"Just like that?" Fodeum grimaced, glancing out the viewport of the Elegant Lady's cockpit.
"Yes," the hologram of the woman he had known since birth replied. And as always, her tone brooked no argument. "Female leader despotism.".. That's what Vex had called it, he thought, describing her opinion of his stories about his relationship with his parent. "This alliance will bring stability and prosperity to our people."
"And all it takes is joining a war," the failed Jensaarai smirked.
"First, we will assess what the Grand Admiral can offer us," the woman replied didactically. "He has made his first move—everything we need is now delivered to Susevfi regularly. Completely free of charge."
"And you haven't considered that this alliance might be even worse than the one made with Leonia Tavira?" Fodeum asked.
"The Jensaarai are working to understand the Grand Admiral's true intentions," she said, as always, when she didn't know the answer, preferring to brush it off with vague phrases.
"I'm sure most of the New Republic is asking the same question," Fodeum said. "At least on Coruscant—that's for sure."
"He has promised that the Empire under his command will change and become the best version of itself," the leader of the Jensaarai Order reminded him.
"As if Imperials have never deceived anyone," Fodeum rolled his eyes. "After my experience with Tavira..."
"Don't think that the fact that you came out of my womb gives you the right to lecture me," Saarai-kai snapped him down.
"It's called common sense, Mother," Fodeum said. "I understand that women your age have problems with that..."
"I didn't spank you enough when you were a child," the Jensaarai leader grumbled.
"That's what our Order's teachings prescribe," Fodeum smirked. "No violence, only protection, only ideals of peace and the pursuit of knowledge."
"You would have made a good Jensaarai defender if you had learned to hold your tongue at the right time," his mother grumbled.
"The inability to keep quiet and think clearly in critical moments is a family trait," Fodeum parried, hinting, once again, at Saarai-kai's deal with Leonia Tavira. A deal that had made the Jensaarai serve bloodthirsty pirates.
"Be that as it may, you will go to the Grand Admiral," his mother said insistently. "I have already informed Thrawn that a Jensaarai will always be by his side. You will serve and protect him."
"And watch over him," Fodeum snorted. His parent chose to remain silent. "Admit it, you just decided to make sure I never leave the Chimaera. You know, when we agreed to start with a clean slate, I didn't think you'd immediately make me act like an obedient defender."
"Don't exaggerate," the woman snorted. "You've been among the stars much longer than our people. So you understand them more subtly..."
'I can barely understand my own assistant sometimes,' Fodeum thought. 'And we speak the same language and have known each other longer than I've known Thrawn.'
But out loud, as his last argument, he said something entirely different:
"I hope you remember that I never became a Jensaarai defender. And certainly, I'm not capable of sensing a direct threat to the object of protection like those who served Leonia Tavira did. And yes, I don't have a lightsaber with me. Or the parts to build one."
"That won't be necessary," his parent declared.
"Sorry, but then I really don't understand how I can, even formally, help the Grand Admiral," Fodeum stated.
"In that case, allow me to resolve your difficulties," a voice said, familiar enough to send a chill down his spine. Fodeum, pulling on a smile, turned. A white uniform, burning red eyes, blue skin, black hair... And a little brown lizard on his shoulder.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," Fodeum said, feeling his hands sweat. "I didn't hear you come aboard the Elegant Lady."
"Which is entirely logical, given that I did not wish you to know about it," the Grand Admiral said. Tilting his head slightly to the side, he gave a barely perceptible nod to Saarai-kai's hologram. His parent, bowing low, terminated the transmission.
"Grand Admiral, sir, if my words have somehow offended you..." Fodeum began to stammer an explanation, but was interrupted by a brusque gesture from the Imperial commander.
He was holding out... No way!?
"Take the weapon," Thrawn ordered. "And proceed to the assignment. We've hit a snag at the orbital repair docks. We need a specialist of your caliber..."
"Ehm..." was all Fodeum could manage as he accepted the object, one that literally dripped with the Force. Its Light Side. Which somehow didn't quite mesh with the Empire's dealings. "May I ask where you got it?"
"An acquaintance of mine happened to have several," Thrawn said vaguely. "So this one is yours."
Awkward, Fodeum thought as he clipped the weapon to his belt.
"So what do I need to do?"
"I'll tell you while you prepare your ship for departure," the Grand Admiral said.
And again that treacherous chill down his spine...
Maybe the heater on the ship was just broken?
* * *
The Inexorable, like an inescapable fate from which there was no hiding or running, approached the orbital defense station Golan I.
The very same station whose fall would become the open gate for the invasion of the shipyards and the deployment of the remaining legion stationed aboard the Star Destroyer.
The Mon Calamari cruiser had surrendered. Capitulated immediately after its deflectors had been turned into charred, deformed structures and scattered across the local space, and its hull had been scored, the remnants of its turbolasers burned away by the fighters and interceptors of the Inexorable.
"Even a stubborn New Republic soldier knows when it's best to surrender," Alexander said, rolling his neck.
The battle with a pair of Mon Calamari Star Cruisers had not been without cost for his ship. Two squadries lost irretrievably, six ships in the shipboard workshop, but confirmation had already come from there — those "birds" wouldn't be returning to the fight. Not for the next twenty hours or so, for sure.
So the Inexorable entered the confrontation with the orbital station with half its original complement of fighters and interceptors.
The Relentless, holding on the port beam, had a nearly full air wing. So did the Aggressive, which had managed to take another torpedo, depriving it of a significant portion of its port-side turret batteries. But Dorja had ordered that destroyer to oversee the surrender of both MC80s that had laid down their arms, seeing no point in continuing the duel. Its air wing had stayed behind to protect the mothership as well.
