Ten years, the first month, and the sixth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, the first month, and the sixth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and the twenty-sixth day since the arrival).
According to records from Republican intelligence, obtained from information stolen during the attack on Coruscant, this facility, hidden in the depths of a mountain range on the planet Jendolhun in the eponymous system of the Bosf sector, was called the "Daksus Outpost."
And it was directly involved in work in the field of xenarchaeology and related sciences.
And it was even funded from the budget of the Republican Bureau of Reconnaissance and Geological Services.
Those guys who fancied themselves heirs to the Imperial Reconnaissance Corps, which in its time was part of the Imperial Starfleet.
Their task was to explore the galaxy. Despite the constant shortage of qualified personnel and scientists, the IRC, if the advertising on their brochures wasn't lying, reported a discovered planet every two hundred seven standard minutes.
The guys from the Republican BRGS were doing roughly the same thing.
Only the planet Jendolhun had been discovered centuries before them.
And they were funded directly from the Republican intelligence budget.
Hutt copycats. They can't come up with anything original.
Though Makeno wasn't familiar with the IRC guys (and in general, they weren't particularly liked in the Imperial armed forces, as those managed to get into all sorts of messes like handing over supplies from their expeditions to the Rebel Alliance, criticizing the ruling regime, and so on), he definitely knew that they didn't fence themselves in with combat scanners in their work and didn't build permanent bases, let alone mount permanent firing points.
Everything they had was mobile, ready to be dismantled and relocated to a new site.
And the array of antennas on the upper levels of the complex built on top of the cliff spoke for itself.
Captain Makeno checked how securely the hook driven into the rock held.
The piece of metal sat tight—the anchor braces had turned it into a hook integrated immovably into the rock's thickness.
Through its cast ring, Orsan threaded a carabiner with a cable and allowed himself a brief rest.
A couple of seconds, no more, while he gauged the next step in the mountain climb.
Squeezing into the crevice he had spotted in the sheer cliff face, he drove in a hook and, standing on it, tried to give his exhausted body a break.
Just two minutes, while the next special forces operative ascended.
Through the fierce howl of the wind trying to knock him down, the squad commander heard the scrape of armored boots: the subordinate was futilely trying to overcome the ledge that he himself had climbed with great difficulty, scraping his hands bloody.
He had torn his gloves to shreds three hundred meters back.
His strained muscles ached.
Makeno breathed heavily, laboriously. Forgetting his own sufferings, about gathering his strength, he listened.
Again, this time louder, metal scraped against stone.
Even the piercing howl of the wind couldn't drown out this sound. He needed to warn the guys: let them be extremely careful.
There were only about six meters left to the summit, and thus to their goal.
Looking down through the helmet's light filters, he saw all four of his fighters slowly approaching the point designated for rest before the final dash to the mountain peak.
In such darkness, under rain and wind, the ascent was a sheer nightmare. The sufferings they endured at the same time somehow dulled the sense of fear during the climb up the sheer rock.
They had to ascend, clinging to the cliff's irregularities with fingertips of hands and feet, hammering hundreds of hooks, each time tying a safety rope to them, meter by meter rising into the unknown.
He had never undertaken such a climb before; he hadn't even suspected he was capable of something like this.
Archaeologists and geologists, well, well...
They had settled in the most inaccessible part of the planet, surrounding themselves with a network of scanners so that no flying vehicle could approach them.
As for ground vehicles, speeders, or gravcycles, there was no need to even mention them—the cliff on which the Republicans had settled had only one access road from the continent's depths.
Well-visible and raked by fire from masked guns.
If anyone unrelated to the mission poked their nose here, they would be known about much earlier than they approached for the assault.
And this gave the Republicans the opportunity to use impulse transmitters and destroy the data before the capture team's arrival.
And command desperately wanted to know what the Republicans were doing here.
Makeno could swear they were monitoring everything happening in the sector under the guise of an archaeological mission.
