After two dozen escort corvettes jumped to the planet Lok to assist in destroying the pirates' small craft, the order to advance on the target also came for the Inexorable.
Alexander verified the authenticity of the cipher the Chimaera had used to notify his Star Destroyer.
"Well, the time has come," he said, ordering battlestations. The corridors and compartments of the Inexorable filled with the wail of sirens. "Crew! Man your stations, prepare for transition to lightspeed. Pilots — to your fighters, ready for launch immediately upon exiting hyperspace! Gunners — use ion cannons exclusively until the station's defensive systems are located."
He was confident in his crew. And in the outcome of the coming battle.
The spy satellites the scouts had generously planted throughout the Karthakk system indicated that the numerous fighters of the "Kimogila Fanatics" pirate group had already left their namesake station, located in a region of the system known as the "Amber Scale." Only a few squadrons of medium Hutt G1-M4-C "Desert Lizard" fighters remained to defend the space object. Little was known about the station's own defensive systems, but they would soon have a chance to test that in practice.
The deck underfoot trembled slightly, and the stars before the bridge dissolved into a glowing hyperspace tunnel. The Inexorable had left its hiding place inside the Ruby Nebula and was heading for its target.
Was there any reason to assume the Inexorable could be destroyed in this battle? There's always that danger in war.
But it wouldn't happen today... Not today, and not to Captain Mor's subordinates. He had learned his lesson well during the battle at the Hast shipyards. He had no intention of looking pale-faced before the Grand Admiral again. It was bad enough having to write reports to him with proposals for tactical combinations. Though it didn't seem like the Grand Admiral was actually using them.
The tunnel shattered into fragments, and before the nose of the Inexorable loomed a huge station. It was built in the form of a central pin, thickened in the middle, with four piers radiating outward from it at right angles. Multiple communication arrays, two hangar blocks at opposite ends of a pair of piers, and enormous tanks full of fuel and tibanna on the other two. The central bulge undoubtedly contained living quarters. A typical outpost, built by one of the countless constructors of such objects in the galaxy's vast star systems. At a glance, Mor couldn't determine what type or even class this station belonged to. But the fact remained — it existed, looked like a standard design, and had the capabilities and resources to maintain ships.
Therefore, the station in the "Amber Scale" region must belong to Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet.
Station "Amber Scale."
The first blue flashes leaping from the Inexorable's hull spread across the station's central section, plunging it into darkness. The lights in the viewports and the running lights went out. But the Imperial Star Destroyer continued to bombard the structure and the few small ships scurrying around it until the station fell into absolute silence, swallowed by the darkness of space. Only the bluish background and the rumbles of the second nebula in the system, rich with electrical discharges, helped visually distinguish the structure against the interstellar void.
"Captain Mor, two squadrons of 'Desert Lizards' are moving towards us!" the duty officer reported.
Alexander watched with a faint smile as thirty-six TIE fighters launched to intercept the targets, which appeared on the tactical monitor as red, hostile dots.
"Leave one corvette and one squadron of interceptors to guard the Inexorable," he ordered. "The second interceptor squadron will escort the landing craft to the station. Anyone who resists is to be destroyed. Turn the Destroyer broadside to the station, deploy probe droids at a distance of one hundred and fifty units from us, and set up a perimeter to track potential targets. This station now belongs to us," he said with satisfaction. "And we're not leaving."
* * *
Interesting fact — the abandoned Rebel Alliance station was still in good condition. Despite being located fairly close to the inner boundary of the ecliptic plane of the asteroid belt known as the Lok Ridge.
Station "Alliance Outpost."
"Are you familiar with the design of this station, Captain Pellaeon?" I asked, studying the magnified image of the man-made space object on the monitor.
"No, sir," he replied. "I can only assume it was most likely assembled from several compartments of other stations."
"Or built to its own design," I offered another viewpoint.
"Is there a difference?" the Chimaera's commander asked cautiously.
"A huge one, Captain," I stated. "If it was built to an individual design, we know nothing about which part of the station is responsible for what. If its foundation is made of modules we're familiar with, then one look is enough to understand how dangerous it might be."
Judging by the look Gilad gave the image of the unremarkable-looking space object, he clearly considered it a prejudice to think of an old station as a threat to an Imperial Star Destroyer.
"Don't be prejudiced, Captain," I advised. "We intend to capture what is presumably the treasure hoard of a pirate group, located in a region of space where battles for spheres of influence never cease. Distance to target?"
"Eighty units," Lieutenant Tschel reported.
"Captain," I addressed the Chimaera's commander. "Arrange for a Lambda-class shuttle, number eighteen. Without crew or passengers. Also, give the order to prepare the tractor beam projectors to guide the ship towards the station."
"Do we have any more specially prepared ships?" Pellaeon was surprised, hinting at my little trick pulled on Captain Nima just a couple of hours ago.
"No," I replied. "At least, no more such starships were prepared under my orders. We aren't planning to destroy the station, only to test its defenses before we enter the proton torpedo kill zone."
"How did you know the station had launchers?" Pellaeon no longer hid his surprise.
"This station was built by the Alliance," I reminded him. "Considering that proton torpedoes and cumulative rockets have been a favorite weapon of the New Republic since the Civil War, it is most likely that we will encounter exactly this type of armament. In skilled hands, it is equally effective against both small and medium ships."
