Nine years, five months, and thirty-fourth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, five months, and thirty-fourth day after the Great Resynchronization.
"You clearly got yourself a good score," Irv said, studying Yazuo Vain, who was squinting happily while lovingly stroking the head of the B-1 droid seated at the deflector control panel. The gray-brown metal, tarnished by time, shimmered faintly in the artificial light of the ship's combat bridge, harmonizing with the pale green monitors of the battle stations. Which, as in this ship's former glory days, were manned by droids.
Captain Irv.
"Keep your eyes off my prize, Irv," the pirate chuckled, flashing a smile worthy of a propaganda poster. "You should be grateful, and your patron too, that I'm buying this junk from you."
"Let's just say the Clear Voice isn't exactly young," Irv said diplomatically, propping his feet up on the console and taking a drag from his cigar. "But back in the day, this little lady, along with her two exact copies, gave hell to anyone who disagreed. And no one complained. Well, none of the ones who lived through an encounter with them."
"I heard the lead ship of this sub-series was torn apart right in orbit over Coruscant at the end of the Clone Wars," Yazuo said, tapping the droid on the head.
"Hey!" the droid whined in its grating mechanical voice, reacting to the attempted intrusion into its metal cranium. "Keep your hands to yourself, you brat!"
B-1 Battle Droid.
"And I'll send you to scrub the heads," Yazuo promised, stroking the droid's head again. The droid started to complain again, and that was the last straw for Vain. A vibroblade blade flashed, and the severed head of the former Separatist droid flew off to the side with a nasally fading cry: "What for?"
"Hey, you!" Yazuo said, jabbing a finger at the nearest B-1. "Take his place."
"Siiir?" the droid asked in that irritating tone, looking at Irv. The man blew out a cloud of smoke and nodded, still sitting with his feet on the panel. "Got it, got it!"
The brainless machine shuffled over to its decapitated comrade's station, unceremoniously shoving the remains onto the floor, nearly crushing Yazuo's foot.
"Hey, you bucket of bolts, watch it!" Vain snarled. "You almost killed your own captain!"
"Huh?" The droid turned its face toward him. "Oh! Got it, got it!"
Yazuo rested his hand on his weapon, aiming at this droid's head too.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Irv advised him, watching the bridge through half-closed eyes. "There are twenty-five thousand of them on board, and they're hardly in peak condition."
"Yeah, sure. While you were hiding out in the depths of the Outer Rim, blowing through what you stole from the Separatists, laying low from the Imperial soldiers — the droids' expiration date just came due," Vain laughed.
"They're dumb puppets," Irv shrugged. "The CIS used them to make up for crew shortages. Cheap, angry, artificial intelligence barely better than a bantha's. They couldn't even mount a rebellion."
"Because you can take them out with one shot?" Vane chuckled, lovingly stroking his weapon.
"They don't even know the word 'rebellion,'" Irv yawned. "Not like you."
"What about me?" Yazuo's eyes widened. "You were asking for it back then. Shouldn't have tried to take my score."
"Nothing's changed since I was your captain, Yazuo," Irv sighed. "You're still as impulsive as a kid."
"That kid made you forty million credits richer," Yazuo reminded him.
"And you also shot me in the face," Irv reminded him.
"You had a smart mouth," Vain reminded him. "You look better after the plastic surgery."
"The metal plate in my forehead still itches," Irv noted. "Ah, I remember grieving when they cracked my skull during the Clone Wars. Such a handsome guy, a Separatist officer, with a plate where his frontal bone should be…"
"Oh, quit your moaning," Yazuo grimaced. "The boys told me you were an ugly bastard even when you served in the Republic Corps. And after I shot you, the surgery at least made you look somewhat human."
"That's why you have trust issues, Yazuo," the former pirate captain said. "You never understood the simple rules. All loot is divided among the raid's participants. And the captain gets first pick, not some executive officer."
"Come on, you're old. What did you need a young Twi'lek for?" Vain wondered. "And I ended up marrying her…"
"Need me to remind you how that whole story ended?" Irv puffed his cigar. "You shot me, stole my prize, got caught stealing a starship…"
"If you hadn't ratted me out, I wouldn't have gotten caught," Yazuo reminded him.
"You ruined my face," Irv reminded him. "Of course I was angry. And you were young, stupid, and had never seen a real scrape. All these years later, and you're still strutting around like a greenhorn. That's why the pirate community doesn't like you. You're greedy, Yazuo."
"I'm thrifty," he objected.
"No, greedy," Irv said. "You 'killed' me over some girl who ended up cheating on you anyway. How many gangs and lone wolves have worked with you? How many either died on missions or ended up knifed by you and your boys?"
"A couple, at least…"
"All of them," Irv clarified, flicking ash onto the deck. "And now, after all these years, your only real friend is me. Your very first captain. The one you shot in the face. And if it weren't for the plate…"
"Are you going to hold that over me for the rest of my life?" Yazuo asked impatiently.
