Ten years, two months, and seven days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, second month, and seven days after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Eight months and twenty-seven days since arrival.)
The battleship Rottaran entered the Doli system accompanied by a dozen Corellian corvettes.
The massive ship, whose ancestor had been built by Mandalorian shipwrights, was virtually impossible to distinguish against the backdrop of the starry sky. Painted black from bow to stern, it revealed its presence visually only by the corona of its engine exhausts.
That is, until its turbolasers came alive, filling the darkness of Doli's night side with snow-white-blue streaks of turbolaser fire.
A moment later, the corvettes' guns echoed them.
Controlled chaos reigned on Rottaran's bridge.
Dozens of Mandalorians shouted over one another, each insisting his task was of paramount importance. Despite their warlike past, natives of Kol Atorn were taking part in a full-scale space military operation against a strong enemy for the first time.
In the center of this primal chaos, Hedge Spar sat with the air of a creator-god (if a Mandalorian could ever be a creator), studying the tactical holographic display obligingly rendered by the central onboard computer.
Two Kaloth-class battlecruisers, identified as belonging to the rebel aristocrats' allies, had just entered the fray.
Rottaran's gunners had already opened fire on the new opponent with turbolasers.
The port deflector shields of the first battlecruiser failed under the furious onslaught, forcing the crew to turn the ship broadside.
But the corvettes joined in, bathing it in laser fire.
Watching a Kaloth try to dodge every enemy at once was both pleasing and amusing.
Mandalorian Alpha-3 Nimbus fighters had already sniffed out the damaged shields and swarmed the agonized ship like a flock of ravenous kath hounds.
Rottaran was tearing into the second battlecruiser, leaving it no chance of survival.
The joy of the unfolding battle was spoiled only by the orbital platform Fire Star off the port bow.
It paid no attention to the capital ships locked in combat, targeting only smaller vessels and mercilessly destroying them.
The fighters, having suffered initial losses, no longer risked approaching it; Fire Star's gunners handled turbolasers and launchers with impressive skill, allowing the cannoneers to fire proton torpedo after proton torpedo.
Squadrons of fighters manufactured in the D'Astan sector rose from Doli's surface and, under the station's cover, entered the fray.
Fast and agile thanks to their three engines, they nevertheless suffered from inadequate armament and protection.
One heavy and one light laser cannon, no deflector shields—that was hardly the arsenal to bring against Dominion-upgraded Alpha-3 Nimbus fighters.
The Mandalorians' machines might not have been factory-fresh, but they were still lethally powerful.
D'Astan fighter.
After the first Kaloth was disabled and broke apart, the attackers' light forces improved dramatically.
"Inform Nez Peron of the defenders' composition," Hedge ordered the comm officer, shouting over the mild din in the bridge. "The General needs to know we were not met as reconnaissance expected."
The subordinate acknowledged and set to work.
"It's almost boring," came the voice of the Devaronian who had appeared beside the command chair.
Hedge glanced at the commander of the baroness's special forces group.
The Devaronian was outwardly calm, clad in heavy armor, and clearly eager to gut a few enemies.
"We expected more of them," Spar said. "Only two Kaloths and one Fire Star is somehow…"
"Disappointing?" Martok supplied.
The Mandalorian nodded.
"The General sent an entire squadron here, landing forces, and in the end one Rottaran could have handled it," the native of Kol Atorn grumbled.
"True enough," the Devaronian agreed. "Your battleship is powerful and well-armed. I've seen the type before."
Hedge remained silent.
"With the Zann Consortium," Martok continued. "Though theirs, rumor has it, could drain energy from other starships' shields. And their main battery was a heavy mass-driver."
"My Rottaran is better," the Mandalorian cut him off. "All those unnecessary gadgets were the product of small minds. You can't carry many slugs for a prolonged fight, and energy draining only worked at short range. A foolish decision to install such equipment on a warship. To win, this ship needs only its standard armament."
"I don't recall Zann's gangs operating in our parts," the Devaronian went on.
"And what exactly are you trying to say?" Hedge Spar asked.
"Just curious where you got such a beauty," Martok shrugged. "She resembles a Keldabe, but heavily modernized…"
"We received her from the Dominion in exchange for loyal service and the chance to fight in real battles," Spar explained.
"Some trade," the lieutenant yawned. "You can always find a fight somewhere in the galaxy."
"Yes," the Mandalorian agreed. "But you can't always find a sturdy, well-armed, superbly designed battleship—plus the military equipment to get you there."
"Depends how you look," the Devaronian snorted, nodding his horned head toward the main viewport. "Those boys managed to find themselves Kaloths and a Fire Star."
Martok's point was undeniable.
The General had struck the enemy forward base in the Doli system precisely because there were only two battlecruisers and one defensive station.
