Nine years, five months, and five days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fourth year, five months, and five days after the Great Resynchronization.
In the celestial blackness, dotted only with myriads of distant stars, the Chimaera felt like a queen of the void.
A lone Imperial Star Destroyer had just emerged from hyperspace. But around it there were no planets, not even asteroids—it seemed nothing could attract the attention of such a mighty ship, capable of turning a small city on the surface of any world into molten slag, in the midst of which the dying locals would writhe silently in pain.
However, the flagship of Grand Admiral Thrawn was located precisely here—where it was supposed to be—at the tip of the spear. And the fact that the ship had not yet taken any action that could lead to victory or result in defeat meant absolutely nothing.
"Captain," Gilad heard the calm voice of the Grand Admiral. "Are our ships in position?"
"Yes, sir," confirmed the commander of the Chimaera. "They have reported readiness. Chronometers are synchronized. We begin on your order."
"Then we begin," ordered the Grand Admiral, ceasing to contemplate the darkness of space. The last military commander of the Empire invested with such power as a Grand Admiral rose from his chair and, accompanied by Rukh, moved toward the long-range communications station.
Gilad walked to the right and slightly apart from the commander of the Imperial fleet, at a respectful distance—as prescribed by regulations. But first and foremost, Pellaeon needed this to collect his thoughts a little.
The plan developed by Thrawn had undergone adjustments. Significant ones, at that. Despite the fact that the Grand Admiral himself did not intend to let anyone in on it, the fact remained: the Chiss's own groundwork, which he had conveyed to the commander of the Chimaera, seemed like a coherent and well-thought-out plan. However, instead of a concentrated attack on the planets of the Sluis sector, Thrawn had brought his flagship to the Dafillevean sector. Literally—to the backyard of the Republican regional military base located on the planet Ord Pardron. Grid square R-15 on staff maps. Instead of M-15, where the attack was originally planned.
And the captain could only guess at the true reasons for such a sudden change in the campaign's course by the Grand Admiral. Of course, he could ask directly... Unfortunately, Thrawn wasn't about to share information. Instead, he spent all the time during the journey briefing those who were the direct executors of his plan—the commanders of the Strike-class medium cruisers. And if only the conversation had been about the group sent to 'make noise' in the Sluis sector. But no—he focused on communicating with six other commanders, who were in charge of the remaining cruisers. Which was very, very strange—in the Imperial fleet, it was not customary to directly instruct commanders of practically auxiliary ships. On the contrary, operational groups were created, where the head of the squadron was always the commander of a line ship—a Star Destroyer, for example. But communicating directly with the 'cruiser brotherhood'...
"Gentlemen," Pellaeon drew level with the Grand Admiral just as Thrawn swept his gaze, full of concentration and detachment, over the figures above the projection field. "Control time. The cruiser detachment is to commence its tasks."
On the one hand, it was very, very enticing that Thrawn had finally stopped doing something detached and had moved directly to waging war. But... still, it was somehow strange...
As soon as the six holograms of the captains commanding the remaining Strike-class medium cruisers with the fleet vanished, Thrawn turned his attention to Pellaeon.
"Begin the countdown for the main forces, Captain," he ordered.
"Aye, sir," Gilad reported briskly.
Quite risky, of course, to empty the base at Linuri—after all, only one Interdictor-class Star Destroyer and three blockade cruisers remained there as covering forces. Seemingly a force, but seemingly not...
But the commanders of the five Star Destroyers awaited orders.
"Aurek Group," he addressed the commander of the Belligerent, Captain Aban. "Move out to your target."
"Order understood," Aban replied clearly. The second captain, commander of the Imperious, remained silent. Frankly, he shouldn't even have been present when orders were given, since he was not the one commanding the formation. But Thrawn had insisted otherwise. Although, the appointment of Captain Aban as group commander... Pellaeon considered it a mistake. Despite the commander of the Belligerent trying to appear restrained, the impatience and excitement that accompanied his words betrayed the young commander's hidden desire to get down to business as quickly as possible. Thrawn looked at him with narrowed eyes. But he remained silent. And at that same moment, two of the five holograms disappeared.
Pellaeon shifted his gaze to the next officer in line.
"Besh Group," Captain Harbid, responsible for the actions of Death's Head and Imperious, seemed the epitome of calm. "You launch in seven minutes."
"Copy that, Chimaera," came the reply. "Good hunting to you."
"And to you, Captain," Pellaeon replied.
Two more holograms vanished.
Only the commander of the Stormhawk remained with them.
"Are you in position?" Thrawn asked him quietly.
"Yes, sir," the man assured.
"Report any reaction from the enemy, no matter how small," the Grand Admiral reminded.
"Immediately," confirmed the commander of the second Star Destroyer in the Kresh Group, after which his hologram also vanished.
"Come, Captain," Thrawn ordered. "We have a few minutes before it all begins."
"Hasn't it started yet?" Pellaeon thought.
The Grand Admiral lowered himself into the chair, almost automatically removing a ysalamiri from its mount at the headrest and placing it on his lap. The smelly animal rolled its head back, offering its neck to be scratched by the Chiss's fingers.
"Inform our esteemed Magister..." Thrawn began, but by some supernatural signs, the commander of the Chimaera understood that there was no need.
"Grand Admiral," the demanding voice of C'baoth rang out, as always, filling the entire bridge at once. "Are we delaying again?! Where are my Jedi!?"
"And there is our friend," Thrawn commented laconically, turning his chair toward the clone approaching him. "Good morning, Magister C'baoth. I see you are in low spirits..."
"I still don't have a single Jedi!" Joruus snorted. Pellaeon saw the mad gleam in his eyes. And he thought it best to take a seemingly insignificant step to the side, standing next to the Grand Admiral's chair. Only now, positioned under the sure protection of the ysalamiri, did he allow himself to exhale. No, it wasn't cowardice. Prudence.
"What a coincidence," Thrawn remarked. "You haven't once even tried to help the Empire. It seems to me that there is a connection between these two statements."
"You haven't done anything," C'baoth blinked, grabbing his beard with his fingers. "How could I have..."