"Well, one of us is clearly going to die sooner than the other," Irv smiled. "Considering you spent forty million on a nearly kilometer-long Separatist ship that's going on thirty years old, built by Quarrens — some of the worst engineers out there — and you're seriously planning to keep pirating with it… I figure I'll just quietly step off on New Cov, buy myself a nice freighter, and fly away…"
"Where?" Yazuo chuckled. "Back to your hidey-hole? But you're forgetting, soon I'll be rich and I'll drag you right back out of there. You said you've got another ship, just like this one?"
"I do," Irv sighed. "The Colicoid Swarm. Yazuo, I'm not against you paying me and taking this antique off my hands. But, kid, you have to understand, any Republic bucket or Imperial Star Destroyer will rip you a new one. These ships haven't seen battle in over two decades. A lot of systems are damaged from age. You need spare parts, a crew. A real crew, not these," he flicked his cigar butt with his finger, landing it squarely on the nearest B-1's head, "puppets."
"Got it, got it," the once-fearsome war machine replied.
"I have a crew," Yazuo noted. "Loyal to the grave."
"Two dozen sentients on a hulk like this isn't a crew," Irv sighed. "Yazuo, I'm telling you this for your own good. Even though this ship made it through the Clone Wars, it needs repairs. Taking it into battle knowing half the artillery is jammed and the other half is barely working — that's stupid."
"There won't be any battle," Yazuo grimaced. "I'll fly to New Cov, pick up the boys and a cargo for the employer, drop you off, and happily ride off into the sunset. And if the employer's in a good mood, I might even tell him you've got more unwanted ships he could buy. But he won't be as generous as I was."
"Then it's a mystery why such a smart man as your employer got involved with you," Irv sighed. "You act like a child…"
"Stop saying that!" Yazuo bared his teeth. "I told you the first time I saw this ship — it was going to be mine. No matter what. And it is mine! Why do you care what happens to me?"
"I just feel sorry for you, you fool," Irv said. "If you hadn't killed off every guy you hired for jobs, you'd have a couple thousand sentients by now — enough to at least partially crew this thing. But no, you'd rather not share the loot and you take out everyone who trusted you. Though, they were idiots themselves. Trusting you, Yazuo, is like firing an automatic blaster pressed to your own temple and hoping you'll miss."
"So who taught me that?" Yazuo snorted. "I'm not talking about shooting a blaster at your head — you're the absolute champion there — I'm talking about eliminating 'extra mouths.' If I hadn't been quicker back then, you'd have shot me too, just like those guys from our crew."
"Honestly, I admitted I was wrong a long time ago," Irv sighed. "It's not for nothing I kept pulling you out of prison. And I even helped you steal those Tartans."
"I knew you'd hold that over me for the rest of my life," Yazuo rolled his eyes. "By the way, I found a good buyer for them."
"I'm surprised you found any buyer at all in the Empire, considering how much trouble you caused Warlord Zsinj," Irv said, yawning and glancing at the white-blue haze flitting past the bridge viewports, which from the outside looked like an aquarium for sea creatures. The same white-blue haze. Nothing unusual.
"Well, I'm not surprised that you, under the cover of the war's end, managed to reactivate Separatist starships and droids, kill their crews, steal them with the droids, and hide them somewhere no sentient starship would ever go," Yazuo said meaningfully.
"How many years in a row have you been trying to find out where my hideout is and how many starships are there?" Irv smiled.
"As long as I can remember being in your gang," Vain searched his memory.
"When exactly that much time has passed, I'll tell you," Irv smiled.
No, he definitely liked this brave little brat. Daring, with his own ideas about honor and loyalty. He didn't care what others thought — he did what he wanted, when and where he wanted.
That's exactly what reminded Irv of himself in his youth. Of course, times were different, the state was different, but if you compared the cesspool of the Outer Rim with the obscurantism going on in the Judicial Forces during the last years of the Old Republic… There was no real difference. Except in the first case, you wasted your youth serving a rotting state for deci-credits, and in free flight… you were your own boss.
Of course, he hadn't come to that right away. First, he'd served nearly three years in the Separatist fleet. He'd seen plenty of how various fat cats fought to fatten their wallets against the Republic. But he wasn't in a hurry to turn pirate; he'd hoped that after the CIS won, life would get better.
It didn't pan out.
And then, when the Confederation's ships were suddenly left to their own devices, and their crews, almost entirely made up of droids, shut down as if someone had flipped a switch, he realized it had come down to the wire: you either cross the line and keep moving on the same course, keep fighting for ideals you frankly couldn't care less about, or you go where there's always room for a man on a starship with big guns. The captain of the Colicoid Swarm, where Irv served as the senior officer responsible for technical personnel, decided they should keep fighting. He stated his view to the crew and got their support. They headed to a rendezvous point, where those who had survived the CIS leadership's betrayal soon arrived.
And there, at a meeting of senior officers, the captain of the Clear Voice supported him. And the captains of other ships who had managed to reactivate their droids and flee to the galaxy's fringes also voted to join the Confederation Remnants, who were desperately fighting the young Galactic Empire. Irv heard them, because he'd sent a mouse droid equipped with a holocam to the meeting. He heard and understood that this was a path to nowhere. None of the senior officers of the assembled fleet realized they had lost. That all the droids in the galaxy couldn't just shut down at once — only the CIS leadership could do that. And if they had suddenly decided to trade their ideals for something more tangible (and why else would they shut down the droids?), then why should those who had simply joined the CIS to fight and make a living have to die?
