Nine years, seven months, and twenty-four days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twenty-four days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and nine days since the Arrival.)
Ysanne Isard looked just as majestic and unruffled as the first time he had met her. And even though her cold beauty had been marred by injury, she was still… beautiful. For someone who didn't realize what kind of rancor they were about to share a room with.
Prince-Admiral Krennel stepped with no small tremor into the lair that Isard had chosen for herself, having for some reason decided to move to another part of his palace. At first Delak intended to refuse her, but when he realized that in the new location she would be a little farther away from him, he agreed.
True, at that moment he hadn't considered that he himself would have to cover nearly a kilometer through floors and numerous staircases to reach this demon in the flesh. And the Iceheart, it seemed, had done it on purpose. Because while he walked to her, practically ran, the anger over his latest defeat had almost left him.
And now he was simply amazed at the thought that someone could actually live in this… here, in a word. A dark, almost gloomy room where the lamps hanging from the ceiling barely added any light. In fact, they only illuminated the path into the deepest darkness, where Isard herself sat, surrounded by two dozen monitors arranged in a semicircle around the room's sole occupant.
Delak moved almost soundlessly, intending to creep up on Isard and catch her off guard for even a moment. Countless images danced on the monitors; the Iceheart's fingers fluttered over the keyboard built into the armrests of her chair. Each keystroke changed the picture on the screen or the volume of sound; Isard suddenly spun the chair around, the images flickering.
Delak met the gaze of her scarlet-and-blue eyes only because he remembered how angry he was at this woman. A haughtily polite smile appeared on her lips; the Iceheart settled into a more comfortable position, once again displaying the curves of her body. The woman's gaze darted to the infochip in the prince-admiral's artificial hand.
"I see you've received my report, Prince-Admiral," she said calmly, even slightly mockingly.
Krennel, not hiding his irritation, crushed the data storage device in the metal planes of his prosthetic.
"Oh, I received it," he said in a threatening tone. "And I even read it. And I'm furious!"
Isard laughed shortly, and her laughter was full of crude mockery.
Krennel approached to within a meter of her, when suddenly the Iceheart pressed one of the keys on her chair's armrest, and a holoprojector turned on from the side. The device showed the prince-admiral a well-known complex, an X-wing on the landing area between the buildings, and some individuals walking among the structures. The fighter and the figures were red-and-yellow; Krennel reasonably assumed the camera was infrared. And he understood perfectly well what this recording meant!
"You gave the New Republic the complex on Commenor!" he snarled, not speaking, looking at her mocking face.
Isard nodded. Not a trace of remorse.
"The recording was made fourteen hours ago. As expected, after I learned from my agents about Grand Admiral Thrawn's secret base on Linuri and sent a tip to the New Republic, they figured out what our valiant alien was planning there. And they followed to Commenor using the leads from the device implanted in their famous General Dodonna. Though they decided to act very, very quickly — remarkable efficiency, especially considering that the Bothans, who are not at all interested in military toys, are running the New Republic's armed forces."
"And what is this conversation leading to?" Krennel ground his teeth. "Commenor has now drawn their attention! I'm more than sure that the government of that little planet will break any agreements with me! Since the complex is in New Republic hands, we didn't fulfill our part of the deal and didn't destroy the Rogues! As was promised to them!"
"Yes, you're right," Isard easily acknowledged the obvious. "According to my information, the Commenorians sent only four interceptors against the entire Rogue Squadron. The result was expected."
"That doesn't look like a mistake," Krennel declared. "You said they would happily destroy the Rogues to show the New Republic their independence and drive them away from their borders."
"Obviously, my dear Prince-Admiral, the Commenorians changed their minds," Ysanne said succinctly. "They reasonably judged that you and the Hegemony were far away, while the New Republic was practically rubbing against their front door. The choice wasn't difficult."
"Then what purpose did sending interceptors against the Rogues serve at all?"
"I think it was a test," Ysanne suggested. "Commenor sent four ships to gauge the speed with which Wedge Antilles and his pilots would deal with them. The interceptor pilots, of course, weren't in on it. Seeing that they were completely vaporized, the Commenorians realized that the reputation of Rogue Squadron, if exaggerated, wasn't by much, and therefore it was better to keep pretending they were all friends."
"Since the Rogues got there much earlier than you planned, that means some of the prisoners might have survived," he noted.
"Without a doubt," Ysanne agreed.
"Then the prisoners will talk!" Krennel continued. "Which means only one thing — the New Republic will soon show up on the doorstep of the Ciutric Hegemony!"
"Most likely that is the case," Ysanne surmised. "Even faster than you expect."
"Just wonderful!" Krennel was shaking with rage. "Do you have any idea what you've done! First those xenophiles stole an arms convoy from me so I couldn't arm the captured ships in time, now they'll certainly trace where the freighter with medical equipment that came to Commenor to that damned hospital was from, and then they'll come here with the entire Fourth Fleet!"
"Don't overreact, Prince-Admiral," Ysanne advised. "You overestimate our enemies."
"Is that so?" Krennel said sarcastically. "Weren't you counting on them finding only corpses and that would cut off all leads to the Hegemony? And now I'm supposed to expect the entire Fourth Fleet?!"
"Plans exist to be adjusted," Isard said succinctly. "The prisoners will only help you and me to finally and irrevocably destroy Rogue Squadron."
Krennel looked at the woman suspiciously:
"Living prisoners will only prove to the New Republic that the other prisoners from the Lusankya were transferred to one of my planets. That will be enough to start a fire behind my tail."
