A medium cruiser of the Strike-class, with the fearsome name "Striking," left hyperspace. The Innton II system, located in the Sluis sector, greeted them with calm and dead silence. The last notes of the battle alarm siren's aria faded in the air, but Commodore Akrey Dobramu barely reacted to them.
Commander of the medium Strike-class cruiser Striking, Commodore Akrey Dobramu.
"Raise deflectors, scan space, charge the launcher. Launch fighters," he ordered. And even though they had only one and a half squadrons on board, no one could deny the fact that the enemy, hiding on the ground, also had small aircraft. And something heavier.
That was precisely why the Striking did not attempt to reach orbit, maintaining the necessary distance to avoid a possible attack.
They had not come here to engage in a prolonged confrontation. Their mission was measured damage and reconnaissance.
"Has recording to the log begun?" he asked the first officer.
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied.
"Good," said the commodore. "Keep an eye on the enemy. They should react."
Grand Admiral Thrawn had designated three targets for three medium cruisers in this sector. They operated in conjunction with the Star Destroyer "Overlord," which was supposed to divert enemy forces with its own mission, about which neither the commanders nor the crews of the three Strikes knew absolutely nothing. Captain Brandei hadn't uttered a single word on the last briefing before the attack as well. But no one complained — if they weren't told, then it was necessary.
The Innton, Bpfassh, Orto systems. Three targets they needed to "probe."
If the commodore knew enough about his own target, about the other two he could only guess based on common knowledge.
Orto — the homeworld of the Ortolan species — was an icy astronomical object. But despite its external unattractiveness, the planet was of great importance to the entire sector. They mined large quantities of heavy metals here, as well as radioactive fuel used in the construction and maintenance of starships being built and repaired at the shipyards of the planet Sluis Van. The medium cruiser "Judicious" would strike at these facilities. Although, in Akrey's opinion, it would be logical to land several units on the planet and raid the warehouses of the mining companies — in war, there are never enough resources. Moreover, from the base on Sluis Van, the enemy would take no less than five hours to reach Orto. Without any serious defense, the planet could be thoroughly looted… However, he didn't know what order the commander of the Judicious had. Maybe it was actually something worthwhile.
Bpfassh — the location of a Republican patrol base. A small planetary garrison tasked merely with keeping order. At best, some kind of tub for orbital inspections. One cruiser was quite enough to scatter this gathering of wannabe soldiers. Or whatever order was given to the cruiser sent to that system?!
But Innton II was much more serious.
On this planet, back in the Clone Wars era, the Separatists had organized their own base, using a light destroyer of the "Rebel" type that had crashed on the surface. According to Imperial records, the Separatists never finished the base, abandoned it due to their capitulation and defeat in the war. The Imperials bombed it from orbit, but judging by the fact that in this system, scout droids had detected the movement of a Y-wing squadron and activity in the ruins of the Rebel.
Star Fighter BTL-B Y-wing (a.k.a. 'wishbone').
Therefore, they needed to check how combat-ready this base was, what forces it had, and how quickly it reacted to an intrusion. And to find out — where it was actually located. Once these objectives were achieved, they were ordered to retreat.
"Recording enemy ships," came a report from the observation station.
"Vector of approach?" he asked a new question.
"4-9-7," came the reply. "Twelve contacts. Lifting from the planet's surface. Formation — wedge."
"Transmit telemetry to our fighters," ordered the commodore. "Send the squadron to intercept. Keep four fighters in reserve for cover. Send two along the vector to the surface to confirm the enemy base's location. Anti-aircraft stations, prepare to repel attack! Use standard defensive formation."
The Striking moved at medium speed to meet the danger.
Y-wings, also known as "wishbones" in pilot slang, were not the youngest machines — sometimes you came across ones that had even seen the Clone Wars. This machine was heavy, slow-turning, well-armored — hence the acceleration issues. The rebels had learned to partially mitigate this flaw by removing "extra" armor plates from the engines. To some extent, it helped, increasing speed and maneuverability. But they were still far from Imperial TIE machines in these metrics. In terms of armament, however, they were superior, having not only forward-firing but also rearward-firing (in some modifications) guns. Not to mention the Y-wings' launchers, from which they could easily fire proton torpedoes, against which the ship's energy deflector shields were utterly useless. That's why the rebels used this type of starfighter as bombers — with support ships, of course. But in the absence of the same T-65s, the BTLs acted as heavy fighters. With weighty "arguments" in their arsenal.
A proton torpedo is mostly a kinetic weapon, and deflectors will offer it no hindrance. And particle shields on military ships — no one in their right mind would install them as standard; it's insanely expensive. And the load on the reactors is corresponding.
But a proton torpedo can cause a lot of damage — from a hull breach to damage to superstructures, reactor detonation (if it chews through the thick armor) and engine nozzles. And what if there are twelve? Or twenty-four?
With such damage, a medium cruiser would not last long. In fact, few ships would survive such an attack — perhaps only a Star Destroyer. And even that is not guaranteed. If you know where to shoot instead of just pelting the ship with projectiles hoping something will break, even the Death Star could be destroyed with a couple of torpedoes.
Meanwhile, the battle was heating up.
TIE fighters clashed with the BTLs. Commodore Dobramu unexpectedly remembered that captured rebel pilots had referred to Y-wings as "wishbones" because of their partially unarmored fuselage. All for the sake of speed and maneuverability…
But today it wouldn't help them.