It was strange and suspicious.
Two cruisers could boast neither firepower nor the valor of their crews.
Ordinary average tauntauns, nothing more.
According to intelligence, four more Kaloths were supposed to be assigned to the planet's defense.
In that number they could seriously complicate matters.
But they were absent.
Perhaps the enemy was planning an ambush, but his full intent remained unclear.
There was, however, a strong probability that the enemy had recalled half his battlecruisers to defend and attack along other front sectors.
The General surely understood that.
Probably part of some plan.
Or the Mandalorian simply thought too highly of the Dominion to assume they could overnight solve the problems of a civil war they had ignored for months, allowing the enemy to seize the strategic initiative in several star systems.
Well, let those responsible worry about strategy.
The Mandalorians from Kol Atorn had a different task.
While the chance existed to deal with enemy units piecemeal, they must not miss it.
Now Rottaran and the eight surviving Corellian corvettes from the D'Astan sector fleet on one side, and the defensive station Fire Star on the other, were exchanging artillery fire and torpedoes with equal unrelenting fury.
The nimble corvettes' deflector shields were cracking at the seams—the station's gunners were clearly no amateurs.
For a time the corvettes that had closed on the station held out, then their deflectors gave up the ghost with finality.
There was neither time nor power to regenerate them.
Now only armored plating protected the ships.
Which on vessels of that class was thinner than flimsi.
The comparison was crude, but it reflected the difference between Rottaran's thick armor and that of its escorts.
"Signal the corvettes to get out of there!" Hedge ordered, eyeing the ruins of both Kaloths. "Set course for the station. Prepare to fire and board!"
The battleship closed on its new prey.
Its deflector field absorbed the damage inflicted, gradually thinning.
The station's anti-fighter lasers performed flawlessly, no doubt infuriating Fire Star's torpedo operators: not one proton torpedo reached its target.
Rottaran's gunners did not remain in debt.
Whether through skilled fire control or blind luck, some shots struck the station's turbolaser batteries, others silenced torpedo tubes. The less fortunate merely gnawed at Fire Star, trying to reach its vitals.
The station was frankly losing the duel.
It could not fire effectively at five opponents at once, yet it tried mightily.
This allowed Rottaran to systematically burn away dangerous fire points, painting a clear picture in observers' minds.
"I take it the station's hangar was deliberately left uncovered?" the Devaronian asked.
"Why destroy a perfectly good combat station, even if it's not fresh from the yard?" Hedge replied. "It will serve us too."
"No arguing with that," the horned warrior grinned. "If it's all the same to you, my boys would like to handle the capture."
"That's why you're aboard my ship," Hedge snorted. "The station is yours. We'll just suppress the guns to make life easier for the assault teams and shuttles."
"I'd forgotten how noble Mandalorian warriors can be," Martok laughed good-naturedly, checking how easily his vibroblade left its sheath. "Then bring your ship in close, and I'll head to the landing craft. Once we're aboard, the fun begins."
"That's my plan too—for the enemy base on the surface," the Mandalorian leader declared, clenching his right fist. "I love the smell of dead enemies in the morning."
"Tastes differ," Martok shrugged, heading out of the bridge.
***
On Spar's signal, Rottaran turned its bow guns toward the planet, presenting its starboard side to Fire Star.
The station, already shieldless, could not withstand the broadside—it effectively lost all guns facing the attack.
Even greater harm to its defensive capability came from Rottaran's Mandalorian ion cannons.
Bluish spiders of surface discharges crawled across the mangled plating.
Entire sections went dark, turning into lifeless hulks.
"Job's done, Martok," the Mandalorian commander's voice sounded in the headset. "You may begin."
"Copy," the Devaronian replied, turning to face the troopers of his special detachment standing in the assault bay. "Well, Headhunters—are we ready for a stroll?"
A united roar from two dozen throats was the answer, coinciding with their gunship lifting off the deck.
LAAT/i.
Low Altitude Assault Transport/infantry.
Latti.
That was the nickname that had stuck in the heads of those to whom the Dominion had "gifted" this equipment.
Troops loyal to the baroness made wide use of Clone Wars-era weaponry and vehicles.
Of course heavily upgraded by Dominion engineers, but in the case of the latti such upgrades were limited; despite their age, the original work by Rothana Heavy Engineering had been of high quality.
And the Dominion engineers who had restored this equipment (which had mysteriously reappeared decades after being retired) also deserved praise.
Both during the Clone Wars and now, during the D'Astan sector civil war, the sight of an LAAT had become one of the most welcome and cherished visions above any battlefield for loyalist soldiers.