Pellaeon noted that the clone touched his medallion, and almost immediately, his regal, patronizing demeanor returned.
"Did you take me from Wayland to show me the galaxy, Grand Admiral, or to give me Jedi?" he asked in a well-trained voice. As if he hadn't just babbled incoherently... Astonishing change!
"You are here because we have an agreement of mutually beneficial cooperation," Thrawn declared. "And now is precisely the moment when our joint efforts will set in motion a chain of events that will allow the Empire to advance in its endeavor, and you in yours."
"What are you talking about?" the clone frowned his bushy eyebrows.
"We are advancing," Thrawn replied simply. "As I told you—the harder we hit the enemy, the sooner they will send their elite against us. Including Corran Horn."
"You're implying that helping you in current affairs is in my own interest?" C'baoth clarified.
"I'm saying it in plain terms," Pellaeon was even amazed at the durasteel defiance with which Thrawn conducted the conversation with the insane Jedi clone. "So, are you in? Or perhaps I should send you back to your little world?"
"Tell me what needs to be done," C'baoth snorted, his eyes searching the area for a place to sit.
"That for which you came aboard the Chimaera," I said. "Coordinate our troops. One part is on the move and will operate in the Sluis sector, the other is already here, in the Dafillevean sector, moving into attack positions. I suggest you coordinate between these two groups."
C'baoth frowned, clearly bewildered. His gaze dimmed, began darting around the bridge, as if he was trying to find some support there. In vain. Jedi were not particularly welcome in the Empire. Insane ones—certainly not.
"That will be difficult," he declared. "Those that are flying—let them fly, they don't need my help at the moment. Or do your navigators not know how to calculate a course?"
"Their competence is beyond praise," Pellaeon thought the Grand Admiral was somewhat... exaggerating. Well, to be honest, at least by an order of magnitude. Exemplary officers and sailors don't serve on cruisers—only second-rate Imperials who have compromised themselves in one way or another, and completely green cadets. "Well, make yourself comfortable, Magister C'baoth. We are beginning our attacks on enemy territory in the Dafillevean sector."
Dafillevean sector.
"Don't give me orders, Grand Admiral," C'baoth said irritably. "I know myself what needs to be done."
Pellaeon glanced at the calmly sitting Chiss. Could he not see that the madness of the Jedi clone was progressing? And at a geometric rate.
"As you say, Jedi Master," Thrawn said indifferently. "Captain Pellaeon, are the ground units of the Chimaera combat-ready?"
"Yes, sir," he replied immediately. "General Covell has reported readiness."
"Good," the Grand Admiral said in the same tone, watching as the Jedi clone settled directly on the deck of the bridge. Tucking his legs under himself, the Jedi closed his eyes, as if falling asleep.
"Sir," Pellaeon said cautiously. "Is he intending to wipe the bridge with his robes?"
"It will save time for the cleaning droids," Thrawn said indifferently. "Better report if there is any data from the Stormhawk."
"Aye, sir," Gilad cast a questioning glance toward the communications station, smiling with satisfaction when he saw Lieutenant Tschel hurrying toward him with a report. Receiving the datapad from the watch officer, he looked at the report.
"The first cruiser has arrived in the Algarian system," he said. "A concentration of freighters has been detected—measures taken to detain ships and crews. The Stormhawk reports intercepting a distress signal from the system."
"Has a response been received?" Thrawn inquired.
"Yes, sir," Gilad reported. "The Rebel base in the Ord Pardron system responded that they have dispatched an MC30c frigate..."
New Republic MC30c frigate.
Pellaeon felt a queasiness coming over him. Strange that Thrawn did not react at all to what he heard.
The Rebel MC30c series frigate was considered a relatively new and well-armed starship. Dual proton torpedo launcher, sixteen medium turbolaser turrets, an equal number of dual laser cannons. It would seem, considering the weak armor, which, like its size, did not allow it to be classified as a light cruiser, but in essence it was one. On paper, any Strike-class medium cruiser, with twenty light turbolasers, ten turbolaser batteries, and the same number of ion missiles, backed by a single concussion missile launcher, looks clearly stronger. But the Rebel ship has an ultimate weapon—six cluster munition launchers, which allow it to spew tons of explosives around itself and destroy any ship of the same class, not to mention that there aren't many captains of even Victory-class Star Destroyers who would want to engage a group of such frigates. But one-on-one...
"Sir, we need to send help to the Algarian system," Pellaeon said. "The MC30c will tear the Strike apart."
"Patience, Captain," the Grand Admiral advised. "We have plenty of time in reserve. Our ships attacked systems almost from their borders, while our enemies still have several hours to reach the target. Let our young captains feel like heroes of the day. After all, they are damaging the enemy's logistics units in the entire sector."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, signaling to Tschel to transmit the reports from the Stormhawk directly to his datapad. He couldn't run every time, could he?
"There should be another report, Captain," Thrawn stated after some time, looking at the chronometer.
"The Fenn system also requested support," Pellaeon reported, seeing a new message. "To counter our Strike, the base at Ord Pardron has dispatched a Mark I assault frigate."
Mark I assault frigate.
"What extravagance," a smile appeared on Thrawn's lips. "Seven hundred meters long, fifteen laser cannons, twenty quad laser cannons, fifteen turbolaser batteries..."
"Our second Strike is doomed..." Pellaeon wanted to curse properly. What was going on? In two systems they would be smeared against the wall without even breaking a sweat! Whose side was Thrawn even on?!
"Report from the Krondr system," the commander of the Chimaera was already mentally mourning the Aurek Group. "A Mon Calamari MC-80 Star Cruiser of the Liberty type, two Mark II assault frigates..."
Mon Calamari MC-80 Star Cruiser, Liberty type.
