As soon as the main power sources were knocked out by the enemy — or shut down on General Willard's orders — the understanding that an attack and boarding were inevitable became obvious.
Republic soldiers raced through the decks toward the docking points of the Imperial assault ships at the emergency airlocks, hoping to organize a defense. Even to an unarmed, untrained eye, it was clear to the simple space marines that information was being destroyed aboard the ship — information that could fall into enemy hands, and inevitably would if measures weren't taken to wipe the data and destroy the computer hard drives.
It was still too early to worry — the Crimson Dawn was still returning fire at the Star Destroyers surrounding it. But there was no point in harboring illusions — with the switch to backup power, the Star Dreadnought's defensive capability had dropped by orders of magnitude. The rate of turbolaser fire had decreased by half or more, the laser cannons no longer stung the encroaching Imperial ships. The space around the Warrior was filling not only with fighters and interceptors, but with boarding and assault shuttles. Dozens of them had already docked at the numerous emergency airlocks, and streams of Imperial stormtroopers in snow-white armor were about to pour onto the decks.
The crew of the Crimson Dawn was arming itself, preparing to fight their last battle. Unyielding determination shone in the eyes of the Republic soldiers. None of them intended to surrender — everyone knew what might await them. The rumors about the prisoners of the Lusankya, only recently discovered through the efforts of Rogue Squadron, had been circulating through the fleet, growing more detailed with each telling.
No one — not human, not Rodian, not Bothan, not Zabrak — not a single representative of the hundreds of species aboard the Crimson Dawn — felt any temptation to become a prisoner. No one wanted to end up like the late General Dodonna, found a decade later.
The Imperials' desire to capture the dreadnought was understandable — as was the fact that General Willard would not order the ship scuttled. There was a tiny chance that emergency repair crews could fix the main solar ionization reactor, allowing the dreadnought to restore at least partial power and break through, just as its escort ships were doing now.
This was precisely why the crew intended to fight — as soon as the stalled reactor came back online, the enemy would have no chance of stopping them. To flee, to flee blindly from this terrible and merciless trap. Only that could prevent the fast dreadnought from falling into enemy hands.
The lower ranks didn't know this, but the officers had a very clear picture of what was happening. There weren't many Super Star Destroyers left in the galaxy. One — an Executor-class named Reaper — belonged to the ruler of the Imperial Remnant of the Pentastar Alignment. The New Republic could counter that trump card with its own trophy — the Lusankya. Having Crimson Dawn in the hands of the New Republic government tipped the scales of the conflict slightly in its favor. After all, the remaining Super Star Destroyers had either been lost by the Imperials in their civil war or destroyed by the Rebel Alliance.
If Crimson Dawn fell back into the hands of its original masters, it would shift the balance of power. And emboldened by such a success, the Imperials could clearly start a new round of the Galactic Civil War, which had quieted down but recently intensified. And judging by recent trends, the Imperials were handling themselves quite well with far fewer starships than the New Republic possessed.
A squad of two dozen sentients took up position in the corridor leading from the emergency airlock directly to the bridge from which Crimson Dawn was commanded. Having barricaded themselves with ubiquitous cargo containers and prepared to fire from around the corridor corners, the Republicans braced for battle with grim determination.
Heavy weapons had already been brought up from the armories, and crew-served blasters were being deployed in the corridors. If the Imperials thought they could just take the bridge and prevent command from destroying the classified data, they were sorely mistaken. To stand against heavy repeaters like those, you'd need at least a walker pilot. But the corridor's dimensions wouldn't even allow a light reconnaissance model to deploy here…
All thoughts of hypothetical attack plans vanished the moment the sound of thermal explosives burning through the locking mechanisms came from the other side of the airlock. Once the electromagnets fell, sliding the doors open would not be difficult. And after that, the fight would begin.
The central section of the airlock, where the lock itself was located, had already heated up from the corridor side. At first it was just a small white-orange spot, then it swelled to a crimson hue. Finally, the metal turned white and began to drip onto the deck.