"Understood, sir." Pellaeon saluted and walked over to the "pit" to carry out the order. Through the transparisteel of the viewport, I noticed the middle-aged man flinch to the side as a Noghri bodyguard slipped out of a dark corner, hidden behind a metal strut. Throwing a displeased look at Rukh, Pellaeon quickened his pace.
For a few seconds, nothing happened, until a very familiar silhouette of a transport ship appeared before the sharp prow of the Chimaera. Rectangular engine nozzles glowed at its stern, but not too brightly, betraying the low power of the drives. In this state, the shuttle was sufficiently controlled by the tractor beam.
"Rukh," I said quietly.
"What are your orders, Master?" a quiet mewling sound came from just above my left ear. Master, was it? And here I'd hoped the Noghri would continue to address me as "Grand Admiral." I don't like all this "Lord," "Master," "Sire." It feels like the Middle Ages. I'll need to convey my position to the government of the Overclan. But it was encouraging that before, only Vader was called "Master." Even after he transferred control of them to the real Thrawn a few years before the current events. Even after he died aboard the second Death Star, the natives of Honoghr continued to call him that. They addressed Thrawn no differently than "our new master." After I freed them from the debt of deception, the clan representatives addressed me as nothing less than "Grand Admiral Thrawn." A radical change. They might just be words, but for a people who put honor first and were willing to kill every tenth adult to prove their loyalty, it meant more. It was practically a religion. I'm a man of the old school — at least in my consciousness. I'm calm about other people's beliefs, but... I feel uncomfortable when someone regards me with such reverence.
Am I going soft? Most likely. Is that good? No. Bad? Also no. But ambiguity is bad precisely because you never know which side it will turn on you.
"You should stop honing your stealth skills on Captain Pellaeon," I said.
"As you command, Master," the Noghri agreed obediently. "May I explain myself?"
"You are obliged to explain yourself," I clarified.
"My skills cannot be sharpened by startling Captain Pellaeon," the Noghri said. "I only want Captain Pellaeon to be alert and never forget that I am always near."
"You don't trust the commander of my flagship?" Interesting news.
"I trust those you trust," Rukh said evasively. "Trusting no one but my master is part of my job."
"Because even someone who was benevolent towards you can betray you?" I clarified, hinting at how Darth Vader and the Empire had treated the Noghri.
"You are as wise as always, Master," the bodyguard flattered. Meanwhile, the Lambda had reached a distance of seventy-five units.
"Regarding that," I said just as quietly. "The title 'Master' implies complete and unconditional submission of servants to their owner. Are the Noghri my servants?"
"We serve you, Master," the voice contained a carefully, but not fully, concealed bewilderment.
"Better end this conversation before I get myself into trouble," flashed through my mind. As our base's system administrator used to say: "Everything working? Well, good. Then I don't need to mess with it." Although my garage neighbor liked to say the same thing. Didn't save him from spinning his bearings, though. Hotshot...
"Does it bother you that Major Tierce will lead the assault group on the station?" I asked.
"That is your will, Master," the Noghri replied calmly.
"There are several stations on our schedule, Rukh," I explained. "And I need them taken as efficiently as possible. Tierce will capture this one; yours is next. And the one after that."
"Does my master consider me worthy of two consecutive missions?" I heard a hint of pride in the bodyguard's voice.
"You serve me faithfully, Rukh," I reminded him. "And I cannot entrust the execution of such important missions to anyone else. I can accept the possible loss of the pirate treasure hoard. The loss of a former Imperial station, as well as the Trade Federation research center, I cannot. Their capture will require not force, but stealth. Can I count on you?"
"Yes, my Master," the Noghri replied.
"In that case, go," I ordered. "The Trade Federation facility will be your first target."
"Do you wish me to leave you unguarded?" Rukh tensed.
"Capturing the former Alliance station won't take long," the Noghri's remark wasn't very convincing. "I am on board my flagship. What could happen to me here?"
"Especially since you don't intend to pierce my heart with a blow from your dagger," I finished my thought, but only in my own head.
"I will not let you down, Master," Rukh mewed. "In one hour, the Trade Federation station will fall at your feet."
Uh... What? It's only a kilometer long!
But there was no time to clarify — the bodyguard was already gliding across the central platform towards the turbolift. Strangely enough, Captain Pellaeon didn't flinch away from the Noghri this time.
"Six proton torpedo launches detected, sir," he said. But I had already seen the crimson "fireflies" myself.
"Excellent," I remarked, watching the lone transport shuttle being torn to pieces. "Relay the order to Lieutenant Kreb and his 'Black Squadron' I want this station's firing points destroyed in ten minutes."
"I bet Kreb will do it in five," Pellaeon said, after relaying the order to the squadron commander via comlink.
I didn't argue.
War is not an exact science. Especially in this galaxy.
* * *
"Interference jamming in the system has been activated from the interdiction cruiser, sir," the duty officer reported to Antonias. On his chest was a command bar, indicating that its bearer held the rank of Lieutenant in the Imperial Navy.