The Mon Calamari cruiser is excellently protected and, moreover, armed to the teeth. Forty-eight dual heavy turbolaser batteries, twenty dual heavy ion cannons, cluster bomb launchers, not to mention the fighter wing. While an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer could only oppose it with sixty-four heavy turbolaser cannons in eight eight-gun broadside turrets, sixty heavy turbolaser cannons, forty ion cannons, twelve heavy turbolaser cannons in six dual turrets, three triple medium turbolasers, two dual heavy ion cannons, two quad medium broadside turbolasers, and forty laser point-defense cannons. Considering that the Liberty-class ships were built by the New Republic after the Battle of Endor as line ships intended exclusively for space combat, while the Imperial-class continued to serve as multi-role vessels, in a one-on-one fight the advantage certainly lies with the Liberty in terms of salvo weight. Yes, Aban has two Imperial-class ships, but the enemy also has two additional ships in support...
Mark II assault frigate.
Seven hundred meters long, fifteen quad turbolasers, fifteen turbolaser batteries... And who cares anymore that this ugly thing also has fifteen laser cannons? Whoever the military coordinator at the Rebel base on Ord Pardron was, he was very skillfully and quickly selecting proportionate forces.
Yes, most likely the Aurek Group won't be completely destroyed—but they will be thoroughly mauled. And instead of a victorious campaign, they face lengthy repairs and mockery from other Imperials.
"Sir..." Pellaeon began.
"You can voice your concerns later, Captain," Thrawn said. "Report on the situation in the Ord Segra system."
"Our cruiser intercepted a humanitarian convoy," Pellaeon reported in a funereal tone. "From Ord Pardron they dispatched another MC30c frigate."
"Good," Thrawn said. "The Filve system?"
"The Strike has taken position," Gilad reported. "It is opposed by local self-defense forces, including one Carrack-class—the Dominion, captured from us several years ago—and two fighter squadrons. From Ord Pardron, they have dispatched two Nebulon-B escort frigates for support."
EF76 Nebulon-B escort frigate.
That's it, this is the end. Each Nebulon-B has 12 medium turbolaser turrets, point-defense artillery represented by a dozen laser cannons, launchers for proton torpedoes or concussion missiles, twenty-four small craft on each... A single Strike cannot handle that.
"Report from the Talay system," Thrawn demanded. "And yes, inform the commanders of all units to spare no one. I await your report, Captain."
Pellaeon, with a resigned 'Ah, let it be as it will!', looked at the datapad.
"The Strike intercepted several Republican freighters," he said. "The Stormhawk reports that another Nebulon-B launched from the base at Ord Pardron, supported by two squadrons of X-wings..."
"It seems they are running out of large starships," Thrawn smiled.
"Ours will run out faster," Pellaeon thought sadly. Ah, what a good mood he was in this morning.
"Data on the Blendjil system," the Grand Admiral demanded.
"Our sixth cruiser has detected several free traders," Pellaeon reported. "Pursuit has begun."
"What about Ord Pardron?" Thrawn said impatiently.
"They dispatched a Mark I assault frigate," Pellaeon said. No, but maybe one of the ships would get lucky? Maybe someone would be smart enough to flee as soon as they saw reinforcements arrive for the Rebels? After all, logic, even at a minimal level, must exist.
"One last thing, Captain," Thrawn reminded him. "The F'Dann system."
"Group Besh didn't find any enemy," Pellaeon sighed. "Apparently there's no one there. No transmissions to Ord Pardron, no replies."
"There shouldn't have been any rebels there," Thrawn declared, surprising Gilad. What do you mean 'shouldn't have been'?! Then why send two Star Destroyers there?! "Signal to the Death's Head to —" he glanced at the chronometer, then calculated for a few seconds, " jump to the Krondr system in five minutes. It's our second primary target in this mission. Given the enemy fleet presence and planetary defenses, they'll need help. That should be just enough time for reinforcements to arrive in the system. In two hours and nine minutes, the Stormhawk will enter the Ord Pardron system. We'll arrive there five minutes after them. Between one and forty-three minutes after that, enemy starships will enter the attacked systems. The mousetrap is sprung."
What mousetrap?! Gilad tried to comprehend. What does any of this mean? Thrawn had scattered every single ship throughout the systems of the Dufilvian Sector in positions where they could barely fight on equal footing. Yes, if those starships had experienced crews, the rebels would be in trouble, but they were essentially nothing but green recruits who would get so mauled that the wounds of a bantha that encountered an enraged nexu would seem like childish pranks. Best case scenario — the ships would need serious repairs. Worst case… No, Thrawn couldn't not understand that! He was a Grand Admiral, after all!
A cold, sobering thought struck Gilad: what if the Grand Admiral was testing all of them? What if he was just waiting for one of his subordinates to show some prudence?!
"Sir…"
"Not now, Captain," Thrawn turned his chair to observe Master C'baoth, who seemed to have fallen asleep. "How are things on our end?"
"Your men are eager for battle, Grand Admiral," the jedi's voice sounded hollow and detached, as if they were speaking to an empty shell instead of a living person. Even a clone. "Their enthusiasm… is astonishing."
"Make sure they use their qualities wisely, Jedi Master," Thrawn said. "And you will see that I can be grateful."
"I remember your words, Grand Admiral," C'baoth said, his eyes opening with difficulty as if he'd just woken up. "The more painful the blow, the sooner my jedi will come to me."
"Exactly," Thrawn said. "The blow will be maximally painful if we achieve it with minimal casualties."
The clone said nothing. He simply closed his eyes and fell silent again. Pellaeon studied him critically. The old man's face looked exhausted, even haggard. He seemed to be carrying some invisible burden beyond ordinary human endurance. But what kind?
"Sir," Pellaeon said quietly. "Do you really think that…"
"I'm certain of it, Captain," Thrawn looked at him. "Return to your direct duties. We are attacking the Ord Pardron system. That's all you need to concern yourself with right now."
* * *
"But… how is this possible?!" Leia's eyes widened as she finished reading the message. "The Empire…"
"Fighting is underway across the entire Dufilvian Sector," Mon Mothma said. "Every star system in the sector has been invaded. Every world loyal to the New Republic is under attack."
"And yet some people think the Empire doesn't have the strength for such operations," Counselor Fey'lya said, a ripple running through his fur revealing irritation beneath his calm exterior.
