Ghent didn't know how Mara could feel so calm in the Imperial Palace, but for him, this place was definitely oppressive. And even though Jade had promised him protection, he was definitely afraid. Afraid the Republicans would catch him, afraid the upgraded code giving access to the central computers of Imperial Star Destroyers wouldn't work, afraid the programs written literally "on the fly" that combined the terminals of all the libraries in the palace into a single system of electronic computing power would fail...
The young man knew that the reason for all of this was his fear of operating in the very heart of the New Republic. Especially considering that he actually worked for the opposite side of the conflict, and if they caught him here...
From behind him, out of the darkness of the infochip shelves into which Mara had disappeared, came a rustling sound. The Slicer let out a quiet cry and watched in horror as something approached him — a figure seemingly woven from blackness, with a frightening aura of swirling mist instead of a head and...
"Don't just stand there like a statue," she hissed at him in Basic, the shadow darting a furious glance of enchanting green eyes at the young man.
"Oh," Ghent said, relaxing. "It's you, Mara."
"Were you expecting someone else?" she asked, continuing to back toward him, bent over double.
"I was just watching some monster crawl out of the darkness, thought..." the Slicer trailed off, meeting another glance capable of killing on the spot. And that glance made him shudder.
"Uh... What happened to you?" he asked, carefully looking away.
"I impaled myself on a countertop," Jade said venomously. "And four times on my fists and legs."
"But Karrde said you always walked carefully," Ghent said in bewilderment. "You tripped?"
The girl threw something directly in front of her, then straightened up. A wave of pain crossed her face. She seemed to even let out a quiet cry. Why was she biting her lip? Was she angry at him? For what? He just asked...
"Ghent," she said gently, but that made it even scarier. The young hacker's soul fled somewhere into his heels and flatly refused to return. "I'm begging you — shut up. Don't tempt fate. That bitch is quite a handful. And I, it seems, am not in as good shape as I thought."
"Who are you talking about right now?" the Slicer blinked.
Mara let out something like a groan. Then she made a leg movement, as if kicking something... Ghent's gaze moved downward.
"You have a friend?" he asked in surprise, seeing a young girl with snow-white hair lying on the floor. She looked terrible — probably fell too. And in her hand was clenched a decent chunk of fiery red hair... Must have grabbed the first thing she could reach when she fell.
"I'll beat you," Mara promised, wincing. But she was joking. She was always so stern, making threats, but really she was sweet as can be. "Ghent... How are things on our end?"
"I've already started copying," he admitted. "The hacking takes about half the time and..."
"Copy the files completely," Jade said, leaning her back against the shelves. The girl breathed shallowly but rapidly. And it was clear that every breath came with difficulty and pain.
"But you said Thrawn..."
"Ghent," the girl licked her lips, making the hacker feel himself blushing. No, Mara, even after falling onto a countertop, was still the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. But for him, she had always been like an older sister. And you can't have feelings for sisters... Well, at least not where he was from. "I have a broken rib. Possibly a crack in my sternum. It gets harder to breathe every time. I think I've also sprained my ankle. Be so kind — take the Bacta spray from the pocket on the belt of my jumpsuit and spray it on the center and left side of my chest."
"Uh..." the blushing hacker tried to object, but the girl smiled at him. The Slicer felt the urge to go to the bathroom. "I looked at the data. We can't copy everything, Mara. If we don't remove the software protection from the files, which is about three times bigger than the files themselves, we won't get very much... We could at most copy a hundredth of it — there's just a mountain of information — and with the protection included, even that little will be even less..."
"Then stop hacking," Mara told him again. "Find the necessary files and copy them first. If there's space left, find something else interesting. After that, erase all the files from your chips and try to write more onto them."
"Wait, but..." the Slicer met the girl's gaze, then chose to turn around and get to work. He had already cracked a dozen files, so there would be some additional volume. But the rest would have to be copied directly with their protection code attached. Breaking that without the kind of power he had access to in the Imperial Palace would be very difficult. And slow. "Done."
"Good job," Jade praised him. "Now the spray. And quickly, before I pass out."
"Mara, I..." Ghent stammered.
"Dear," this was already very dangerous. The redhead had switched to sweet terms. That meant arguing with her was outright dangerous now. "There are guards walking outside that door. And they'll be breaking down our door. Possibly even with weapons. You see," she pointed her finger at the unconscious girl lying at her feet, "this is a very... influential person... She was doing... something here... with General Solo... He'll clearly be coming... soon. If I... pass... out... no one will... protect you."
The hint had its effect. Ghent carefully stepped over the unconscious girl, looked away, and began blindly fumbling his hands along Jade's waist...
"What... kind of... circus... are you... doing?" Mara was breathing rapidly, and each breath allowed her no more than one word.
"I..." Ghent felt even the tips of his ears turning red. "Is this it, right? Doesn't feel like..."
"Lower..." Mara said. "And to the left..."
Ghent wanted to say that it would be easier for her to find and take everything herself, but he bit his tongue in time. The girl's hands literally gripped the shelves, keeping herself from falling. Apparently, if she didn't stay standing, it would get even worse for her. Maybe her rib would even break off...
"This is it, right?" Ghent asked hopefully.
"That's painkiller... gel..." Mara groaned. "Ghent, I'm going to... spank you. Rub it in... already... on my chest! I'm in pain!"
"Yes, yes, yes, I'm on it," Ghent, still looking away from Jade, found the zipper of her jumpsuit, unzipped it to her waist. Squeezing everything from the tube onto his palms, he began, still not looking at the girl, to rub in the substance that would help her at least stop feeling the pain...
"Ghent..." he heard his partner's whisper.
"Yes, Mara?" he asked, applying more effort. She was getting better, wasn't she?
"You've... never... had a girlfriend, have you?" At this question, the young man literally dropped the tube to the floor. The soft sound of its fall seemed deafening to him.
"N-no," he confessed. "How do you know?"
