Nine years, six months, and twenty-eighth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, six months, and twenty-eighth day after the Great Resynchronization.
Rukh was born into the Baik'vair clan, one of the numerous Noghri clans living on their home planet, Honoghr. A medium-sized planet located in the eponymous star system in the Kessel sector of the Outer Rim. Familiar with Imperial astrogation, Rukh could easily find his home world in the astrogation guide of Grand Admiral Thrawn's military fleet if he were to look at quadrant T-10.
He learned a lot during the years he served the Grand Admiral.
He knew how to kill skillfully, like many Noghri, literally from birth. As well as how to remain unnoticed under any circumstances.
The Empire taught him to handle blasters, mines, explosives, poisons, and other deadly ingredients of the Noghri death commando craft.
He and his brothers can pilot ships, understand technology, have traveled to many worlds of the vast galaxy, while in the past their ancestors could only dream of such things, sitting on quiet nights and gazing at the myriad stars in the sky. Stars to which their descendants set out to carry the will of their masters to other beings inhabiting the galaxy.
The will of death, fulfilling the role of executioners...
Honoghr, Before the Clone Wars.
He grew up and came of age in extremely turbulent times for his people. A time when the planet was dying. He did not know Honoghr as a blooming world providing everything necessary for its inhabitants. Continents covered in greenery, forests full of wildlife, lakes and seas...
The catastrophe of a spaceship that caused the destruction of Honoghr's ecosystem occurred before he was born. And he could only judge the beauty and grandeur of his world from the stories of the elders and matriarchs — those who lived on the planet before the catastrophe.
Now, he and the other relatively young Noghri, returning to their home world, saw only a planetoid of repellant color, veiled by a thin suspension of dirty-gray clouds. And crimson expanses, like healing wounds, on the surface of the dying Honoghr.
Kholm-grass, which destroyed all vegetation on the planet.
A plant that, according to the matriarchs, had always been on Honoghr.
A plant that killed Honoghr's flora — if the words of Grand Admiral Thrawn were to be believed.
Planet Honoghr (as it appears in current events).
However, despite the frankness of the Imperial Supreme Commander, Rukh, who had served the Grand Admiral for many years, still could not verify whether he had told the truth or lied. Thrawn, known for his intricate and inventive tactical moves, could have misled the Noghri — which some clan matriarchs inadvertently voiced when Rukh arrived on Honoghr and relayed to them the words of the being he had guarded for many years, serving faithfully.
The former bodyguard sat on the steps of a staircase leading into the depths of a huge structure that had existed on Honoghr for thousands of years, gazing at the night sky. He sat and waited for the matriarchs and their attendants to finish their work in the depths of the ancient building.
The Noghri's collective memory could no longer give a precise answer to the question — who built this beautiful structure. It simultaneously inspired, amazed with its monumentality and beauty of form...
And frightened. As if the oppressive aura of this place repelled all living things.
The Noghri believed that this place was built by gods. Generation after generation, the Noghri protected this temple, as did the mechanical guardians of this place, which grew fewer with each passing year. They broke down, and there was no one left to repair them. And the more mechanical guardians perished, the more Noghri came here to protect this structure.
The Rakata Temple on Honoghr.
It was located in one of the few areas of the planet where life still lingered. The Noghri hid this sacred place from all who visited their planet. Even from their master, Darth Vader. The soldiers of the Imperial garrison stationed on the planet also did not know about this patch of fertile land. They were all destroyed by mercenaries of the Zann Consortium. Many Noghri were captured and taken from the planet.
Their master, Darth Vader, executed every one of the survivors after the Imperial raid, considering that they had failed the task set before them. Since then, the Noghri protected their world themselves — the Imperials only helped maintain the decontamination droids. And they continued to poison their planet...
"The matriarchs have finished their meeting," another Noghri silently settled onto the steps beside him. Rukh didn't even need to turn his head to identify who had appeared next to him. A dear brother, a member of the same clan as Rukh himself.
"What decision did they make, Mushkil?" asked Rukh. They spoke quietly in their native language, and hearing it, simply conversing with a dear brother by blade, was as pleasant as breathing the air of their home planet. Even if it lacked the smells of blooming plants and birdsong, even if it resembled the artificial atmosphere of an Imperial Star Destroyer, it was still sweeter than any other.
"The matriarchs verified the Grand Admiral's words," said the brother by blade. "They compared them with the data left behind by the Imperials..."
"And?" Rukh growled the question softly.
"He did not lie to us," said Mushkil. And in his voice, pain was clearly audible. He, like many Noghri, would have preferred that the Grand Admiral had deceived them... Because if he had deceived them, then faith in their master Darth Vader would have continued to live...
"Former master," Rukh corrected himself.
"And now what?" he asked. "What do the matriarchs and the dynasts intend to do next?"
"They're at odds," Mushkil said. "Some want to send emissaries to the Grand Admiral and re-enlist in his service because he exposed the deception. They believe he provided the transport with food, decontamination droids, and reagents, left us all the Imperial equipment solely out of good intentions, wanting to make amends for the harm caused."
"Perhaps that's true," Rukh said diplomatically, not voicing his own opinion. "And what do the others say? There must be an alternative view."
"The majority are calling for us to use everything we have now to restore and protect Honoghr," Mushkil continued. "The Grand Admiral gave us much… But the matriarchs don't believe in the revival of Emperor Palpatine. The clans won't leave Honoghr — we'll save our planet. Right now we can clear many fields and sow them to get a large harvest. Together with the food you brought from Tangrene, we can live for several months without hunger. And considering the supplies accumulated from earlier deliveries — the matriarchs estimate a year."
"That was generous of him," Rukh said, still contemplating the stars. And what, exactly, had he expected? "To provide ten million Noghri with food for a year…"
"The Empire was never this generous to us," Mushkil said.
They sat and admired the stars. Just as their ancestors had done… Rukh had already been among the stars, like the other Noghri serving in the Death Commandos. Mushkil… he was still too young for that. His training wouldn't finish until next year, and then…
"What future awaits us, brother?" Mushkil asked quietly. "Everything we believed in was a lie."
"A mistake we will never make again," Rukh said confidently. He listened. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the hum of ship engines — the kind the Death Commandos used to carry out their missions. Now those ships were traveling across Honoghr, searching for…
"They're flying to the old Imperial base," Rukh realized, his sharp gaze picking out several ships with well-known silhouettes in the night sky.