"And yet, it does," Mon Mothma declared. "Admiral Ackbar received a comprehensive report from the base commander on Ord Pardron half an hour before this meeting. The news is alarming. Something unthinkable is happening! First — a nearly simultaneous invasion of star systems — some with single ships, some with pairs of Star Destroyers. Our base on Ord Pardron responded appropriately, sending proportionate forces to repel the attack. The base commander reported that he believed the Imperials' primary target to be the Krondr system — our medical supply transfer station."
"It's protected by a ground-based deflector shield," Leia recalled. "Like Echo Base on Hoth."
"Not only that," Admiral Ackbar said. "There's a Golan II defense station in orbit…"
Golan II orbital defense station.
"You're being modest, Admiral," the Bothan said, smoothing his fur, "by not even mentioning the V-150 Planet Defender ion cannon. Like the one on Hoth…"
"I see you're well-informed about our defense systems, Counselor," Ackbar replied, not bothering to hide his antipathy.
"While our valiant defenders fight and die, politicians must know what they breathe and what they live by," Fey'lya said calmly. "To anticipate their needs and understand what they require."
"You certainly go to great lengths," Ackbar retorted.
"Enough," Mon Mothma demanded. "The Provisional Council is no place for squabbling. We are discussing the dire situation we find ourselves in."
"How dire?" Leia asked. And here I thought I'd just come back from negotiations. Not even a day after returning, and there's already a crisis.
"Our forces are taking losses," Ackbar sighed. "In the Algarian system, our MC30c frigate didn't last ten minutes — the enemy maneuvered skillfully and inflicted heavy damage on the frigate's hull. Yes, we gave them a good fight, but our frigate had to retreat to base. The enemy literally swept through our freighters, capturing a significant amount of military-grade cargo. In the Fenn system, again a single Strike-class managed to hold off our Mark I assault frigate. Our ship sustained heavy damage and was recalled to base; the enemy got away with minimal damage and destroyed a freighter that tried to escape into hyperspace. In the Ord Segra system, a humanitarian convoy was intercepted and looted before the support frigate arrived. Fighting is still ongoing in the Filve system — and again, a single medium cruiser is fighting superbly against a Carrack-class light cruiser, two escort frigates, and support fighters. We were hoping for a victory there — we managed to badly damage the Strike-class, but just before this meeting I received word that another cruiser of the same type had arrived — apparently the one that fought in the Fenn system, fortunately they're not far from each other…"
"Fortunately?" Fey'lya asked. "Did you say 'fortunately,' Admiral?"
"Yes, I did," Ackbar grumbled.
"And for whom is it fortunate?" the Bothan pressed.
The Mon Calamari was about to respond, but Mon Mothma asked him to continue his report.
"With the arrival of the new ship, the situation has become more complicated," Ackbar said. "I ordered our forces to withdraw. The Nebulon-B escort frigates have disengaged and are returning to base, but the Carrack… The enemy boarded it. The Filve defense forces are shattered. In the Talay system, again a Strike-class medium cruiser did the damage," he said as if pronouncing a sentence. "Our medium-tonnage freighters carrying food supplies were intercepted. The Nebulon-B escort frigate that arrived, supported by two squadrons of X-wings…"
"Destroyed?" Leia asked quietly.
Ackbar shook his head.
"The frigate is heavily damaged and abandoned by its crew," he said bitterly. "The enemy has almost certainly captured it. And out of two squadrons, only half survived…"
"Losing one squadron is bad enough," Organa-Solo tried to encourage her acquaintance.
"But in the Blenjil system, the enemy withdrew," Fey'lya noted. "Without even engaging. Our valiant military…"
"…only found the escape pods from three freighters," Admiral Ackbar finished. "The enemy had simply finished before our ships arrived."
"In summary, are we defeated?" Mon Mothma asked.
"We've lost more than half of our squadrons destroyed. A Carrack-class light cruiser has been captured in the Filve system, and an escort frigate in the Talay system was probably captured as well. The following have retreated to the base on Ord Pardron: one damaged MC30c frigate from the Algarian system, one damaged Mark I assault frigate from the Fenn system, one fully combat-ready MC30c from the Ord Segra system, one fully combat-ready Mark I from the Blenjil system, and two damaged Nebulon-Bs from the Filve system."
"Well, perhaps things will be better in the Krondr system," Counselor Fey'lya snorted. "After all, there's a Golan II station there and a V-150 Planet Defender ion cannon. Just like on Hoth."
V-150 Planet Defender ion cannon.
Leia had always wondered whose side this annoying Bothan was really on. But the more she listened to him, the more convinced she became—his own. Only his own.
"An attack group was dispatched from Ord Pardron to Krondr, which could have easily destroyed one Imperial Star Destroyer and damaged the other. Given the power of the Golan and the ion cannon, the enemy ships could even have become our prizes. However, as soon as the Mon Calamari MC-80 Liberty-type star cruiser and two Mark II assault frigates arrived in the system to trap both Imperial ships between themselves and the planet, it turned out the enemy had more ships."
"How many?" Mon Mothma asked. Two Imperial Star Destroyers per system was rare even in the Empire's heyday. Of course, the enemy must have known about Krondr's defense systems, so the two capital ships had arrived…
"Two more Imperial I-class Star Destroyers arrived," Ackbar sighed. "And our three ships found themselves trapped by four enemy ships. The outcome is known, no matter how sad—first the enemy will destroy our ships, then knock the Golan out of orbit, land troops outside the Planet Defender's range, and capture the medical triage station with thousands of tons of medical supplies. That would be enough for a couple of sectors' needs for several months of active combat operations."
"I don't need to teach you, of course, Admiral," Counselor Fey'lya said in a neutral tone, and from the look in Ackbar's eyes the princess understood that the Mon Calamari took the Bothan's words exactly as intended. "But perhaps it would be wise to send another pair of star cruisers from the nearest base?"