Imperial fighters, due to the absence of heavy armor on them, possessed phenomenal characteristics, which they demonstrated in battle against the enemy.
Imperials and rebels had been fighting each other for a very long time. Long enough for experienced pilots to learn the habits of each other's war machines and their capabilities. And this knowledge had been passed down to the new generation of pilots to some degree.
Even though those currently piloting TIE fighters were young and had minimal combat experience, the time spent in virtual simulators was paying off.
Imperial machines exploited their advantages and mercilessly poured fire on the enemy. But they themselves discovered they were not facing green youths at the controls of the "wishbones."
"Two fighters down," the first officer stated. "Another one left the fight with a damaged solar panel. In a minute it will enter the tractor beam range, and we'll bring it aboard."
"Target the enemy ships operating separately from the main engagement and fire on them with the ship's artillery," the commodore ordered. Then, catching himself, he added:
"Give them advance notice of our intervention in the battle."
"Aye, sir," came the communications officer's voice.
There was considerable risk in firing the ship's artillery into the middle of a light-force engagement. First, turbolasers packed too much punch for maneuvering targets. Second, the chance of hitting their own ships was high. That's why the commodore had ordered fire on those enemy craft that were leaving the fight. However the rebels twisted and turned, their sluggish fighters couldn't out-turn turbolasers, let alone laser cannons.
After the second salvo, the gunners managed to blast one of the "crutches" a fighter that had broken away from the general dogfight — into stardust. A brief yellow flash, and both the machine and its pilot were gone. Possibly two, depending on the enemy's ship modifications. But that question wasn't pressing now — they could check the ship's sensor logs after the battle to see which fighters had been destroyed.
"Telemetry from the scout pair," the first officer reported.
"Report," the commodore said, his eyes fixed on the carnage.
"Base located," the first officer snapped. "One fighter lost, the second returning. Heavy anti-air cover. No deflector shields detected."
"Any new enemy starships detected?" How many losses. Too many to call the mission a success. But then again, who had expected otherwise? If even Star Destroyers were crewed by youths who hadn't smelled tibanna, then the cruisers were manned by the same green recruits, only even less professional.
"Negative, sir."
"Good," Akrey grinned. Let the fighters have their fun — he had another idea. "Order the last scout to join the engagement. And four of our escort fighters, too."
"S-sir?" the lieutenant stammered. Dobramu nearly swore. These younglings! Always relying on fighter cover. They had a cruiser at their command! And not a weak one at that.
"Do it, first officer!" he barked, following the officer with his eyes — a man who'd finished senior command training only a month ago, straight out of the Academy. Without a single day's service aboard a starship!
Oh, how dire the Empire's situation was with qualified personnel! They had to throw practically boys into battle... That was why the losses were so heavy — they hadn't hardened yet. And they were fighting rebels, who were certainly not amateurs.
After giving the new order, Akrey watched as his ship swung around the fighter engagement. A pair of "crutches" gave chase, and chaotic green flashes lanced out to meet them, trying to drive off the persistent shadows.
After five minutes of fierce exchange, they succeeded, but...
The Firebrand shuddered as if punched in the gut.
"Hull breach on deck seven!" The first officer's voice carried a note of hysteria. "Frames severed, atmosphere venting, damage extending to section seven!"
"Drop the blast doors!" the commodore ordered, wincing. Unpleasant, but not critical. The rebels had managed to hit his cruiser with proton torpedoes — nothing else they had could punch through the shield and hull in a single salvo. "Seal the bulkheads around the breach! Gunnery, increase fire on the enemy squadron! Take us into orbit over the enemy base!"
After ten minutes of battle, it was clear that only half of the sixteen fighters remained intact. The ninth small craft, its solar panels mangled, was being hastily repaired in the hangar in case it was needed for the fight.
The enemy had lost three machines. The rest showed signs of a good beating, but still, the "exchange" was clearly not in the Empire's favor.
Well, that was easy to fix.
"Cruiser at the designated point, Commodore!" the first officer reported. "Rebel fighters are moving toward us to protect their base and—"
"Vaporize it," Dobramu growled.
"But, sir, the order was only reconnaissance and—" the assistant stammered.
"Destroy the enemy base!" Akrey roared, practically incinerating his subordinate with a glare.
"Yes, sir, aye, sir," came calls from the bridge. The officers, stunned by such a direct violation of the commander's orders, scrambled...
"Youngsters," the commodore thought with relief, though he himself had only recently passed thirty. But before that, he had served aboard a Star Destroyer. And the captain had drilled into every subordinate: no rebel scum should ever think they'd won a battle. That destroyed the Empire's prestige and authority and let the enemy believe they were stronger.
The enemy had built their base on the site of an old Separatist installation — around a crashed, rust-eaten, and time-worn light Star Destroyer. The mountainous terrain gave the rebels some cover from orbital scanners, so Akrey relied on the vector readings of approaching enemy fighters and the telemetry from his own scout pilots. He knew perfectly well that his ship didn't have enough firepower to destroy the base — too few turbolasers and too little time before enemy reinforcements arrived, which they'd undoubtedly called.
But the commodore had no intention of wasting time on a prolonged planetary bombardment with his artillery alone.
First went the proton torpedoes, spat out one after another by the launcher until the magazine was empty. The crew managed it in a few minutes. Then the hell of ground destruction was punctuated by turbolaser flashes, sweeping away everything in their path: buildings, communications, enemy personnel...
