In a locked room, fresh air runs out very quickly.
Especially when the space occupied is not of the largest size, and the sentients in it are more than there should have been.
Like scavengers, they had to hide here, in an abandoned transport network station. Very deep underground. But at the same time, close enough to their main target — the capital.
The grim, courageous faces of the underground workers expressed only a manly unity — in each of them hatred seethed, both for the corrupt government that had instantly taken the side of the hated occupiers, and for those who had extended a helping hand at a difficult moment. But their goal remained unchanged — the independence of their home world from any corrupt authorities or external pressure of the Republic or the Confederacy, which was little different from it.
The meeting place was a wide platform surrounded on both sides by a monorail — trains were supposed to run here once, but the officials responsible for construction had stolen more than usual. Therefore, for the last two years, the station had remained only a room with a finished platform, high ceilings, and several rows of columns on both sides bordering the tracks. There were supposed to be only two exits from here — and each of them was located on the "narrow" sides of the station and led to the surface. Но после беспощадных бомбардировок, один из входов завалило породой и его расчистка была нерентабельной. Instead, the site of the collapse had become an ideal part of the compositions for the rare orators speaking before the assembled. And the crates of weapons and ammunition stored in unfinished tunnel branches were a reliable guarantee that at the appropriate moment, with blasters at the ready, the underground would be able to tear its planet from the hands of the cursed occupiers.
The only entrance, which was also the exit, was a staircase blocked by a heavy armored door, camouflaged on the surface by the ruins of a collapsed house. But those who knew what to look for always found the secret entrance. And a cover group in the neighboring ruins could always shoot an unwise sentient who happened to wander here. So as not to disturb the brothers-in-arms gathered below.
And the reason for their appearance here — all who remained alive — was by no means routine. From the moment their underground organization was created until now, never before had the organization been on the brink of its destruction. And this, after such a huge triumph!
"Brothers!" their Leader appeared on a small podium before those assembled — a former guardsman who had united them during the Separatist occupation and did not stay on the sidelines after the actual occupation of the world by the Republic. "Listen to me!"
The latter was unnecessary — no one here suffered from talkativeness, and the words of their leader were always treated with respect.
"Our allies in the government have brought bad news," a wave of ill-concealed hatred rolled through the ranks of those gathered. "The enemy has decided to strike us. To deprive our homeland of its loyal sons and daughters in pursuit of absolute control."
The orator's words reached the ears of each of the hundred gathered. The high ceilings, like acoustic amplifiers, carried what was said to every corner of the base.
"Our ally in the government has reported that it is planned to call mercenaries to our planet who, like predators, will hunt us! As if those thugs who teach our youth to kill and send them into space to fight for the interests of the Republic are not enough for us!?"
Jo Ptar was hitting his stride. Shouting slogans and curses on the heads of the hated Jedi, he smiled internally.
Yes, there were few of them, but they were all as one — experienced fighters. Who didn't consider it shameful to support his contact with Count Dooku and ask for help. The noble aristocrat did not refuse, and the former militiamen who remained loyal to the former guard captain reacted with delight to the opportunity to spite the enemy.
No one counted the victims from the sabotage of the Golan defense platforms, or those who died disabling ground anti-aircraft artillery. The dead will be remembered by those who survived. And everyone knows that should he die, his sacrifice will not be in vain. His death in the name of freedom will open the eyes of hundreds of others — and then, maybe in a year, they will be able to strike.
The attack coordinated with the Separatists almost failed when the Republic fleet entered the system. At the very last moment, instead of landing troops, the CIS commander had to cover his tracks and bomb the intended bridgehead that Jo's people had prepared for him. Thousands of citizens died at the hands of secret avengers so that no one would know about the landing. Но все оказалось напрасно.
Republic reinforcements crushed the CIS forces in space, and the original plan had to be abandoned. To avoid compromising the city's cleanup, Jo requested a bombardment. In the end, who would later figure out among the debris whether this or that traitor who agreed to work with the occupiers died from an air strike or a shot to the back of the head.
On the other hand, under the cover of the bombardment, crates of weapons were dropped in the designated squares, which that same night disappeared into the depths of the underground base.
Everything seemed to be going perfectly. But the truth found its way to the surface — the government learned about the activities of Jo's group. And according to information from a reliable source, the occupiers plan to enlist the support of mercenaries who will find and destroy the rebels.
Despite the experience of guerrilla warfare, Jo, when creating the underground, refused to use encrypted transmissions to communicate with his brethren. Each of them waited for a personal order, which couriers delivered in one way or another.