"That is exactly what I'm aiming for," Ysanne Isard snorted. "They will come to you on their own."
Krennel growled.
"Unacceptable," he said through his teeth. "You may not understand what forces I'll have to fight! I've explained this to you already—"
"And I remember it perfectly," Isard declared. "But you, my dear Prince-Admiral, underestimate the wound — political and moral — that our enemies are suffering right now, confronting living evidence of the hardships that befell the prisoners on Commenor. They will tell of the horrors they endured in captivity on the Lusankya. And the political leadership of the New Republic will be forced to send ships here immediately. All the ships they have available at the moment. Because they will be eaten alive by guilt for having, in one way or another, contributed to prolonging the captivity of these 'unfortunate' prisoners. And therefore, they will react very quickly…"
"But the Fourth Fleet isn't ready," Krennel quickly grasped. "Especially since, according to your intel, they sent part of their ships to scout the Ghost Nebula in search of some copies of the Death Stars."
"Exactly," she confirmed. "As my spies report, the New Republic has come into possession of evidence supposedly proving the existence of two such objects. Thrawn is no doubt disorienting them, but that's all the better. Fey'lya has already sent many ships to comb the Ghost Nebula, and at the moment they are unavailable for rapid redeployment. According to my reports, the enemy has only their flagship and about two dozen star cruisers in a state of combat readiness."
"Not counting more than fifty strike frigates," Krennel squinted. "And that's already more than I can count on for an even battle."
"Unless the New Republic receives information that, due to the actions of their own raiders, most of your ships are currently under repair," Ysanne Isard said vaguely. "The fact that you so cleverly appropriated Grand Admiral Thrawn's conquests plays into our hands. Would I be wrong if I said that even among the prisoners, your jailers talk about what a victor you are and that it is you and your ships who are responsible for all their misfortunes?"
"Your people know too much," Krennel admitted reluctantly.
"That's what they exist for," Ysanne noted. "Leave it to me, my dear Prince-Admiral. I will quietly inform the New Republic of what they are eager to hear — that their prisoners are in your custody, that your ships are battered, and your men are exhausted from campaigning. They will throw their operational reserves at you, which will crash against your impenetrable defenses, a fully combat-ready fleet, and also the captured ships that Thrawn so foolishly sold to you."
"The Fourth Fleet's flagship is worth ten Star Destroyers," Krennel noted. "That's a third of my forces, including trophies. If they arrive here in much greater numbers, then—"
"Then you will do everything to make them know your wrath, my dear Prince-Admiral," Ysanne declared. "If I recall, you told me your treasury was enormous."
"And I still regret it," Krennel thought.
"So what?" he asked.
"We'll use them as intended," she declared with a smile. "You're afraid the enemy fleet will be too large — so increase your own. For just one decisive battle, after which you'll be stronger, having claimed what remains of the Republican forces that survive your retribution. Would you like me to tell you how?"
"I'll figure it out myself," Krennel snorted. "You're hiding something, Isard. You promised me Thrawn's fleet."
"And that will come in due time," she promised. "But let's move on to planning. Right now the New Republic will be whispering among themselves, debating exactly where to strike in the Hegemony. We'll tip them off — pick any insignificant planet in your kingdom."
"Losing even one world is unacceptable," Krennel stated categorically. "If I lose a single planet, everyone will start talking about my weakness."
"Precisely why, my dear Prince-Admiral, I've chosen the most useless of all your planets as the site for the decisive battle," Ysanne smiled. "What's more, we'll run a specific disinformation campaign against the enemy — one that will only stoke their interest in you."
"What kind of games are you playing, Ysanne?"
"The kind that bring victory," she said. "As I've already said, there are conflicting rumors about you and the Hegemony throughout the New Republic. On one hand, they want to show their strength and bring their wrath down on you for what you've supposedly done. On the other, they want to call you to account for the murder of Sate Pestage. Now, on top of all that, there will be information that you're holding prisoners — both those captured during the campaign and those from the Lusankya."
"And the disinformation that I'm supposedly weak," Krennel reminded her.
"Exactly," Ysanne agreed. "But after all, when they captured the first weapons convoy, they didn't know about the second one, which reached its target. Just like they don't know about the purchases of Strike-class medium cruisers that the Antimeridian sector is supplying you with," Ysanne clearly knew his every move! "The New Republic's armed forces are led by Bothans. Famous for this: if you put a pot full of food — enough to feed every destitute soul — in front of them, the Bothans would fight each other for the right to hold the ladle. They'll interpret the rumors of your weakness as genuine weakness — I'll ensure the necessary disinformation. And through open channels, you'll send the New Republic an offer: you're ready to hear the Alderaanians' opinion on what world they'd like as a new home, since living under constant threat is burdensome. We'll hint that our generosity is merely a prelude to relations between your kingdom and the New Republic. Maybe we'll even let them understand that we're considering joining that state."
"Nonsense," Krennel declared. "Then the other Imperial Remnants will turn away from me. Who will I sell my tech to?"
"Oh, how much you don't know, my dear," she smiled. "Are you aware that, according to New Republic intelligence, the second Death Star is located somewhere under Lianna's control? And the Republic has already begun hunting its convoys to find out whether it's true or not. Lady Santhe is about to demand official explanations and will break the contracts. And then you appear — someone capable of providing the New Republic with the repair facilities for TIE tech that they so desperately need. The Bothans will line up to go on a punitive campaign against you — just to be involved in the capture of the Ciutric Hegemony that they're planning."
