The instant the plasma cutter destroyed the integrity of the emergency airlock's locking mechanism, Yazuo Vain, switching his vibroblade to a grip, fired into the opening doors.
The blaster, integrated with the cold weapon, went off cleanly, burning a hole in the chest of a Weequay dressed in a semblance of an Imperial fleet uniform but painted in absurd grey and green tones. The Errant Venture's security officer collapsed onto his back.
But even before his corpse hit the deck, the pirates from the Lewd Twi'lek were already flooding aboard the star destroyer.
Yazuo, without much ceremony, slashed his vibroblade across the chest of another of Booster Terrik's men, decorating him with a massive chest wound. He took off another's head, planted a blaster bolt in the side of a Kel Dor who hadn't had time to react to the privateer appearing beside him.
With a practiced motion, Captain Vain drove his weapon's blade into an opponent's neck, forcing him to choke on his own blood.
"Forward!" he roared, taking the lead along the superstructure corridor of the Errant Venture.
Let the Imperials from the Strike, the Tartan, and the Victory I storm the main cargo hangars and seize the ship's primary decks—his boys had poured in from two sides directly into the starship's superstructure. That's where the bridge and the living quarters of Booster Terrik's most influential crew members were located. And the Imperials had better give him decent compensation for this raid—or they'd regret it!
He'd lost a huge number of good men in this operation. Sure, not all of them were decent and law-abiding beings (in fact, none of them were), but they were part of his group, which meant someone was going to have to pay up for their deaths. And pay up seriously, because capturing the superstructure and the combat bridge essentially meant total control of the star destroyer, since the bridge could easily control absolutely every system on the ship, thereby either easing or hindering the Imperial boarding teams' assault.
At first, Yazuo had intended to do the latter—when he saw that Talon Karrde's freighters were attacking the Interdictor. If that interdictor cruiser were destroyed, there would be a perfect opportunity to capture Terrik's ship and hijack it, then sell it at a very favorable price to the same Imperials in the Remnants, or the New Republic, or the Corporate Sector. Hell, even the Hutts would open their wallets for such a "gift." Fifty to seventy million would be enough for Vain and his people to live comfortably for the rest of their lives somewhere far from the eternal struggle between the Empire and the New Republic.
The arrival of two New Republic ships had only reinforced the rightness of those thoughts, and he ordered his attention shifted to the Errant Venture, waiting for the right moment when the Imperial pilots would finally thin out the air wing protecting the star destroyer, once painted in a non-standard color.
But when two more Imperial Imperial Is appeared, things got uncomfortable.
The plan had to be adjusted on the fly. Not only had Karrde failed to destroy the interdictor cruiser, but Thrawn had also received reinforcements that could easily blow out the Errant Venture's engines, and then the blue-faced Grand Admiral's space marines would deal with Vain and his men. Under such conditions, it was pointless to defy an employer who had so easily sprung a trap not only on the always-cautious, trouble-sensing Booster Terrik, but also on Leonia Tavira's pirate group. Despite the enemy's numerical advantage, Grand Admiral Thrawn had managed not only to outmaneuver them but, judging by the abundance of boarding shuttles flitting between the ships, also intended to capture every surviving starship without exception.
So Yazuo figured it simply: he would attack the Errant Venture's bridge, capture Booster, and subdue his ship, then watch. If, following the pair of New Republic starships, more ships arrived capable of turning the tide of battle, he would try to escape into hyperspace and take the ship far away, wait for rumors about who had won, and offer to sell the starship to them.
But if nothing happened, or if Thrawn won, then capturing the ship would obviously increase his commission from the Grand Admiral himself. In that case, even fleeing in a star destroyer could be justified to Thrawn with the motivation: "I wanted to preserve the ship for you at any cost and moved it out of the combat zone so the vile rebels wouldn't destroy it in a fit of helpless rage against the Empire and you personally."
It was unlikely the Grand Admiral would believe that motivation, but he'd think about that later, when it came to dividing the spoils. If it came to that, of course.
And there should be a lot of loot on the Errant Venture. Maybe Booster hadn't brought all the underground dealers and bounty hunters who usually visited his ship, but goods were definitely stashed here. And knowing Terrick's tight-fisted reputation from hearsay, Yazuo had no doubt—there was plenty to grab.
"Yo-ho-ho! And a vibroblade up the backside!" Vain roared as he saw a hapless Len from the destroyer's crew trying to flee around the corridor from his men. They were easy to identify—they wore Imperial fleet uniforms repainted in Corellian colors. Whatever Terrik said about himself, he still felt nostalgia for his homeland. And he'd surely return to the Diktat if it didn't mean another tour on Kessel in an orange prisoner's jumpsuit.
While the fighters behind him kept firing blasters and carbines, Yazuo carried out the threat from an old pirate song but settled for shooting him in the back with his blaster. Honestly, he wasn't going to chase him all over the ship just to deepen the canyon between his buttocks.
After eliminating three enemy squads and losing two of his own men, the teams from the Lewd Twi'lek and Yazuo's second freighter finally united into a single strike force, effectively clearing the officer's living deck. Ah, if only they could indulge in looting the personal quarters on the ship right now, but the problem was—while they were busy collecting trinkets that might not even be there, the Imperials would seize the bridge. And then Vain's gang's contribution to capturing the starship would be minimal.