"Chest..." Mara said. "It's... not just... what you're... touching... I can't feel... the left side anymore... move to the center... before... you get hurt!"
"I..." Ghent was at a loss. He still couldn't overcome his modesty and force himself to look at the half-undressed girl. But his comradely feelings told him that the redhead needed help. Immediately!
Burning with shame and embarrassment, the young man did as Mara instructed. Oh, he could feel her ribs! She was actually quite thin. She said her ribs hurt, didn't she? He should smear the painkiller on them...
Letting out a quiet cry, Jade collapsed to the floor like a sack. At the last moment, Ghent managed to catch her head with his hands and stop her from cracking it against the hard floor.
"Oh, dear," he whispered, looking away from the girl breathing hoarsely. "Not good, not good..."
At that moment, it seemed the second one — the platinum-haired one — stirred...
"Oh, oh, oh..." Ghent's eyes went wide as the blonde girl moved her hand. "Mara, Marochka, I won't touch you there anymore... Mara... MARA!!!"
It seemed he had gotten himself into a real mess.
* * *
When the turbolift doors opened, from what was happening on the Chimaera's bridge, it was clear that the people here were devastated by grief. So deeply that every single one of them had completely forgotten their military duty.
"I like your little ships, Imperials," a voice rumbled from the intercom. And it clearly belonged to Captain Nym. "I think I'll take them as compensation for my destroyed squadrons. With a Star Destroyer and an interdictor cruiser, my organization will be unstoppable!"
His gaze continued to sweep across the bridge.
Someone was sobbing, someone was crying their eyes out, someone was just sitting silently, staring grimly ahead. And some, like Lieutenant Tschel, were being carried away on stretchers by medics.
The medics — a pair of orderlies — were the first to notice the beings that had appeared on the bridge. And their reaction was very strange — they dropped the stretcher, sending Tschel crashing to the deck with a clatter. He let out a pained groan...
"No way?!" the young officer's face stretched so much it looked like it was made of gutta-percha and someone very strong had decided to mold it into something longer.
Ignoring the stunned watch officers, the four beings proceeded to the central platform. The Chimaera's commander raised his gaze from the tactical monitor, where numerous enemy ship markers were appearing. His eyes swept over the beings approaching him, curses ready to fall from his lips, but —
The words stuck in his throat:
"Captain Pellaeon," I said, settling back into the chair, "please explain the reasons why the bridge watch is in a state bordering on panic."
"You're alive!" Pellaeon blurted out. The aging, gray-haired man stared at me as if trying to see through me with X-rays.
"Without a doubt," I confirmed, glancing at the tactical monitor. "I see that in the fifteen minutes of my absence from the bridge, there have been drastic changes in the enemy's disposition. Both squads of Headhunters have been destroyed?"
"Y-yes, sir," Gilad said slowly. "Along with your shuttle."
"Excellent," I said. "So the ruse worked. Captain, make sure the operator of tractor beam station six undergoes an accelerated qualification board. That man deserves a promotion in rank and salary."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon darkened. He quickly glanced toward the pit where the aforementioned junior specialist was sitting. Then back at me:
"Shuttle Seventeen was empty, wasn't it?"
"By no means, Captain," I assured him. "Our adversary could have had the necessary scanners to verify that. To make it more comfortable for him to do so, we removed the deflectors."
"But... then, who was on board?!" Pellaeon stiffened.
"We will need eleven new ysalamiri," I said.
"And the tractor beam operator controlled the Lambda's movement," Gilad understood. "That kid really did a good job, managing to maintain both the speed and duration of the beam."
"It was enough to organize the process of delivering the ship to its escorts; after that, the standard engines took over and the craft began flying straight without escort."
"And it was packed with various kinds of explosives and scrap metal, which you turned into shrapnel," Pellaeon continued.
"First and foremost, changes were made to the shuttle's hull," I explained. "The solid armor was sawed to the limit of its strength. When the proton torpedoes detonated the ship, they set off the engines and the explosive charge inside the Lambda. The Headhunters' deflector shields couldn't deflect kinetic munitions."
"Understood, sir," Pellaeon replied dryly. He looked at the guardsman, the Noghri, and the pirate standing on the other side of the chair — a biological species we still hadn't been able to identify. Close to human, but... There was a theory that Captain Tyberos was some kind of hybrid species unknown to science. "May I ask what the point of this exercise was?"
"Demoralization," I explained.
"Ours or the Lok Revenants'?" It was obvious it took great effort for Gilad to suppress the anger bursting forth.
"As well as a test of the hypothesis that Captain Nym's standard tactic for destroying invasion forces is based on eliminating the enemy commander," I continued. Not even intending to answer the question. Because both options were correct.
To deceive the enemy is practically to defeat them. But that wasn't all.
Seeing how the crew of your flagship behaves when you're killed, whether they carry out the orders you gave or panic and let everything go to waste — that was priceless. The answers I needed, I received. I am confident that in the future, they will handle it better.
But I got what I wanted — I understood how Nim thought. This would be easy.
"Why is he here?" Pellaeon clarified, nodding toward Tyberos.
"So that the blow to Captain Nym's reputation and ego would be twofold," I stated. And also, there was something in Tyberos's own story worth checking. "Captain Pellaeon, I trust you've had time to verify the landing coordinates that Captain Nym sent us?"
"Um..." a look of slight confusion appeared on Gilad's face. "I... ask... your forgiveness, I... was a bit preoccupied."
"I know, Captain," I nodded. "You were grieving. Please, attend to it immediately, while we observe four squadrons of fighters approaching my flagship."
A dozen Scurrgs were rapidly approaching us from the Lok space station. Another three full units were launching from the planet's surface.
"The coordinates match Captain Tyberos's data on the location of Nym fortress," Pellaeon said.
"That's the landing pad for his ships," Captain Tyberos interjected. "That's where the large ships are. The fortress itself is one klick north."
"They'll be in range in ten minutes if you order an immediate advance," Gilad ignored the clarification. "Open fire, Grand Admiral?"