"You're expecting them to see my offer of an alliance as an excuse to avoid the strike," Krennel realized.
"Exactly," Ysanne declared. "That's why they'll rush the strike — to get it done before the Senate session where your alliance initiative will be brought up. Which will force them to plan the operation even faster. So, through official and unofficial channels, we'll give them the hint that you're weak. And we'll 'suggest' that the prisoners are supposedly being held on the very planet I've chosen as the battlefield."
"And then, when the Republicans strike, we'll announce that the attacked planet was actually intended for the Alderaanian refugees," Krennel caught on.
"And that will enrage the peoples who make up the Republic," she said. "By crushing their fleet, by demonstrating your supposedly good will — which they mocked — you'll earn yourself a name. All the dispossessed and the doubters, without exception, will flock to you. The smaller Remnants will rally to you, and by the most pessimistic estimates, in the shortest possible time you'll come to possess territories comparable in size and power to the Pentastar Alignment or the Imperial Space. The latter are so desperately searching for a new Emperor that your candidacy will be the first in line for coronation. No one will remember Thrawn or Kaine anymore — just as people flocked to the first, they'll come running to you. From this single provocation, you'll subjugate the weak, capture a fleet equal to your own, win the hearts of millions, and begin your ascent to the pinnacle of power over the galaxy. And nothing will stop you."
"This could work," Krennel smiled crookedly. "In theory. Fine, I agree. Start the disinformation campaign."
"I knew you'd choose the right course of action," Ysanne smiled. But she didn't even try to simulate the frantic activity she'd just been proclaiming.
"What are you waiting for?" Krennel demanded. "You have a lot of work to do."
"I did everything eleven hours ago," Ysanne laughed. Krennel was stunned. She had calculated him! "I'm sure you'll be pleased to learn that one of the units being deployed to 'destroy' you is Rogue Squadron — which in the past has caused both you and me no small amount of trouble."
"This will be a spectacular battle," Krennel said, grinning against his will. And in that moment, understanding came of exactly how he should act to guarantee victory over his opponents. "Crush the fleet sent to 'punish' me and destroy the Rogues in a single battle... The New Republic's propaganda backbone will be broken over my knee."
"I would be delighted, Prince-Admiral, if you would approve one request of mine."
"Which one?" he asked with displeasure.
"The Rogues," she said with a smile. "If any of them survive the ambush you set, I want them for myself."
"Why?" Krennel asked in bewilderment. "Executing them would be an excellent demotivating factor..."
"But it would serve your cause even better if the survivors stood beside you and denounced the New Republic's sins," Isard added. "I'll break them for you."
"When this is over, I'll need to get rid of you," Krennel thought with a smile.
"Agreed," he said.
* * *
Adjusting his belt and the life-support system block dangling on his chest, Lieutenant Kreb, along with eleven other pilots of Black Squadron, arrived at the launch cell assigned to his unit.
Soon, very soon — in thirty minutes, to be precise — the Chimaera and the rest of the fleet would arrive in an unnamed system, where they were to engage the enemy fleet.
Six heavy cruisers of the Dreadnaught type, similar to the hundred and ninety-four already at Grand Admiral Thrawn's disposal. That portion of the Katana fleet that had been unavailable at the time of the ships' capture. Today, however, they were to test themselves against an enemy who had managed to outwit and humiliate the Ubiqtorate fleet at Tangrene. And possibly — take the ships back. At least, that's what had been said at the briefing. And Kreb agreed with the wing commander, who was relaying command orders to the squadron leaders. There was no point in squandering ships suitable for the Grand Admiral's fleet. They needed to be disabled and captured — which was precisely why a major role in the upcoming battle was assigned directly to fighters and interceptors. If the enemy had no small craft of their own — and judging by the reports, these cruisers hadn't undergone any refits — then no significant resistance was expected in the first phase of the attack. That didn't rule out the possibility that the enemy might use the planet and its ground base to station planetary squadrons. Consequently — they had to act fast. Very fast.
The stomp of pilots' boots running along the metal catwalks was almost lost against the sound of the ion engines of the TIE Interceptors, already being warmed up by the technicians. Having confirmed that each pilot had taken their place in their cockpit, and that the techs had reported the ships ready for launch, he approached his own interceptor. And immediately noticed that the mechanic servicing his ship wasn't alone. Which was against regulations.
He looked at the figure in a dark jumpsuit, lying across the access ladder, the upper half of their body hanging down, lost behind the housing of the left wing panels. What the hell was this?
"Lieutenant Kreb, your ship is ready, systems are functional, weapons are calibrated to your parameters," the mechanic promptly rattled off the regulation phrase. But Kreb wasn't interested in that — it was the figure who was obviously doing something with the left wing panels of his ship.
"What's going on?!" he demanded sternly, pointing at the figure. "Why are there unauthorized personnel in the launch area?"
"Lieutenant, sir, this is..." the tech began, but at that moment the figure rose gracefully, tossing back their head-tails and beaming a radiant smile, waving a hand and the datapad held in it.
"Hello, Lieutenant Kreb," the girl's face was unfamiliar, but her voice...
Tia.
"Tia," he said grimly.
"Cadet Tia," she corrected, still smiling. Blue skin, a clearly non-regulation jumpsuit studded with armor plates and additional unauthorized equipment... Boots with heels higher than regulations allowed...
"Why are you dressed like that?" he asked grimly, connecting the life-support system hoses to his helmet.