Countless LAATs provided fire support to ground troops, conducted strike bombing runs, performed tactical reconnaissance, delivered reinforcements, food, and ammunition, inserted commandos, and were often the last hope for soldiers surrounded by the enemy.
With all hatches sealed, the gunship slipped out of Rottaran's hangar and streaked toward the invitingly open maw of Fire Star's hangar, wings rocking slightly.
The LAAT was a twin-engine high-wing design with a spacious troop-transport compartment.
Its wings were not true aerodynamic lifting surfaces, though they could generate additional lift via two small repulsors at the tips.
With them the pilot controlled roll and pitch—an unconventional arrangement for an atmospheric craft that demanded considerable skill.
Martok had had to search hard to find a pilot with the required qualifications for his special group.
Two beam turrets were mounted in the wings, and beneath each wing were four launch rails for light air-to-air missiles. Inside the wing roots were air-to-ground missiles and a belt-feed system to reload the launchers.
Two powerful engines in separate nacelles propelled the craft.
The widely spaced twin-engine layout increased reliability and survivability. If the enemy knocked out one engine, the LAAT could reach its objective on the remaining one or even "parachute" using repulsors alone.
But after such a "landing," which usually damaged or destroyed the repulsors lining the lower hull, the latti required lengthy repairs before flying again.
The baroness's supporters had learned this the hard way on their own machines—unfortunately, many early pilots who had previously fought as Dominion volunteers were unfamiliar with the type and could not pass on their knowledge.
Everything about the craft was meticulously thought out.
If the enemy still managed to shoot down the loyalists' workhorse, the crew could eject. The LAAT cockpit was a sealed armored capsule. Upon ejection it detached and briefly became analogous to a starship escape pod. Of course pilots tried to find any flat ground for a crash landing if troops or wounded were aboard.
Given the scarcity of such machines in the baroness's army, they were carefully preserved from unnecessary losses.
All that changed with the arrival of Spar's Mandalorians, the Cavilhu Pirates, and the General who now led the D'Astan loyalist forces.
With them came—and continued to arrive—vast quantities of military hardware and weapons the loyalists so desperately needed.
Not to mention the "volunteers"—Captain Anilex's notorious cutthroats, famous for daring raids across the sector.
Spar's Mandalorians proved the indispensable ground assault force the sector needed to break the enemy's echeloned defensive lines.
And though many loyalist soldiers grumbled that the Dominion did not supply the baroness's troops with the latest equipment, it was better to have Clone Wars-era gear than none at all.
The rebel aristocrats' soldiers also fielded armor that was far from new—mostly ex-Confederacy equipment from the Clone Wars.
Some jokingly called the D'Astan sector civil war a continuation of the Clone Wars.
And the loyalists would have paid dearly to see white Phase II-armored troopers on the battlefield again.
Having cleared the station hangar with enfilading laser fire, the latti burst inside, skimming over the polished deck.
"Disembark!" the pilot shouted.
One starboard door—the one not facing the station defenders firing from cover—slid open.
Special forces poured out, using the rear ramp as well.
In theory an LAAT/i could carry up to thirty fully armed soldiers.
In practice loyalists rarely crammed in more than one or two squads of nine or ten, preferring to carry extra supplies and ammunition rather than pack the compartment tight.
Fewer troops meant room for heavy weapons—mortars, grenade launchers, and crew-served blasters.
It also sped disembarkation and thus reduced the gunship's vulnerability, giving the enemy far less time to shoot it down or bracket a stationary target with artillery.
Yes, the craft had drawbacks.
Despite being an excellent multi-role platform, the latti's armor could not protect against serious weapons.
If hit while descending from low orbit or in flight and losing altitude, the troops inside had almost no chance of surviving a crash.
But as a gunship it had no equal—so long as it stayed airborne and no enemy fighters or anti-aircraft guns were nearby.
Lack of deflector shields and heavy armor made them prime targets.
The LAAT's armament was a vast arsenal for every occasion.
Two air-to-ground missile launchers. Unlike most launch systems in the galaxy far, far away, initial acceleration came not from the missile's own engine but from an electromagnetic mass-driver that instantly hurled the projectile to high velocity.
Unfortunately the latti's belt-fed autoloader prevented carrying different missile types simultaneously, forcing multiple gunships for varied strike roles.
From the first days of the war, loyalist troopers—like the clone troopers of the Grand Army of the Republic—held their machines in high regard and treated them with great care. Evidence of this was the abundant nose art visible on many LAATs.
There, on the sides, crews often tallied combat sorties and lists of destroyed enemy vehicles…
Most of this artwork dated back to the Clone Wars.
The Dominion had not removed it, leaving the faded, battered paintings on hulls and noses.
D'Astan loyalists enthusiastically continued the tradition, which boosted morale.
