Despite its enormous size, the station known as the Trade Federation Center was shrouded in darkness. Not a single navigation light, not the faintest glimmer from a viewport. It appeared completely abandoned.
But Grand Admiral Thrawn would never send his bodyguard to capture an empty station.
Besides, while Rukh was not a soldier, he understood that such an object — a heavily armored station equipped with two massive hangars — was far too prominent to remain under the control of whatever pirate faction dominated the Karthakk system. Structures of this scale aren't simply abandoned.
Trade Federation Center Station.
The Trade Federation itself — the very same one whose ship had transported the nerve agent that rendered his homeworld, Honoghr, practically sterile — had built this center, according to Captain Tyberos's accounts, a very long time ago, long before the Clone Wars began, which brought so much suffering to the Noghri. Ten years, maybe more, before the start of that galactic war, vast in scale and number of participants.
It was located on the outskirts of the Karthakk system, and the nearest object to it — an Imperial Interdictor-class Star Destroyer blocking one of the system's exit points — was many thousands of distance units away.
Under any other circumstances, virtually any point beyond the gravitational pull of natural or artificial objects in a star system could serve as a jump point into hyperspace. A few starships on its borders couldn't possibly affect anyone who wanted to flee.
However, the Karthakk system was not ordinary. Two nebulas — the Ruby Nebula and the Screaming Storm — formed a natural barrier against "jumping in any direction." The first nebula, enveloping a good portion of the system's borders in rich red light, was so dense that it disrupted the operation of sensors and scanners, allowing entire fleets to remain undetected within it — nothing but one's own eyes could find them. No tracking or scanning device was powerful enough to pierce through it. And navigation computers simply couldn't calculate a course through such an obstacle. Grand Admiral Thrawn used a tactic he had tested on Honoghr: remote transceivers connected to the ships via cables transmitting data. It was through these that the ships lurking in the Ruby Nebula were able to receive signals from their commander — only because the transceivers were positioned far enough beyond the nebula's disruptive effects.
Rukh, piloting a captured pirate Scurrg H-6 bomber, had just passed the location where the remnants of this seemingly primitive yet effective communication system lay. Tens of thousands of kilometers of ultra-thin, ultra-strong communication cable remained in space, with only rare position lights revealing its location, allowing him to steer clear and avoid becoming entangled in this enormous web.
The nebula known as the "Screaming Storm," in addition to an immense number of asteroids and the huge electrical charges accumulated within them, also created interference for equipment. Anyone foolish enough to try using this route would be instantly destroyed by the most powerful lightning discharges, for which the ancient asteroids acted as a kind of contact pair. It's impossible to fly past even one of these space boulders, as they are everywhere. And if you're stupid enough to think electrical discharges can't harm you, your life will be measured in seconds the moment you cross the Screaming Storm's boundary.
And these two nebulas — one deep red, the other snowy blue — seemed to hold the Karthakk system in an invisible vice grip. And the places where this grip was broken or not strong enough were now, like bottlenecks, plugged with cruisers: interdictors and barrier ships. And judging by the debris visible against the backdrop of the nebulas, these ships had also fought their own battles, contributing to the destruction of piracy and the slave-trade foundations of the Karthakk system.
At the mere thought of this, Rukh only gripped the controls tighter and squeezed maximum speed out of the pirate ship, which had been repaired by the Chimaera's technicians. The Noghri people knew who pirates and slavers were. Once, the Zann Consortium came to Honoghr. And many Noghri died fighting them. But there were also those who were taken captive. Contact with them was lost. But the Death Commandos on Hypori spoke of brethren still hidden in the prisons of the Consortium's thugs.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had promised them vengeance and justice against those who had taken teenagers and young Noghri from Honoghr, raising them as slaves. This would happen very soon — the Noghri would pay a return visit to the Zann Consortium. And their strike would be terrible. Until then, the Noghri Death Commandos merely waited, watched, and hid on Honoghr, waiting for Grand Admiral Thrawn to give the order for Imperial Star Destroyers to appear in the skies over Hypori to bring death to the captors and freedom to the captives.
But for now, he had a mission — to capture the Trade Federation Center Station.
And so far, he was handling it with ease.
After the H-6 came to a halt, settling onto the deck of one of the active hangars, Rukh noticed that the station, in addition to activated atmospheric fields, also had gravity and a functioning life support system. No one does this if they intend to abandon a space object. And even if they did, without proper maintenance, it would soon fail anyway. That's mechanics and physics. They can't be fooled. Only the gods who built the temple on Honoghr in ancient times could create machines that served forever. But even those were repaired by other machines.
Lowering the bomber's ramp, Rukh hid in the darkened cabin of the ship, waiting.
The arrival of a military ship could not possibly go unnoticed where not a single ship occupied any of the hangars. Those here would have to take the bait — if the station was controlled by Captain Nym's pirates, they would want to know what happened to the bomber's crew. Enemies would want a prize and to capture the crew.
He didn't have to wait long — within a couple of minutes, cautious, creeping footsteps sounded from the direction of the ramp. The kind only someone who thinks rolling the foot from heel to toe actually makes their steps unheard can produce. In short, he was dealing with two amateurs.
"You sure this is that frigid Tia's ship?" a voice asked.
"I'm telling you for sure," another voice hissed at him. "I was supposed to fly this crate myself; I know every scratch on the hull."
"So why aren't you flying it?"
"Because that savage bitch nearly tore my throat out when Nim announced that whoever won the fight would be the pilot. I thought he was joking, pitting me against a former slave. I realized I was wrong when she broke my nose with a headbutt. I hope that bitch is still alive. I'll make her pay for kicking me in the kidneys. Little foot, but she hits with the speed of a laser cannon!"
"Well, I think she's lying in here wounded," the first voice assumed again. "Or one of her girls from the crew. Remember, I took your word that this was their ship — otherwise I'd have blasted it with the auto-cannons! The cargo on the station is too valuable to risk. Eh... I just hope they really are Twi'leks, you know? I'd like to 'see' all three of them, of course..."
"One would be enough!" the second one laughed. "Me first, as 'commander of the Obsidian storage', and then you, the 'geologist'. I wonder if Nim is actually stupid enough to believe you know anything about those black rocks?"
