Over the long years of war. Endless battles and the meat grinder against hellish creatures made of metal and chitin, I eventually stopped feeling danger.
Constantly encountering these wild and insane offspring whose life and way of life are based on communism... Br-r-r-r.
I forgot how to be afraid. I forgot how to anticipate and rely on the famous sixth sense that tells the weak, soft, and fleshy humans when to retreat or not to get involved in an adventure at all.
Constantly fighting, eternally dying, and not having the opportunity to perish completely... What kind of person would stay normal? And it was the same for me.
Until one day the ancient enemies of Humanity returned, who by their very presence could suppress even the most insane and careless mind.
Coming from the depths of space, possessing incomprehensible powers, they could enslave the minds of humans, suppress them, putting them in the service of their evil and cruel will.
Super Earth had already managed to fight them, but in the years after the first war, everyone was convinced that the vile "squids," offspring with incomprehensible powers—had perished in the darkness of space and nuclear explosions.
As it turned out—no.
In the midst of the war with the Terminids and Automatons, the bastards showed themselves again. All this time, long years of silence, they were gathering their strength and preparing. Preparing to strike their blow and take revenge.
And their invasion was terrifying in its scale and power. Thousands of warships, tens of thousands of soldiers, each of whom could rival a Helldiver of my world...
And millions of deformed and zombified humans whom they took control of and set upon us, using them as cannon fodder in the vanguard.
By attacking one of our frontier colonies, they scared the government of Super Earth into wetting their pants, so all available Helldivers forces were thrown into confronting the threat, even to the detriment of other fronts.
Hundreds of thousands of paratroopers descended upon the squids from the skies, and half of them remained forever lying in the dense sands and among the streets of deserted cities.
It was probably then, for the first time in many years, that I felt fear again. But unfortunately and fortunately, it was not the fear of a cherished death. No.
I felt fear and hatred toward slavery. The fear of losing myself, my mind, and my will. To remain forever a prisoner of a vile power that would hollow me out and turn me into a drooling doll—lusting for the blood of my new masters' enemies.
Why am I telling all this? Because right now, I was feeling roughly the same thing.
A sticky fear sought to creep into my soul and settle there again, making me weak.
I felt that incredibly cold abyss of tranquility and slight contempt directed all around, creating a literal misty aura—fending off interlocutors who were insignificant to the master of the mist.
"A real squid."
Crossing one leg over the other, he sat as if at a social reception, chin proudly raised and shoulders squared. A strong, direct gaze with incredibly intelligent and lively eyes stared straight at me.
The first glimmers of noble gray hair beginning to touch his head only added to his significance. Given his sharp profile and true aristocratic pedigree, the impression created was incredible.
And that suffocating and incredibly powerful pressure of the Force made it difficult to concentrate or breathe normally. He wasn't doing it on purpose, but I would never mistake such familiar emanations for anything else.
The signature Jedi robe was washed clean and pressed. The fabric, soft even to the eye, covered the Jedi's entire body, leaving only his hands and head exposed.
Polished boots gleamed in the rays of the sun breaking through the window. And a massive signet ring adorning his right hand involuntarily drew the eye, forcing attention onto this element of clothing that stood out so strongly against the backdrop of the Jedi's otherwise modest attire.
"If you are finished, then I think we should begin." Coughing politely before starting to speak, the man scanned my office one more time, after which, without a single facial muscle twitching, he spoke without breaking eye contact. "I believe you understand what I am here for... Though, it would be better to put it: 'Why am I here?'"
"I can imagine," I failed to maintain the same cold tone. And as soon as I finished the last syllable, two attentive eyes stared at me with renewed intensity, "care to introduce yourself?"
For a few seconds, my companion studied me closely, in no way betraying his true attitude, but I could feel it literally through my skin... And there was little pleasant about it.
"Of course. Master Jedi Yan Dooku," without uncrossing his legs, the man smiled softly and warmly with the corners of his lips, instantly changing the atmosphere. Such a sharp transition caught me off guard, while the Jedi continued, "I am already acquainted with you indirectly, so there is no need for introductions. Shall we get down to business? The Order sent me as a Peacekeeper and I must admit, so far, I see no particular reason for concern."
Shaking his thick mane of hair, Dooku tilted his head slightly to the side, clearly reflecting on something. In that stream of pathos he had just delivered, for a couple of moments, something sincere finally broke through, not hidden behind the mask of a diplomat and a man of noble blood.
"Our Order," emphasizing the word "our," Dooku pointedly rolled his eyes, supposedly showing his attitude toward such an assignment and the insinuations directed at us, "is concerned with how quickly and easily you are gaining supporters and power..."
