Nine years, six months, and twenty days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-fourth year, six months, and twenty days after the Great Resynchronization.
Fifty-seven years ago, this world was destroyed. Turned into a massive cloud of space rocks of all sizes and shapes.
Thirty-eight years before the destruction of Alderaan and the loss of the first Death Star at the Battle of Yavin IV, a planet—one that was neither an industrialization project, nor an object of desire for galactic corporations, the powerful, or criminals—was reduced to a pile of rubble.
Among those rocks, the Imperious was now hiding. The strict gray hull of the Imperial Star Destroyer harmonized with the blackness of space, the brown-black shadows of the asteroids, and the dull radiation of the local star, Shaddaa.
Standing on the bridge of his Star Destroyer, Captain Eric Shohashi ran his thumb lovingly and tenderly over a photograph tucked inside the lid of his chronometer.
Iran Ryad. The "Red Star." She was as beautiful as on the first day they met. And she would remain so forever—in his heart and his memory.
Eric snapped the chronometer shut with a click and tucked it into his tunic pocket. Shifting his weight onto his cane, he felt the pommel dig into his hand. It was nothing—a familiar, meaningless pain.
Compared to the one he had felt years ago, when the Imperious—just returned from another raid and lying low at its base in the depths of the asteroid field that was once the planet Shaddaa-Bi-Boran—and the communications officer brought him an encrypted message with news of Iran Ryad's death.
Being in this system, in the Bi-Boran sector of the Outer Rim, in quadrant O-18, according to Imperial galactic cartography, always brought him pain. Far greater pain than what he had felt while cleansing Atoa, realizing his fellow Imperials had been betrayed and murdered by the locals. He learned the truth much later, after the Emperor's death, when the secrecy surrounding Imperial "affairs" finally broke down... But the nickname "Butcher of Atoa" had already stuck. And by then, he simply didn't care anymore.
Pain and shock, when he caught a smuggler transporting a load of rebel weapons. Here, in this cluster of rocks, the Alderaanian had sought and found his quarry. And he took it. He stormed the ship that was supplying the rebels with weapons and provisions to continue their bloody terror against the foundations of the Empire.
He interrogated the captain of that freighter. Learned they had grown up in the same place on Alderaan. He showed mercy to a fellow countryman, letting him live with the intention of turning him over to justice. This was met with resounding approval from the other Alderaanians in his crew.
And it was here, just hours after capturing the freighter, while repairing the Imperious's hull, damaged by space rocks, that Shohashi learned of his homeworld's destruction...
He learned of it when his closest comrade—his executive officer, also an Alderaanian like him—tried to kill him to seize control of the Star Destroyer.
Despite everything, Shohashi put down the rebellion aboard his ship. With maximum cruelty, extracting from the rebel agents on his vessel the locations of nearby cells and all other information they possessed. And he disposed of them. Without a tribunal or a full investigation. As brutally as he himself was shocked by what had happened to his homeworld. But he had to hold on. Not for himself—for the crew, who couldn't understand why those who had shared their quarters with them had suddenly become enemies because the rebels had destroyed their homeworld. They didn't know the truth then... And the Alderaanian rebels already knew it... But it sounded like pathetic propaganda. To a man who had lost his home and all his acquaintances on a dead planet, betrayed by his own countrymen among the ship's crew, any talk of the Empire being responsible for Alderaan's destruction seemed like propaganda... The situation was far too shocking.
He repaired the ship and returned to base. Where he learned that, according to Imperial reports, the rebels were behind Alderaan's destruction... He learned about the mass desertion of his fellow citizens from the Imperial Armed Forces...
Eric didn't believe in coincidences. He endured all the interrogations and inspections that came his way thanks to the Imperial Security Bureau. And he returned to the bridge of his ship. But he was no longer the cheerful middle-aged man he had been.
Now he was a killer. The last Alderaanian loyal to the Empire. That was what they called him, until he descended upon the criminal and rebel scum, exterminating them all, to the last man. Word reached him about how other Imperial servicemen saw him.
And he didn't care.
Because humanity was only good when it wasn't taken for weakness. Because he desperately clung to all the good the Empire had brought to the galaxy...
The Emperor's death put many things in their proper place. Leaks of Imperial secrets added a certain piquancy to the situation. And Grand Moff Tarkin's involvement in Alderaan's destruction, casting a shadow over all Imperials, became an obvious fact... Including for Eric.
In any other situation, anyone in his place would have deserted. Like Sair Yonka and many other commanders had done. But not Shohashi. He continued to fight, desperately trying to preserve at least some semblance of law and order in the galaxy. Idealistic motives? Yes, most likely. But when your entire worldview and moral compass are crumbling, you don't have many options left—break, or be broken.
Preserve order... Even if your struggle means little in the face of a galaxy rapidly disintegrating, plunging into the abyss of anarchy.
It didn't work. One destroyer in the galaxy is no longer a warrior.
Maybe it could be achieved with Thrawn's help. Maybe, given that Shohashi, as ordered, had delivered high-ranking Republic officers and officials to Tangrene. Though he had wanted to look into the eyes of the last Alderaanian princess and ask her a couple of questions about the peace and prosperity the New Republic had promised the galaxy. They had defeated the Empire, killed the Emperor, gotten rid of his minions... So where was the harmony they had promised the galaxy's people? Five and a half years had passed since Endor, and nothing had changed for the better. On the contrary. Smuggling had become almost stronger than official trade. The Outer Rim had practically completely "buckled" under the Hutts and other scum. The number of pirate bands had multiplied tenfold...
