Ten years, the first month, and the twenty-eighth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, the first month, and the twenty-eighth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and thirteen days since the arrival).
Beta II presented itself as a barren, dry planet with low gravity, covered in yellow-orange rocks with very little atmospheric moisture. The planet was located in the Beta system in the Korva sector of the Outer Rim, in the middle of the regional hyperspace route known as the Darankai Path.
Once, it had been a more hospitable world with a wetter atmosphere, colonized by the Republic, which turned it into a thriving port world.
But climate changes had dried the planet out, and later it had been abandoned as well.
Its inhabitants had left, and a significant portion of the buildings had long since been destroyed by the merciless weather.
In the midst of the Clone Wars, Beta II had been settled by smugglers, millennia after its climatic impoverishment.
Since its surface was often scourged by dust or sand storms, the planet's caves and canyons had been expanded and connected by tunnels for the smugglers' underground habitation.
"Disgusting place," Moff Nivers grumbled, shielding his face from gusts of hot wind that carried fine particles of dust with it. "Only society's dregs could live here."
"This planet suits Twi'leks as a zone of comfortable habitation like no other," Grand Moff Ferrus countered. "Beta II, with its underground tunnels and its surface largely dried out by a large fragment, mostly resembles Ryloth—and the first groups of settlers agreed with that."
"And how many Twi'leks live here?" Moff Yarnek asked with interest, peering at the passersby.
"Approximately six hundred and forty thousand," Ferrus said. "Today there will be a few more than yesterday."
They stood on a large covered mansard protruding from the body of the government building erected by construction droids for the local governor.
From here opened an excellent view of the territory of the restored spaceport, where work was boiling nonstop—several convoys of transports had arrived in orbit at once.
Both cargo and passenger ones.
Both those under the protection of regular fleet ships and those of the Defense Forces subordinate to the grand moff.
And right now, one such ship was coming in for a landing.
But it was descending not over the spaceport, but directly over a huge perfect square.
Nine square kilometers of area—the central plaza on Beta II, which also served as the main square of the first and so far only city on the planet's surface.
The reason why all the "original" moffs and grand moffs of the Dominion without exception had gathered on Beta II at the moment was not voiced by Ferrus.
And meanwhile, the company that had assembled was quite something.
"Interesting," if one could put it that way.
To begin with, among the six sentients present on the mansard, three were or are currently in the position of "grand moff."
They included Ferrus himself, Lynch Hauser, and Nigel Nivers.
And three—Wensel, Brinkan, and Yarnek—were simply moffs.
But in fact, the percentage ratio of grand moffs and moffs among this quintet differed fundamentally.
Honestly, Ferrus didn't know the logic by which Grand Admiral Thrawn had pulled Nivers from the ranks of the "unreliable" and endowed him with the powers of moff of the Korva sector, and Brinkan with the position of moff of the Mieru'kar sector, but with the appointments of Yarnek—to the Quelii sector, and Wensel—to the Kanz sector, Ferrus agreed.
Brinkan had previously managed the Tragan sector, and it wasn't as if he had done it terribly.
The appointment, in fact, was logical.
He was familiar with the work, and with the terrain as well.
Judging by the fact that the local government had met his appointment with some enthusiasm—he was clearly in his place.
Counterintelligence had checked him inside and out—the man was clean before the law, and his past—flight from the Cluster when all sorts began to rule there—was in fact not much of an escape.
After Endor, when destructive forces appeared in Tragan, the moff had held control over the territory as long as he could.
As much as one could do it with a single Procursator.
When army garrisons began to show disobedience, Brinkan did everything he could to fix the situation.
On the damaged ship, he headed to the Imperial Center for help.
His Procursator was requisitioned by the Central Committee of Grand Moffs, Brinkan and his concerns were sent far away, hinting that no one wanted that little-studied Tragan for free.
The moff had been in Republican captivity for about five years, and his release had allowed him to return to the "fold."
Nivers was a hustler too.
Both of them didn't represent any serious political force.
Unlike Moff Wensel, who possessed not only excellent civilian but also military experience (which was logically taken into account when appointing him head of one of the most restless but at the same time large sectors on the northwestern border of the Dominion's metropolis), or the same Yarnek, who had devoured not just a rancor but also a sarlacc in administrative matters, but a simple-hearted man at heart, Nivers and Brinkan "didn't fit" in any way at all.
Yarnek had been in his post for a short time, and he had already built bridges with almost all planetary governments in Quelii.
As far as Ferrus knew, even the Dathomirian witch clans weren't against negotiating with him on substance.
And bargaining with those ladies wasn't just difficult—it was practically impossible.
In addition, there were other arguments against the aforementioned pair that justified their unsuitability.
But Thrawn, without stepping out of the shadows, had appointed precisely them.
Precisely to two adjacent sectors in the north and northeast of the metropolis.
Felix could think whatever he wanted about this venture, but that it was done not just to send someone to the new territories was beyond doubt.
If Thrawn did something incomprehensible to those around him, it was undoubtedly with an eye to the future.
This was part of some plan that was still hidden from observers.