Irv didn't think long. He was a droid specialist after all, not just a combat officer who had beaten plenty of opponents in battle. Hacking a B-1's basic code was a piece of cake if you understood the software architecture. The Republic, in fact, knew how to pull off tricks like that. And it would have been a disgrace for the Separatists not to know how to crack the programs of their own mechanical soldiers and sailors.
While the Separatist ship crews rested and plotted their revenge, Irv worked. And when the attack targets were finally chosen, he used his ship's communication systems, via the nearest Munificent, to broadcast his own orders to the droid army.
Millions of combat units of all possible types — from B-1s all the way up to Droidekas and spider droids — rose up against their masters. Many ships perished in that mutiny, but about an hour after the mechanical army's attack began, Irv was the only living human left aboard an entire Separatist squadron.
He sold the heavily damaged Separatist starships that needed major repairs to whoever wanted them. To pirates, rebels, even to Separatists still fighting. He sold some to maintain others in fighting condition. He used a remote CIS base as a layover because he didn't know where else to go — the Empire was rampaging across the galaxy, finishing off its enemies. Breaking out into open space with a squadron of ships full of droids… That would have been stupid, of course.
He just waited, enjoying the solitude. He spent money cautiously, always in different places to avoid drawing attention. He dabbled in piracy for fun. He lost a few starships fleeing Imperial patrols. He abandoned the base and hid what was left of the fleet.
It hurt to abandon the starships to their fate, but continuing to show them around the Outer Rim ten, fifteen years after the Clone Wars ended was unsafe. So he just left. Took the money with him, boarded a sloop he'd bought in advance, and flew away. He became a pirate and things were, generally, not bad — he'd pick up scum for the dirty work, and when it was time to split the loot, a couple of Droidekas would show up and solve all the problems. Only with Yazuo it hadn't worked out. When Irv, not used to sharing with anyone, planned to take the Twi'lek girl the kid had his eye on, the boy found him and shot his first captain right in the head. Irv took the shot to his forehead, protected by metal (a legacy of the past). How Vain had managed to escape the Droidekas' fire, dragging his girl with him, was still a mystery to Irv.
But that incident let him shed his former pirate captain persona and go underground. For a while, he took revenge on his 'killer'; eventually even that got boring. He honestly just felt sorry for the kid, so Irv decided to help him, set him on the right path. Especially since he'd known the boy's father well back in the day and in a way owed him his life.
So, trying to keep the kid from doing something rash was worth it. At least it was a way to pass the time — for someone who had spent the last twenty years just watching from the sidelines what a mess the galaxy was in, it was a pretty decent amusement.
It worked out… poorly. The kid wasn't inclined to trust anyone, which, honestly, was fair. Too bad he rarely listened to the voice of reason either.
This was especially obvious back when, to save the young pirate from an ISB pursuit, they had to hole up in a Separatist base. That was when Yazuo first saw the Separatist Star Destroyers his former captain still had. And he got fired up with the idea of getting one for himself. Irv had to hide the starships again, getting rid of five Munificents in the process. Hiding just two ships turned out to be much easier than seven. The Rebel Alliance got ships, and Irv got the money to bring the Colicoid Swarm up to spec. He simply didn't have the funds or time for the second ship. So it just sat there while Irv restored the other one. It took several years, but now the Colicoid Swarm, a Providence-class carrier Star Destroyer, also known as a 'Separatist dreadnought', was in near-perfect condition. He'd had to take some parts from the Clear Voice, most of its air wing and droids, since Irv had been planning to either sell this starship out of habit to the New Republic, or scrap it for money to hire a crew and go back to a pirate's free life…
CIS Providence-class carrier Star Destroyer.
And then, out of nowhere, with forty million Imperial credits in his pocket, here comes Yazuo Vain. With a burning look and a hunger to take possession of a Separatist ship.
Shrugging at such stupid stubbornness, Irv loaded the least functional droids onto the Clear Voice as crew, along with aging Vulture droid starfighters and Hyena droid bombers to make it look like it had an air wing, swapped the ship for the money, and arranged with Yazuo to drop him off at New Cov. From there, Irv planned to take a roundabout way back to his own ship and finally get down to business. With the Empire and the New Republic pounding each other, and Leonia Tavira having vanished from the scene, he didn't have to worry about something unpredictable happening and someone starting to hunt him.
Vulture droid starfighter.
Hyena droid bomber.
"You won't listen to me, of course," Irv drawled lazily, "but until you get the ship in order, I advise staying off the busy trade routes. I hear the Republic boys are pretty angry right now, search groups are flying everywhere, pulling pirates out of hyperspace left and right. And if they catch you with a broken-down ship…"
"Oh, quit nagging," Vain winced. "I've got twenty squadrons of droids on board that can kick anyone's ass. And a ton of guns. I could slap down any ship out there."
