If what Captain Irv saw before him was the habitual state of a hangar on Alliance ships, then the executive officer, flight director, and flight deck chief should be dragged here by their nostrils, used to wipe down every surface of the hangar, and then stood against the nearest hangar wall and shot to the Hutts.
Mandatorily—in full view of the entire technical team.
And the pilots.
Best of all—with a broadcast of the entire event to the linear cruiser's entire crew.
With the compilation of a logbook marking everyone who viewed the clip.
And then shooting anyone who signed but failed to heed the graphic warning.
Because what Captain Irv saw on the flight deck of the MC90 Calamari could be characterized briefly and poignantly.
A mess.
A disaster.
Piles of dismantled starfighter components and units, heaped in a pile in a far corner.
Damaged fighters, including types unknown to Irv, scattered across the landing deck.
Impact marks on the ceilings and flooring, scattered equipment and technical service mechanisms.
"Boss!" one of the fighters called out to him, pointing somewhere behind Irv's back. "Look at that little tub."
Irv stood opposite the atmospheric shield in the twilight of the hangar's emergency lighting.
And he noted two things immediately.
First—the enemy had clearly worked to minimize the damage from ion cannons on the Venator platform.
Because at least some lighting and artificial gravity were working on the ship.
Furthermore, the atmospheric shields hadn't shut down—there were no signs of all this trash being dragged across the hangar.
Consequently, the enemy hadn't experienced the "charms" of decompression.
Which already did credit to the Mon Calamari designers—they had learned the lessons of the past and improved the design of their new creation.
Second—Out-O was right.
The Colicoid Swarm was falling apart before his eyes, right alongside the MC90.
Internal explosions tore the ship like paper.
And every such flash was reflected inside Irv as a pang of soul-deep pain, as if it weren't his ship's hull being destroyed, but the privateer captain's own body.
It turned out he had grown too attached to his starship.
Surely—because it was the last flagship of the Separatist fleet with which he was connected.
The Invisible Hand had perished.
The Black Pearl was in Tiberos's hands.
The Colicoid Swarm…
A powerful flash illuminated the hangar's semi-darkness.
Simultaneously marking the detonation of the aft section of the starship that had snapped in half.
The Colicoid Swarm was dead.
"May they find only emptiness," Irv hissed through his teeth.
"Take things more simply," the tactical superdroid's head gripped in his hand advised. "A Providence is too old to fight on equal terms with modern starships."
"But the Black Pearl survived," Irv countered. "Even if they battered her properly, scorched her more than usual, the fact remains—that ship took no less damage than we did, yet she's still intact."
"Because Tiberos put more into the starship's modernization than it deserves," Out-O explained. "Guns, launchers, generators, and deflector field projectors—from Victories, the hull was almost entirely overhauled and fitted with modern armor, reactors, engines, and parts of the structural frame were replaced…"
"Enough," Irv waved his hand. "We have Vane's Gozanti left…"
"Boss!" the same subordinate called him again. "Look over here! Looks like we've got another little ship…"
Without hiding his skepticism, the commander of the destroyed carrier Star Destroyer shifted his gaze to the object the talkative subordinate pointed out.
Even the rays of the burgundy-blood emergency lighting were enough to see the starship in all its glory.
Not too large, not even reaching the size of a meager corvette or frigate.
Something between a patrol ship and a private yacht.
The harmony of the assembly and the general look of the hull, from which nothing extra or hung-on equipment, cables, pipes, and such protruded, gave an understanding of a factory-built starship.
The predatory hull lines and laser cannons pointed to its clearly military origin and purpose.
The smooth, in places almost mirrored surface of the hull sections hinted at the use of special polymers and alloys to reduce "signature" for scanners and shipboard detection systems.
And the lateral solar panels indicated that the folks from Sienar Fleet Systems had a hand in its creation.
In his memory, Irv had never seen such ships before—and he had crossed the galaxy lengthwise and crosswise.
If there were mass production of such starships—they would have "surfaced" somewhere.
At least in smugglers' gossip and tall tales.
No, this was clearly a completely individual project of a small military ship, designed for long autonomy and a small crew, built to a unique order.
Too weak for a raider.
Too large for a fighter.
No, this was a ship for the secret missions of a small squad, or maybe even a single crew member.
Armament—to fend off fighters.
Powerful engines—to break away from pursuers.
Cloaking—to stay in the shadow of the scanning systems of ships and orbital stations.
Irv did not doubt that this starship cost enormous, devilishly indecent amounts of money.
Comparable to the sums one could spend on producing a single frigate or even a light cruiser.
And as for how much could be spent on cloaking systems, it wasn't even worth saying aloud.
Expensive.
Lavish.
And with a clear intent for special operations.
Irv's gaze shifted to the lowered landing ramp in the stern of the specialized little ship.
"Have you inspected it yet?" he asked, licking his lips.
"Yeah," the subordinate nodded. "One person can pilot it, two at most. But it's designed for eight sentients."
Of course, this wasn't enough to evacuate nearly three hundred of Irv's subordinates from the MC90.
But letting such a prize go was stupid and unwise.
One could find a use for such a starship very easily.
From a banal sale on the black market to the proverbial offer to give it to Thrawn in exchange for something substantial.
For example—this linear cruiser.
The only question was who owned this ship.
He inquired about this.
"With a probability of seventy percent, this starship was created for a team of specialist saboteurs," Out-O came to life.
Whose opinion no one had asked for, actually.
"Nah," the mercenary waved his hand. "The files say it was piloted by Admiral Eclipse herself…"
And it wouldn't be shameful at all to take compensation for the Colicoid Swarm from that bitch.
Irv looked around.
Several other shuttles stood on the deck, including a pair of battered but still flight-capable Lambdas.