So of the two Star Destroyers, out of ten squadries of fighters and bombers, Dorja and Mor had only six. Not much. But still more than could be aboard that hulk, even if they hadn't launched all their X-wings beforehand.
Alexander smirked crookedly.
The New Republic copied most aspects of the Galactic Empire's military tactics wholesale — on detecting an enemy, launch the entire air wing, leaving only bombers, scouts, and other specialized flying hardware in the hangars.
The only problem was that the New Republic had no "pure" bombers. Every type of starfighter they had carried either proton torpedoes or shaped-charge missiles. TIE fighters, for example, could also mount a certain number of missiles, but their weight altered the speed and handling of the Sienar-made machines, which in turn required additional practice and training. Changing the aerodynamics of a small craft, whose main advantage was speed and maneuverability, was essentially retraining the pilot from scratch. Irrational, given the fact that a TIE fighter pilot rarely survived even five combat sorties.
Though... why retrain every single pilot then? You could create separate units on that principle. From the most capable pilots, or clones, which were appearing more and more often on ships...
Hm. An interesting thought. Worth considering thoroughly and passing on to Thrawn for study. At least some initiative for this week. Or maybe suggest the Grand Admiral start rearming with TIE Avengers and Defenders? Or other projects from the same line of hardware...
"We've entered firing range!" the watch officer reported.
Alexander pushed aside extraneous thoughts. All in good time.
Right now, the battle was what mattered.
"Coordinate actions with the Relentless," he ordered. "Identify the enemy's firing points and choose the optimal attack angles."
Which meant positioning the ship so that the fewest guns could fire at it, while it could unleash the greatest number of its own weapons on the enemy. And even though Golans were designed to provide equally effective defense from all sides, that postulate no longer played a major role here.
The Colicoid Swarm had already thinned out the station's armament, so all that remained was to properly assess the enemy...
"Calculation complete! Point Three-Seven-Zero. The Relentless is taking position at point Two-Four-Nine. There's another vector..."
"Take the first point," Alexander ordered, watching as the Inexorable closed to a distance of seventy units — practically the maximum effective range for turbolaser fire. But the ships stayed outside the reach of the station's modern launch tubes. The battle would be a long one. But its outcome was decided by pure mathematics.
The station was inferior to a Star Destroyer in number of weapons, but its shields were far stronger than those of Mor's and Dorja's ships. However, the latter had the advantage in artillery. Which was already beginning to bite into the station's shield film... The defenders of the Hast shipyards were stalling for time, hoping help would arrive before they fell.
Perhaps it would have been, but Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet would decide the outcome of this battle long before reinforcements arrived.
Because they had already arrived for Task Force Besh.
* * *
The Colicoid Swarm was taking a beating.
Standing on the bridge, Captain Irv winced as he received word that yet another squadron of Vulture-class droid starfighters with variable geometry had been destroyed by the enemy.
"Alright, tin can, we've got another couple dozen squadries," he said, flicking cigar ash onto the bridge floor.
"Roger-roger," the dummy replied.
Meanwhile, the actual situation with the ship was far from easy.
The ship had already lost up to half its artillery — the result of a jump along the Black Asp's mass shadow vector. While the blinded and defenseless carrier Star Destroyer was restoring its systems, the Golan III had managed to slam a good dozen turbolaser shots into its side. And it had done so with extreme accuracy...
So much so that only memories remained of the upper fin, which housed the luxurious quarters meant for senior officers — that was the work of proton torpedoes.
Oh well, the superstructure wasn't the reactor; its loss could be survived.
Especially since the landing craft, deploying droids from the ship's assault transports onto the station — immobilized by ion cannon fire — would certainly provide the enemy with plenty of surprises.
Thousands of B-1s, B-2s, and droidekas, marching through the corridors of the powerless station, needing neither oxygen nor heat, exterminating all life in their path... And behind them, the helmeted stormtroopers from the Phoenix, ensuring control over all the station's most vital sections — the battery deck, reactors, deflectors, ammunition stores...
This raid would be profitable. The payment would easily cover the ship's repairs and system upgrades. Plus, he could sell Thrawn something else he didn't need, like those tanks and droidekas... Oh, no, wait. He'd already sold the droidekas.
And the former Separatist technical officer had formed the impression that the Grand Admiral was currently field-testing the "death balls" to assess their combat effectiveness against standard opponents. Well, he'd certainly be pleased — despite nearly three decades having passed since these machines were actively used, they hadn't lost their lethality.
Gazing at the battle display, Captain Irv couldn't help but appreciate the scale of what was happening.
On the right flank, Task Force Besh hadn't just dealt with two Mon Calamari Star Cruisers — they had actually captured them. Their damage was unclear, of course, but surely something could be done to tow the ships away. Otherwise, what was the point of bothering with an assault landing? They'd have destroyed them and been done with it. Even more irrational was leaving a whole Star Destroyer to guard two prizes you weren't planning to take out of the system. Yes, damaged, but still! That ship could have supported Captains Dorja and Mor in their artillery duel with the Golan I station, which they were practically drenching in streams of turbolaser and ion cannon fire. By all appearances, this would drag on — Golans, even early models, remained very tough nuts and could calmly withstand the pounding of a single Star Destroyer for a considerable time. Two Imperial ships would shorten that resistance time, but still... If Thrawn prioritized the speed of the operation, and an enemy convoy with combat ships was nearby, they needed to hurry and reinforce Task Force Besh.