They should stick to the plan, but…
"You and you," Yazuo pointed at a pair of fighters. These guys were new to their group—they usually died after one or two raids, so memorizing their names at this point was impractical. "Get your asses in gear and sweep the cabins. Everything valuable—jewels, fabrics, spice, chips—all onto our ships; we'll sort it out later. Try to pocket anything for yourselves, and I'll gut you on a hot spit."
"Like Marcus?" one of the newcomers gasped quietly, recalling the recent comrades' trial of a pirate who'd tried to hide a credit chip worth a couple hundred peggats. Not a huge sum, but it was a matter of principle.
"No, of course not," Yazuo snorted. The pair sighed in relief. "I knew Marcus for three months and almost considered him not total bantha fodder. So before roasting him, we didn't give him anti-shock or painkillers—so he wouldn't suffer long. But you two, I barely remember your names…"
"Biba and Boba, sir," one of them said. Strange names for two young men who looked somewhat alike. Brothers, maybe?
"And what do I care about that info?" Yazuo sighed. What kind of pirates do they recruit from ads, huh? "Anyway. Try to swipe anything from the collective—you'll be roasted inside a fuel barrel. We'll even inject you with the right slurry so you don't die too soon, and give you a little oxygen hose so you don't suffocate. Got it?"
Two silent nods.
"So what the hell are you still doing in my sight?" he barked, and both pirates immediately bolted toward the unlocked cabin doors.
"Boss," his assistant whispered in his ear as the pirate squad pushed through to the turbolift shaft—the shortest route to the combat bridge. "You do realize they're definitely going to try to steal something?"
"I'm counting on it," Yazuo yawned, wiping blood from his vibroblade with a rag. "It's easier to split the loot among twenty minds than twenty-two."
"But there are twenty-six of us right now," the assistant added quietly. "And those two on the living deck…"
"Exactly," Yazuo swapped the gas cartridge in his blaster. "See where I'm going with this?"
"I sure do," the pirate grinned, flashing metal teeth. "Time to optimize the gang's numbers?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Vain shrugged. "I'm against such perversions…"
"Uh… Boss," the assistant faltered. "But you said yourself there should be twenty and…"
"I meant I don't know the word 'optimize,'" Yazuo replied, stepping first into the turbolift cabin that had arrived at the panel's call. The rest of the pirates followed. And they were unlikely to suspect what fate awaited some of them after the assault was over.
Yazuo Vain was ready to cross the galaxy in a rusted tub with a Class 16 hyperdrive if it meant rescuing any of his boys. He had given the Grand Admiral twenty Tartans to save a dozen of his close men. And he would do it again.
The problem was that the number of "his boys" was strictly limited to twenty-one members of the Lewd Twi'lek's crew. Including the pirate captain himself, of course.
And as for the "cannon fodder," no one ever intended to share a haul this big with them.
* * *
Still, it was somewhat strange—regaining her lightsaber but continuing to wield a blaster. And staying within four or five meters of the stormtrooper who carried a cage with an ysalamir on his back, cutting her off from the Force.
And from the insane dark Jedi, Palpatine's experiment.
Mara waited for the moment the enemy's power cell or gas cartridge would run out, ducked around the corridor corner, and with a precise shot drilled a hole just above the eyes of a Trandoshan pirate. The scaled humanoid dropped like a stone to the deck. And three of his kin, taking cover behind a pair of massive cargo containers, let out a roar that would have frozen any unprepared being's blood.
Mara only gripped the handle of her now-standard-issue fleet SE-14C tighter. A blaster pistol, standard sidearm for the Imperial armed forces. Yes, she could have taken any of her own blasters on this mission, but today she was playing the role of Fleet Lieutenant Jade.
And she wanted to feel the pleasant weight of a blaster in her hand again and experience a certain discomfort as the grooved grip bit into her palm.
Blaster pistol SE-14C.
Unfortunately for the Trandoshan pirates in charge of this battered spaceship, they weren't facing just any beings, but Imperial stormtroopers. And to be more precise, precisely the kind that pirates, smugglers, and rebels particularly hated.
Despite the archaic name, Imperial Marines had nothing to do with the sea as such. Honestly, the only aggregate state of water or any liquid they most often saw during direct execution of their assigned tasks was ice.
Because the Imperial Marines were a specialized sub-unit of the Stormtrooper Corps, whose prototype in the past, during the Clone Wars, had been the clone commandos. And the Marines had inherited their missions from them, so to speak.
They were stationed aboard all major Imperial military vessels like cruisers and star destroyers to perform boarding and counter-boarding duties against enemy starships. Trained to fight both inside starships and outside them, in a vacuum, these stormtroopers never flinched from a threat, never fled, nor did they strive for much ingenuity. They acted strictly according to instructions developed at the dawn of the Empire's founding, carrying out their missions with frightening efficiency.
And even now, as if not noticing that they were being shot at with disintegrators mixed with blasters and even slug-throwers, the Marines (amusingly, sometimes called assault troopers or space marines) methodically cleared one deck after another. To a frightening tremor, Mara watched as Marines, sometimes with horrific injuries, continued fighting as if they didn't feel their wounds at all.