Clearly captured Imperial ships that were Hutt-knows how many years old.
But they would count toward compensation too.
"… and one Jedi," the subordinate finished.
"A Jedi?" Irv grew alert.
"Well, yeah," the mercenary stated impassively.
"And where is he?" Irv asked warily.
He had seen what Jedi could do.
He didn't want to repeat that experience.
"Hutt knows," the member of the dead Colicoid Swarm's crew shrugged indifferently. "Maybe he's dead. Or not on this ship. Maybe he flew out in a fighter…"
Right.
If only everything were that simple.
"Yazuo," Vane activated his comlink. "There might be a Jedi on board. Be careful…"
But silence from static interference was his only answer.
The comlink was activated, but no one answered.
This was suspicious and even a bit frightening.
"Vane!" Irv repeated. "Be careful when taking the admiral-ess. We found a Jedi tub here…"
"And you'd better leave my ship alone," a voice came that made shivers run down his spine. "Otherwise, I'll finish you as quickly as I did your friend on the bridge."
Irv felt everything inside him plummet into an abyss.
Could it be?
No-no-no, that can't be!
The boy had survived much more dangerous situations!
"What friend?" he asked, fearing his guess might be correct.
"The owner of this comlink," the unknown person said in a mundane but still ominous tone. "You have a few minutes to get out of the hangar. Otherwise, I'll finish you all."
There was no longer any doubt.
"Come and get it, you son of a bitch!" Irv shouted into the comlink, switching off the transmitter.
He looked at the mercenary.
Then at Out-O's head.
"If it's true, I feel sorry for the boy," the tactical superdroid said. "I wanted him to die, of course, but at the hands of a Jedi…"
"I don't care who he is," Irv growled, activating the comlink on the frequency of the fighters who had landed in the hangar from the Colicoid Swarm. "Listen up, everyone. A Jedi is coming this way, who just bragged that he killed Yazuo Vane. And surely he's slaughtered the rest of our boarding parties. I intend to finish this bastard! Those with me stay in the hangar. Those not—take everything that flies and get out of the hangar. Fly to the Assault Hawk and order it to blow this tub apart if we don't report the Jedi's death."
"Irv, this is not the most rational idea," Out-O stated. "The chance of survival in a battle with a Jedi…"
"To the Sith with your statistics," the privateer snapped. "That brat killed my friend. I'm not letting that go so easily!"
"My job is to warn," Out-O stated. "But since you've made a decision… I'll help with everything I know."
"You know how to kill a Jedi?" Irv was surprised.
"Best of all—with Geonosian sonic cannons," the tactical superdroid's head answered casually. "The Clone Wars, especially the battle in the Petranaki arena, clearly showed that even the Jedi's extrasensory abilities, their innate sense of threat, and ability to endure inhuman pain cannot withstand sonic weapons."
"What about stunners and shockers?" the mercenary asked. "I heard that the clones at the end of the Clone Wars just shot the Jedi with blasters."
"We have the latter, but Geonosian sonic weapons have been a rarity even on the black market for quite a while," Irv scratched his chin, looking at the transport ships flying out of the hangar. "Well, there aren't that many brave souls among us…"
"The types of weapons you mentioned are effective against most Jedi," Out-O agreed. "But statistics show that we are facing a far from typical Jedi. Vane was a decent fighter. And his boarding parties weren't new to battle either. The use of an ultimate weapon is necessary."
"Which we don't have," Irv reminded him.
"Grenades and flamethrowers will do too."
"We don't have much of those either," Irv darkened. "At best—one for each boarder. Flamethrowers were absent as a given in the Colicoid Swarm's arsenal."
"In that case, I advise using ambushes and crossfire," Out-O provided a recommendation.
Irv looked at the three, maybe four dozen mercenaries who remained in the hangar.
"I hope this is enough," he said.
"It would be more productive to flee," Out-O advised. "And blow up the ship along with the Jedi."
"Yes," Irv agreed. "But I want to look into the eyes of the bastard who killed Vane."
"As you wish," Out-O said indifferently.
"Boss," the nearest mercenary broke the silence. "All ships have flown out of the hangar."
"Including that cool starship," the second added, pointing to the discovered "Jedi ship" flying out of the hangar.
Now only damaged junk remained on the landing deck, unable to even support a pilot's life.
Punctured cockpits, canopies, shot-off engines and wings…
"So what is this wonder-ship called anyway?" Irv asked his subordinate out of pure curiosity.
But the man didn't answer him.
An unknown force tore the mercenary from his spot and dragged him a good fifteen meters toward the hangar entrance.
Where a blue-white pillar of light grew from his chest.
"Jedi!" Irv shouted, drawing his blaster and diving toward a nearby pile of trash as cover.
The killed mercenary was tossed aside like a dirty rag.
Other members of the Colicoid Swarm's team scattered, following their commander's example.
Dozens of blaster shots flew at the man.
Which he reflected with ease.
Not one of the mercenaries, including Irv himself, managed to hit the Jedi—so agile was he.
"My ship is called the Rogue Shadow," the owner of two lightsabers said in a loud, emotionless tone, a woman's body resting on his shoulder. "And you shouldn't have stayed."
He carefully placed the blonde woman's body on the hangar floor, then twirled a pair of lightsabers in his hands.
"Recalculating statistics," Out-O stated. "Irv, I have bad news. Data on his defense and reaction speed exceed what I have in memory. The percentage probability of your success is below a third…"
"Of a hundred percent?" Irv specified, shooting at the opponent who was already pouncing on the nearest mercenaries.
He killed without delay, without hesitation or pity.
A true death machine.
"Below a third of a percent," Out-O clarified joylessly.