The Star Destroyer Crusader was currently being shot up by the ion cannons of the Golan II platform's remaining turbolasers, and it looked like the Chimaera, racing toward it, would soon be landing its own troops on that station.
Task Force Kresh, consisting of three Star Destroyers, continued to pummel two Mon Calamari Star Cruisers that refused to surrender. Although up to a third of their artillery had been suppressed, no more than a dozen of their escort fighters remained. Even the patrol squadries based in the system no longer played any significant role — the Corellian corvettes that had burst onto the battlefield like predators into a pen of livestock had thinned out the enemy small craft so severely with their laser cannon fire that only small pockets of resistance remained. Not to mention that several fighters, out of fuel and unable to refuel, or perhaps simply caught by ion, laser, or turbolaser fire, cut off from the stations, had simply surrendered and were now being towed by tractor beams toward the Aggressive, which seemed to have been assigned the role of trophy guard. And also the damaged ships of Thrawn's own fleet — of the twenty-one Corellian corvette markers, ten were completely absent, six were fighting, while five, engines smoking and scattering clouds of debris, huddled under Captain Aban's protection.
One more Golan I-type station was still combat-capable — because Task Force Kresh was still tied up with the enemy ships. Whether it was due to the talent of the New Republic ship commanders or the Imperial task force commander's miscalculations was no longer a relevant fact. The key point in this sector of the front was that Captain Astorias was failing to keep pace with the assault phase schedule.
Judging by the fact that the Dragon was no longer firing its ion cannon, either the ship lacked the energy for it, or...
Oh no, it fired after all.
A scarlet blob of energy (apparently the reactors hadn't managed, since the V-150 Planet Defender ion cannon always fires in a "doublet") cut through the vacuum of space and bit into the hull of the station the Crusader was shelling.
Glints and scarlet bolts swept across the station's hull.
While the Grand Admiral's capital ships and the pair of remaining New Republic vessels still had at least somewhat functioning deflectors, the vanquished station had none at all.
Nor any lighting, nor any signs of life from any system...
Captain Irv squinted, leaning forward to peer at what was happening.
The Black Asp, having shut down its gravity generators, together with the Dragon, began escorting the arriving Star Galleons, which had been holding in the rear, to the battle site. Judging by how a good half-dozen of these ships had attached themselves to the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser that had been defeated in the early stages of the battle — which had had the good sense not to try restarting its reactors after the ion cannon bombardment — Imperial technicians, supported by boarding parties, had already begun repairing the first prize. That was why the interdiction cruiser, along with the ungainly Venator, were approaching the stations — apparently Thrawn had adjusted his plan on the fly as the Chimaera and Crusader set a course for the as-yet-unengaged Golan I station.
Obviously, the Dragon needed more and more time to recharge, which meant the Grand Admiral had decided not to spend another twenty or thirty minutes accumulating a full charge for a proper salvo. Instead, he used what he had to finish off the already damaged and powerless station. Towards which assault shuttles from the Chimaera were already racing at full speed. Meanwhile, the Star Galleons were approaching the New Republic ships and orbital repair yards that hadn't budged from their positions. The stormtroopers from the Phoenix were already having a field day there, and judging by the transponders lighting up, both former Republic Star Destroyers were already under Imperial control. Most of the escort frigates had also been captured; two of the seven Star Cruisers, gleaming with the whiteness of their hulls and the absence of artillery, were marked as friendly... A little remained — to capture the five remaining Star Cruisers, and two of the five Nebulon-Bs. As for the twenty... (no, twenty-two!) Corellian corvettes of the CR90 type, there was no need to worry anymore — judging by how the ships had simultaneously opened a barrage against a flight of X-wings that had tried to attack them with proton torpedoes, they were under Imperial control... But how sluggishly they were firing back... It seemed the boarding parties were fighting back, not full crews, or at least not some fleet officers... Yeah, things were bad.
The monitor hummed, noting hits from Republic shells on the stationary ships...
Oh, it looked like Thrawn had just lost five trophy CR90s and one Nebulon-B. Yes, the latter wasn't falling apart, but to be fair, the Republic knew where to shoot — the ship was practically broken in half. The deflector shields, under which a fighter had dived, couldn't handle the defense, and now a sizable hole gaped in the middle of the long spar connecting the Nebulon-B's fore and aft sections... That ship was clearly a goner — if it jumped into hyperspace, it would simply tear apart.
"Captain," a B-1 droned. "You're being hailed by Grand Admiral Thrawn."
"And here I was wondering why I was sitting so quietly," Irv snorted. Looking at the droid, which was turning its dim-witted head in confusion, he explained: "Patch him through, you bronzium-headed idiot."
A second later, the hologram of the Imperial commander materialized before Irv.
"Captain Irv," Thrawn addressed him. As always — not a hint of emotion, emphasized coldness. No, it was understandable that a rare Imperial commander was much of a joker, but, seriously? Did this representative of a strange humanoid race ever smile? Now was actually a decent occasion for it — the shipyard defenses were effectively breached, the landing force controlled most of the starships. In an hour, two at most, the Imperials would capture all New Republic ships in this system. Not to mention the twenty medium transports the New Republic had forgotten about (well, yes, they had bigger problems), which Irv had captured along the way. He'd simply trained his turbolasers on them, fired warning shots across their hulls, and landed squads of BX-series commando droids Droch-class boarding ships.
"Boarding ship of the Droch class."