"If you'd just once listen to a more experienced pirate," Irv sighed. "But no, you have to rush off to your New Cov…"
"The employer asked me to pick up a cargo," Yazuo snorted. "No one's skimmed the cream off that job in three weeks. The goods are sitting there. Waiting. I sent some boys ahead to remind the locals who's boss around here. As soon as I show up on the Providence, they'll all shit their pants. And with a ship like this, I won't have to hunt for small fry anymore — we'll hit real convoys and…"
"Siiir," a B-1 said in its grating voice, walking up to them. "Dropping to real space in orbit of New Cov."
"Here comes the fun," Vain rubbed his hands together. "I can just imagine the look on…"
The light lines of hyperspace unraveled and collapsed into points.
The Clear Voice had completed its first hyperspace jump in years. According to the scanners, nothing had even fallen off. Or the equipment was just glitchy…
"Siiiiir," Irv leaned forward, nearly doubling over, forgetting he hadn't taken his feet off the panel yet. "There are ships out there…"
"I don't get it," Vain furrowed his brow. "What are six dreadnoughts doing here? And where's my Lewd Twi'lek?!"
"Captain," how sickening that droid voice was after all these years of dealing with them! "We have identified these ships' transponders. Two of them intercepted and destroyed a transport carrying droids five years ago. The transport you sold to the Zann Consortium."
"Battle stations!" Irv shouted, the first to realize that half a dozen ships turning in unison toward their well-worn vessel was clearly not the welcoming committee his younger companion had expected to find here. "Launch the Vultures, get the Hyenas up! Deflectors to maximum!"
"This is my ship!" Yazuo protested, offended. "And who the hell are they, some Sith-spawn!?"
"Sit tight for now, kid," Irv waved him off. "This is some crazy lone rebel, and it looks like he's gotten more ships. Well, this time I'm not on a shuttle either. Time to shake off the rust… Okay, tin cans," he shot a glance at the droids, "those antiques don't have an air wing, but we do! And… load the proton torpedo tubes. The old Clear Voice might not be in top shape, but she can still bite back with what teeth she has!"
"Moff Ferrus reports that the Nemesis has completed repairs, loaded all necessary supplies, and is ready to depart for Wayland," said Major Tierce, approaching me.
The spacious hangar of Installation Mount Tantiss currently looked like a bustling anthill. The movement of troops in snow-white armor, seeming like an endless avalanche, was mesmerizing.
Without shouts, reproaches, or curses, the soldiers, created to destroy the enemy, silently lined up, passing cargo containers hand over hand along the chain. As soon as one made it from the storage area near the hangar walls to the cargo holds of the transports, another crate took its place in the soldiers' hands. And everything started over. Not the slightest hitch, precise, like droids. Not a single word of complaint. A little more and I'd believe they actually liked what they were doing. Though… I was more inclined to believe these soldiers were absolutely indifferent to what they did. They were stormtroopers, they'd received an order, and they were carrying it out. And they didn't give a damn that this was the second day without sleep.
How was this even possible?! What was wrong with these people?!
The human body has limits, doesn't it? Or doesn't it?
* * *
When I heard about practically two regiments of clones, created in secret from me using the barely understood 'Ge Node' program, my first instinct was to order their destruction. Because incorporating these… 'products' into the general mechanism of my armed forces was a huge risk. Yes, the medics reported that all of them were in perfect health. Yes, their nervous systems and brains were developed just like normal people. Yes, all the created matrices had taken as expected, and no, there were no deviations.
That's exactly why it was scary.
Things can't be that perfect.
Sentients can't just go through a medical commission with complete indifference, then march off into the nearby forest to carry out their Supreme Commander's order. Armed with nothing but saws and axes.
Honestly, I expected them to kill each other off, and that would have served as proof of my justified concerns and a future ban on the "Ge Nod" program. The "Spaarti" program works fine, so why come up with something new? It's the law of any mechanic: "If it works, don't touch it." Though, it's not just mechanics. Why use some unstudied cloning program when "Spaarti" has proven itself excellently? Not clear. But it's too promising.
Because "Spaarti" only copies into the clone bodies the copy of the consciousness it received from the donor. With his thoughts, worldview, outlook on life. If the original was loyal, the clone will be loyal too — by default. Later, naturally, everything can change.
But the "Ge Nod" program doesn't allow that. Whoever the copied donor is, if orders of submission to a superior officer are added to his altered matrix, the clone will never disobey. The mantra that is drilled into stormtroopers throughout their entire training period, forcing them to discard everything human, can be implanted into a clone's mind with nothing more than a line of programming code. "Oh, what progress we have made, what unseen wonders..."
"Have you finished surveying the camp in the forest?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," Tierce said briskly. "An excellent training grounds for infantry units. A sports 'compound,' firing ranges, hand-to-hand combat areas, a shooting range, live-fire ranges, and so on."
"Are you certain they've been implanted with stormtrooper matrices, and not engineer-sapper corps ones?" I inquired. "Building a training camp in just one night is no small feat."