"Well…" Irv unclipped a thermal detonator and activated it, setting the explosive device for a short delay before explosion. "Decent odds for a win."
"The only question is whose," Out-O commented on the projectile's flight through the scrap metal heaps.
Irv didn't answer.
Everything was clear here anyway… The Rogue Shadow.
***
"Han!" Lando said with condemnation. "That is the stupidest idea of yours I've ever heard!"
"Then add it to the list!" Solo stated, drumming on the control panel. "Chewie, what's the status of the launcher?"
The launcher for modern homing cumulative missiles, recently installed on the Millennium Falcon, quite often needed calibration.
They couldn't manage to power it for firing from the cockpit.
Manually—yes, please.
But to do everything as it should be…
Actually, they were in this flight for only one reason—Han had finally decided to trust the matter to professionals.
And headed for Lantilles.
Because the Mon Calamari had switched all their shipyards to work on accelerating the output of more and more MC90s.
Yes, the Alliance hadn't received the Tion Hegemony's support, but they did have money…
Such as it was.
And the Mon Calamari themselves already understood perfectly that the times when they were paid in plenty for ship production were behind them.
Victory required sacrifices.
So they built on credit, making do with small tranches that the government transferred extremely irregularly.
So finding free mechanics on Dac turned out to be an impossible and unfeasible task.
Only Lantilles remained, which had enough slips and docks for any type of starship.
Han was rushing there, knowing for sure that a suitable dock and a team of mechanics would be found for his ship.
Choosing for this, naturally, an old smuggler's route passing near the borders of the Tanium Worlds sector.
Thus he solved several problems and tasks at once.
Including delivering Leia to Lianna for a meeting with several new Alliance members.
Some distant systems from the Centralia sector had decided to join them and chose demilitarized Lianna for the meeting.
Although…
It was officially demilitarized.
Because even the production of E-wings had been moved from there to the Mon Calamari's home sector.
In fact, a fleet was gathering in the planet's orbit, necessary to go to Juno Eclipse's aid.
But gathering all too slowly.
Bel Iblis was literally pulling one ship from each squadron.
And the resulting rabble of escort frigates, corvettes, and a few star cruisers could hardly be called a serious force.
Therefore, hearing Eclipse's call for help, Han, without hesitation, dropped out of hyperspace and took a course for the coordinates transmitted in the message, while simultaneously broadcasting that he was dragging an imaginary battle group of ships with him.
Chewbacca, sensing a battle, tried to fix what refused to work properly.
Leia sat pensively in the co-pilot's seat.
Calrissian, stating he was an expert on everything happening and having happened in Centralia, forced himself on the sidelined general's wife as an advisor and escort, ending up on board as a fellow traveler.
And kept trying to pester with advice.
"Do you understand that if there's actually a battle there, the Falcon won't fix it?" he asked.
"Yeah," Solo smirked. "And I also understand that the Dominion itself can't spare forces for Eclipse's intercept larger than hers. Juno reported the forces the Dominion has. Not that many—we've come out winners with even worse odds. Anyway, I re-transmitted the request for help to Lianna. I bet the Dominionites will definitely fold when they hear a whole battle group is coming to Juno's rescue."
"If they fold," Calrissian warned, skepticism in his voice. "Don't think they have idiots over there. They surely know you're sidelined from command and won't believe…"
"Don't be a pessimist," Han advised. "We can't just fly past either."
"You are reckless," Calrissian drawled hopelessly.
"That's why I live with a princess," Han winked at his wife. "And you—get involved in risky business. From which you have to be saved, you know, almost every time."
"Better than working for the state and waiting for some bureaucrat to decide I don't deserve reinstatement without proper permission," Lando grumbled, heading for the cockpit exit. "If anything, I'll be at the upper turret."
"Well, great," Han smirked crookedly.
When they were left alone, the Corellian's smile vanished as soon as he looked at his wife.
The former princess had been behaving quietly lately, suspiciously quietly for one who could ignite fire in sentients' hearts (or other similar organs) with a single phrase.
And her complexion wasn't exactly healthy.
Han didn't like that.
Just as he didn't like having to leave…
"Sweetheart, everything okay?" he asked.
Leia shook her head negatively.
"The closer we get, the more agitation there is," she explained her state. "I… I didn't even complete Jedi training. Just the basics. But I already feel that Galen… He is consumed by grief. Rage. His emotions are like a beacon for sea vessels in the night or fog…"
"The kid's clearly not himself," Han replied, biting his lips. "Don't even know what could have riled him up so much."
"Possibly Juno is no longer alive," Leia voiced the most terrifying of her assumptions very quietly. "And there's no point in flying there anymore, darling…"
But Han heard her anyway.
"No," he cut her off. "We don't abandon our own. It's enough already that we didn't help Luke in his time. Didn't help Horn find his wife. And now both are somewhere in the galaxy and no one knows what they're doing. To lose another Jedi for us—is like signing on the Falcon's hull that we're worthless heroes and our time is long past, time to make way for the young."
"I'm not sure it will end in our victory this time," Leia admitted. "The forces are just too unequal…"
"I recall we went up against Death Stars twice," Han smirked. "And we're still in one piece…"
"Luck might run out one day," Leia reminded. "Alderaanians know that better than anyone."
"That's why you married a Corellian," Han tried to make it clear that this dismal conversation should stop. "We've got enough luck for the whole family…"
In the next moment, the snow-white tunnel of hyperspace collapsed as expected, not allowing the Millennium Falcon to reach the designated coordinates by almost a hundred and fifty units.
"Gravity wells," Han grimaced. "Well, who would have doubted it…"
"And there were mines here too," Leia reminded, who also knew the contents of the message from Admiral Eclipse.