"The matriarchs decided to restore the defensive systems that the Zann Consortium's militants destroyed," Mushkil said. "Several ships will be dismantled to rebuild the broken defense systems. The Death Commandos will now be stationed there — the matriarchs decided they will serve to protect the Noghri people, as the most trained among our clans…"
"Any Noghri is a master of the knife and killing," Rukh countered. "We don't need to protect ourselves — Noghri don't kill Noghri. The dynasts sent the Death Commandos there because they're familiar with Imperial systems."
"It's protection from invasion, brother," his clansman sitting beside him said.
"The matriarchs are afraid Thrawn will want to destroy us," Rukh understood.
Mushkil didn't answer. None was needed.
If this had happened before that conversation with the Grand Admiral, the former bodyguard would already be spilling the matriarchs' blood on the stones of the ancient temple. In the past, he'd killed those who even spoke of Imperials in a negative light. But now… It was all meaningless.
Just like restoring the Imperial base.
The Noghri had already taken everything valuable from there — right after the Zann Consortium forces left the planet. The surviving Imperials had managed to restore some things before Darth Vader killed them and the base was abandoned.
And now the Noghri wanted to use it to defend the planet from invasion… A pair of turbolasers against the hundreds of cannons a single Imperial warship could bring to bear…
Foolish. The dynasts were simply afraid.
"He won't come," Rukh stated confidently.
After the Grand Admiral returned from the Unknown Regions, Rukh had been one of the first recruits in his service. Without showing any intimidation in the face of the Empire's far more advanced technology, the Noghri so impressed Thrawn that he made him his personal bodyguard.
Serving such a venerable figure was considered an incredibly prestigious honor for a clan warrior, and Rukh believed his service to Thrawn brought honor to both Clan Baik'vair and himself personally. This position made Rukh one of the highest-status Noghri serving in the Empire.
But that meant nothing now…
What mattered was that Rukh, who rarely strayed far from his master, remaining a shadow until he received an order to destroy, had learned his charge's habits well. Thrawn had changed greatly after the raid on Obroa-skai. Outwardly, he was the same sentient, but someone who lurked in the shadows and saw everything would understand that the Grand Admiral was not the same sentient he'd been right after his return.
Something in him had changed. The elusive veneer of mystery had vanished, leaving a sentient who seemed to have taken a blow to the gut.
Obroa-skai had changed everything. His unyielding faith in the Empire had been shaken.
And Rukh knew the reason.
The Grand Admiral had first suspected then that the Empire he served wasn't what it claimed to be. He'd said as much to Rukh, and other words of his had proven true. So the rest had to be true as well.
And what the Noghri were experiencing now, the Grand Admiral had gone through just over two months ago. He undoubtedly knew many of the Galactic Empire's secrets — it was his duty in his service. He himself had given orders for ruthless actions time and again… But in the last few weeks, their number had drastically decreased. Rukh had witnessed discussions of a vast amount of secret and confidential data that Thrawn had previously conducted with Imperials, unembarrassed by his bodyguard's presence.
Because he trusted Rukh. And he continued to do so even after learning of the Empire's baseness toward the people of Honoghr. He did everything to rectify it, until…
"What have the matriarchs decided regarding Darth Vader's offspring?" the former bodyguard asked his friend. In his youth, Mushkil served as a gatekeeper at clan leader meetings, so he saw and heard a great deal…
"Nothing," his blade-brother said firmly. "The matriarchs condemned the father's sins, but the offspring are not guilty of them. The dynasts accepted their decision. Luke Skywalker will live, as will any other descendants of Darth Vader. The Noghri won't help them, but they won't hold a grudge for what their parent did."
"And what if Thrawn was right and Palpatine comes for us?" Rukh asked.
"The matriarchs are concerned and would like to secure the Grand Admiral's support. The dynasts, however, think it's just a scare story," Mushkil sighed. He trusted his blade-brother more than the clan leaders' judgments. "There's no proof, so…"
There was no need to finish the sentence. Rukh understood everything.
Thrawn wanted to save them from a terrible fate when he himself was in a disadvantageous position.
The Grand Admiral was going through a catharsis — he couldn't deviate from his plans, or his own subordinates would tear him apart. He couldn't leave — he simply wouldn't be allowed to.
All that remained for him was to continue his intended course of restoring the Empire. To act in a way that would save everything good and build the just state he spoke of.
Alone, against all threats…
Rukh rose to his feet. For the first time in many years of service, he did it slowly, not as combat conditions demanded.
"Watch over Honoghr in my place." He extended his hand to his blade-brother. Mushkil reflexively grabbed the inside of the other Noghri's forearm with his fingers and yanked himself to his feet, staring unblinkingly into his kinsman's eyes.
"You mustn't leave, Rukh." The native speech soothed his ears. When else would he hear it from other sentients? "The Noghri have no masters now, and we owe nothing to anyone… The Noghri believe in the rebirth of our homeworld and a bright future… The matriarchs will consider you a traitor… Your name will be struck from the clan lists and anathematized. Like the names of those who went to search for the invisible planet and never returned…"
"Perhaps so, brother." The former bodyguard looked in the direction the Death Commandos' ships had flown. Two turbolasers against hundreds… "But there's something stronger than the fear of being deliberately forgotten. I too believe in the future, Mushkil. And I also believe Thrawn. Palpatine will come for us. To destroy us or force us back into service, I don't know. But he will come. And while the matriarchs and dynasts are dividing power, we're in danger. We won't survive."
"Then what do you intend to do?" his blade-brother asked quietly.
"I'll provide Honoghr with impenetrable protection," Rukh answered firmly, looking at the stars, trying to memorize their pattern…
"Will you make it in time before Palpatine arrives? If he comes at all, of course…" Doubt sounded in the young Noghri's voice. His fingers dug hard into Rukh's forearm. An ordinary sentient would have felt unbearable pain, but the former bodyguard was too preoccupied to notice such a trifle.
"I'll make it," Rukh promised firmly, looking into his brother's eyes. "I'll come for him first."
* * *
"Grand Admiral," came Captain Pellaeon's voice from the comlink. "The Chimaera and Nemesis are arriving at the Tangrene base. The Spartan and Stormhawk will complete their transit fifteen minutes after us."
