster was aimed at them, they cried out in fear and covered themselves with their hands. As if that could help them.
"I'll cut, I'll beat - it doesn't matter who I kill," with the last word, the blaster barrel stopped on some junior officer, as HK understood that the captain should be left alive as a valuable source of information.
A shot rang out, and the counting rhyme began anew.
But the second round was not destined to be finished. Immediately, many volunteers appeared, ready to provide, according to their panicked assurances, "the most important information."
Annoyed by such weakness of the Neimoidians, HK even had to spare two "extra" volunteers, because the Master had clearly ordered "to deliver all who surrendered."
"With hope: Maybe someone will still resist?"
There were no volunteers.
"Annoyed: Fine. Then aim your weapons at the neighboring Federation ship and blast it to the Hutts!" HK ordered, especially since a new order from the Master came through the closed channel, and the other two groups reported the successful completion of their part of the mission.
What reassured the assassin droid was that the Master would definitely call him to interrogate these bags of meat.
Meanwhile.
Mandalore. Death Watch's fortified base in the vicinity of the capital.
Pre Vizsla was in a bad mood.
He realized that everything had gone wrong when news came of the hostages' release, and that Hutt Fett appeared on internal communication channels with his revelations and call for unity! So the appearance of clan fighters on the streets, who were part of the Council, in addition to those who supported Satine, was not a surprise, although it significantly complicated the execution of the plan.
Watching the effectiveness with which the Mandalorians were dealing with the Trade Federation's droids, Vizsla felt pride for his compatriots, but at the same time felt irritation. The situation was becoming a stalemate. It wouldn't be a bloodless victory. Even with the forces sent by an unexpected ally from the Senate, whom Bo-Katan had somehow contacted, it wouldn't be possible to finish quickly.
Bo-Katan... Another miscalculation on his part. Vizsla did not expect that the sister loyal to him, the Duchess, would suddenly betray him. Was it all her plan from the beginning? To gain trust, to connect with an ally whom she had also significantly set up, and then to hand over to the Duchess?
But who helped her? Who could be so powerful and influential as to be able to transfer several groups of saboteurs to Mandalore without the knowledge of the Governor of Concordia, who were superior to his Death Watch? Yes, very skilled! Fett alone is worth something! Perhaps it was all his doing? Did he finally decide to accept the title? Or in memory of Tor Vizsla, did he decide to simply finish off the entire clan, including Pre?
Pre Vizsla, sitting on a throne-like object in front of a round table, irritably threw a glass of unfinished wine against the wall. Everything was going awry! And it was only getting worse.
Yesterday, his allies still had an advantage, at least in space! And today he was being informed of a battle in Mandalore's orbit, and with the participation of a cruiser! Where did Satine get a cruiser from? Did Fett do it? Or was it Bo-Katan's unknown ally? Not Jedi, surely!
Suddenly, the doors to Vizsla's private office opened, and one of his Death Watch stood frozen on the threshold.
"Governor, the base has been attacked!" the soldier reported, explaining the reason for such an unceremonious intrusion.
"Who and how many? How far have they advanced?" Pre straightened up, grabbing his helmet from the table.
"No precise information, the surveillance system is disabled. They entered from two directions and quickly occupied the floors from the first to the third. The defense systems cannot hold them back," the Death Watch reported.
"Send in the reserve..."
"The reserve was sent to storm the Palace, Governor. The returning soldiers have not yet recovered," the Mandalorian reminded him.
Vizsla cursed. He had miscalculated once again, giving in to anger. That attempt to storm was doomed to failure, it was obvious after the failed capture of the landing platforms and hangars. However, he still sent his men on a deliberately losing mission. And now, only the personal guard stood between him and the invaders, among whom there might be Bo-Katan's spies, as she trained them personally, and a few droid squads sent by allies. It was unlikely that the enemy could be held back for long. There was no question of repelling them. If they had already captured three floors before he was informed of the invasion, then the enemy's level of preparation was simply off the charts.
"We have prepared an evacuation plan, Governor. The shuttle is already waiting for you at reserve platform C-1," the Death Watch informed him.
Vizsla grimaced and irritably hit the armrest of his chair with his armored fist.
He was being offered to tuck his tail and run like some coward?! No! He was Pre Vizsla! Head of House Vizsla! He had strived for power for many years, gathering strength bit by bit, deceiving, manipulating, bribing, betraying, and killing in order to one day lead Mandalore to its lost glory! He would not run! No! He would stay here and meet his enemies with dignity!