Captain Stormayer, tearing his gaze from his datapad screen, looked first at the transparisteel of the bridge's main viewport, beyond which the snow-white and blue flames of hyperspace bloomed as the Abyssal Fury cut through them with its triangular hull. They were moving forward, towards battle.
His first battle aboard a Star Destroyer, but not the first for the crew under his command. For most of them, at least.
He shifted his gaze to the being who had just reported to him.
Human. No older than thirty. Clean-shaven. An impeccably pressed gray naval uniform that fit perfectly. A regulation cap on his head. His gaze was sharp, focused, calm. And even somewhat frightening.
But during the time he had been in command of the New Republic Star Destroyer captured in the Milagro system, bearing the euphonious name Allegiance, Stormayer had already grown accustomed to the clones on board his ship. He had fought alongside them in the early years of the New Order, but then they simply disappeared from the fleet. Many commanders who had witnessed the times of the Clone Wars regretted this fact. A clone was always obedient, always loyal, always...
Furthermore, a clone has no opinion of its own. It is created to carry out the commander's orders. At least, that's what those who fought alongside them said.
"Thank you for the report, watch officer," he said. "Prepare the ship for battle. We will arrive at the target in ten minutes. Against the Blood Blades bandit outpost, we will use ion cannons first, as per Grand Admiral Thrawn's orders. If that doesn't work, we switch to turbolasers."
"Aye, sir!" the watch officer snapped. The commander's silence meant no further orders would follow, and the lieutenant turned over his left shoulder to leave, but Stormayer called him back.
"Hold on, Lieutenant," he said. "I wanted to ask you a few questions."
"Yes, sir!"
"Do you feel any discomfort?" for some reason this question had only just occurred to him.
"No, sir."
"And doesn't it strike you as strange that people who look exactly like you are constantly around you?" he clarified.
"No, sir. Clones always look alike."
"And doesn't it bother you that you're a clone?" Antonias continued to inquire.
"No, sir. Whether I was born or created in a cloning cylinder makes no difference to me. I am a naval lieutenant; I have a name, a surname, and official duties. The fact that there are others like me in the fleet only confirms my pride in the original specialist who became the donor for our generation of clones," he replied with a perfectly straight face.
"Pride?" Antonias repeated.
"Yes, sir! Only the best of the best are cloned. I am from the generation that is a perfect copy of its donor, with all his inherent merits. Therefore, I am one of the best. That flatters and motivates me."
"And it doesn't anger you that you're—"
"No, sir. Being a clone only simplifies my life."
Stormayer frowned.
"How so?"
"I bypassed puberty and the acne that plagued the donor," the clone replied without batting an eye. "And I didn't get punched in the face at the school prom for..."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Antonias said quickly. "I learned what I wanted. You're dismissed."
"Sir!" The watch officer saluted and headed for his combat station.
Remarkable...
A human being who is proud that they are not a clone...
It's enough to drive you crazy.
Antonias glanced at the ship's chronometer. Two minutes until exit from hyperspace. Then the battle for the outpost of the pirate group "Blood Razors" would begin.
The man returned his gaze to the deck screen, which displayed the information transmitted to him about the upcoming target. The "Blood Razors" were a gathering of "lawless" thugs, a gang of swoop racers from the planet Bivren, a small industrial world in the Expansion Region. As often happens in such situations, they had self-organized to help the planet's exiled residents when large corporations came to power on Bivren. Imperial Intelligence had tried to crack down on them several times because their main activity involved trading black market goods under the guise of swoop races. The Blood Razors conducted raids on Imperial and corporate facilities, redistributing stolen goods among poor citizens. It was because of the first part of this activity that Imperial Intelligence took an interest in them.
At what point all this charity turned into illegality is difficult to determine. But according to available information, the group had simply split. Possibly due to the force measures taken against them. Those remaining on Bivren continued to operate as smugglers and philanthropists, while another part ended up in the Karthakk system, where they operated as pirates. According to reconnaissance droid data, the Blood Razors controlled a region of space here known as the "Crimson Claw" (their controlled territory used to also include the "Amber Scale" region, but competitors had driven them out of there), where they had a small outpost, which the "Abyssal Fury" was heading toward. Scan results indicated that it had once been a transport ship, converted by pirate efforts into a well-defended base — otherwise, rival groups would have crushed the "Razors" long ago.
On the planet Lok, the criminals had their own base — a crashed freighter. Now that was their planetary headquarters, from which they conducted their planetary activities, robbing peaceful citizens. Of course, if any were still left on Lok.
The Blood Razors' main "competitors" were the "Kimogila Fanatics" gang, with whom they had regular conflicts and major battles on both sides of, and within, the asteroid belt surrounding planet Lok. It was for this reason that Thrawn had tasked Stormayer and the Abyssal Fury with capturing the Blood Razors' outpost, rather than destroying that old wreck — he needed information about fairways and safe routes through the asteroid belt, which various groups might possess. Antonias had no doubt that similar orders had been given to the captains of the other Star Destroyers.
The last part of the report didn't particularly concern Antonias, as it dealt with the Blood Razors' rivalry and their struggle for control over influence zones on Lok. But the commander of the Abyssal Fury was accustomed to studying information in full. When you command an interdictor cruiser for a long time, you have to account for every variable. Because Interdictor-class Star Destroyers were not without reason considered among the weakest in the line of ships using the "Imperial" platform. And the activated gravity well generators left absolutely no time for maneuvers.