Enough time to navigate between the numerous camouflaged asteroids scattered beyond Tangrene's orbit at a distance of a hundred units from it. A vast sphere of invisible defense… Too dispersed to provide a full blockade and destroy everything that might try to "drop by." But work was ongoing…
"Has base control provided the fairway coordinates?" I clarified, continuing to study the young, vital body of the red-haired woman floating in the bacta tank. A body that, over four days, had lost all traces of the abuse and beatings she'd received on Vjun. Mara Jade was in a deep sleep, and this would help her return to suitable form by the time I needed her again.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon replied. "Moff Ferrus also informs you that another two hundred asteroids have been delivered to orbit and preparatory work is underway on them."
"Has the fleet arrived?" I checked. According to plan, they should have returned several hours earlier.
"Not all of it, sir." Pellaeon's voice carried none of the possible tragedy the situation might warrant. "The captured corvettes, escort frigates, both enemy-modernized Star Destroyers, the Dragon, Phoenix, Colicoid Swarm, the Star Galleons, and the captured medium transports have arrived, as well as all ships that participated in the attack, except for five Star Destroyers and those lost during the battle. The fate of ten captured Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, all four defense stations, and both orbital repair workshops remains unknown. Attempts to contact them have been unsuccessful. Sir, it appears those ships are lost…"
"Unfortunately, Captain, we must acknowledge that the idea of moving objects with makeshift hyperdrive and navigation systems is doomed to failure," I stated. "As is using outdated droids to replace crews."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said. "Moff Ferrus reports that the remaining ships needing repair are already at the construction slips, and dockyard capacity has been allocated to return them to service as soon as possible."
"Any reports from Wayland?" I inquired.
"All quiet, sir, no reports of threats," the Chimaera's commander reported. "General Covell reports that he has begun implementing your order."
"Excellent." So everything was fine. Now I only needed to worry about having enough time for the evacuation. "Data from the Nemesis?"
"Processed and analyzed, sir," Pellaeon replied. "Everything matches Captain Schneider's account exactly. He and his crew did indeed destroy two Procursators…"
"Be sure to mark the ship's commander and crew for awards," I said. "Also send Baron D'Asta word that I'm ready to meet with him in a week."
"The Baron has already sent a message, sir," the captain replied. "He's ready to meet at the end of next week. He leaves the choice of meeting location to you. He asked to convey verbally that he is immensely pleased with the result. However, his assistant warned that the meeting date may be rescheduled — the Baron has urgent business."
Hmm… Is that so. And I'd thought I would soon have to "confess" to the aristocrat that I had nothing to do with the attack on the Hast shipyards. To refuse a reward for something I didn't do — noble, honest, and worthy. In a word — completely un-Imperial.
It seemed the Baron also had a sufficient degree of awareness regarding my affairs. Which was unsurprising, given that he'd supplied us with a large number of fighter and interceptor pilots. That assistance had arrived exactly on time. And, to give credit where it was due, we truly had gotten excellent pilots. Competent, familiar with Imperial equipment, and superbly trained.
And also — vetted by the ISB. Who found nothing in them that could in any way facilitate espionage. Though Lieutenant Colonel Astarion would still have a chance to find out the reason for my "allies'" excessive awareness. I was beginning to think the mole or moles were indeed among the civilian personnel. Well, it was good they were currently in a communications jamming zone. Along with half the Katana Fleet and other "lost trophies."
"Is the interrogation of Inquisitor Obscuro complete?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir." Satisfaction sounded in Gilad's voice. "That sentient told us a lot of interesting things… I've prepared a report for you. We have the frequencies for contacting the Death Commandos on Yalar. We can depart at any time."
The main thing was that it wasn't a trap.
"I'll be on the bridge in a few minutes, Captain." Before my eyes, the body of the red-haired beast twitched, and her green eyes opened. Almost instantly, they focused on me… And there were many questions in them. Very many. "Welcome back, Mara Jade."
The girl gave a mocking salute, still staring at me through the transparent mask for breathing and nutrient intake. And those green eyes seemed intent on burning through me like turbolaser beams…
"You undoubtedly have many questions," I said, continuing to watch her from the comfortable chair. "You will receive answers. Let's start in order."
The girl raised her right eyebrow questioningly.
"First. Your mission on Vjun ended in near failure," I said. "The data from Bast Castle is lost, as are the relics I had hoped for. Palpatine's henchmen evacuated everything of value."
The girl narrowed her eyes, clearly implying she'd done everything in her power.
"That is precisely why Inquisitor Obscuro is currently necessary to us," I continued. "His loyalty to his word is a matter for entirely different verification procedures. But his knowledge, particularly concerning the use of the Force — that is what is needed for certain purposes. So, his recruitment is a necessity to avoid admitting outright defeat at Vjun."
The girl continued floating in the gelatinous mass, clad in a tight medical suit that concealed her nudity. But accentuated it… Hmm, if I were twenty years younger…
"I have to proceed from the assumption that Palpatine has known much of my intentions for some time," I continued. "Therefore, I will have to accelerate a number of my operations. And for that, I will need a high-ranking agent. One operating independently from the main forces, relying solely on herself. You will have to return to where you began, Mara Jade — you will disappear from everyone who knew you."
The girl narrowed her eyes. I was sure she would have gladly read my thoughts and emotions with the Force, but the ysalamiri peacefully snoring on the back of my chair had its own opinion on the matter. What an interesting and eventful life this little lizard had.
"You have done much that was useful for our common cause, Lieutenant Jade," I continued, turning the nearest medical equipment monitor toward her. "However, your lie in your medical documents regarding your health condition has led to unfavorable consequences…"
The red-haired beast shot me an indignant look. She slammed her fist against the transparisteel cylinder of the bacta tank.
"Concealing information about your state of health during active service in the Imperial armed forces is a military crime," I continued. "I must regretfully state, Lieutenant Jade, that the droids' attempts to save your life after the monstrous beating inflicted by the enemy during the execution of a critical mission have failed. By hiding your intolerance to bacta from us, you effectively killed yourself the moment the droids began restoring your body…"
Mara Jade began furiously pounding her hands and feet against the transparisteel of the medical chamber, desperate to escape the confined space…
"Your courage will serve as an example to us all," I continued, touching the control keys of the bacta chamber. The next second, the liquid inside the cylinder began to churn, drowning out the sounds of the young body's blows against the transparisteel…
* * *
After she finished her speech, Mon Mothma sank into her chair, smiling gratefully at her numerous supporters, most of whom were applauding her almost standing.