But Eric knew well that much time had passed since he suppressed the Alderaanian uprising aboard the Imperious. And the event had become embellished with fabrications, turning into an epic. From a commander dispensing justice, he had become a maniac with a sick mind.
If he decided to talk to his fellow countrywoman, her heart would probably stop.
"Have the convoy data arrived?" he asked the watch officer. Ideally, the report from the reconnaissance drones should have been provided by his executive officer, but after the last one had shattered his kneecap with a blaster shot, condemning him to a limp for the rest of his life, Eric wasn't about to trust anyone that deeply anymore.
"Yes, sir, Captain," the watch officer handed him a datapad. "One assault frigate and two GR-75 medium transports. They've started unloading in the Arbra system. Drones have recorded a shipment of weapons for a second frigate currently in drydock."
"Just as Thrawn warned," Eric said.
The Grand Admiral had sent him on a mission to strike the shipyard in the Arbra system. It was from here, after repairs at the local drydocks, that Sair Yonka's ships had set out to participate in the Ambush at Rugosa. At these "exclusively civilian shipyards," as New Republic propaganda claimed, they had installed shipboard weaponry on Yonka's Star Destroyer and an accompanying Mon Calamari Star Cruiser.
For strictly peaceful purposes, of course.
"Prepare the ship for departure," Eric commanded, returning the datapad to the watch officer.
Despite the fact that Shaddaa-Bi-Boran and Arbra were separated by less than ten thousand light-years, it would take several days to get there—there were no direct hyperspace routes to the target. They would have to fly straight through interstellar void... Time consumption would increase, as would fuel consumption. But these were minor details. The cost of doing business.
But this would be more than enough to strike a military target and divert the enemy's attention from Grand Admiral Thrawn's returning fleet. And then there would be other targets...
Meanwhile, the privateers in the Grand Admiral's service were attacking supply convoys throughout the galaxy's Outer Rim, forcing local New Republic fleet forces to scramble from one hotspot to another.
Eric Shohashi cast a glance at the vast asteroid field swirling around his ship. Space rocks, so reminiscent of the Graveyard—the cluster of Alderaan's remains, where those of his fellow citizens who had survived their homeworld's destruction regularly made pilgrimages. Someday, perhaps, he too would return to his homeland and leave a memorial marker for the innocents who had died because of one mad Imperial Grand Moff's lust for destruction and desire to test the combat capability of a massive battle station. The Tarkins... How he hated them. First the younger one, Garosh, for avenging whose death Eric had destroyed Atoa and become the "Butcher" in the galaxy's eyes. Then his father, Wilhuff, who had cost him his homeland and loved ones, who had made him lose faith in his own comrades...
"It's not what it seems." That was what Thrawn had told him when sending him against the Arbra shipyards.
Perhaps the Grand Admiral, in his characteristic manner, was speaking not only about the mission, but about him, Eric Shohashi, himself. The "Butcher of Atoa," who was striving for peace and tranquility.
And for the death of Baron Soontir Fel.
* * *
Staring through the viewport of the Chimaera's bridge at the Imperial shuttles and transports darting between the ships and the lattices of the orbital repair workshops, I felt fatigue washing over me.
I had done it.
And the fiery inferno rolling across the surface of the planet Hast, devouring the rotten, rusted, hideous pieces of metal—among which, after thorough searches by fleet specialists, nothing valuable had remained for my fleet—seemed like a massive period at the end of the operation against the enemy shipyards. A period placed by the launchers of the Colicoid Swarm and the Crusader-class corvette, while captured shuttles, spare parts, weapons, and prisoners were being loaded into the cavernous holds of the Star Destroyers and other spaceships of my fleet.
Right at this moment, as the laden captured transports were reconfiguring into a cruising formation, making room for their empty comrades to load, at this very moment, as my gaze admired the play of internal lighting on the floating Golan-type orbital stations, still bearing the scars of recent battles on their hulls, a clearer thought pierced my mind.
We had succeeded. Worse than we could have, but no military campaign ever goes perfectly. Especially in this universe, where every battle usually goes completely off-plan.
And it wasn't about someone being too smart or too stupid. It was a set of factors, too many and too tedious to list. I still lacked the data for a full analysis of why certain campaigns were lost. The outcomes seemed logical enough, seemed to follow from the internal logic of the universe. But there was some strange, inexplicable law of opposition—a routine campaign for the typical villain almost always goes "like clockwork," but by the "finale," everything goes so wrong it's as if their brains just shut off. And then comes the collapse.
Why was I thinking about this now?
Because my own campaign was proceeding suspiciously logically: consistently, with a growing effect. And you couldn't tell whether the cause was the action of that infamous, strange, inexplicable law of opposition, or my own planning.
Insufficient data for an accurate analysis of the situation. Which meant one thing—I had to continue the policy of meticulous operational planning. I couldn't relax. I couldn't afford a misstep. Perhaps Thrawn's authority might have previously worked in my favor regarding his periodic refusals to engage stronger enemies he couldn't find a "key" to, but the string of victories over the last two months would clearly go to my subordinates' heads.
Any day now, they'd demand we attack Coruscant... Hmm... You do the impossible once, and soon they expect you to walk on water.
The main thing was to keep myself in check and not let previous successes go to my head. This was a very dangerous period, when victories cloud your vision and the threshold for objectively assessing the enemy drops below a dangerous level. That was how "decisive defeats" were born...