"There's no cadet uniform on the ship; Captain Pellaeon allowed me to remain in this form until we return to base," she replied simply.
."..remain in this form, sir," Kreb prompted her with the correct ending to the phrase.
The smile vanished from the girl's face.
"My apologies, sir," she said in a flat voice.
"By what authority was Cadet Tia allowed access to my interceptor?" Kreb glared at the mechanic. The man, breaking into a sweat, cast a frightened glance at the girl, then back at the squadron commander.
"Well, she... said... you gave permission..." the mechanic said in a defeated voice, realizing from what had been said that the girl had completely fooled him. "She arrived twenty minutes ago."
"Report to the section chief mechanic that I have ordered a reprimand for you, junior mechanic," Kreb said.
"Yes, sir," the man replied dejectedly.
"Dismissed, junior mechanic," he ordered. The man saluted and, without meeting the pilot's eyes, walked off along the catwalk.
"Harsh," Tia said when the tech was a couple of meters away. "What's he so worked up about?"
"A reprimand in the Imperial Navy is no joke," Kreb said sternly. "It means a cut in pay, a slowdown in career advancement, and losing the chance for qualification upgrades for the duration of the reprimand. And if the junior mechanic was in line for a promotion, he can forget about it. For the next year — the reprimand's duration — and six months after that, for sure."
The girl's eyes widened.
"Just for letting me near your ship?!"
"For that specifically," Kreb said. "A combat ship and the hangar of a Star Destroyer are secure facilities. Nothing can happen there that isn't planned or that falls outside the regulations and standing orders. Even if you pose no threat, what guarantee is there that someone else won't cut my fuel lines and set my cockpit on fire when I go to afterburners? Or detonate the ordnance on a bomber?"
"So that's what you think of me," the girl snorted. "So you think I could harm someone who opened a different path for me? Let me get to the stars the way I've always dreamed?"
"Tia, you're wrong..." Kreb hesitated for a second.
"Cadet Tia," the girl said, pointedly formal, lifting her chin. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, I need to leave this secure facility. I apologize for distracting you from your pre-flight preparations."
Without another word, she shoved the personal datapad into his hands — the one the mechanic usually handed the pilot before a mission so he could verify the ship's status.
Without looking back, the girl strode quickly toward the far end of the catwalk.
Glancing at the datapad screen, Kreb quickly checked all of the ship's systems. According to the computer data, in the last hour — since the mechanics had finished maintenance — not a single hatch had been opened, not a single technical intervention had occurred. Neither inside nor outside the ship — otherwise the sensitive shipboard sensors or similar equipment in the parking bay would have registered it.
So what was she doing there?
Still frowning, Lieutenant Kreb moved a bit further past the cockpit until he could see the left wing panels of the TIE Interceptor. His trained eye noted the absence of any significant modifications to the structure.
More precisely — the complete absence of any modifications.
On the metal frames to which the solar panels were attached, there were small markings applied with quick-drying paint from a canister that could easily be hidden in a hand so it couldn't be seen. Silhouettes of downed fighters — both those belonging to the New Republic and pirates. At first Kreb frowned, realizing there were only six silhouettes. Then it dawned on him that four silhouettes were larger than the others and represented the number of squadrons of similar craft that had fallen to his guns. The smaller ones were those that hadn't made it to a dozen.
Kreb didn't keep a personal count of the enemies he'd shot down. But using his code cylinder, he could access the relevant section of his personal file and confirm the count was correct — forty-two ships, not counting the slaughter that had been organized in the Karthakk system, where the tally of downed ships was still ongoing.
The same was done on the ship of Rogue Squadron commander Wedge Antilles — an enemy Kreb intended to meet in battle. Someday.
But what struck him most was the laser engraving running along the central longitudinal load-bearing beam of the left wing.
"Ruthless and Merciful."
Two opposites that he embodied. In her opinion. Kreb himself was skeptical about the second half of the engraving.
And he was even less pleased with the new "artwork."
None of these "innovations" were prescribed by regulations. On the contrary, they were directly prohibited. The squadron's ships must not be identifiable by the enemy through any external features — so he couldn't tell which pilot was a more dangerous opponent and which was a rookie.
And yet, such a simple, logical gesture hadn't been a waste of paint and engraving time for nothing. It was... a token of appreciation?
The girl had spent considerable time finding out how many enemy ships he had downed. That meant she'd been granted access to that information. And only the ship's commander could authorize that. Just as he could authorize such liberties with a ship. So... maybe it wasn't all that illegal after all.
Perhaps.
But at least it was a pleasant surprise. Because he himself...
Lieutenant Kreb looked to the far end of the catwalk, where Tia was already descending the ladder. The girl paused for a moment, casting a farewell glance back at him. Kreb gave her an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.
The Twi'lek didn't react, continuing down the ladder.
The young lieutenant glanced at the chronometer.
Twenty minutes until the scheduled launch.
He could run after her now, catch up, apologize for his sharpness, and explain precisely which provision of the Pilot Corps' internal regulations she had unknowingly violated out of her noble intentions. And then run back just as fast.
But that would be foolish.
Commanders don't run — it makes subordinates either laugh or panic. And they certainly don't get distracted by personal matters before launching on a combat mission.
He could always talk to her after returning from the mission. Since she'd gotten approval to become a cadet, Captain Pellaeon saw potential in her, and the ISB agents on board had clearly vetted her and deemed her worthy.