"Believed it or not, we've been sitting pretty for five years now," the first one snickered.
They stood at the ramp, shooting the breeze as if they had no idea what danger they might be walking into. Complete amateurs. But cruel and intent on killing — otherwise they wouldn't be discussing their commander so freely. That the station was under someone subordinate to the head of the "Lok Ghosts," Rukh no longer doubted. All that remained was to figure out how many enemies were on the station and how quickly he could neutralize them.
"Hey, ladies, anyone alive in there?" the second voice finally called out. "Crawl on out, no one's going to hurt you. What'd you come here for, huh? And who roughed you up like that?"
So Captain Nym hadn't managed to report the attack to this station — the long-range communication jamming had worked perfectly. Given how vast the Karthakk system was compared to Honoghr... yes, it seemed the signals hadn't penetrated beyond the orbit of the third and last planet in Karthakk.
With a precise throw of a small piece of metal he'd found stuck in the plastic casing of a cable conduit, Rukh created a noise in the far end of the bomber's interior.
"You hear that? Maybe they're in bad shape?" the first one said. "Wounded, probably... Should we go in?"
"Yeah, so that bitch Tia can break my nose again?" the second asked sarcastically. "No way..."
The Noghri, slightly squeezing his throat with his fingers, produced something resembling a woman's moan.
"I'm telling you, there are wounded in there," the first one perked up immediately.
"Or they want to break my nose again," the second one stubbornly insisted.
Rukh repeated the moan.
"Do what you want, I'm going in," the first one declared. "A rescuer gets a reward, right? Hey, girls, don't hit me, I come in peace. You need help, right?"
The first — the one pretending to be a geologist. The second was likely the guard. Which one was more valuable?
"Fine, let's go," the second one reluctantly agreed, and now two pairs of boots clanged down the ramp.
Both. He needed to take both alive. On Imperial military and research facilities, the Rebel Alliance, and other organizations his kin were sent against by Darth Vader and Grand Admiral Thrawn, information was always split between security and personnel. The former weren't supposed to know the orders or the nature of the latter's work, and vice versa. That simple method preserved the secrecy of everything that happened on those facilities.
Once Rukh made his decision, he continued to stay in the shadows of the communications lines running along the bomber's ceiling, completely invisible but seeing everything.
He waited a few more minutes until both bandits — humans dressed in the worst, shabbiest clothes that only the poorest inhabitants of the Outer Rim could afford — spread out through the ship. Only then did he slide onto the deck like a cautious shadow.
In two seconds, he stretched a thin but razor-sharp metal wire between the edges of the exit hatch at ankle level — a wire that could saw through a being's throat in seconds. Insurance in case someone managed to flee. The latter was, of course, impossible, but Noghri learned to plan for contingencies in case the primary plan failed.
"Hey, there's no one in here!" the second voice came from the cockpit.
"Well, it didn't fly itself here, did it?" the first was near the turret operator's station. Only two bulkheads separated them...
"Maybe it did, am I a pilot or something?" the second grumbled, stepping out of the cockpit. Rukh, staying in the shadows of the ceiling, using the dim, deliberately sabotaged lighting, slid down onto the deck behind the enemy. The man was bulky, not with a strong physique but with an excess of fat. Just what he needed.
A blow to the back of the head sent the pirate crashing to the deck like a felled tree, which, as Rukh intended, should bring the first pirate to the cockpit.
"Hey, what's... And who the hell are you?!" This one was lanky, tall, awkward. His face showed no trace of intelligence whatsoever, so it was unclear how he could have passed himself off as a scientist.
"Run, and you'll lose your legs," Rukh warned him.
As expected, the enemy first tried to shoot the Noghri, but a throwing knife destroyed the blaster's mechanism. Then the lanky one ran.
Rukh wasn't in a hurry, but he still reached the ship's exit just as the trap severed the foot and half the shin from the left leg. With a melodic twang, the wire snapped simultaneously with the pirate's scream as he fell flat on his back onto the ramp and howled at the top of his lungs when he realized he'd lost the limb.
A beautiful trap. Too bad the wire was too expensive to manufacture and only effective against fabric, flesh, and bone. Also, it was single-use — it couldn't withstand much tension — but the damage it inflicted was irreversible... Another insidious killing tool the Noghri had learned to use from Imperial instructors. The natives of Honoghr themselves had come up with far more ways to use the wire.
Descending the ramp, careful not to get blood on himself, Rukh knocked the "geologist" unconscious with a sharp blow. Applying a tourniquet to the wound, he dragged the pirate into the darkness under the bomber's belly, chained him to a landing strut, searched him, and helped himself to a personal datapad. He similarly disabled the bulky pirate's ability to move on his own and bound him so he couldn't free himself without help, then searched the second pirate, taking his vibroblade, a packet of spice, his blaster, and other small items, before returning to the hangar.
Armed with the blaster, Grand Admiral Thrawn's bodyguard began studying the first pirate's computer.
And, basically from the first minute, he understood that he would complete the task his master had set for him within the allotted time, of which no more than twenty-three minutes remained. All he had to do was reach the central control station and disable the command block, thereby deactivating several thousand combat droids of the B-1 model, reprogrammed by the pirates and guarding all decks. And he had to do it within the next fifteen minutes, before the patrols summoned by the panicking "geologist" arrived at the hangar, coming off recharge in another part of the station.
How to do it without getting into an unnecessary fight? Easy.
Rukh looked at the hangar ceiling. He instantly found the rectangular ventilation shaft he needed, through which the breathing mixture was supplied to, or extracted from, the hangar. Apparently, the local pirates were tired of restrictions, so they used the resources of the "Trade Federation Center" station to the fullest, without caring about anything.
The Noghri had learned much from the Imperial instructors' teachings. Including the characteristic features of the Trade Federation's shipbuilding program, in whose destruction, as well as that of the Confederacy of Independent Systems' remnants, the natives of Honoghr had actively participated.
Pulling a coil of thin but strong cable from a hidden pocket in his tunic — part of the Imperial stormtrooper equipment — he attached a "grappling hook" to the free end. Choosing a spot, he swung the device and threw it upward.