"Nevertheless, they managed it," Tierce said with a smile. A strange smile. As if it were his personal achievement. I don't like coincidences like this. As if someone very sly... cunning and calculating, is acting behind my back. Very much in Tierce's style, who has already proven the possibility of using a plan within a plan. But is there any proof? Unfortunately — none. If someone did give Colonel Selid an order behind my back, he took that information with him to the grave. There is no such data either in the communication session logs or in the memories of TNX-0297. A dead end.
But only at first glance.
If the creation of "Ge Nod" clones — is part of Tierce's plan, I'll find out. Faster than he thinks.
"Two days without rest," I noted. "Impressive. In ten hours of loading, they haven't dropped a single transport container or spare part, loading ships with the precision of droids. Is there a limit to these beings' physical endurance?"
"There is for everyone," Tierce said seriously. "In fact, sir, I'm certain they've been feeling tired for a while now. Despite excellent physical condition, an organism engaged in physical labor, without sleep, rest, or food — it's bound to get tired."
"Then why do they keep working?" The meaning of what he said still eluded me.
"You haven't given them the corresponding order, sir," the Guardsman reminded me.
Hm, right, that's it. The infamous line immediately came to mind: "There was no 'At ease' command!"
So, what do we have?
Three thousand seven hundred and one stormtrooper, unquestioningly devoted to me, incapable of deserting without an order, has been tested by me for endurance over two days. "Spaarti" clones need training to solidify the theoretical skills they received from their genetic donors. The same applies to "Ge Nod" program clones. So a training compound near "Mount Tantiss" certainly won't hurt. And even though at the moment I intend to produce only technical specialists and future ship crew members, such an "educational institution" won't be superfluous. Even technicians and officers, clones or not, need to stay in shape.
"Have you studied the data on the disposition of military units, Major?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "However, due to the large volume of data and the short amount of time, the data array has not been fully studied."
"Are there any long-term reserve storage depots outside the Core Galaxy?" I inquired.
"I found one, sir," Grodin replied. "Military base RZ7-6113-23. Located in the Outer Rim, Chompana Sector. Situated on a class-six planetoid..."
Which literally means the following: this world is lifeless, volcanic, covered in mountains. Just a chunk of rock.
"Personnel?" I inquired.
"Standard garrison, sir," Tierce replied. "It's a preservation base, intended for storing decommissioned Republic equipment. By tactical grid coordinates, it's quadrant L-4..."
Practically the very edge of known space. Even by ear, without checking the galactic atlas, one can tell — the territory is either within or close to the Pentastar Alignment.
"What are the chances that Grand Moff Ardus Kaine has already paid a visit there?" I inquired.
"The depot is classified as 'secret,' sir," Tierce said. "It's unlikely that Kaine even knows about it. Otherwise, it would be hard to conceal the presence of outdated ground and space equipment from him. No matter how hard he tried to hide that fact from others, over such a period of time."
"Well," I sighed. "In any case, we need those depots. Command your stormtroopers, Major." Tierce looked at me with surprise. "Or do you object to these soldiers —" I gestured toward the "stormtrooper-loaders," " joining the reformed 501st Legion?"
"No, sir!" my Adjutant snapped to attention. "Thank you for the honor you've given me, sir!"
"At ease, Major," I ordered. "We move out immediately. Load the remaining antiques and soldiers onto the Chimaera, and we depart for Tangrene. Inform Moff Ferrus that we'll need a well-guarded empty warehouse for these valuables."
"It will be done, sir," Tierce said. "Should I contact Colonel Himron and Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, as well as the Hand?"
"Not necessary," I said indifferently. "The Nemesis will retrieve them and take the remaining equipment and valuables. Given the replenishment of your legion, we don't have much space on the Destroyer as it is."
"As you command, Grand Admiral." Tierce, saluting, quickly headed toward the stormtroopers, already pulling out his comlink and relaying my orders.
Well, Base RZ7-6113-23, await your hour. If you have at least weapons from the time of the Grand Army of the Republic, that's already good. With the increase in the number of operational Spaarti cylinders, the needs have also grown. I'm simply going to run out of money soon — and ahead of me is still the repair of the Katana Fleet, not to mention the Victories, the Venator, the Acclamator, the Mon Calamari cruisers, and other starships waiting their turn for modernization... Anything we don't need ourselves will have to be sold.
Of course, if there's even anything left on this Hutt base.
Well, in any case, while we're searching for military supplies that were put into preservation, Mara Jade, the scouts, and counter-intelligence officers, supported by Captain Von Schneider and his Star Destroyer, will have time to shake down "Mount Tantiss" and finally find out what's going on here.
Watching the stormtroopers march in almost a parade formation towards the barracks for their weapons, I sighed almost imperceptibly.
I don't like any of this. It's time to think about another backup plan.
* * *
Garm Bel Iblis smoothed his disheveled hair with his hand. He turned his head to look at his assistant, Irene, standing beside him.
"So, Talon Karrde can be trusted?" he asked ironically, trying not to let his voice be drowned out by the booming orders of the Wanderer's commander — the personal fleet of the former Corellian senator.
"He was right about the governor colluding with the Imperials, extorting tribute in the form of biomolecular mass under the guise of robbery," the woman said. "Perhaps he didn't know about this ship's arrival..."
"I doubt there's a place in the galaxy where you can hide a Separatist Providence-class dreadnought," Bel Iblis lamented.