With a soft clang, the doors jerked slightly apart — the lock had given way. The heavy metal plates of the armored doors began to slide open slowly.
The Republican fighters raised their weapons, ready to target and destroy their enemies. All of them — a counter-boarding team — were professionals, capable of facing any opponent. They had been trained, they had been through dozens of battles — no Imperial stormtrooper could stand against them!
The airlock doors parted by barely twenty centimeters.
The soldiers tensed. Fingers settled on triggers. Now, following their favored tactic, the stormtroopers were supposed to shove the doors open and charge in…
But instead of white-armored soldiers in that all-too-familiar armor, cylindrical devices flew into the corridor, belching thick clouds of smoke.
It seemed the Imperial stormtroopers had finally come up with new tactics. Attacking under cover of smoke grenades was interesting, certainly. But it wouldn't help them.
"Allocate firing sectors," the commander of the Republican counter-boarding unit ordered. The corridor was already filled with gray smoke. The metallic clang of those long-awaited metal doors bursting open rang out…
Any moment now…
But instead of the stomp of boots and crimson blaster bolts, a measured metallic clatter echoed. One that sent chills down the spines of seasoned veterans who had fought against Zann Consortium thugs.
With a distinct musical hum, first one, then a second deflector shield deployed in the artificial mist… A dry crackle announced the readiness of twin blasters to open fire…
The last thing the Republican unit commander managed to do before rapid-fire bursts tore through him, his subordinates, and their flimsy barricade, was a warning to all crew members over an open channel:
"Droidekas!"
And then came the sound of gunfire and the screams of the dying.
* * *
Following the orders of their Bothan commander, the second unit galloped ahead without objection and without looking around. These were not specially trained soldiers — just ordinary technicians who needed to restore the reactor. But to do that, they had to reach it. And right along the corridor, there was an emergency airlock.
The technical team commander was in no hurry, letting his subordinates stay ahead of him.
They were the first to round the corner…
… and were the first to get everything that was coming to them. A squall of laser fire swept away the Republican specialists, waving their blasters to their own doom. Their bodies were thrown against the opposite wall, bounced off, but before they settled on the floor, each corpse was perforated by another half-dozen shots.
The Bothan, thoroughly spooked, bolted back the way he came, realizing on the run that the path might be cut off — another hundred meters and there would be another emergency airlock. There were a lot of them in the technical zone…
He rounded the corner, driven by thoughts of the escape pods located just one turn away, when he was stopped against his will.
Nine stormtroopers in their characteristic and painfully familiar armor were cautiously advancing. And as it happened, one clever Bothan had gotten in their way.
"Drop your weapon!" ordered the first of the faceless monsters, twitching his blaster rifle almost imperceptibly, making it clear the conversation would be brief.
The Bothan took a step back. His blaster hand began to rise.
Surrender? Yeah, right! He'd rather use the emergency shaft, drop down to the hold…
Before his finger could take up the slack on the trigger, one of the stormtroopers — marked by distinctive red stripes on his armor — turned something that didn't look like a blaster toward him. Not even a heavy model. And the glow at the front of the device hinted at what kind of weapon this belonged to…
Stormtrooper TNX-0333 was faster.
A stream of flame from the flamethrower cremated the fuzzy little bastard in a split second.
* * *
Turbolasers from Chimaera's port side traced green across Crimson Dawn's battery, which had been methodically shredding the Overlord's deflectors. Space filled with flame that died out quickly, but left behind a massive black cavity in the fast dreadnought's hull.
I must admit, it looked quite beautiful from the outside.
"Fourth squad has entered Crimson Dawn's main reactor hall," reported Major Tierce. "Clearing of the technical zone is commencing."
"Good," I replied. "How are the droidekas performing?"
"Just as predicted — boarding effectiveness has increased severalfold," said the guardsman. With the clones' arrival, he could already return to his adjutant duties, letting his copies both lead the Rancor Battalion of the 501st Legion and handle my protection. The second batch of Tierce's clones — five hundred in number — would be distributed across strategically important sites. Specifically, guarding the treasury in the Karthakk system, the factory, the biolab. And for Baron D'Asta's security. "Projected losses have been reduced by seventy percent."