Despite thinking she had long forgotten such subtleties as stormtrooper specialization criteria, once she was plunged into battle, the information carefully memorized over years began to surface from her unconscious, returning to her memory.
While she was waiting out another wall of blaster fire being emitted by the enemy, stormtroopers, spread out behind the edges of bulkheads, returned fire. Now and then one of them took a well-aimed shot to the body or head and fell to the deck, but the others kept shooting.
A stormtrooper moving in dashes toward her turned out to be less quick than he initially appeared. A clearly large-caliber explosive round pierced his armor below the chest on the right, tearing apart both the plastoid of the white armor and the sturdy cloth armor undersuit, and the body beneath.
The fighter, dropping to his knees, continued to clutch the E-11 blaster rifle standard for Imperial Stormtrooper Corps soldiers, firing while seemingly not noticing the blood pouring from his torso and chunks of flesh and internal organs falling out. And it was truly terrifying—because even a single glance at that wound was enough to understand that surviving it silently was impossible. It was unsurvivable at all—death from blood loss would come faster than a medic could arrive from the neighboring squad. Because the medic from the squad Mara was fighting her way through to the battery deck lay ten meters back down the corridor, with a huge hole instead of his helmet's face shield.
E-11 blaster rifle.
Mara knew that on Carida, the planet where stormtroopers were trained, ordinary people were essentially turned into living weapons, for whom their own suffering was irrelevant—only completing the mission mattered. But she also knew something else—even stormtroopers screamed in pain. Maybe if it were a blaster burn, such stoicism would look more appropriate, but doing this with one's guts torn out…
Sometimes you wonder what these people are made of, that even the instinct for self-preservation retreats at the sight of them. But you also understand you don't want to know the answer. Because the reason can be found in only one place—on Carida. And only by becoming a stormtrooper yourself.
But Mara didn't wish that fate for herself, so…
With a loud clink, a small silvery ball with several blinking indicators fell to the corridor floor, about half a meter from Jade's feet.
A thermal detonator!
Type A thermal detonator.
An offensive-defensive munition designed to engage both sentients and equipment within a radius of up to twenty meters. The explosive substance is Baradium, encased in a shell of Thermite, and represents the most vile thing an advancing or defending sentient could see before them. Because you can never be sure. Whether you'll manage to clear the kill zone or not depends on what fuse time the one who threw this "death ball" set. The standard fuse is set for six seconds, which is plenty of time either to toss it back or leave the blast radius, but…
The enemy didn't throw it in the middle of the corridor for nothing. To throw it back, you'd have to get out from behind the bulkhead. Straight into the barrels of the Trandoshans, and they definitely won't miss. Running isn't an option either — on one side, the corridor dead-ends into that damned passage, and on the other, the half-meter alcove where she's standing ends at a terminal that's been nonfunctional since the Clone Wars. There's no way out!
And yet they had so little left to do — suppress the resistance on the battery deck, and the Star Destroyer would be in the hands of the Empire, of Thrawn! Her first remotely worthy assignment, and she'd failed it!
The world seemed to freeze before her, not allowing her even to stir. The fear of death, which she hadn't felt in a long time, slid its slippery tentacles inside her, binding her movements, forcing her to watch the death that would detonate soon, leaving no one alive within a radius of several meters. And those who survived the blast would be deafened by the shock wave reverberating through the enclosed space. The stormtroopers, of course, might be saved by their armor, but…
The bloodied Helldiver, without a word, made one short lunge on his knees, ended up next to the munition, and covered it with his body, curling up so that his armor and torso would absorb as many of the lethal fragments as possible…
It detonated. The unfortunate man's body was thrown up, torn into several pieces, splattering the corridor walls with blood. The disfigured body didn't move — Mara didn't even need the Force to know — the stormtrooper was dead. And she knew exactly why he had done it.
He sacrificed himself, knowing he wouldn't live to reach a medic. He understood he was dying, and the only way he could help his comrades was to take the blast himself. Or cover the grenade with his own body to prevent its explosion and the creation of even more wounded.
An act difficult to explain.
Stormtroopers don't receive any serious pay — they, like the clones before them, merely serve the government. The few credits they earn for their thankless work could never justify a desire to die for them.
Stormtroopers don't know how to empathize with anyone — they are indifferent to losses, even among their own. Killing one or another doesn't matter to them — they have no sense of camaraderie. Even the clones during the war had more motivation to save each other than the fighters of the Stormtrooper Corps.
And now, just like that…
"Suppressing fire," came the quiet voice of the squad leader. "Forward."
The stormtrooper-sergeant wasn't shouting, wasn't raising his voice, wasn't straining it. He commanded calmly, and his voice didn't even hint at panic or agitation. He was doing his job, which he knew perfectly, and desired no other fate. Otherwise, he would have long since found a reason and opportunity to desert and start a new life. Stormtroopers did that — few, but they did. It's no secret.
But the sergeant commanded. Here and now.
His orange pauldron peeked out from behind the bulkhead, and he waved his hand to the other soldiers. Four Helldivers — only four out of the eight in the squad — left their cover, laying down suppressing fire. They moved forward at a brisk pace down the corridor, leaving Mara Jade behind their snow-white armor.