Finally, the assembled saw the ship coming in for landing.
"What a rarity," Nivers snorted.
"I disagree," Hauser said, raising a monocular to his eyes. "This isn't just a Pelta—it's a modernized starship."
A modernized Pelta-class frigate.
"You're quite right, Moff Hauser," Ferrus agreed. "This is an Imperial project to modernize the Republican Pelta. Not a cargo ship, not a medical vessel, but a command starship."
"Three triple-barreled light turbolasers, six twin heavy laser cannons, four launchers," Moff Wensel said slowly. "I assume the engines have been optimized too?"
"Yes, these starships are equipped with Corellian engines," Ferrus said. "We received about a hundred such Pelts, first modernized by the Empire at Corellian shipyards, and then by the Republicans at SoroSuub shipyards. The latter simply optimized the systems and significantly reduced the required crew."
"I'll venture to assume there's a hangar on board," Wensel continued. "I had some like that in my squadron once."
"Yes, there's a flight deck for six machines," Ferrus confirmed. "They're useful for covering the ship from attack until it moves away from the launch point to the zone of escort by the regular fleet."
"Are you saying these starships are used beyond the Dominion?" Moff Hauser asked.
"For transporting small cargo and passengers between the periphery and the metropolis," Felix explained.
"And what kind of cargo do these starships carry?" Yarnek asked with curiosity, continuing to watch as the Pelta descended onto the landing pad, with Defense Force fighters already heading toward it from different sides.
"That's exactly why we're here, gentlemen," Felix explained. "I suggest we go down and see it all with our own eyes."
The journey to the central square didn't take much time—about ten minutes at most.
But by the time all six were on the plaza, even ranks of sentients were already standing in front of the Pelta.
"What is this now?" Hauser frowned.
"Slaves," Yarnek rasped hoarsely.
"Grand Moff, is this some kind of joke?" Wensel asked, looking at Ferrus with displeasure.
"A perfectly normal attitude toward aliens," Nivers declared, his gaze coming alive. "Twi'leks in slave collars are a perfectly suitable workforce for developing new territories in the Outer Rim."
"You're quite right, gentlemen," Ferrus said. "Your eyes aren't deceiving you—this is a batch of slaves bought by our agents on the slave markets. Specifically, this lot was acquired in Hutt Space."
"How many are there here?" Brinkan asked with interest. "Three hundred?"
"Modernized Pelts can carry up to five hundred passengers," Ferrus explained. "The passenger quarters are expanded at the expense of reducing the crew to two hundred personnel and two companies of stormtrooper guards."
"I thought the Dominion's legislation had a direct ban on the use of slave labor," Hauser continued. "What game are you playing, Ferrus?"
"And does the regular fleet and Vice Admiral Pellaeon know about this lawlessness?" Yarnek supported.
"The regular fleet is carrying out the transport and escort of such convoys from Tragan, where the slave filtration base is located, to the metropolis," Ferrus explained.
"What hypocrisy," Wensel threw, turning away from Felix. "Excuse me, Grand Moff, but I didn't join the Dominion for this. Using slaves is low and inhumane."
"Stop the hypocrisy, Wensel," Nivers advised. "The Empire turned a blind eye to the exploitation of sentient by sentient for two and a half decades, and the Old Republic for millennia. 'Contract workers,' 'this complies with the national traditions of the peoples,' and other excuses worked for tens of thousands of years. Why should the Dominion act differently?"
"The population on the outskirts isn't that large," Brinkan supported him, "to be able to settle all suitable planets and ensure the extraction of necessary resources..."
Felix listened to the escalating argument without taking his eyes off the Twi'leks lined up on the plaza.
Men and women, elders and children.
Individuals and whole families.
Emaciated and muscular, short and tall.
There were slaves here to any taste.
Five hundred sentients acquired by the agency under false documents for the needs of some rundown government on the southern outskirts.
The Dominion's budget had spent exactly fifty thousand credits on purchasing these slaves.
According to the seller's documents, this group of slaves was listed under the category of "general laborers."
None of them had any significant qualifications or skills. No warriors, no dancers—the two main categories of voluntary slave export for which Ryloth was famous.
It remained only to guess how many of these sentients had sold themselves into slavery voluntarily, and how many had been captured and forcibly separated from their families and loved ones.
"Grand Moff, sir," a man in a simple work jumpsuit approached him.
On his head—a helmet, his face covered by a light mask to protect it from sand.
"Captain Steben," Felix smiled with the corner of his mouth. "No matter how I look, you're being sent from one corner of the Dominion to another."
"That's the job," the counterintelligence officer shrugged. "Now I've escorted this slave caravan."
"And what do you say?" the grand moff asked, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the quintet of his companions (he was already used to not noticing the guards in their crimson-black armor) had fallen silent and were listening to their conversation.
"About thirty of them need to be treated as soon as possible—there are chronic illnesses," he said. "Otherwise... Cooks, herbalists, children... I can't imagine who would need such slaves at all."