"That's correct, Grand Admiral," the pirate shook his head. Well, of course the information had reached him — red TIE Interceptors from the Grand Admiral's own escort squadron had flown past the hobbled New Republic transports about four times.
"By what means, may I ask?" Thrawn said, just as calmly.
"Found a few Droch-class boarding ships in the hold," Irv said. And he wasn't quite lying. He did have them — in duplicate. Or had Vane actually expected Irv to sell him a fully equipped starship?
"We need to discuss what else you have in your holds, Captain," Thrawn said.
"You know how it is — it's a big ship, who knows what else is in there," Irv chuckled. Honestly, he didn't need the boarding ships or the commando droids (well, maybe a couple as his own bodyguards). But he hadn't mentioned them until now for nothing. The operation at the Hast shipyards was a perfect opportunity to "showcase the merchandise." And justifiably jack up the price. And by the operation's end, Thrawn would have to pay up, not just for help disabling the orbital defense station, landing troops on the shipyards and ships, but also for the capture of twenty medium transports, which had gone quickly, without unnecessary shooting, and in secret from the Republic themselves. And Thrawn would certainly be interested in the commando droids. Oh yes, that would cost a lot of credits...
The main thing was not to mention that of the two hundred BXs, barely less than half had survived the ship captures. Otherwise, the value of all this Separatist junk would clearly drop.
"BX-series commando droid."
"I advise that after the operation, during repairs, you take a good look around the compartments and conduct an inventory," the Grand Admiral's tone as he said this was clearly threatening. Irv shuddered. "Or should I send my logistics specialists over?"
"No, that won't be necessary," the pirate smiled tightly. "I'm sure I can manage with my own resources."
"In that case, proceed to support Task Force Aurek," Thrawn ordered. "Disable the station's deflectors and artillery. After that, I suggest you find additional stocks of Drochs and commando droids and send them in the first wave to capture Golan I, before I start thinking you intend to conceal something from me."
"I'm already moving out, Grand Admiral," Irv relaxed only after the hologram vanished.
"Head for the station," he ordered the nearest B-1 droid. It let out its typical "roger-roger." "Notify the hangars — have them ready the last Drochs. Any BXs left?"
"Negative, sir," the droid droned.
"Well then, load yourself into the boarding ships, tin can," Irv advised. "And take a couple of companies of your thick-headed brethren with that single shared neuron."
He needed to capture that damned station before Thrawn started asking too many questions.
Looking at the severed metal droid head with three glowing yellow eyes attached to the armrest of his chair, he patted it out of habit.
"Well, there, Aut-O, and you were complaining about your bad fate."
"I hate you, traitor!" the tactical super-droid mumbled. But who cared about its feelings? Over so many decades, if not for this little guy, who knows how Irv's own fate would have turned out.
And its existence certainly needed to be kept a strict secret.
* * *
After the breaching charge detonated, tearing the lock from the door panel, thermal detonators were the first things into the compartment. According to the station plans, there was nothing critically important here — unlike at the very heart of the deck.
Sergeant TNX-0297, along with the eight stormtroopers in his squad, waited for the explosions before the clone ordered the advance.
Eight men, clones with faces just like his, obeyed the order. Barely had they entered when blaster bolts struck around them, but the nine clones spread out through the compartment, taking cover.
It took a few seconds to assess the situation.
The detonator blasts had killed three New Republic soldiers. Their torn and disfigured bodies lay on the metal deck floor, bleeding out. Not a threat.
But five enemies, who had set up a refuge at the far end of the compartment by flipping a massive table so that shots and shrapnel would hit the thick tabletop — yes, they were a problem. Starting with the fact that they navigated perfectly in the darkness that reigned aboard the Golan I, which had lost power from the ion cannon bombardment, and ending with the fact that they'd fortified themselves beyond a sure grenade throw — about forty meters separated the stormtroopers and the New Republic soldiers. Too far for a grenade toss under enemy fire.
Nevertheless, Sergeant TNX-0297 found a fire solution quickly. The enemy had secured their position but hadn't considered that the same metal furniture scattered around the compartment could be used for cover.
"Suppressive fire," he ordered the stormtroopers over the squad's internal comm. Eight soldiers, waiting for the enemy's fire to slacken, pinned the enemy soldiers behind the tabletop, firing their blaster rifles to suppress. None of the enemy troops seemed eager to die. "Two-man teams forward, to the nearest cover."
Two stormtroopers dashed forward, firing on the move. Reaching a fallen shelving unit, they took cover behind it, continuing to hold the enemy at the table. Another pair of soldiers, springing from their positions, took up a position next to them...
It took exactly one minute for half the squad to advance ten meters from their starting position and secure solid cover. The enemy poked out to return fire but was almost immediately driven back.
From the second fire team, two soldiers made a short dash to the cover. Confirming that the other stormtroopers were still firing, these two made another sprint — seven meters — and now took position behind the casing of a holoprojector.
The armor's electronics didn't blind the stormtroopers with the crimson flashes of bolts — whoever designed this type of equipment had acted with an understanding of the troops' needs. For them, the entire compartment wasn't shrouded in darkness; they saw everything as clearly as if it were daylight.
"Follow me," Sergeant TNX-0297 ordered, waiting for the moment and then dashing to the designated cover.
He and two stormtroopers, under their comrades' covering fire, covered twenty-two meters. Taking cover from the New Republic soldiers' fire behind the body of a sofa, clearly understanding that the soft furniture wouldn't last long, Sergeant TNX-0297 and the pair of stormtroopers, pressing their backs against the sofa, tossed thermal detonators over their heads, sending them flying toward the target.