The girl, hearing the Trandoshans shriek, sprang from cover, instantly oriented herself, and opened fire, supporting the three surviving troopers and their commander with her blaster's fire.
The lightweight body armor she'd put on for the operation pressed pleasantly with its weight — more precisely, with its almost total absence. The blaster pistol spat crimson bolts that always found their targets — once the squad had crossed the improvised barricade, nothing could stop them.
After that, only the battery itself remained. A vast space almost devoid of cover. And a few fleeing Trandoshans firing wildly.
Accurate shots ended the pirates' careers.
Walking past the corpses, the stormtroopers habitually and routinely fired confirmation shots into the heads of what were once sentient reptiles.
Then, covering each other, they entered the battery deck.
As expected, it was empty. Well, almost empty. Even during the landing, Mara had noticed that most of the Venator's batteries were silent. That could only mean one thing — either the guns were no longer there, or they were technically non-functional. But she'd bet on the first.
And she wasn't wrong.
Out of the ten cannons this battery was supposed to have, only one was in place. And now it was silent, despite looking perfectly functional.
"They just ran out of ammunition," Mara said grimly, seeing the empty gas cartridges scattered across the deck. Yes, it was a Clone Wars-era starship. The batteries didn't have turbolasers at all, but simple cartridge-fed cannons. But if so, then where…?
"Movement," reported the stormtrooper carrying the ysalamiri on his shoulders to the sergeant. His right hand held an E-11, aimed toward a massive instrument panel. The stormtroopers simultaneously trained their weapons on the presumed threat.
Mara instantly recognized that ancient mechanism. An artillery computer receiving target information from the bridge. And behind it…
"Don't shoot!" she ordered.
The stormtroopers didn't fire a single shot. But they didn't lower their weapons either, merely lowering the muzzles of their blaster rifles slightly. On one hand, the target was safe, and even an accidental shot wouldn't harm them; on the other, it would take only a fraction of a second to bring the weapon back to its previous line of fire.
"In the name of the Empire — come out," Mara commanded loudly, spotting in the dim light of the deck that the shadow behind the far side of the artillery computer was moving slightly. Someone was behind the device. "You will not be harmed."
After a few seconds, a shaggy Wookiee head appeared from behind the device. Tall, but with matted, clumped fur of brown with black undertones. The sentient was thin, looked around fearfully, and his entire demeanor showed that he wanted to appear very, very small and unnoticeable. To get lost, like the massive metal band around his neck, studded with indicators and microchips.
A slave collar.
Well, what else could you expect on a Trandoshan starship, famed for their "trade" slavery?
The Wookiee let out a low, plaintive whine, looking at her.
"I don't understand Shyriiwook," Mara Jade warned immediately, demonstratively holstering her weapon on her belt. "I doubt they," she nodded toward the stormtroopers, "do either. Do you understand me?"
The Wookiee, terrified (Hutt, what must they have done to this guy to make him so cowed? Even the Empire's construction of the Death Star hadn't managed to destroy the will of the proud people of Kashyyyk to this extent!) looked at her. Barely perceptibly nodded in agreement. It seemed he thought he'd found a new master. Who needs you, you flea-bitten rug?
"You won't be harmed," she repeated. "The slaver ship has been captured by the Empire. You'll be taken to where the other slaves we've found are being held. Our doctors will examine you, give you medicine, food. After that, command will decide which planet to drop you on."
The Wookiee kept staring at her, as if frozen in place. Whined questioningly.
"I don't understand," Mara Jade said irritably. "Just… don't do anything stupid, okay? Believe it or not, the Empire doesn't need slaves. At least, not the one I work for. So, be a friend, don't hold me up, and just follow orders, okay?"
The native of forested Kashyyyk growled again with a questioning intonation.
"I don't understand!" Mara snapped, for a moment wondering if the stormtroopers might be quietly laughing under their helmets. After all, their armor systems allowed the vocoder to be turned off — and everything said under the helmet stayed under the helmet.
Though no, that was nonsense. Helldivers couldn't laugh. Ordinary stormtroopers, considered simple "cannon fodder" even among their own comrades — those yes, they were less… trained, and had remnants of individuality. But not the Helldivers!
"In any case," she said, pulling herself together. "You," she pointed at the Wookiee, "are coming with me. They won't hurt you or cause any harm, okay? Just don't attack anyone," she asked. "Otherwise, these nice fellows," another nod toward the four stormtroopers, "will fry you quick. Got it?"
The Wookiee, after thinking, nodded again. Agreed.
"Well, great," the girl waved toward the exit from the battery deck. "Alright, let's go, find you something to eat… Actually, no, first a shower. There must be a working shower on this tub. Because you stink like you stood under a rancor when it was pissing…"
Taking a few steps, she sensed that the Wookiee hadn't moved.
"What now?" she grimaced. "I forgot to say 'please'? Well, not your day. Believe me, I'm being extremely nice and… Well, shit."
No, the Wookiee wasn't ignoring her. He wasn't even trying to plead or show his temper.
He was just waiting, as from behind the covers all across the battery deck, the shaggy heads of his brethren began to appear.
Many heads.
* * *
"Admiral," Captain Pellaeon addressed me, wiping his palm across his face in a distinctly unofficial gesture to relieve some tension. "Reports are coming in from the ships."