"There's no need, Captain Pellaeon," I said. "Is the Black Asp still maintaining the designated deployment vectors for the gravity well generators?"
"Yes, sir," the Chimaera's commander confirmed. "Over a hundred enemy fighters of various types have risen from the surface and are moving toward us."
"In that case, send the fleet the order to begin the operation," I ordered. "The Black Asp will see to its own safety. And open a channel to Captain Nym."
The next instant, the bridge filled with the Fiorim's pleased voice.
"Ah, the Imperial gizka have decided to surrender their tubs to me," he rumbled. "Your little ship is in a tight spot — the vector Tyberos gave you doesn't allow for maneuvering if you want to get your vessel out of here in one piece. Perfect timing..."
"On the contrary, Captain Nym," I replied. Silence fell across the bridge. "I find you to be not just an unscrupulous pirate and a galactic outcast, but also a being who does not keep his word."
"Thrawn!?" The pirate leader's voice sounded not merely surprised — it was stunned. He was so shocked that his arrogance and confidence in his own superiority had vanished somewhere. "You... you're alive?!"
"You destroyed an Imperial vessel," I continued, ignoring the foolish question. "Combined with your existing transgressions, I consider you unworthy, not only of cooperating with the armed forces under my command, but of living at all."
"Thrawn, Thrawn, this is the Outer Rim," Nim began to hedge. "You just don't understand how things work out here... THRAWN!!!"
"As I understand it, Captain Nym," I continued, "your informants have already told you that all hyperspace routes from the Karthakk system are under the control of interdictor and interdiction cruisers. Excellent. In that case, I am informing everyone within the Karthakk star system. You are in a military operations zone conducted by Imperial Navy forces under my command. Military vessels are already en route to every station, outpost, and facility. Lay down your weapons now, surrender your leaders, hand over the facilities under your control, and only then will you be permitted to live. Anyone offering resistance to Imperial stormtroopers and ships will be destroyed on the spot, just like Captain Nym and any subordinates who remain loyal to him."
"Thrawn!" Nim spoke rapidly. "We can make a deal! I have lots of money, valuables! We'll come to an arrangement! Call off your Star Destroyers!"
"You were right about one thing, Captain Nym," my voice was firm, radiating confidence and resolve. "I am not familiar with the customs that prevail in the Outer Rim systems. That is precisely why I brought along a specialist with extensive experience in resolving disputes between Outer Rim pirates and the Imperial armed forces."
The Imperious Star Destroyer's hyperspace jump completed the moment it reached the boundaries of the artificial gravity cone deployed perpendicular to the Chimaera's direction. The triangular vessel emerged in close proximity to the Lok space station, leaving it astern. The instant it materialized in realspace, TIE fighters, interceptors of the same series, along with boarding shuttles and transport shuttles launched from its side.
The ship's active transponder announced its designation.
"The Butcher Shohashi!?" Nim screamed. "Shohashi?! Thrawn, you sick bastard! You brought that Hutt madman to my home?! I'll get you, wherever you are, my ships..."
"The Imperious is opening fire on the ground target in accordance with telemetry transmitted from the Chimaera," Lieutenant Tschel reported, who, despite his bandaged head and hands, had remained at his post. Hmm... An interesting man. Driven. I should take a closer look at him.
"Launch the air wing," I ordered. "The target for Lieutenant Kreb and Black Squadron remains the same. The remaining units are to acquire targets according to the controllers' instructions. Command the battle, Captain — after all, this is your ship."
Meanwhile, the air wing from the Imperious had already slammed into the swarm (for calling it a formation would be laughable) of enemy fighters. And the green streaks of Imperial-made laser cannons had begun their bloody harvest... Soon joined by the Chimaera's small craft.
"Yes, sir!" Pellaeon said, with poorly concealed anticipation of the coming slaughter. "Artillery — barrage fire on enemy small craft!"
"Thrawn! Thrawn!" Captain Nym continued to shriek on the open channel. "Stop destroying my home! My ships! You blew up my ships! Let's meet and discuss everything?! Just call off that Hutt madman!"
"We will definitely meet, Captain Nym," I promised. "As soon as you are dragged before me on your knees and in chains. And the sentence will be passed by me."
"Thrawn!" Nim squealed. What else he wanted to say didn't particularly interest me. For that reason, the connection with the surface was severed.
"First target — the Lok space station," I ordered. "I need that small shipyard."
Which, under favorable circumstances, could become a place to repair our freighters, armed cargo vessels, corvettes, and frigates. This, in turn, would free our repair crews from the orbital repair workshops having to handle such work.
"Sir, what about the Avengers of Lok?" Pellaeon inquired.
"The Imperious and Captain Shohashi will be enough for them," I replied. "More than enough."
* * *
"Black Squadron — break into pairs."
Lieutenant Kreb's voice was, as always, calm and cold. There was no need to repeat anything further. He and his pilots knew exactly what they were up against.
The N-6 captured from the pirates had been disassembled and studied by the Chimaera's technical crew. The information on it had been passed to all fleet pilots. They were all prepared.
The N-6 was a machine two and a half times slower than a TIE interceptor. But it had six forward laser cannons, each with its own targeting computer. A laser turret provided rear and flank coverage. The interceptor had only four forward laser cannons. And the pilot did the aiming. However, the Imperials had a higher rate of fire.
The enemy had a deflector shield, yet the machine measured twenty-two meters long, compared to the interceptor's just under six and a half. The N-6 had no worthwhile maneuverability whatsoever — unlike the Imperial machines. But they were equipped with bomb bays and launchers. The quality of their makeshift ordnance left something to be desired.
This would be simple.
The TIE interceptors leaped from the Chimaera's underbelly, like a flock of merry ghosts rising from cemetery graves at night. Instant acceleration to cruising speed, and they were already within firing range of the enemy's squadron of tubs.