"At minimum—us," Ferrus declared. "By default, such 'non-profile' groups are bought for any dirty work. In normal circumstances, they'll end up in mines or quarries with industrialists greedy for credits."
"Their life is grim," Steben commented, pointing to the planetary governor and several officials hurrying toward them. "Oh, the local self-government has arrived."
"What is this circus now?" Nivers's voice came, who had also seen the representatives of the planetary government.
"The situation is getting more and more interesting," Moff Hauser summed up.
"Grand Moff," the planetary governor greeted Felix, barely catching his breath with his lips as he ran up, trying to catch his breath. "I thought the ceremony was scheduled for noon."
"Quarter of an hour doesn't matter," Felix declared. "Especially since a dust storm is starting—we need to get the sentients off the plaza quickly, but the speech, despite the uncomfortable conditions, still needs to take place."
"This is for them, right?" the governor glanced sideways at the new civilian authorities for some sectors standing a couple of meters behind Ferrus.
"Better to show once than tell a hundred times," the grand moff agreed, taking a portable microphone from his pocket. "Well then, not the first time..."
Tapping his finger on the voice amplifier, he looked at the Twi'leks, who, having also noticed the presence of their kin, began to suspect that the promise given to them still on the ship would apparently be kept.
"My name is Felix Ferrus, I am the grand moff of the Dominion managing the metropolis," the organizer of the entire event introduced himself. "I'm glad to welcome you to Beta II."
Simultaneously with his words, Defense Force soldiers began mingling with the crowd, performing their routine function.
The garrison on the planet was small, so one could be confident that each of these fighters had performed such tricks hundreds of times already.
The Twi'leks first looked with apprehension, then with disbelief at the slave collars being removed from them.
"You were all bought out at the expense of the Dominion's treasury from a trader in 'live goods,'" Ferrus continued, gesturing to the officials standing next to him. "Specifically, as is the local government. As is every Twi'lek living on Beta II. Your people's diaspora considered this planet, despite its lower gravity compared to Ryloth, more suitable for the Twi'lek diaspora. That's why you were brought here immediately after the filtration procedures. From now on and as long as you are on Dominion territory—you are residents of the Dominion, enjoying all available rights and duties. And that means—no slavery and no forced labor. Want to eat—look for work; there's a lot of it in the metropolis, and on the periphery too. Even in this Twi'lek colony, there are more vacancies in various directions than we can afford to fill at the moment." The Twi'lek governor standing next to him nodded affirmatively. "The migration service will issue identification documents for each of you and provide detailed information on what and how you can count on in the current circumstances. But don't count on an easy life. The Dominion provides no benefits for residents—only for citizens. Ways to obtain citizenship will also be communicated to you. The simplest is enlistment in the armed forces. First—service in the Defense Forces, then, if you prove yourself—in the regular fleet."
"Aliens in the troops?" Nivers hissed. "What heresy is this?!"
"Idlers aren't liked in the Dominion either," Ferrus declared. "Money was paid for each of you—and you yourselves agreed to be bought out of slavery. However it sounds, each of you cost the budget a hundred credits. Every man, woman, elder, or child. These funds were spent from the expenditure item allocated specifically for buying out Twi'leks from slavery. Returning this money to the budget, thereby repaying the debt to the state and showing consciousness, understanding that subsequently your loved ones and acquaintances can also be bought out with this money—is up to you. I'll just say that you, as well as ten other groups arriving on Beta II today, were bought out with funds from your fellow countrymen. Someone was looking for a specific relative, friend, lover, and someone just wanted fewer kin to remain among the slaves of the Hutts or other traders."
"So why are you buying us out instead of offering to relocate those starving on Ryloth to you?" a shout came from the crowd.
"Governor, your word," Ferrus handed the microphone to the Twi'lek ruling the planet.
Clearing his throat, he said:
"Work in this direction is underway," he declared. "The biggest problem is that Ryloth is a supporter of the Alliance, and before that—the New Republic. At the official level, they boycott participation in our resettlement policy. In fact—almost three-quarters of those living in this colony are emigrants from Ryloth. But this won't solve the problem with our kin living in slavery..."
"Good liberation!" another voice rang out. "From one rock to another!"
"And now it's your turn to answer, Grand Moff," the Beta II governor said with a smile, returning the microphone.
"This world is no more than a Twi'lek enclave in the Dominion," Felix explained. "There's exactly the same one for Wookiees, for Zabraks, for Zeltrons, and for Togorians..."
"A reservation, you mean?!" someone among the former slaves asked discontentedly and warily.
"A native abode where your own kin will help you adapt to the realities of the Dominion, dispel existing myths, and give advice," Ferrus explained. "No restrictions for Dominion residents on freedom of movement, except for specially protected zones—that's military territory. If you want to move to another world—no one will hold you."
"And what about the oppression of other races by humans?" a young Twi'lek woman in the front row asked.
She looked about thirty, maybe a bit more, and a couple of kids were hiding behind her legs—obviously hers.
And one didn't need to be a xenobiology expert to understand—both the boy and the girl were underfed.
It was hard to tell about the mother—she was dressed in some washed-out rag that had once been a dress or something similar.