Because that's exactly how the IRC operated, most of whose employees defected to the New Republic immediately after Endor.
And how adept the Republicans were at promptly copying Imperial instructions and protocols was unknown in the Dominion only to the lazy.
They found a planet, deployed a base, studied the surroundings of the world, system, sector, and then, if there was something worthwhile, called in the Imperial fleet.
And the guys in white finished the job, conquering not one or two worlds at a time, but entire dozens, if not hundreds of systems.
Considering the number of resource-rich planets in the Bosf sector, it's no wonder the Republicans sent such a mission here.
You can never have too many resources.
Most likely, they intended to bring Bosf under their control at a certain point in time, but last year's campaign by the grand admiral and the need to fight the Imperial Remnants had postponed the plan's implementation indefinitely.
Therefore, Orsan's squad was assigned the responsible task: to capture the outpost "quietly."
The Republicans could have as many plans for the sector as they wanted; they wouldn't get it.
But raising the alarm at the outpost with a massive attack prematurely wasn't worth it either—the Dominion operated covertly in the Bosf sector, approaching each target unhurriedly, quietly, but inexorably.
Orsan breathed deeply, calming his strained body.
The last twenty minutes of the ascent had exhausted all his physical and moral strength.
And he had no doubt that his squad mates were in a similar state.
The captain and his men operated like a well-oiled machine.
Without effort, taking the rope with their powerful hands, the next squad fighter dangled over the smooth overhang.
His legs dangled in the air without support. Laden with heavy coils of rope, hooks protruding in all directions from his belt, he resembled a low-profile burglar who had only enough money for the simplest gear.
Easily pulling himself up, he was beside Orsan. Squeezing into the crevice, the special forces operative sluggishly reacted to the helmet bump against helmet.
The standard check procedure showed the fighter was worn out.
They'd have to make a longer halt so the guys could recover their strength.
Let them all be strong and sturdy fighters without exception; the last time they did rock climbing dated back to the distant days of Imperial special training.
Subsequent service wasn't tied to such hardships, as special forces were used in any way but not for their intended purpose.
It took another ten minutes before the three remaining fighters climbed onto the overhang, securing themselves with safety ropes to specially driven hooks.
The captain, sensing the squad's helmet visors turned toward him, nodded toward the crevice, then upward, where against the sky lit by dim stars, the rectangular outline of the crevice mouth was visible.
Then he switched to internal comms:
"Only six meters left, guys. A mere trifle." His voice sounded hoarse, intermittent. "Looks like the crevice opens right onto the summit. From there to the complex, ten meters straight."
The fighters nodded in agreement.
Orsan saw them changing filters on their helmets and removing condensation inserts that were literally dripping with moisture—their own sweat.
To avoid freezing at one-and-a-half kilometers up the sheer cliff, to not become victims of thermal scanning, they had to use special armor.
Which not only concealed their body temperature but also served as good protection in combat.
The captain saw a pair of gloves held out to him and gratefully accepted them.
With numb fingers, he pulled on the waterproof, windproof fabric over his hands, finally feeling his frozen fingers warmed by the armor's systems.
"Our ascent will go down in Dominion history," he informed the guys. "The storm commandos can only gnaw on their helmet brims in envy that we handled such a task."
The guys started exchanging glances.
Jokes sounded on the general frequency.
Storm commandos and fleet special forces didn't so much compete, but...
Their tasks were similar, except that commandos operated in the operational space on the battlefield, while special forces were sent into the enemy's rear much earlier than the first shots rang out.
Though Dominion Armed Forces command more than once or twice, especially in the early days when there was a shortage of personnel, assigned tasks without regard to who was best prepared for what.
An operational crisis is no joke.
In any case, no one particularly objected—the commandos were practically all clones anyway, and by duty, they weren't allowed to object or ask questions.
And the special forces, "surviving" after the disbandment of fleet intelligence, took on any mission with great enthusiasm, time and again proving their professional suitability across the full spectrum of assignments and the correctness of command's choice.