She was genuinely flattered that two-thirds of the New Republic Senate had supported her call for a restrained course of development and a cautious selection of future members for their young state. In this difficult time for the New Republic…
"From the bottom of the heart of the Bothawui people," Councilor Fey'lya's voice cut through the noise of the crowd's applause, amplified by speakers hidden in the corners of the chamber. "And from myself personally, I thank the head of the Provisional Council, Mon Mothma, for her speech. In such a difficult time, when threats loom over all of us, over the democratic state we have created, from all sides, motivational speeches from one who has effectively governed us for nearly ten years since the Battle of Yavin IV, is truly what we need…"
Subdued laughter rippled among the senators. That third of those present who had remained silent in response to her address had truly decided to make themselves known. Well then, that was what democracy was established for in the New Republic — freedom of thought and speech.
Mon continued listening to the Bothan's speech. As she had expected, during their last meeting he had studied her arguments against him. And now, like a virtuoso, a magnificent musician playing on the emotions of the gathered, he was dismantling all those accusations of incompetence and failures that the New Republic military had made while under the councilor's command. Nothing new… And everyone present knew perfectly well that this was just empty slander and bluster, an attempt to hold on to a slipping peak. Borsk, more than anyone, understood that the case against Gial Ackbar wasn't worth a bantha egg. Very soon, the Mon Calamari would return to his post, figure everything out, and find a way to counter the Imperial threat. After all, all this time, while the Bothans were trying to fabricate a case of high treason against him, the celebrated fleet commander had had enough time in the quiet of his quarters to enjoy the data on everything happening on the military front and to think. To think very thoroughly. And if Ackbar was right, then he had finally managed to find the weak points in his invisible opponent's tactics. And even — try to predict some of them. But for certainty, the Mon Calamari would need to work a while longer, cross-reference some data, to finally understand where the enemy's base was located… For now, he could only say approximately that the Imperial was attacking from somewhere in the New Territories, that is, the western part of the galaxy. And also from somewhere in the border systems…
Meanwhile, the Bothan, baring his fangs and impressing with the harshness of his rhetoric, was excoriating the Mon Calamari for organizing such a useless defense of the Hast shipyards, allowing the enemy not just to attack, but to destroy every single ship and shipyard in the Hast system. He'd also managed to criticize them for saving New Alderaan — but, like a skilled intriguer, he'd done it in a safe way. He didn't speak out against the fact of helping the attacked planet, but merely that they hadn't maintained a permanent base there. And even when the need arose, they sent too small a force, allowing the aggressor to escape…
Rhetoric that was nothing more than moving water from one part of the ocean to another… The senator from the Mon Calamari sector didn't pay the slightest attention to these words. However, the focus of the Bothan's speech was not on this at all…
"How could it be," Fey'lya continued in his booming voice, "I ask you, senators, how could it be, after everything the refugees from Alderaan have endured — the destruction of their homeworld, their role in the Rebellion, their incalculable debt that allowed us to defeat the Empire — to relocate them to a remote planet and leave them defenseless?!" I was furious and ashamed — politics is a path of flattery and deceit, since no one in the entire Imperial Court believes that Bothans, especially Fey'lya, ever feel shame for anything — "when I was informed that after Warlord Zsinj's attack on New Alderaan two years ago, we not only failed to relocate the survivors from their compromised location, but didn't even bother to establish the simplest outpost there?! The previous military leadership didn't even consider this issue?! This is terrible! This is outrageous?! How much more must the poor Alderaanians suffer because of our negligence?! I declare with full responsibility, do you hear me, peoples of the New Republic?! The threat to our common home is coming to an end! I have ordered that, as quickly as possible, the military, as part of the sector fleets, establish continuous patrols through the sectors for constant monitoring of the situation on the territory under our protection… Yes," he agreed with the crowd's indignation, "this will cost us dearly. But consider for even a moment, could we have avoided the casualties and destruction on New Alderaan if a Mon Calamari star cruiser from a nearby base had been on duty there, hmm?" The senators fell silent, unwilling to appear as those who would in any way encroach upon the sacred sacrifice of the Alderaanians…
"Counselor," Mon Mothma drew attention to herself. "Your speeches are as full of fire as your heart" — "And just as empty as your head" — "but could you tell us in more detail about the reasons why the enemy invaded the Hast shipyards and destroyed our works and thousands of our sentients, and yet almost two weeks after the attack, we still don't know who is behind this dishonor to our valiant military?"
Cries of approval rang out, calling for Fey'lya to finally give an answer… The Bothan bared his teeth, casting a promising glance at her.
"That's what I'm getting at, ladies and gentlemen," he assured… and again began to fill the air with empty slogans and calls…
Mon rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Three hours of life had already been taken by Fey'lya's speech… Three hours that could have been spent on something more useful…
From a light breeze that ran down her back, she felt another woman slip into her booth and sit down beside her. Casting a quick glance at Princess Organa-Solo's assistant, Winter, Mon couldn't determine from the Alderaanian's expression what her internal state was.
"Something happened?" she clarified.
"Fey'lya is stalling for time," the white-haired woman reported just as quietly. "I just spoke with the fleet command on Dac — on your behalf, of course. They told me that on the day of the attack on Hast, a message from the shipyards came in to Dac. They gave a clear name and registry of the Imperial flagship leading the attack."
"What?!" Mon Mothma exclaimed softly in shock. "Borsk has known for nine days who exactly attacked the Hast shipyards?"
"Yes," Winter replied. "As it turns out, the long-range communications systems in the Mon Calamari sector fleet command are run by Bothans. They also ordered the data containing the received information to be seized almost immediately after contacting someone on Coruscant. And right after that, it was transferred to Counselor Fey'lya's office. I spoke with several military personnel — they claim that Bothans are actively occupying positions throughout the fleet. It seems Counselor Fey'lya either knew or suspected that the attack would be made on the Hast shipyards."
"So there simply is no physical evidence?" Mon Mothma asked in a deflated voice. And yet Ackbar had warned her that a strike on that shipyard was the most obvious target for an Imperial commander… Though, to be fair, he'd said it an hour after the event.
"I assume he will provide it shortly," Winter said. "I don't think the counselor initiated this meeting just to waste the time of every single senator without exception…"
"Did the Mon Calamari name who was behind the attack?" Mon Mothma inquired.
"The flagship was transmitting transponder identification signals as 'Reckoning,'" Winter explained. Mon looked at her with surprise.