"At least we destroyed the raiders' ship," she noted.
"An armed medium freighter," the man grimaced. "That's not why I brought the whole fleet here."
"The last time, a Star Destroyer came," Irene noted.
"That's why we're here," Bel Iblis nodded. "And now... they're launching fighters."
"Droids," Irene grimaced, looking at the panel where the identification of the enemy's small craft had appeared. And there was no doubt they were the enemy — crimson turbolaser bolts sliced through the vacuum separating the ships. "Vultures and Hyenas. Junk."
"Just like our ships," Bel Iblis noted. "What is this, a meeting of antiques today?"
"Orders, Commodore?" the Wanderer's commander addressed him.
The Corellian remained silent, analyzing the chances of victory in this battle.
The enemy launched two hundred and forty small craft — half fighters, the rest bombers. Even if the machines were outdated and the droid minds controlling them were incredibly stupid, there wasn't much pleasant about this encounter. One air wing would be enough to seriously damage the ships.
Not to mention that the Separatist ship itself had a huge number of guns — just how many turbolasers did the enemy have? It had been a long time since he'd last seen such a relic. But antiques can be dangerous — Garm himself had six starships that weren't exactly new.
Approaching an information panel, he quickly found the necessary file in his flagship's database.
So, the enemy had fifty-six turbolasers in fourteen quad-barreled turrets, thirty-four twin laser anti-aircraft guns, two heavy ion cannons, a dozen anti-aircraft ion cannons, over a dozen laser anti-aircraft cannons, and over a hundred torpedo launchers... More than serious armament for a ship whose length barely exceeded one standard kilometer.
And the six heavy cruisers under Bel Iblis's command could collectively field sixty heavy laser cannons, an equal number of medium turbolasers, and one hundred and twenty light quad-barreled laser cannons — altogether just under five hundred anti-aircraft gun barrels. Not a single escort fighter. But Bel Iblis's ships had undergone modifications to their defensive and offensive systems. Could the enemy starship boast the same? Unlikely; that's an expensive luxury. Finding or capturing a Separatist ship from someone isn't actually all that hard. But maintaining it in proper condition — that's a truly expensive endeavor. Pirates couldn't have that kind of money — they'd have to raid supply convoys for months to get it, which would have brought the wrath of the New Republic down on them long ago. If that's the case, then the basis for the upcoming battle should be the fact that they're facing a ship that's not exactly fresh, one that's not as dangerous now as it was in its glory days.
Suppose that, formed in a proper attack formation, the cruisers could set up an impenetrable anti-aircraft screen. The threat from the enemy's air wing would be practically eliminated in that case. But what to do about its turbolasers and heavy ion cannons?
With their own caliber, Iblis's ships would take a very long time to punch through the Providence's shields: the enemy could cause them significant harm with its guns. Take a risk or retreat?
If this ship were in good technical condition, despite the time since its construction, they'd be in trouble. But... if that were the case, why were only some of the guns firing? According to the computer data, ships like this have ten quad-barreled turbolasers with a forward firing arc, aimed ahead, and therefore capable of firing now... But why were only three of them actually firing? Malfunction? Or a trap?
"Order for the Hound and her group," at the moment, Bel Iblis's ships were positioned in two wake columns. The Wanderer led the left column, the Hound the right. "Increase speed to full, flank the enemy to the right, concentrating fire on the forward hemisphere. The Wanderer and her group — execute a mirror maneuver. Maintain maximum effective range. Maximum scanner and anti-aircraft artillery output!"
"Want to take them in a pincer?" Irene inquired, as the commander of the flagship 'dreadnought' began bellowing orders.
"First, we need to see how strong our enemy is," Garm Bel Iblis shook his head. "They're definitely pirates — they didn't activate their transponder, typical behavior for bandits or Imperials. I doubt the latter, during their campaign to pacify the galaxy that began after their victory in the Clone Wars, decided to keep Separatist antiques in their reserves alongside their old ships. That means —" at that moment, the squadrons of droid starfighters, spewing streams of crimson blaster fire, reached firing range with the left column of dreadnoughts.
The laser cannons of the heavy cruisers silently opened their maws, forming a solid wall of fire in front of the nimble, but not sufficiently intelligent, enemy small craft. Maybe these Vultures once posed a threat to starships, but much had changed since then. Weapons had improved, targeting systems had improved, gunners had developed many new useful habits and training methods. Droids couldn't be taught that; they could only be programmed, and even then, only with standard protocols of textbook behavior.
Everything else represented such a vast layer of information that even to store it in the artificial brains of the Vultures, it would have to be thoroughly processed. You simply can't implant into a droid's memory the knowledge of how thousands of different pilots from thousands of races and varying service records, each with different combat experience, would react in the same situation.
Gather a hundred Corellians in fighters and make them evade pursuit — you'll get at least a couple hundred variations of avoiding the same threat. Alderaanians in similar conditions would act differently in their own way. Duros would act completely unlike humans. And so on and so forth.