"No oppression," Ferrus replied calmly, pulling several nutrient bars from his pocket.
The governor, seeing this, looked at Felix warily.
Well, yes, high-calorie bars from a soldier's ration didn't quite fit with a grand moff's pocket.
And what did they expect?
With his work schedule, he could only eat hot food in flight, and not always then.
And the bars...
Well, yes, not particularly tasty, but nutritious and healthy.
"In the Dominion, all are equal," he said, squatting down and offering the treat to the children. "If you don't commit crimes and don't violate public order—no one will persecute you. And even in that case—criminal prosecution happens not because of your belonging to this or that race, gender, or something else. Broke the law—you'll answer like all other residents and citizens."
The kids, contrary to his assumption, weren't tempted by the bars, watching fearfully and intimidated as he looked at them.
It turned out awkwardly.
"Sorry, they're scared," the woman said guiltily. "Our human master wasn't very responsive..."
"Now you're your own masters," Ferrus declared.
Not knowing what to do with the bars, he handed them to the woman, hoping it wouldn't cause any discontent from the others.
"A dust storm is starting," he said, waving a hand at the building behind him. "In the government building, tables are set for everyone; medics and other services will be working."
"And what to do if our rights are violated?" another new voice from the crowd. "What if someone wants to drag us back into slavery? Space is big; you can't catch all the pirates and slavers!"
"And Imperial officials don't like aliens!" this was said by one of the previous "speakers."
"And that's why counterintelligence is present here," the grand moff explained, pointing to Captain Steben. "Any unlawful action against you on racial grounds is their concern. And pirates," he raised his head, looking at the sky being shrouded, "will be very unhappy to encounter our specialists from the regular fleet."
Glancing at the moffs, he saw three pairs of approving gazes and two wary ones.
He would have to tell Thrawn about this.
Something was brewing.
Something was happening.
But who would tell the grand moff what exactly the Supreme Commander had in mind?
***
When the voice of the duty communications officer on the bridge of the Inexorable announced an incoming transmission from the Chimaera, Commodore Alexander Mor was ready for the upcoming dialogue.
"Route to the encryption department cabin," he ordered, tearing himself away from the enticing, almost hypnotic sight unfolding beyond the hull of his Star Destroyer.
And it had to be noted, the sight was truly incredible.
Not every day do you find yourself on the threshold of a cataclysm, one step from absolute death, look it in the eye, and feel the breath with which it envelops you.
Alexander didn't tell anyone about this and exerted all efforts so that none of his subordinates even suspected anything like it, but the sight of the Maw Cluster gave him chills.
Almost all the space within the Kessel sector (to say nothing of the eponymous system) was filled with the Maw nebula gas.
The Maw black hole cluster (the one who named astronomical objects in these parts wasn't rich in lexicon) fed tirelessly on all matter it could reach, like bottomless throats.
The accretion disks impressed with their intimidating and incomprehensible destructive beauty.
Science hadn't yet reached the point of understanding the nature of black holes and learning what this black impenetrable throat held, resembling an eye cataract that blocks the light of distant stars.
Only the halos of absorbed nebula gases allowed visual determination of where this eternally hungry pack of maws was located.
The most mysterious (or one of them) phenomenon in the galaxy—the Maw black hole cluster.
Beautiful.
Terrible.
Unknown.
A black hole in the Maw cluster.
However, such was his assignment—to blockade the Kessel system and control the progress of restoration work on the penal institution, clearing debris and rebuilding the destroyed.
The Dominion had come here and had no intention of leaving.
The arrival of five Vindicator-class heavy cruisers and two Immobilizer-418s—"Tori's Hunter" and "Bastion," escorting a convoy with supplies and construction equipment, spoke for itself.
In addition to the three Victory IIIs already under his command, it made for a fairly formidable force.
Mor had spent considerable time mapping the system's patrol routes, distributing sectors of responsibility so that not a single soul could slip into or out of the system.
What was happening on Kessel had to remain a secret for anyone connected to this system.
Working with the new ships—the Victories and Vindicators—was pure pleasure.
Fast, maneuverable, sufficiently armed and protected, crewed by clones from the Dreadnaughts lost at Sluis Van, these ships were more suitable than any others for operations far from the bases of the Dominion's regular fleet.
The latter currently possessed only five dozen Dreadnaughts, part of which were remnants of the "luxury" in the form of the Katana fleet, and others—former Imperial ships.
Somehow captured by the Republicans and repaired at SoroSuub shipyards on Sullust, they had become an addition to the Dominion's fleet, partially closing the gap that had formed after the loss of the bulk of the Katana fleet ships.
Having undergone Imperial modernizations, these ships were slightly faster than those Dreadnaughts used by the regular fleet last year, had hangars for one fighter squadron, but at the same time required from five to seven thousand crew members.
The ships weren't new, but sturdy and sufficiently capable of defense.
That's why they—the remaining Dreadnaughts in the Dominion—had been converted into stationaries and distributed among the state's key worlds, where they were to stand watch.