Eighteen meters for a throw is nothing for a stormtrooper. It's the range for a confident hit with a thrown explosive. The New Republic soldiers learned that in the next three seconds.
One of them, seeing the ordnance land beside them, dove to the side — only to be torn apart by crossfire from the stormtroopers.
One after another, split seconds apart, three thermal detonators detonated. Shrill groans of the wounded and death rattles filled the air.
The squad, maintaining order and battle formation, reached the enemy's cover, checking every corner of the compartment — a trap could be anywhere. But not this time.
Sergeant TNX-0297 needed only one look to assess the wounds of the two surviving enemies. One had shrapnel pierce his light armor and penetrate his body near the respiratory organs; he lay there, choking on bloody foam. The second had an arm torn off by the blast and his face disfigured. Eyeless, with a monstrous burn instead of scalp, he mumbled something in Aurebesh.
"He's calling for his mother," one of the troopers identified.
TNX-0297 didn't understand the enemy's strange plea. But he knew perfectly well that a finger-sized shard of shrapnel piercing that man's skull did nothing for clarity of thought. Or for survival.
"Finish them," he ordered. The nearest soldier fired two controlled shots. The groaning and rattling stopped. Mercifully. They wouldn't have made it to the infirmary anyway.
A massive blast-resistant hatch, sealed with an electromagnetic lock, separated them from further advance. They had cleared one station section and were about to enter another.
Checking the tactical map of the 501st Legion's other units assigned to capture the orbital defense station, Sergeant TNX-0297 noted that two squads on the right had come under heavy fire. According to the map, his unit could flank the enemy by proceeding through the corridor beyond the hatch — seven meters straight, then a right turn. Acceptable. Supporting an ally wouldn't affect the primary mission timeline.
"Scan it," he ordered, pointing at the hatch. Two stormtroopers approached the bulkhead, pulling special equipment from their pouches to search for explosives and bypass locks.
The New Republic soldiers were largely trained by defectors from the Imperial Armed Forces. If the station's defenders were following tactical retreat protocol, attempting to unlock this hatch would trigger an explosive device. The stormtroopers would be killed or wounded by the blast wave, and the mechanism would jam in the locked position.
"Mines," stated the sapper stormtrooper, pointing to sections of the door and ceiling where the demolition charges were placed. "LX-1 laser-flechette. Motion sensors. Direction," the stormtrooper indicated the lower part of the door.
Clear enough, no further explanation needed. Every stormtrooper already understood they were talking about Merr-Sonn explosives. On activation, the charge would hit them in the legs, turning them into combat-incapable casualties. Then the blast-door automation would seal the hatch — blocked. A stalemate, incompatible with a frontal assault.
For any other stormtrooper.
But not for the 501st Legion.
Not for a squad commanded by Sergeant TNX-0297. Grand Admiral Thrawn had promoted him for neither candor nor loyalty. For efficiency — otherwise TNX-0297 would be commanding regular stormtroopers, not his genetic brothers.
Colonel Selid's clones needed no further information. They were already working out an efficient solution.
"Disable the lock and bypass the block," Sergeant TNX-0297 ordered the electronics specialist. The trooper obediently dismantled the bulkhead control panel. With zero respect for the technicians' work, he stripped the wiring insulation with precise movements. Hooked up a special scanner. Fingers danced across the screen.
"Lock protocol disabled," the stormtrooper replied ten seconds later, packing up his equipment. He turned his head toward the squad commander and received confirmation — the sergeant's helmet gave an unnoticeable nod in the darkness. But night doesn't exist for stormtroopers.
The electronics specialist, armed with new tools, cut the colorful wiring. Placed a breaching charge on the metal, crouched, and activated it. The directed blast punched through the metal, opening access to the severed electronics on the other side of the wall. The specialist punched through the metal decorative plate separating the two halves of the bulkhead control panel — external and internal. The button panel clattered to the floor on the far side. Pulling his hand back, the same stormtrooper unclipped a thermal detonator from his belt. The others, including the sergeant, moved away from the door, positioning themselves along the thick inter-section bulkhead.
The specialist pressed the detonator's activation key with a precise motion and shoved it through the wall. Snatching his hand back, he calmly moved to join the others.
Two seconds later, the explosion came. Then another — fragments clattered against the bulkhead. The mines had fired harmlessly.
No further order was needed — the demolitions stormtrooper scanned the space ahead again, this time through the technological breach in the wall.
"Clear," he reported, making way for the electronics specialist. Hooking up his datapad to the wiring, the specialist activated the blast hatch's lifting mechanism in seconds.
"Move out," commanded Sergeant TNX-0297. "Maximum alert."
On the other side of the section, the stormtroopers checked for movement, saw nothing, and advanced at a brisk pace.
Reaching the required branch and sending scouts ahead, Sergeant TNX-0297 used a coded sound signal — two clicks of his tongue against the microphone of his helmet's comlink — to let the commander of the pinned-down unit know allies were approaching. In a battle on enemy territory, trusting broadband communications was forbidden. Directly prohibited by the manual. And those weren't written for nothing.
Reaching the end of the branch, TNX-0297's squad entered a spacious room that looked like a recreation area. Thick black smoke hung under the ceiling — soft furniture was burning — but not thick enough to hide the burning corpses of New Republic soldiers or the figures crawling across the floor toward fallen comrades or severed limbs from the helmet sensors. Cries of pain came from the courtyard, increasingly drowned out by furious shouts. Then blaster bolts pierced the smoke screen like needles. At one end, four stormtroopers were being fired on from three sides. According to the armor's electronics tags, some of Grand Admiral Thrawn's soldiers were wounded. Yes — three, lying in cover. A medic stormtrooper beside them. With a hole in his chest.