"If they were available, I would have ordered them sent," Ackbar snapped. "Five more star cruisers and over a dozen frigates were dispatched to Sluis Van for transport duties. On Ord Pardron, only a few frigates remain, plus those ships that will arrive from other systems. Given the limited repair capacity of that base and the unfinished planetary defense construction because you, Counselor, keep trying to cut larger and larger pieces from the military budget…"
Leia felt ill. Her mouth went dry. The thought that flashed through her mind felt like a jedi premonition. Or perhaps it was just that after years working in the Alliance to Restore the Republic's underground, she had become somewhat paranoid?
But she had to ask.
"Has anyone contacted the base on Ord Pardron since Admiral Ackbar's report?" she asked quietly.
Judging by the silence that hung in the air, this simple thought had not occurred to the bright minds of the New Republic's Provisional Council. Leia felt the air grow stuffy. The twins, sensing their mother's unease, stirred in her belly.
"No," Mon Mothma whispered softly, a mix of sorrow and surprise flashing in her eyes. "It can't be that simple…"
* * *
As soon as the hyperspace streaks contracted into tiny points of fusion spheres, hundreds or even thousands of light-years away, the picture of what was happening in the Ord Pardron system became clear.
The Stormhawk, like a huge gray-silver spearhead, moved forward, snapping back at three Nebulon-B escort frigates. Six republic squadrons—fighters, bombers, interceptors—swarmed around the Imperial ship, repeatedly trying to break through the cocoon of green and scarlet fire that the four starships exchanged. In a normal situation, they would have certainly succeeded—anyone can hurt an Imperial Star Destroyer. But a situation where combat morale was not on the rebels' side had become rare lately.
"And here we are," I declared. "Captain Pellaeon!"
"Yes, sir," the Chimaera's commander said, disconcerted, checking reports from other systems in the Dufilvian Sector.
"Is my flagship ready for combat?" I inquired.
"Y-yes…" Pellaeon said hesitantly, handing me data from the other attack groups. "Yes, sir!"
It seemed his composure had returned.
"Excellent," I said. "Give the orders, Captain. This is your ship."
"All fighters: launch," Pellaeon ordered over the internal comm, turning to the side tactical display. "Raise deflector shields! Interceptors, assign defense sectors! Main batteries, designate targets."
An Imperial II-class Star Destroyer was no ordinary version-one punching bag. It was a behemoth armed with a hundred heavy turbolasers distributed among eight octuple turrets, equally spaced on both sides of the command tower and positioned at every corner of the triangular ship, plus twenty heavy ion cannons. Unfortunately, the shipbuilders who designed the second version of the Imperial hadn't given much thought to defense in the form of laser cannons, instead focusing on increasing the main caliber and eliminating the numerous "intermediate" weapons, such as the triple turbolaser turrets amidships or the quad medium turbolasers on the flanks. The motivation was simple: there are fighters, there are interceptors—let them fight. And that was a worrying sign.
A standard Imperial-class air group, regardless of modification—Mark I or Mark II—consisted of seventy-two craft: six squadrons of twelve ships each. One bomber squadron, three fighter squadrons, two interceptor squadrons. The latter's job was to fend off enemy small craft. The former's duty was to fight so that the interceptors had as little work as possible. The sad fact was that sixty fighters and interceptors to defend a ship sixteen hundred meters long from bow to stern was too few. Considering that the enemy's small craft could travel through hyperspace independently, while not every Imperial craft could—that was something to keep in mind.
Speak of the devil…
Sitting on the bridge, I watched as two republic squadrons of X-wings, abandoning their fight with the Stormhawk's air group pilots, rushed to intercept the Chimaera's launched fighters. A dance of death began, where speed and maneuverability were pitted against hull and shield strength and weapon power.
I turned to C'baoth.
"Master," I addressed him. "What's the situation in the other systems?"
"In six, objectives achieved," he replied, swallowing tensely. "In the Krondr system… it's difficult… Some insurgents managed to escape."
"Captain," I said to Pellaeon. "Order our cruisers to destroy everything we can't take with us, secure the loot, and withdraw… What do you mean, 'escape'?" I shifted my gaze to C'baoth.
"They lost their nerve," the jedi clone said in the same emotionless voice. "My Battle Meditation not only instills confidence in your soldiers' hearts but also disorganizes the enemy. Some—lost their nerve. I didn't see fit to pursue them."
Bitch! I noted. He decided that. Such a mistake on the verge of triumph!
"Captain," I addressed Pellaeon. "Transmit the order to the cruisers—'Captured ships are to proceed to Bilbringi independently, without escort. Disable any that cannot jump. Cruisers are to move to the Ord Pardron system at maximum speed.'"
"Do you think the surviving ships are heading here?" Pellaeon asked. His voice was wary and cautious.
"Possibly." How should I know? Am I Master Yoda? I don't know their battle orders—they could have gone to another base. "Is the Stormhawk still jamming all communication channels?"
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. We don't need communications—we have a free-thinking Jedi Master. But the enemy…
"Losing contact with the base could either scare them away from it or, on the contrary, make them return," I said. "Either way, we could use the help."
"And him?" Pellaeon nodded toward the clone.
"We'll deal with him later," I replied quietly. "First we deal with the rebels in this system."
Frowning, Pellaeon looked back at C'baoth. I discreetly did the same.
He was still sitting on the bridge floor, eyes closed. He didn't move, and it seemed as if he had turned to wood. His lips were tightly pressed together, his breathing barely audible, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids as if he were reading something. One hand gripped the medallion on his chest so tightly that I feared he might crush it. The fingers holding the trinket had gone white, as if it were not red blood but snow-white milk circulating inside them.
A vein on his temple pulsed in time with his heartbeat—the only sign of his accelerated pulse.
"Is he going to be all right?" the Chimaera's commander whispered.
Of course not. He's insane.
"I think we'll find out soon enough," I looked at the captain. "For now, the test of our forces and the rebels' capabilities is proceeding as planned. Return to commanding the ship, Captain. We still haven't won this battle. And we should have thirty seconds ago."
* * *
Understanding came the moment a damaged rebel MC30c frigate dropped out of hyperspace.