And critically important information, he communicated at meetings of this kind. When all the brothers are here and no one…
Behind the armored door — the only entrance — a barely discernible thud was heard. As if something huge had crashed against the bulkhead.
Those assembled became worried, glancing at each other. What could it be? An accidental failure in the opening mechanism, or did some debris fall from above?
"Mito," Jo contacted the commander of the cover group on the surface without losing a second. Transmitters working over short distances helped maintain contact with the guards, who were supposed to raise an alarm if anyone appeared within a radius of several kilometers from the base.
But there was no such signal. Meaning everything was clear upstairs. Then why is Mito silent?!
The blow was repeated, but this time it was much stronger.
A minute later — another one. So powerful that fine dust fell from the ceiling.
"To arms, brothers!" Jo barked the command. The order coincided with a fourth, strongest blow. After which a tense silence followed.
Despite the order given, the rebels froze as if afraid to move. As if there were something or someone outside capable of detecting their movements.
But there was only darkness on the other side of the armored shutter.
"Mito, answer!" Jo said with ill-concealed rage. However, as before, silence was the answer.
Which, a second later, was broken by a terrifying grinding sound that made everyone present cover their ears.
It felt as if metal were being torn. Slowly, steadily. As if someone could derive a perverse pleasure from such a thing.
This was enough for the bewildered rebels to rush to the arsenal. Grabbing the E-5 carbines of Separatist manufacture — awkward but at the same time simple to maintain — the insurgents quickly took their cover, pointing the weapon barrels toward the expected point of entry.
The grinding coming from the bulkhead became simply unbearably heart-wrenching. Но с этими звуками родилось и понимание происходящего.
The bulkhead mechanism worked in a vertical direction — one only had to press a button on the remote for a massive hydraulic mechanism to lower or raise the multi-ton bulkhead. And as soon as it reached the lower position, four thick cast locks hidden in the thickness of the wall ends entered its ends. These mechanisms, operated manually from inside the station, were an additional guarantee of protection should someone suddenly be able to hack the protection of the hydraulic mechanisms — one main, two auxiliary, and a backup. Two additional protection elements to those four…
Four…
Suddenly, Jo realized what those dull sounds outside meant.
But before he could say anything, the huge rectangular bulkhead, having broken the floor covering with its lower part, under the action of an unknown force, like a hinge held on the locks at the ends, with a deafening crash and raising clouds of dust, fell flat on the floor.
A refreshing breeze wafted inside, mixed with dust. So thick that one couldn't see anything more than a few meters in front of oneself.
A quiet clank was heard — as if something heavy and clearly metallic had fallen onto the defeated slab. But what it was could not be made out.
Then, like lights from the underworld, two bright yellow optical sensors lit up at human height in the mangled doorway.
"Joyful observation. There you are, meatbags," the dust settled a bit, and in the doorway, like a titan blocking the way out, stood a protocol droid of an unknown design. In the light of the lamps, its paint, like ubiquitous rust, seemed to Jo like old, caked blood. The droid held a heavy rifle, which it instantly brought into a combat position and pointed at the nearest rebel. "Mocking warning. Do not move, meatbags. You will stay here anyway."
And then, real hell broke loose at the underground station.
Sitting on the massive stone steps leading to the abandoned station, Vette was frankly bored. Heart-rending screams reached her from there, sometimes even blaster bolts flew out, but the Twi'lek was above the line of possible fire, so after the first dozen accidental salvos, she stopped paying attention to them.
She was frankly bored.
While a mad assassin droid frolicked below, she passed the time cleaning her blasters of carbon buildup.
Finally, after about five minutes, the bacchanalia ended. The screams, shouts, shooting — everything ended. From below, from the unfinished station that had become a crypt, only the metallic footsteps of the assassin were heard.
Measuredly, unhurriedly, the death machine climbed up. Like a piece of poodu, a tanned, slightly stout man was dragged behind him, held by one leg by a manipulator. The reason they were here.
"Sarcastic statement. You owe me a hundred credits. I managed it in under seven minutes."
"You're a droid!" Vette was outraged. "What do you need money for?"
"Patient explanation. I need to pay a taxidermist's fee so that this meatbag's head does not lose its shape."
"Planning to butcher him for a trophy?" the Twi'lek grimaced with disgust. An unpleasant smell came from the senseless body. Apparently, the leader of the underground had soiled himself when he met HK-47.
"Sincere wonder. Are there master's orders forbidding this?"
"No, but… what the hell do you need a piece of his body for?"