They refreshed the artwork and continued kill tallies from the old marks still visible after decades in mothballs—a fact that caused no small alarm among enemy soldiers.
Seeing a transport bearing several hundred kill marks was unpleasant.
The mind played cruel tricks, painting a picture that this particular crew had destroyed that many vehicles belonging specifically to the rebels.
A minor psychological ploy that helped disorganize the enemy.
Martok fired his twin blasters, putting bolts straight into the head of an enemy who had peeked from cover, scoring a clean kill.
Resistance on this flank collapsed, and the Devaronian's troopers pressed the assault.
Behind them, fresh gunships continued disgorging loyalist units onto the station, adding ever more fighters to the capture of Fire Star.
***
Alarming news came from Captain Tiberos.
From any angle, alarming.
One might think there was no problem at all in the Corporate Sector Authority sending a Victory-class dreadnought as second-echelon escort after its transports.
Despite rearmament in the CorpSec, patrol and escort duty was all such a ship was good for.
Full modernization to modern standards would require far too much investment.
And money—unlike any aggressive capitalist system bent on extracting superprofits at minimal cost—was something the corporates hated to spend.
So healthy vigilance might be lulled by that simple fact.
But it was not.
If the corporates were acting independently, such practice would raise no questions.
They were simply economizing.
But in the broader context the picture looked entirely different.
Our auxiliary forces had spent considerable time mapping every route the raw-material ships took from the Corporate Sector to Hutt Space.
Project Morr buzz droids had been scattered along course-correction points not randomly, but precisely in the systems where the bulk freighters stopped before continuing.
There were not many such systems, and from the standpoint of travel time, fuel costs, and logistics the corporates had chosen perfectly.
Ideally.
Logistically flawless.
And Captain Tiberos rightly asked: if the ships came from the Corporate Sector, why was the Victory-class dreadnought not detected by the buzz droids?
This could only happen in a few cases.
First: there exist other staging systems where second-echelon escort ships like the discovered Victory had been waiting.
In that case it becomes clear why the buzz droids never spotted this (and likely other) escort vessel that might follow other convoys along different routes, only converging if contact was maintained and information exchanged at checkpoints.
Second hypothesis, partially linked to the first: the sectors contain forward operating bases from which CorpSec forces launch reconnaissance into systems where contact with a convoy was lost.
There is a third hypothesis: the Victory followed the convoy secretly, tracking its schedule without the knowledge of the primary escort or transports.
The third is unlikely—it contradicts everything currently known about the corporates.
Why send an old, completely uncompetitive heavy dreadnought to "shadow its own convoy"?
It is capable only of patrol duties; its combat value is negligible.
Any privateer capable of handling four escort frigates would simply leave the system long before the Victory closed to firing range.
So as backup or observer the ship is clearly unsuitable…
Because the corporates possess at least five hundred Victory-class Star Destroyers.
Those would be ideal for both overt and covert escort.
It makes no sense.
If the corporates and Zann Consortium truly expected an attack on the convoy, would it not have been logical to send fast, well-armed ships as follow-up?
We know perfectly well they are investing in an entire military-transport fleet.
We know they control Rothana and Kamino, and likely intend to resume the Consortium cloning program.
We know they have upgraded Keldabe battleships and Crusader corvettes… So why play this farce with weak cover?
Four frigates and one heavy dreadnought is not cover for such a convoy if attack was genuinely anticipated.
Then what was it?
Until now every Zann Consortium campaign has been successful, meticulously planned, multi-layered.
Yet here they simply sent a convoy to slaughter?
Nonsense.
It does not happen.
Every action begets reaction.
Sir Isaac Newton may have lived in another far, far away galaxy and another time, but the laws of the universe are immutable.
Considerable time has passed since the convoy attack.
And still no enemy reaction.
If they knew we would strike or were setting a trap, why have they not responded?
Why no reaction to our counteroffensive in the D'Astan sector?
Are they waiting?
No, Tyber Zann possesses little patience.
Moreover, he has already suffered several slaps.
Control over the Bosf sector is lost, yet the Corporate Sector fleet has not reacted.
They continue blockading with outdated starships and show no aggression.
Snark base attacked, yet Zann ordered no reconnaissance to investigate.
The baroness kidnapping foiled, an entire Consortium cell eliminated, Urai Fen—Zann's friend—killed…
Again, no reaction.
Though Urai may be the closest being in Zann's entire circle.
Finally, convoy attacked, escort destroyed—both first and second echelon—transports captured.
Silence again.
No reaction to the ships we seized at Snark.
Nothing!
It does not happen.
I concede the possibility that the organization's focus has shifted elsewhere, but Zann cannot simply ignore this chain of events.