The ship, resembling a sea creature that had been attacked by a school of predators, was dotted with torn flanks and soot-stained hull plating. A mess of metal debris trailed behind it—chunks of armor and interior fittings torn off at the end of the transition. Perhaps somewhere in that horror of war, dead bodies of the enemy crew were drifting, but that concerned few people now.
The Chimaera, like a graceful predator, shifted part of its fire onto the newly appeared rebel starship, taking advantage of what were practically firing-range conditions.
And it was done so smoothly, so virtuosically, as if the gunners had known about the new target seconds before it appeared.
Pellaeon, momentarily distracted by the explosion of one of the Nebulon-Bs, torn apart by the Stormhawk's fire, understood what was happening. But he didn't want to believe it.
Deep down, he had hoped that his ship's crew was not the most hopeless in the Empire and could still put up something against the rebels. But this…
He glanced again at the master sitting with his eyes closed.
Then, satisfied that no surprises were imminent, he moved to the nearest terminal, five meters from the admiral's chair—but still within the "coverage area" of the single ysalamiri on the bridge. The Grand Admiral had ordered him to command—so command he would.
But first, he wanted to understand by whom or what.
He had already realized that Thrawn had very simply and straightforwardly forced C'baoth to participate in the battle by playing on his manic desire to get his hands on a jedi. What the captain had considered certain suicide turned out to be yet another test: if the master had disobeyed, he would have certainly been thrown overboard without a moment's regret, and the ships would have withdrawn. No, the captain understood how deeply he had misjudged the Grand Admiral's actions. Thrawn wasn't even trying to take risks—he had sent the fleet ships knowing full well that the enemy starships would need time to reach all the attacked systems. So if the dark jedi had balked, the operation would have shifted from striking enemy ships to another series of intimidation raids. Fly in, shoot, withdraw.
Hit-and-run tactics by Imperial Navy ships.
But right now, Pellaeon was interested in something else.
Not long ago, literally a week before the raid on Obroa-Skai, the Chimaera's crew had conducted exercises. And Pellaeon had been dissatisfied with the results. The Grand Admiral himself had simply remained silent.
But the captain could swear, even though he didn't believe in higher powers, that today his crew had surpassed themselves. And he had no doubt that the same thing was observed aboard every ship in the Grand Admiral's fleet involved in the Dufilvian Sector operation.
When he checked the statistical reports of the current battle, he felt a slight dizziness. The Stormhawk had gotten off with just one breach on the upper deck and lost one TIE interceptor and six TIE fighters. The Chimaera was showing an intact hull, but its air wing had been reduced by two fighters.
TIE fighter.
TIE interceptor.
Meanwhile, the enemy had lost one of its X-wing squadrons. And a dozen TIE fighters were currently mixing the second one with the vacuum of space with terrifying precision.
The MC30c frigate was already frozen in place—its stern was one continuous stream of fire in decompressed compartments, and the amount of debris was overwhelming. The fighters that had arrived to support it from the planet's surface were acting sluggishly, and instead of driving away the TIE bombers that Pellaeon had ordered to attack the damaged—and let's be honest, doomed—ship, they continued their merry-go-round with the Chimaera's fighters, which had already finished destroying the last enemy squadron attacking the ship.
TIE bomber.
The MC30c's destruction coincided with the destruction of the second Nebulon-B. The Stormhawk, acting as predatorily as the bird that gave it its name, slowly turned toward its final target. The enemy tried to fight desperately: fighters threw themselves in suicidal attacks at the triangular ship and died, one after another. No mercy, no unnecessary movements. Targeted destruction of the enemy.
With the efficiency that Imperial military personnel had displayed before the Battle of Endor.
Pellaeon checked the statistics again.
No, there could be no doubt. If before he had attributed the decline in crew effectiveness to a partial rotation of veterans replaced by green recruits, now…
Now he was scared.
He understood that it was essentially C'baoth who commanded his people. But that was happening in the present moment. Who had commanded them before? Whose will had led them to victory?
Who…?
The commander of the Chimaera shifted his gaze from the monitor to the motionless figure of the clone Jedi. Then he moved it to the central platform, where a figure sat in the command chair — the Grand Admiral.
Thrawn knew everything! He knew the loss at the Battle of Endor happened because the one who coordinated their actions had died. And success had eluded the Empire ever since, because that someone had been aboard the Executor or the second Death Star. But who among… there had been many there: the Emperor, Darth Vader, several Grand Admirals, Moffs, Generals…
The Corellian felt a burning resentment. The realization of his own worthlessness — for not a single achievement of the Imperial fleet, and likely the army, had happened without the involvement of this unknown intelligence, one who turned them from children playing in a sandbox into brave warriors.
And what were they capable of without being led to victory like schoolchildren?
The last Nebulon-B burst, torn apart by synchronized salvoes from the gunners of the Stormhawk and the Chimaera.
The captain looked at the chronometer. Fifteen minutes. Destroying four enemy ships and seven rebel squadrons had taken only a quarter of a standard hour!
"Admiral, sir," he approached Thrawn on unsteady legs. Thrawn was calmly watching the Imperial pilots perform simple maneuvers over the battlefield as they returned to the Star Destroyers. "Your order is complete — the enemy is broken."
"Well done, Captain," Thrawn said. The Chiss slowly turned his head toward the Chimaera's commander. His gaze slid further and to the side, stopping on the computer the officer had just used. "So, I take it you consulted the statistics?"
"Yes, sir," his throat tightened with resentment.
"Then you know," Thrawn sighed.
"Yes, sir," Gilad confirmed.
"Then now you understand why we required Master C'baoth's assistance," the Grand Admiral concluded.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon stated. "Sir… Is there anything we can do on our own with the same success? And the same results? Have we achieved anything by ourselves at all? Or has someone constantly been leading us? This is the Force, isn't it? Jedi art?"
"Yes, Captain, the Force," Thrawn confirmed. "And at the Battle of Endor, the Emperor used the Force. And he wasn't the only one. But that's not the main issue now. The Empire achieved everything it had — not solely because of the Force. But because it relied on its loyal sons, ready to go all the way for it."