The artillery preparation lasted another hour, and by the end, the rebel base had become a crater of molten slag. The Empire lost three more fighters; the enemy lost only one. The Firebrand took another proton torpedo, and that had a sobering effect on the commodore.
"Barrage fire from the artillery," he ordered, watching the "crutches" line up for an attack run. "Recall our pilots and get us out of here to the rendezvous point."
Four minutes later, after downing one more New Republic starfighter, the Imperial medium cruiser broke the light barrier and left the Innton system, leaving behind only a huge black stain of slag and the skeletal remains of countless corpses on the second planet from the star.
* * *
Baron D'Asta was expressively silent.
We sat in a lavishly furnished office, having just finished another seemingly meaningless conversation about everything and nothing all at once. But it only confirmed the aristocrat's stated intentions to support my particular vision for the further development of the confrontation between the two galactic superpowers. More than once, so-called "check questions" arose in the conversation — a method of verifying what had been said earlier. The logic was simple to the point of absurdity. First, a question with a clear formulation was asked. Then, after receiving an answer, some time later in the conversation, the same question was repeated — heavily rephrased, but with the same semantic load. If the answers differed, it was direct evidence of insincerity.
When a sentient tells the truth, repeating it costs them nothing. An hour later, two hours later, a year later. But if it's a lie concocted on the spot, remembering it can sometimes be very difficult — because that requires letting your attention slip during the conversation. And the answers start to miss the mark. Many operatives had been caught out by such a simple check in their time.
But in this context, I had nothing to hide. I truly believed a truce should be achieved — but only when the New Republic and the Empire were on equal footing for negotiations. Otherwise... there could be incidents. And considering that an entire hostile civilization would be arriving in the galaxy in the foreseeable future... No, I didn't particularly want to live in, let alone govern, a state that couldn't properly defend itself.
"I think we can help you, Grand Admiral," the Baron D'Asta said thoughtfully.
"This step will not go unnoticed," I replied.
"At the moment, my capabilities are somewhat... limited," the aristocrat said. A veiled way of saying "not everything at once." No one had promised a "merger of capital" for the sake of shared philosophical reflections. "But I can allocate, say, ten CR90 corvettes. Not the newest ones, of course, but I cannot undermine the defensive capability of my sector at this time. The New Republic bases aren't that far away. For now, they're afraid of me, but if they learn I've withdrawn a significant part of my fleet, they might risk an attack. It's happened before — after we lost the cruisers given for the assault on the Khar'm shipyards, they sent a battle group of five Mon Calamari star cruisers, not counting escort ships, into my sector. Fighting them off was... not easy."
"I'll be grateful even for that," because in that case, I'd have much more than I could afford by waving credits around.
"That's not all, though," the Baron declared. "As far as I know, the Imperial Ruling Council is unable to finance your campaign sufficiently."
"The reduction of Imperial Space territory has unpleasant consequences in the form of several problems," I remarked. "Including a drop in tax revenue. The financial shortfall is a logical outcome of our policies. No surprise there."
"My financiers will transfer two hundred and fifty million to your accounts," the Baron said, watching for my reaction. There was none. Yes, it was a huge sum for the average citizen of a galaxy far, far away. But for financing a victorious campaign, it was a bit short. On the other hand, it was quite a lot — a very lot, if not squandered and if the expenditure side of the budget was carefully planned. One such financial injection alone would be enough to keep my fleet combat-ready for a long time. However, judging by his expression, the Baron clearly hadn't finished enumerating his support. And he certainly wasn't making such a grand gesture for nothing. For that money, he could have built himself several Victory-class Star Destroyers at Imperial shipyards. "Unfortunately, I am also somewhat constrained financially — large sums are required to keep the fleet combat-ready and pay salaries. However, my sector can offer you material, rather than monetary, assistance within its means."
"Is that so?" I asked with interest.
"We are a fully self-sustaining sector," Baron D'Asta said. "The Selanon system has a factory that will provide uniforms for your troops." I took that to mean only fabric uniforms. I had hinted transparently about an increase in personnel numbers during our conversation at lunch. The Baron rightly assumed I meant recruiting volunteers. I didn't disabuse him of that notion, because in some ways he was right. "Unfortunately, we are unable to produce assault armor. We purchase regular army uniforms from Imperial Space."
Both good and bad at the same time. The good: we wouldn't have to worry about clothing and footwear for the clones coming into the fleet and augmenting the civilian personnel. The bad: putting an army of clone stormtroopers under arms wouldn't be that simple.
"The gas giant Isen in the system of the same name supplies us with tibanna gas, but the volumes can't be large," the Baron said. "The needs of my own fleet, you understand."
"Of course," I said. "I've been informed that you have production technology for small TIE-type craft. Can I count on replenishing my losses at your factories?"
The Baron shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Grand Admiral," he said. "I sold the production lines two years ago to the Ciutric Hegemony, to Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel. My fleet is switching to fighters of my own design, due to the inability to obtain cheap raw materials for TIE craft."
"However, you must have some TIE fighters and other small craft of that type left, if not in service, then in storage?" I suggested. Nothing extraordinary — a simple guess. Because even the Empire itself had needed years to rearm with more modern weapon systems. The D'Asta sector might be profitable, but not enough to do that on a large scale.
"Yes, we have some," the Baron agreed. "We're selling them off in small batches to the Imperial Remnants."