Waiting until it was securely wrapped and hooked onto the metal base of the communications pipes, the Noghri nimbly began to climb. Reaching his target, he knocked out the decorative grille blocking the way into the ventilation shaft and headed for the central control room.
For any other being, it would have been cramped here, but not for someone born on Honoghr. Short stature, a compact, muscular body tempered by relentless training...
Seven minutes later, he was in place, looking around the control room from inside the ventilation. Only three B-1 droids. He recognized the pathway for controlling the combat machines almost immediately.
Without a sound, he removed another decorative panel. The droids were stupidly staring at the surveillance system monitors, commenting to each other on the reason for the raised alarm. From their own words, he learned that behind the armored blast doors, which cut off the central control room from the main station, over a hundred B-1s and several droidekas were positioned.
Rukh had no desire whatsoever to engage them, so with three precise throws, he sent throwing knives straight into the slick heads of the droids, eliminating a weak but distinct threat.
With the skill of an acrobat, using the communications pipes and wiring, he descended to the control room deck. Consulting the "geologist's" datapad, he entered the necessary codes and shut down the droid control computer. Almost immediately, the device informed him that all combat machines on board the station had been deactivated, including the droidekas. The latter, it seemed, the pirates had "tinkered with" themselves, since they were controlled from the control room. There appeared to be no droid starfighters or bombers on the station at all.
Satisfied it was safe, the Noghri climbed into a chair facing the communications console and selected the correct frequency to contact the Chimaera:
"Task completed," he said the code phrase. Waiting a few minutes to see if the signal got through, he was rewarded — far from the station, a Crusader II-class corvette emerged from hyperspace, stopped by the gravity wells of the interdictor cruiser, and set a course for the space station that had fallen from the hands of the loyal Noghri servant to the feet of his master, Grand Admiral Thrawn.
While waiting for the stormtrooper garrison, Rukh, having confirmed there was no one else on the station besides his two prisoners, locked every single entrance and exit to the space station's compartments. Then he walked back across the deck past the frozen droids, heading towards the hangar.
He wanted to talk to the "geologist" and find out if his datapad was telling the truth — that they had tried to create daggers and knives from obsidian on the station, whose sharpness was as unparalleled as the material's fragility against lateral impacts.
If so, perhaps his master wouldn't object to giving such special weapons into the hands of his Noghri servants? The knives the natives of Honoghr made were flawless, but throwing darts...
If his master was pleased with his work, the Death Commandos' arsenal would gain a new weapon — sharper, deadlier, and more importantly, cheaper than the wires.
Rukh suspected his master the Grand Admiral would be pleased. He badly needed the droidekas for Operation "Crimson Dawn." And his loyal bodyguard had acquired over two hundred of them in a single hour.
* * *
The Chimaera glided through the vacuum of the space near the planet Lok, leaving behind the station that had fallen to the stormtroopers' onslaught. Named after the region it was in, "Bloody Sea," it had once been a trading outpost in Lok's orbit. During the time an Imperial garrison was stationed in the system, this station, like the Sun Phoenix-2 outpost we were heading to, was under Imperial control. If the latter was under absolute control, the former... was under periodic control. Military fortune is fickle.
Following "Lok" Station, the Alliance outpost "Red Sea" became the third station captured from pirates within the orbit and asteroid belt. And combined with the reports from the destroyer commanders and Rukh's briefing, not much remained.
The captured stations were getting temporary garrisons to restore their systems, most of which had been hit by the destroyers' ion cannons, and they were also conducting preliminary filtering, separating pirates from slaves.
I watched the tactical display, admiring the "Bloody Sea." A simple yet elegant design.
Station "Bloody Sea."
A place of rest for beings, a massive trading floor, and a miniature civilian spaceport all in one. Undoubtedly, repairing and restoring it would require a large investment — pirates rarely cared about what they "inherited" from previous owners, preferring to use technology and machinery until it "breathed its last." Unless, of course, it was a starship they needed for "doing business."
"Bloody Sea" fell into the latter category. Severe wear and tear on equipment and systems caused by uncontrolled exploitation. In essence, this station was the only place for entertaining "cultural leisure" for all pirate gangs without exception. And it also housed a slave market, where one faction traded with another. Debtors to the pirates often played this role.
Lawlessness that sent chills down your spine. But was this something out of the ordinary for a man from planet Earth?
No, it wasn't. I died in the twenty-first century after the birth of Christ, and I am perfectly aware that on one planet, a developed computer society and excellent service can coexist beautifully alongside communities in third-world countries, where women can be traded for a goat, a thief's hand is cut off, a snitch's tongue is severed, and a debtor or a gullible fool seeking easy money can be captured and forced to work as a slave on plantations.
What can I say about the scale of a galaxy with hundreds of thousands of stars, millions of sentient species, each with its own cultural peculiarities, customs, and traditions? Trying to change all that? Bring everyone to a common denominator of a single law? Give me a break, no one here suffers from, or has ever suffered from, idealism. Except maybe the Jedi, but even they aren't foolish enough to launch crusades against other people's beliefs.
You can't wage war on another culture and impose your own idea of "the beautiful" when, any moment now (and fifteen or sixteen years for a galaxy far, far away is just a blink of an eye), bloodthirsty monsters will be at the doorstep, monsters who will do exactly the same thing — drown dissent in blood and enslave the weak.
All that can be achieved for the peace and prosperity of controlled territories is to eradicate the pirates. They are hated everywhere. As for slavers... There are sectors and even entire regions of the galaxy where this is considered the norm. Stick your nose in there, and even the slaves themselves won't understand you and will fight alongside their masters. A prime example is Hutt Space. No one knows exactly how many species are in their debt, enslaved, are "contract workers," or wear other more or less fancy synonyms for the same concept that would turn any human inside out.
But the worst part is that, in reality, most of the galaxy — fat and comfortable — couldn't care less about what happens in other regions. And you don't need to go far for comparisons — developed countries aren't interested in the problems of developing ones, as long as the latter supply the former with necessary resources. You can talk all you want about how the colonial march of exploiting one people by another is a thing of the past, but it's not. Only the form of this exploitation has changed, hidden behind beautiful words.