No, the girl needed to be taught the strict rules that governed the Imperial Navy. Taught before she got to training camp, where those fundamentals would be drilled into her head whether she liked it or not. He could explain everything in a way that wouldn't make her resent the impending drill and the long weeks of preparation ahead.
For some reason, Lieutenant Kreb didn't want this Twi'lek to lose her dream.
Whether it had something to do with mercy, or something greater or lesser, the commander of Black Squadron climbed into the cockpit, locked his helmet collar to seal the suit, switched the controls to manual, received reports from his subordinates, and reported to the operations control center that his unit was ready for launch and mission execution.
Imperial justice for all of Garm Bel Iblis's actions against the legitimate authority was about to be rendered.
And the chronometer was already counting down seven minutes until exit from hyperspace.
* * *
Captain Pellaeon stepped onto the bridge of the Chimaera and noted, with well-concealed inner satisfaction, that the watch crew was at work — running final checks before the attack.
Such a balanced calm, such coordinated actions, combined with the quiet exchanges between officers, had been practically impossible to find on this ship just six months ago. And honestly, even five months ago, he himself, grinding his teeth in muted fury, had been boring holes in each of them with his glare, trying to extract at least some semblance of obedience from the youngsters in line with high Imperial standards. And now...
Well, of course, they didn't measure up to the veterans Pellaeon had served with ten years ago, but they were no longer the raw recruits they'd been before the start of Grand Admiral Thrawn's victorious campaign.
Maybe, with time, they could even surpass the elite of the Imperial Navy, but that wouldn't be today or tomorrow.
Unfortunately.
Still, Gilad was already grateful that there were no more green, untested youths on board his ship.
Walking along the central catwalk toward the chair where Grand Admiral Thrawn was seated, the captain unexpectedly caught himself thinking that he was simply starting to grumble. Like all those who, never lacking anything, get what they want and then start dreaming of something bigger, better, greater...
I suppose it's just the onset of old age making itself known — after all, he's no longer young, sixty years old...
"Captain," Thrawn greeted him, watching with silent indifference as white and blue walls of the hyperspace tunnel rushed ever onward into the unknown depths of space, ready to bring the Imperial warships to punish those who had long troubled the Empire. "You seem troubled."
What, is it that obvious?
"I woke up this morning with the thought that we're essentially doing the Ubiqtorate's and the Empire's job for them," Pellaeon explained. "Even though we supposedly no longer position ourselves as Imperials..."
"The Empire is not its people, its flags, or its ships," Thrawn remarked. "The Empire is a way of thinking and a philosophy. You can't just up and abandon what you've served for decades. Even understanding the corruption of the New Order and the dead end that fools and bureaucrats led the Empire into, we continue to carry in our minds everything good that our past can offer us, and we strive to realize that in our future. So, to some extent, even after we officially change our flags, anthems, and other trappings, in the eyes of the galaxy we will long remain Imperials. No matter what we call ourselves."
"Most likely that's true, sir," Pellaeon agreed. "But I keep thinking: what Bel Iblis has actually done to wrong you and the forces under your command is the attack on the Black Pearl at New Cov."
"You consider that insufficient grounds for a return visit of courtesy, Captain?" Thrawn inquired.
Pellaeon did the mental math — the Grand Admiral, in a single day, had dusted and mopped the floor with half a dozen pirate gangs and conquered a star system, all for the loss of a transport starship that, honestly, had never even belonged to him. And here, an attack on privateers, disruptions in biomolecular supply shipments...
"I think it's a sufficiently compelling argument to knock on Bel Iblis's door," Gilad said.
"You also forget that the Corellian resistance group kidnapped our man, Captain Hoffner," Thrawn offered another reason.
"Of course, sir, but wasn't that what he was hired for?"
"Without a doubt," a faint smirk appeared on Thrawn's lips. "But that doesn't give Bel Iblis the right to kidnap those who were deliberately hired for precisely that purpose. That's the principle of fishing with live bait, Captain."
"I understand, sir," Gilad confirmed. "We gave them bait that was created to be swallowed, giving us an excuse to properly rough them up. It's just..."
"Speak freely, Captain," Thrawn suggested, stroking the ysalamiri. The contented little lizard snored softly, comfortably settled on the Grand Admiral's lap. "State your opinion."
"Someone will steal this victory from us too," Pellaeon sighed. "Krennel, the Ubiqtorate, some other clever schemer with big ambitions. And they'll tell the people inhabiting the Imperial Remnants what fine fellows they are."
"A craving for recognition?" Thrawn seemed surprised. "I haven't noticed that in you before, Captain."
Definitely getting old, the thought flashed through Pellaeon's mind.
"If the Empire knew that neither Krennel nor anyone else was responsible for how badly the New Republic keeps getting punched in the teeth, we certainly wouldn't have problems manning our ships," Gilad lamented.
"Have you been looking at the volunteer recruitment statistics?" the Grand Admiral inquired.
"Yes, sir," Gilad agreed. "Up until Krennel started going on at every turn about what a great guy he was and how everything we did was his doing, we didn't exactly have lines of volunteers queuing up, but we managed, more or less, to crew the medium cruisers with mixed crews, plug the gaps in the Pilot Corps, at the ground installations... Give us another hundred thousand, or better yet two hundred, qualified specialists and every idle starship will be back in service."
"Battles are not won by numbers," Thrawn declared. "But by quality. Strength means nothing if you don't know how to use it, as our sergeant TNX-0297 says, 'with maximum efficiency.'"
'Right... Someone just hasn't seen the slaughter that was the Clone Wars.'