"Could I be added to the list of regular customers?" The aristocrat's affirmative nod made it perfectly clear that he was well aware of my needs. And he certainly didn't intend to miss any chance to recoup his investment one way or another. A sharp business sense. Friendship was friendship, but profit was profit. He had supplied me with funds and given me ten Corellian corvettes. But he clearly wasn't about to squander his assets for nothing. TIE craft were in demand in the Imperial Space worlds right now. So it was a fairly profitable enterprise for the Baron: on one hand, his financial injection showed a desire to support my successes; on the other, official trade relations between us would remove any suspicion of a double game. Not to mention that regardless of whether I succeeded or failed, he would come out ahead either way. I was sure that if necessary, he could get that money back through his daughter.
"Your soldiers are armed with Imperial-pattern blasters," I said. "Self-produced or purchased?"
"The former," the Baron said. "A small arms factory. I'm ready to supply you with blasters and explosives. However, I must note that we use maranium as the explosive compound, which doesn't meet Imperial standards."
"That's not critical," I said. "May I request food supplies from Nez Peron for my people?"
"Certainly," the Baron agreed.
After discussing the details and the price of the material aid, we fell silent again. The Baron lit a cigar, his gaze wandering over his library, whose shelves of information crystals lined the entire perimeter of the office.
"Your assistance will significantly influence the implementation of our plan," I remarked. "When the time comes, you will not be forgotten."
"I very much hope so, Grand Admiral," the Baron said, puffing out clouds of smoke. Yes, he might be an idealist in matters of foreign policy, but after a substantive conversation with him about the volume of aid and his cooperation, there was no doubt left that the Baron was doing everything to push the Republic away from his borders. And he clearly understood that it was much cheaper for him to finance my struggle than to keep expanding his own fleet. He was fully aware that one day he simply wouldn't be able to maintain it at the necessary combat readiness. Besides, the New Republic might get seriously angry seeing the military buildup in a pro-Imperial sector.
During our conversation, the Baron repeatedly pointed out the problematic nature of his neighborhood. That was practically an undisguised hint. Most likely, a test of our preliminary agreement. During our walk, I had indicated that cooperation under the new order had to be mutually beneficial. The Baron probably wanted to test the sincerity of my words in practice. And I was sure that the battle in the Khar'm system — the Imperial attack on the shipyards of what was then the Rebel Alliance — wasn't mentioned for no reason.
"How much did you lose in the Battle of Khar'm?" I asked.
"All of my fleet's strike force, requisitioned by the Imperial admiral," the Baron said, looking at me with interest. "That defeat dealt a heavy blow to my business relations and resulted in colossal losses. Some of my clients simply stopped using our transport companies' services, reasoning that the loss of the cruisers meant we could no longer successfully carry out our shipments and provide protection. Over a hundred major clients abandoned our services and now rely on the transport companies of the Pentastar Alignment. And that, in turn, hits the profits and authority of the D'Asta family and the entire sector. The lost profits — billions of credits — I could have directed..." the Baron made a show of thinking. "Into more productive channels."
No explanation needed. A hint directed at me. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. The condition under which I had been willing to cooperate with the Ubiqtorate. On much less favorable terms. Now, I had effectively been given a "generous advance."
No joke — the Baron's offer, with the amount of funding, the transferred ships, and the material supplies, couldn't be underestimated. Such gestures were called "royal gifts." Even if I'd have to pay heavily for some of it.
And he expected a favor in return. With a hint that this would increase the level of trust between us and that the volume of support would be increased. If it involved billions... Then it was worth it. Because for one and a half to two billion credits, I could build an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer. And that was a whole different level for implementing my own plans.
"But if you demonstrate a strong response, even if belatedly, the negative consequences can be mitigated," I suggested.
"Yes," the Baron admitted without prevarication.
"Given the volume of ships destroyed and the time elapsed, the response should be a large-scale punitive operation," I continued. D'Asta nodded almost imperceptibly.
"As your ally, I cannot stand aside," I said, realizing that my own plans would likely have to be put on hold. "Target — the New Republic shipyards and space base in the Khar'm system?"
"The site of our fleet's disgrace," D'Asta confirmed. He reached under the table and pulled a small infochip from a drawer. "Here's all the information I've managed to gather over the last few years since stepping back from power in the Imperial Ruling Council. No more than six months out of date."
"Intelligence can always be refreshed," I remarked philosophically, pocketing the crystal. "I can't promise a retaliatory strike soon — only when a suitable plan is ready."
"I'm in no way rushing you for help, Grand Admiral," the Baron declared. "However, I would like the matter of restoring my family's reputation to be resolved before the Imperial Ruling Council's tenders for a carrier throughout Imperial Space. Losing those contracts would leave tens of thousands of sentients in my sector without work. The amount of lost revenue would be ten billion Imperial credits."
The sum, in my understanding, was infinitely huge. Given the scale of my planned projects, if even a tenth of that money came my way, there would be no problem implementing my plans. On the contrary, by spending time solving Baron D'Asta's problem, I would not only strengthen our alliance but also, thanks to increased funding, accelerate the execution of my own plans.
Thus, the alliance was sealed...
"If you don't mind, Baron," I rose from my chair, giving a respectful nod to the master of the office, "I need to return to the fleet to begin planning the operation on Khar'm."
"I won't keep you, Grand Admiral," the Baron said calmly, handing me another infochip. "Here's information on the account where the money has been transferred. Ten corvettes are ready for transfer — they just need crews."