These were roughly the thoughts running through my head as I considered two things at once. First, Moff Ferrus's proposal to send operatives to Hutt planets to purchase slaves with the aim of subsequently freeing them and binding them to work for us. This would be expensive. Very expensive — ads for slave sales can be easily found on the HoloNet. Those who don't possess a craft, or whose talents aren't in high demand, are sold in huge lots, and the cost of one slave ranges from a hundred to several thousand credits, or peggats, or local currency — depending on the seller. Slaves with specialized knowledge cost an order of magnitude more and are rarely sold in large lots. Essentially, they are "individual goods." Less often, "meat" traders sell both a specialist and his family members as a single "lot." Because only one professional is valued, whereas his family, sold separately, doesn't command a high price. But together, they can be sold for more than separately.
For some reason, the most memorable example from the entire film saga came to mind — Anakin Skywalker and his mother, both slaves of the same master. The boy helped in the Toydarian's shop, and his mother... I don't know what Shmi Skywalker did for that flying swoop-racing enthusiast. And I'd never even thought to ask until now. Who, in general, cares about "function" characters created solely to make a plot turn and motivate a hero or situation to act in a certain way?
The second proposal was to free the existing slaves and pirates to form auxiliary forces, similar to the Morshdine sector, where any being of any race gets a job if they want one and don't intend to cause harm. I still have a large number of Mon Calamari star cruisers either in a state of slow repair or simply not manned with full crews. B-1 droids serve as ersatz crews, but they are rather poor helpers... cheap droids don't equal effective droids. However, one shouldn't forget the fact that even cheap combat droids armed with crappy, outdated weapons can be useful.
For example, at the "Sun Phoenix-2" station, I intend to test in action the repaired and modernized BX-series commando droids, upgraded with modern equipment and software. Grodin Tierce didn't disappoint my expectations and actually attacked Nym treasure vault with his clones. Anticipating exactly this turn of events, I sent Rukh to capture the station that once belonged to the Neimoidians. Of course, from Tyberos's clarified stories during his treatment, it was obvious there weren't many pirates there — Nim continued his secret obsidian research in an attempt to profit from the black rocks. But there were droids, apparently in droves.
For a direct assault, sending in stormtroopers was impractical. The station was old and could have been damaged. As could the information stored in its computers. And a Noghri is the ideal saboteur. Why not try that option?
The gamble paid off. Well, just a few problems remained to be solved — capture "Sun Phoenix-2," which at the moment served as something of a repair base for fighters in Nym organization. And for some reason, no one had launched their ships from this station to oppose us. According to Tyberos's data, slaves were used for servicing the equipment there. But this information could have been several years out of date. Still, the situation required verification.
Just like the first proposal about purchasing slaves. Because the second one — recruitment on Lok — was planned from the start. But this would require a lot of counterintelligence work. Because the local pirates are beyond redemption. Even if we are slowly but surely moving away from the Empire, transforming into something else, handing out indulgences to everyone is not good. Captain Tyberos noted quite correctly — the local "actors" are quick to grab freedom and the chance to escape. Consequently, the selection of such "characters" for service, even in auxiliary troops, and certainly on captured Mon Calamari ships, must be the most thorough.
Or should I organize labor colonies? Hold show trials to solidify authority among the locals and send the pirates to construction sites — build houses, lay roads... A good idea. But let Moff Ferrus work out the details — it's his job to manage civilian personnel and establish the lives of the local population. Both in his own sector and in controlled territories. He's a sharp, proactive man, though he likes to play it safe, of course. But in the current reality, that's hardly a negative quality.
However, the issue of ransoming slaves should still be examined in more detail.
We don't exactly have a lot of money for the long-term maintenance of large crews, clones, and hired workers. But there's still Nym treasure vault waiting to be appraised. Of course, Palpatine's collection also remained, but I decided to leave that as a last resort, an emergency reserve.
There was a high probability that Agent Inek could find the Sa Nalaor, and that would improve our financial situation. But for the most part, I was pinning my hopes for improving our financial standing on the final phase of Operation "Crimson Dawn." Well, the plan is in action; backups are ready.
"Report from the Implacable, sir," Captain Pellaeon said, approaching me and holding out a datapad. "They've arrived at the designated point and are engaging the enemy at the 'Mercenaries' Spine' outpost. Estimated operation completion time: one hour. The enemy is putting up serious resistance. The outpost is clearly armed with Imperial weaponry."
"Detach three corvettes from the group supporting the Imperious and send them there," I ordered, glancing at the tactical screen.
The enraged pirate gangs, only after clearing the asteroid field — Loki's Spine — realized they had been drawn into a trap. The desire to get their hands on Imperial technology proved an irresistible temptation for most of them. Especially since, I suspect, these guys flocking here from a huge part of the Outer Rim territories have personal scores to settle with Shohashi.
That's precisely why the Imperious, not the Chimaera, is such a tempting target that the pirates pounced on, opening up their own outposts for us to attack. Suppressing their communications cut the pirates off from their bases in space, and now that those are also unavailable due to Imperial capture, the pirate groups are trapped between the "hammer"the Imperious, its support corvette, the Black Asp, and their air wings—and the "anvil"the Relentless, the Abyssal Fury, and the Stormhawk, which made a micro-jump within the system. Dorja was running a bit late for the endgame of the pirate saga, but the Chimaera will take his place soon enough. Once the commando droids and Tierce's clones are dropped off at the Solar Phoenix-2 station, we'll complete our orbit around Lok and spring the trap. However, considering that besides the corvette from the Imperious, there are another twenty similar starships operating on-site, three of which I recalled to assist Dorja, there's a good chance the pirate extermination will be finished ahead of schedule. After all, Corellian corvettes, despite having better candidates for their role, do their job excellently. Even if they only became an option for reinforcing Star Destroyers because they were supplied to us by the hijacker Niles Ferrier. Who, along with Leonia Tavira and several other sentients captured during the Ambush at Rugos, also needs to be dealt with. Killing is the simple solution. But putting them on trial... That could yield some political capital. Though it won't happen anytime soon—despite the clone replenishment, Lieutenant Colonel Astarion's counterintelligence is still swamped. And holding too many prisoners on Tangrene or at Krennel's is a major problem. Because the operations require more and more stormtroopers. Who have to be pulled from Tangrene. And I have no doubt that the Prince-Admiral will soon start (or has already started) suspecting why he's only being supplied with enlisted men. Surely not all the senior and junior officers, without exception, can disappear in battle? Especially when his interrogators are undoubtedly working captives over thoroughly, getting information on where and under what conditions such a large number of Republicans are being captured.