In defense, speed wasn't paramount—just having the necessary number of guns.
And strong shields.
The latter the Dreadnaughts had, to the envy of some modern ships.
As far as Alexander knew, the Dominion now had about fifty ships of this type left—its own and trophies.
And all of them had been transferred to the Self-Defense Forces.
They had been left with only the core of old crews; the rest of the personnel had been replaced by conscripts who needed to gain experience in military science.
Doing this on outdated ships, covered by Corellian frigates and corvettes, was a better start than many regular fleet career officers had.
Most of them had to begin their careers serving on the galactic backwaters, far from the capital.
And only years of grueling labor led to the high command deigning to transfer them to more modern starships.
The Self-Defense Forces fleet had essentially turned into a warehouse of the Dominion's illiquid antiquities.
Marauders, Consulars, Carracks (though the latter were still decent), Dreadnaughts...
All this, like much else, guarded the metropolis, while the regular fleet and its first-class crews stood watch on the periphery or at the borders.
The Kessel system had become one such border.
Mor had time to think about all this by the time he automatically reached the encryption compartment.
Without unnecessary words, they allocated him a separate booth—since the signal went through hundreds of repeaters, the newest encryption system was used, encoding any negotiations between Dominion ships and stations.
A hologram of Grand Admiral Thrawn appeared before him, periodically twitching with interference ripples.
No matter how many satellite repeaters he scattered through the system—a stable signal still wasn't achieved.
"Sir," Commodore Mor nodded politely to the Supreme Commander, folding his hands on the table as if he'd returned to school.
In fact, he was just tired of all this.
Third day on his feet—and only a gaze into the black hole abyss helped him stay at the peak of his strength.
But now fatigue was untimely taking its toll.
"Commodore," Thrawn greeted him with the same gesture. "How is the execution of the mission entrusted to you progressing?"
"We're advancing, sir," Alexander assured him. "The system is fully blockaded. The arriving interdictor cruisers have covered known escape routes. Patrols on corvettes and small flyers are surveying every sector of the system again and again, but there are no traces of a ship on which Corran Horn and his family could have escaped."
"Escape pod?" the grand admiral inquired.
"Not the slightest hint that one even exists," Alexander shook his head. "We've identified every piece of debris—among them there's nothing that could belong to the Chimaera."
"The beacon in the pod isn't transmitting either?"
"Yes, sir," the commodore replied. "We've reconstructed the pod's entire route up to the moment the signal was lost, after which we plotted trajectories and began searches. No traces. I assume Booster Terrik and his daughter still found the tracking device and destroyed it."
"Possibly so," Thrawn stated. "But doubtful. Are their searches on the Garrison Moon and Kessel continuing as well?"
"Ground teams are working around the clock," Alexander confirmed. "No traces of the ship, escape pod, or Horn's fighter. As if he dissolved."
"Material objects don't just disappear, Commodore," Thrawn reminded.
"I know, sir," Alexander confirmed. "We're working through two key versions. First—that Horn used a cloaking field and is still in the system, waiting for us to tire of searching for him. Second—his ship was destroyed, but he and his family managed to survive. And we haven't found the debris yet."
"Unlikely, given the flyovers of Kessel and the Garrison Moon by scouts," Thrawn narrowed his eyes.
"It's impossible, sir," Mor confirmed. "Unless in the variant where Horn took the escape pod to Kessel or the Moon on a fighter and is now hiding in the tunnels, with the ships concealed from detection. At the moment, search parties of stormtroopers and droids are combing the surfaces of both planetoids and the Moon's tunnels. If they're there, we'll find them."
"I hope so," Thrawn said. "How productively is Kessel's restoration going?"
And this was already a much more substantive conversation.
"The administrative buildings of the Penal Institution have been restored; work is underway to recreate the defense line and improve it," Alexander said. "Given the circumstances, namely the destruction of one of the atmosphere generators, I'd like to discuss with you, sir, the feasibility of using this equipment on Kessel in principle."
"Clarify," the grand admiral took interest.
"The atmosphere generators on Kessel are necessary not so much for producing an environment in which sentients could breathe, but for processing ore and purifying spice from rock," Mor explained, having spent more than one sleepless night to figure this out. "Kessel's lack of gravity leads to the atmosphere not being retained and escaping into vacuum. In fact, considering that everyone on the planetoid moves with oxygen masks, breathing on the planet without special equipment is hardly possible and poses serious health consequences. Not to mention that producing such leads to increased wear on equipment that, in free sale, could cost one or two fresh-off-the-stacks Imperial Star Destroyers."
"Your suggestions?" Thrawn specified.
"At the moment, the sent Languidians are studying the physiology of two captured energy spiders," Alexander recounted. "Primarily, we're interested in their behavior and life activity in an environment where the atmosphere becomes breathable for humans without masks."
"It was assumed that spice would be mined on Kessel directly by droids, and the sentient factor would be completely excluded," Thrawn reminded his interlocutor.