"Prince-Admiral Krennel?" The Alderaanian nodded silently. Mon's thoughts grew muddled… The notorious Imperial warlord with the tendencies of a hardened sadist and xenophobe, launching an attack on shipyards where absolutely everything was destroyed… Ackbar's words about the attack originating from sectors bordering the New Republic… It could, with a great stretch, be said that the Prince-Admiral's holdings were among those border systems, but… it was still strange.
"Every single ship was transmitting transponder codes of the Ciutric Hegemony fleet," she explained. "But the problem is that Ciutric IV doesn't have that many 'Imperial' ships. At least it didn't until Krennel arrived there."
"Why would Imperials even turn on their transponders?" the head of the Provisional Government wondered. "Ackbar said they usually avoid that sort of thing…"
"Based on the information I have, the Imperials wanted us to know who attacked us," the white-haired Alderaanian said.
"And why would they want that?" Mon Mothma wavered in doubt. "Our fleet is hundreds of times stronger than what Krennel has… He's just drawing fire onto himself, as if inviting…"
"It might be a trap," Winter said. "But that's unlikely, since Krennel is a proponent of brute force and…"
"And now, honorable senators," Mon thought the Bothan's voice had grown louder — "two facts, for which we have all gathered here today…"
"I don't like this," Mon Mothma whispered, but Winter heard her.
"The head of the Provisional Government asked me to name the culprit of the ruthless attack on the Hast shipyards," the Bothan continued. "For nearly two weeks, the valiant Bothan intelligence has not slept, searching for the Imperial responsible for this strike. Ever since the attacks on our bases and planets began, we have been searching for the enemy… And we found him. I am pleased to announce that shortly, forces of the New Republic's Fourth Fleet, stationed on my homeworld of Bothawui, supported by the Bothan fleet, will strike the Ciutric Hegemony, whose leader, Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel, trampling all norms of morality, law, and common sense, not only personally executed the legitimate ruler of those territories and then seized them, usurping power and holding the Hegemony's population in his dictatorial grip, but also continues, despite the neutrality between the New Republic and the Imperial Remnants, active military actions against us! We will destroy the tyrant and liberate the people of the Hegemony, showing the entire galaxy that, as in the past, so in the future, the New Republic stands to protect the interests of its people and their lives…"
"Counselor Fey'lya," Mon Mothma rose from her seat. "In the past, we have repeatedly tried to identify and destroy the enemy, but each time we fell into a trap when our forces proved unable to withstand the enemy's attacks… There is a high probability that this time too we will be deceived and…"
"Counselor Mothma," the Bothan bared his teeth, his fur rippling. "This time, failure is out of the question."
"Where does such confidence come from, Counselor?" a cry came from one of the senators.
"We are destined for success for two reasons," Borsk Fey'lya snarled. "First — at the head of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet is a Super Star Destroyer under the control of our valiant military, including those from my homeworld, Bothawui. And second…" he paused for effect, "in the case accusing Admiral Ackbar of high treason, additional and irrefutable evidence of his involvement in collaboration with the Empire has emerged…" Mon Mothma felt her legs give way. Among the New Republic senators, a hum of confusion rose, along with loud words of outrage and… calls for retribution against the traitor…
In an instant, those who owed the Mon Calamari even their very lives decided to be rid of him. Judging by the comments — in rather inventive ways.
And the wheels of democracy, meanwhile, were picking up speed…
* * *
The event was meant to be a small party to boost the squadron's morale. No matter how hard Wedge tried, telling everyone that Corran Horn had gone on a secret mission, you can't hide the truth from pilots. They've been fighting side by side for too long not to hear the falsehood in command's words and their desire to hush up the real state of current affairs.
They are the best at what they do. And over years of working together, the pilots had come to know each other's characters, strengths, and weaknesses perfectly. Without that, it's simply impossible to act cohesively and effectively, ridding the galaxy of Imperial remnants. If you don't know your wingman or your lead like yourself — you'll never work together, and you'll never achieve efficiency.
Wedge, brushing a stubborn lock of hair from his forehead with a breeze from beneath his nose, watched with poorly concealed pain as nine pilots of Rogue Squadron crowded around young Gavin Darklighter. Grief-stricken, one of his youngest pilots sat with his shoulders slumped. He wasn't crying — like the other pilots, over the past years he'd been in so many situations that could only be called "unfavorable" with a vee-e-ery generous stretch that Wedge had lost count.
But the boy needed comfort.
Today he had learned that his uncle, Huff Darklighter, was dead. Supposedly stationed relatively close, but news from Tatooine had taken unforgivably long… Tusken raiders had attacked his farm on Tatooine. Neither the warning systems nor the armed and well-trained guards had stopped them… The Tuskens came at night, slaughtering everyone they could, then left, taking everything they could find, set the residence on fire, and vanished into the desert… As always.
No matter how many stories he'd heard about Tusken raiders — from Gavin, from Skywalker, and other Tatooinians he knew — nothing ever changed. Bloodthirsty monsters that should have been dealt with long ago, brought to justice…
Wedge remembered perfectly well what Uncle Huff had meant to Gavin — the man who raised him and started forging his character. He'd helped them when Rogue Squadron had stepped outside the New Republic's jurisdiction and declared war on Ysanne Isard. That man was more than just a name on their long journey for every pilot in his squadron… He was a friend.
Wedge understood Darklighter's feelings perfectly — he'd been through the same when he learned of Mirax's disappearance, who had been like a sister to him. And the loss of Booster Terrik, the man who helped him avenge the death of the Antilles family, who gave him shelter and warmth, had nearly knocked him flat. Just like his squadron executive officer, Tycho Celchu, upon hearing of the disappearances of Princess Leia, Generals Cracken and Calrissian… Wedge, upon learning of it, had experienced a state of complete emotional emptiness… As if someone was deliberately stripping him of all his friends and loved ones… Even that Alderaanian girl with the funny hairstyles he'd had snowball fights with on Hoth… One blow of fate followed another. And it takes immense courage to endure.
He knew the pain his pilot was going through now. And as immoral as it might sound, he thought Gavin had it a little easier than he did himself… because Antilles didn't even know what had happened to the people who had become his family. Were they killed, or captured by the Imperials? Either way, neither option was the "lesser evil."