"As for Krennel and his disinformation," Thrawn continued. "Well, that falls within the framework of the overall strategy. The Prince-Admiral is the sort of man who finds it difficult to resist the temptation to lay his hands on what doesn't belong to him. But in the end, his insatiable thirst for power and achievement paints a very large target on his back, which the New Republic will be happy to shoot at. And we'll be nearby to slap the shooters' hands."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon agreed. "And... aside from ships, what exactly do we want from Bel Iblis?"
"Are you wondering whether you should have a rope ready on the Chimaera's antenna to hang the former senator?" Thrawn clarified.
"I'm sure shooting him with a blaster would be simpler," Gilad replied dryly.
"Perhaps," Pellaeon confirmed. "But right now, we need him as a hostage. Him and his people."
"And that's part of which plan?"
"It all fits within the second phase of 'Crimson Dawn,'" Thrawn assured him. "Dispelling the myths of Bothan genius and magnanimity."
"And Skywalker?" the Chimaera's commander inquired. "What do we do with him?"
"If we capture him alive — we'll give him a ship and point him in the direction he should go," Thrawn said. "After giving him the appropriate instructions beforehand."
Pellaeon shuddered.
"Sir, you're not saying you plan to send him to Jomark?"
Thrawn was silent for a time, savoring the view outside the viewport.
"I'm not just planning it — I am sending him there."
"To C'baoth," Pellaeon shuddered.
"To Horn," Thrawn corrected.
"They're one and the same," Gilad suddenly felt a touch colder than usual. "You wanted to prevent that madman's influence on the young Jedi, didn't you?"
"And I also wanted to use the mad Jedi to coordinate fleet actions and conquer the galaxy in the Empire's name," Thrawn reminded him. "And then I decided that price was more than I was willing to pay. It's the same with Skywalker — he's where he needs to be. I'm sure that all this time, one way or another, he's been investigating Horn's disappearance — according to data from 'Delta Source,' whispers were already circulating in the Imperial Palace about the supposedly surviving Jedi Master Jorus C'baoth. So they know the name. Uncovering his past — the past of the original, I mean — isn't difficult. Consequently, Skywalker already possesses the necessary information to be biased against C'baoth. I want to study the level of his awareness before giving him answers about C'baoth's and Horn's location."
"You don't think Skywalker will fly to Jomark and chop the clone into cabbage, do you?" Pellaeon tensed. "Based on what C'baoth demonstrated, he's incredibly strong."
"Today we will have information on just how strong Skywalker is," Thrawn reminded him. "A useful observation, I must admit. Skywalker doesn't participate in the creation of works of art, so studying him requires a different approach — a private conversation."
"To understand the level of threat he poses?" the flagship Star Destroyer's commander suggested.
"Among other things," Thrawn confirmed. "Skywalker is a Jedi. And one who, in many ways, raised himself, based on the residual manifestations of the codes of honor, common sense, and other attributes inherent in Jedi of the past. He grew up in a simple family, not versed in deception and intrigue — at least for now. Therefore, what he says will largely be what he thinks."
"I'm sure you have a plan in case C'baoth manages to subdue both Horn and Skywalker," Pellaeon suggested.
"As always," Thrawn said calmly. Not boasting, not bragging — a simple statement of fact. "Ysalamiri, Noghri, Inquisitor Obscuro, Jensaarai, Aurra Sing, or any other hired assassin, bounty hunter, Skywalker's sister and nephews as hostages, orbital bombardment of Jomark, finally — choose any of these options, and it will give us the means to eliminate the problem."
"If that's the case, why not get rid of all three right now?" Pellaeon inquired.
"At this moment, not one of them is a threat," Thrawn declared. "Destroying an opponent simply because we assume their negative attitude toward us is wrong. Words, until they are translated into actions, are just words. However, sending Skywalker to Jomark will have a far more advantageous effect for us."
"For example?" Pellaeon inquired.
"Think about it, Captain," Thrawn suggested. "By giving Skywalker the coordinates of Jomark, I intend to use him in my campaign, just as I use Horn and C'baoth."
Gilad thought it over. Manipulating three Jedi at once was, of course, impressive, but... Oh! That was it!
"Skywalker definitely won't be chopping everyone's heads off there, will he?" Gilad clarified.
"It is assumed he will not," the Grand Admiral agreed. "At least not immediately upon arrival."
"You let Skywalker fly around the galaxy, pick up rumors, understand that even the original C'baoth was that same splinter in the a—" Pellaeon stopped himself. "thumbnail. And now Skywalker, having met the clone, certainly won't side with C'baoth. Because he knows that one is familiar with Palpatine."
"I also make allowances for Jedi metaphysics, Captain," Thrawn said. "There is information that Jedi — and those among them who resemble the late Emperor — differ from one another and can sense that difference in each other. Consequently, they will figure out who is who among themselves. And while that's happening, neither Skywalker, nor Horn, and certainly not C'baoth, will be getting underfoot or interfering with the completion of the second phase of Operation 'Crimson Dawn.'"
And it made sense... By the time Skywalker reached Jomark, sorted everything out there, and made a decision, days would pass, maybe even weeks. In that time, it was entirely possible that the situation in the Ciutric Hegemony would already be resolved in Thrawn's favor.
Pellaeon remembered the Clone Wars very well. Especially the fact that Jedi brought imbalance to the battlefield by their mere presence. And when a whole campaign of them gathered, dispensing good and democracy without delay in such volumes that the clones barely had time to stack severed arms and legs and identify the bodies of fallen commanders...