"You meant Darth Vader used the Force?" Pellaeon clarified. Thrawn must have been mistaken…
"No," the Grand Admiral said clearly. "The Emperor didn't orchestrate the Jedi Purge for nothing — he was also a Force-sensitive being. And he understood the Jedi would never accept his vision of the galaxy. Philosophical contradictions, ingrained at a fundamental unconscious level. So he got rid of them. Surely you didn't think Master C'baoth would serve someone who didn't possess the Force?"
"No, sir," Pellaeon replied dryly. "I hadn't thought about that at all."
"Ponder it in your spare time," the Grand Admiral advised. "And remember one thing, Captain. The Emperor was a being of immense Force power. That very power drove him mad, craving more and more control over everything and everyone. Total control of everything happening in the galaxy. The eradication of any dissent. But even at the peak of his greatness, he couldn't control the lives of his military. Otherwise, the rebels would never have appeared. Tens of thousands of rebel cells across the galaxy — if the Emperor controlled everyone and everything, there wouldn't have been a single defector. And our fleet's elite certainly wouldn't have perished. As you can see, Master C'baoth, even in a seemingly losing situation, was able to help us win. Not to mention the other battles against the rebels… So remember, or better yet, write this down: the Empire's achievements are the achievements of every one of us. And its defeats are, too."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, licking his dry lips. "Forgive the moment of weakness, I was… morally crushed by this discovery."
"I completely understand your feelings, Captain," Thrawn said. "And now, since you've regained faith in your own strength, pay attention to Lieutenant Tschel. He's about to start screaming across the entire bridge to inform you of the arrival of new rebel starships…"
* * *
When, seven minutes into the bloody battle, the Chimaera positioned itself above the immobilized, ion-cannon-damaged Mark-I assault frigate identified as having fled the Fenn system, the first cruisers began to arrive. Their condition was, of course, corresponding — but they had done substantial work.
While the two Strikes closed in on our destroyers, things got a bit less funny: one fully combat-ready MC30c from the Ord Serge system appeared, along with another intact Mark-I from the Blenjeel system. Following them, two more Nebulon-Bs, damaged in the battle in the Filve system, dropped out of hyperspace.
The evening was no longer languid.
"Battle formation," I ordered. "The Chimaera's target is the MC30c frigate. The Stormhawk will engage the Mark-I assault frigate. The Strikes will tie up the Nebulon-Bs. Take measures to immobilize and capture the escort frigates — we'll still need them. Not a single rebel escapes this system."
"Orders relayed," Pellaeon reported.
"Excellent, Captain," I said. The enemy seemed to have decided to act in a unified formation, choosing the assault frigate as their flagship. Logically — the MC30c has thinner armor. And if you knock out its shields, it's a punching bag. Even if it's a very dangerous one with its cluster munitions. "Their air wings should be badly depleted after their encounters with our ships. Therefore, send all fighters to intercept their small craft. Have the bombers completed their rotation?"
"Yes, sir, ready to execute any order," Pellaeon reported.
"Your suggestions, Captain?" I inquired.
"The combined air groups of our ships should be enough to destroy the enemy's small craft," the Chimaera's commander cast a glance at C'baoth. He didn't react, continuing to sit. "I propose sending a squadron of our bombers, protected by a squadron of interceptors, to the MC30c to inflict damage before it gets into confident striking range with its cluster munitions."
"Proposal accepted," I agreed. "Have the Stormhawk react similarly. Target the bridge, engines, hyperdrive. If it can't leave here, it can drift until Darth Vader's second coming."
"Well put, sir," Pellaeon smiled. "With your permission, I'll focus on turning this Mon Calamarian misunderstanding into ruins."
For God's sake, I almost blurted out.
"Of course, Captain," I said.
Green flashes of fire traced the space between us and the enemy formation. A haphazard organization led to nothing good: whoever decided that four not-so-powerful, and not-so-intact ships could handle two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, one of which was a Mark II, was clearly a brave man. Not to mention that their bet was on the ultimate capabilities of the MC30c.
The assault frigate — a refit of the Rendili Dreadnaught-class heavy cruiser — had greater maneuverability (compared to the original, of course). It was decently armed, had fairly strong shields and armor… But only for its class. Against a Star Destroyer, it wouldn't last long. Noticing that the Strikes were looming over the tail of the enemy formation, pulling the Nebulon-Bs and the remnants of their air wings away from us, I focused my attention on the MC30c.
A… specific ship.
It was fast, well-armed. Despite the hurricane fire the Chimaera was raining down on it, it snapped back. Its shield was melting — but slower than I'd like. I wondered why.
Calling up data on this ship type from the central computer, I looked at the information Imperial Intelligence had obtained.
Length. Internal volume. Main hyperdrive type, backup, crew complement, number of embarked troops… Hmm. So the Imperials aren't the only ones who know a thing or two about smart shipbuilding calculations.
Despite a clear advantage over Imperial warships — the deflector shield generators were located beneath the hull plating, whereas ours were mounted on the hull — this frigate had no air wing. It was built as a support vessel, but… they could have at least squeezed in one or two squadrons; such backup wouldn't be superfluous.
But I really liked the idea of shield generators under the armor. Considering that once you blow apart the shield projectors, the ship is defenseless — this is a very, very smart solution. Well done, Mon Calamari. They got one over on us…
This ship was unlucky with its armor — once the shields were down…
A bright flash stung my eyes.
"The air wing is taking losses," Lieutenant Tschel's voice came through. Calm, even, confident. "The MC30c frigate is attacking with cluster munitions. Three TIE fighters destroyed."
"Maintain distance outside the kill zone," Pellaeon ordered. "We cannot allow this ship to fire its cluster munitions at the Chimaera."
"Aye, Captain," the senior helmswoman acknowledged.
Yes, it looked beautiful — the frigate, resembling a sea creature, spewed dozens of munitions around itself, which detonated at a certain distance from its hull, destroying everything they could reach in a volumetric explosion. Beautiful and terrifying. If one such bomb got into the hangar bay, the ISD would break in half.