The stormtroopers had been ambushed and driven into a corner, cut off from the corridor they'd come through. Based on their serial numbers, these weren't Colonel Selid's clones. The reason for the ambush was obvious. Human error.
Seven blaster rifles from Sergeant TNX-0297's squad struck the flank of one enemy unit. Where they were hidden from the pinned stormtroopers, to TNX-0297 and his six troopers, they were wide open. As were the ones crawling, trying to reach cover and survive.
They didn't make it. There is no escape from a true stormtrooper.
"Covering," the sergeant told the neighboring unit. "Suppressing fire!" that was for his own troopers.
The other two enemy squads chose to retreat and live a little longer — the E-11's point-blank fire pierced straight through many of the Republicans. That was the price for killing stormtroopers. And for neglecting personal protection. Human error.
Ducking from stray shots and dragging their wounded, the stormtroopers from the ambushed squad reached the corridor where TNX-0297's troopers were positioned in fifteen seconds.
"Medic is covering the retreat," the sergeant explained to the other squad's commander about the trooper in his unit with field medicine training. Simple — they were attacking, so they needed cover from behind in the corridor.
Falling back while continuing to fire, TNX-0297's squad reached the compartment where one of their stormtroopers was already removing the chest plates from wounded allies.
"Thanks," another sergeant approached him, extending a hand. "You saved us."
TNX-0297 looked at the palm of the stormtrooper equal in rank. He understood perfectly what a handshake was for. But saw no point in it.
"Just the job," he replied. He didn't offer his hand. It wasn't needed. Stormtroopers don't do that.
Designating a medic and another trooper to cover the depleted allied squad, he ordered the advance. They had a mission. It had to be completed. Six stormtroopers and two wounded could hold — especially since two minutes behind them, literally following TNX-0297 and his men's tracks, four more 501st Legion squads were moving. The purge continued.
An attempt to flank them while crossing open ground cost the enemy nothing but more corpses. Suppressive fire from seven barrels forced the ambushers to stay hidden.
That let the stormtroopers cross the open space, wounding several of their own. TNX-0297 checked his chronometer. Three seconds behind. Not efficient.
"Double time," he ordered his men, reporting the danger to the company commander on the move. Not the one he'd previously served under. That lieutenant had disappeared. Went to speak with the Grand Admiral and never came back. Another was put in his place. More efficient.
On the run, the sergeant ejected his spent power cell and slammed a fresh one into his rifle. The gas cartridge would last one more firefight. Then mandatory replacement.
In the next compartment, they literally collided with New Republic soldiers running out of an adjoining corridor. No time for a firefight. Without slowing, seven stormtroopers plowed into a formation of ten enemy soldiers.
Fifteen seconds later, they stepped over the corpses bearing New Republic insignia.
* * *
Silence reigned on the bridge of the Chimaera.
The flagship, accompanied by her "little brother" a Victory-I-class Star Destroyer — moved toward her rightful prey like a predator that had cornered its victim.
And unfortunately for the defenders of the Golan-I orbital station, there truly was nowhere to run…
"Raise deflector shields," came Captain Pellaeon's voice. "Launch fighters and interceptors. Gunnery, begin harassing fire on the enemy."
"Guns locked! Fire!"
"Enemy deflector shield held!"
"Switch to rapid fire," I ordered, stroking the peacefully sleeping ysalamiri on my lap. It seems I have at least one loyal friend. Pity you can't lure intelligent beings with food and care. Or can you?
Well, we'll test that on the Jensaarai.
"Crusader is entering firing range," Pellaeon said. After a quick check of the scanner data, he added:
"The Wisdom of the Emperor's transponder is active."
"Meaning Captain I-Gor has pulled himself together," I noted.
"Sir?" Gilad looked at me questioningly.
"His son died saving the Crusader from a proton torpedo hit to the bridge," I explained.
"Oh…" Pellaeon let out something my home fleet would call a "boatswain's curse."
"I fully agree, Captain," I said. "Losing a child is the greatest grief for a parent. Check whether the lieutenant was on the cloning donor list."
The data check took no time:
"No, sir. Too young and inexperienced for the program," Pellaeon explained. "We cloned only fleet veterans."
"In that case, the loss of the Crusader's commander will be felt even more keenly," I said, my voice nearly faltering. "Arrange for all the corvette's fallen to be recommended for state awards. I want their deed known throughout the fleet by the time this phase of the operation concludes."
"I'm not sure Captain I-Gor will understand," Pellaeon said doubtfully.
"Which is why you'll schedule a meeting with him right after we suppress the last pockets of resistance," I ordered.
If only I could find the right words…
Analysts don't take losses — we sit at headquarters. In all my years of service, shells haven't come our way that often. I have no experience in telling a grief-stricken father that his son didn't die in vain. I'm more than certain I-Gor would have preferred the Crusader to blow up instead of the corvette.
Unfortunately, history has no subjunctive mood.
But hesitation in this case is a far bigger problem. The situation must be addressed immediately — one way or another. Sometimes showing understanding and sympathy in the midst of an operation speaks louder than any formal condolences given during a lull.