Lieutenant Kreb stomped on the accelerator pedal, banked into a turn, evading the incoming enemy's fire. His wingman followed, glued to his tail.
The squadron leader caught an enemy craft in his crosshairs and fired a short burst.
The deflector shield absorbed the green plasma bolts. Dropping significantly in the process. The wingman repeated the maneuver and practically stripped the N-6 of its reflective screens.
The enemy wasn't idle and tried to return fire from its turret. The interceptors split apart, leveled out, and with eight barrels blew the first Scurrg to pieces.
Nearby, a burst of three crimson lances pierced the vacuum — the enemy was firing half-salvos.
Kreb banked into a turn, at the apex pitched his machine into a dive, and together with his wingman ended up behind a second craft. They immediately received fire from its turret, but both pilots, having chewed through the deflector, slipped beneath the enemy's belly at cruising speed, from where they struck the machine, splitting it apart.
"Minus two," Kreb reported calmly, informing the pilots of the number of enemy machines their pair had shot down. The other pilots had racked up another four. That was half of the N-6 squadron destroyed — and only five minutes had passed since launch. On the negative side, one interceptor had taken a salvo to its left wing and was now tumbling, unable to maneuver. Kreb informed the Chimaera's OCC about it. The flight deck advised that the downed pilot had already been located and would be brought aboard by one of the transport shuttles returning after the troops had landed.
Coordinated work.
The lieutenant's interceptor shot sharply upward and circled at full speed. While the pirates tried to figure out his next move, executing clumsy pirouettes, he turned right and released several laser volleys in front of their leader's nose. Blinding him, he bought a few seconds.
"Black-Two — go."
The wingman surged ahead and began his own hunt. Kreb covered him, allowing the young pilot to learn how to destroy the enemy himself.
On the display, the targeted ship shifted slightly, outlined in green. The wingman pressed the trigger. Four long green lightning bolts struck the green. The first and second instantly sheared through the deflector field, like a comet boring through ice. The third blew apart the turret in the ship's midsection, and the fourth vaporized the cockpit. Flame burst from the black hole, and the enemy starship spun out of control.
"Black-Two to OCC. Uncontrolled N-6 at point five-two-seven, heading on vector eight," the wingman reported.
"Chimaera OCC to Black-Two — copy, sending a salvage team."
Maybe the Scurrgs were no match for interceptors, but Grand Admiral Thrawn had ordered them to recover enemy machines whenever possible. For study or repair — it didn't really matter. The main thing was to follow orders.
The wingman was already circling another pirate, taking aim again. The first shots damaged the deflector once more. The enemy panicked and tried to veer aside, but that only let Black-Two, with a long burst, drain the enemy's shield and punch through its hull. The pirate ship started smoking, flames appeared in the breach — a moment later, the N-6 exploded.
From his interceptor's cockpit, Lieutenant Kreb saw the yellowish-brown sphere of planet Lok and two Imperial Star Destroyers, which were concentrating fire from their turbolaser cannons while simultaneously launching dozens of landing craft to attack non-space targets.
During his next report, Lieutenant Kreb realized the N-6 squadron was finished. His pilots had come away with only minor damage to their machines. Eleven pilots of Black Squadron were still in formation.
"Black-Leader to Chimaera OCC, objective complete, enemy fighters destroyed."
"Provide fire support for the assault troops at station Lok," came the new order. Kreb relayed it to his subordinates. Eleven TIE interceptors set course for a new target.
The repair station looked harmless only at first glance. Turbolasers along its hull were unsuccessfully trying to reach one of the 'sentries.' But judging by the intensity of the fire and power, the turbolasers defending the station were clearly not of a recent generation. Their shots were more like the bites of a pesky insect.
But when there are many of them, they could also cause damage. So Kreb ordered the guns destroyed — this way he would spare the landing parties the constant risk to their precious cargo.
Orbital Station Lok.
Kreb and his wingman led the attack on the station's defensive weaponry. Against the backdrop of the dark masses of the asteroid belt, the station seemed barely distinguishable — the troopers oriented primarily by the work of the powerful searchlights that no one had bothered to turn off. Now the enemy itself was 'illuminating' targets with the fire of their turbolasers.
They turned and each fired bursts at the nearest turret. Green streaks smeared across the armor, confirming the station's lack of deflector protection. Good.
Bursts from their second pass melted several towers on the station's hull, turning them into scrap metal — helpless and ugly. Meanwhile, the rest of his pilots struck the weapons on the starboard side. In mere minutes, decisive superiority was achieved, although it required a bit more effort than anticipated. The interceptors had once again proved their supreme skill.
But this was only the beginning. Despite the barrage fire from two Star Destroyers, more and more enemy ships kept rising from the surface of planet Lok. A general free-for-all was brewing. Kreb reported this to the Chimaera OCC.
"The Grand Admiral has authorized free hunting," came the reply. "Act at your discretion."
"Understood," Kreb stated, relaying the order to his subordinates. Immediately after, he and his wingman joined the general engagement. The loss of a dozen heavy fighters in one go sent the pirates into a state of shock, which was crucial for destroying their will to resist. There was no doubt the pirates had fought against Imperials before. But today, their questionable talents wouldn't help them.
The lieutenant's wingman selected a target and fired several consecutive discharges. The N-6 exploded, but a second before that, another identical ship appeared from somewhere, attempting a counterattack. The pirate fired a full salvo from all six cannons, intending to finish off the interceptors, but both little ships evaded the strike, negating the counterattack. It took the interceptors and their pilots another five minutes to eliminate the enemy starfighter threat, returning to the main objective.
The space station, choking under the interceptor attack, launched a third wave of Scurrgs. Or at least, it tried to.
Lieutenant Kreb and his pilots had clear orders — take the station, not destroy it. Despite the fact that this contraption looked strange, apparently cobbled together from scrap metal, blowing it up was the easiest part. But disabling its ability to defend itself — that was a sign of mastery.
Lieutenant Kreb and his wingman locked onto a pair of N-6s. The first one 'cooked off' almost immediately as the eight cannons of two interceptors converged on it. But the second one...