Yes, Thrawn was right — such an enemy should be kept far from one's front lines. Until his presence could no longer decide anything. And until Skywalker couldn't contact anyone and call for help...
"Sir, do you intend to return his X-wing to him?" Pellaeon clarified, recalling the report he'd heard from the hangar deck techs.
"We're not going to use the Chimaera as a hover-taxi, are we, Captain?" Thrawn smiled.
That's all we'd need. Maybe we should start handing out handkerchiefs to the Republicans next, so they can wipe their tears and snot?
"But it has a long-range antenna," Gilad searched his memory. He didn't know the exact configuration of the Incom T-65, but he assumed that a starfighter designed for superiority, capable of independent hyperspace jumps, simply had to be equipped with such equipment. "And he could easily call the Republican fleet to his aid. They'd take C'baoth alive. And he knows about Tangrene and some of your operations..."
"Having an antenna, my dear Captain, does not mean it is without problems," Thrawn observed philosophically. "For example, did you know that during the activation of long-range communications, a large energy charge accumulates in the housings of the long-range antennas on X-wings?"
"No, sir."
"And I didn't know until a certain point," Thrawn admitted. "So, if you remove most of the insulation from the transmitting coil winding, a short circuit will occur, and the antenna will burn out, becoming unusable for further conditions. What decision do you think a Jedi will make in this situation, knowing that his friend and fellow Jedi is in the clutches of a mad clone capable of brainwashing, and that every minute of delay could cost the latter not only his life but also his sanity?"
"He'll race to Jomark at full speed," Pellaeon grinned. "Sir, a brilliant plan."
"Just physics," Thrawn replied. "Tell me, Captain, did we get what we wanted from the Terrik father and daughter?"
"As far as I recall the last reports from Colonel Astarion — all the warehouses and 'stash spots' they knew about have been opened and cleared by our personnel, and the contents delivered to our depots."
"So these people are useless to us?" Thrawn clarified.
"Completely, sir."
"Did the long-duration cloaking screen tests on the asteroids proceed according to plan?"
"Yes, sir. The engineers achieved stable projector operation for over a month and a half. Certain refinements are currently being made to the design of the remaining projectors."
"Have the additional asteroids been delivered?" Thrawn asked.
"Yes, sir. Work is underway on them."
"Excellent," the Grand Admiral praised. He looked at the ship's chronometer. "Two minutes until the start, Captain. Is my flagship ready for battle?"
"The entire fleet is, sir," Gilad reported, not without pride.
"In that case, let's discuss some other plans," the Supreme Commander suggested. Pellaeon readily turned into an ear.
"We have a biological laboratory on Loka built to Imperial security standards," Thrawn reminded him. "We also have several cloning programs that, for one reason or another, didn't gain significant traction either in the Old Republic or the Galactic Empire. Set our intelligence a task to find, recruit, or hire specialists in this field — I want to understand what's happening with these programs, and also know everything about the reasons for their closure."
"I thought the GeNod issue was resolved," Pellaeon tensed. "And the only problem was explaining to the clones that they are, in fact, clones..."
"Regardless of how we feel about Emperor Palpatine, he was by no means a stupid man," Thrawn remarked. "If there had been a way to solve the GeNod defects as easily as we think, and if programmable loyalty had been a panacea, no one would have stopped using clones in the armed forces."
"They stopped using them, from what I heard, because the Kaminoans started a rebellion," Pellaeon recalled.
"But again, the Kaminoan program is not the same as GeNod," Thrawn countered. "And certainly not 'Spaarti.' With the latter, it's clear that accelerated growth without using ysalamiri made the clones mentally unstable, and that design flaw is hard to fix. But what prevented the Empire from seizing the Kaminoan cloning facilities and continuing to produce clones there? Under their own brand."
"Kaminoan clones age," Pellaeon frowned. "Due to their growth rate being doubled."
"In a situation where you can produce billions of clones to replace the aging ones every ten years, that's not a problem," Thrawn countered. Pellaeon couldn't find an answer. At least, not immediately.
"After the Clone Wars ended, there was a massive patriotic surge among the human population," he recalled. "There were so many recruits that the need for expensive clones — and the Kaminoans produced clones with all the necessities at a cost of about one hundred thousand credits per fighter — simply proved impractical."
"Let's assume that's true," Thrawn agreed. "We are using cloning for the opposite reason — we lack specialists. At the same time, we don't know if the clones grown under the Spaarti program age as quickly as the Kaminoan ones — this data is simply absent."
"We need specialists," Pellaeon nodded, making a note on his datapad. "Otherwise, we're just playing with fire we don't understand."
"A necessary measure, unfortunately," Thrawn concluded. "Perhaps one day we will be able to abandon cloning, but I'm not sure that will be anytime soon."
Well, well... The Grand Admiral certainly knew how to set a task. And he, Gilad, had thought the cloning problems had taken a back seat. That the experience with TNX-0297 had confirmed the absolute loyalty of the GeNod program clones, and that using ysalamiri mitigated the harmful effects of Spaarti clones. Turns out, not everything was so simple. Now it was clear why Thrawn continued mass-producing primarily Spaarti clones, while scattering GeNod program copies through the armed forces in small batches — so they were always under the supervision of their comrades. Now it was clear why he was hesitant to make clones from Octavian Grant — if you only let your imagination wander for a moment about what would happen if a couple of dozen captains with his knowledge got out of control, it was enough to make you feel sick.