Meanwhile, fighters and interceptors from the Chimaera and the Crusader were already swarming around the furiously retaliating Golan. They couldn't do much real damage to the untouched station, but they did a fine job rattling the local gunners, who understood a simple truth: their defense relied on the deflector shield. Which a pair of Star Destroyers would take a very, very long time to bring down — as evidenced by the Relentless and the Implacable, which only managed it after a mass missile strike from the Colicoid Swarm so bright it was visible across the entire fleet.
And I had already debunked another myth about the invincibility of these platforms. Imperial siege tactics against this type of defensive structure were built around prolonged bombardment of the deflector to "push through" it. Only after the energy cocoon was damaged did the capital ships — again, staying outside the station's proton torpedo range — take out the weapons and deflector projectors to land troops in relatively comfortable conditions.
In the case of a rapid generator kill, the station's survivability was measured in very different units. So I had developed a method for quickly "cracking" enemy defenses: bring missile-armed ships close to the Golans using gravity well generators from interdictors.
Now, with overlapping vectors from the gravity projectors, repeating the same maneuver was pointless. The first method for destroying defense stations was already proven. Time to test the "distraction and salvo from medium range" tactic. The key was either having enough fighters and interceptors to chase down and shoot down enemy proton torpedoes, or having strong enough point-defense to intercept those torpedoes on approach.
Unlike planetary shields — a principle I still hadn't fully studied — deflectors could only stop energy weapons. But there was also a particle-type shield that countered kinetic weapons. I had a hypothesis that needed testing. But the general assumption was this: the planetary shield was a hybrid of the two previously described defensive principles. Otherwise, it was simply impossible to understand why, before the invention of superlasers, Imperials used massive torpedo and missile barrages to destroy planetary shields. Which, meanwhile, exploded against the surface of the energy cocoon…
So the defenders' best way to prolong their agony was to drive off the fighters and interceptors trying to take out the deflectors, and to chase away overeager pilots and ships with their cannon fire and proton torpedo salvos.
"Captain Astorias reports one MC80 destroyed," Pellaeon reported, commenting on the flash where one of the two Mon Calamari star cruisers opposing the trio of Star Destroyers had been. "Took him long enough."
"The fortunes of war are fickle," I declared. "Request the Stormhawk's status on the second ship."
"Not surrendering," replied the Chimaera's commander, who'd exchanged data with the Kresh task force's flagship. "Awaiting orders."
"What do you do to an enemy who refuses to listen to reason and rejects surrender?" I asked Gilad.
"Destroy them, sir," he said.
"Then what other questions are there?"
"Understood, Grand Admiral."
Streams of gold-scarlet energy stripped armor from the enemy ship and burned out its gun emplacements. The three Star Destroyers — Stormhawk, Judicator, and Death's Head — had the last enemy star cruiser boxed between them, carving it into scrap metal. Though I noticed they weren't firing on escape pods or shuttles carrying crew from those destroyers; they were trying to take prisoners.
The Stormhawk was positioned above and to the left of the battered cruiser. The Judicator blocked its path to the station, and the Death's Head was already shredding its engine nozzles with astonishing speed.
The Chimaera's forward guns hammered the last defensive station not under our control. Under the assault of gold-scarlet energy and alternating missile strikes, the station's deflector shields gave way after a successful TIE Interceptor run — they finally destroyed one generator, exposing the station's hull to missile and cannon fire that rained down. The hull blackened, paint burned, armor melted. Then ion bolts danced across the curved hull, and a dozen anti-ship missiles from the Crusader finished the destruction. The watch crew on the Chimaera's bridge cheered as fire lanced from a breach in the station's battery deck.
"Message on open channels," said Lieutenant Tschel. "The station we attacked is requesting a ceasefire and is ready to surrender."
"Acknowledge the message," I ordered. "Tell them to lower shields, shut down weapons and launchers, and dampen the reactor. Captain Pellaeon, prepare a boarding party for our new prize."
"Aye aye, sir!" the Chimaera's commander said gladly.
For an instant in the blackness of space, a supernova appeared and quickly faded.
"Message from the Stormhawk," Gilad said. "Last enemy ship destroyed. Resistance is being suppressed…"
"Excellent, Captain," I said, trying to hide my emotions about this victory. "Move us to the workshops. Boarding parties, prepare to capture the station."
* * *
Some beings dropped like cut strings, dropping their weapons. Others took another step forward as rifle bolts punched clean through them, burning holes through stomachs, limbs, heads…
Among the few New Republic soldiers and the military engineers who'd joined the defense, there was no military organization. How could there be?
Nor did they have the brains to understand the futility of armed resistance.
Lieutenant Rederick shook his head, lurking around the corridor corner.
Stormtrooper squads supported by droidekas stood beside him, ready to attack the Republicans dug into the recreation area of the orbital repair workshop from the rear.
Negotiations had led nowhere. Most of the workers — civilian contractors — had surrendered without issue. They had nothing to die for here. This wasn't their war. They were just hired workers. Who, moreover, hadn't even been paid for the past week. Which was effectively an aggravating circumstance.
"An assault will cause heavy casualties among the stormtroopers," the company commander told him. He said it without complaint, simply stating a fact. He didn't care about his own life — only about completing the mission. As efficiently as possible.
These TNX-series stormtroopers were strange… Like they weren't even people, but droids of bone and flesh. Being near them was somehow… frightening, even.
"I don't think so," Rederick replied.
He knew this workshop level's layout perfectly. The moment they stepped out of the corridor, they'd have twenty meters of open space to cross before reaching the recreation area. That's why the New Republic soldiers had dug in here — it was the perfect position to cover anyone trying to attack.
Anyone except…
"Deploy the droidekas," the scout ordered.