And at the same time, I had to remember the threats from both the New Republic and the Imperial Remnants. Not to mention that each of the "major opponents" was a kind of "matryoshka doll," containing smaller opponents within...
And there were those who stood outside these two categories. Ysanne Isard, for example, who, personally or through her clone, surely understood what I was planning regarding the Ciutric Hegemony. She was quite capable of pulling some dirty trick. And while I worried least about Tangrene—there were people there capable of defending the sector's capital—my allied planets, like the Chasin systems, Makem Te, Garos IV, Abafar, and others... Though... Actually, I didn't really have any other allies. At least, none where my armed forces were stationed.
The outpost in the Pakuuni system was nothing more than a potential rendezvous point for privateers and pirates looking to make money off the Empire by selling various ships. Though... It had been a long time since anyone had shown such a desire. Which made me wonder—should I move the NL-1 from that isolated system to at least Makem Te's orbit? After all, it would provide better protection for the latter than one Strike-class medium cruiser and one Tartan-class patrol cruiser. Especially considering the uproar the Republic would be raising over the destruction of the Hast shipyards, a counterstrike was not unlikely. Not because the New Republic wanted to seize the tactical initiative. Far from it.
It would be for the sake of populism—like, "They're hitting us, so we'll hit them back." In the struggle for a slipping hegemony, the significance of real victories didn't matter if you could blow up the destruction of a single ship or outpost into a grand victory for galactic democracy over the absolute evil of inhumane tyranny.
True, on the list of planets and systems loyal to my "pro-Imperial" actions, there were a few more. And a couple of sectors. Where they didn't know that I wasn't actually striving to restore the Galactic Empire. And they were completely unprotected...
Yes, there could be problems there. With Bestine IV having withdrawn from Imperial Space's jurisdiction, there was no point in keeping patrol forces—the Strike-class and Tartan-class—there. Logically, they were now patrolling the space around Abafar, ensuring our uninterrupted supply of rhydonium...
Well, since Krennel's and Baron D'Asta's "orders" had been fulfilled.
Still, even an attack on these worlds wouldn't be critical for my plans—the forces stationed there weren't the largest.
"Grand Admiral, sir," said Pellaeon, approaching. "The report is ready."
"In that case, I'd like to hear it..."
"We lost a total of one hundred fifty-nine aircraft—fighters, bombers, shuttles, transports," Pellaeon consulted his datapad. "Total: two thousand one hundred seventeen dead and exactly twice that number wounded."
"Are the last numbers strictly for the boarding parties?" I raised an eyebrow, glancing at the ysalamiri dozing in my command chair.
"Negative, sir. Total casualties among crew members, boarding parties, and pilots," he said.
Well, that was better.
"Continue, Captain," I said.
"One Corellian DP20 frigate lost, ten CR90 corvettes destroyed, two heavily damaged and currently undergoing emergency repairs at the shipyard. Two more damaged ships of the same class were restored to a conditionally combat-ready state by their crews..."
So, out of the twenty-eight corvettes and one frigate that had set out with me on the raid, a third had been lost. Heavy losses... But considering each corvette had a crew of one hundred sixty-five and the lost frigate had a hundred, the proportionality of the losses was starting to please me.
"The Bellicose sustained relatively minor hull damage," Pellaeon continued, "but this doesn't affect its overall combat capability. Same goes for the damage on the other ships."
"Even on that Nebulon-B that nearly broke in half?" I asked.
Gilad looked away awkwardly.
"The shipyard workers who agreed to work for us brought the damaged starships back into working order in emergency mode," he said quietly. "The hull breach is patched, the structural frame is restored... but..."
"But?" I raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"Sir, it's only a temporary fix," Pellaeon explained. "The hull's integrity needs a long time to fully restore, and the spare parts we have on hand aren't enough to confidently claim the ship is fully repaired and capable of making a hyperspace jump. I'd suggest stripping the escort frigate of everything valuable and either blowing it up or crashing it into the planet to create..."
"Your suggestion is noted, Captain," I remarked. "Mechs and technical crews have already removed all equipment from the ship that won't interfere with hyperspace travel. We are not leaving this vessel here."
"It could break apart in hyperspace due to hull integrity breaches," the Chimaera's commander reminded me. And unlike our previous conversations, there was no impatience in his tone now. The man was simply following the Charter's provisions, informing the commander of potential consequences. "In that case, we'd lose both the ship and the crew."
"The first is possible," I agreed. "The second is unlikely. Both orbital repair workshops, the damaged Nebulon-B, the orbital defense stations, the MC80 with destroyed engines, and the one that was hit by the Dragon's ion cannon — all will be crewed by B-1 droids."
Pellaeon paused to think for a brief moment.
"Insurance against system failure?"
"Exactly, Captain," I said. "Despite our techs and engineers being confident in the functionality of all systems on the trophies we captured, I don't intend to risk crews. That's why we brought them on this campaign — as a way to replace our missing personnel. However, while droids will operate combat-ready ships strictly under the command of our officers and stormtrooper units aboard each vessel, with damaged trophies, the risk of losing even a dozen or a hundred subordinates doesn't justify transferring them to the stations or the ships that took damage in battle."