In any case, on the planet Lok, the Blood Razors competed with the "Canyon Corsairs" and the "Lok Ghosts." The report didn't shine with details, except that a year after the Battle of Yavin IV, the Blood Razors had seriously angered Captain Nym's subordinates by stealing a large arsenal of ammunition from them. The Rebel Alliance had also made an appearance on the planet in its time, flirting with the Lok Ghosts, so Thrawn's choice of target was unsurprising.
But today, this star system would be completely cleansed. No one would escape from here — all exits from the Karthakk system were blocked by "interdictors" or "immobilizers." Today, justice would be served — something the Galactic Empire had never cared about before.
Having lived for a long time on one of the Outer Rim planets, Antonias understood perfectly well what a pirate threat meant. And he was glad to be taking a direct part in the destruction of pirate gangs.
Did he feel sorry for them? No, not in the slightest. As long as the jamming devices suppressed all long-range communication in the system, Thrawn offered the pirates a chance to surrender. He offered them mercy.
Such gifts should not be rejected.
The hyperspace tunnel collapsed, resolving into the outlines of the ugly hull of an old transport ship.
Space outpost of the "Blood Razors" group.
The alarm klaxon wailed. From the underbelly of the Star Destroyer, a Corellian corvette of the CR90 type "dropped" free of the docking manipulators.
Simultaneously, as squadrons of TIE fighters and TIE Interceptors slipped out of the hangar, ion cannons struck the former cargo ship. Yes, the data might be damaged, but in the end, Imperial interrogators and stormtroopers had always known how to extract necessary information from living witnesses.
"Four enemy fighter squadrons are moving to intercept!" the clone watch officer reported.
"Deploy our air wing," Antonias ordered. After the Sentinel with its limited number of squadrons, having sixty fighters and interceptors under his command seemed like a vast military wealth. "Begin suppressive fire with anti-aircraft and medium artillery. Stormtroopers, prepare — once the fighters and interceptors clear a path to the outpost, our boys in white armor will have work to do."
* * *
The station, once belonging to the Rebel Alliance, was not very long or tall. But it had a width of a good seven hundred meters.
It was also supposedly a storage site for looted valuables obtained by the pirate captain Nym and his criminal gang, the "Lok Ghosts," over more than three decades of activity in the Karthakk system and sector.
Capturing it required a swift, rapid assault to prevent the scoundrels from destroying the loot, calling for reinforcements, or jettisoning the valuables into open space.
That was why Major Tierce had chosen only ten men for this operation, including himself. To be precise, he had chosen ten copies of himself.
Clones from a batch that included his own copies, loaded with his memories, possessing his skills, worldview, and absolute loyalty to Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Ten identical faces, ten warriors capable of destroying an army.
One thing you couldn't take away from Emperor Palpatine — he chose the best for his service. And thinking about this, Grodin made no allowance for his own conceit. Years of service had beaten any bravado out of him, leaving only a sober view of things and the ability to assess his own abilities adequately.
The Imperial Guard, heir to the Red Guard, was not famous for secret assaults, covert operations, or other types of sabotage missions. They were stormtroopers — the best of the entire Corps of the same name. And they knew better than anyone what an assault meant.
Therefore, Grodin had chosen his own clones — he wanted to test them in action. Both them and the newly delivered Imperial Guard armor, coated with a special substance — cortosis, which absorbed energy-based damaging elements. Most sentients who knew about this material considered it useful only against Jedi lightsabers. But the trick was that cortosis could, to a certain extent, absorb any kind of energy. However, this also led to its destruction.
Palpatine knew the secrets of cortosis. That's why he had used it during the construction of his apartments, lining the walls with it — in case some surviving Jedi could get far enough to reach the ruler of the Galactic Empire.
But no Jedi could get that far. Not one, not five, not ten. Even the entire Order, had it been alive, would not have gotten to Palpatine's chambers further than the Imperial Guards allowed. And they would have allowed him exactly as many steps as necessary for his lifeless body to fall to the floor and be identified.
The Imperial Guard knew for whom Palpatine had prepared such a "surprise." The Sith Lord wanted to be ready to destroy his apprentice, Darth Vader, if it occurred to him to follow the ancient Sith tradition and usurp the throne by killing his master.
After the Gamma-class assault shuttle docked its belly to the designated penetration point, ignoring the blazing nearby shots from the station's laser and turbolaser cannons, the rapid return fire from TIE Interceptors, Tierce activated the armor-cutting device. The airlock hatch in the shuttle's belly was specifically designed for such boarding methods.
Immediately after the circular plate of hull plating, cut out by the plasma cutter, fell into the corridor with a deafening crash, grenades followed. A second later, explosions rang out, but they were not followed by cries of pain or the whistle of shrapnel.
When you want to capture a space station built by yesterday's farmers and moisture farmers, you don't use destructive offensive-defensive weapons — the grenades Grodin and his clones used were flashbangs.
Gamma-class assault shuttle.
Ten relentless killers in red-and-black robes, armed with vibro-pikes and powerful blaster pistols, infiltrated the station.