"I'm sure that won't be a problem," I replied calmly, taking the second chip and leaving the office.
Saying goodbye wasn't customary in Imperial circles.
* * *
On Bpfassh, you could die of boredom.
A dry double planet, orbiting a common center of gravity. A temperate climate. Lifeless wastelands all around. Not just for a kilometer, two, three... Every patch of land in this world was one lifeless plain.
It was surprising that a Jedi Praxeum had once been here, given the locals' attitude toward the Order. Negative, even hostile.
Fodeum scratched his stubbly chin, watching the New Republic fighters return to their base. Fires still raged here and there; medical aircars darted about. But it wasn't as if the rulers of the galaxy's stronghold had suffered much. The Imperials had just buzzed around the planet, fired on the base as a warning, shot down a few enemy machines, lost a couple of their own — there, the burning wrecks of downed TIE fighters smoldered just north of the outpost. And that was it. The raid and ground-attack dive-bombing had failed.
That was the end of the raid.
"Nonsense," he muttered, sipping his caf. Since when had the Empire become so merciful? In their raids before, they'd leveled everything within reach to the tectonic plates — they didn't care about civilian casualties among the New Republic-loyal population. But now... Something was off.
Or was he just missing the big picture, as his instructor used to tell him? No, it was just nonsense. What did it matter to him, anyway?
He was young — a little over thirty. Well-built, with a handsome face. His ship was in the spaceport, and during the raid Fodeum had been very worried the Imperials would start blasting everything in sight.
But the worry faded almost immediately once the Imperial target became clear — the New Republic base. They seemed uninterested in anything else. Well, maybe so.
"Drinking again?" A young Twi'lek sat down across from him, helpfully appropriating a bottle of cheap soft drink. She uncapped it and sniffed. "Juice?"
"Did you expect Corellian whiskey here?" Fodeum smirked, taking another sip.
"You have a habit like that," Vex said with a scowl. Her name was actually something else, but that didn't change the fact that she constantly found something to dislike. A cantankerous individual. Lately she'd decided she had the right to tell her captain when he could and couldn't drink. "Usually by lunchtime you're already drunk enough to squeal like a sarlacc."
The man glanced at his wrist chrono.
"I still have about fifteen minutes," he said with a smirk. The Twi'lek clicked her tongue disapprovingly, clearly about to say something outrageous. Well, no, that wasn't interesting.
"Is the Graceful Lady in good shape?" he asked, looking around contentedly. A small open-air cantina on the very edge of the spaceport. Minimal patrons—mostly the same fortune-seekers as their pair. But right now, there wasn't a soul in sight—the locals preferred to hole up in their homes after the raid. The streets would be quiet for about an hour and a half—until the Republic patrols swept the area. And what were they even looking for?
"Yes," the girl snorted. "I'm doing fine too, by the way."
"I noticed," Fodeum smiled. He wasn't a cruel man. But he wasn't kind either. He just liked to tease his assistant and friend.
"You could have asked if I was all right," the Twi'lek girl said, sticking her tongue out at him in offense. Ah, women. She wasn't any younger than him, yet she acted like a little girl.
"Why?" he smiled. "I can see it plain as day. Arms and legs intact, clothes still on you, lekku in order. And your bottomless eyes..."
"I'd rather we had bottomless pockets full of credits!" the girl blurted. "If you've forgotten, we already unloaded the goods. The transport contract is closed. And we need to find a new job if we ever want to fix the antigravs and stop having problems with the authorities about our landing method."
"And what's so terrible about coming down on the main engines?" Fodeum thought wearily. "So what if there's a roar across the whole area like rancors in mating season."
Fodeum Sabre De'Luz and Vex.
"Any leads?" he asked. The girl shook her head.
"What about you?" she asked a bit more quietly.
"Nothing either," he had to admit. "There's nothing..."
They'd worked together long enough to understand each other without unnecessary words.
While Vex was arranging the goods with the client, Fodeum had zipped off to the coordinates he'd bought from an information broker for a tidy sum. But the ruins of the Jedi praxeum hadn't yielded anything worthwhile. He hadn't found anything he could sell for any money. And the Force was silent...
"I told you the locals had picked that place clean," the girl wagged her finger at him. "So many years have passed! But you're so stubborn, Fodeum Sabre De'Luz! It has to be exactly the way you want it, doesn't it?"
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," the man shrugged. "It could have been a big score."
"Instead it was another stupid waste of money!" the girl declared indignantly, crossing her arms.
"You didn't say that when we bought you those delicacies," Fodeum chuckled. "And they cost us nearly a thousand credits, by the way—three times more than I paid for the map."
"At least I was happy for a whole week," Vex noted. "And you didn't roll your eyes saying, 'Woman, stop feeding off my brain!'"
"That's why you're still single," the man smirked. "Your appetites are insatiable."
"No, it's just that..." the girl started to say something but stopped short. Sabre De'Luz tensed, seeing the Twi'lek girl looking somewhere over his shoulder. "Don't turn around."
"Otherwise a rancor will eat me?" Fodeum smirked. And immediately felt the Force insistently warning him of danger. He put his hand on his blaster, ready to fall off his chair and shoot behind him, but someone's strong hand landed on his shoulder, and a blaster muzzle pressed between his shoulder blades. Well, damn...!
"Hands on the table, kid," a voice said from behind. From the accent—a Human. "You too, alien!"
"I'm a Twi'lek!" the girl snapped. But still, her graceful palms found a place on the tabletop. "Not some kind of monster..."