Yes, with some probability I can accept he misread some incidents as the work of other forces, not the Dominion, but objective facts should have led him to put the puzzle together.
Then why, after days of our attacks, do we still receive no intelligence of any Consortium counter-measures—not only against us, but at all…
They have seemingly paused all activity.
Where first-rate ships should appear, we find obvious antiques used more to frighten than to serve as instruments of justice.
Where they fiercely tried to wrest the D'Astan sector from us, they have switched to passive defense, silently watching events unfold, withdrawing forces from critically important directions.
Hedge Spar's report is quite eloquent—without explanation or clear tactical gain, the enemy simply pulled half his ships out of the Doli system, leaving it open to our attack and subsequent conquest.
Driving us out will now be practically impossible.
Then to what end this game of "letting us win"?
Leaning back in my chair, I silently studied the holograms of Zann Consortium officers.
Urai Fen.
Silri.
Bossk.
Tyber Zann.
Four pillars on which the organization once rested.
Bossk betrayed Zann—that is the official version—and vanished.
Now we find him assembling his own army.
Silri, as far as I know, stole a Sith holocron from Zann and with it discovered an army of ancient Sith frozen in carbonite—if one believes certain holovid games.
Urai Fen distinguished himself in the D'Astan operation and was killed.
He may have been a clone—we simply have no DNA to compare and confirm whether Zann experimented with genetic copies of his closest ally.
Not using Spaarti cylinders on Snark, of course, but he does have access to Kamino, does he not?
Something clearly does not add up.
On the surface the picture is complete—the Zann Consortium has spread its web across the galaxy to amass power unnoticed.
They stole cutting-edge technology from Republic and Empire to upgrade their ships and equipment.
They replaced key individuals galaxy-wide to provoke the Empire's cascading collapse and pick up the pieces.
They are surely building an entire fleet on Rothana, which explains stealing military equipment from the New Republic.
They are cloning an army on Kamino using ysalamiri to accelerate growth.
And they possess a duplicate cloning lab on Snark—solely for vulture droids or replacement clones of influential figures?
Yet they recruit armies of low-grade mercenaries.
And defenselessly transport enormous quantities of valuable ores.
They ignore the capture of their warships and the fall of their advanced technology into our hands.
They ignore the loss of the Bosf sector and its metal shipments—as well as the detention of their transport fleet.
And for some purpose they desperately push into the Chiloon Rift, rich in mineral deposits…
Which they sell on the open market to finance extremely expensive and militarily mediocre Lucrehulk battleships.
Something does not fit.
On one hand—perfect conspiracy, methodical caution, multi-layered insurance, and leisurely execution.
On the other—crude haste, quantity over quality.
And not a single trap.
Again I repeat—not the slightest attempt at a counterstrike despite us depriving them of bases on multiple planets.
All Zann has done is covertly start a civil war in the D'Astan sector.
Brought in mercenaries, sent ships—again, none of the latest quality.
And now, as if he has lost interest in what he began.
As if he has refocused attention elsewhere.
But if so—on what?
And why has he set no trap, like the one that destroyed Thrawn's fleet after Bossk's betrayal?
How cleverly it was done—the enemy seemingly reluctantly received what he wanted, took the holocron with its beacon to the Imperial Storehouse on Coruscant.
From there Zann retrieved it, gaining data on the Kuat yards' Eclipse under construction.
And aboard the super star destroyer he gained access to Palpatine's secrets…
Looked at any way, treating the holocron loss as a "sacrifice" led to the Consortium's triumph in the entire game.
They gained unheard-of wealth and power, brought the corporates under their heel, and who knows what else…
Stop.
"Sacrifices" and triumph.
Easy victory and a beacon.
Fascination with Palpatine's secrets after seizing Eclipse—and the Consortium's subsequent loss of cohesion.
Bossk's betrayal.
Silri's betrayal.
Carbonite army.
Vulture droid and corporate armies.
Spaarti cylinders on Snark.
Clones on Kamino.
Combat fleet construction on Rothana.
Military-transport fleet on Nimban.
Mercenaries in the eastern galaxy—Tamarin and Rseik sectors.
Mercenaries in the north—near Corporate space and in D'Astan itself.
Droid army construction in the Corporate Sector.
Recruitment of cheap mercenaries in Tamarin.
No reaction to the attack on the cloning center.
No reaction to attacks on Salukemai, Shola, Snark, and Hypori.
Use of secondary ships for Bosf blockade.
Use of secondary ships to escort the Nimban-bound ore caravan.
Fixed thought.
Exactly what I am doing with the Dominion is happening to them.
Duplicate production facilities and strongpoints are being created in different corners of the galaxy.
But in the Corporate Sector case it is sequential, justified, logical.