It seemed to try to make its machine dance, allowing such a large target as the Scurrg to evade the deadly fire of the pursuing interceptors. The duel dragged on. The OCC was already indicating that a battle of attrition was unfolding near the Star Destroyers. They needed to finish with the station's defenders and join the task of repelling the attack.
Kreb quickly got his bearings. The third wave of Scurrgs was almost completely destroyed — only two ships remained. One of them had just been 'knocked down' by Black-Six, burning the pirate's cockpit with the fire of his cannons. Unfortunately, that machine was a lost cause for the salvage teams — it flew off towards the asteroid belt and splattered against the surface of an asteroid.
Only one enemy machine remained. And it, by a strange twist of fate, was crewed by a team that also didn't want to die.
"Black Leader and Black-Two will handle the last Scurrg," the lieutenant said. "The rest return to the Chimaera OCC's disposal."
Acknowledgments came through.
The lieutenant, noticing the enemy trying to outflank him, understood perfectly what he was up to as he banked to port. In such a situation, getting caught up in the pursuit and trying to gnaw through the pursued ship's shields, one might not notice a laser turret locking onto you. But it wouldn't work on them.
"We're taking him in a pincer," he ordered. "Strike from both sides, lower hemisphere."
The enemy took the bait: concentrating on the supposed Imperial retreat, he didn't notice the short bursts fired into his underbelly from 'below.' The shield was completely destroyed, and a good-sized breach gaped in the starboard side.
Even in this state, the enemy still tried to flee. But not beyond the vector of the artificial gravity field, no — into the asteroid field. That was where he could hide for a while, fix the damage, and try his luck with a breakout. But not now. At the moment, the enemy was occupied with something completely ridiculous — trying to jettison dangerous cargo from the bomb bay to avoid detonation from the fire that had broken out onboard.
At that moment, the wingman, getting clever, sliced off the turret, and then green lightning bolts licked clean the port-side cannons of the damaged machine.
Kreb added fire to the starboard side for symmetry. Then he opened a comm channel.
"Calling N-6 Scurrg, registration number..." Only now did he notice that he'd actually burned off the spot where it was marked with the fire of his cannons. How was he supposed to identify who he was talking to?
"Don't bother, Imperial," a melodic female voice responded. The lieutenant felt his respect for the pirate pilot, who was also a woman, grow. It wasn't about chauvinism, sexism, or feminism — piloting a behemoth like a Scurrg was beyond the capabilities of many men. The heavy control yoke, pedals requiring significant pressure... "I never had one anyway. What's your name, at least?"
"Lieutenant Kreb, ma'am," he introduced himself. "I suggest you cut your engines and drift. Capture is an excellent alternative to death."
In response, he heard only a delightful laugh:
"Lieutenant, since when do Imperials offer pirates the chance to surrender? Usually, you just destroy us."
"Consider yourself lucky today," Kreb said, watching the enemy ship's engines cut out. A wise choice.
"Black-Two — maximum vigilance," he warned. "This could be a trick. If necessary, fire without warning."
"Copy," the wingman acknowledged.
"Lieutenant," the Scurrg pilot hailed him. "Has anyone ever told you that pirates have honor too? That not all of us are here because we like doing this?"
"Running a bluff," Black-Two cut in.
"Enlighten me, ma'am," Kreb offered.
"Miss," she corrected. "Judging by your voice, you're probably not even thirty. I'm twenty-four. If you want to know, I'm a Twi'lek."
"I have no racial prejudices, miss," Kreb stated.
"A good Imperial," bitterness tinged her voice. "Kid, you know why I'm having this conversation with you, right?"
"Buying time," the lieutenant ventured.
"Yeah, trying to direct-feed the reactors to the engines," she agreed. "How about a rematch, huh, Lieutenant Kreb? Just you and me?"
"Your weapons are destroyed, your deflectors are down, and the bombs you jettisoned are being tracked by me," the Black Squadron commander noted. "If you try to attack me, you will be destroyed."
One shot at her Scurrg, and the machine would be gone. Along with her.
"Let's drop the formalities, Kreb, okay?" A plea entered the voice of the unknown girl from a non-human race. "My name is Tia."
"You know my name, Tia," he identified himself. He glanced at the instruments again. The bombs the girl had dropped were long since outside the threat range of any small craft or transport ship in Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet. "Why don't you want to surrender?"
"And what would I do after that?" the girl wondered. "No thanks, I've already spent half my life as a slave. I didn't want to be a bomber pilot either, but it was either that or become someone's property among Nym pirates. I've already been a toy in someone else's hands; I don't have any more desire for that. By the way, Kreb, do you know how to bypass the fuel regulator so it doesn't default to 'safety' without the fuses? Because you and your wingman did a pretty good number on my electronics."
"Tia, that would cause immediate detonation of the reactor core at the slightest overload," Kreb warned.
"Oh, so you know your Scurrgs well?" she was surprised.
"I always know what I'm about to fight," the Black Squadron commander clarified. "That's what we're taught."
"Is that so," she whistled. "You know, back in slavery, I dreamed that one day the Imperials would come to the Outer Rim, drive out all the masters, and set us free. And then I could become an Imperial pilot... Well, I became a pilot, but it was the pirates who freed me... It's their favorite tactic — free you and make you work for them. Believe it or not, I didn't want this life. But I'd want to be someone's property even less. So, well, I think I fixed it. So, Lieutenant Kreb? Will you grant a lady's last wish?"
For the first time, the Black Squadron commander felt something like hesitation. He had never simply talked like this with an enemy pilot before. And certainly never delved into their life story. Of course, there was a high probability it was a fabrication. But if so, some elements of the story might be true. Perhaps.
For some unknown reason, Kreb wanted the girl to be telling the truth. Even just a little.
"How many Imperial pilots have you shot down, Tia?" he asked. "For your entire time serving Nim."