The disoriented pirates, prepared for an attack, tried to see anything after the bright flash that had blinded them for the time sufficient for infiltration and assault. But the guards didn't give them a chance to regain their sight.
Leaving behind two dozen decapitated corpses, the Major and his clones, who as yet had no ranks or official assignment, continued the assault, ignoring the body parts lying under their feet. The blood-spattered walls did not frighten or stop them — in his years of service to Palpatine, Grodin alone had spilled so much human and non-human blood that it would have been enough to dye the uniforms of all the other guards. And he was just one of hundreds of such faceless guards. Moreover, not the most outstanding.
The upgraded armor proved itself around the nearest corner, when a group of pirates rushing to help their already dead comrades met the guards nose to nose. A second's hesitation was enough for Grodin and his ten twins to step over another fifteen corpses. And their cuirasses bore only a couple of black scorch marks from random ricochets.
The first hints of organized resistance they detected only after the third dozen enemies had been destroyed, leaving only corpses on the battery deck. Two dozen pirate gunners, realizing that it was no coincidence that their fancy Mandalorian beam cannons, analogous to those mounted on the Crusader 2 corvette, were out of action due to exiting the TIE Interceptors' engagement zone, managed to fire several shots at the ten guards working as a single deadly organism.
Then the deadly accurate fire from the blasters of the original and his nine clones crushed any resistance. Imperial Guards do not carry a large combat load for their blaster pistols. Imperial Guards see no need for that. Because Imperial Guards do not miss.
The second deck remained behind them, merely a concentration of corpses and a reminder of the pirates' indiscriminate fire. Grodin, mentally calculating the effectiveness of his clones, occasionally gave orders over the squad's internal comm, making the clones use first one weapon, then another.
He had advocated to Thrawn for the re-creation of the Guard, where only he should be the donor for them. And before presenting to the Grand Admiral his protectors, who would depart to guard a secret ally — Baron D'Asta — Grodin had to be sure they deserved the right to wear his face and be called his clones.
He had gone against his master, to whom he had sworn to serve.
He had joined the alien warlord who intended to reform the Empire, burying everything that had made it so vile and disgusting, forcing most peoples to secretly or openly bury their desire to serve the Emperor.
He had become a companion of rebellion, dozens of which he had personally drowned in blood.
And he was obliged to ensure that every one created from his DNA would be loyal to Thrawn, prove combat-effective, and be in no way inferior to the original.
Because every Imperial Guard knows that one day his life will end. Assassination, shielding his master with his own body, ambush by rebels, execution shot to the head, vehicle explosion — Imperial Guards died under Palpatine by hundreds, if not thousands of methods.
Grodin Tierce knew that one day he too would die.
And the Major was obliged to be certain that where he himself would err, when his hand could no longer hold a vibro-sword or blaster, and his brain convulsed in death throes, he himself would take his place. Grodin Tierce. And it didn't matter what his sequential number was — second, third, tenth, hundredth, or thousandth. Each of his copies had to be perfect and lethally dangerous.
General Covell could teach the clones general training. The knowledge implanted in their heads could make Grodin's clones the best of the best. But only battle would show whether they were inferior to the original or not. Moreover, the first option was not provided by default.
And at this point, Grodin objectively acknowledged that the clones were just as lethal as he was. That was good. But it was only the beginning of their training program. To be the best — and Thrawn needed no other bodyguards — they had to go beyond Grodin's own knowledge. To start, the combat skills possessed by the Noghri would suffice. They just needed to find a way to make them share the necessary knowledge with the guards.
Grodin watched Rukh's training sessions and gave credit — the bodyguard knew a lot. He was trained differently, prepared differently, and possessed his own combat and assassination skills unfamiliar to the Imperial Guard. And there were few such training programs that remained outside the purview of the Emperor's personal bodyguards. Major Tierce had clearly set himself a goal — to discover them all and adopt them. Clones absorb new knowledge like a sponge — so their training would not take much time.
The next compartment greeted them with a jumble of sealed and opened crates. Through the visor of his helmet, Grodin, like his clones, could see perfectly in the dark, so he immediately realized — they had entered a treasure room. Hundreds of crates packed with precious stones, ingots of valuable metals, works of art, rare spices, jewelry, plain money — more than a dozen different currencies. But this was not a large compartment — only ten meters long and half that in width. This couldn't be the entire treasury. So there was more — and a passage in the far end of the compartment led to it.
Signaling with his hand, Tierce timed how long it took the rearmost clone to disable the magnetic lock on the hatch through which they had come. Two seconds — and it was impossible to open it behind them. The compartment was located on the third deck, which they had cleared, in the very heart of the station. The most logical place to equip a storage vault.
The visor caught a seemingly careless hand movement from one of the clones.
Ambush. One sentient. Trained close-quarters combatant. Armed with vibro-knives.
The other clones reported the same.
Excellent, only ten milliseconds behind the first. It seemed a commander was emerging in the squad — Grodin-7. He needed to keep an eye on him.
And demonstrate that he, Grodin Tierce, was their commander. Until death during service and duty took him.
Handing his vibro-pike and blaster to Grodin-7, Tierce ordered the nine copies to disperse throughout the compartment, pretending to be searching for something. This would lull the assassin's vigilance, who had decided to take advantage of the darkness. Let him think they had come for something specific.