'I don't have that many fleet specialists. But nearly a hundred thousand B-1 droids, half delivered aboard the Phoenix and the Star Galleons, the other half on the Colicoid Swarm as landing support forces — that's an opportunity for risk-taking. Even though I'll have to pay compensation to Yazuo Vane and Captain Irv for the enormous number of combat machines lost during the assault on the system's facilities and the Hast shipyards themselves... And still, we don't have enough. I have to use stormtroopers to replace personnel on ships that are in working condition.'
"Go on, Captain," I said.
"Well... On the positive side, we managed to capture two Imperial Star Destroyers intact, and what's more, ones that have undergone modernization," Pellaeon said with satisfaction.
"What kind of modifications?" I inquired.
"The list is attached, but the most notable are a class 1.5 hyperdrive and increased automation of ship systems..."
"Which reduces personnel requirements aboard the vessels," I deduced instantly. "By how much?"
"To two-thirds, sir," the Chimaera's commander told me, barely hiding his joy. "For the Accuser and the Judge to function fully, we'll need just over twenty thousand people..."
I can already foresee Mr. Zion's furious declarations that he could have done better, but since there's a ready-made scheme...
"Were we able to obtain the data on these upgrades?" I asked. Developing our own engineers' work is always pleasant and good. But if there's a chance to reduce labor costs by using someone else's work, why not?
"Chief Engineer Trevor managed to delete some of the information, but we salvaged seventy percent of the data on these projects," Pellaeon explained. "Unfortunately, that Mon Calamari stored the upgrade data in various files — separately for each destroyer system. If it had all been on one technical schematic..."
"We most likely wouldn't have been able to get that data at all," I noted. "We'll make do with what we have. What condition are the seven MC80 Star Cruisers captured at the shipyards in?"
"Minor damage sustained during the battle for the ships," Pellaeon explained. "All of it has already been repaired, so these vessels are fully ready for the jump."
"But not armed," I noted.
"And not equipped with deflector generators," Gilad confirmed. "Ammunition has been offloaded. The techs have restored the fuel pumps, and the vessels' tanks are filled. Not completely, of course — but enough to make the jump to the Pakuuni system. From there..."
"Contact Moff Ferrus," I interrupted the captain. "We need tankers in the Munto Codru system."
"Already done, sir," Pellaeon smiled, pleased to have anticipated my train of thought. "Apparently, the Rebels refueled their ships on Dac after repairing them here..."
"Possibly," I said, choosing not to voice my assumption that the New Republic's tankers were most likely part of the convoy heading toward us — and would be here in a few hours. Looking at my ever-growing "caravan," I had less and less desire to meet them in open battle. As a result, I wasn't particularly in doubt — I simply had more starships. But to stake the operation's outcome on fighting an enemy fleet that could, en route to us, have acquired another company of starships, heavily armed to boot... No, absolutely not. Maybe later.
For now, I had no intention of appearing in this region of the galaxy. And I had a strong desire to gather the Imperial military communications under my command into a fist capable of withstanding an attack. No doubt Admiral Rajab, who commanded the Hast shipyards, had reported to his command headquarters on Dac that they were attacked by "Krennel's" ships and that his vessels had been identified — but that was the intent.
Let them strike at the Ciutric Hegemony. Of course, if the dropped counterfeit transponder from the Crusader doesn't make the New Republic analyze what happened more carefully. And then it'll be me who'll have to prepare for Coruscant's wrath, not the Prince-Admiral.
Well, we'll live and see.
Krennel asked for evidence of his involvement in the operation to be left behind — God knows, I did everything I could to make the Mon Calamari consider him the most active participant in this mess.
"The three Mon Calamari Star Cruisers we captured," I reminded him.
"Their systems have been repaired; on the vessel that Captain Mor shelled, the workers restored the engines, so it too will leave the Hast system," Pellaeon said. "As for the other trophies... Four out of five escort frigates of the Nebulon-B type are in excellent technical condition, even partially armed. I already reported on the fifth... We captured over forty transport and landing shuttles of various types — they've already been distributed among the ships. The quality of repairs... not the best, but for lack of anything else, it'll do. No complaints about the trophies, really... Oh, and seventeen Corellian corvettes of the CR90 type, repaired at the shipyards, are also combat-ready and will head to base under their own power."
Well, Grand Admiral Thrawn. Congratulations are in order — if we count only Imperial and Kuat equipment, I now directly control the forces of an Imperial sector fleet. From unarmed transports, escort ships, and support cruisers, to fifteen Imperial Star Destroyers... Most of which still need crews. Hmm... Well, the main thing is that I actually have these vessels. And solving the crew problem, though difficult, is possible.
The main thing is that now I am — as that movie said? "Free from all shackles."..
Yes. It's too early to relax — first, I need to get all my wealth to Tangrene, then repair what we already have to factory standards...
Speaking of repairs.
"Captain," I addressed him. "According to the data from Commander Rederick, now, fifteen thousand sentients worked at these shipyards," I had promised that guy a promotion for successfully completing the mission, hadn't I? I kept my promise. And the fact that between lieutenant and commander there's also the rank of lieutenant commander didn't bother me much. This guy did most of the work for us. The Empire lost dozens of ships here last time, and thanks to the scout's competent actions, we didn't just recoup our lost vessels — we gained a multiple numerical advantage. Now I need to change tactics to "shore up the rear.".. And, oddly enough — get more money. Hmm... I should transfer some of the "trophied" ships to Krennel against the funds I received from him. Give him the rest too? No, that's not even funny. He's already become excessively strong thanks to my efforts. I have no desire to pour more resources into his defense. At least not at the previous prices. I'm sure the Prince-Admiral's complaints about the stripped-down condition of the ships regarding armament and ammunition supply will still come down on my head. Of course, if that happens, it won't mean anything significant — no more than an attempt at bargaining and a "test for weakness." In a situation where the Prince-Admiral is no longer my subordinate, the command hierarchy is broken, and besides, Krennel rules a Remnant whose industry is one of the largest in Imperial Space, he has the nerve to express his "meh." Naturally, I don't intend to let that slide. But I certainly won't get into a squabble. If he needs ships given the hostile attitude of other Remnants — well, I'm ready to share. For good payment, of course. However, that's not what I need to discuss now. "How many of them agreed to work for us?"