"Therefore," Han increased the Millennium Falcon's cruise speed to the limit, "we'll fly fast and very fast. Whatever the mines are, they won't catch my baby. And they're surely designed for starships with more mass than the Falcon…"
In the next moment something shook the ship violently, and sirens screamed inside…
"Well, almost guessed it," the Corellian said impassively, skillfully maneuvering between the mines encountered in the ship's path. "You know, babe, if you were at the bottom gun, we wouldn't be in such danger of blowing up…"
"I'll do what I can," Leia headed out of the cockpit.
Han, pushing everything possible out of the Millennium Falcon's engines and noting that the mines' maneuvering thrusters couldn't keep up with his ship, viewed the distant battlefield with a crooked smile.
Which his ship was approaching faster and faster.
It seemed Juno had indeed battered the Dominion flotilla considerably.
Except the look of her ship clearly showed who was the winner in this battle.
The best they could hope for was to save at least someone from the doomed flagship.
***
What could be more pleasant than the sound of a breaking enemy skull?
Only the sound of a lightsaber humming in a hangar where you follow your enemy's trail.
Tiberos punched through the head of an Alliance fighter who unexpectedly jumped out in his path, then jerked the war hammer from the corpse's skull and ran into the archway leading into the MC90's main hangar.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, he realized he had reached where he had been so long and persistently striving.
A powerful explosion rang out on the hangar deck.
the shockwave threw the owner of the lightsabers aside.
But within a few seconds he was on his feet, activated his weapons, and pounced on the nearest opponents.
"My mother's a Jedi with an antenna," Tiberos said admiringly, watching the flashing light blades hacking Dominion mercenary fighters left and right. "Now that's a massacre."
Apparently, these were Captain Irv's boys.
And there was Irv himself, hiding behind a pile of trash.
"Commander, what are the orders?" a fighter from among Cavill's Corsairs asked him from out of nowhere.
Tiberos turned to the source of the voice in surprise and saw several squads of mercenaries hurrying to the hangar behind him, the metal soles of their armored boots clattering in the corridor.
"Tiberos! This is the last chance to leave! He is beyond your reach!"
The giant ignored the voice in his head.
He only flexed his wrists, anticipating a worthy fight.
Adrenaline bubbled in his blood along with a volatile core of rage and anger, fueling the man's Dark Side.
"Drive him toward me," Tiberos said, licking his lips and pointing to the directions to his right and left. "Don't let him slip away anywhere."
"And where's he going to go?" the mercenary was surprised. "There isn't a single starship in the hangar that can fly out."
True, at least no functional machines were observed.
But at the same time Tiberos did not doubt that any opponent, even one superior to you in strength, in a moment of mortal danger, would find a way to try to escape.
He had learned this lesson in the gladiator pits in Hutt Space.
And he also knew from his late gifted friend that there is no creature more cowardly than a Jedi.
The more powerful the latter, the more often, facing superior forces, he hopes for a "tactical retreat" when things start not just smelling hot, but stinking so bad it's hard to breathe.
"Hey!" Tiberos roared, addressing the lightsaber owner just as he pierced another of Irv's fighters with his weapon. "Come over here, Jedi-brat!"
The named person looked at him with clear surprise.
That was how giants usually looked at him in the fighting pits.
Not small in height himself, Tiberos appeared like a literal dwarf to some of them.
Arrogant, pugnacious, and frankly not deserving too much attention.
But the Jedi clearly didn't think so.
He reflected a pair of shots with his lightsabers without looking, then headed at a slow pace toward Tiberos.
"You don't look much like Skywalker," the latter said pensively, having examined his opponent more closely with his mask's computer systems.
"My name is Galen," the other answered hollowly, parrying another shot and redirecting it toward the shooter.
"A little discrepancy then," Tiberos sighed.
Wrong person chased, it turns out.
And his friend had warned him…
The closer he got, the more Tiberos realized the extent of his mistake.
Before him walked a literal walking reactor, destroying everything living in its path.
And as for the Dark Side coming off him…
Tiberos frowned.
No, this wasn't a Sith.
The Dark Side was there, but…
It was somehow blurred.
"You," Galen jabbed one of his blades toward Tiberos and pointed the second at Irv. "With them?"
Looks like the Colicoid Swarm's crew had greatly offended this death machine in some way.
"Irv, what's happening?" Tiberos shouted.
He'd like to know what the crew of the task force's second carrier Star Destroyer was doing here.
"He killed Vane!" the former Separatist shouted. "And his bitch-admiral blew up my ship! And damaged yours too!"
What?
The bold half-breed was dead?
The Alliance had damaged his ship?!
Tiberos ground his teeth, gripping the war hammers tighter and walking toward his opponent.
Several dozen meters separated them…
In the next moment the Colicoid Swarm's commander flew up from behind his cover, clutching his throat.
The Jedi was choking him with an invisible grip.
"You won't say another word about Juno," the other said with a threat, holding his blade before him. "And before you die, you should know that I helped start the reactors. I am the one who gave power to this ship to destroy your tub. And now—I will kill you. Like your friend. And everyone who stands in my way."
Irv's body jerked.
And it would surely have been impaled on a lightsaber if the Colicoid Swarm's commander hadn't shot his opponent in the face.
The latter waved off with a lightsaber, continuing the implementation of the intended execution of the Separatist.
But in the next moment the beak of Tiberos's war hammer bit into his left forearm, which was holding a lightsaber.
The Jedi instantly lost concentration, Irv crashed to the floor, making a convulsive breath.
And Tiberos was already there.
His second war hammer struck from top to bottom, preparing to crush his opponent's skull, but the latter managed to dodge.
He defended against the second blow with his lightsaber, stunned for a fraction of a second by the fact that Tiberos's weapon wasn't cut in half by contact with the energy blade.
Oh, yes, an unpleasant surprise.