Wedge glanced once more at the seated Gavin. He was holding up… Beside him sat his beloved, the Bothan Asyr Sei'lar, stroking the young man's head, whispering words of comfort…
The party, meant to relieve the tension of recent events — tension that had been building since the Imperial attacks began and reached its peak with General Solo's disappearance — had turned into an immeasurably sad affair… Not even the promotion he'd had to accept, becoming a general and taking command of both his former squadron and all the armed forces previously led by Lando Calrissian, provided any cheer… A small political game Mon Mothma had started to at least try to prevent the Bothans from taking command of absolutely all military groupings of the New Republic fleet… Fey'lya, of course, hadn't started forced transfers and reassignments, but oddly enough, any vacant high-ranking position always found a Bothan officer to fill it… Well, at least half of all fleets were commanded by old, familiar acquaintances… Even the force that had been put under General Solo's command… Who had also disappeared…
What in the galaxy was going on?! If the Imperials weren't involved in at least most of these disappearances, Wedge would start thinking all his friends had decided to go on vacation to some tropical planet… And had forgotten to leave him the coordinates.
Wedge took a sip from his glass; the whiskey tasted bitter. He looked at Gavin again… He didn't join the collective comfort. He'd offered his condolences to Darklighter privately, inwardly noting that the boy had taken the blow stoically… And only the alcohol had made his emotional armor crack… Now he looked like the same lanky, brown-eyed teenager he'd been when he first joined the squadron. His soft speech, openness, and friendliness had endeared Gavin to every single pilot, making them trust him.
Over the past three years, the young man had clearly matured, growing a mustache and a small beard. War had transformed him from a farmer on a backwater planet into an ace pilot and a man who thought before he acted. And he thought he could handle this grief alone. He tried to emulate Wedge himself, who faced every loss head-on, one-on-one.
He couldn't. He didn't break down like a girl, but he was clearly close to it. If Asyr hadn't been by his side, Gavin would have given in to his emotions. A native of Bothawui, Asyr was nothing like her partner. Next to the lanky Darklighter, she seemed even shorter, like a kitten with black-and-white fur. But not today. Definitely not today.
On this important day for Gavin, she was a big cat, a predator carefully guarding her little innocent. In the past, mischievous sparks never died in her violet eyes, but today they were veiled in a haze of sadness. Despite her apparent fragility, the girl always made it clear with every movement that she could stand up for herself. And after joining the squadron, she demonstrated absolute unity of spirit with the other pilots. Regardless of the positions of the high-ranking Bothan military and government, the girl stayed with the squadron, not returning home to become a living heroine there. She didn't give up her relationship with Gavin, even though their bond couldn't naturally result from the relationship of two sentients of the same or related species. It was simply impossible; you can't overcome the biology of different species… But these two couldn't be broken. Despite everything, they were always together. It took considerable willpower to show such resistance to external circumstances and the condemnation of their kin, especially a Bothan. But Asyr didn't lack willpower. And she passed it on to Darklighter.
"He'll be fine," Tycho Celchu said quietly, sitting down next to him.
"And how did you..?" the newly minted general looked at him uncomprehendingly, shaking his head.
"Wedge," the Alderaanian ace, who also happened to be an old friend, said peaceably, "you've been staring at the sofa everyone's already left for about five minutes…"
"Oh," was all Wedge could manage, swirling the contents in the bottom of his glass. "I was thinking."
"It happens to you," Celchu agreed, taking a sip from his own glass. "Rarely, but…"
"Tycho," Wedge addressed his friend quietly.
"All ears, General, sir," despite the smile on Celchu's face, pain showed through it. Just like in all of them… Pain that not even Corellian whiskey could drown…
"You do know you can't tease a superior officer?"
"Of course, General," Celchu declared responsibly. "But here, my dear General, there are a few problems. First — I'm the only one in the whole squadron who knows about your promotion. And that's only because you dumped squadron commander duties on me…"
"The Rogues can't fall into Bothan hands," Wedge stated firmly.
"I fully support that initiative," Celchu agreed. "And second. According to the tradition established by Rogue Squadron's former commander, the Rogue Squadron CO is obligated to make his superior want to strangle him and give him a medal at the same time."
"And who's the idiot who instilled that in my pilots?" grumbled one of the youngest generals in the New Republic, who also happened to be the first of two Rogue Squadron commanders in its entire history. And both the first and second were sitting right next to each other…
"It won't be easy," Wedge said.
"No one's saying otherwise," Celchu agreed.
"I meant that we have two vacancies," Antilles grimaced. "Mine and Horn's…"
"Technically, you can remain squadron commander while commanding the fleet," the Alderaanian said. "Ever heard of the Imperial Admiral Shi Hublin? Despite his high rank, he continues to pilot a fighter in battle."
"You're suggesting we take an example from the Imperials?" Wedge gave a strained smile.
"We've borrowed a lot from them," Tycho shrugged. "Tactics, strategy… Besides, I'm sure generals are allowed to bend the rules a little."
"Fey'lya will eat me alive, insignia and all," Wedge sighed. "As soon as he hears I'm still flying with the Rogues, he'll issue a thousand orders to make my life miserable. And by extension — everyone else in command… Starting my career by throwing Tatooine sand into all my fellow sufferers' fuel tanks isn't something I'm keen on…"
"Then we urgently need to find at least two excellent pilots," Tycho declared.
"'At least'?!" Wedge tensed, quickly looking around for his pilots… One, two, three, five, seven, nine… "Is there something I don't know?!"
"Gavin intends to take leave and go to Tatooine to help his aunt," Tycho explained. "Actually, Asyr suggested it… He's hopelessly late for the funeral, but at least to offer condolences somehow…"
"You don't have to go on," Wedge sighed. "Let him go. With Sei'lar."
"In difficult times, you always need support," Tycho agreed. "As for the vacancies… Corran's spot needs to be held, keep feeding command the story about a secret mission… But…"
"This farce won't last long," Wedge sighed, rolling his eyes. "We need to fill the pilot shortage from old comrades; fortunately, there are still some alive. Do you remember us having even one year without losses, Tycho?"
"You really want to hear that?" the Alderaanian inquired.
"No," Wedge exhaled heavily. "We can't take just anyone into the squadron. If a kerfuffle with the Imperials starts, we're done for — every rookie they shove down our throats who gets shot down, the Imperials will blow up in their propaganda to the size of the galactic core."
"I'd be more worried about a setup from our Commander-in-Chief," Tycho said gloomily, filling his glass to the brim and emptying it in one gulp. "He's been having some… ahem ahem… suspiciously good luck lately. I'd even say — very suspiciously good luck!"