"From those who switched sides, we can fully staff both shipyards," Pellaeon said in a satisfied tone. Seeing my raised eyebrow, he explained:
"The New Republic sent more workers here than the regulations stipulated — to speed up repair work. Considering there are no more than six thousand Republic military artisans and engineers aboard the workshops, we can hire about nine thousand workers."
'And more expenses... substantial ones at that.'
"We can sustain their services for a few weeks using the cash reserves that the shipyard management had on hand for paying worker salaries," Pellaeon added. "Given that the New Republic command was clearly trying to pretend these shipyards no longer existed and paid in cash to avoid tracking bank transfers, the reserve is considerable. Even under the condition that you forbade requisitioning the Republic citizens' personal funds."
"You disapprove of my actions, Captain?" I inquired.
"I'm just not sure I fully understand them, sir," he admitted.
"It's simple," I said. "We'll keep these sentients on Tangrene for a while — at least until our counterintelligence can 'screen' them and do its job. Logically, prisoners need to eat somehow. If they have their own money, we can't deny them the opportunity to spend it as they see fit to purchase our goods."
Just as we can't deny Astarion and Himron the chance to recruit a few new agents. The New Republic (and, for that matter, the Galactic Empire) can preach as much as it wants about the ideological loyalty of its citizens and servicemen to "party policy," but experienced specialists will always find a way to find the "key to sentients' souls." Whether they're exposed later or not isn't that important — either way, we win. In the latter scenario, we gain new agents in place or inside the Republic (depending on whether they're returned to their jobs or not). In the former, the standard trick works: "The Empire, as always, is trying to destabilize us from within, but we will prevail!" And another grievance lands in the bag of justifications for attacking Krennel. While I have the opportunity, I should increase the volume of casus belli. And do it in such a way that other Imperial Remnants, if they do intervene, either get small territories from the Hegemony or a good thrashing from the New Republic fleet. The main thing is to appear at the right time myself and execute the necessary combination...
"Do you have anything else to say, Captain?" I inquired, looking at Pellaeon fidgeting with impatience.
"We discovered two samples of the TIE Avenger, restored in a makeshift manner," he said. "Of course, several assembly units and the weapons are dismantled, but the very fact gives us prospects."
"I understand you perfectly," I replied to his unspoken question. The TIE Avenger is a development of Sienar Fleet Systems' small craft technology from the TIE series, born after the Imperials realized that TIE fighters and interceptors couldn't compete on equal footing with the Rebel T-65 X-wing. The lack of deflector shields and standard missile armament practically negated the TIE fighters' speed advantage. After long ordeals, the Imperials managed to create a fighter called the TIE Avenger. Equipped with deflectors and launchers, as well as a miniature hyperdrive. In effect, at that moment, the Empire could qualitatively match its opponent in small craft performance. However, Imperial bureaucrats hated the machine for its cost. Even in the best years of the Galactic Empire, when perfectly established logistics and production lines were operating, the cost of this equipment never dropped below four hundred thousand credits. That made one squadron equivalent in cost to a corvette or frigate, which would be more useful... There were other reasons too why the Imperials never managed to fully re-equip their ships with this type of craft. There were some ships re-equipped with such machines that never saw wide use — for example, the Ubiqtorate fleet's flagship, the ISD Red Dragon, had TIE Aggressors in its air wing, another variant of murky Sienaran genius, a hybrid fighter-bomber... Aboard Captain Shohashi's Imperious, there was a TIE Defender, another sample of Imperial-produced small craft equipped with shields, hyperdrive, and launchers. Another expensive but undoubtedly useful and effective technology.
And I still haven't gotten around to sorting through all this good stuff. I've been planning for so long to get to the company's headquarters and talk to Lady Santhe about acquiring an orbital factory to produce my own TIEs... And there's always something more important to do. No, after Hast, I definitely need to fly to that lady and negotiate. But first, I should stop by Vjun along the way and personally check what Mara Jade has been doing all this time. Then there's the stop at Munto Codru and overseeing the work there. In any case, I didn't declare refueling there for nothing. Combining business... And the pretext is perfectly plausible — negotiations with local leaders and returning their children, kidnapped by operatives to ensure the local rulers' loyalty and prevent information leaks about our fleet's passage. And the fact that I plan to visit the secret base — that shouldn't concern anyone at all.
Still, returning to the TIE Avengers... Two working samples. In principle, I could try to restore them to combat readiness and direct some of the military engineers' efforts to study this technology through reverse engineering. Santhe Corporation is unlikely to share the blueprints, so analyzing the samples would be just what's needed.