However, we have another target—the prison station 1138, once owned by the Trade Federation. Building our own prisons takes too long, but using an existing one is a fine thing. I think we could try to move those who will definitely never see freedom here—pirates and other scum who, after their trial, will have only two paths: hard labor or the gallows.
But all of this is the concern of the civil administration. I've outlined my view of the problems in my head; I'll send it to Moff Ferrus and let him sort it out himself.
"Eighty units out from the Solar Phoenix-2 station, sir," Pellaeon announced. "Shall I order the fighters to attack?"
"First," I ordered, "send out the scouts. This," I pointed to the massive, roughly hewn likeness of a segmented metal sphere about two kilometers in diameter, equipped with a central habitation and repair module inside a protective 'ring' and a spacious hangar that could easily hold a dozen squadrons, "is a reinforced Imperial outpost, armed as well as the Chimaera. I want to know why it hasn't participated in combat on the side of Captain Nym or any other pirate band."
"Aye, sir," the Star Destroyer commander replied. He turned to leave, but I noticed Lieutenant Tschel heading our way. He had a datapad for reports in his hands. This time the bandages were gone from his palms, and I saw no major wounds. So his hand injuries hadn't been serious. Unlike his head, which still had its cap on. My first instinct was to remind Gilad that wounded officers shouldn't be on the bridge when relief watches are available. But I stopped myself, realizing Pellaeon already knew that. But for some reason of his own, he'd kept the young officer on the bridge. Hmm... What was the reason? It certainly wasn't disciplinary action—in that case, Tschel's face wouldn't be practically glowing with happiness. More likely, in the time I'd been away from the bridge, Tschel and Pellaeon had found common ground. Which suggests further productive cooperation between them.
It seems the uncertainty and flightiness of youth have finally left Lieutenant Tschel, and he's decided to acquire knowledge. Regulations forbid him from constantly contacting me when there's a direct commander on board, so I'd wager Tschel and Pellaeon have settled into a working relationship. And the former is trying to emulate the latter. Who, in turn, has recently been asking a lot of the right questions.
What is this? Did I underestimate Pellaeon's potential from the start? Or has the commander of the Chimaera, despite his age, finally overcome his old man's fatalism, which, in the events I know of, only led to spectacular failures in the war against the New Republic and the subsequent surrender? Hmm... I really hope it's the latter, but I'd be happy with the former too. As far as I remember, during his service in the GAR, Gilad was considered a capable officer. Perhaps he too, like the Empire's younger generation, was crippled by failures, and a worm of doubt had been eating away at his former morale?
Again, sentimental musings. I just need to watch the captain and draw the right conclusions. If Pellaeon has indeed changed for the better, I should carefully feel out what caused it. And if his fighting spirit has truly strengthened, then it's time for me to stop telling him what to do in battle so much, letting the ship's commander live up to his position instead of being a Grand Admiral's errand boy, basically acting as a secretary and executive officer on his own ship.
I looked to the right, where the silent shadow of Major Tierce stood near the bulkhead. Despite a concussion, a broken arm, and cracked ribs, the guardsman had returned to his post, the bodyguard's proper place.
Hmm... Perhaps, since I now have his approved clone guards, I should return the major to his duties as adjutant? Something to consider.
Because in planning the campaigns, I completely overlooked the fact that I had such impressive and unused forces at my disposal that need to be put to work.
But again, that's sentimental. I've noted the thoughts, I'll need to return to them later.
"What do you have, Lieutenant Tschel?" Pellaeon inquired.
"A message from the Solar Phoenix-2 station, sir," he said, handing the datapad to the Chimaera's commander. He quickly scanned it, then passed it to me.
"Sir, if this is true..."
I slowly read through the lines of Basic, digesting the thought.
"We'll proceed on the assumption that we have no data to refute this message," I said, handing the datapad back to Lieutenant Tschel. "But we are obligated to verify it. Our course to Station 1138 passes right by Solar Phoenix-2. We'll watch to see if the station's contingent tries to attack us when we announce our intention to send envoys," I stated. "Recall all squadrons to the Chimaera for rotation and maintenance. By the time we're close enough to launch a shuttle, I want our interceptors to escort Lieutenant Tschel during negotiations with the slaves who, according to the message, have captured the station. Imperial Guards will accompany him.
"I'm the envoy, sir?" the young officer asked, surprised. I gave him an appraising look, under which the lieutenant grew flustered, then continued:
"Use my personal Lambda-class shuttle." The same one that was once requisitioned from Mount Tantiss and, as it turned out, belonged to Palpatine himself. "If it's another trap, the reinforced shields and armor will prevent instant destruction. And our interceptors will cover our retreat."
"And if it's all true?" Pellaeon asked.
I glanced at the station slowly approaching us. Heavily armed and with shields matching our own. Indeed, what if it's a trick?
Solar Phoenix-2 Station
"Then they'll pay dearly for trying to deceive us," I said firmly. "Inform our bombers that if Solar Phoenix-2 attempts to attack the Chimaera, they'll have an excellent opportunity to practice their bombing. They'll get more precise targeting data as soon as we close to ten units."
"We'd destroy the only perfectly functional station just to punish someone for attempted deception?" Pellaeon's eyes widened.
"Absolutely not, Captain," I countered. "We'll simply send our bombers to destroy the station's reactor and, as a lesson, let all the defenders of this facility die from lack of oxygen. Fast, clear, and it will discourage anyone still alive in the Lok system from trying to deceive us."
"Aye, aye, sir," Pellaeon said, touching the brim of his regulation cap, then headed for the "pits."
Soon, everything will be decided. Drawn out? Yes, it is. But we're not on a raid; we're methodically clearing an entire star system of the enemy. Better to practice this scenario beforehand, "running it on the cats," than to not know what or how to do it in the future.
After all, no one thinks Karthakk is the only system I intend to clear of pirates and annex to my future holdings.