"I take it they aren't the most encouraging?" I inquired, carefully feigning indifference in my voice. Honestly, I was dreading hearing now that after the conclusion of this battle — or rather, its naval portion — all our efforts would amount to a Pyrrhic victory.
"As always after a large-scale engagement," Pellaeon, in his fatigue, either didn't notice or simply ignored certain signs of my nervousness. "The Chimaera is ready to continue the fight, but we've lost sixty percent of our artillery, have multiple hull breaches, and personnel casualties. The air wing… We've kept one and a half squadrons of TIE Interceptors, six fighters, and only one bomber. Evacuation shuttles have located four more damaged craft and are bringing them aboard. The Stormhawk and the Nemesis got off with a combined loss of a few turrets, and the small craft…"
"They are my least concern right now," I cut off the captain. Really, what the hell was there to talk about with fighters when it was plain to see that some of our capital ships were battered to the point where they needed, at best, a full overhaul. At worst, it would be simpler to transfer the crews to other starships, take everything valuable, and scuttle them so they wouldn't fall to the enemy. "Have the captains in their sectors follow standard protocols — gather surviving pilots and intact craft. Pirate ships included. We'll get the detailed report on the status of our ships' flight groups at base. What concerns me more is the condition of the ships themselves."
"The Steel Aurora has a breached reactor," I wondered if Pellaeon had started with the good news or the bad. "Captain Kalian ordered an emergency shutdown. On its remaining power, his Victory-class made it to the Republic MC80 and boarded it. At present, they are fighting for control of the ship. The reactor, engine, navigation compartments, and hyperdrive bay have been captured. Once they secure the weapons blisters, we can consider the starship ours."
"Can the Victory be saved?" I asked.
"The reactor can't output even a third of its rated power — and that only if repair crews manage to stop the fuel leak and set up at least temporary radiation shielding. I've ordered three emergency teams from the Chimaera to assist. However, without extended repairs, the ship won't be able to make a long hyperspace jump."
"The Sentinel?" I inquired about the fate of the much-battered interdictor cruiser.
"Major Himran is finishing up the suppression of resistance pockets on the Acclamator, while the helmsmen are uncoupling the ships," Pellaeon continued. "The Interdictor has sustained major damage to its lower decks; a significant portion of its reactor is either destroyed or seriously damaged. The crew is working to restore compartment pressurization and reseat the reactor. Based on the remaining equipment, they'll be able to jump to hyperspace in about thirty minutes — but not far, or the capacitors and cooling equipment of the reactor compartment might explode."
"What about the other ships?" The ysalamiri, which I was petting rather unkindly along its back, lazily raised its head to give me a look full of displeasure.
"Lieutenant Jade and the marine detachments are conducting a sweep of the Venator. Interesting fact — there are over two thousand slaves on board. Lieutenant Jade is requesting medical teams — many wounded. Apparently, the Trandoshans intended to slaughter them, knowing the ship would be captured. The slaves scattered and hid. They presumably served as lower-ranking crew and artillery support. The vast majority are Wookiees — over a thousand individuals. The rest are also non-humans of various races…"
Right, a military operation couldn't go smoothly without slave issues. And what to do with them now? No one's going to send them home. And dumping them into space is somehow pitiful…
"Send the necessary food supplies to the ship if they don't have any," I said with a surreptitious sigh. "Once we deliver them to base, we'll decide what to do later. Anything else noteworthy about the Venator?"
"The ship is effectively ours and can make a jump to Tangrene. The Crusader has lost practically all its artillery, but it's still mobile and able to get out of here. The same cannot be said for the Strike and the Tartan — they got very unlucky. Hull and life support systems are damaged. They might be able to enter hyperspace, but they won't come out in one piece."
"Notify the nearest Interdictor — have them remove the remaining crew, armament, hyperdrives, ship computers, and data recorders," I ordered. "Deliver the bodies of crew members to the ship's morgue. We'll bury them with naval tradition at base. Once the ships are disarmed, tow them to different points on the battlefield and mine them for detonation in the event of attempted boarding."
"A surprise in the finest stormtrooper tradition?" Pellaeon grinned. Yes, he was absolutely right: the Imperial Navy had no practice of mining ships for delayed explosion. Anything that couldn't be repaired was either abandoned with a vector toward the nearest star or shot up with turbolasers from surviving starships. The Stormtrooper Corps, however, had a habit of leaving mines on cleared bases and settlements — delayed retribution for any comrades of those who tried to return.
"Let the enemy fear our abandoned ships," I said. In truth, I had a thought about who might want to poke around the left-behind vessels immediately after we left the Rugosa system. "Did anyone survive from the destroyed Strike and Tartan?"
"Two fighter pilots," Pellaeon informed me.
"Enlist them in the Chimaera's flight group," I ordered. "Make a note to redistribute the surviving crew from those two cruisers among the ships that took part in the battle."
"Aye, sir." To survive a battle against a numerically superior enemy was practically heroism. And if you were also a pilot of a TIE fighter, which was essentially a "death capsule," you were almost a legend. Such people should be encouraged. And assigning them to the flagship's crew was excellent motivation. Especially since we needed pilots and fighters. And adding crew with good combat experience only benefited the entire ship.