"Recovered?" Orsan clarified, well understanding that in those thirty minutes spent resting, one couldn't really recover.
But no one would give them a day off, either.
At least not at such a height, at an enemy facility.
Once they completed the mission—then...
"Continuing," Maken ordered, being the first to approach the rock and drive the first anchor into its unyielding hardness.
The first three meters went smoothly.
From the ledge they were on to the summit, there was a not-too-wide fissure along which the special forces advanced.
Bracing his back and palms against the rock and feet against the anchor bodies, Makeno ascended until the crevice suddenly widened.
At first, disoriented, the special forces operative gathered himself, braced his feet against the opposite side, and inserted the hook as high as possible.
Grabbing it with both hands, he felt a irregularity with his toes and stood up.
Two minutes later, his fingers caught the crumbling edge of the cliff.
"Could it be?!" a thought flashed in his head.
The dangerous climb was over.
Now he just needed to clamber over the edge, stealthily cross ten meters of open space on the summit, hole up by the meter-high duracrete fence, haul up the rest, rest again, check weapons, and storm the Republican Hutt facility.
With familiar finger movements, Mallory cleared barren soil, withered grass, small pebbles from the rock surface, and finally reached the bedrock.
Bracing his knee, he cautiously raised his head above the edge, letting the helmet's built-in camera transmit the image to his visor, and froze like a statue, turning entirely into sight and hearing.
Only now did he realize his helplessness and regret that the blaster with the sound and flash suppression system was secured to his backpack, while both hands were occupied.
In the light of a mockingly flashing lightning, he saw the enemy.
In the darkness against the panorama of the sympathetic structure, the smooth and sharp outlines of the Republican building vaguely emerged.
This sight, at first blurry and incomprehensible, suddenly became painfully familiar.
And then Orsan understood what was wrong.
Two Republican guards standing on the open summit, chatting among themselves and keeping blaster rifles at hand.
Apparently, one guard was bored, and the second was easing his vigilance over the surroundings with conversation.
"We have two problems," Orsan reported to the squad.
Any movement by the fighters ceased.
The enemies were looking far into the mountains behind the special forces, clearly not planning to disperse.
They could wait like this for hours while both enemy soldiers talked it out.
Right, in guard duty, there's nothing else to do but chat among themselves!
Sith take all these violations of regulations in remote garrisons!
Rushing forward now—suicide.
The enemy would see him against the rocks, and these lightning glints, damn them!
They'd open fire or alert someone—operation over, all efforts wasted.
His brain worked like an overclocked reactor.
His lament over the lack of the right tool at hand—rankor fodder.
Kill one, and the second, if not a fool, would dive under the fence's cover and report the attack.
If they managed to kill both at once, someone would surely see the bodies fall.
Even if the shot's noise wasn't discernible in the bad weather, the muffled flash right in front of the main complex's windows would attract attention and raise the alarm.
Attacking head-on, as he had thought earlier—pointless.
Staying here until both got bored and dispersed—even stupider.
The fighters were tired, and every minute spent in such a "suspended" state only weakened them.
Not to mention that the wind had clearly decided to play against them.
The captain dangled ten meters from his goal, trying to come up with a viable plan that wouldn't end in deaths in his squad.
So far, it was coming out frankly lousy.
"If anyone has suggestions, I'm ready to hear them," he whispered into the commlink.
***
Despite its enviable remoteness from the central sectors of the metropole, what was seen in the Hammer system could not suggest that the Korva sector was suffering the curse of "remote regions."
Hundreds of starships—transport and mining—filled the numerous stable asteroid belts of the system, from which various ores so necessary to us were extracted.
Not encountering unnecessary bureaucracy from the duty star destroyers and patrol ships, slipping past a solitary Firestar-type station, the only one of its kind in the company of two dozen scattered Golan platforms throughout the system, the Chimaera settled into low orbit around the solitary world.