"A couple, for sure," she didn't hide it. "And at least three unconfirmed kills in this battle. So?"
"You wanted to become an Imperial pilot," he reminded her. "I can't guarantee that for you, but I give you my word that I'll speak with command about you. If there's even the slightest chance of that happening, I'm ready to help make you one of us."
The girl seemed to snort in surprise.
"You have a terrible sense of humor, Kreb," she said. "Since when do Imps recruit aliens? What about the New Order, the supremacy of the human race, and all that?"
"You'd be surprised," the Black Squadron commander chuckled. "That doesn't exist in our fleet."
"Kreb..." the girl paused. "You know it's not nice to lie to a lady on a first date, right?"
"I never lie," he said firmly. "I'm not promising you everything will work out, but I give you my word that I'll try to negotiate."
"And they'll forgive me for shooting down Imps?" she asked distrustfully.
"I'm sure our commanding officer will be understanding," Kreb said. "Many non-human races work at our base. Not slaves — contractors who get paid for their labor. Some serve in auxiliary forces. I'm sure there's a place for a pilot too. And yes, I have to disappoint you — it was my pilots who engaged your squadron. You didn't shoot any of them down. Maybe you damaged their machines a little. I'm sure that will be taken into account during the hearing. Sorry I can't give any guarantees that everything will be fine. But I will at least speak in your defense. Provided you surrender now, of course."
"Don't promise a girl what you can't deliver, Kreb?" Tia tried to sound cheerful, but her voice held sadness. "You know, over there, by your destroyers, people like me are killing people like you... And here you are, recruiting me..."
"We are soldiers," he reminded her. "And everyone carries out the task assigned to them. My unit eliminated the threat. I'm sure you're currently trying to figure out how to detonate those dropped bombs remotely so the explosion would catch me and my wingman. But you don't have to."
"You could end all this with one pull of the trigger," Tia noted.
"Contrary to popular belief, TIE Interceptor pilots are not maniacs," the lieutenant stated. "We have honor and our own understanding of right and wrong. If I can save even one pilot from death and fly side by side with him against a common enemy in the future, then it's all been worth it. So, Tia, are you willing to at least try to change your life?"
The girl was silent for a while.
"Promise me," she said quietly, "if it doesn't work out, you'll just kill me. Okay?"
"I don't kill innocents," Kreb declared. "Enemy soldiers, sentients who have taken up arms against me and my comrades — yes. But not prisoners and not civilians."
"You're a strange Imperial, Lieutenant Kreb," Tia said. "You know… If this works out, if I'm not made a slave again, if I'm not forced to please all kinds of sweaty uglies, and if you truly accept me into your ranks… I'll dance for you. Only for you."
"It will be enough if you become one of our pilots," Kreb said firmly. "Everything else is unnecessary. Consider that I'm helping you as my potential battle comrade."
Tia was silent for another few seconds.
"Kreb," she finally said. "You're a very strange Imperial. I trust you. And yes, please move out of the drift course of that bomb with its engine off. I'll transmit my bomb trajectories — just tell me who, okay? I don't want to lose any more battle comrades. At least not potential ones."
"Thanks for the warning," the lieutenant oriented himself by his instruments. Indeed — it was drifting toward him. He adjusted his engines and moved the interceptor aside from the deadly "gift." And silently cursed himself three times for his carelessness.
"Black Two to Black Leader," his wingman's voice came over their pair's frequency. "A message for you from the Chimaera, commander. Grand Admiral Thrawn sends his thanks for recruiting enemy pilots and requests a full report upon mission completion."
"Why didn't he contact me directly?" Kreb wondered.
"He said he didn't want to interrupt your cooing," there was a chuckle in the wingman's voice. "Commander, if it doesn't work out, you could use the trophy provisions and take the girl for yourself. At least that way no one will bully her."
"Shut up, Black Two," Black Leader advised. Then, catching himself, he asked:
"Did you say 'pilots'?"
"You were cooing on an open channel," the wingman explained. "OCC reported that about two or three squadrons of Nima surrendered. Along with their ships. Though there's a suspicion they just got cold feet about fighting the pilots from the Imperative, and here you were pouring out such sweet words…"
"Black Two," Kreb addressed his wingman.
"Already shut up, commander," the subordinate reported.
The lieutenant watched as another transport caught Tia's ship with a tractor beam and pulled it toward the Chimaera. According to sensor readings, the girl had de-energized the reactor and cut off power supply to avoid arousing anyone's suspicions. The right thing to do.
"Set course for the Chimaera," he ordered Kreb. "We'll escort the transport to the hangar, then return to combat. Did OCC send loss statistics for our wing?"
"No stats, commander," the wingman replied. It seemed his heart-to-heart with Tia had made him talkative. No matter — this suddenly awakened gift would fall into a dead sleep in a couple of minutes. "The squadrons from the Chimaera, the Black Asp, and the Imperative simply have no losses…"
Not a bad start, actually.
* * *
The pilot set his Sentinel-class assault shuttle on a course straight for the main hangar of space station Lok. A dive, a pass in an arc five meters from the hull on the right side of the station. The ship's gunners never let up on the triggers, firing whole bursts of deadly green beams that merged into one. A lane of fire ran across the hangar bay, blowing up an improvised barricade and fuel containers. The quicker defenders managed to jump off the platforms or run away from the exploding tanks. The rest met death.
The Sentinel flew into the hangar opening. The landing struts touched the metal deck with an unpleasant screech. The assault ramp slammed down, opening the way for the stormtroopers.
Squads of the 501st Legion spilled out of the ship, joining the battle on the move.
Sergeant TNX-0297 was the first to identify a threat coming from the upper level of the hangar to his men. A small guard post — an armored box, with mounted blasters already being aimed at the attackers through its firing slit.