Vizsla's hand lowered to his belt and clenched on the hilt of his most valuable relic - the lightsaber of one of his glorious ancestors. According to the clan's legends, in the distant past, one of the clan members was born Force-sensitive and was sent to the Jedi Temple for training. He became the only Mandalorian Jedi in history, but he did not forget his origins and left the Order, becoming a Master. But before his departure, he created it - the Darksaber, a blade of pure plasma, black as the Abyss. This relic was stolen from the Temple on Coruscant by the clan warriors who wished to reclaim the weapon that rightfully belonged to the clan.
And now this sword would serve the clan once again. Vizsla would prove that only he was worthy of being called the true Mandalorian!
"Governor!" the Death Watch called again, concerned that his lord was not responding to his calls.
"Gather everyone who is left. Let them come here. Bring out the table and clear the space, we have guests to meet," Vizsla ordered in an icy tone, having finally made his decision.
His chambers were the largest room on the base, not counting the training grounds and shooting ranges, and resembled a throne room more than anything else. So this place was perfectly suited for what he had planned.
Not ten minutes passed before all preparations were completed. Two dozen guards lined the walls like an honor guard. The center of the hall, directly opposite the chair that remained in its place, was cleared. Pre sat on the "throne" awaiting the invaders, among whom there was surely the one he intended to publicly execute before his people and finally settle the issue of who was the true Mandalorian!
"So, here you are, Fett," Vizsla sneered contemptuously when a small detachment led by Jango cautiously approached the entrance to the hall.
Pre bared his teeth when he saw a Jedi in the detachment. He hadn't put on his helmet, so anyone could see the contempt on his face.
"So, the self-proclaimed Mandalorian has teamed up with a jetii? Have you become the Senate's lapdog, Fett? Can you already bring the Chancellor his slippers? Or are you just licking the heels of our sworn enemies for now?"
Jango listened calmly to Vizsla's tirade, not reacting to the insults.
"Unlike you, who sold our world to the Federation, I came to help preserve its independence," Fett declared, straightening proudly and entering the hall.
He was not afraid of Jango's attack. Since Vizsla had decided to stage this spectacle with high-flown speeches, no one was going to attack sneakily. This thought also occurred to Qui-Gon, who entered after Fett. The experienced diplomat immediately understood the plan of the Governor of Concordia. Most likely, a holorecording was being made now, which would later be distributed throughout the Mandalorian sector, similar to Fett's address.
"Enough!" Vizsla roared, "Now we will find out once and for all who among us is worthy to lead Mandalore!"
With these words, Pre stood up, put on his helmet, and took the Darksaber in his hands.
The black blade flared, filling the hall with the hum of the plasma loop.
"Only the true leader of our people is worthy to wield this weapon," Vizsla declared.
"Then, perhaps, you should immediately give it to someone more suitable?" Jango asked calmly, intending to provoke his opponent.
And he succeeded.
"You will die, Fett. Here and now. Fight me according to the laws of Mandalorian honor!" Vizsla roared.
The blade of the dark lightsaber was pointed at Jango's chest.
Fett, understanding what was expected of him, decided not to disappoint the assembled crowd and to honor the traditions. He removed the holster with his blaster, set aside his carbine, shut off the fuel supply to his flamethrower, and removed his jetpack.
Jinn, watching this process, cautiously placed his hand on the hilt of his lightsaber and raised an eyebrow questioningly. He did not offer help, as he understood that an outsider could not interfere in a duel between Mandalorians. However, he could lend his lightsaber. Especially since one could not withstand the Darksaber with a simple vibroblade.
Fett noticed the movement and shook his head.
"Are you sure?" Qui-Gon clarified.
"I don't know how to handle your toys. And going into battle with a weapon you don't know is pure suicide," Fett replied.
"The sword is dangerous," Jinn reminded him.
"I'm not unarmed either," Jango replied and pulled a silver blade, polished to a mirror shine, from the sheath on his belt.
The blade passed along the back of the bracers on his left hand, which were of the exact same color. The clang, produced by the collision of the blade and the bracers, almost deafened those present and continued to echo in the ensuing silence.
"Beskar," Vizsla exhaled.