"I don't care," the barrel pressed even harder between Fodeum's shoulder blades, as if trying to punch a hole through him without using tibanna. "Is your ship operational?"
"You see, we have some technical issues..." the man tried to talk his way out, simultaneously calling on the Force for help, hoping that...
"I'll put a hole in your chest the size of a fist right now," the stranger promised. But the captain of the Graceful Lady had already guessed who was standing behind him. And why the Republic soldiers were scouring the city so fiercely. "And then in your alien too!"
"Then a patrol will come and put holes in you, Imperial," Fodeum elaborated. "I doubt you climbed out of your ship just to die in a pointless firefight."
"You don't know much," snorted one of the pilots from the downed Imperial bombers.
"What do you want from us?" Vex ground her pearly teeth.
"Our new friend wants to get off the planet," Fodeum answered for the Imperial. "I take it the raid failed and your people left without you?"
"You talk too much," the man behind him pressed the blaster barrel so hard it nearly pierced through his thick vest. "Access codes for your ship!"
"That won't help you, kid," Fodeum shook his head. "The ignition has biometric scanners. Mine and my partner's," fortunately, Vex kept quiet and didn't expose his bluff. "I dumped a hundred thousand on them—not a single theft attempt has worked. So you'll need us alive—or you can carry our dead bodies. But then you won't be able to use the voice interface on the boarding ramp..."
"Actually, we can help each other," Vex said unexpectedly. Fodeum looked at her in surprise. The Imperial, judging by the loosening pressure of the blaster on his hostage's back, did too. "You want to get off the planet, Imperial?"
"Yes," he replied. Fodeum allowed himself to turn his head. A tall, stately man of middle age with red hair and a short beard. Even though he was dressed in rags clearly stolen from a nearby yard, the captain of the Graceful Lady would bet that underneath that disguise he was wearing a black Imperial pilot's uniform. At least the standard-issue boots on his feet supported that claim.
"And we have a ship and a desire to make some money," Vex continued. "Will your command be grateful to us for delivering you to base in our freighter?"
"Yes," the Imperial didn't think long. Or maybe he was just lying. Fodeum reached out to him with the Force, but to his surprise, he didn't detect any sense of deception from the Imperial.
"Well then, stop playing the proud warrior fighting aliens and let's get to the ship while the patrols are sweeping other quarters," Fodeum suggested, winking discreetly at Vex. Good girl, quick thinking! "Your disguise isn't the best. And you look like a cutthroat."
Feeling a light slap on the back of his head, Fodeum yelped.
"Move to the ship," the Imperial pilot ordered. "If you try to betray me, I'll kill you on the spot."
"No one's planning to hand you over to anyone," Vex sighed. "The New Republic doesn't pay citizens bounties for ordinary soldiers. If you were a spy, that would be different."
Fodeum looked at his partner in a new light. Where, if you please, did she know such details?
"So put away the blaster and make your face more pleasant," Vex continued to mock the Imperial. "Otherwise law enforcement will pick you up the moment they lay eyes on you."
"Less talking, alien," the Imperial jerked his blaster, indicating to Fodeum that it was time to stand up. He obediently rose. "More doing."
"Whatever you say," she shrugged, also standing up from the table. "Do you even have a name, Imperial?"
"Captain Tomax Bren," he ground out through his teeth.
"Fodeum Sabre De'Luz," his captive introduced himself to the Imperial. "And this sweet-talking young lady is Vex."
"That's not my name," she objected.
"I don't care," declared Captain Tomax Bren, shoving Fodeum noticeably in the back with his blaster. "Move, both of you!"
Captain Tomax Bren.
With a weary sigh, Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, failed Jensaarai defender, together with his partner and fellow sufferer, walked along the narrow streets of the spaceport toward his ship.
* * *
Left alone with Rukh in the compartment assigned to us on the Stormhawk, I began reviewing the information I'd obtained. Also—drawing preliminary conclusions.
A little over a month had passed since I ended up in this universe.
I had dealt a significant blow to the enemy, defeating, albeit weakened, a sectoral grouping of the New Republic.
I had an advanced base on the planet Linuri—in the center of the southern part of the galaxy occupied by the enemy.
I had a rear base—an entire star sector, Morshdine, with an Imperial Fortress World. There was an orbital repair yard of type two, capable not only of repairing but also assembling ships up to and including Star Destroyers. The sector capital was guarded by a fleet consisting of one Immobilizer 418 cruiser, two Strike-class medium cruisers, two Nebulon-B escort frigates, a Mark-1 strike frigate (but I already had an idea how to use that miracle of technology in a more advantageous format, so, as I promised Moff Ferrus, I would need to transfer another Strike to him), a Carrack-class light cruiser, and twelve Tartans—one for patrolling each star system under the Moff's control.
Also on hand was a fleet of nine Imperial-class Star Destroyers, three Victory-class, three Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, one Immobilizer 418 cruiser, seven Strike-class medium cruisers, another eight Tartans, twelve CR90 Corellian corvettes, one DP20 Corellian frigate, and Star Galleon-class frigates...
Also in assets were Spaarti cloning cylinders. Technology for cloaking devices based on hybidium. An ocean of asteroids in orbit around Tangrene. Mining of rhydonium. Eighty-one working diggers and half a hundred not entirely working.