"Grenadiers — neutralize," TNX-0297 ordered, transmitting the target telemetry. His men took cover behind the Sentinel's hull, while two stormtroopers with heavy weapons, using the ship's hull for cover, attacked from another direction. Fourth Squad drew the attention of the mounted blaster operator with fire from their E-11s. He reacted, swinging the barrel away from where the grenadiers were hiding. Now, to respond, he would need time to re-aim his weapon. But he had no time.
Leaving behind a gray smoke trail, first one PLX-1, then another, spat a projectile. The aim was true, and two charges flew toward the guard post at the top. The square structure turned into a fireball an instant later, spewing out burned sentients and equipment. With precise blaster fire, the stormtroopers finished off the burning pirates.
"Moving out," the squad leader ordered. "Fourth Squad — take control of the reactor compartment and the barracks."
"Executing," TNX-0297 replied.
The rough layout of space station Lok was known thanks to the active scanners of the first assault wave. The Imperative's sensors also helped, having "illuminated" the structure for potential hazards. Given that they succeeded, it followed that the station was not built to Imperial designs. It had no design to speak of. An unauthorized construction. But it couldn't be destroyed — only captured.
Fourth Squad ran toward the passage on the right side of the main hangar. Around them, numerous armed sentients were milling about, panicking, trying to figure out where to shoot and how to organize a defense. Stormtroopers of the 501st Legion had no such questions. They had orders.
That was precisely why the defense of the main hangar was doomed from the start — the dagger-like fire of Imperial blasters destroyed anyone who even tried to aim a weapon in their direction. The rest — panicking workers in rags, pirates dropping their blasters — the stormtroopers unceremoniously laid face-down on the deck and cuffed them.
Approaching the first corridor turn, TNX-0297 peered around the corner. He barely jerked his head back as a burst of blaster fire bit into the wall behind him. He activated his helmet comlink:
"Ambush. Five targets. Use flamethrowers."
Two stormtroopers with the designated weapons moved to the edge of the corridor. Two others activated smoke grenades and threw them around the corner. Return fire hit no one. But then the flamethrowers went to work…
Streams of flame instantly burned up the oxygen in that corridor. The ten meters separating attackers and defenders turned into a river of fire, where the sound of rolling waves of flame drowned out the heart-rending screams of pain and agony.
"Forward," TNX-0297 commanded as soon as the flamethrowers cleared the way. Fourth Squad's troopers sprinted across the space to the enemy's position, then mercifully finished off those who hadn't died of their wounds.
Five such sweeps were needed before Fourth Squad, without suffering casualties, reached a compartment that was a jumble of temporary living modules. In the middle of this small settlement rose the main building, on whose mansard roof enemy shooters were already positioned. Fourth Squad engaged the enemy with grenade launcher shots, then dashed across the space to the nearest living module. At the sergeant's signal, the stormtroopers spread out behind the temporary cover, surveying the situation inside and assessing potential danger.
"Multiple targets in the buildings," one of the clones warned. "Civilians. Unarmed. Presumably — slave families."
"Threat minimal, do not lower vigilance," TNX-0297 ordered. Any civilian, especially a slave, might, for recognition and praise from their master, stab a government soldier in the back.
While the grenade-stunned enemies came to their senses, Fourth Squad covered half the distance between them. Moving on both sides of the improvised street, they controlled the space and each other. And at that moment, blaster shots rang out from the houses.
After one stormtrooper was wounded, they returned fire. The volleys of trained professional killers in military uniforms serving Grand Admiral Thrawn outclass any armed enemy by orders of magnitude. Primarily in their efficiency.
Suppressing enemy firing points with suppressive fire and throwing grenades through windows, Fourth Squad continued their advance, ignoring the thermal detonators exploding behind them. An attack on a stormtrooper never goes unpunished. Retribution follows inexorably and catches the perpetrator no matter what.
Two minutes later, nine stormtroopers — two of whom had minor wounds — approached the central building of the slave town. Thick black smoke from the exploded grenades hung over it, but not thick enough to hide the burning bodies and figures crawling across the mansard floor toward fallen comrades or severed pieces of their own bodies. Screams of pain came from the building, but they were increasingly drowned out by the roar of angry shouts. Then blaster charges pierced the smoke screen like needles — the enemy had spotted them. Since the stormtroopers were in a "dead" zone, the pirates' success could only come by chance.
They couldn't throw grenades onto the mansard — its floor was angled slightly toward the surface where the stormtroopers stood. So the munitions might roll back onto them. But that also meant all the building's windows were open to thermal detonators.
The nine stormtroopers, having assigned targets, threw their ordnance inside, first shattering the thin transparisteel glazing with blaster rifle fire.
A series of grenade explosions literally threw pieces of building material, interior, bodies of humans and non-humans out of the building. From the depths came the groans of the wounded and the death rattles characteristic of the dying. But there was also ordinary profanity mixed with furious orders.
The demolitions trooper drew his attention to a sealed door leading inside the administrative building. Apparently the slave overseers lived here. But that didn't matter — they were just targets.
A breaching charge sent the thick door turning into a kinetic projectile that flew across the entire room until it struck the opposite wall. Against that wall, with characteristic crunching, squelching, and other sounds of fatal compression injuries, blood and brains of sentients splattered.
TNX-0297 stepped into the opening, following his squad's heavy repeater gunner. The latter, firing from the hip, dropped several sentients who had tried to take cover behind an overturned kitchen table — the repeater's charges punched straight through that flimsy cover.
The sergeant supported his troopers with fire. On the run, he ejected a spent power cell and slammed a new one into his carbine. The enemies tracked the stormtroopers' movements by their shots in the resulting smoke and haze, raining red and blue blaster bolts on them. In the far room of the first floor, a barricade had been formed but was spotted in the hanging smoke and ocean of blaster fire too late. From behind that cover, the enemy tried to shoot. And successfully… The first stormtrooper fell, struck by an explosive bullet from a slugthrower.
The stormtroopers pulled back, dragging the body of their dead comrade. The bullet had torn open his sternum — even his plastoid armor hadn't saved him.