You simply cannot replace sentients with droids — for that, in place of electronic brains, you'd need a database the size of the Separatist dreadnought itself. A sentient being senses when it's being provoked, lured into a trap, when a certain action is deliberately performed. A droid operates on cold logic. If it sees a typical execution of a maneuver it knows, it reacts exactly as it was programmed to. It simply cannot do otherwise; it is incapable of creative thought. Because of this, the Grand Army of the Republic, bleeding heavily in the first half of the Clone Wars, by the second year of the war was already perfectly capable of handling the task of destroying the numerically superior enemy forces.
And it was the same now — during the Clone Wars, despite trying to keep the Corellian Sector neutral towards the warring states, Garm had still had to fight. And with an experienced eye, he noted all the same angularity, textbook predictability, and simplicity in the enemy's small craft combat tactics.
Unable to oppose the 'dreadnoughts' with anything more than numerical superiority, the Vultures and Hyenas, clearly unprepared for a massive barrage, perished without ever cracking the outer defense perimeter of both groups.
And the same picture was observed in the battle between the larger ships.
"I was right," Garm Bel Iblis said with some satisfaction, pointing out that at best, every other gun on the enemy ship was firing in their direction. The crew on board that ship was clearly in despair if they were even firing anti-aircraft guns at the 'dreadnoughts.'
Requesting the status report for the ships in both groups, the former senator nodded contentedly.
As he had assumed, no one had replaced the guns on this relic. Separatist turbolasers were never known for their high accuracy or power compared to the ships of the Grand Army of the Republic. Iblis's starships didn't have outdated targeting technology. On the contrary, many of them, including the cannons, were removed from Republic ships from the Clone Wars, bought for a pittance. Yes, they weren't Imperial technology, or even modern Republic tech, but they were far better than what existed in the past. Much better. And the fact that in the very first minutes of the exchange, they managed to shoot down an entire enemy squadron, forcing the rest to turn away, break their formation in which they were invincible, and switch to evasive maneuvers. But that wouldn't help them either. They were trying too predictably to slip out of the sensitive nets of their own failure.
"Order to the Hound," he said in a booming voice. "'Move to the enemy's stern, proceed with the turn in succession, move parallel to him and fire on his aft section.' That's where the fewest guns are." The last phrase was meant directly for Irene, who was looking questioningly at her commander.
"Captain," Bel Iblis addressed the Wanderer's commander at the moment when the ship reached the imaginary turning point and began to turn, pursuing the vessel speeding along the orbit of New Cov. The pirates, having clearly realized that today wasn't their day, were trying to use their engine speed to get out of the planet's gravity well as quickly as possible in order to jump into hyperspace, relying on luck and the fact that the Corellian's fleet lacked its own interdictor cruisers.
Garm gritted his teeth. How many times had he wanted to acquire such ships? He'd definitely thought about it at least three times. But it all came down to not even money — the New Republic itself had too few of that type of starship, and they certainly couldn't allow them to be sold "outside." Still, maybe he could try to appeal to Corellia? He still had friends there; maybe he could resolve this issue...
Shaking his head, the former senator decisively threw those thoughts out of his mind. That wasn't what he should be thinking about now. All his attention should be on the battle. The future could be discussed later. Still, it was a shame that instead of avenging his assistant's death on Pantolomin and destroying an Imperial ship, he had to waste time on a pirate. However, looking at it from another angle, destroying a pirate ship was also a good deed, one that would certainly bring peace to this region of space and add order in such difficult times. Especially against the backdrop of the New Republic's recent military failures. And yet, the question nagged at him: who was this Imperial who so easily outwitted Ackbar himself? The Mon Calamari, while not a tactical genius, was an immensely talented being, capable of understanding and predicting the enemy's next moves. So how could it be that Fey'lya reported to Iblis, through her agent on New Cov, that the ambush Admiral Ackbar had set for Imperial ships wasn't just discovered, but had vanished without a trace? Same as the ships in the Rugosa system. As if the Imperials had acquired a superweapon capable of eliminating entire fleets overnight...
The thought alone that it could indeed be a Jedi made him feel somewhat uneasy. If so, the events unfolding in the galaxy were part of someone's devilish plan. It would be good to figure out who exactly was behind it and what they had planned...
"Enemy small craft are changing their deployment vector," the Wanderer's commander suddenly announced. "Moving towards us."
"How many?" Bel Iblis frowned.
"All of them, sir," the heavy cruiser's commander replied.
The Corellian couldn't believe his ears. What kind of trickery was this? They decided to overwhelm them with droids while both groups were separated? How stupid. The enemy had no more than two hundred machines left, and the fighters among them...
"Evasive maneuver!" the former senator shouted. "All ships in the group — hard turn ninety degrees to starboard!"
"Torpedo attack," Irene whispered.
"Yes," Bel Iblis gritted his teeth. "They're going to throw all their proton torpedoes at us, force us to evade and stop firing at the Providence. And during our maneuvers, they'll concentrate fire on the Hound and her group! But we won't give up so easily! Captain, ships of the group, in succession, follow us — 'dive' under the enemy's attack line, keep the ships canted along their axis, we're rushing to assist the Hound's group. Yes, inform them to take ninety degrees to starboard relative to their current course."