"Mercenaries' Spine"
That was the name of the space region in the Karthakk system. According to data Grand Admiral Thrawn obtained from a former member of the "Lok Revenants" gang, this patch of space, devoid of debris, asteroids, nebula influences, and other astrographic and navigational obstacles, served as the most active entry and exit point for hyperspace jumps for starships whose course was set for the distant systems of the Outer Rim. Once used by traders and suppliers of necessary materials and goods, the peaceful times ended with the pirates coming to power.
* * *
Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet had arrived here via a series of short jumps from nearby systems, so the Star Destroyers bypassed this obstacle unnoticed. But now, the Relentless, supported by four Corellian CR90 corvettes, was jauntily compensating for that "oversight." And the Interdictor, positioned nearby, hung like a motionless spider at the center of a web of deployed artificial gravity projections, preventing the enemy from leaving the system via their preferred route.
Built back in the days of the Old Republic, after the Trade Federation and CIS forces were driven from the system, this outpost, located in this part of the system, was meant to repel potential pirate raids, stop smuggling, and conduct customs inspections.
Its weapons and technical equipment were modern and highly reliable. The Galactic Empire, which replaced the Old Republic, once kept a garrison in the system. So one of the military or civilian officials had the bright idea to update all the outpost's systems and equipment without exception so it could continue fulfilling its direct functions.
Captain Dorja didn't know how effective the outpost was during Imperial times, but he assumed it was just a matter of formalities. Because you couldn't imagine, even in your worst nightmare, the circumstances under which the Imperial fleet would simply abandon the system, not even bothering to either destroy or take away a perfectly equipped outpost capable of housing ten small craft squadrons.
But the fact remained: the fortification left by the Galactic Empire was now in enemy hands. And it was fighting on equal terms with an Imperial Star Destroyer that was exchanging fire with it from a distance of fifty units. The interdictor cruiser, frozen twenty units behind the Relentless, was contributing its part to the destruction of the enemy's deflector shield, making it perfectly clear to even the militarily ignorant that the battle's outcome was decided.
Outpost in the "Mercenaries' Spine" Region
Any attempt by the pirates to break out, to roll over the interdictor cruiser in a wave, ran into three squadrons of TIE Interceptors—the Interdictor's air wing—and the furious fire from its attached Corellian corvette. Well, Kuat Drive Yards had to be thanked: while creating this class of Star Destroyer, they'd reduced the air wing but kept the same hangar size as the original Imperial-class. Thanks to that, Interdictors, on Thrawn orders, could also carry a screening ship in their holds. And after all three squadrons on these destroyer types swapped out fighters for the same number of interceptors, it could be said that, despite having fewer guns than the Imperial Is, and especially the Imperial IIs, Interdictors could look after themselves. Up to a point, of course. Thrawn knew this, which is why he never sent these ships on solo missions without escort. The battle at Honoghr had clearly demonstrated this—the enemy, trapped in a snare, knows perfectly well which ship they need to take out first to escape.
And that was Captain Dorja's plan: to let the enemy squadrons, represented by those accursed X-wings, repeatedly charge at the interdictor and retreat, coming under fire from the destroyer, its interceptors, the corvette, and now two additional CR90s.
The third corvette that had arrived for support, along with the one assigned to protect the Relentless, Dorja kept with him.
His Star Destroyer was now shifting to port, as the need to cover the Interdictor was becoming unnecessary.
By positioning the Star Destroyers at a forty-five-degree angle to each other, Dorja could now not only bring the turbolaser fire of both ships to bear directly on the outpost and its deflectors along their bows, achieving maximum firepower concentration. At the same time, the enemy fighters, charging the interdictor, again bloodied by its guns, the interceptors, and three corvettes, failing to reach torpedo launch range, instinctively peeled off to starboard, coming under fire from the Relentless, its two screening corvettes, and the five squadrons of Dorja's Star Destroyer air wing.
And this fiery sack, reinforced by the fire of medium turbolasers and point-defense artillery, was a true symphony of death that Captain Dorja, as the formation commander, was raining down on the pirates' heads.
With his hands clasped behind his back as per regulations, Dorja watched the red-and-green exchange of laser and turbolaser fire, punctuated by the blue bolts of ion cannons. The maneuvering X-wings, bearing the emblems of the "Lok Revenants" pirate group, were dying every second. While the pilots of both Star Destroyers had lost only six machines in forty-nine minutes of battle—and those were fighters.
"Definite progress," Dorja noted mentally. In the past, pilots of these machine types died by the dozens in battles. And now the commander could only wonder which of the two factors had qualitatively impacted the growth of professionalism and survivability among Imperial fighter pilots.
"Put me through to the interdictor," he ordered, noting another enemy maneuver. Waiting for the communications officer's confirmation, he touched the comlink headset attached to his captain's collar. "Eternal Wrath, stay sharp: four more pirates approaching you from below, to starboard."
The enemy X-wings had apparently decided the moment had come when the artillery of the interdictor cruiser—which also served as a jamming source for the pirates' communications—would be occupied with other targets from the seven remaining enemy squadrons. They intended to approach from the lower hemisphere to launch proton torpedoes.
One, two, three torpedoes the destroyer could survive. By the Hutt, it could survive eight. But Dorja would bet his own command pips that the enemy's target was the gravity well generators built into the Interdictor's hull, whose operation was preventing the pirates from leaving the system. And furthermore, while simultaneously activating all four generators turned a huge area of space into an artificial gravity zone, it also forced the interdictor cruiser (and a interdictor, if it were in its place) to freeze in place, making it an excellent target for the enemy.
In fact, this was precisely why Imperial commanders most often used only two of the four projectors—losing such ships was far worse than failing the mission itself. And now, when Thrawn barely had a rancor's worth of them, such a thing would be a sure step towards a court-martial.
"Copy, Relentless," the commander of the Eternal Wrath replied. They didn't know each other personally, but Dorja noted that his colleague was a thoroughly professional and well-prepared commander. It was pleasant working in tandem with him. "We see them, sir. Waiting for them to get closer."
Encrypted communication at such close range left no fear of interception or plans being compromised.
Now I'm curious. What are you waiting for, unseen colleague?