Outpost HM7-R, aboard which the crew had recently been replaced—those who for ten years, cut off from the entire Empire, had guarded the richest deposit of useful minerals—proud and impregnable, remained astern, continuing its role as coordinator of transport shipments in this part of the tiny system consisting of just one planet.
From space, this gray-blue astronomical object was frankly unimpressive.
And those arriving here might even think that the fleet command had placed an entire operational group here completely in vain.
But there were reasons for this, and the most weighty ones at that.
Not only was the Korva sector our northern borders, near which lay the Bosf and Happih sectors occupied by far from friendly neighbors.
There was also such a neighbor on the eastern fringe as the Quimar sector. And on the southeast—the Nembas sector, with which not everything was entirely clear yet.
But the key reason for my appearance here, on the planet with restricted access and strong security, was not so much the desire to visit the Dominion's northern borders.
I was interested in the construction being completed on the surface of this lifeless but very attractive planet from a strategic viewpoint.
The system's name hadn't changed on Dominion astrographic charts, but the essence...
My shuttle, accompanied by an honorary escort, descended through the dense layers of the atmosphere, heading toward the planet's sole supervolcano.
The site where the heart of the entire production complex was located, which was being erected at breakneck speed using nearly half of all the Dominion's construction capacities.
Breaking through the cloud cover, the shuttle emerged into clear space.
And before my eyes appeared what fans of Professor Tolkien might call "Mount Doom."
In fact, that was exactly the name of this production complex according to all secret documents.
Object "Mount Doom."
The supervolcano towering a good seventeen kilometers above the planet's surface, covered in numerous metal and duracrete structures, was crowned by a building that at first glance resembled a ballistic missile warhead protruding from a launch silo.
Headquarters of "Mount Doom" in the Hammer system of the Korva sector.
At the very foot, for thousands of square kilometers around the supervolcano, lay landing pads for cargo ships, gigantic warehouses of finished products, and walls of other buildings whose purpose I didn't fully understand.
I leaned back in my seat, awaiting the completion of the landing cycle.
It took about two minutes to reach the cabin we needed and plummet into the fiery inferno's depths at breakneck speed.
A few seconds later, the gleaming pearl-gray turbolift doors opened, parting to the sides, and warm air washed over me and my escorts: Rukh, Tierce, and half a dozen guards, carrying the scent of death and destruction.
Startled, I took a deep breath and held it to fight off a coughing fit—the scorching air shocked my lungs.
The situation was fixed immediately after I was handed an oxygen mask.
"Thank you, Lady Stark," I said, taking the breathing device from the slender hand of the "Mount Doom" director.
The woman, whom even replacing an evening gown with a work jumpsuit didn't spoil, smiled reservedly, stepping aside to let me approach the observation deck's railing to see what was happening inside the supervolcano with my own eyes.
This weapons factory, hidden where by all logic it shouldn't be, was beautiful in its own way.
Even the mask couldn't save from the smells of machine oil, metal, and sulfurous emissions.
Despite numerous glares from atmospheric fields, no one could restrain the molten planet's core's nasty nature.
I suspect that due to the specifics of production and placement, even thorough cleaning couldn't eliminate the smells of sulfur, machine oil, freshly made composite materials, rocket fuel, and explosives wafting in the air.
"The factory has reached peak capacity, Grand Admiral," Lady Stark said, approaching me.
Like all plant workers, she wore a gray-blue jumpsuit, unremarkable in appearance but designed so that the wearer wouldn't perish from high temperatures or dehydration during long shifts.
"Judging by our suppliers' reports—that's true," I agreed. "I must thank you for setting up production so quickly."
On the sole planet of the Hammer system, all production equipment we had evacuated from Mustafar found refuge.
And not only that.
Here they produced all types and best modifications of AT-AT, AT-ST, AT-PT walkers.
Here they also smelted modified B-1 and B-2 droids.