"They'll pass behind the Providence's stern, hitting its engines," he explained aloud, even though no one present had asked for it. It was all clear anyway — the previously separated groups would reunite and give that insolent pirate a good "pounding." "Captain," he addressed the Wanderer's commander again. "Prepare the boarding parties." The Providence's aft deflectors had already collapsed, and the guns of six heavy cruisers were methodically shredding the enemy's armor, destroying its nozzles and getting closer and closer to the fin that looked futuristic. "As soon as we disable it, we'll board."
"In modern combat?" Irene was surprised. "Do you really think this antique could be useful?"
"It might have information on board about the location of the Imperial base responsible for the atrocities in the New Republic," Bel Iblis explained, watching as his 'dreadnoughts' lasers destroyed with ease both the outdated proton torpedoes, whose homing warheads still hadn't been updated, and the enemy's small craft, stubbornly trying to close to melee range. Some, mostly droid starfighters, managed it, and then they switched to firing at the hulls of the heavy cruisers in a naive attempt to penetrate the thick armor. Of course, the outer hull had antennas, deflector shield projectors, and various scanner equipment, which the enemy damaged or destroyed. But these were acceptable losses, while...
"The enemy is launching proton torpedoes!" the Wanderer's commander said with anger in his voice. Bel Iblis understood him perfectly — now the trio of ships led by the fleet's flagship, instead of closing with the enemy starship, would have to evade. Unlike those munitions based on droid starfighters, ship-launched proton torpedoes or attack missiles were an arsenal of an entirely different caliber. A few of those would be enough not only to penetrate a dreadnought-class ship's deflector shield but also to blow a hole in its side. If not destroy it outright.
For the Corellian's luck, the outdated munitions the enemy had fired at them lacked high velocity, allowing them to be shot down by anti-air artillery as well. But Garm already understood that destroying his detachment was not the enemy commander's goal. He was simply buying time and widening the distance from those pursuing him, staying on the right shell.
The enemy ship, shifting its rudder and maneuvering with its thrusters, tauntingly presented its stern to the three dreadnoughts under Iblis's command, thereby unleashing broadside fire on the trio led by the Hound. And this time, the broadside artillery struck the ship with terrifying accuracy. And with nearly its full complement.
The enemy commander, having emptied the starboard launchers at Iblis's starships, concentrated the portside fire on the second squadron's flagship, combining fire from turbolasers and ion cannons while cutting off the dreadnoughts' ability to evade to the right with a massive torpedo salvo, effectively forcing them to expose their port sides, giving him the chance to leverage the numerical advantage of his heavy artillery.
The Hound, its shields lost, choked under the hurricane of fire the enemy had unleashed upon it. Crimson turbolasers and flashes of ion cannon fire literally painted the void of space.
But with every one of them, the pirates were drawing closer to victory. The heavy cruiser faltered in yet another attack, losing its former integrity. Blisters of weapon mounts, resembling welts on the ship's hull, ruptured, struck by shots that had somehow pierced through all that hell. A chain of internal explosions tore through the flanks, ripping away the hull and exposing the internal compartments and decks to the chaos of space. Dozens of human and non-human bodies were thrown overboard, struggling against soulless physics and approaching death by asphyxiation. Meanwhile, the former Separatist ship continued to ravage the damaged vessel with hurricane fire, turning it into ruin. A shipboard proton torpedo striking the Hound's aft section silenced all six of its ion engines. In the blackness of the vacuum, the lights in the viewports went out, the shimmer of the engines vanished. The uncontrollable starship, its hull torn apart, began a slow descent into the atmosphere of the planet New Cov, destined to burn up within the next few hours—unless someone performed miracles of skill and courage to tow the ship to a higher orbit and spare the sentient beings on board from burning up on atmospheric entry, ending their agony with an impact against the planet's unwelcoming surface.
The other two ships, seeing that the Wanderer's trio was forced to move away from them, having just begun their pursuit of the enemy starship, abruptly stopped as well, hastening to the Hound's aid. No one in their right mind would have the courage to continue the fight as a clear minority against a giant that had, until now, pretended to be a victim of poor equipment handling. And Bel knew the right course of action.
"All ships, break off the battle!" he ordered, having clearly realized the futility of trying to continue the fight. The Providence, despite its damage, had already shifted to cruising sublight speed, leaving in its wake five practically unscathed starships of the former Corellian senator, approaching the Hound, which was rapidly losing its combat value. Every minute of delay threatened to turn the faithful ship into a massive armored tomb. "Send shuttles to evacuate the crew from the cruiser! Use tractor beams to drag the ship beyond the planet's gravity! Move it—who knows who," the Separatist dreadnought, now a considerable distance away, vanished into hyperspace, "they'll bring back with them!"
The rescue operation lasted several hours. It resulted in the salvation of the Hound's remaining crew and the reactivation of its reactor. By the end of the day, Garm Bel Iblis's fleet left the inhospitable star system, setting course for their secret base.
And on the opposite end of the star system, the flagship of Talon Karrde's thinned-out fleet entered hyperspace. The Claw, traditionally maintaining neutrality in the squabbles of this world, got what it wanted.