And if I manage to acquire the factory, I can start production — not of TIE fighters, but of something more modern. The interceptors, for instance, are no less deadly but more durable. Though they also cost more... Again, I need money. The fleet has become so huge that maintaining it will cost a pretty penny. I had no desire to get involved in another mission for Krennel or D'Asta, and selling Mon Calamari ships, even at inflated prices, would just be another instance of temporary economic stability. I might as well start looking for that infamous Sa Nalaor with its mythical holds full of riches! And I still need sources of metals for ship repairs... Oh, hutt, there's so much to do. I'll have to convene our Triumvirate and raise the supply issue, tasking Moff Ferrus with the search.
"Are both specimens already aboard the Chimaera?" I asked, watching intently as missiles and turbolaser bolts from the Star Destroyers that had joined the bombardment turned Hast's already depressing landscapes into a likeness of Mustafar. Hmm... Mustafar. The Confederacy of Independent Systems' enterprises there mined metals through open-pit mining — literally scooping them from lava. And that planet is unlikely to be unique. I need to think about this option. But look for a world closer to the Morshdine sector.
"Yes, sir!" Pellaeon said. "I hope our engineers have enough skill to study them and start at least small-scale production. Creating elite squadrons would be nice..."
Uh-huh. If only we had the money...
When you think about it, the Empire produced a considerable amount of equipment — both ground and aerospace — that could have competed with, or even surpassed, the Rebel Alliance's combat machines. But there were always reasons why they never saw widespread use. Why? Too many reasons, buried in such complicated tangles that one would hardly want to sort through them.
"Has the report from the Stately's commander come in?" I inquired, continuing to watch two Star Destroyers turn the surface of the uninhabited planet into slag. Krennel doesn't need to know about that last part. Or that the personnel from the surface base had been evacuated in advance.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said. "The cruiser successfully conducted an orbital bombardment and TIE fighter attack on enemy fortifications. Warehouses, firing points, the settlement perimeter, and the barracks of the local law enforcement forces were destroyed. One MC80 Mon Calamari Star Cruiser and two Mark-II assault frigates were detached from the convoy to eliminate the threat. The Stately avoided direct engagement by using a secondary withdrawal route."
"So, heading toward us in the convoy are six Mon Calamari Star Cruisers and forty GR-75 medium transports," I summed up, watching the fleet's actions. I needed one more hour to complete all operations, and then we could leave this place, leaving only debris behind. The New Republic wouldn't even get its downed pilots — either our search teams found them immediately after the last defensive objectives fell. And those that weren't found... Well, they were just unlucky — we'd been here almost a day, and the life support resources in the Republic starfighters' pilot seats, according to reference information, only lasted a few hours. Six, to be precise. The designers' idea was that a battle couldn't last longer than that, and by then, the victors would have already found the downed pilots. Or they'd simply freeze once the protection systems failed.
"If Mr. Fodeum's partner, Sabre De'Luz, can be believed, that's exactly how many ships are in the convoy," Pellaeon said.
"There's no reason to doubt the reliability of such information, confirmed by the interrogation results of the commanders of the surrendered ships," I countered. Pellaeon made a skeptical face. But he composed himself almost immediately. "In any case, I have no intention of engaging them in battle."
"Sir?" Pellaeon looked at me in bewilderment. "We outnumber them and..."
"And we simply don't have enough landing craft or fighters to board those ships too, Captain," I said. "Even if we use all available stormtroopers and droids for that purpose, we won't be able to supply all captured ships with even a minimal crew for towing."
"But they're delivering weapons and ammunition for the captured ships!" Pellaeon insisted. "To acquire all that on the black market or from companies in Imperial Space, on any market, would cost millions!"
"We have credits, Captain," I said calmly. "We won't engage in idle hoarding. But at the moment, we've reached the limit of our human resources. A new batch of clones will provide us with crews, and we'll be able to implement the commissioning program for our two trophy destroyers thanks to the automation mechanisms and reduced crew requirements. Considering the verified volunteers cleared by counterintelligence and the available cloned crews on the dreadnoughts already undergoing modernization, by the end of the month we can expect another Star Destroyer and three dozen heavy cruisers to join active combat operations. The fleet will become a powerful battle group. Consequently, we can move to broader military actions, solving several tactical tasks simultaneously. But there is a problem," I added. "A lack of suitable and experienced commanders for these ships. Major Himron captured Grand Admiral Octavian Grant. This man possesses excellent tactical and strategic abilities. But he's not suitable as a prototype for cloning as ship commanders."
"Um... Sorry. I don't understand," Pellaeon admitted. "We could create loyal clones of Grant and place them on the bridges of Star Destroyers!"
"Unfortunately, not under our current circumstances, Captain," I said calmly. "Given the composition of the forces under my command, Star Destroyers can no longer serve as simple line-of-battle ships as they did in the best years of the Galactic Empire. A reorganization awaits the fleet, in which Imperial-class Star Destroyers will become flagships of operational formations, while the actual 'workhorse banthas' will be ships from the Katana Fleet. And while it's perfectly logical to send clones as commanders to the dreadnoughts, on the bridge of a Star Destroyer, I would prefer to see 'natural' sentients."
"In that case, using Grant as a clone matrix for heavy cruiser commanders is not the best idea," Pellaeon lamented. "A waste of talent…"
"On that point, Captain, I fully agree," I seconded. "But we must not forget that Octavian Grant is a traitor to the Empire. Taking him under our wing — both the original and the clone — will only raise questions among the enlisted and officer corps."
"But we are traitors to the Empire ourselves," Pellaeon noted.