"Find yourself an opponent your own size," Tiberos suggested, jerking his second war hammer from his opponent's arm.
And with all his heart kicking Galen in the chest.
One of the lightsaber hilts fell from his opponent's damaged arm, which Tiberos kicked toward Irv.
"Keep my trophy!" he ordered, toying with the war hammers and slowly approaching his gifted opponent. "No one shoot! I'll finish him myself!"
Eymand had taught him much.
And Tiberos, though he listened, never thought he would become a Jedi… He didn't want that fate.
But instead, he realized he knew perfectly well how to kill a Jedi, even without being in the same "weight category."
But first, this little brat would suffer.
A lot.
Tiberos had more than enough reasons and grounds for mocking his opponent.
"So you contributed to the damage of my ship," Tiberos uttered the first reason, making a downward thrust with his right war hammer.
The opponent reflected it with his lightsaber.
Tiberos turned his hand so that the blade was blocked between his weapon's handle and beak.
Mandalorian iron came in more useful than ever.
From his opponent's eyes, two smoldering coals looked at him.
With a second strike, Tiberos left a deep jagged wound on his opponent's shoulder protection.
Pity he didn't punch through.
The Jedi could act with only one hand—the second hung like a whip along his torso.
But, one had to give him credit—as a result of the following storm of blows from Tiberos, he received not a single injury.
Good even with one lightsaber.
The opponent counterattacked and slashed with the tip of his blade across the base of Tiberos's torso.
The man barely had time to react—and instead of being divided into two halves, he only lost his utility belt.
"You shouldn't have killed Vane," Tiberos rumbled. "The boy-joker didn't deserve death."
"He killed my beloved!" Marek answered with the roar of a wounded rancor.
From his economical movements in defense Tiberos realized he was concentrating again.
Rage inside the opponent was starting to accumulate, preparing to turn inside out with spectacular problems.
Now that didn't fit Tiberos's interests.
The opponent tried to make a move for his legs, but Tiberos's war hammers blocked his weapon.
The mercenary himself, holding the lightsaber in the lock of his war hammers, delivered a blow with his armored mask to the opponent's face.
The Jedi cried out in pain and recoiled, dropping the second lightsaber from his hand.
But the move didn't disorient him.
Galen raised his hand, pointing it at Tiberos…
The former gladiator understood perfectly what kind of sparkling prelude his opponent was preparing.
It was not in his plans to be roasted by a flow of electricity.
"Fire!" he barked, jumping aside.
A branched lightning bolt hit the spot where he had just stood.
The discharge, even if not exactly on target, hit Tiberos's legs, making them flare with a wave of pain and lose sensitivity.
A lightsaber returned to his opponent's hand, with which he began to reflect the blaster shots fired at him.
Masterfully handling his weapon, Galen spun like a top, every now and then firing Force Lightning from his healthy hand or throwing someone from the shooters back with a Force Push.
And, in Tiberos's opinion, these electric discharges were far weaker than the one with which his opponent had struck his legs.
Sensitivity was gradually returning, but Tiberos still couldn't control his lower limbs.
But he could use this pause with his inherent enthusiasm and gladiator's professionalism to assess his opponent.
Yes, his Lightning had grown weaker when he struck with it while holding his lightsaber in one hand.
One of the mercenaries hit by such a discharge, though thrown aside, still rose from the floor and, if not as quickly as before, was able to move and even conduct fire to kill.
Tiberos smirked contentedly when he caught the restoration of his limbs' sensitivity.
Though every step and movement echoed with monstrous pain, Tiberos used them to fuel himself with the Dark Side.
Another explosion threw the Jedi back a good ten meters.
And he found himself only five or six steps from the former gladiator, who was already anticipating the long-awaited execution.
Staggering, he headed toward his opponent.
"Come here, you Jedi rat!" he shouted, making circular movements with his war hammers while his opponent, grunting and grimacing, took a position, preparing for the duel.
***
The Millennium Falcon banked onto its right side, letting a TIE Interceptor pass just above it.
The opponent's shots naturally also passed above and caused no harm.
Judging by the non-stop firing, the Dominion pilot held quite tenaciously to the aft shields.
But thanks to Han's actions he could in no way catch the freighter, surprisingly agile for such a venerable age and the amount of damage it had received as a result of overcoming the minefield.
Leia, gritting her teeth, pressed the trigger and watched as her gun's crimson rays blew the over-bold Imp into crumbs.
The Falcon flipped again…
"Look!" Han shouted over the internal comms, pointing at the MC90's hangar door. "That's Marek!"
Leia, seizing a moment, glanced to the side and noticed a lone blue-white blade deep in the spacious hangar deck.
And several transport ships hurrying from the starship, including the familiar silhouette of the Rogue Shadow.
Summoning the Force, she directed it at the ship…
No, there were only alien and completely foul-thinking minds, fountaining with emotions of profit and greed.
There could be no one there whom she knew.
And the course of the string of ships—straight for the disfigured Imperial Star Destroyer, missing its superstructure and a good third of its hull from the sides—also confirmed her guesses.
"Leia! From below!"
Lando's warning was a bit late, because the Millennium Falcon shook off its old age and executed a maneuver not written into any regulations or instructions—a cross between a "spin" and a "barrel roll."
This almost turned the young woman inside out.
Inopportunely, her previous pregnancy experience came to mind.
"Need to find out the test results," Leia thought.
She had undergone many tests before departure, feeling that her female health had changed somewhat.
But she hadn't managed to get the data—Mon Mothma required her to appear for negotiations on Lianna.
While the head of the Alliance herself waged heated diplomatic battles in Congress.
But the process of obtaining new state loans from the sectors and planets belonging to the Alliance was, as always, not a fast matter.