"I remember that, sir, but simply switching the entire industry to droids won't work easily," Alexander objected. "The spice mined here—glitterstim—is highly sensitive to light waves and particles. That's why it's mined in the dark. Besides, the substance is quite fragile, and droids will damage a considerable amount of it, mixing it with rock during extraction."
"Are you saying we can't dispense with sentient labor on Kessel?" From Thrawn's expression, it was hard to read emotions, but Alexander was sure the grand admiral was displeased with such a statement in principle.
"I've studied the issue and want to say that sentients and spice mining are a very dangerous combination," Alexander explained. "A considerable number of miners became addicts, participants in smuggling exports, and other scams. So yes, droids are undoubtedly needed. But not standard miners, but much more expensive models. But even they will be damaged upon encountering energy spiders. And their repair will be required. Moreover, operators and controllers will need to descend into the mines to inspect them. This solution—using expensive droids, possibly even androids—should be calculated by economists. I'm not strong in that, but by preliminary estimates—the cost of production will increase by an order of magnitude, or more."
"Which, accordingly, will reduce profits from spice sales," Thrawn stroked his chin.
"And increase the number of those wanting to take Kessel from us," Alexander added. "Unfortunately, science hasn't yet invented such a huge hyperdrive to move this planetoid to the metropolis, so it would be under constant protection of the regular fleet and in the depths of our territories."
"Hm..." Thrawn said, as if pondering some initiative. "Let's return to discussing the fate of the atmosphere generators."
"Yes, exactly," Mor caught himself. "My proposal is to build a dome over the Penal Center, which will turn into a base for personnel controlling and servicing the mining personnel of the shafts. A few generators will suffice to provide a closed air mixture system uninterruptedly and at the same time—not force outdated equipment to work to the point of failure."
"And this will also allow creating an atmosphere under the 'dome' and remove the need for constant mask-wearing," the grand admiral grasped the essence of the proposal.
"Moreover, albeit not immediately, this will give us the opportunity to pump the shafts with breathing mixture, and inside there will be no need to work in the same masks or look for 'pockets' for breathing," Alexander continued. "But the latter—only after coordinating the work with biologists. If the spiders reduce production or change their behavior due to an increase in the share of oxygen and other gases in the atmosphere, it will affect the product yields."
"Your proposal means that some atmosphere generators will simply not be needed," Thrawn noted.
"These are identical installations, and I would suggest selecting from them those which, by cannibalization and repair, can be brought to a state where they will function long enough," Alexander shared his idea. "According to technicians' calculations, from the available installations we can assemble four fully operational atmosphere generators. For the Kessel colony to function, two will suffice. One working, and the second—a spare generator."
"And where do you propose sending the other two?" the grand admiral asked curiously.
"To the Garrison Moon, sir," Mor explained. "At the moment, this abandoned Imperial facility has suffered significantly during the campaign against the rebels. We can restore it, but as in the case of the settlement on Kessel, I would suggest creating a closed life support cycle there and expanding the base from a garrison of one legion of fighters to a full fleet base, considering the strategic importance of the system as a whole. The asteroid's structure and numerous natural tunnels and caves will allow us to do this much faster than by laying with construction equipment. Just like on Kessel, atmosphere generators will work on ore processing and load right there by droids to exclude smuggling on Kessel itself. Thus, we will separate the flows of raw ore; its processing will be carried out directly at two facilities, but shipment—only from the Garrison Moon. Any attempts at smuggling and illegal export of product will be stopped right here."
"This plan needs to be thought through in detail, Commodore," Thrawn declared. "But the proposal to create a fleet base was voiced correctly and timely by you, given the circumstances. Send me your ideas and be prepared to repel an attack on your fleet in the near future."
"My people are ready, sir," Alexander reported not without a touch of pride. "Approaches to the system are under reliable control. As soon as the enemy appears here—we'll meet him with everything we have."
"Commendable," Thrawn said. "Several thousand TIE droids have been placed under your command. They'll be delivered on the ships of the nearest supply caravan. You'll have a real opportunity to test your tactical considerations on 'pilot and droids' pairings in combat conditions. Use the escort forces for defense purposes as well."
"It will be done, sir," Alexander saluted, trying not to show his excitement.
Well, finally, he'd get a chance to try out new fighter combat tactics.
"And one last thing, Commodore," the grand admiral brought him back from the world of dreams. "Pay close attention to the black holes of the Maw Cluster. Every possible area near the black holes must be inspected and assessed."
"On what account, sir?" Alexander tensed.
"Consider the probability that Corran Horn and members of his family aren't hiding from you and your people anywhere," Thrawn advised. "It's possible that they ended up inside a black hole."
"In that case, gravity and tidal forces destroyed them," Alexander stated confidently.
"As always happens in such situations," the grand admiral agreed with his subordinate's arguments. "But, you see, Commodore, there's a nuance..."
***
In the distant past, even before Toring himself was born, and even before his distant ancestors appeared in the plans of his very distant forebears, this planet, located in the Colonies region near the Perlemian Trade Route, had the prefix "Ord."
Obsidian Reconnaissance Detachment.
That's what the planets of the Old Republic were called at the dawn of its formation, which served as footholds for the young state in further expansion from the center to the galaxy's arms.