Somewhere out there, a Golan II defense platform was making its way to us. And the Nemesis was flying to Tangrene with Captain Hoffner inside. And through him, I would get a chance to reach the Katana Fleet...
The problems of maintaining, supplying, and arming the fleet could be partially solved thanks to the generosity of Baron D'Asta.
Completing the "best day ever" was the realization that the money problem was partially solved.
Two hundred and fifty million Imperial credits—from Baron D'Asta. And I'd still have to earn that.
Two hundred million credits—captured aboard the Coral Vanda. Along with Mr. Hoffner.
Twenty million and a huge pile of "trophies"from looting Nkllon.
And if I estimated, the remaining funds I had from what was originally at Admiral Thrawn's disposal were enough to bring the total up to half a billion Imperial credits.
A decent sum. Could build three Imperial-class Star Destroyers. Just need to wait a couple of months. Or maybe six months—depending on the shipyard doing the work. Could buy myself some Golan II defense platforms. Could just buy weapons with all that money...
There was a lot you could do with sums like that. But they were needed for war.
And ships were also needed for war. And the ships—particularly the Katana Fleet—would need repair and spare parts. I'd have to work very hard to make sure everything went smoothly. Those ships needed not just repairs but partial modernization. Otherwise they'd be easy prey. Very easy.
Having twelve CR90s pleased me—these ships could fit in the hangar of Imperial class ships during transit. So all nine Star Destroyers were now equipped with them. For Victory class ships, such vessels wouldn't fit—the hangar was smaller. But the DP20's size allowed it to travel with a Victory. So I'd need to find two more such gunboat frigates. Because I'd have to recall the Victory class ships from patrol and sabotage missions as soon as the Steel Aurora and the Crusader completed their tasks. Should I recall the Adamant from guarding Wayland? No, probably not. Officially, it was known that I had only two Victory class ships. Let it stay that way. Therefore, I needed to increase firepower in the line of battle. What was suitable for that? Star Destroyers. So it was time to concentrate forces. The Doryu on Garos IV could be replaced. The Interdictor in the Chasin system could also be recalled. Replace with what? I had options—Strikes and Tartans. There was one Immobilizer 418 on hand. That could be sent to the Chasin system to continue patrolling. Reinforced with one Strike with a no-less-zealous commander, Akrey Dobramu, who somehow managed to get damaged on a simple mission. Usually that would be punished, but judging by his service record, he was a good officer. He needed a bit of sobering up. Dull patrol duty as part of a formation consisting of one medium cruiser, a pair of patrol Tartans, and an Immobilizer would do him good.
The freed-up Interdictor could and should be put to work. After all, it was a Star Destroyer with gravity well projectors. Along with its sister ship, these two vessels effectively brought the number of first-line Star Destroyers to eleven. Good, but not enough. I needed more. I already had one lead—soon the plan should start to execute. A quick look at the information about the Harm shipyards was also encouraging—there was something to be gained there. And also there was the realization that such an attack wouldn't go unpunished. And it would change too much in the behavior of both the New Republic and the Empire.
Therefore, either the strike had to be so decisive as to discourage or deny any ability to retaliate, or I needed to have the resources to repel a counteroffensive. Having the ability to plan calmly was good for now. As soon as events started spinning like a squirrel in a wheel, there would be miscalculations and planning gaps in off-the-cuff planning. Each such gap could cost me ships and lives. That was unacceptable—for the time being, at least.
The Harm system... A secret Rebel shipyard where they had gathered a huge amount of damaged Imperial equipment, hoping to restore it someday. Judging by the available data, at least four Imperial-class Star Destroyers and up to two dozen smaller ships were undergoing slow repairs there. A huge amount of equipment, including TIE fighters... which were being scrapped.
That fact alone caused an indifferent pain. I had problems with all this, and the New Republic was just taking good equipment and scrapping it!? That was wrong. But it would be worse if they finished the job. Due to lack of funding, the workers at this shipyard were dismantling repairable items for spare parts and scrapping what was too long and expensive to fix. That was... unpleasant.
Therefore, I'd have to speed up the execution of my plan.
Leaning back in the chair, I briefly estimated the odds.
I had been playing the card of attacking the Sluis Van shipyards. And preparations were being made specifically for such an attack. Now I was being clearly told that I should adjust my plans (whatever they were, according to Baron D'Asta) and strike the Harm shipyards. Given that Sluis Van was practically undefended, but Harm... I really didn't want to tangle with the enemy fleet guarding that graveyard of Imperial equipment. But otherwise I would lose the support of the Baron and the D'Astan sector, and that was more than necessary for the realization of my own final plan.
Pull the same trick twice? No, that wouldn't work. The scale of the tragedy was too big. The enemy wouldn't fall for the same trap twice...
Unless I gave them time to figure out what happened!
So the plan would have to be adjusted again. And on such a scale... Would I have enough strength? The Baron seemed not to be rushing me, but he set clear deadlines—by the time the transport contracts were signed. I didn't know the exact date, but I was sure I could find out upon returning to Tangrene without much trouble.
So there were deadline dates. And they probably weren't too far off—a month or two at most. Should I make an inquiry now? No, that would look too suspicious. The Empire also had smart people. It would be easy to establish a connection between an inquiry about the deadline for the transport competition that Baron D'Asta was trying to win and my visit to his sector.
Therefore, I'd have to speed up. I needed to resolve the problems with Hypori, New Cov, Garm Bel Iblis, and Niles Ferrier as quickly as possible. Not to mention the Katana Fleet. And if the mechanical problems with the latter could be solved with additional funding and cloning technicians, providing those ships with crews and additional equipment... would not be easy. Very not easy.