The lower gun turret fired, and even in the cockpit she heard the Wookiee's battle cry coming from the cabin.
Chewbacca was rejoicing at another successful hit.
"Good shooting, sweetheart," Han approved, leveling the ship. "The interceptors have fallen back, eh?"
"Don't count on it," Calrissian immediately responded over the speakers. "An interceptor squadron has appeared at point three-nine-one. I think they're clearly intended to shoot us down."
While most of the enemy aviation had apparently retreated for rotation or was occupied with guarding the perimeter.
But soon they would all pounce on them.
Leia looked pensively at the Dominion Destroyer accompanied by several cruisers and escort ships.
Behind them, another Destroyer was hurrying toward them—a Venator.
The Falcon banked onto its right side, letting a crimson energy charge from an ion cannon pass by…
"So, we have time until he recharges," Lando commented from the upper turret.
Leia preferred not to think about what would happen if they all got very unlucky.
"Chewie, come to the cockpit for a minute!" Han called his first mate. "Got a wonderful idea."
Leia shuddered, remembering what the evil genius of Grand Admiral Thrawn had turned these Clone War veterans into.
One of the perfect weapons of victory.
A flying platform for an ion weapon, capable of hitting a large number of enemy ships from even greater distances.
The Mon Calamari and their engineers had fought over how they could make it so the enemy guns wouldn't have such a stunning effect.
But there wasn't much practical benefit from all their experiments and designs.
"Chewie, ready?!"
And Han's voice again.
And again—Chewbacca's answering roar.
But not from the cockpit, but from the Falcon's cabin again.
"Han called him to the cockpit, didn't he?" Leia thought.
"Um," Calrissian's voice came. "Guys, doesn't it seem to you that the enemy is showing us too much attention?"
Leia, blinking, looked at the scanners.
For some reason Han had sent the ship toward the approaching squadron.
"Darling," she called her husband. "Are you okay?"
"Better than anyone," the Corellian answered her. "But these guys," green needles drummed on the Millennium Falcon's deflectors, "are about to have problems. Chewie, go!"
The Wookiee, filling the ship with his roar, performed the design.
Leia didn't catch what was happening at first.
But in the next moment, giving it full afterburners, the Falcon made a dizzying turn, issued a powerful pillar of light from its engine nozzles, and rushed for the MC90's stern.
And the enemy interceptors, behind which the masses of enemy Star Destroyers loomed, continued to press.
The escape from Hoth immediately came to mind, when Darth Vader's fleet hung on the Falcon's tail, and the captain and first mate, arguing, fixed the ship on the fly…
In the next moment Leia, aiming her gun at the pursuers, gave a salvo at one of the machines…
But that one, and several others next to it, turned into tiny sparks, and their marks disappeared from the scanner.
The rest of the machines scattered, as if they had lost any interest in the Solo family's truck.
"Han," she called her husband. "What happened?"
"What happened," her beloved grumbled. "We need new missiles. All twelve we had, I spent. So, we have a couple of minutes to pick up those still fighting in the hangar. The boys in stylish black jumpsuits clearly aren't up for us now. And no others are provided for nearby."
"In any case—for now," Calrissian put in his opinion.
"You just have to spoil everything with your pessimism, eh?" the Corellian inquired dissatisfiedly, bringing his ship into the docking approach of the linear cruiser's main hangar.
***
Squash.
The right war hammer lovingly entered the opponent's left shoulder, crushing bone into small fragments and punching the beak several centimeters into the body.
This time the armored spaulder hadn't saved him.
Tiberos put the left war hammer into action, but the groaning opponent managed to block it.
Then the gladiator, smirking, raised his right leg, braced it against his opponent's chest, and with all his might jerked the right war hammer toward himself.
Flying back a good meter, he with unconcealed pleasure demonstrated to his opponent, fallen to his knees, a piece of his torso.
The disfigured arm hung literally on pieces of skin and remains of muscle and tendon, copiously wetting the floor covering with the Jedi's blood pouring and fountaining from the wound.
"What, not fun fighting someone who knows how to tear you Jedi faces to pieces?" Tiberos inquired, approaching closer to his victim.
Though he enjoyed the victory, he perfectly understood that he had managed to overcome this monster only through an understanding of the "mechanics" Jedi use for their surreal tricks.
Though his legs burned with fire, and he himself had received more than one lightsaber cut from this little brat, the fact remained.
He had broken the Jedi's concentration, and thus all his tricks turned out no more frightening than an angry rancor.
Now all that remained was to finish him off…
"Tiberos!" a shout came from somewhere to the right and rear.
"Now what does this Irv want? Hm, the sound of repulsors? Looks like some of his guys returned…"
The war hammer deflected the lightsaber that tried to shield its master to the side, leaving him open for a blow from its blood-stained comrade.
A moment, and the beak would punch through the Jedi's head…
And in the next moment Tiberos realized he was flying, and away from his opponent to boot.
Thudding on his side, he saw with surprise that he lay behind a pile of trash, near which he had intended to execute the Jedi.
And only after that did he finally notice Captain Irv pinning him to the floor.
Over whose back crimson streaks of clearly blaster or laser fire were blazing.
"What the Hutt?" Tiberos was outraged.
"A freighter flew into the hangar!" the man explained. "They would have finished you if I hadn't made it a bit sooner!"
"Hutt's spawn!"
The gladiator pushed aside the commander of the dead carrier Star Destroyer.
The intensity of fire dropped, and he allowed himself to look over the improvised fortification.
However, he immediately ducked back as they opened fire on them again.
"Run!" he barked at Irv, jerking him aside.
In the next moment as they ran away, the cover turned into a blazing fire, and blaster shots drummed on the floor after the fugitives.