"As strange as it sounds, these are different types of betrayal," I countered. "Grant betrayed everything he served for the sake of preserving his own life and extracting maximum profit. He disclosed classified information to the New Republic — not just isolated details, but everything he knew. And while on the first few points we share some common ground, the last one… I am not prepared, nor will I ever be, to reveal the Empire's secrets, those of my subordinates, or my allies to the enemy — whoever that enemy might be — in order to achieve my goals. No matter how noble or pragmatic the objective, there is always a way to avoid disclosing secrets. Grant didn't bother to find one. And that is precisely why every Imperial, whether they share our views or not, wants to hang him from the nearest building and make him suffer. His betrayal cost the Empire control of dozens, if not hundreds, of sectors. That is unforgivable. And unfortunately, Imperials have wanted him dead for far too long. No matter how much you, I, and all our other allies try to convince subordinates that Octavian Grant is an excellent donor for cloning and that his knowledge can help us achieve victory, the appearance of his clones would create more problems than benefits. People simply cannot accept help from someone whose face has long been a symbol of one of the most monumental betrayals without suspicion. No, Captain. Grand Admiral Octavian Grant, without a doubt, will play his role in my plans — both militarily and politically. When his time comes."
Pellaeon was silent for a while, pondering what had been said. I watched in silence as the thought process played out clearly on the face of the Chimaera's commander. He was running through every phrase I'd said, one after another, trying to assess them from all angles…
I, meanwhile, was simply admiring how Hast's surface was completing its transformation into a black-and-red inferno, spreading fiery tornadoes in all directions. How a network of lava veins was emerging from the shattered crust of the planet's surface, spreading in rivers of fire…
A picture of total annihilation, of complete world sterilization. It was terrifying to imagine what would happen if this occurred on an inhabited planet…
In moments like these, you wonder whether you yourself could give such an order — to turn a living world into a scorched desert where intelligent life would never again exist in the foreseeable future.
No, that was highly unlikely. Situations vary, without a doubt, but certainly not to act like this against a civilian population… Even against the military… No, never. I simply wouldn't have the resolve to do it…
Or would I, and I simply lacked the "right motivation"?
"Sir," Captain Pellaeon broke the silence. "I do understand the traitor's role in your plans correctly, don't I? What you said…"
"That's right," I said, looking at the silver-haired Imperial. "You understood correctly. Check on the fleet's readiness to depart. It's time to wrap up this operation. We've accomplished our objectives, and we need to stick to the schedule."
* * *
The planet Rishi was located in the system of the same name, in the Abrion sector of the galaxy's Outer Rim. The Imperial Military Astrographic Survey classified this serene, captivating world of scenic landscapes as belonging to Quadrant S-15.
And Imperial Agent Torin Inek classified Rishi as a scum-world that should be subjected to total sterilization via orbital strike. Preferably more than once.
Standing in the shadow cast onto the small balcony of a rented dwelling, the agent studied the rows of dilapidated buildings stretching along the huge cliffs, piles of garbage, suspicious-looking types wandering the narrow streets, scurrying through alleys in search of easy pickings. In the time he'd spent surveying the situation, six robberies had occurred, twelve thefts, two rapes, eight shootouts, two mass stabbings, and four clearly contract killings. The bodies hadn't even been stripped of their "goods," which pointed to a very specific nature of the crime.
Not a bad result for the variety of events in a single district of a settlement over one hour. It was amazing no one had blown themselves up trying to dismantle a nuclear warhead here yet — judging by the severely elevated radiation background and the characteristic emission signatures, there were clearly a couple of "dirty" munitions lying around. Most likely in that warehouse, the last one in the alley. It wasn't for nothing that it was guarded by professional mercenaries in sealed armor. He needed to hurry up and finish his mission. Who knew what else might happen here.
Torin's target, and that of his group, was located in the opposite part of the settlement. According to counterintelligence data, Rishi housed a base belonging to the organization of information broker Talon Karrde, better known by his alias "The Talon." Very well known. And possessing a certain amount of authority even in this den of iniquity — it was the only explanation for why the area around the neighboring building that housed Karrde's headquarters was clean, free of rot, and why the local scum and lowlifes didn't relieve themselves on the walls of that particular structure nearly as often. You could even say it was orders of magnitude less than on other buildings.
Despite dusk already falling on Rishi, this settlement never slept. Torin and his group had spent enough time here to be convinced of a simple and fundamental truth — no one here cared what happened. Rob, kill, rape, harvest for organs (the last one, by the way, was thriving three streets away from the building where the Imperials were holed up) — no one would get involved in someone else's problems. They would prefer to walk past and not attract attention to themselves.
The locals, in principle, tried to pay as little attention as possible to the affairs of those around them. That only simplified the execution of the mission.
Tortuga GFFA — Planet Rishi.
"Four guards," the stormtrooper who had returned from the mission reported. Torin glanced at the approaching man. Well… these guys should keep wearing their armor — they stood out less in it. "One on each side of the building. The top floor is an observation post and a firing point in case of an attack."
"Well then," Torin said. "Let's not keep anyone waiting. Is the ship already on its way?"
"It's entered the atmosphere," the stormtrooper said.
"Then we begin," Inek said, picking up the harpoon rifle lying beside him. He checked it, making sure the tool was in full combat readiness and capable of carrying out its assigned mission. "Signal to the second group immediately after the Wild Karrde lands."