In the Tamarin case it is spasmodic, broad but shallow.
The first is clearly thought through.
The second is imitation without understanding the mechanics.
Like children copying adults because they think that is what grown-ups do.
A fascinating picture.
Extremely interesting…
I very nearly miscalculated badly when I decided to pit Zann against the Rebel Alliance, thinking it would divert the threat from Kessel.
It will not.
And I am clearly mistaken about why the Victory followed the convoy.
And for what purpose that particular—heavily armored but combat-ineffective—ship was chosen.
Activating the holoprojector, I waited for the familiar hologram to appear above the polished plate.
"Captain Irv," the commander of the Colicoid Swarm looked surprised. "The transports captured by Captain Tiberos have reached the rendezvous?"
"Yes, sir," he frowned. "My people are ready to begin unloading and disposing of the metals per your instructions."
"The time for that has not yet come," I stated. "You have several more hyperspace jumps ahead."
"Are we being tailed?" the former Separatist scowled.
"Precisely," I said, sending coordinates I had long earmarked for other purposes. "Now your task is to lead them closer to where we will deal with them."
"With pleasure, sir," the Colicoid Swarm commander smiled. "Coordinates received. Moving out."
"End transmission." I disconnected Irv and switched to another subscriber.
"Captain Vivant," the officer gave me a cautious look. "You have a chance to redeem your earlier failure."
"I am ready, Grand Admiral!"
"Then your ships must be prepared for immediate departure and jump to the designated coordinates," I said, duplicating the coordinate transmission.
Then came more orders…
Well, I both underestimated and overestimated the enemy.
He refused to walk into the trap so easily and chose his own scenario.
Very well—I will demonstrate what it means to spoil my game with such voluntarism.
***
Watching the latti's missiles and lasers burn away the enemy's forward positions, Hedge Spar thought the Imperials had been foolish to abandon this machine after crushing most of the Confederacy holdouts.
The obvious reason was the shift in planetary warfare doctrine.
In the Empire, troop landings were handled by specialized assault shuttles—well armored and as heavily armed as their Republican predecessors.
Fire support and strike bombing fell entirely to bombers, fighter-bombers, and capital ships hanging in low orbit.
Mandalorians knew full well that attempts had been made during the Imperial era to modernize the LAAT/i.
The new models were designated MAAT and never saw wide distribution in the Imperial Army.
He had seen a few such machines among the Dominion forces, particularly during the pirate base assault, and there the techs had explained why both latti and MAAT had been retired.
Nowhere in the galaxy could such craft be found in large numbers except in the Dominion.
The Empire, like much other equipment, had sold them off to fringe worlds or loyal governments.
Rumor had it the Rebels also tried using machines found under various circumstances, but the latest Imperial technology clearly demonstrated why the Republican legacy had been relegated to strategic reserve or scrap.
"Spar!" Martok's voice came over the helmet comm. "Fire Star is ours."
"Good for you," the Kol Atorn native replied.
"I can hear your sarcasm across hundreds of kilometers," the Devaronian said smugly.
"Well done—take your medal from the desk drawer," Spar shot back without malice, switching channels. "Pilot—time to target?!"
"Two minutes!" came the instant reply.
Excellent.
Precisely what was needed.
The orbital situation was resolved; control of the system effectively established.
No point remaining aboard Rottaran.
Therefore, as leader of the Mandalorians, he was duty-bound to lead them into ground combat as well.
His comm clicked—he opened a channel to all his warriors now streaking through Doli's cloud cover.
"Mandalorians!" he bellowed to his countrymen. "Today, as our ancestors did centuries ago, we go to war! Our names will be the last thing our enemies utter with their dying breath. We are the composers of cannon and rifle orchestras. Doli has been stormed three times—and all three times the baroness's weakling soldiers washed themselves in blood, leaving thousands of corpses behind. Because they are worthless warriors. We were born for war, for the roar of bombardment, for dealing death without illusion. We were made for blood, filth, killing enemies, and the glory of our people!"
The planet below was ablaze.
Missiles and bombs, laser bolts, and the burning wreckage of armored vehicles—this ground was ravaged by war.
And the Mandalorians plunged into its very heart for their glory.
Through the open side panel he could already see the approaching enemy positions. Ten seconds—and their durasteel boots would tread the rocket-scorched soil of Doli.
"I called you on a great crusade to restore our people's glory," he reminded them. "We of Kol Atorn have long been considered outcasts among Mandalorians. But today we will prove the glory of our people flows in our veins—not in those cowards hiding in the Mandalorian sector. Today is our time to rise from oblivion and win glorious victory where ordinary beings fail. We do not want silence! Battle is our light, and we go to make it burn brighter! Now—attack!"
The latti hovered centimeters above Doli's charred surface.