"We are in the Outer Rim. Gangs form here every day, new micro-states are created, and pirate barons divide entire sectors among themselves. What business is it of the Jedi what our small band of mercenaries does?"
Thinning his lips dryly, Dooku measured me with a look. The aristocrat clearly didn't like being interrupted... Or that was how he wanted to appear. Nevertheless, the Jedi continued his speech with the same timbre and vocal inflections.
"But far from every one of them hides behind the crest of the Republic squeezed onto your banner," he smiled patronizingly, like a father amused by a child hiding behind his name in a fight, "you speak such beautiful words... About freedom. About democracy."
Gesticulating lazily with his left hand, he spoke, and his words poured into my head like molasses... Fortunately, from constant blows, it was empty, and everything the Jedi said to me didn't settle there.
"...The Order is concerned. As are some senators." His other palm opened, distracting me from the Jedi's face. Snapping my gaze back instantly, I caught the moment Dooku squared his shoulders and raised his chin again. "Was it worth creating such an exotic reputation and giving so many informal signs?"
And Dooku knew how to talk. Colorful turns of phrase, subtle facial play, light smiles, and an insinuating, soft voice that one wants to trust. Coupled with his appearance, natural charisma, and manners—it was a lethal mix for any politically active interlocutor.
I think if Dooku had the chance, he would swim in the filth of the Republican Senate like a fish in water, easily maneuvering between hundreds of factions and profiting from them all.
"...The revolution on Ukio. Armed clashes on Mende..."
I don't know if he was influencing me with the Force or not, but in just half an hour of conversation and mutual pleasantries with explanations, I began to feel a sense of sympathy toward him.
And as my attitude changed, Dooku showed that he noticed it, and accordingly changed his facial expressions and gestures. Now both hands were frequently spreading in wide sweeps, showing scale.
"...This war of yours with the Hutts. Especially with the Cartel!"
The soft smile became more mischievous and daring, replacing the diplomatically polite one.
"...We watched it with the entire council. An incredible and memorable video. You certainly have talent."
His eyebrows frequently shot up, and sincere surprise shone through every gesture, every word, and even in the thoughts whose echoes splashed in the depths of his wise brown eyes.
But it was all a lie.
"Now a lull has finally come here. And so I am here." As the speech concluded, Dooku's voice grew quieter, and a slight rasp appeared, as if the man wasn't used to chatting so much for no reason. "Ahem... My apologies, my throat has gone dry."
Agreeing to the non-verbal request, I summoned a couple of droids who brought in various types of drinks, including wines and something stronger. Who knows what someone of particularly royal blood might be into.
As soon as Dooku was distracted and turned to the panoramic window offering a view of a blue star in the blackness of space, I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking off the mixture of sleepy delusion and euphoria.
Blood raced faster through my veins. The fingers of my left hand dug painfully into my thigh, surely leaving a cluster of bruises. My eyes darted feverishly, and I tried to recall the entire course of the conversation, surprised at times that about an hour had already passed.
The conversation with Dooku was too fascinating and lively, so I simply lost track of time, following the flow of thoughts of the Jedi sitting across from me.
Turning away from the window, the apprentice of the current head of the Order measured me with a new look, and perhaps for the first time in the entire conversation, a sincere hint of a smile appeared on his face.
"You hold your own well for such long negotiations. Have you had practice? Or prior experience?"
So many questions, so many hints, and so much falsehood. The Jedi clearly didn't expect an honest answer; rather, he hoped to get a reaction. But accustomed to high-society rounds on Coruscant or other noble planets of the Core, Dooku had clearly forgotten what the people here were like.
"I just don't understand half of it, so..."
Even in the middle of the phrase, my companion's face changed. His lips tightened slightly, and his eyes said it all: "Well, what else could one expect from savage mercenaries from the fringes."
Truth be told, the Jedi said nothing aloud, nor did he show his attitude toward the local barbarians or me in particular in any way.
"On the whole, I see no particular reason to pressure you or threaten you; besides, that is absolutely not my style..."
Playing with his voice, Dooku clearly hinted that while his style might differ, someone else who was closely monitoring our successes might clearly think otherwise.
"...I learned enough about you before visiting your ship. And meeting you was merely the final touch in this whole mess."
Here he likely just duplicated the sentiment, not entirely sure a fool like me understood everything. And how smoothly he continued, not faltering in his speech for a second.
"So, Mr... Sam. I think we should conclude our meeting on this note," rising from the chair in one motion, Dooku took a step forward, extending his hand. A rare gesture not found on all planets. "Would you permit a couple of pieces of advice, from one sentient to another?"