"What are you talking about?" Wedge frowned, mindful that for the past day he'd barely escaped the embrace of endless meetings with command at various levels. Meetings that seemed to have conspired to drain the young, hot blood from the young general who had the misfortune of being appointed fleet commander stationed on Christophsis. And obligated to rebuild the base on Ord Pardron, which the Imps had blown to hell a few weeks ago… "We'll wait for Ackbar to return, and everything will be like before."
"I think it will be much harder now," Tycho said.
"O-o-okay," Wedge turned on his bar stool, staring intently at his comrade. "Go on, in more detail."
"Your and Corran's mutual acquaintance, Iella Wessiri, made that happen," Wedge felt his heart sink at the mere mention of the girl who had helped the Rogues capture Coruscant. And for whom Wedge was hopelessly… "She was conducting investigations into the case accusing Admiral Ackbar of high treason…"
"But that's all just fantasies and fabrications," Wedge frowned.
"That's what everyone thought," Tycho agreed. "Only Iella found a safety deposit box in one of the Coruscant banks. A very interesting safety deposit box…"
"If you don't stop creating suspense over nothing, I'm going to get very upset," Wedge stated. "And we'll go to the X-wings and find out which of us…"
"The box contained copies of reports that had been delivered to Ackbar by Princess Leia, General Cracken, and other sympathizers," Celchu said quickly. "And Wessiri was able to determine that this box was used by Ackbar's aide. Who suddenly disappeared… That's actually why they got interested in the banking affairs — they were looking for leads. And they found one."
"Stop, stop, stop," Wedge protested. "What does the aide have to do with Ackbar?"
"They came to search his place," Celchu continued. "Looking for other documents."
"Did they find any?"
"No…"
"Then what..?"
"They found Killik Twilight," Tycho Celchu said. And immediately thought it best to explain the point of his remark. "It's an Alderaanian painting made of living moss. Considered long lost. Princess Leia was looking for it last year to extract data about an Alliance-era cipher…"
"I remember that case," Wedge groaned. "The cipher was saved, but the painting ended up with the Imperials."
"And now they found it at Ackbar's," Celchu concluded. "And a million imperial credits in cash — temporary currency — packed in a box that used to hold Mon Calamari delicacies. Princess Leia's assistant, Winter, told them. They've already questioned her as a witness in the case. They've moved Ackbar out of house arrest and put him in a maximum-security prison. Even Mon Mothma has to schedule an appointment to see him now — the military investigators never leave the admiral alone for an hour."
"Smells like a setup," Wedge said with a grimace.
"Smells like?" Tycho snorted. "It stinks so bad you can smell it on the other side of the galaxy. But that's enough for Fey'lya — he's already starting to worm his way into the military courts — obviously wants to pack them with more Bothans. And if that happens, then... you can consider Ackbar's flight over."
"Crap," Wedge swore quietly. "If this keeps up, that Bothan will tear down everything we bled for!"
"Not out of the question," the Alderaanian agreed. "But what choice do we have, Wedge?"
"Put on a smile that hides the pain, and keep fighting," Antilles said. "Joke in battle so our psyche doesn't turn us from ordinary people who were forced to pick up weapons into those half-machines of the Empire we're fighting against. And also — not to turn into ruthless enforcers of the Bothan regime. And," he added a little quieter, "on one hand, I really want Fey'lya to find and destroy the Imperial task force. But on the other..."
"And on the other, his victory would be the beginning of the end for the New Republic as we know it," Tycho agreed, turning his back to the bar and starting to study the pilots of Rogue Squadron, who had broken into small groups and were quietly discussing something among themselves. Wedge took a sip from his glass and glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room. He shook his head and returned to his interrupted activity.
The private booth in the cantina on Christophsis that Wedge had rented for his pilots was separated from the main hall by a transparisteel wall, mirrored on one side so that the sentients inside the booth could observe everything happening in the hall... Who had come up with that — that was a separate conversation. Who in their right mind thought to organize a masquerade party in the middle of the workweek and fill this restaurant with people and other sentients dressed in carnival costumes?! The sight made your eyes go as wild as flying an X-wing without an inertial dampener.
"Hm..." Tycho's voice pulled Wedge from his own thoughts. "Take a look at this..."
Antilles glanced over his shoulder. Swept his gaze across his pilots, then his eyes shifted to the main hall... The pilot's sharp eye picked out a tall, elderly man from the crowd of patrons, his hair cut so short he looked bald... The stranger stood in the middle of the hall, turning his head as if searching for someone.
Everything inside Wedge clenched. He recognized this man. And the realization was so sudden and shocking that goosebumps the size of banthas ran down his spine.
"Doesn't he look familiar to you?" Tycho said thoughtfully. "I've seen that face somewhere... I think in old Alliance files."
"You're right," Wedge jumped off his stool and straightened his uniform jacket. "Imagine a snow-white mane and beard instead of that bald head and stubble," he cast a wary look at Celchu and nodded toward the exit. "He commanded our base on Yavin IV when we blew up the first Death Star."
"I defected from the Empire later," Tycho joined him, and both pilots headed for the exit at a fast pace. Their sudden departure drew the attention of the other Rogues. "I just flew in when you were already evacuating and..."
"No time for history now, Tycho," Wedge snapped at him, opening the booth door and stepping into the main hall, quickening his pace. "That man's been considered dead for almost ten years! And Corran saw him when he was captured by Isard!"
"Wedge!" Celchu called out his name, grabbing him by the sleeve of his jacket. "This is a trap!"
Antilles furrowed his brow and gave his friend a heavy look. Then he looked at the short-haired man walking toward him, smiling warmly.
A crushing, icy void formed inside him. And even the approaching pilots of Rogue Squadron, who had gathered around Antilles, couldn't warm it.
"No way! I don't believe my eyes?!" came the quiet whispers of the pilots who had realized what man had approached them, almost face-to-face. "Is this who Horn went looking for?"
"General!" Wedge, breaking free from Celchu's grasp, nearly threw himself onto the elderly man's chest. "You survived after all?!"
But when he pulled back from the man, he realized something was wrong.
The eyes of the man he had hugged showed no hint of recognition for one of the few surviving pilots from Yavin...
"General?" Wedge repeated, his voice hoarse.
"I..." the man pulled back, starting to rub his temples vigorously, as if he had a headache. "I remember you... Wedge Antilles, right?!"
"Yes, General," the pilot nodded energetically. "Are you... are you all right?"