Here they created wheeled armored transports "Juggernauts."
Here they produced ship armor and armaments.
Here hulls for missiles and torpedoes, self-propelled guns, and tanks were smelted, which then, already outside the supervolcano, were stuffed with their intricate fillings in surface assembly shops.
Everything the Dominion's military industry produced according to Imperial and Separatist blueprints was made in the depths of "Mount Doom."
Any hulls and spare parts.
"Mount Doom" was an experiment in creating a powerful production cluster realizing virtually all types of our military technologies.
While duplicating capacities of similar enterprises were scattered across multiple Dominion systems, here everything was gathered in one place for a single reason.
"So I assume the geothermal energy output has met your requests, Lady Stark?" I inquired.
"Fully," she smiled reservedly. "We used shielding systems from harmful environments, applied at similar mining enterprises, to place the foundries inside the supervolcano we awakened. The geothermal generators produce the necessary energy volume, that's true. However, there's a nuance."
Even so.
"Speak."
"We have to artificially throttle its production by running part of the generators idle, because our extraction of molten rock from the crater has changed the substance inside the volcano," the woman explained. "The new magma is hotter, rising directly from the core due to the 'deceptive eruption' technology. Therefore, if we activate all generators as planned, we'll get an energy surplus. And we simply have nowhere to put it in that case. So we use only half the generators for their purpose. We connect the others only when taking the first line for maintenance."
"Deceptive eruption" is the process of controlled provocation of magma ejection from the volcano's depths.
But in our case, such ejections aren't vented from the crater—they're pumped through special pipes into Mustafarian-design separators, where the molten rock is purified of impurities and then separated into components.
The result—necessary mineral resources in molten state.
Which in turn saves the production cycle at several stages.
We don't need to mine solid rock, purify it, melt it for subsequent use.
Consequently—using the supervolcano's depths accelerates parts production, which ultimately positively affects the speed of finished product release here and delivery of necessary parts to sites of further use.
I focused my attention on one such conveyor.
The chamber was so spacious that an hangar with a maintenance station for several Raider-class corvettes or similar could fit here.
High duracrete partitions divided the space into several zones, each housing a full conveyor.
Molten metal was fed into casting molds, which then entered through small openings in the left wall.
From the current vantage height, it was visible that the molds moved along shiny white conveyor belts and disappeared into the next openings, where they underwent forced cooling.
And only then did hundreds of tons of blanks enter assembly shops, where droids, automats, or the few workers in coveralls processed the blanks and filled them with incoming electronic components from other conveyors.
Before my eyes, an army of modernized B-1s was being born.
Turning my head slightly, tracking the electronics inflow, I could see the conveyor assembling compact optical sensors that would then enter the droids' visual observation systems.
Eight blanks arrived on the belt, and it stopped.
Workers deftly connected cables to the blanks and stared at screens showing black-and-white images of their hands.
Then they started turning the blanks this way and that, checking sensor calibration after assembly.
One screen didn't activate. The worker disconnected the blank and placed it on a table beside the conveyor.
In a moment, the others also disconnected theirs, and the conveyor activated again, moving the remaining seven blanks to another workstation.
"Defects are inevitable," Lady Stark explained.
There was nothing to reproach her for.
Using "deceptive eruption" required production and smelting speed for parts.
"Mount Doom," in any of its production directions, worked ten times more intensively than any other single-purpose factory of the same direction in the Dominion.
Where one AT-AT was produced per day, "Mount Doom" released ten or eleven combat machines, which then went into the caring hands of military acceptance controlling the release and quality of absolutely any product in the Dominion, be it civilian commlinks or military analogs.
Upon detection of critical defects affecting functioning, the item was sent to the repair shop where the malfunction was fixed.
No bribes or kickbacks—guards overseeing enterprise operations executed on the spot for such offers.
Quality—that's the motto of state and semi-state factories.