Both managed to dive behind a "belly-landed" X-wing, avoiding the fate of being stuffed with enemy tibanna.
Seizing a moment, Tiberos looked out from behind the new cover.
Hovering on a repulsor cushion near the disfigured and maimed Jedi, a Corellian freighter lowered its landing ramp.
Holding onto a strut, a man appeared dressed in a vest and trousers with Corellian bloodstripes, in whom Tiberos recognized a faded star of the smuggling underworld—Han Solo.
The latter was firing his blaster pistol at the remaining mercenaries who tried to take revenge.
A Wookiee who jumped from a height of half a meter fired his bowcaster at a pair of mercenaries, then lifted Galen in his arms like a feather and with a jump was on the ramp.
As soon as the Wookiee disappeared into the hatch, Solo fired several more times before the ship began to move.
Snatching the blaster from Irv, Tiberos relied on the Force.
Practically without aiming, he fired at Solo several times.
Missing three times—the charges went into the black opening of the ship's interior—on the fourth time Tiberos managed to hit the target.
A crimson blaster streak bit into Solo's thigh, making him roll across the ramp…
And he would surely have fallen off if he hadn't been caught by the scruff of the neck by the same Wookiee who a few seconds ago had saved Galen from death.
The Millennium Falcon, ignoring the numerous shots from small arms, turned around in the ship's hangar.
Tiberos's eyes under his mask widened when he saw the increasing light of the freighter's engines.
"Get down!" he shouted, crashing to the deck.
Only Irv followed his advice.
The rest of the mercenaries, who had come out from behind their cover and were firing at the legendary ship, were thrown from their spots and ground into bloody spots across the nearest vertical surface.
"Animals!" Tiberos cursed, commenting on the receding light of the Millennium Falcon's aft engine. "Stole the trophy right out from under my nose!"
"If you played with him less—you'd have crushed his skull long ago!" Captain Irv roared back.
"It's not for you to teach me how to conduct a gladiatorial duel!" Tiberos snapped at his companion. "I came here for Luke Skywalker's head, not for this Jedi empty-shell!"
"He slaughtered almost all my men!"
"Then they're weaklings," Tiberos shrugged. "Killing a Jedi—taking candy from a baby is harder."
"Who gives babies candy anyway?" Irv was stunned.
"Mercenary snipers who don't know how to raise and love children," Tiberos grumbled, activating his comlink. "Black Pearl, send a shuttle for me."
"And tell them not to fire at the ship from the Assault Hawk," Irv added. "I'll need this tub for hunting…"
***
Captain Pellaeon passed through the vestibule leading to Grand Admiral Thrawn's apartments.
He automatically noted that for once he hadn't been subjected to "jokes" from the Supreme Commander's bodyguard.
Ever since he had been created and as soon as Thrawn established his headquarters on board the Guardian, Rukh, as if emphasizing the difference between the clone and his original, had demonstratively ignored the Captain.
Interesting…
And he used to arrange "tests" for Gilad Pellaeon.
Well, perhaps the bodyguard didn't see the same reason in the Guardian's commander for which he arranged "games" with his donor.
As Thrawn says: "Interesting."
The Grand Admiral himself was seated at a workstation, surrounded by a double ring of monitors.
The twilight of his cabin was habitually dispelled by yellow holograms of art objects.
Pellaeon didn't even intend to try to guess which people or civilization they belonged to.
But he noted that two groups seemed to be present.
Or so it seemed to him.
"The art of the Bothans and the Dathomiri witches from the Nightsisters clan," the Grand Admiral explained, as if reading his thoughts.
"Could there be something in common between them?" Pellaeon thought.
"The latter, strangely enough, exist," the Chiss said. "After we annexed Dathomir, I asked our diplomatic service to send me holographs of all found objects on the territory occupied by the Nightsisters clan. Now the time has come to study them properly."
"Yes, sir," the Guardian's commander replied automatically.
"Quite interesting," Thrawn continued. "Despite different paths of evolution, development, psychology, and values, they still have a common trait. They strive for power. The more of it, the better. Но, as with the Bothans, the witches are unable to stop at what they have achieved. What is interesting is something else. These peoples have an innate drive for greatness. But at the same time, ordinary representatives of both civilizations are ready to put up with their subordinate position as long as an opportunity to rise above their comrades presents itself. A remarkable trait for many species. But only the Bothans and the Nightsisters are ready to step over the heads of their fellow tribesmen."
Now it wasn't even hard to guess what Grand Admiral Thrawn's next goal would be.
"Do we have the results of the prisoners' opinions?" Thrawn asked.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon answered, approaching the terminal and handing the Supreme Commander a personal data pad.
The Chiss quickly scanned what was written.
A sly smile appeared on his lips.
"How interesting," he uttered. "Ninety percent of those captured by us in the battle with General Solo's fleet expressed a desire to join us in the struggle."
"And only thirty percent of those we captured in the Battle of Kessel," Pellaeon added. "Total—about two hundred and fifty thousand sentients, sir, who have decided to swear an oath of loyalty to the Dominion."
"After the work of counter-intelligence and the Jensaarai, another fifty to seventy thousand people will be filtered out," Thrawn said calmly.
"Sentients," Pellaeon corrected.
"Specifically people, Captain," the Grand Admiral countered, returning the data pad to its owner. "Representatives of other races in the Alliance and the New Republic were primarily attracted by the fact that they could rise through the vertical of power, armed forces, and other social lifts. Which they could not achieve in the Empire. The Dominion's offer interests them. Do you know what conclusion follows from this?"
"That we have the possibility to man the crews of about twenty to twenty-five Imperial-III class Star Destroyers?" Pellaeon suggested.