"Now, let's go over our prizes," I ordered. "Inform the Stormhawk and Nemesis to bring aboard the captured frigates and corvettes. Is the Neutron Star capable of jumping?"
"The hyperdrive is fine, but there are major issues with the sublight drives — not many intact ones left."
"The crew of that ship isn't going to surrender?" I clarified.
Pellaeon scratched the back of his head.
"We haven't offered, sir."
Ah, right. An oversight.
"Offer on an open channel to surrender to anyone who wishes," I ordered. Indeed. Before, the Empire didn't much care about taking pirates prisoner — only if the ship captains showed humanitarianism. Usually they were destroyed along with their ships during battle. Now, if someone voluntarily agreed to surrender, we'd at least save time by not having to fight them during the capture. At most… No, I had little desire to keep them as prisoners of war in a volunteer-built prison on Tangrene. But offering them work… Not everyone, of course, but even among this rabble, there might be those willing to secure their future. "Distribute all who surrender to the ship's brigs, put them under guard. In exceptional cases, land prize crews on the starships and secure all key areas. We'll either take the Neutron Star with us or destroy it if its crew doesn't surrender. Relay that order to the nearest Interdictor — have them handle it immediately."
The main thing now was to reach our base and lick our wounds. I didn't really believe Sair Yonka had come here with only one ship in escort. With a "finishing off" or "delaying" tactic, that might have worked, but at present, we had to understand: if this pair of ships was part of a formation, then the remaining starships were already heading our way at full speed. And three Star Destroyers and two damaged Interdictors were all that could oppose them. Add to that the almost total lack of carrier coverage for a complete picture — and the prospects became quite grim.
And the Neutron Star couldn't be a stumbling block — its combat value was low, the ship was frankly outdated, and in combat effectiveness it yielded even to heavy cruisers like the Dreadnought. I planned to use it as a donor of rapid-fire and medium cannons for other ships. Dismantling it on-site, if we had the ability to tow it away, wasn't worth it — we'd only waste time. If it were in the same sorry state as the Strike and Tartan, that would be different. But as long as we had a choice, we needed to maximize time efficiency.
Absorbed in my thoughts, I didn't even notice when the commander of the Chimaera called over Lieutenant Tschel and relayed my instructions regarding the prisoners. The young officer with a haggard face silently listened to the order, saluted weakly, and left us, walking quickly to the comm station. At least this time he wasn't running and shouting across the entire bridge.
"What about the captured Star Destroyers?" I asked.
"We're practically done with the Errant Venture," Pellaeon reported. "Captain Vane captured the bridge; Booster Terrik himself was captured, but he's badly wounded and in a bacta chamber. Vane has only twenty sentients left under his command, and they want to return to Tangrene aboard the prize. Captain I-Gor from the Crusader has already inspected the ship and deemed it fit to be taken to base under its own power. Crews from the ships we're abandoning are being landed there now. Some of Terrik's people are willing to cooperate, but we still don't have enough personnel even for a full watch."
"Send the Chimaera to the prize and transfer some of our junior officers to her," I ordered. "We'll assign stormtroopers to the most unskilled positions on the captured ships — that should work. And the Liberty and the Insolent?"
"On the first, the fierce resistance has already subsided," Pellaeon answered. "Lieutenant Tschel reports that the crew began mass surrendering right after one of the stormtroopers announced over the intercom that Captain Yonka was dead."
"The commander of the Liberty died during the battle?" I clarified. The vague wording about the captain's death hinted at the possibility of another scenario.
"Yes, sir. His body was pierced and crushed by the structural frame of the combat bridge," Gilad reported. "Most likely this occurred during the Nemesis's bomber run on the Liberty's superstructure."
"Or our stormtroopers decided to hold a grenade-throwing lesson in the bridge of the attacked starship," I suggested.
"Unlikely, sir," the Chimaera's commander stated confidently. "The stormtroopers aboard the Chimaera are excellently trained and disciplined. They wouldn't use such weaponry in such a confined space, especially on the bridge of a ship we intend to use later and need to deliver under its own power to base…"
"I want to meet that stormtrooper who showed initiative and informed the crew of Yonka's death." The men in white armor, mockingly called "dolls," were trained for combat. Methodically, purposefully turning them into sources of increased danger. They were tactically proactive in battle, but showing ingenuity and affecting psychology… No, there was clearly something more here. Possibly among our stormtroopers, there was someone who didn't want unnecessary loss of life on the Star Destroyer. And that was very strange for a stormtrooper. But not unusual for spies of the New Republic, for example. An unpleasant assumption, but a fact. Someone, disguised as a stormtrooper, was clearly trying to pass themselves off as what they were not.
"I will inform General Covell to immediately withdraw that soldier from battle, disarm him, and have him escorted under guard aboard the Chimaera," Pellaeon stated his intentions.
"Absolutely not," I forbade. "Let things proceed as they are. Arrange additional surveillance on him so that he never again remains alone anywhere on the Freedom or the Chimaera until I give further orders. After we enter hyperspace, I will decide this man's fate. Continue your report, Captain."