Millennia passed, and for most such detachments, the "Ord" prefix became part of the name.
Others, like Carida, lost such a prefix.
But this didn't lead to a decrease in the planet's importance for the galactic hegemon in all eras.
The planet Carida.
Any self-respecting Imperial who had undergone training on Carida recognized the planet's image as soon as it came into view of his ship.
Agent Bravo One felt a slight pang of nostalgia when the Lambda-class shuttle emerged from hyperspace in orbit of the planet.
And everything else faded into the background.
A dangerous mission.
Defensive stations bristling with guns.
Patrol ships and squadrons.
Thoughts raced through his head about how much glory Carida had basked in in the past.
It was here that such troops as "rocket troopers"—predecessors of the soldiers who now fight wearing jetpacks on their backs—first made themselves known.
That was over ten thousand years ago, during the Pius Dea era.
Since then, Carida had been the site of dozens of battles—and each time victory thundered here.
During the Clone Wars, Separatists tried to blow up a Venator-class Star Destroyer filled with ryll to destroy the entire flower of the Old Republic's military command.
But nothing came of it.
True, few knew that at the very beginning of the Clone Wars, the Separatists had still managed to give the Grand Army of the Republic a good thrashing here.
But those who knew history well preferred to keep quiet—because that shameful episode in Carida's chronology dated to the time of Republican rule.
Now, Carida, even being far from other Imperial Remnants, even without possessing a significant fleet, remained that lump in the New Republic's throat that they couldn't spit out or swallow.
Perhaps it was precisely Carida's glorious traditions, its impregnability and inflexibility, that caused Grand Moff Tarkin to order the construction here of the Empire's best of the best military institutions, perfectly complementing all the existing military training centers of the Old Republic on the planet.
Carida could boast a varied landscape and climatic zones.
Here were tropics, temperate zones, impassable rocks, icy plains, deserts, and jungles full of carnivorous plants.
Under increased gravity, on Carida one could train absolutely any contingent of fighters—nature itself had created the necessary ranges, and gravity allowed testing fighters for endurance, forging them into true death machines.
In addition, here on Carida, cutting-edge military technologies were developed in various directions.
And a large part of them turned out so secret that most of the Galactic Empire's higher command officials had never even heard of them, despite their clearance levels.
But to the general public, Carida is known for a completely different reason.
It was here that the stormtrooper training program was implemented and continues to be developed, refined, and instilled in recruits.
The government of Carida officially does not join the semblance of the Empire that the Remnants are now creating, but gladly provides them with services for training stormtroopers.
On the planet's surface are millions of recruits and trained fighters who will be loaded onto ships and shipped to any point in the galaxy as soon as the troops of Imperial Space finally launch their offensive "broadly," rather than stupidly and stubbornly limiting themselves to worlds along the Perlemian Trade Route.
True, this won't happen soon—under Lantilies, the Empire's boys got properly thrashed by Alliance fighters.
This could be called a rout if not for the fact that before their rout, the Imperials had effectively exterminated one of the divisions of the New Republic's Second Fleet.
Exchanging identification signals with the Valor station (the very one the Separatists intended to ram with a Star Destroyer stuffed with ryll), the Lambda penetrated the guarded orbital perimeter without issue.
The Valor station.
Casting a glance at the only remaining of Carida's two moons, Inek sighed furtively.
Eighteen years ago, one overgrown idiot from a diplomatic family decided to "joke" and destroy Carida's emblem, executed on the surface of the Talisman Moon, using antimatter.
True, the idiot underestimated the reaction's power.
And just one gram of antimatter led to the Talisman Moon ceasing to exist.
Along with the emblem.
And the scoundrel, considering his father's influential position, was merely expelled from the Academy despite not being particularly strong in studies.
A vivid example of how even the most serious problems were resolved behind the scenes in the Galactic Empire.
Disgusting.
Toring grimaced; fortunately, his guys in stormtrooper armor didn't notice how their "lieutenant" disgustedly turned away from the central viewport, in which the colorful spots of Carida's surface were already blooming.
The Dominion agent walked into the cabin, casting a glance at the young lad strapped into a seat with restraint belts.
"We're descending," he stated, seeing a frightened expression appear on Kyp Durron's face. "If you want, you can look at the Carida Military Academy through the side porthole."
"Y-yes, thank you," the boy said, stumbling slightly, running clearly sweaty hands over the fabric of his cadet trousers.
He obediently turned his head, as a result of which he could enjoy the view of the monumental building onto whose landing pad before it the lambda was descending.
The Imperial Military Academy on Carida.
Neatly trimmed and manicured lawns, plants, paved paths.
Monumental building complexes sunk into the rock mass and bearing traces of the Empire's predatory militaristic architectural style.
Numerous figures in white armor and officer uniforms moving across the adjacent territory.
All this was exactly what was on Carida in the times when the Galactic Empire flourished.
With the sole exception that it rotted from the inside much faster than its predecessor—the Old Republic.
