Digging through the trade ads, I finally found what I needed. I purchased four used—but, as the seller assured me, in excellent condition—Gozanti-class cruisers from one of the resellers. I also bought four GD-16 pilot droids from him.
Of course, I could have gone for something more substantial, but after thinking it over, I settled on the Gozanti. Sure, it sounds strange to call a forty-five-meter ship a "cruiser," even a light one—but it was worth it. The initial goal of the project had been to create a light transport vessel capable of defending itself against pirate attacks, which were plentiful throughout the Mid and Outer Rim worlds. The ship was designed as a unique hybrid between a combat and cargo craft. Because of this, the Gozanti was originally meant to be equipped with powerful weapons and solid armor.
But with each new revision of the project and every additional cannon, the ship drifted further from being a peaceful transport and closer to a full-fledged military corvette. As a result, when the first Gozanti rolled off the slipways, it became clear that instead of an armed freighter, the Republic had received a compact yet formidable light warship—armed with eight laser cannons, two quad laser turrets, and two launchers carrying a total of eight proton torpedoes. In every aspect except speed, it far outclassed the Consular-class.
And that's where the problem arose. To be approved for production and open sale on the galactic market, the manufacturers had to limit the vessel's combat capabilities. Grinding their teeth, the developers were forced to install low-power engines, which allowed the Gozanti to reach only four hundred kilometers per hour in atmosphere. The third-class hyperdrive and the backup twelfth-class hyperdrive also did not shine, but they were reliable.
Fortunately, the Gozanti was mass-produced at various factories across the galaxy, and these wonderful little machines cost me only sixty-five thousand credits apiece. I planned to staff them with B1 droids, which would extend their autonomy from one month to six.
I also remembered quite clearly that these ships were easy to modify—in both size (from thirty-five to seventy meters) and internal systems. I recall the Empire used - or rather, will use - such ships as patrol and landing craft, and even makeshift carriers. That alone said enough.
As for the droid pilots, they cost me fifteen thousand credits each—a rare find, but one I badly needed. I couldn't exactly staff the cruisers with clone crews, and I had to get them to Donovia first, then on to Pantora. I gave the droids their flight instructions through the network, and the ships safely departed for Donovia. It took them almost a week to get there—no match for the Acclamator, that's for sure.
In total, I spent more than three hundred and thirty thousand credits. Easy come, easy go.
Predictably, two hours later, representatives of the special services contacted me. Well, of course—there's a war going on, and someone just bought several combat-capable ships right under their noses, and more than one. They worked fast. Still, getting rid of them was easy enough.
"This is a matter for the Jedi Order, I'm not authorized to disclose any details."
Who would ever suspect a Jedi of illegal activity? That was all it took to satisfy the young security lieutenant who contacted me. He was even polite enough to offer official passes for the ships to avoid any future complications. Naturally, I agreed, praising him for his diligence. It cost me nothing, and it was nice to be reasonable.
A couple of hours later, documents confirming the ships' "clean" status arrived on my datapad. Now there should be no problem flying halfway across the galaxy.
I spent the rest of my time studying the data I'd copied from the Jedi Temple Archives—training was still prohibited anyway. It wasn't easy to separate truth from myth among all that information, but it was doable.
Still, after a few days, it occurred to me that the Separatists would soon wake up and seekrevenge. So, on the tenth day, after swearing to Barriss that I'd follow the doctor's orders and stay within the headquarters, I quietly slipped out of the hospital, taking with me an infocrystal containing holorecordings on healing techniques, which I asked her for.
I stopped by headquarters, lingered there for a bit, chatted with the staff officers. I didn't see anyone familiar except for one of Rinaun's subordinates, who was walking around with his arm in a sling, surveying the situation. Then I headed for the spaceport.
The crew greeted me warmly when I boarded the ship—I could feel it clearly. One of the perks of being a Jedi. Still, I caught their eyes darting to my new arm. After giving the necessary orders, I went to my cabin. On the way I should have dealt with my armor—or rather, what was left of it.
Soon, the Isaribi lifted off from the planet. Time to go home.
***
Barely reaching her starship, Asajj Ventress retreated to one of her hideouts to recover from her wounds. There she learned of her humiliation—broadcast across half the galaxy. Ventress swore vengeance, vowing to make that Jedi suffer.
Finding him would be easy. He had taken one of her sabers, yes—but she had claimed another trophy in return: the Jedi's severed hand, snatched during her escape. The Dathomirian witch was well versed in the art of Blood Tracking—a technique she often used to hunt her prey. After gathering the necessary samples, she burned the hand, savoring the smell of scorched flesh and picturing Mikore Vikt in its place.
Soon after, she went to meet Count Dooku…
Ventress stepped into a dimly lit hall. Opposite the entrance, by a vast window, stood the Count himself. The girl approached and knelt.
"Master."
"I am dissatisfied with you, apprentice."
"Master, I—"
"I will not tolerate excuses. You will be punished for your failure."
Lightning burst from Dooku's outstretched hand.
Ventress collapsed, her body wracked by unbearable pain. When the Count finally lowered his hand, wisps of smoke curled up from her robes.
"This will serve as a lesson," he said coldly. "Now I have a new task for you. Your continued training will depend on its success."
"Yes, Mas-ster," the girl hissed through clenched teeth.
Mikore Vikt, she whispered to herself. I will kill you.