Pellaeon, clearly thrown off by my tirade, was silent for several seconds, gathering his thoughts. Just as he was about to respond, Tschel approached him and whispered something in his ear. The Captain, after a moment's pause, nodded, and the Lieutenant departed.
"New information, Captain?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "Work on the Tartan and the Strike is complete. Equipment has been dismantled, data logs wiped, hard drives removed. Anything that could in any way point to our fleet has been destroyed or moved aboard the Crusader. Crews have been transferred to the Errant Venture; the dismantled weaponry is stored there as well, fortunately... the internal space allows it."
"Your hesitation suggests there is something intriguing on Booster Terrik's former ship," I noted.
"Yes, sir." Pellaeon took a deep breath. "I lack the words to describe it, but... Admiral, that sentient has completely reconfigured part of the Star Destroyer's internal compartments. There are fountains now, statues..."
"I'm sure we'll hear the details of that bacchanalia from Chief Engineer Reyes, but I'm confident that's not all the information Lieutenant Tschel relayed to you."
"I was just about to report that," Pellaeon said, his expression darkening. "No buzz droids were found on the ship."
"An unpleasant but entirely expected move," I said. Very bad. I had hoped to acquire them for free. Events are gaining momentum. And Project Morrt is precisely what I need to clarify several points for planning future operations. "All the more reason to keep the father and daughter of the Terrik family alive — they will still work for us. Speaking of their family, has Master C'baoth regained consciousness yet?"
"No, sir, still in a coma..."
"Good. Contact Honoghr. Have several Death Commando teams sent to Jomark. Their task is to reconnoiter the area. Equip our Master's future residence with listening devices and continue surveillance until further orders. The Master knows where he needs to go. And I would not be at all surprised if he is currently using the situation to play his own backroom games."
"You think he could be communicating with Horn right now?" Pellaeon's eyes widened, and his hand reached for his belt, where the standard-issue holster should have been but was absent. For the duration of C'baoth's presence on board, weapons remained in the armory. Only those within the ysalamiri field could retrieve them. Stormtroopers, for instance.
"I would not be surprised if that happened. The Master is not known for patience. And it is quite suspicious that, upon learning of Force-sensitive sentients on the Insolent, he did not desire to acquire them for himself. So, we will continue to pretend everything is going according to the prearranged plan. But we will safeguard against unforeseen circumstances. The Noghri will play their role in this. It goes without saying — neither they nor their ship must be detected by the locals, nor by those who arrive later. And yes," I pointed to the lizard dozing at my feet. "Send it to a cage closer to our Jedi."
"It will be done, sir."
"Now let's return to your report, which keeps getting interrupted." I could no longer suppress a slight smirk, watching the nearly-sleeping Tschel mutter something to his commander yet again. I wonder what the reason is for this boy being here? Before the battle with the New Republic ships began, we changed shifts — those who had fought under the effects of Battle Meditation were barely standing and had to be relieved by colleagues from another shift while I was talking to Yonka. But that last part wasn't my doing; Pellaeon took the initiative himself. Yet he still prefers to test Tschel's endurance. Interesting.
"On the Insolent, General Covell has taken Leonia Tavira prisoner," Pellaeon finally reported. "Using ysalamiri, we captured three unknown sentients in sealed armor of an unknown type, armed with lightsabers. The Star Destroyer has sustained a considerable amount of damage; the main engines are damaged, but it can manage a third of its cruising speed and make the jump to hyperspace to Tangrene. Most of her crew has surrendered to us and expressed a desire to return to Imperial service under your command..."
How 'unexpected,' I thought. Considering the Insolent's crew were formerly Imperial military personnel under the command of Imperial Admiral Teradoc (if memory serves), attempting to return to service rather than face conviction for piracy is more than logical from their perspective. Because pirates in the old Empire faced a far from pleasant fate. And at the present moment, they don't even know how the victor will dispose of their lives. Again, this opens up new and new horizons for the unfolding of events.
."..the pirates on the Neutron Star have agreed to surrender and hand over their cruiser in exchange for their lives being spared," Pellaeon continued. Also a logical move. For the most part, if the Empire has no other grievances against them besides this incident, they can indeed buy their lives this way. And in all likelihood — at least at this moment — I am inclined to accept their 'offer.' The main thing is to get out of here as quickly as possible. I may not be a Jedi, but my logic is sound — I suspect visitors may arrive soon. "Search parties have found forty-seven surviving pirate pilots and over fifty assorted starfighters and 'oddities' with pilots dead inside from decompression or life support failure. All craft have been brought to our ships' hangars; the pilots are in the brig. Captain Kalian, using stormtrooper units from the Steel Aurora, has subjugated the MC80. The ship is in relatively combat-ready condition and can make it to Tangrene on its own. On the Venator and the Acclamator, the last pockets of resistance have either been eliminated or the surviving pirates have surrendered — no more than a hundred sentients. The remaining captured ships fit for repair and future service have been brought aboard the fleet's vessels."
Well, this news cannot but please me. It even lifts the mood somewhat.
"Is there any information on repairs to the Sentinel and the Steel Aurora?" Glancing at the chronometer, I noticed that about thirty minutes had passed since I began my conversation with the Chimaera's commander — the maximum time I had set for remaining in the Rugosa system. And in fact, most of the urgent matters were now concluded...