It's no wonder that this abode of military skills and inventions was courted by the New Republic from the very first moment of its emergence.
According to Mon Mothma's intelligence data, she considered the possibility of recruiting or otherwise restraining Carida as part of her long-term plans to weaken the Empire's military infrastructure.
Join to get rid of the containment problem.
Because conquering Carida is unrealistic.
As is Brintooin, where the famed "Imperial Hammers" settled and turned an entire system into a Carida branch.
At least—without colossal casualties.
As a result—the New Republic failed at neither.
The limp blockade the Republicans imposed on the system couldn't even resist the fact that Imperial Remnants arrived here to "acquire" stormtroopers and military property.
And now, when Imperial Space is dozens of parsecs from Carida's borders and is pounding New Republic squadrons with all barrels, everything is clear anyway.
Carida, though formally belonging to the Empire, and even occasionally submitting to the Imperial Ruling Council, is not broken.
They boycotted Grand Admiral Thrawn's calls to join his armed forces, which could instantly solve the shortage of assault units.
They conduct an independent policy and merely "provide services" to other Imperial Remnants.
Let Carida be just one planet—but it is more than a backwater Imperial world.
Carida is a symbol of power.
Whoever subjugates it will gain respect in the eyes of the other Imperial Remnants and will inevitably be the leader in uniting the scattered pieces of former greatness.
Toring descended the ramp, squinting slightly from the light of the local star beating in his eyes.
"Glad to welcome you to Carida, Lieutenant Mack," the duty officer on the landing pad greeted him, addressing him by the false name. "How can we be of service to you and Moff Gronn, whose representative you claim to be?"
"Whose representative I am," Agent Inek corrected the interlocutor with the appropriate shade of arrogance. "As always—the Empire needs Carida's help."
"What kind of help?" the duty officer asked curiously.
Who, apparently, also combined the duties of a referent for higher-ranking officials.
Well, yes, Carida isn't the kind of place where obsequious diplomats will greet you with gifts.
There are certain criteria by which the planet's and Academy's leadership determines their attitude toward guests.
Either you interest them right away, or they'll kick you out to the system's very borders.
"Cadet!" Toring barked, addressing Kyp Durron, who was dragging behind him under the guard of a quartet of cover squad fighters. "Case here! Quick! Move it!"
"Y-yes, sir, Lieutenant," Durron didn't even need to pretend that such treatment irritated him.
He dragged the heavy case down the ramp with all his might, filled with something the local government would clearly find interesting.
Inek noticed how a look of utter contempt appeared on the duty officer's face for an instant.
Oh yes, exactly like that.
Despise us, such non-combat and unhardened ones.
This would only benefit the "legend."
"A couple of weeks on Tarkin's Teeth and this cadet will learn to respond properly to superiors," the duty officer said staccato when his and Inek's gazes met.
"This runt will die after the first fifty kilometers of a cross-country forced march," Toring snorted, demonstrating that he was on the same wavelength as the duty officer. "And that's even without full kit, as per the minimum training program."
Contempt for the weak, complete narrow-mindedness, and black humor understandable only to those who've been on Carida's training grounds.
"I see you've undergone training with us?" the duty officer smiled, clearly warming to Toring.
"That's why I pushed through a flight to you with Moff Gronn," Inek declared. "Times are unsettled. Every Imperial loyal to his duty must do everything to arm himself and be ready to fight against the rebels. Moff Gronn," Toring shoved Kyp aside as soon as the latter finally dragged the armored case, "sends his best wishes to the magnificent masters of military science on Carida." A double click and the case's top lid opens, its contents gleaming in the light, reflecting glints on the duty officer's face. "And also expresses hope that Carida will help him restore his armed forces."
"And how much is here?" the duty officer looked skeptically at the aurodium ingots.
With his entire demeanor showing he'd seen valuables of greater volume.
"Three million," "Lieutenant Mack" explained. "In the most valuable antiques considered lost decades ago. A small token of attention for the ruler of Carida, Ambassador Furgan."
The duty officer's face changed.
Three million—that wasn't just a token of attention.
That's a huge sum for which one could buy a used military corvette for personal use.
And that's the ambassador's two-year income as head of Carida.
Not to mention that this hinted that "Moff Gronn's representatives" intended to spend many times more valuables on Carida's help.
"Impressive," the duty officer said, signaling with a gesture to the stormtroopers accompanying him that they could take the offering. "But the question doesn't change. What specific help do you want from us."
"Stormtroopers," "Lieutenant Mack" explained. "We need a lot of stormtroopers. Ten divisions, maybe more. And no one and never in this galaxy will produce better training than on Carida."
The duty officer's jaw literally dropped.
Every Imperial Remnant knows that Carida is not humane in pricing its services.
And a dozen stormtrooper divisions... That's an enormous sum.
"This will cost you very dearly," the Caridan warned.
"Moff Gronn gave me a large number of suitcases with valuable contents," Toring smiled sparingly, understanding that the operation had begun.
And the naive Kyp Durron had no idea that the task set before the Dominion's scouts wasn't limited to just searching for and evacuating his brother.