"Explanation: I am an assassin droid. My primary function is to burn holes in meatbags that the master wishes removed from the Galaxy, master. Oh, how I hate that term!" At the end of the tirade, the droid threw up its hands, causing the prisoner's by no means light body to be briefly in the air and fall to the ground with a disgusting sound. "Irritation. Organics! You have all these soft parts. And all that water! I do not imagine how that constant sloshing does not drive you mad! I will have to dry him out properly to rid him of that annoying liquid."
The smell of filth became unbearable, and the girl covered her mouth with her hand.
"Why the hell did you even bring him out here? The order was to finish them all."
"Feigned offense. You are an ungrateful meatbag. Do you want me to engage in butchering the carcass below? And if someone objects?"
"So go find out," the girl pointed with a chuckle at the dark maw of the passage leading to the underground station.
Simultaneously with these words, a powerful explosion thundered underground, making her barely stand on her feet. But the nimble droid managed to grab her by the arm, preventing her from hitting her backside. And a huge section of land over the location of the station sank down with a monstrous crash, filling the resulting void.
"Deplorable regret. I would have asked permission from one of the perforated meatbags below if they hadn't just evaporated."
Imagining what happened to the people underground after the explosion of the vacuum-incendiary munition that HK had taken with him on the mission, the girl felt an urge to vomit. Now, not only were there no bodies left — not a molecule could be found. It was good that they had left the ship at a significant distance from the target and had managed to get further away after completing the mission.
"Sly remark. Do you not wish to bring this meatbag to his senses?"
Vette turned away with curses, bending over so that the stomach contents didn't splash her suit.
Consciousness returned as soon as he felt his right knee fill with pain. With monstrous cries, Jo came to, finding himself lying on his back in the middle of the Wastes — that's what the areas of Christophsis unsuitable for cultivation or use for any needs were called. Usually, they surrounded any populated areas on the planet for thousands of kilometers.
The sun beat in his eyes, but almost immediately he discerned the shadow of the droid over him — the terrifying death machine that, as if charmed, moved among his people, killing them one by one. His actions had made Jo admire the assassin — he acted gracefully, effectively. Like a ballerina cutting throats and taking scalps.
And now, under the right foot of this monster was what remained of Jo's kneecap. Some distance away from them, the Twi'lek was on all fours, making characteristic sounds as she cast out the contents of her stomach.
Jo felt the needle of a pneumatic injector entering his neck. In the next moment, the body seemed to lose its nerve endings, and the pain retreated.
"Explanation. I have injected you with a stimulant, meatbag, so that you answer my questions. Is that clear?"
"Y-yes…"
"Exclamation. That is wonderful! Finally, it is possible to talk with someone who is not afraid of blood loss!"
Jo licked his parched lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that from the wound at the place of the knee where the droid still stood, a pool of blood was spreading around him. Meaning he wouldn't last long. He was the last of the resistance — this droid had cut them all out. Meaning his master would undoubtedly watch the recording. Jo would die as befits a freedom fighter — unbroken and with a slogan on his lips.
"Requirement. Tell everything you know, meatbag. And then I will allow you to die quickly. Irritation. Although I would have preferred for you to run from me — I need to calibrate the aiming unit."
"Y-you will learn nothing from me!" Jo blurted out, gathering sparse saliva and spitting on the droid's armor. Unfortunately, an accidental breeze carried the insulting moisture back onto the rebel's face.
"Anticipation. Tell me that I can torture you for the purpose of obtaining the information I need!"
After these words, the sounds from the Twi'lek's side became louder. And, it seemed, the intensity of the spasms increased.
"Do what you want!"
"Joyful observation. Excellent!" The droid stepped on the second knee. Through the veil of oblivion, Jo felt echoes of pain. Most likely, the stimulant was wearing off.
"Coward!" Jo hissed. "Our fellow citizens will wake from this oblivion, and righteous wrath will roll over you like a stone falling from the mountains! Kill one of us — two others will take his place. Hydra Dominatus!..."
***
The spasms let go of Vette as soon as she heard the rebel's last words. Something like a battle cry or a slogan. Need to find out what's what.
The girl rose to her feet, turning toward HK and his prisoner. Just as the droid's metallic foot was slowly rising from the crushed chest of the man whose eyes, frantic with terror, were directed toward the Twi'lek. Bloody foam was still bubbling on his lips, causing Vette to feel characteristic urges, falling on all fours, casting thin streams of bile from her empty stomach.
"Mocking remark. I do not hear any sounds of hydro-domination and rolling, meatbag!"
***
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