Seven seconds later, it became clear—six TIE Interceptors shot out from between the upper hemispheres of the generators, cutting across the X-wings' path. A brief engagement on counter-courses, and only four clouds of debris remained where the pirates had been. Five interceptors continued their combat mission, while the sixth, trailing smoke from punctured solar panels and clearly caught by a tractor beam, slid towards the hangar. Damaged, but not destroyed.
Dorja hadn't participated in the attack on the Dufilvian Sector, but he'd heard a lot about it. He'd looked at the training data for the crews before and after a renegade of the Jedi persuasion had taken control of their minds. Strangely enough, those who had been in that battle steadily improved their martial skills. Not immediately, but the more battles they went through, the better they became.
And so the commander of the Relentless had a thought: that the dark Jedi had, in a way, pushed the Imperials to perform at the peak of their abilities.
However, he soon discarded this hypothesis as unsound. Because he only had to look at the analogous data for the other ships that hadn't participated in that New Republic scrap, and progress, though not as obvious as among their more "fortunate" comrades, was still present. Then again, it depended on what you called fortune. Just a moment's thought about some Jedi scum getting into your head and stirring up your thoughts... It sent a shiver down your spine. The ability to dominate sentients was the most common rumor spread about the Jedi. And that's why they were feared. And hated. No one wants to be someone else's puppet.
That's why, when Pellaeon, during the Chimaera's repairs, mentioned that the Emperor himself was Force-sensitive, and Thrawn admitted that he most likely contributed to the military successes of the Galactic Empire, few of the Star Destroyer commanders believed the old duffer. Dorja, not yet fully trusting Thrawn and his lackey Pellaeon at the time, hadn't believed it either.
And then he checked.
He simply dug up old archives. He examined the very data from when the Relentless or other ships had participated in battles in the Emperor's presence. Especially those concerning the Battle of Endor.
Together with Harbid, Brandei, and Aban—the commanders of the destroyers he was most familiar with—Dorja compared the combat efficiency ratings of his ship from the past. Then from the present. He found that even now, at their peak form, his crew, fleet veterans, didn't match their old scores.
And then a wave of comparisons of present and past performance swept through the fleet.
During the temporary reinforcement of the base on Wayland, one of the captains had used the opportunity and an old acquaintance with the commander, General Covell...
Surely, if Thrawn hadn't been driving them on raids against New Republic planets and bases, the commanders would have exploded from such a revelation.
Rage, hatred, a sense of betrayal, and wounded pride that the Emperor had literally stolen from them!
Dorja remembered his own feelings perfectly when he realized Thrawn was right. The Rebels had beaten them at the Battle of Endor not because they were stronger.
It was simply that the Empire had become nothing more than a bunch of reckless cadets with inflated self-esteem and delusions of grandeur. They continued to indulge their pride, losing sectors and regions, while the Rebels, now the New Republic, were taking the galaxy away from them.
The reason for their defeats was simple—they had never been strong without the Emperor, Darth Vader, and madmen like C'baoth. How many such bastards, who fostered the ideas of "bad Jedi" "influencing the minds of the galaxy's inhabitants," had been in Palpatine's inner circle?
Quite a few, no doubt.
They were all used just so one mad old man could hold the galaxy in his bony fingers. He helped them win, and when he was gone, they weakened. Criminally weakened.
Captain Dorja saw the image of one of the two corvettes providing cover in the lower hemisphere of the Relentless on the tactical display, veering away from a dozen approaching X-wings.
"Request damage report from that corvette!" he ordered.
"Sir, their main reactor is damaged," came the instant reply.
Disgusting. The cover on the starboard side, which the Relentless was presenting to the enemy, was weakened.
"Tilt the destroyer seven degrees to the right," he ordered. "Tow the damaged corvette into the hangar. Second ship, take its place. Batteries, lay down covering fire on the enemy vessels. Don't let them launch torpedoes!"
"Understood, Captain Dorja!" came the immediate reply from his first officer.
But this was no longer the same first officer he had begun his service with under Thrawn's command. Only his clone.
The original had died when he transferred to command a corvette. Killed during the attack on the Hast shipyards. A shaped-charge rocket had blown apart the corvette's bow section, killing the entire officer complement.
The aftertaste of losing that old friend and comrade was… unpleasant.
Doubly repulsive because he had taken the corvette posting specifically because he, Dorja, had not wanted to part with his loyal executor and had actively obstructed his advancement. And to spite Thrawn, he had not listed his first officer among the officers recommended for promotion and assignment to command their own ship.
Stupid and inadmissible pride had cost Dorja the life of a battle comrade. Yes, a clone had replaced him, but… conflicting feelings. The same man, the same face, the same mannerisms. But still, something in him had vanished. That lighthearted liveliness and cheer in his eyes, that thrill when their Relentless destroyed enemy ships with its fire, boring through their decks and spilling their innards.
That was the last time Dorja had gone against the Grand Admiral's orders.
Yes, in the past they hadn't exactly gotten along. Largely because Dorja himself had held a prejudiced attitude toward Pellaeon, whom he considered undeservedly chosen by Thrawn as commander of the flagship. Back then, Dorja thought himself slighted.
Not anymore.
Not after Thrawn had opened up to him.
Then, after Hast, gathering every single commander of the capital ships without exception, he had told them everything as it was, morally shocking them with at least two facts. That for once in his life, he had admitted his own fault in stifling their tactical initiative. But even then, he explained he had acted from good intentions — he didn't trust that they could act independently without another's will. That was why there had been all those minor raids, attacks on convoys, assaults on bases, which weren't even worth paying attention to.
"Damaged corvette returned to the manipulators. Technical teams have begun repairs!" the clone of his old friend reported.
"Excellent," Dorja's pupils dilated as he saw…
"Sir, the outpost's deflector shield section is down!"
"Fire ion cannons into the breach!" he ordered. "They're ours now."
When Thrawn explained the essence of attacking a clearly weaker opponent with a large force, every Star Destroyer commander flushed. Academy graduates, seasoned captains… And one alien… no, simply non-human — it was disrespectful to call one's commanding officer an "alien." So then, Thrawn… He was training them like junior cadets. Yes, exactly, methodically honing their skills step by step. First with overwhelming force against inferior opponents. On Honoghr, they had already fought on equal terms — even with some enemy advantage.