One could only envy Thrawn's composure, allowing clones made from Major Tierce into his personal guard. Hmm... And what program were they made under? The fact that they all were, in one way or another, Tierce didn't change the fact itself — Gilad only knew that from Thrawn himself. But which program created them — Spaarti or GeNod — was a mystery to the captain. But now the reason for Rukh's constant presence in the Grand Admiral's guard was clear. The Noghri certainly wouldn't let him down.
No, of course, they could pull the most qualified people from the medical service and set them to studying cloning, but that was hardly a good idea — competent professionals should handle solving the problems. But who? Kaminoans? Arkanians? Eh, the scouts would have to work hard in their search for the truth.
"We need to create cells on the planets that interest us," Thrawn continued as if nothing had happened. "Observers, informants, pilots. Having regular and freelance agents is undoubtedly a big plus. But we also need specialized force units in worlds important for the future campaign..."
So-o-o. Now it turns out Thrawn has a campaign after the campaign that's happening right now?! Isn't that a bit much? After all, this one isn't over yet. Or had the Grand Admiral already won in his own head, and what was happening was for him nothing more than a pre-determined result?
"Understood, sir." Well, the fleet had created secret cells of pilots and special forces. Not the best experience, but it existed. We'd repeat what we'd done before. "Will there be any more tasks, Grand Admiral?"
"Without a doubt, Captain," Thrawn nodded almost imperceptibly. "But — later."
"Later than what, sir?" Pellaeon asked in bewilderment.
"Once we finish smashing Senator Garm Bel Iblis's forces, of course," Thrawn seemed almost surprised that he had to explain it.
And at that moment, Pellaeon saw the tunnel's rays contract into points of starlight. The jump was complete.
"Battle stations!" Gilad barked, annoyed that he'd let the approach time slip by while talking to Thrawn. "Battle stations! Raise deflectors, target weapons on the nearest targets, air wing — clear the hangar! Defensive formation three!"
Standing on the bridge, Pellaeon gave orders and studied the blue-green sphere of an unknown planet, veiled in threads of clouds, positioned opposite the Star Destroyer's bow as it slowly rotated nearby. Markers for six heavy cruisers of the Dreadnaught type appeared on the tactical monitor. They had undoubtedly noticed their approach and were beginning to re-form for attack. At that...
"Note, Captain," Thrawn said. "After the encounter with the 'Black Pearl,' they never managed to bring one ship back into service."
"Five against one — they seem perfectly happy with those odds," Pellaeon grinned.
"I should think so," Thrawn agreed. "With that force ratio, they could easily board the Chimaera, after disabling it with ion cannons. The Star Destroyer simply doesn't have the firepower to simultaneously oppose five well-armed and armored targets."
Gilad looked at the tactical monitor. Former Senator Bel Iblis's detachment was about to be in pain.
A lot of pain.
"Sir," it was strange to hear a voice other than ubiquitous Lieutenant Tschel on the bridge. "'Black Aspid' and 'Eternal Wrath' have emerged from hyperspace and are deploying gravity well projectors."
Gilad glanced at the tactical monitor. Positioned fifty units to the left and right of the Chimaera, the cruiser and the specialized Star Destroyer began setting a trap from which no one could escape.
"Inform the 'Eternal Wrath' to begin jamming," Thrawn reminded him. "We don't need uninvited guests at this meeting. And we already know from past experience with ground groups about Mr. Iblis's skill in calling Bothans to his aid."
Pellaeon contacted the Interdictor-class Star Destroyer's commander. After a brief conversation, he replied:
"The 'Eternal Wrath' started jamming as soon as it exited hyperspace."
"Impressive foresight," Thrawn said. "Note that destroyer's commander on the list of potential candidates for cloning. His professional matrix will serve as a good template for our interdictor cruiser captains."
"Sir, but all our ships of that type, except the Sentinel, are fully crewed," the Chimaera's commander reminded him. Meanwhile, a total of eight projectors had created a vast artificial gravity field, completely covering the surrounding space. The trap had opened its jaws, and the victim still considered itself smart enough to easily slip out.
"Once Mr. Zion completes the project, we will have an additional five improved Immobilizer-418 interdictor cruisers," Thrawn declared. "Why else would I have asked Grand Moff Kaine for five heavy cruisers of the Avenger type?"
Gilad was about to say something in response, but the first volleys from the approaching cruisers had already washed over the Chimaera's forward deflector. The enemy had formed up to destroy his destroyer, completely ignoring fire from the 'Black Aspid' and the 'Eternal Wrath.'
And then, thirty units ahead of the Chimaera, positioned directly on the enemy's right and left flanks, but actually between the five cruisers advancing on the Chimaera and one crippled ship hugging the planet's orbit but outside the atmosphere and likely planetary defense weapon range, the 'Inexorable' and the 'Stormhawk' appeared. In the Chimaera's lower hemisphere, the 'Crusader II' materialized, and near the barrier cruiser and the interdictor cruiser, a dozen Corellian corvettes revealed themselves, screaming past them at full throttle, raking them with fire from all guns and drawing the fire of the laser artillery onto themselves, preventing it from concentrating on the three starfighter groups from the Star Destroyers that began methodically suppressing the enemy starships' weapons and engines.
All six of Senator Garm Bel Iblis's starships were pinned by the semicircle of Imperial ships against the geostationary orbit of the unknown planet, held from escape by a vast zone of gravitational anomaly and mercilessly pounded from multiple sides by weapons of every conceivable caliber.
The predator had closed its jaws.
The trap had snapped shut.
The slaughter had begun.