"Clear it," TNX-0297 ordered. The dead comrade's gear was instantly distributed among the remaining squad members.
A stormtrooper with the heavy repeater, peeking out from behind the wall, opened fire, sweeping the barrel left and right and back. The barricade literally exploded. Some people fell into the mud that had formed on the floor as if cut down, dropping their weapons. Others took another step sideways, trying to flee, as the repeater's discharges cut through them, burning holes through their bellies and spines. The repeater operator kicked a grenade thrown at his feet back toward the enemy and ducked behind a piece of wall.
The explosion scattered the barricade, revealing to the Fourth Squad troopers, who had leaned out from behind their cover, more than a dozen enemy fighters, stunned and peppered with shrapnel.
"Flamethrowers," TNX-0297 ordered calmly. A stormtrooper doesn't know what revenge is. But Colonel Selid knew. And he welcomed the destruction of as many enemies as possible for each of his subordinates' deaths. This loss was the first in Sergeant TNX-0297's career. For the first time, he had lost not just a fellow soldier but one of his own men. It… was unpleasant.
But he knew he would deal with it later.
Right after the flamethrowers — the same clones of Colonel Selid as he was — deliberately and mercilessly finished their methodical work here and within this operation. Until enemy resistance was reduced to zero. Only then could the order be considered carried out.
Fourth Squad, having set up a combat guard, moved up the single staircase in the room. According to the energy signature, the reactor was located somewhere around here. Why this was done was unclear. But the most obvious scenario was that such an installation served as an additional guarantee against a possible slave uprising. Conclusions would have to be drawn and the assault strategy revised. Small arms only. Maximum efficiency.
The first door on their way turned out to be nothing more than a simple wooden panel hanging on ancient hinges. Kicking it open, the stormtroopers entered. TNX-0297 stepped into the smoke-filled room, dropped to one knee, minimizing his firing profile for any potential enemy. His blaster sight swept the dim room. The rest of the squad, except for the rearguard controlling the stairs and the rear, took the same position on the opposite side of the doorway. A quick glance confirmed there was no guard ahead. No sign of the reactor, no danger.
"Next room," the sergeant ordered.
It took them a few more seconds to clear the building — and only on the third floor did they find what they were looking for: a clear background of the reactor's operation. Though it came from a staircase leading down. Right through the entire building, in the load-bearing wall, there was a passage going deeper.
TNX-0297 assessed the situation. Most likely the reactor was serviced by slaves. Under the control of overseers. If the latter were killed, the slaves would have only one way out — up. And here there were three floors of overseers, armed to the teeth — Fourth Squad had destroyed more than three dozen pirates.
But there was nothing to be done. They couldn't let the reactor be used for the station's self-destruction.
The sergeant ordered a gear check, received confirmation that everything was in order, then led a five-man squad under his command downward. The remaining three stormtroopers, including the dead one, covered them from the building.
Unlike the station itself, the stairs were built very cunningly: each flight rose to the middle of the next floor, then made a sharp turn. A wall had been built between flights so that one couldn't see what was happening on the next flight. The steps themselves were made of metal, as would be expected on a space object.
They had to fight for every landing. The crackling, the renewed howl of blaster fire. The overseers had obviously used this tactic many times against unarmed slaves, but they were facing stormtroopers. Who had grenades. One guard fell onto his back — the fragmenting casing of a thermal detonator had blown off half his skull. Another tried to keep his balance, having jumped back, thinking a live grenade had fallen at his feet, but then realized his mistake in his thoughts. That didn't save him from a combat knife to the neck.
A third took a wound to the shoulder and was roughly slammed headfirst into the wall, losing consciousness. A fourth threw his weapon on the floor and raised his hands — and was instantly cuffed to the nearest pipe and knocked unconscious with a fist to the temple.
A metal grate, the last obstacle in their path, ceased to be one as soon as it met a breaching charge.
The stormtroopers, making their way through a short corridor, reached a man-made grotto hidden beneath the slave town, in the center of which stood a massive shipboard reactor, clearly salvaged from an obsolete Republic Star Destroyer. This thing had enough power to destroy the station and damage the nearest ship.
"Drop your weapons!" demanded a Weequay standing next to the reactor control panel. He held a homemade knife pressed to the throat of a middle-aged Zabrak dressed in an engineer's uniform. "Or I'll cut his head off! And blow everything up here! The reactor is already at its limit! Only he," the pirate shook the prisoner, "knows how to cool it down! Now! Guns on the floor and back off! Hands behind your stupid heads!"
"Lower weapons," TNX-0297 ordered, doing so first. He stood at the front of his tightly packed men — the corridor space allowed no other arrangement. He put his hands behind his helmet. Then, with his tongue, he switched his comlink, cutting off the speaker from the outside world. What he said to his men the pirate must not hear.
"Now make me a ship, fast!" the pirate continued to shriek. "You have ten minutes! Now!"
TNX-0297 felt something light fall into his palm as requested. He switched the comlink back to speaker.
"The reactor radiation is blocking the comlinks. One trooper will leave his weapon and go up to the slave town to report your demand to command. I can assure you, a ship will be provided — we need this station."
"Ah, well then, everything's fine," the Weequay predictably relaxed. His knife stopped pressing into the neck, the blade moved away by just a few centimeters. But that was already a guarantee of victory.
Snapping his right hand out from behind his head, TNX-0297 sent his corporal's combat knife flying. The sharply honed durasteel tip pierced the pirate's eye socket, and the blade sunk to the hilt into the enemy's skull. The body began to fall back, and the sergeant lunged forward.
"It's all right, sentient," the sergeant said, helping the frightened Zabrak to his feet. "Secure the reactor."
"Y-yes, yes, of course," the Zabrak stammered, working the panel.
Three minutes later, coolant flooding the installation prevented the reactor's detonation.
Ten minutes later, space station Lok had finally fallen under the onslaught of the 501st Assault Legion. And Fourth Squad, along with the others, was already loading into a transport for the planetary landing on Lok.