"Move out," the stormtrooper company commander said in the same indifferent tone. The three mechanical destroyers clicked their three-fingered lower limbs, curled into wheel-like forms, and darted forward, their bodies rattling against the metal floor.
A couple of seconds later, with a characteristic sound, the death machines returned to their walker stance, deployed their deflector screens — radiating so much radiation that you shouldn't get within range without at least a stormtrooper armor. Which had some anti-radiation protection. Good thing the boarding teams had procured him one of those. Not quite the right size, but who cares about someone else's misfortune when history is being made?
Meanwhile, the droidekas completed their advance and began their combat task.
And opened fire with their cannons…
The shriek of rapid-fire blasters mixed with the defenders' sporadic bursts, cries of pain, death rattles, ricochets…
Rederick twitched to look at what was happening in the recreation area, but a stormtrooper company commander's hand held him in place.
"Not necessary, sir," he said. "Not safe."
Pointless to argue. Whoever had drilled these men knew his job. In the hour since the boarding parties had landed on the orbital workshops, not a single station worker who hadn't shown aggression toward Imperial soldiers had been harmed. The armed were disarmed, the aggressive but non-threatening were knocked out, the armed and dangerous were eliminated. Both shipyards had been unable to even refuel their docked ships thanks to a Rederick sabotage — remote detonation of the pumps moving fuel from tanks through pipes onto the ships. A minor piece of damage he'd warned Thrawn about in advance. And Thrawn had clearly brought the necessary spare parts on his ships.
The roar of blasters, cries of pain, and the death rattles of dying beings—a cacophony of death was what Lieutenant Rederick was listening to now.
Deliberately and mercilessly, the droidekas kept firing until the enemy's resistance dwindled to a few aimless shots. Only then, after finishing off the survivors, did the droidekas cease fire and deactivate their deflector shields. No matter how advanced Colicoid military and engineering thought might be, they couldn't devise a way for droidekas to remain permanently protected behind their reflective screens.
"Moving out," the lieutenant ordered.
The stormtrooper company commander obeyed without a word, relaying the order to his men.
Walking past piles of dead bodies, gunned down without a shred of remorse, Rederick felt no pangs of conscience or regret for the fallen.
They were offered the chance to lay down their arms. They refused. No one was going to beg them.
Accompanied by a squad of Imperial stormtroopers clad in white armor, the lieutenant dashed up the stairwell leading to the administrative level. It was here, in the very heart of the station, that the chief engineer and all technical records were located.
Unfortunately, starting the assault on this part of the shipyard wasn't feasible—the Republic had ensured the security of their secrets well. But since when had a blast door, leading to a compartment with walls twice as thick as the armor of a Kuat dreadnought, ever stopped anyone? And that was no small thing—meters, if not dozens of meters, of duraplast. No boarding craft could overcome such an obstacle—considering the dozens of decks surrounding that room. And the reactors... And the other mechanisms and systems vital to the functioning of an orbital repair workshop. Attempting a direct breach would render the shipyard, at best, unfit for further use. Or at worst, cause an explosion.
A plasma cutter, the kind used to slice through damaged armor plating, bit into the door's surface at the necessary point. The New Republic had made sure the electronic lock was only on the inside of the compartment.
Rederick quietly cursed, knowing that Fishface was destroying documents right now. And the longer they took...
"Ahem-ahem," came a voice from behind. Rederick turned. And saw someone he least expected to find here.
"Fodeum?!" His eyes went wide.
"Well, at least someone calls me by just my name," sighed the owner of the Graceful Lady.
"What are you doing here?" Rederick asked.
"Helping," Fodeum sighed again, even more mournfully, showing a cylinder with buttons held in his hands. "This thing cuts faster."
"A lightsaber?!" Rederick tensed. The stormtroopers synchronized their blasters on the newcomer. "You don't look much like Luke Skywalker."
"No one's ever given me a better compliment," Fodeum smiled. "But the saber supposedly belongs to his family. Well, if Thrawn isn't lying. So, want some help?"
"I thought you were done with your part of the job," the scout said, still suspicious.
"Then I talked to Mom," Fodeum said. "Turns out... Anyway, let me crack this door open for you, like I did at the other station, and you do your thing?"
"Be my guest," Rederick snorted, stepping aside. The young captain approached the door, examined it. He placed his hand on it, closing his eyes as if listening for something. "Just don't cut yourself..."
"Don't worry," Fodeum smiled stiffly. "Losing my... lightsaber doesn't mean I'm a complete klutz."
And the next instant, a white-blue blade hissed to life and bit into the armor...
Before Rederick's (and undoubtedly the stormtroopers') jaw could drop, a massive chunk of the blast door simply crashed outward from the room the Imperials intended to enter—taking the door hinges and lock with it. A half-meter-thick piece of metal clattered down the stairs, sending sparks flying.
Without wasting time, Rederick slipped inside, entered the smoke-filled room, and dropped to one knee. His blaster sight swept the dim chamber. No one in sight... Rederick turned smoothly from left to right...
A crimson blaster bolt flared in the darkest corner. It approached so fast the scout knew—he wouldn't make it...
And then a white-blue blade appeared in the bolt's path, and the crimson charge was deflected into the ceiling. And another one after it...
After another bolt was redirected into the shooter—who turned out to be a Mon Calamari, well known to both of them—Lieutenant Rederick, satisfied that the shipyard's chief engineer could no longer shoot anyone, looked at the captain of the Graceful Lady with respect.
"Thanks," he said, extending his hand.
Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, embarrassed, silently returned the handshake.