"Bombers over the target," Pellaeon reported. "The squadrons from the Stormhawk are working on the engines. I ordered an attack on the bridge."
"Try to leave something on this ship for study," I requested. "Ideally, the part containing the deflector shield generator."
"What for, sir?" Pellaeon asked, surprised.
"Carry out your orders, Captain," I advised.
The Stormhawk was using a simple, textbook tactic — it was collapsing the deflectors on the Mark-I's tail to immobilize it. Once that goal was achieved, there would be no need to hurry.
The Strikes, conversely, were trying to inflict as little damage as possible to the engines, without compromising their own objectives. The Nebulon-Bs were built at the Kuat shipyards to escort cargo vessels in convoys. They were excellent for escort duties and countering small craft. Using them in a line battle, especially against Imperial Star Destroyers or cruisers, was an ill-considered decision.
But it seemed the enemy had taken the bit between their teeth.
"The MC30c has expended half its cluster munition stores," came a report from the pit. "Three salvos remaining."
"Excellent," Pellaeon approved. "Let them dump their main caliber into vacuum. After that, they're no longer a threat to us."
An MC30c couldn't match a Star Destroyer.
It was unclear why the enemy had charged at us instead of retreating.
And in a more or less organized manner, too. Even though we were jamming communications. Yes, it wasn't a complete nullification of all possible frequencies; a loophole could always be found. But I had a suspicion that our "good" Jedi Master had a hand in this.
Turning my chair, I looked at him.
He had been coordinating the attack on the sector for almost six hours. The hair on his head and beard was soaked with sweat, which poured down his face in rivulets. His clothes were drenched, a sour smell of sweat sweeping across the bridge.
Veins on the visible parts of his body were bulging as if he were competing in a decathlon. What was this? It looked like a trickle of blood was flowing from his nose. We needed to end the battle before C'baoth broke down — I still needed him. The demonstration in the Dafillevean sector wasn't just a test of his abilities and the fleet's skill at cooperating. A large-scale offensive with a single purpose — it was a cancer on the command structure.
"Well, that's it," Pellaeon's voice held a note of gloating. "He's out of ammo. Bombers — destroy the guns on the MC30c's non-threat side!"
I looked at our opponent. The stars of the cluster munitions' fiery inferno were collapsing around it, none of them ever reaching the Chimaera. And now the Mark II was increasing speed, closing in on the enemy, whose stern was already blazing from proton rocket and bomb impacts, to finish the job. The Chimaera's own TIE bombers and interceptors had smashed the ship's bridge to pieces and were now carrying out Pellaeon's order — attacking the frigate's side not being fired upon by the Star Destroyer.
A groan was heard. I threw a glance at C'baoth, who had started swaying from side to side. The old man seemed unwell. Who knows what kind of strain — mental or physical — he was under. As long as it didn't affect…
"One Nebulon-B destroyed," Lieutenant Tschel reported.
What was happening? I ordered them captured!
"C'baoth!" I addressed the Master. "What's going on?!"
"It's hard…" he wheezed.
That was it; I'd learned what I needed. This old man's limit was established. Just under seven hours of controlling the fleet's ships. Over a dozen ships, hundreds of thousands of beings. A good result for the raid.
"Continue executing the order regarding the MC30c," I commanded. "Transmit to the Stormhawk: 'Finish off the assault frigate.' The cruisers are to immobilize the last escort frigate."
"Another Strike has entered the system, accompanied by a Carrack," Lieutenant Tschel reported.
"Affiliation?" Pellaeon asked.
"Ours," he reported. "From the Filve system — a raider and a prize. The remaining ships will arrive in ten, twenty-seven, and forty-four and a half minutes…"
"Instruct the arrivals to assist with capturing the Nebulon-B," I ordered, watching as green plasma beams from the heavy turbolaser cannons tore into the now-defenseless MC30c. The impacts from our cannons and proton torpedoes had knocked out most of its artillery and disabled key systems. With its fire, the Chimaera was licking away the deflectors, which were still trying to recover, even though it was pointless — the ship was doomed. Its crew must understand that. C'baoth must convey this to them!
"The second Nebulon-B is signaling surrender," Pellaeon reported. "Their reactor is damaged. The rebels don't want to die."
"No one does," I remarked. "Dispatch boarding and prize crews."
"The assault frigate has shut down its engines," another report came. "Hull breaches throughout the ship. Life support systems damaged. The main reactor has been shut down. The commander requests that the crew be evacuated and treated as prisoners of war."
"Have the Stormhawk deal with their situation," I ordered. "If the ship can be repaired, let them — we won't object…"
A new flash was so bright that even the bridge viewport polarization systems couldn't handle it. I had to shield my eyes with my palm.
"The MC30c frigate exploded," Pellaeon reported, shielding himself from the bright glare.
"It was exploded," I said, casting a glance at C'baoth, who was sitting relaxed again. "How are things in the Krondr system?"
"Your forces are relatively safe," the clone Jedi opened his bloodshot eyes. "The assault frigates are defeated. The Mon Calamari star cruiser… suffered significant damage."
"But it still got away?" I clarified. C'baoth gave an affirmative nod.
"Damage to the ships?"
"Moderate," the Jedi tried to pull his legs out from under him. He was doing a terrible job of it. "Enemy resistance is suppressed. Captain Aban is landing troops."
Bad — the enemy line ship had escaped.
Good — the objectives were met.
Overall, the operation's results seemed acceptable, but still something… Not quite right. The raid should be finished, the ships sent to the shipyards for repairs, and everything thoroughly analyzed. Though it was already clear how the sortie had ended.
"Captain Pellaeon," I addressed the Chimaera's commander. "Order General Covell to commence a ground assault on the surface. It's time to claim everything the base on the planet Ord Pardron can provide us."
"Should the crews begin what repairs they can?" Pellaeon clarified. I nodded silently.
"Special attention should be paid to the prizes," I ordered.
Even if the raid hadn't anticipated capturing such prizes, it was better than having none.
"And contact outpost NL-1," I commanded. "It's time for our good friend Yazuo Vane to show up."