Spar leapt to the ground and instantly fired, seeing a dazed enemy soldier crawling from a bunker whose roof had just taken two missiles.
The bolt smashed the man's skull, punching a hole through his eye the moment he tried to stand.
Spar swiftly reached the bunker entrance.
He smashed another enemy with his heavy repeater—the weapon he favored in ground combat.
Approaching warriors leapt onto the bunker roof and tossed a pair of thermal detonators through the doorway.
It detonated.
Fire and shockwave blasted out the firing slits, eliminating any remaining resistance inside.
This proved the only intact fortification on the enemy's first line.
Gutted trenches and craters dotted the perimeter of the planet's sole city—the objective of this battle.
There had been no civilians here for a long time—not since the loyalists were first driven off the planet.
Those who had not fled with the baroness's troops had been slaughtered by the rebels for their sympathy toward the heiress.
Now the city was nothing but a fortified enemy strongpoint.
Orbital bombardment would solve the problem, no question.
But it was too simple for Mandalorians who needed rich combat experience.
Besides, the General had ordered carpet and orbital bombardment removed from the arsenal—this army needed to learn to fight in exactly these conditions.
Cities and planets must be captured, not destroyed.
The leader turned.
Behind Spar his platoon of Mandalorian soldiers was already forming—helmeted, blasters in hand, bandoliers stuffed with ammunition—quietly bantering as any battle-hardened veterans do before the next fight.
Soldiers' jokes whose hidden meaning no civilian could grasp drowned out everything else.
The only thing audible was that the jokes, as they should be, were pitch-black.
The roar of fighters and gunships overhead drowned all speech, but the Mandalorians did not care—their helmets' audio systems suppressed external noise.
Spar ordered the advance.
A sudden blinding flash made Hedge look skyward.
One of the assault transports flared like a supernova overhead, the blast wave rumbling around him.
Other landing craft pushed through the cloud layer toward the surface, meeting swarms of enemy missiles.
Two, four, then five ships were hit dead-on: fuselages burned, maimed troopers spilled from compartments straight onto Doli's sandy surface.
From the nose of one transport the pilot and copilot's escape capsule detached, but mere meters above the water it was struck by a homing projectile and disintegrated into atoms.
"Blood has been spilled!" Hedge roared, pointing toward the anti-aircraft missile battery. "Destroy them all!"
Some latti delivered grav-cycles to the surface—and Mandalorians on them charged forward.
They breached fortifications, hurling explosives and thermal detonators behind them.
Shockwaves, explosions, shrapnel, storms of missiles and laser beams—all mixed the defenders with dirt and sand.
Yet some still rose to fire back at the attacking Mandalorians.
But what could save scattered pockets from a durasteel wave of ferocious warriors?
Hedge had spent considerable time drilling his assault teams across several sector missions.
Now the professionalism of the vanguard helped them advance with minimal losses.
In the distance the silhouette of the missile battery already loomed at the foot of steep hills rising from the long crescent of the breached second defensive line.
A moment later an assault transport made a hard landing on the berms, trailing smoke from damaged engines.
It pivoted, pointing its blunt nose toward the city on the horizon, weaving between streams of warheads launched from gun emplacements studding the second line.
Its passengers managed to disembark before several anti-tank missiles turned the ship into a smoking wreck.
Shrapnel scattered across the ground, claiming several Mandalorian lives.
But it did not stop them.
They pushed forward, annihilating every enemy in their path.
Spar, frozen atop a berm before the third trench line, gleefully poured blaster fire onto the reloading missile crews.
The enemy's light and often poor-quality armor failed its wearers—corpses littered this trench section.
Leaping the man-made barrier, Hedge charged on, hosing anything that did not look Mandalorian.
A firefight was already raging around the missile battery positions.
The Mandalorian leader found himself in the thick of it, gunning down two rebels on the move.
He drove his combat knife under the armpit of a third who swung some club too wide.
Another enemy rushed him, trying to knock him down; Spar smashed the butt of his repeater into the man's neck, forcing him back.
The rebel staggered for an instant—long enough for the Mandalorian to put a new hole in his face.
Ducking low to avoid stray bolts or shrapnel, the Mandalorians surged into close combat.
Where none could match them.
Blasters and combat knives, vibroblades and shock-mauls—the enemy gunners and reinforcements rushed to the breach could not withstand the onslaught.
A burly opponent suddenly lunged at Hedge.
Grappling, the Mandalorian felt his repeaters torn from his grasp and let them go without regret.
Intending to get them back.
The enemy kneed him, aiming below the belt into the armor joint.
The leader caught the leg, struck the other, and the brute crashed onto his back.
Spar pinned him with his full weight.