The legend for the operation to eliminate the "Talon" organization cell and acquire his assets, stored in the warehouses of countless bases across the galaxy. And now everything would look as if Karrde had arrived on Rishi to shut down his operations and, at the same time, take out a few "snitches." And just like that, virtually with filigree precision, the dismantling of the organization of a man who had profited from the conflict between the Empire and the New Republic, trading with each side supposedly solely for immense personal enrichment, would begin. Except Karrde had never revealed exactly what he traded with each side.
With the Imperial Remnants, Karrde traded in contraband goods and minor secrets of the New Republic, exchanging all of that for Imperial military technology and equipment.
And for the New Republic, he collected data on the defensive capabilities of shipyards, fleet bases, the capitals of the Imperial Remnants, the size and composition of their armed forces… And he hoarded, hoarded, hoarded this data… Apparently, the only thing that had been saving the Empire from a catastrophic defeat all this time was the New Republic's inability to acquire key secrets through multi-billion-credit contracts.
The information broker would answer for everything — Inek had no doubt about that.
The entire assault squad appeared on the balcony. Every single one, clad in black armor that concealed their Imperial allegiance. Torin was wearing the same gear — it was just too convenient to work in it, posing as mercenaries or an aggressive pirate group.
"We begin," Torin commanded to both squads simultaneously: both the one operating on the "ground" and the one lined up beside him.
The harpoons, launched by the force of compressed gas release, flew in a shallow arc to embed themselves in the wall of the building fifty meters away.
The semi-transparent cables were virtually indistinguishable to the naked eye — they didn't glint in the sun, didn't shimmer at various angles, weren't fragile, and were generally excellent pieces of equipment for such occasions.
Small handles with rollers provided them with a high-speed descent from their higher vantage point to the one occupied by Karrde's henchmen. Pre-prepared anchors sank into the thick roof of the building almost silently.
The harness system — climbing gear worn over the armor — did not restrict movement and didn't rattle, despite the abundance of metal elements. After all, they were specialists in their field.
After performing the necessary operations of feeding the lines and securing them, Torin and ten soldiers of the assault squad allowed their cables to lower them down, remaining outside the line of sight of the windows painted black, which also doubled as gunports. That was, in fact, why they were painted — so that no one could see the weapons or the sentries until they opened fire on the targets below. And those targets would soon be the soldiers of the ground team.
Ten men, walking slowly down the walls, descended to the level of the painted windows… Now it was up to the ground team.
Oh, speak of the devil!
Opening indiscriminate fire on the building belonging to Karrde's group, another squad of stormtroopers, disguised as locals, immediately drew attention. With a creak and a screech, the painted windows began to open…
Throwing a thermal detonator through the window frame, Torin knew without looking that his soldiers had done the same — and now it was important that the building didn't collapse from the shockwave and the force of the explosion…
It didn't collapse.
Pushing off from the wall, Torin deftly slipped inside the room that had just experienced the fury of baradium. A small room with a couple of corpses on the floor and a weapon blown to pieces. A door, blown out by the explosion, led to a staircase going down…
It had been built very cunningly: each flight rose to the middle of the next floor, then made a sharp turn. A wall had been erected between the landings so that one couldn't see what was happening on the next landing. No decorative arts or anything else. Pure functionality.
He had to go slowly; he didn't know if trouble was waiting for him below as well. On each landing, he and his group stopped for a few moments and checked the directions from which an attack could come, but they never found a soul. It seemed the enemy was still busy shooting at the attackers on the street.
"Two ahead," one of the stormtroopers reported. "Armed with high-power blaster pistols… they're the ones blocking access to the main level."
Well then, let's continue.
Torin ducked through the doorway and fired a burst at the guards. A dash to the left, press against the wall. The angle of the nearest wall conveniently shielded this spot from the defenders' fire.
A crackle, another howl of blaster fire. Distracted by him, the guards didn't notice that nine stormtroopers had decided to crash the party uninvited. But here, they were mandatory guests — you can't take the tune out of the song.
Inek sprang from cover and joined the firefight. His shots only left scorch marks on the doorframe behind which the sole surviving fighter from Karrde's organization was trying to escape. And then he collapsed immediately, felled by Torin with a shot to the back of the head; Inek had cut off his escape.
Proceeding in the same direction, he encountered a locked door. The door opened unhurriedly; the main hall. Filled with bales, machinery, shipping containers. Everything you'd expect on a temporary base. And even a few cowardly thugs trying to hide while the others attempted to fight back. They were frankly unsuccessful — blaster bolts caught them all. No one was spared.
The silence that followed the clearance seemed deafening.
Torin called roll.
Everyone was alive — in both squads. He'd come with eighteen fighters, and he left with the same number. And the enemy was eliminated. Except for a couple of prisoners captured by the "ground squad."
"Wild Karrde, this is Karrde," he contacted the truck's support group on the command frequency. Code designations for anyone trying to eavesdrop. A simple trick; they might even figure it out quickly — but the rumor would still spread. Especially given the deliberately terrible quality of the communication — it would be practically impossible to identify voices. But even when they did, the rumor about Karrde purging his own organization, for which this was done, would already have spread through the criminal underworld. "Any problems at the warehouses?"
"No problems, boss," replied the squad leader who had stormed the information broker's supply depot. "All traitors are dead. We're starting the loading."
"Excellent," Karrde declared. "Send us a few cargo shuttles — we'll haul the last of it out of here. I want to present a nice little gift to the Imperials as a token of our long and fruitful cooperation…"
Judging by the extraneous echo on the channel, at least one unauthorized source had tapped into his frequency. Well, that was all that was needed. A forest fire starts from a single spark.