After he was left without visible weapons, the Major walked at a normal pace toward the corridor.
One meter to the enemy.
Half a meter.
Now only ten centimeters separated them.
The enemy was behind him.
Like a crimson hurricane, Major Tierce spun in place, intercepting the mercenary human's hand holding a vibro-knife. He squeezed the wrist — and the knife slipped from his grip. The mercenary caught it with his other hand, intending to stab Grodin in the stomach.
With a strike of his right knee, Tierce forced the killer's hand with the blade to rise higher, then grabbed it with his other hand, applied a joint lock that made the killer cry out. Then, breaking the bones in the hand, Tierce drove the pirate's weapon into his own chest. The body went limp, but an Imperial Guard knows too much about the physiology of humans and similar races to rely on the assumption that this particular individual's heart wasn't shifted to the right.
Gripping the dying man's head in his hands, the Major-Guard twisted it toward the left shoulder until a distinct click, breaking the cervical vertebrae. The body of the hapless pirate-assassin convulsed. With a short punch, Tierce drove the nasal cartilage and bones inside the enemy's skull, penetrating the brain.
Only then did he let the body fall to the floor.
Grodin-7 was silently beside him, returning the weapon. The same silent, faceless, red-black shadow of death as himself. The other eight clone-guards were already nearby. It took them only a fraction of a second to look at the corpse, the fatal wounds, and recognize the technique once practiced by a mercenary group called the "Sun Guard," which had served the Sith and become the precursor to the Red, and later the Imperial, Guard.
Leaving the compartment, the ten guards sealed the door behind them and moved further down the corridor.
Those who tried to cut them down with crossfire from compartments on both sides of the corridor were killed by Major Tierce and his nine copies in hand-to-hand combat, using combat skills taught by the Echani people. Fast, unarmed, short, and lethal.
Scorch marks from blaster hits on the armor were increasing. Grodin was already mentally calculating the relative safety margin provided by the cortosis treatment. A small improvement, really, but they didn't need super-heavy armor — the more armor, the slower you move.
A guard does not need protection to preserve his own body — only to safeguard the protectee. This was an immutable law. The death of a bodyguard must serve to prolong the life of the one he protects. Anything else was not provided for.
They discovered and cleared six more similar compartments, packed to the brim with loot. Neither Major Tierce nor his clones were interested in the trinkets and valuables they found. Their task was not this.
The next deck was the reactor area. Also located here were communications and the station's life support system, serviced by more than a hundred various sentients who charged at the ten guards with makeshift items they intended to use as weapons.
The station's layout clearly indicated its makeshift nature of construction. This object was primarily dangerous for those on it.
But the greater danger here was presented by ten identical men with military bearing, clad in red-and-black robes.
The Wookiee charged him with a massive hydraulic wrench. Major Tierce met the attack with a vibro-pike strike that cleaved the weapon in two. Before the two-meter-tall hairy alien realized he hadn't crushed Tierce' skull, the major had already shattered his right kneecap, ducked under a massive fist swung over his head, kicked him in the groin, then disoriented the enemy with an uppercut to the jaw — buying enough time to drive six stab wounds from his vibro-pike into the Wookiee's vital organs, finishing the three-second duel with a decapitation.
Almost immediately, a Nautolan who had slipped out from behind an energy distribution station lunged at him.
Grodin met him with a kick to the chest that knocked the air out of the alien's lungs and sent him stumbling back a couple of meters. A large Zabrak emerged from behind a coolant tank — matching the Guardsman himself in height and build — and brought a thick pipe crashing down on Grodin's right forearm. The impact was accompanied by the crack of shattered armor plating and, most likely, a broken radius. The vibro-pike clattered to the deck.
The Zabrak, eyes wild, wound up for another blow.
Ignoring the pain in his injured arm, Grodin grabbed the alien's right bicep with that same hand. With his left, he yanked the enemy's forearm sideways and down, robbing him of any chance for another accurate, powerful strike with the pipe.
Twisting the right arm at both the shoulder and elbow, tearing tendons, Grodin ignored a blow to the ribs from the Zabrak but didn't let it go unanswered — he smashed the pirate's cheekbone and jaw with his own right elbow.
Then he crouched, forcing the enemy to drop to his knees, guiding the enemy's arm over his own head and onto his left shoulder. He pulled the limb down, distinctly feeling the Zabrak's right elbow joint snap. Immediately after, he kicked away a left hook from the alien, then drove his knee into the alien's throat. The gasping enemy stared his death in the face with maddened eyes, begging for mercy. But unfortunately for him, Imperial Guardsmen are well-versed in reading Zabrak tattoos.
Before him stood a rapist and murderer of women. A man with sixteen years of incarceration on Kessel behind him, four escape attempts, and eight murders of law enforcement officers across six sectors of the galaxy.
Tattoos like that aren't given to just anyone. They aren't "inked" for bragging rights — the criminal underworld is meticulous about those who claim their "earned art." Therefore, this inhuman creature (literally and figuratively) had indeed done what he boasted about, displaying his tattoos for all to see.