Ripping his combat knife from the left gauntlet with his right hand, he blocked an attempt to parry with his forearm and drove the blade into the rebel's throat.
Two swift thrusts—and the rebel gurgled, drowning in blood.
His thigh plate deflected a shot to the leg, and an instant later the combat knife completed its dance, burying itself in the base of the shooter's neck.
Scooping up the fallen repeater, Hedge dodged a burst, taking cover behind a cargo container.
"Missile warheads," read the stenciled label.
"Some cover," the Mandalorian muttered, shifting position.
Several bolts punched clean through, exiting harmlessly into empty space.
Confirming the container's emptiness and the folly of using it as cover.
Hiding behind a boulder, the leader kept firing.
One shooter after another fell victim to his bolts.
The first collapsed as if pole-axed; steam hissed from melted holes in his chest—the blaster charges had found their mark.
Another rebel staggered back with a groan, his leg smoking from a deep wound, blood seeping from uncauterized arteries.
Spar decapitated a gunner who popped from behind the boulder with a point-blank blast that emptied the power pack and took the man's head clean off.
He glanced at his warriors holding their own with equal success; the hiss of their blasterfire mingled with the steady thump of launching missiles.
One battery was still operational.
With a flourish Spar hurled a thermal detonator into the bed of a repulsor truck.
The shockwave scattered the last missile launcher, burying its crew and several nearby soldiers.
The Mandalorian ducked as a hail of molten metal shards showered the face and shoulders of a Rodian technician.
The Rodian shrieked like a maddened tauntaun, and one of the Mandalorians ended his suffering with a shot to the chest.
Dodging a thrown vibroblade, Hedge noticed two more technicians fleeing for their lives.
He was willing to let them go, but a sergeant five meters away showed no such mercy, cutting them down mere meters from the "safe haven" of a speeder cabin.
The tension of battle began to ebb.
Spar's breathing and pulse were elevated but acceptable given the circumstances.
Yet for a split second his focus slipped, his vigilance lapsed.
The trembling blade of a mercenary's knife missed his body by centimeters.
The Mandalorian spun on his heel, knocked the man down, and crushed his windpipe with a gauntleted strike.
The enemy gurgled, blood pumping from his throat.
Spar stepped on the wound, snapping the neck, and moved on.
Off to the side the same sergeant who had shot the fleeing technicians now single-handedly faced two mercenaries.
An explosion from the missile launcher had torn away a guide rail, pinning the Mandalorian's left leg and nailing him to the ground.
One enemy had knocked the blaster rifle from his hands; the second raised his weapon to finish him.
Spar fired at the same instant as the foe.
The sergeant dodged the blaster bolt, drew his sidearm, and dropped the second rebel.
The first already lay before him with a hole in the back of his skull.
Hedge ordered two warriors to aid the squad leader and resumed fire, driving the enemy away from the position.
His Mandalorians did the same, mercilessly cutting down fleeing rebels.
Blaster bolts struck backs, necks, arms, legs.
The wounded were finished off at once.
For Mandalorians the concept of prisoners did not exist.
Only victory.
Or death.
If someone wanted to bother with those who had massacred the city's inhabitants before occupying it, let them join the vanguard.
The General had said only headquarters intelligence might be valuable—but saboteurs already inside the city, activated the moment the first shells fell, were handling that.
The Mandalorian advance was a grueling diversionary thrust.
Which had become a full-scale offensive.
With the missile battery destroyed, latti began flying beyond the line of contact.
Dropping squads onto rooftops and plazas, saturating enemy positions with dozens of missiles and laser fire, they fostered pockets of resistance in the enemy rear.
Forcing the rebels to split their forces, react on the fly, improvise tactics, and rewrite the battle's character.
Meanwhile the Mandalorians continued their victorious push.
They were already at the city limits, fighting for every house, building, street, alley.
Thermal detonators flew through windows and doorways.
Rebels darting from cover were ruthlessly gunned down.
From the sky latti rained fire while Mandalorian snipers worked from rooftops.
The enemy tried to hold, attempted counterattacks with artillery and mortars.
But their efforts were futile.
Mandalorian assault teams advanced.
House by house.
Street by street.
Clad in metal, lovers of bloody battle, beings born for war, blood, and slaughter, they rose irresistibly to the attack.
Healthy and wounded, war in their hearts, they crushed the enemy's defensive lines.
Unable to bear the pressure, rebels in places abandoned positions, hoping to fall back.
But it could not save them.
Having encircled the city and bathed it in fire, heedless of rebel protests, unafraid of close or long-range combat, the Mandalorians invited their enemies to the dance of death.
And in this dance of victors and vanquished, by day's end only one kind of dancer remained alive.
Bearing Mandalorian insignia on their armor.