Victories multiplied, casualties decreased, the time damaged starships spent in repair shrank.
They… were learning. Now Thrawn's games with cloning the best specialists became clear — he was plugging personnel gaps. Strengthening the fleet under conditions where no one and nothing would allow him to mobilize Imperial citizens. Simply because the Imperial Remnants were comfortable with a situation where someone other than them was fighting the New Republic.
Thrawn, whom most of them either despised behind his back for his non-human nature (at best, felt neutral toward), understood all this perfectly. But he didn't crack down, didn't make a scene, didn't rub their noses in his command accolades. He just calmly and almost monotonously directed them to do their work.
What work?
Oh, in former times, he would have been shot dead for those very words at that meeting. The very idea — rebelling against the Empire? Seceding, building one's own state. Worse than that — treason. They had all been gathered from various remnants. They had been thrown under Thrawn's command like a meaty bone thrown to a rancor to gorge itself and retreat to its cave. And nobody was particularly happy about that, in general…
But the Star Destroyer commanders did not execute Thrawn. Because he explained.
"The X-wing squadron has been scattered, Captain Dorja!" a familiar voice, a familiar intonation, but… a different man. Not an old friend. And never would be, no matter how similar he appeared.
"Send the interceptors in pursuit," the commander ordered. "Scattering isn't enough — only destruction will do. They already had their chance to surrender — they chose battle. Let them face the consequences."
Just as all of them, the Star Destroyer commanders, had faced the consequences of choosing Thrawn's side. Because when you truly have to choose — between the returning Palpatine, confirmed by an Imperial Guardsman, and that damned Inquisitor — it's better to betray the Empire than to become a puppet again. And even if that weren't the case, if Palpatine had changed, reborn in a clone, they would all be unequivocally executed for treason. Because they could no longer think of him without hostility. And for someone sensitive to the Force, reading their thoughts was hardly a problem.
They had made their choice. They supported Thrawn. Because some of them had seen what a Jedi cloned not by Thrawn's method looked like — those who had dealt with C'baoth preferred to keep their distance. They had seen clones among their own crews. And they could compare the cloning approach used by Palpatine to the one Thrawn himself was forced to employ.
No one even thought of defecting, of telling Palpatine how to clone oneself without madness… No, they no longer had any connection to the Empire.
They, and those who would join them hereafter — were Thrawn's fleet.
The last Grand Admiral of the Galactic Empire. A non-human who treated humans far more humanely than their own mad ruler.
Did they have a future, or would Thrawn's plan be uncovered (yes, it would be nice if he shared it with someone) and they would all be dragged in chains before Palpatine, who would do to them what C'baoth had done to the Jensaarai defenders during the Ambush at Rugos? No one knew.
But Thrawn had promised them — he would lead them to victory. As long as they were loyal to him, he would do everything to ensure they survived and outlived the mad Emperor.
Dorja knew that not all captains fully believed Thrawn about Palpatine's madness. They would watch to see if the Grand Admiral's predictions came true. Now that you know the truth, it's easy to judge from a person's actions whether they are mad or not.
The commander of the Relentless had no doubt that the new Palpatine would be mad. And he didn't want to take the risk. He wanted to live and see the dawn of a new Empire — the one Thrawn intended to build. Not the Empire of a single man. And it probably wouldn't even be an Empire at all.
But the state the Grand Admiral had promised them would definitely not be worse than the one that had used them all as pawns in a game with the ephemeral Force.
So Thrawn had said. So he had promised. He had never deceived them yet.
And Dorja believed him. Despite Brandei's grumbling that the Jensaarai the Chiss had brought into his service were also practically Jedi. Or Sith — Hutt knows which.
Brandei was a grumbler by nature. And it was only out of natural stubbornness that he failed to see the obvious difference between Palpatine and Thrawn in their use of Force-sensitive beings. Where the former used the Force to rule, the latter intended to use the Jensaarai to oppose the Jedi, the Sith, and all other vermin with their tricks. "An Empire fights against slavery.".. Sure, sure... You can't fight against what you yourself lead, turning beings into your puppets.
When a Super Star Destroyer is coming at you, you can't win with a blaster in your hand. You need either a lot of your own destroyers or a similar ship.
And the commander of the Relentless, watching the shields of the Mercenaries' Spine outpost collapse, accepted full responsibility that he had already written himself and his crew onto the list of those very destroyers who would go against a superior monster. And now, watching his pilots finish off the pirates while blue lightning bolts from ion charges crawled across the outpost's hull, the Star Destroyer commander wondered whether he had any good acquaintances left in Imperial Space whom he could trust with the truth and win over to Thrawn's side.
However, no matter how hard he tried to remember his former classmates, he always arrived at the same conclusion: they were all either dead or missing in action. Which almost certainly meant one thing — they were deep inside the Deep Core. Serving a madman.
All except one.
Abyss, commander of a destroyer still under construction, which had been promised to Thrawn but which Orinda would surely keep for herself. A decent commander. With brains. And importantly — he hadn't traded his officer's honor for posturing and arrogance. That was why he was only just about to step onto the bridge of his destroyer now, not several years ago, as the service requirement would have prescribed.
He would need to contact him. Tell him everything. About Palpatine, about his abilities, about the betrayals, about the future state under Thrawn's leadership.
But all that later.
For now…
"First Officer," Dorja looked at the familiar face. His eye twitched slightly when he saw the familiar grin on the clone's face. "Prepare the landing craft for the assault on the outpost."
"Aye, Captain!" his old friend replied briskly…
No, not old. Only the face was old. The person was different. Artificial.
He had never been close to this being in the past. It didn't have the same accomplishments as Dorja's friend.
But…
The commander of the Relentless caught himself thinking in old patterns.
Old face, new person. No old friendship, but what prevented starting a new one?
And this time, he wouldn't make a mistake. Every one of his subordinates would receive their due.
Speaking of which:
"First Officer! Get me the commander of that damaged corvette. I want to ask this whippersnapper how in the blazes he managed to expose himself so childishly!"
"Aye, Captain!"
"And in four hours, I expect recommendations for awards for the distinguished crew members! Special mention for the pilots, gunners, helmsmen, and anti-aircraft crews."
"At once, sir!"