"Everything is in accordance with preliminary reports," Pellaeon had to request additional data this time. "They can leave Rugosa, but they won't make it to Tangrene. They'll have to make short hyperspace hops at minimum energy expenditure and give the reactors time to cool down — otherwise, power plant detonations are possible."
Consequently, we would have to adjust to them and return to Tangrene at a snail's pace, with New Republic squadrons on our tail within a day or two (depending on how quickly news of the events in the Rugosa system spreads). Those squadrons would undoubtedly have either Interdictor-class cruisers (doubtful, as the new Coruscant government doesn't have many such Star Destroyers, and they are mainly based in the Core Worlds), or Immobilizer 418-class minesweepers (of which they have quite a few), or similar vessels of comparable purpose. Risking the entire fleet for two ships that will require extended repairs even upon returning to base is not worth it. In a single battle, I have acquired three Imperial II-class Star Destroyers, a Mon Calamari star cruiser, a Neutron Star-class cruiser, a Venator-class Star Destroyer, an Acclamator II-class assault ship, some starfighters and other enemy small craft, a Mon Calamari star cruiser, at least two Corellian DP-20 corvettes... was there something else, or does it just seem that way?! However, that fact isn't so important right now.
Having lost only two of the weakest ships in battle — a medium cruiser and a patrol cruiser — leaving their unserviceable counterparts behind as decoys, and having the badly damaged Victory and Interdictor on my hands, I simply have no right to hobble the main force with these two 'cripples.' Because if we fall into a trap by delaying our retreat, we could lose absolutely everything and everyone. And then my plans would be in ruins.
Yes, part of me wants to save everyone and arrive at Tangrene triumphantly to the sound of fanfares, so that word spreads throughout all the Imperial Remnants: 'Look, Thrawn is good, he fights and wins, come all of you under his wing, let's show that the Empire can still fight back!'
But at the same time, I understand that 'the best is the enemy of the good.' I have achieved a great deal with this battle. Too much to risk it all. I cannot leave myself exposed. I will have to split the fleet.
"Inform Captain Schneider that the Nemesis will escort the Steel Aurora and the Sentinel to our forward operating base on Linuri," I said, admitting to myself that I had only just remembered I even had one. Having settled on Tangrene and not conducting any significant raids since the operation in the Dufilvian sector, I had somewhat forgotten about the outpost behind enemy lines. And I had sent quite a few trophies from the sacking of Ord Pardron there. The ion cannon, for example. None of my enemies know the planet's location, so I can send the damaged ships there for proper repairs before they move on to the main base. "Contact Lieutenant Jade — I will need her in five hours. Also inform General Covell to deliver Leonia Tavira, the captain of the Insolent, and the captured Jensaarai to the Chimaera's brig. Don't forget my instructions regarding the stormtrooper we discussed earlier. Once the prisoners are aboard, the ships under the Chimaera's command are to proceed to Tangrene. The Nemesis, Steel Aurora, and Sentinel are to proceed to Linuri. That is all, Captain Pellaeon. If I am needed, I will be in my quarters. Carry on."
Rising from my chair, I handed the ysalamiri to the Chimaera's commander and, slowly, catching the glances of the bridge crew, I walked along the central walkway towards the turbolift. Right now, the only thing I wanted was to lie down and sleep for at least a few hours, to give my brain a rest and let the adrenaline boiling in my blood subside. This tactical victory has increased the size of my fleet, relieved me of several future problems, and clearly created new ones. I need to calculate the 'cards' I hold and decide how to play them going forward. Already, there are several suitable options and...
"Grand Admiral Thrawn, sir!" Captain Pellaeon's commanding voice, full of spirit, reached me from behind. Stopping, I turned and looked at the Chimaera's commander, standing at attention next to my chair. Eyes wide, arms at his sides, one hand holding the sluggishly licking ysalamiri. I don't like that formal, piercing gaze full of admiration. This bodes ill.
"What is it, Captain?" I asked, glancing surreptitiously into the port and starboard pits. The bridge crew there were mirroring Gilad's posture. Just without the ysalamiri. So... Did I screw up somewhere? Have I been found out?! Rukh is to my right, but even he is unarmed except for knives. What the hell...
"It is an honor to serve under your command — for me, my crew, and every Imperial, sir!" the commander of the Star Destroyer Chimaera declared, each word crisp as a blaster burst.
So... This is something new. And what does the Imperial Navy regulations dictate a senior officer on the bridge should reply to such a statement? Think, think...
Stop. There is no such thing in the regulations. Nothing like this exists. Subordinates in the Empire do not express their admiration for their commander.
"You are a fine officer, Captain Pellaeon," I said slowly. "And you command talented people. Continue to improve, and one day I will say the same words to all of you."
Slight smiles appeared on the faces of the bridge crew.
"Now, back to work." Adding a metallic edge to my voice, I signaled an end to this moment of such blatant and mass violation of standard protocol. But it was hard not to notice that such an expression of emotion had heartened the men. "We are not at Tangrene yet; the enemy is still breathing down our necks. Upon return to base — twenty-four hours of shore leave for everyone."
Despite the turbolift doors supposedly sealing hermetically, I still heard the roar of applause. Rukh saw my sly smile.
But he won't tell anyone.