"Of course..."
"Get yourself a surname or an official title—it will help greatly during negotiations." Polishing off a polite squeeze of my palm, Dooku immediately released it and hid both hands behind his back, striking the pose of a proud aristocrat.
"And the second?"
"Do not play too much with your slogans," the Jedi's eyes flashed for a moment, and steel cut through his voice. He definitely stepped closer on purpose so I would surely understand his hints. "The Republic is patient and sluggish, but..."
"I understand." This time, interrupting the Count's speech, I didn't receive a reproachful look. "And I will follow the advice... both of them."
"I hope so."
Smiling softly, Dooku flicked the hem of his Jedi cloak and briskly headed for the exit. A smooth, light gait, hands behind his back, chin up, and from under slightly hooded lids, one of the strongest and most dangerous Jedi of modern times looked out at the world. Clearly showing that the conversation was over, and it was the Count who had ended it.
But I'm a brain-damaged Helldiver who drops onto planets in modified escape pods.
"Master Dooku, may I ask a question?"
The Jedi's back tensed, and I felt an invisible breeze pass through me.
"Of course."
Without changing his pose, the man remained standing with his back turned, only turning his head slightly to the side to see me out of the corner of his eye.
"When you were forming an opinion of me... of us." Correcting myself, I walked away from our chairs to the table, where I took the untouched drinks and poured myself a full glass of juice from rare citrus fruits from the galaxy's edge. "Did you only read the reports of the spies following on our heels?"
This time, Dooku finally allowed himself some emotion. Turning toward me to confirm it, he raised both eyebrows, looking at me in a new way. His gaze said: "Are you a complete moron?", but aristocratic restraint prevented him from saying it aloud.
Seeing that I wasn't reacting to his attention and continued drinking the juice, the Jedi stepped closer.
"Some members of the Order are particularly gifted in compiling dossiers... shall we say." A new soft smile graced his face. "Why this question?"
"Well, I thought you had flown to the places we've been. Interviewed the people living there. Spoke with those who hung the Helldivers banners on their planets or ships... Perhaps interviewed the rescued slaves who are now studying or working on Mende for the Baobab Merchant Fleet... A pity," with a meager smirk, I delivered an imaginary slap to the Jedi, for that was exactly how he reacted. He recoiled slightly and stared at me with a look full of indignation and outrage at the professionalism of the Count and the Jedi spies. "Forgive me for delaying you. The conversation was indeed fascinating."
Correctly understanding my most direct hint, the Count tightened his lips but said nothing. I barely managed to catch even that fleeting movement, for his face regained its neutral tones.
"I have a feeling we shall meet again, Mr. Sam."
"Most likely."
***
Entering his ship and sending the shadow-Jedi a signal that no problems had occurred, Yan Dooku sat in the pilot's seat, beginning the familiar startup of the ship provided by the Order.
The deft movements of his hands were almost automatic; like a programmed droid, he quickly flipped toggles in the required order as the systems around him came to life.
But at the very last moment, his finger froze over the engine start button. A couple of millimeters from the blue piece of plastic.
Dooku furrowed his brows, reflecting on the conversation with the mercenary leader who had built a small state within the Republic in a short time.
The first impression had been dismal. An ordinary soldier with a minimum of brains and the hot blood of a youth. After an hour of conversation, having fished out a great deal about his character and habits, Yan was able to form a brief personality portrait that didn't differ much from the report submitted by the shadow.
His first impulse was to finish as quickly as possible with the assignment from his former teacher, who had sent him to the far edge of the galaxy, away from the temple and important events in the Core Worlds.
But natural curiosity, or the whisper of the Force, prompted him to continue the conversation, and Yan still felt its consequences.
Questions and indignation swarmed in his head. How could this be? A small boy, a rogue and a hoodlum from the fringes—reproaching him and the Jedi for not really looking into anything and coming to wag a finger at him, hinting that he shouldn't play too much.
Griping the armrest of the chair tighter with his free hand, Dooku pulled his finger away from the button. Discontent fought within him against curiosity, the dogmas of the Order, obedience to his teacher, laziness, and much else... All of this mixed together and threatened to spill over into a multi-day meditation.
"Later," but having made a decision for himself, Countly pride ultimately defeated the monk's postulates, and changing the coordinates, Dooku set off for where it all began. Even if he spent more than a month at this task, by confirming everything for himself, he could return home with a clear conscience, giving the masters a report and complaining to his mentor that next time, a simple knight could be sent for such a simple task, rather than a full master and future master.
***
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