"Yes, that would be a significant help in light of our recent losses," Thrawn nodded. "The loss of Rear Admiral I-Gor's flotilla is a great blow to the Dominion's military power. Yes, the prisoners will eventually join our armed forces. After all the loyalty checks, of course. And after appropriate training. For a start—we'll arrange a check and drills for them. Let them 'get their hands in' handling our equipment in the rear systems."
"You promised them enrollment in the fleet," Pellaeon reminded. "I think they will quickly figure out the difference between the Defense Forces and the Dominion's regular forces."
"Of course they will."
"In that case, they might think you fooled them, promising to preserve their service records and merits. They'll think you're plugging holes in the rear with them."
"No, they will be enrolled in the crews of regular fleet ships," Thrawn countered. "We have a large number of starships undergoing modernizations—escort frigates, heavy cruisers, minesweepers, Star Destroyers, finally. Corvettes are being built. Crews are needed, and we don't have enough clones. We could replace stormtroopers with fighters from Cavill's Corsairs, but their resources are not infinite either. By the time we finish with Tyber Zann's satellites, Captain Anilex's armed units will become too few to trust them with full-scale missions like those happening now. Но they will become far more professional. So we have some time to increase our own regular fleet reserve by dispersing the prisoners among the clones on the Dominion's small ships—up to and including the heavy cruiser. Especially since the Dominion's territory has expanded lately and a large number of patrol ships are required to identify all types of threats. Until the Perimeter is expanded to our new sectors, it is our new fighters, on par with the clones who will enter service soon, who will act there as patrols and defenders."
"It's a test, isn't it?" Pellaeon specified.
"Without a doubt," Thrawn nodded. "It's easy enough to issue a call and invite people to your service. It's harder to start trusting those who shot at you. Therefore I intend to man the new ships for the most part with defectors and new clones. They won't have grievances against each other. But, some of our new soldiers and sailors will still have to be used to supplement already active ships and crews."
"To tell the truth, I thought you'd put them all on the captured Mon Calamari ships and organize an attack on the New Republic for the sake of the revenge they so expect," Pellaeon admitted. "An attack on Rendili to capture the Reaper and the remains of Grand Moff Cain's fleet would be appropriate."
"Such an option has been calculated, Captain," Thrawn said. "At the moment it is unnecessary. Fey'lya and those who remain loyal to him are smart enough to realize a simple truth: we cannot slip past their agents in the Alliance and the Empire unnoticed to suddenly attack Rendili or any other part of the New Republic from known Dominion territories. Do it now—and Lady Silri will whisper information about our base's location in the Cartakk sector to Fey'lya. The forces present there are as yet insufficient to stop a full-scale invasion of the sector. The Perimeter there isn't ready. Banalally, there aren't enough working hands at the production in the Cartakk system. But, they will soon be delivered there—as soon as the Alliance prisoners of war unwilling to join the Dominion undergo the preventative meetings prepared for them with energy spiders in the mines on Kessel."
With such a demonstration Thrawn was literally breaking the spine of most possible mutiny organizers and participants.
"The Dominion is growing, Captain," Thrawn's voice purred. "The galactic conflict is widening. We need greater productivity from our illegal enterprises. More defensive stations, more planetary shields, more ion cannons and turbolasers, mines, asteroid stations. More metal for our productions. After all the selection measures we will receive about a hundred and fifty thousand prisoners of war, whom we will direct to our heaviest productions."
"Isn't it dangerous—to send prisoners of war to the mines and secret productions in the Cartakk system?" the Guardian's commander specified. "There might eventually arise a possibility of their liberation. Some of them might be educated enough to identify the system and point to it after their release."
"I'm afraid I didn't express myself correctly, Captain," a sly smile appeared on Thrawn's face. "Without a doubt, the population measures up to its work in the Cartakk system and I don't intend to let any of the prisoners of war there. They won't actually reach our secret productions. We will transfer them all to the Dominion along with convoys of spice, equipment, and weapons from Cartakk, Horn, Kessel. On the new territories there are a large number of objects requiring raw physical strength, and the labor itself involves a certain risk to life. And the existing labor resources of Dominion citizens we will move to less dangerous sectors."
"The essence doesn't change, sir," Pellaeon countered. "Instead of one system, the liberated prisoners of war will be able to tell of dozens of objects where they were."
"Of course," Thrawn continued to smile. "But by the time we negotiate for their exchange, half of them will have broken, without waiting for release, and will curse their old Homeland, looking for ways to get rid of the penal labor. Thereby THEY will already be asking us to join the Dominion—which already allows US to dictate the conditions of their further life. And those who still wait for release, whatever they tell, won't be able to cause us harm."
"Why, sir?"
"Because by the time of their release, those sectors we are annexing now and where we will send the prisoners will be deep in the Dominion's metropolitan rear," Thrawn explained. "And to reach there, our enemies will have to break the Perimeter. As the experience of the Zann Consortium offensive showed—this leads exclusively to the loss of strike forces."
A crooked smirk appeared on Pellaeon's face.
As always—a plan within a plan.
Thrawn fully admits that the enemy will want to continue open war with the Dominion.
And is even ready to help them in that.
Luring them into a trap once again.
"Among the imprisoned officers and ship commanders are there any wishing to join the Dominion?" Thrawn broke his train of thought.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon realized, swiping the open file on the data pad and handing the Chiss different information for examination. "Quite remarkable individuals, if the Republican intelligence database is to be believed."
"Indeed," in Thrawn's crimson eyes a desired fire seemed to flare, like a volcano preparing to erupt. "Quite remarkable characters… It seems we have the possibility to man several Star Destroyers with clever officers. The main thing is that their desire to serve us be sincere and genuine."
"It'll be worse for them if they think to betray," Pellaeon thought. "Those are fed to energy spiders without delay."