Yes, this radically contradicts capitalism's laws stating that released goods shouldn't last too long, or no one would buy new ones.
But the planned economy of military enterprises couldn't care less about such laws.
With civilian ones, it's a bit simpler—there's direct dependence on buyer demand.
But product quality speaks for itself.
Hence, there's demand.
The same commlinks from Liinade-III, despite huge production figures, are always in short supply.
Simply because after the Dominion's involvement in the production cycle, they stopped breaking every six months, requiring a new purchase.
Considering that existing civilian factories in the Dominion are being modernized, and new ones are initially designed for dual-purpose products, goods are always in demand.
And demand for our commlinks (their civilian versions) on the galactic market is off the charts.
Not to mention that the Dominion's industry (primarily military) operates on the principle by which the USSR once filled long-term storage depots.
"We're preparing for war with the whole world. That means for each fighter, we need not one, not two rifles, but ten! Because we have to arm not only our army but allies too! And we're not just talking rifles!"
One must understand what waging war on all fronts means.
Equipment will inevitably be damaged, break down.
And if we go by norms—here's your number of tanks per battalion, take care of them, if hit, drag to the rear—we'll lose.
For every broken-down walker, tank, armored transport, blaster, armor set, we must have a replacement in stock, promptly delivered to the front.
Only this way can we avoid unnecessary losses and loss of initiative.
Damaged and faulty equipment will be delivered to the factory for repair or remelting—depending on its condition.
But units won't be left without gear and "armor" on the battlefield.
Considering that our production, agricultural, and cloning capacities fundamentally have no limit (and for fighting Palpatine and Yuuzhan Vong, we'll need not twenty-thirty assault legions but at least a couple billion soldiers alone), and production is largely automated, slashing costs manyfold, one can say the "Mount Doom" project has justified itself upon launch.
It was launched just a month and a few weeks ago, and all existing regular army and assault units are already equipped with necessary droids, weapons, walkers...
The problem is that right now, I have "under arms" just over three hundred thousand army units, including Dominion Defense Forces, and exactly ten times fewer stormtroopers.
This concerns fully trained and combat-ready units with battle experience.
Those undergoing training after cloning or enlistment in contractual service are twice as many.
But until they're "ready," it'll take considerable time.
Last year's campaign, no matter how hyped our victories were, came bloody in terms of personnel losses and the already few infantry and armored units.
And if fate, like military luck, doesn't turn from me, soon we'll face expansion of both our territories and potential fighters.
"Mount Doom" can equip a nearly half-million-strong army with everything necessary in short order.
But there's a nuance.
To win and not be destroyed, I need to multiply the armed forces many times over in the shortest periods.
Which means producing military property much more...
And the faster, the better.
"Lady Stark," I addressed the young woman. "Let's go to your office and discuss expanding the 'Mount Doom' facility."
"Yes, sir, I wanted to discuss with you the possibility of additional constructions on the planet. I think, within six months at normal construction pace, we can double the number of assembly shops. This will allow us to put the reserve generators to work, but we need to double their number for insurance in case the main generating capacities fail."
"And we'll discuss that too," I agreed. "But first, I want to discuss building several more 'Mount Dooms' in various parts of the Dominion. And I need a person who understands all processes of such production bases from the inside to head the entire 'Mount Doom' conglomerate in the Dominion metropole..."
***
"We've pulled off crazier plans," Orsan thought, looking at how he held on to the edge with just one hand.
The safety rope unclipped, and now only a tiny pebble on the very cliff slope, gripped by just five fingers, separated him from falling into the abyss.
His other hand clutched a metal hook, many of which had already been driven into this rock's surface.
He knew it was impossible, but with his right hand, he felt how cold the anchor metal was.
"Ready?" he asked the fighters.
Four clicks—one from each—and the suicidal operation began.
Let these dolts be not only slackers but extremely curious slackers too.
Gripping the hook tighter, he struck the rock with all his might.