"Pure," confirmed Fett, who had spent years searching for enough material and persuading a blacksmith to forge these daggers and bracers.
"Whatever happens, no one interferes," Vizsla ordered.
Fett duplicated the order to his men. He could not order the Jedi, but Jinn understood everything anyway.
"I am Pre Vizsla, head of House Vizsla, I challenge you, Jango Fett, to a duel for the undeservedly claimed title of Mandalorian," the Governor of Concordia proclaimed.
I am Jango Fett, head and last representative of Clan Fett, I accept the challenge. May the ancestors be our witness.
Nodding to each other in greeting, the opponents began to circle the improvised arena, not rushing to attack. Both knew how dangerous their opponent was, and therefore an ill-considered attack could be the last for an impatient fighter.
Vizsla made the first move, lunging forward and making a horizontal sword swing. Fett took a step back, letting the blade pass in front of him, then leaned forward, parrying a counter-attack with his beskar knife, and delivering a quick strike from his left hand to Vizsla's torso. Pre recoiled and hissed in pain, while dodging another lunge from Jango, and trying to reach the latter with his plasma blade. Fett simply jumped back and shook drops of blood from the bracers on his left arm. Vizsla shouldn't forget that a Mandalorian's armor is always full of surprises.
"Cunning bastard," Vizsla hissed, clutching his side with his hand.
"I was taught by the best," Fett replied simply.
With the roar of a wounded beast, Pre lunged at his opponent. The black blade blurred through space, aiming to reach the agile target that was Fett. Jango skillfully parried the thrusts, catching the plasma blade on the edge of his beskar knife or his bracers, not allowing the Dark Saber to remain in contact with the metal for too long. Although beskar was resistant to a lightsaber, prolonged contact could melt it too.
To Vizsla's credit, despite all of Jango's attempts to get closer and strike, he received no new wounds. The beskar dagger hit the armor several times, tearing it like paper, but it never reached Vizsla's body.
Meanwhile, Jango himself exposed himself to another overhead blow and, not having time to dodge, lost the shoulder guard on his left arm. The Dark Saber only barely touched the mercenary's skin, but managed to leave a terrible burn. The hall filled with the smell of burnt meat. Fett was forced to attack only from the right, as his left arm was now poorly responsive...
Or perhaps he just pretended he couldn't move his arm, acting only with his right for a few minutes. And then, when Vizsla began to feel he was winning, a sudden blow to the elbow of his right arm from Fett's seemingly numb hand became a fatal surprise for him. The wrist blades pierced the armor, hitting the joint between the vambrace and the forearm plate, and went all the way through.
With a cry of pain, Vizsla dropped his sword, and Fett finished the job, delivering several precise blows with his beskar dagger to his opponent's shoulder and thigh, rendering him unable to continue the fight.
The wounded Pre fell to the floor, unable to stand. Fett slowly picked up the Dark Saber and activated it. The black blade descended towards Vizsla's neck.
"You lost. Your people saw it. Keep the remnants of your honor and admit your defeat. You will stand before the judgment of the Clan Council, where the fate of your house will be decided. What do you say, Pre Vizsla of House Vizsla?" Jango Fett asked, ready at any second to end his opponent's life if he dared to cast aside traditions and pull some trick.
Pre didn't think long. If it were only about his life and honor, he would have accepted death without hesitation. But the fate of the entire House Vizsla and all the clans that were part of it was at stake. He had to take responsibility and convince the Clan Council that his House did not deserve to be overthrown. The name Vizsla must not be erased from the history of Mandalore. He could not let his ancestors down.
"I admit my defeat and am ready to answer for my actions," Vizsla declared loudly.
"A wise decision," Fett nodded, sheathing his blade.
The Mandalorians from Jango's squad moved towards the defeated leader of Death Watch, but several Guardsmen stood in their way.
"Death Watch fighters, your leader has lost, your allies on the ground and in the sky are defeated, the coup has failed. Do not worsen your situation and lay down your arms. Your lives and the lives of your loved ones will be spared. If you choose to resist, you will not leave this place alive. The base is surrounded, your evacuation shuttle has been captured. Before you stands the legitimate Mandalore, a detachment of the best warriors from all the clans of our people, as well as a Jedi. Are you sure you have enough skill and luck to at least leave this hall?" Jango Fett recited in an icy tone.
No one dared to offer resistance. On this day, Death Watch ceased to exist.
Mandalore endured.