"I know you..." the old commander said unexpectedly. "I remember you... Wedge Antilles... But... who am I? I should know!"
The demanding question rang out like a turbolaser shot directly in Wedge's ear.
"Jan Dodonna," Wedge blurted out mechanically, staring into the bewildered eyes of the man rubbing his temples. "You're General Jan Dodonna, hero of the Alliance to Restore the Republic!"
"Ah," a faint smile appeared on the memory-lost man's lips. "That's right... Jan Dodonna. Now I remember, I remember everything..."
Wedge felt the wildly pounding heart in his chest begin to calm. Could it be that luck was finally on their side?! Had the prisoners of the Lusankya, whom they'd never found aboard the Super Star Destroyer after the victory at Thyferra, managed to escape?! Corran Horn, who had promised to find them, would die of envy and joy when he got back! Wherever he was at the moment...
"I have a message for you, Wedge Antilles," General Dodonna's voice suddenly turned flat, as if a droid was speaking to them instead of a living person.
"From who?!" Wedge tensed up.
"Linuri," the general said in a weakening voice, his eyes rolling back. His body went limp, and streams of blood began to pour from his nose, ears, eyes, and mouth. The hero of the Rebel Alliance started to fall backward but was caught by Tycho, who stood nearby. But the metamorphosis continued before the eyes of the stunned pilots and restaurant patrons. Even the music stopped playing...
And in that stunned silence, the crunch of the old man's bones, as his body twisted unnaturally in the arms of the shocked Alderaanian, sounded deafening, causing dozens of people and sentients to scream, their hearts filled with terror.
Civilians bolted away from the site of the horrible death of a man who had died the moment he had regained his memory.
And while the stunned Wedge Antilles felt for a pulse on the slowly cooling body of the legendary Rebel commander, in the far part of the main hall, invisible behind the crowd of panicking sentients, unrecognized in her lavish carnival costume, her face hidden behind an elegant mask, a woman with snow-white strands of hair and multi-colored eyes was finishing a blood-red cake decorated with blue fruits.
Having finished her meal and smiling at the unfolding events, she left the restaurant among the other panicked patrons.
* * *
Leaning back in my chair, I studied the golden hologram hanging from the ceiling. A design traditional for the Empire: the shape of a conditional isosceles triangle. Many times larger than a standard Imperial Star Destroyer. A somewhat untypical elongated, tiered trapezoidal superstructure for the Imperial war machine, starting in the middle of the ship and stretching almost to the very stern. A flattened bridge at the rear of the ship... And, even more uncharacteristic of Imperial design, two hemispheres protruding from the voluminous underside...
A large number — fourteen, to be precise — of engines, organically and in the best traditions of perfectionism, crowned the hull of the massive triangle.
"The design is impressive," I said, not taking my eyes off the hologram of the beautiful ship. I had seen a file with its image before, but now I could enjoy the picture from every angle. "A true work of military art."
"A big problem," Captain Pellaeon interpreted my thoughts differently, in a grumbling tone.
"No more than the removal of Admiral Ackbar," I remarked. "I think Ambassador Furgan from Carida will be quite surprised to learn that his pet Mon Calamari with head implants has suddenly become out of reach."
"Frankly, Carida worries me least right now, sir," Pellaeon grumbled, glancing sideways at the golden hologram hanging from the ceiling. "But the revanchist policies of that furry renegade... I hope it doesn't turn out that he weakens the New Republic far more than necessary for a reliable repulse of the Emperor's forces. You said that's not in our interest."
"Counselor Fey'lya received his power solely through us," I reminded him. "And we will also be the cause of his equally precipitous fall from the heights of power. What awaits him probably won't be the end of his career, but he will be climbing back up for a very long time. And when he falls, the entire Bothan power system will fall with him. Excessive weakening..." I twirled the information chip containing the "Caamas Document" in my hands. "Believe me, things aren't so bad for our opponents. But the next time Mr. Counselor climbs onto that throne... We will bury both him and the Bothans for good. Current trends won't destroy the New Republic, but they will undoubtedly lead to some sectors seceding, declaring themselves independent territories. There'll be no strategic harm from that, but ideologically, it will serve our interests."
Pellaeon silently watched the magnificent triangle.
"If this ship is indeed leading the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet," he said, "then we can safely forget both Krennel and the Ciutric Hegemony. It alone is capable of dealing with the entire fleet the Prince-Admiral can field against it. Our ships, when we get involved in this battle, will without a doubt be heavily damaged..."
But he meant something entirely different — that we would suffer irrecoverable losses if we faced it head-on. Yes, I understood that too.
"Don't be a pessimist, Captain," I advised. "The Bacta War clearly demonstrated to us that even a nineteen-kilometer Super Star Destroyer can be defeated in battle not just by a huge fleet or another ship of its class, but by a Star Destroyer, a squadron of X-wings, and a few dozen upgraded freighters... The New Republic military can sometimes be inventive when it comes to destroying ships of this type. Quite eccentric, aggressive, audacious, and at the same time — their penchant for improvisation and finding a way out even in seemingly hopeless situations commands respect. And careful, thorough analysis. There is something to learn even from an enemy. All of us. There are no goals we cannot achieve. This ship is one of them."
"Sir," Pellaeon looked at me. "This is a multi-kilometer fast star..."
"I have no problems with perception, Captain," I reminded him, interrupting my flagship officer's panic. The plan for this case was already ready. I had had plenty of time to think through this particular operation. "And I can see perfectly well what kind of ship we're facing. An excellent Imperial starship, built in the best traditions of Imperial shipbuilding minds, with all their narrow-minded views on the ratio of offensive to defensive armament..."
The commander of the Chimaera opened his mouth, about to deliver another retort, but remained silent. Instead, he just exhaled, then raised his eyes to the golden hologram.
He stood in complete silence for a few seconds. I was beginning to think I could hear the creaking of unoiled gears, when suddenly...
"Sir, are you saying that the enemy fleet..."
"Exactly, Captain," I said, knowing full well that Pellaeon had reached the crux of my statement himself. "Phase one of Operation Crimson Dawn is complete," the commander of the Chimaera gave me a look full of surprise. Did he really think that what we'd been doing since Obroa-skai didn't have a code designation? Of course it did — fortunately, the New Republic, without even realizing it, had helped with the name of the military campaign. "We move on to phase two. Our opponents are completely under our control and fragmented. Divide and conquer... That's how we will win."