Grodin didn't know a single one of this being's victims. Frankly, he couldn't care less who they were. But today, by the hands of Major Grodin Tierce and his nine clones, justice was being served on this one particular pirate station.
With an elbow to the back of the Zabrak's head, the Guardsman sent him pitching forward, his left arm outstretched.
With his next blow — using his damaged right arm — he broke the murderer's and rapist's spine, condemning him to a slow, horrific death: paralyzed, suffocating from lack of oxygen, fully aware of his own helplessness.
Grodin took no pleasure in what he'd done. He was simply doing his job — destroying the enemy. Was it luck that allowed him to combine his work with the triumph of justice? No. Luck doesn't exist. Only precise calculations and convergence of circumstances.
In this case, one could say Imperial law had failed to bring this murderer and rapist to account.
Major Grodin Tierce — had succeeded.
The Imperial Guardsman grabbed the Nautolan — who was getting to his feet — by his head-tentacles with his left hand. His right arm was starting to hurt more, but not enough to put him out of the fight. Only death can assign such disgrace.
This specimen of criminal body "art" displayed a taste for robbery, violence, murder, and rape — exclusively targeting human victims. He was living proof that even eighteen years of imprisonment on Kessel doesn't reform a criminal. And proof that after his first victim, he had caused the death of twelve more, for which he had never been punished.
This Nautolan was a testament to the shameful impotence of the Galactic Empire and its disregard for the loudly proclaimed tenet of human racial superiority and its advantages over others. Because this Nautolan had committed crimes against thirteen human women — members of the "chosen race" who had found no protection from Imperial law enforcement.
The Imperial Guard doesn't do other people's work — they have their own. But today, right now, aboard this station built by criminals and used by criminals, he, Major Grodin Tierce, would deliver justice.
From the heat radiating off the pipe, the Guardsman identified it as a reactor heat exhaust line. These are made of refractory material and are usually insulated to keep the heat from warming the room. Evidently, the pirates either couldn't afford that insulation or didn't want to. But that was irrelevant now.
A knee to the kidneys made the Nautolan squeal like a Mon Calamari ballerina trapped in a water bubble. He threw his head back only for Grodin to grab a firmer hold of a couple of his tails with his good hand and, with all his strength, smash his face against the red-hot refractory metal pipe. The skin instantly seared to the metal with a hiss, accompanied by screams of agony and frantic attempts to escape the embrace of a painful death. Grodin adjusted his grip on one of the head-tentacles to press on pressure points. Now the criminal's brain was being torn apart by pain from two directions.
Only after the red-hot metal had burned the Nautolan's entire face, boiled his eyes and the blood in his head, vaporizing what was left of his brain, did the major stop the execution and continue the sweep.
He encountered Kubaz, Givins, Rodians, humans, more Zabraks, Duros, Quarrens, a few Bothans, a Pantoran, two Twi'leks, a Trandoshan... He killed them all. Every single one on this deck. And his nine copies weren't far behind him.
There were no innocents here. Only criminals who worked for the benefit of other criminals.
It was only then that the major felt fatigue. For the second time in the past ten years. Maybe he was getting old? Or was it the broken arm and the mild concussion the Trandoshan had given him? Either way, he'd kill that lizard again if it could climb out of the acid vat.
"Four hundred and thirteen bodies, Major Tierce," came the voice of Grand Admiral Thrawn, who had arrived on the station in person by the time Grodin and his nine clones had finished the sweep.
"Four hundred and sixteen, sir," the Guardsman corrected, pointing with his good hand at the machinery that crushed scrap metal — and now also a Trandoshan — protruding from the hopper. "No squad casualties."
"Four hundred and sixteen criminal corpses in twenty-seven minutes," Thrawn's voice carried a detached note of either admiration or disapproval. Hard to tell when your helmet's audio sensors are broken. "Now I'm starting to wonder, Major, why you didn't make it back to the second Death Star. After all, Palpatine sent you to clear out a small group of rebels, which is how you avoided death at Endor."
It would have been strange if Thrawn hadn't found out. Though, back then, confiding on Tangrene, Grodin hadn't lied to him. It was a detail irrelevant to the core of their conversation.
"I was alone, sir," the major replied. "And there were... somewhat more of them. It took me eight hours. And another two to repair my ship so I could leave."
"How large was the rebel force you destroyed, Major?" Interest had crept into Thrawn's voice.
"Two hundred and three sentients, sir," Grodin answered.
Thrawn was silent for a moment, then declared:
"I find a certain discrepancy between what I see here and what you said, Major. Where is the truth?"
"I was alone then," Tierce reminded him. "There were two hundred and three of them. I finished in forty minutes."
"And what happened afterward?"
"Reinforcements arrived at the rebel base," the Imperial Guardsman explained. "They interfered with my ship repairs. I had to eliminate them too."
"How many?"
"All of them."
"I asked how many arrived at the base, Major."
"Sorry, sir, I didn't understand the question," Grodin grimaced. The concussion was making itself known. "A landing division, Grand Admiral. Six thousand sentients prevented me from returning to the second Death Star on time. But I had plenty of explosives, and they had plenty of spare structures."
Thrawn was silent for a moment, studying the Imperial Guardsman.
"Glad you're on my side, Major Tierce," the Grand Admiral said dryly. But his gaze held respect for the defector.