A muffled clang spread over the cliff amid the raging elements.
The helmet camera showed utter disregard by the local guards for everything happening.
It can't be!
Orsan struck harder.
Again silence and no reaction.
His fingers holding the rock edge began trembling from strain.
Haaatt...
If these two louts couldn't even hear him, almost in their line of sight, banging metal on stones, then if one of his guys did it, waiting for a reaction could take hours.
Which they didn't have.
Very soon—in about forty minutes—a Dominion support corvette would enter the system to deliver regular fleet personnel to the base.
If they didn't make it by then, all was lost.
Grinding his teeth, Orsan smashed the rock again, sparking several sparks and sending a dozen tiny pebbles flying down the crevice.
Apparently, at that moment, nature decided to play on their side, turning down the storm's volume.
And both Republicans simultaneously shifted their gazes toward the source of the new sound for them.
Talking to each other, discussing what they'd heard, both relaxed again, evidently deeming it no more than coincidence.
Are you mocking us, rankor-spawn?!
Don't you have sensors in your armor for noise filtering?!
What are Republican taxes going to?
He had to repeat his simple trick several more times before the Republicans finally reacted.
Spotting the tiny camera Orsan held extended over the cliff edge was simply impossible.
But he clearly saw the enemy fighters talking on commlinks about something.
Why did you suddenly become so thorough?
"Plan changes," Orsan reported. "They're reporting to someone."
There was a high chance that whoever they were talking to wouldn't attach much importance to it either.
Judging by how both Republicans immediately climbed over the fence, aiming rifles at the cliff edge, garrison duty here was utterly lax.
All the better.
"Prepare," the commander whispered to the fighters.
He didn't see how they reacted to his words, but he didn't keep fools in the squad, so they should heed the warning-order.
The captain simply had no strength or time left to turn his head and check if his guys were ready.
Both Republicans approached the edge with the attentiveness of faces feigning vigorous guard activity.
The captain tensed his right arm, holding himself, and pulled his left forward, looking past the rock edge into the rainy sky.
The head of the enemy fighter appeared above him just as the raging storm birthed another lightning flash.
From the eyes of the New Republic fighter widening in surprise, Orsan understood that he'd been spotted.
"Come here, now," the captain whispered, simultaneously pressing the trigger.
The blaster hit the soldier in the face; in his death throes, he couldn't overcome gravity and the inexorable fall.
His body somersaulted, vanishing into the blackness of the coastal waves and undoubtedly smashing on the reefs.
"Brother!" came the frantic screech of the second soldier, who hadn't risked approaching the edge. "Central! ...Fell! ...yeah I know?! Maybe... slipped?! Send... droids! Now!"
As he'd hoped, the second fighter hadn't understood what happened.
The first soldier had approached the edge right over the soldiers' heads and blocked the shot moment.
The flash was taken for yet another lightning manifestation.
This was shock, and in a couple minutes, realization of the inconsistency would come.
The helmet camera showed the fighter turning his back to the cliff, arguing something to someone, and judging by his pose, quarreling with the unseen "Central."
The moment had come.
Orsan released his hand, feeling the fighter pulling both the hook and blaster after him.
All or nothing.
Both hands gripped the cliff edges.
Biceps and back muscles tensed, lifting the heavy body and all its gear upward.
It seemed to take no less than an hour to climb onto the rock.
Though only instants passed.
His trembling right hand found the sheath, and the obsidian blade was freed.
"...as alive?!" He had covered half the distance to the second fighter when he realized someone had spotted him after all.
But the Republicans, evidently, preferred to believe in the miracle of the first fighter's survival.
Orsan waved his left hand welcomingly, thanks to the intensified lightning striking the building's lightning rod.
They seemed to simultaneously illuminate him and blind the enemy to detailed scrutiny.
To hell with not seeing anyone—someone was clearly watching here.
Judging by the silhouette in the second-floor window—some lone figure.
Because the other windows, and the building as a whole, were plunged in darkness.