Fourteen days were needed to produce a batch of clones resistant to madness—assuming the medical examination of the clones would be completed soon and show positive results. Currently, sixteen thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders were operating. To crew just one dreadnought required two thousand sentients. In total, in one batch I could crew only eight dreadnoughts. A standard month had thirty-five days. So in a month, the full cloning cycle would be available for only two batches—thirty-two thousand people. That was sixteen dreadnoughts. Considering the remaining seven days of the calculated month, I made adjustments... In two months, I could produce five full batches of clones. Eighty thousand people. That was forty dreadnoughts with crews. If I could bring the currently inactive four thousand cloning cylinders back online, I could produce one hundred thousand clones in two months—which meant ten more fully crewed dreadnoughts.
There were currently, give or take, two hundred such ships in the Katana Fleet. Therefore, I would need four to five months of continuous cloning to get the entire fleet combat-ready.
That was... a long time. But it matched my earlier calculations for striking Sluis Van by the end of the year so that the battle in the Sluissi sector would be the culmination of Thrawn's campaign, not the Battle of Bilbringi.
Should I abandon the partnership with Baron D'Asta? No, that was a very stupid idea. At the very least because otherwise I'd have to find other sources of supply and at least food for the clone army. And I had no doubt that the Baron could use his influence for revenge. I was sure Grand Moff Ardus Kaine wouldn't miss an opportunity to deal with me on some pretext. For example, charging me with treason.
Therefore, I had to keep my agreements, even if they led to disrupting the main plan. Which would have to be adjusted again...
Okay, let's break the situation down to the bone. I couldn't pull the same trick twice. I couldn't postpone the attack on the Harm shipyards, and I couldn't afford to let the attack on Sluis Van fall through. But I didn't have enough ships to attack both shipyards simultaneously—even if I got the dreadnoughts, I simply wouldn't have time to bring them into service by the required moment. I simply wouldn't have time to crew them.
Organize a call for volunteers? Yes, that would allow me to gather mass. But based on the quality of volunteers streaming into Tangrene, it was clear that the most qualified personnel were not arriving. Therefore, that would jeopardize the very existence of the ships due to crew incompetence—the attack in the Inkllon system demonstrated that. We were effectively shown up by a single squadron. Just one squadron...
Warlord Zsinj had hired mercenaries and pirates for his attack on Kuat. And he basically succeeded in his plan. But that would cost a lot of money... but I had money...
So I could adjust the plan once more and... Return to relatively original parameters. Sluis Van as the culmination of the campaign.
Another point: if I planned to expand my fleet, including with Star Destroyers, I needed even more clones—a single Imperial class had a crew of over thirty-seven thousand people. That was two batches of clones and a little extra...
Okay, let's solve the individual problems. I needed to study the possibility of copying the Spaarti cloning cylinders. Could we increase their number ourselves? Or was the best we could hope for just restoring the existing ones? Honestly, I doubted the former but strongly hoped for the latter.
Errant Venture. That was the most obvious and promising target. An Imperial Star Destroyer Mark II. And I had a chance to get it.
Katana Fleet. It had to be taken—no discussion. Crews were a separate issue. After all, it was an automated fleet, and the number of crew members aboard could be minimal—a hundred people, for example. Yes, a very risky move, but...
I really didn't want to resort to C'baoth's help right now to attack Harm, even though it was a gift from fate. Because the mad Master would surely start reminding me about the Jedi again and...
Stop. Let's pin that thought.
C'baoth. Jedi.
The mad clone Jedi knew about Corran Horn—from me. Corran Horn was a pilot in Rogue Squadron. That unit was currently in the Dafillevean sector. They'd probably be transferred to the Sluissi sector to investigate what happened there.
But at the same time, Corran Horn was also a Corellian. That people of rebels, free-thinkers, and they almost always did things their own way. When it involved loved ones—there was no more fearsome and tenacious enemy than a Corellian. And if he also had Force sensitivity and training as a CorSec operative—then he was a bloodhound to behold. He would unravel the tangle of any incident involving danger to his loved ones, no matter the cost. If necessary, he would leave the service and turn to those he didn't particularly get along with.
Corran Horn is married to Mirax Terrik. As far as I recall, they're both completely devoted to each other. However, his father-in-law dislikes him for his "CorSec" past, since Horn's father sent Mirax's father to Kessel. Granted, it was a long time ago, but that's just the kind of man Horn's father-in-law is — he never forgets anything. And he loves his daughter more than anything in the world.
Mirax Terrik's father is Booster Terrik.
Booster Terrik owns the Errant Venture. The Star Destroyer has no full armament or shielding. But it's a Star Destroyer, it's mobile, and it's dangerous even in that state. At Terrik's disposal — connections in the criminal underworld, contacts with Talon Karrde.
I'm hunting for this Imperial Star Destroyer. C'baoth is hunting for Horn. Booster Terrik dislikes Horn. Talon Karrde is too dangerous a figure in this game to leave alive. But after the capture of the Katana fleet, I don't need him alive anyway. Alive, with all his plans and information, he's too tempting a target for those who intend to carve up this galaxy.
Curious, but I am too. Though my only fear is the mad Palpatine.
Therefore... Hmm, an interesting thought.
The plan has come together. The circle is closed.
Soon it will be... interesting.