"Glad to be of use, sir," Grodin replied calmly. Looking at his clones, who stood silently nearby, he explained:
"These ones have passed primary screening. We can proceed to the next tests."
* * *
The Stormhawk's target was a space station resembling fuel injector blades fused together, belonging to a gang known as the "Canyon Corsairs."
"Canyon Corsairs" Station.
"Fighters — launch," Morgot Astorias ordered as soon as the Star Destroyer emerged into realspace. "Ion cannon fire on the station."
"Sir," his first officer called out. "The station is surrounded by a deflector shield. It seems the 'Canyon Corsairs' didn't respond to Captain Nym's call to oppose the Relentless and the Chimaera."
"Over fifty small enemy craft detected," the observation post reported.
"Raise our deflectors," Morgot commanded. "The corvette is to hold position in the lower hemisphere. Interceptors, organize cover in the upper hemisphere. Fighters, engage in pairs — off the Stormhawk's port and starboard. Gunnery crews — assess the strength of the enemy shield and fire all weapons at the station's protective screen and enemy fighters. Anti-aircraft batteries, prepare to repel attacks."
The Star Destroyer was enveloped in an invisible film of energy shielding. The silent vacuum was filled with the green fire of turbolasers and the blue discharges of ion cannons.
No matter how strong or numerous the "Canyon Corsairs" were, they were doomed.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Morgot calmly watched his crew annihilate another scum of pirates.
The "Canyon Corsairs" were a ruthless gang operating in the Karthakk system. They had spheres of influence in other parts of the system as well, where they slaughtered innocent civilians, members of other gangs, and, with the same goal of plunder, attacked transport ships that wandered into their zone of attention — all without a shred of compassion. And they never cared about their odds of victory — even now, their station bristled with crimson flashes of turbolaser fire. Though the beams didn't even reach fifty units — the distance at which the Stormhawk held position, bombarding enemy positions.
Morgot carefully observed the movements of the enemy pilots, noting that their arsenal included Z-95 Headhunters — in the latest AF4 modification currently available in the galaxy — heavy MandalMotors M12-L Kimogila fighters, and the ever-memorable T-65 X-wing starfighters. The first and last ships were produced by Incom Corporation and were available for open sale. Unlike the days of the Galactic Empire, when the sale of combat vessels was strictly controlled by specialized agencies of the Imperial military-bureaucratic machine, the New Republic allowed companies to trade any weaponry with any buyer. No restrictions, licenses, or prejudices. As long as the buyer had the money.
And pirates almost always do.
The same went for the "Canyon Corsairs" and their enemies from the "Blood Razors" and "Lok Revenants" gangs under the command of Captain Nym — who turned out to be too stupid to get in the way of Grand Admiral Thrawn and the forces under his control.
Not without a touch of envy, Captain Astorias noted that the "Canyon Corsair" pilots were superbly trained. They dodged the attacks of his pilots' TIE fighters quite effectively, knowing and exploiting the advantages of their machines inside out. It was due to their long experience and the narrow specialization of this gang's pilots.
But everything changed the moment Morgot ordered the TIE Interceptors to join the attack.
Designed as replacements for the fighters in the same technical model line, the interceptors took everything good from the fighters and added more. Higher rate-of-fire weapons, greater maneuverability, and the truly murderous power of the interceptors, combined with the ruthlessness of their pilots, immediately turned the tide of the engagement.
While the Stormhawk's fighters destroyed the Kimogilas, the interceptors switched targets to the Headhunters and X-wings. The tactical display lit up with multiple markers of destroyed enemy craft.
Morgot smirked. There it was — proper target allocation and the right approach to eliminating overreaching pirates.
"Scanners," he addressed the officer responsible for the ship's active sensors. "Have you finally determined the station's defenses?"
"Equivalent to our level, sir," came the reply.
The Stormhawk's captain barely grunted. So that's how it was.
"Armament?"
"Fifteen outdated turbolasers, sir. Range — forty-five units."
"Not so outdated," Morgot observed.
Most likely something from the Clone Wars era or slightly earlier. But the fact remained — even outdated weapons can inflict damage. Farmers on his homeworld, the planet Nez-Piron, are armed with old hunting carbines. Possessing modern weapons in civilian hands is simply forbidden. But that doesn't change the fact that from five hundred meters, they can shoot a small pest through the eye with a precise shot.
Meanwhile, a picture pleasing to any Imperial was taking shape on the battlefield.
The fighters and interceptors from the late Raith Sienar's company continued to press the overreaching thugs. The lumbering Mandalorian heavy fighters shattered into pieces the moment the Stormhawk's pilots got behind them and opened fire from multiple angles. The vaunted Incom Headhunters and X-wings, despite their deflector shields and missile launchers, flared up in the darkness of the void like pulsars. But unlike the latter, the life of these man-made pulsars was short. And their numbers dwindled with each passing second...
"Enemy deflectors breached!" came a joyful announcement from the right pit.
"Turbolasers, stand by and track targets. Ion cannons, salvo on the station," Morgot ordered. "Do not cease fire until the last viewport goes dark. Inform the hangar — prepare landing craft. The Grand Admiral's orders will be executed within the specified timeframe."