The Dominion hadn't chosen night for the attack for nothing.
A meter remained to the second fighter when he began turning, evidently warned by the observing figure that someone was behind him.
Orsan, arms spread in feigned joy at meeting the supposed "brother," lunged at the second soldier, knocking him off his feet by the fence.
A helmet strike to the face knocked out several teeth and broke the nose before plunging the knife into the chin.
"...stop fraternizing!" he heard a shrill voice from the slain helmet. "Get up here now, before I raise the alarm!"
Orsan unclipped the special operations blaster carbine from his backpack, recalling the burning window's direction.
Rising to his feet, he fired at the dark figure.
The observer collapsed as the window shattered from the precise hit.
"Forward!" Orsan shouted, vaulting the fence and rushing to the main entrance.
He perfectly understood he didn't have much time—the crash and clang should attract someone's attention inside the facility.
Breaking through the main entrance—too long.
And there was surely a security system.
At minimum, a pass would be needed.
From a certain distance to the building facade, the special forces operative jumped.
Grabbing the edge of the shattered floor-to-ceiling panoramic glass and hissing from the sharp glass digging into his skin and palms, he pulled himself into the room with a jerk.
Yes, this was the observation post.
And the observer, leaving bloody streaks, was crawling to his workstation.
No way, today without alarm.
Makeno overtook the enemy in one leap, knocking him unconscious with a fist to the nape.
Overdid it—the Republican observer's head gushed blood.
At the console, he quickly oriented himself, disabling all scanners and security systems.
He unlocked the main entrance, allowing the fighters to enter without hassle.
Spotting the hangar indication, he forcibly locked the airlock.
The comm equipment responded to the shutdown command, and now the impulse transmitter was inaccessible.
He glanced at the security monitors—figures in spotted armor making the special forces look just like the rock climber they ascended, were spreading across the entire first floor of the complex.
Excellent.
Very good.
And now, time to cut power to this establishment.
From the guard console, Makeno halted power supply from the reactor to consumers, plunging the facility into total darkness.
Helmet systems allowed the fighters to see at night.
So now advantage was on their side.
The same stolen Republican intelligence data gave him and his fighters the floor plans.
And now, while they cleared the bedrooms, stunning everyone they found with paralyzers, the captain himself pushed to the operations room.
Data inflow to the outpost servers should be in real time.
Thus, there had to be at least one duty officer in the server room.
And he could ruin everything by starting to destroy equipment and data stores.
Orsan collided with a man exiting the server room.
Judging by everything, he intended to find out the power outage reason.
A fist to the face forced him back into the server room, lit by emergency dark red lighting.
He instantly aimed at the sentient sitting at the main console, simultaneously kicking the first encountered employee by the door in the face, depriving him of consciousness.
The man went limp, sprawling on the floor.
"Step away from the terminal, ma'am," he ordered. "Keep your hands above your head where I can see them. Move—and I'll ventilate you."
"Who are you?" There wasn't even a hint of fear on the woman's face before the armed stranger. But she followed the order. "This is a xenarchaeological facility..."
"In that case, I'm Darth Vader," Makeno introduced himself. "Will you tell me a tale about what archaeologists are doing on a planet where no ruins have ever been found, and the locals live in a single city a hundred kilometers from here? Or suggest where to find employers who equip archaeologists on a peaceful planet with a squad of soldiers for guard and comm gear worth billions of credits? I'm sure you even have an answer for why your facility has long-range detection scanners 'illuminating' half the sector."
"Done talking?" the woman raised an eyebrow, continuing to bore into him with her gaze.
"Yes, feels better," Makeno admitted, approaching her and wrenching her arms behind her back.
A second—and plastic but very sturdy zip-cuffs appeared on her wrists.
"You'll regret what you've done," she promised as Makeno shoved her toward the prone man.
"Definitely," Orsan agreed. "But first, you'll answer my friends' questions."