The machines we acquired were built by the Confederacy of Independent Systems, which doesn't negate their effectiveness. It was no coincidence that in the early years of its existence, the Galactic Empire used some of the most effective droid models from the vanquished enemy scattered across the galaxy to bolster the newly formed Stormtrooper Corps. Though, as far as I remember — and this is confirmed by active data — this type of combat machine gained its greatest popularity in ground combat. Which is somewhat incorrect, in my view — droidekas perform quite well on uneven terrain. But in cases where they operate on a flat surface, such as a ship's deck, their mobility effectiveness multiplies. And trying to shoot a droideka rolling toward you — or one protected by a shield — requires a lot more luck. During the Clone Wars, there were algorithms for destroying these machines, but given their infrequent use after the conflict ended, that knowledge fell out of practice. And so it faded into oblivion.
The Zann Consortium used this type of combat machine, but again — exclusively in ground battles. The New Republic's forces, and certainly Imperial military personnel, opposed them quite effectively. But all of that happened solely on planetary surfaces.
So I decided to test the machines in ship-to-ship boarding actions. Two droidekas were added to each of the numerous assault squads, tasked with breaching and eliminating entrenched enemies. Yes, that was bound to make our boarders' job much easier.
Because attacking a ship with a crew of up to a hundred thousand with just three legions — the 501st from Chimaera, plus forces from the Imperious and the Overlord — was quite the trial. Yes, the stormtroopers were strong and would never retreat, but one had to understand that in something like storming the flagship of an entire fleet, there could be no delays. I knew perfectly well that General Willard would try to destroy all the classified documentation aboard Crimson Dawn. Using hundreds of droidekas would speed up the ship's capture.
And reduce stormtrooper casualties. Because replenishing the latter — given the significant number of empty starships, to which several more would be added as a result of this battle — was yet another burden on the cloning facility. Which would soon need to be relocated.
I didn't harbor high hopes that the population of the Ciutric Hegemony — even though it was only fifty-six percent human — would rush to enlist in my forces in the first hours of my rule over the territory. Maybe in a week, a month — yes. But not before. Meanwhile, nearly half of my fleet lacked full crews. Not to mention that I didn't have enough stormtroopers to fully man the starships.
Well, since the droidekas — finally out of maintenance and upgrades — were performing well, it was time to think about increasing their production. Especially since Coordinator Sergius had indicated that the theft of turbolasers at Sluis Van (and, as it turned out, at several other shipyards) involved the Zann Consortium, which the galaxy had chosen to forget after its glorious victory. Well, if that was the case, I'd have to accelerate my plans regarding Hypori a little.
The firing trajectories twisted into intricate spirals as Chimaera's gunners tried to lock onto a fast-moving target, and this was further proof that Star Destroyers needed rapid-fire, highly maneuverable anti-aircraft emplacements restored. All it took was to weaken the defensive fighter wing, and the Star Destroyer turned into a big armored box that snapped back but couldn't bite a maneuverable opponent to death.
Which again harkened back to ship designer Ryan Zion's project, which promised the best upgrade option for the Imperial-class Star Destroyer.
Meanwhile, the battle continued.
And credit had to be given to the Republican gunners and missile operators — they knew their job to perfection. As did the pilots of the interceptor squadron defending our ship.
A supernova bloomed across Chimaera's armor. Crimson Dawn's missile battery, taking advantage of the fact that the Republican flagship's turbolaser fire had managed to punch through the Deuce's shields, pulled off a full salvo. A distance of fifteen units was practically point-blank range. The TIE interceptors managed to shoot down twenty of the two dozen incoming kinetic projectiles, but four anti-ship missiles reached their target.
Imperial Star Destroyer shields had a dual nature — they effectively deflected energy-based weapons, while the particle, anti-kinetic protection was designed exclusively for small, slow-moving objects — like micro-asteroids that could seriously damage equipment. And the shield generators couldn't be improved — I'd studied the issue. The Galactic Empire had spent trillions of credits just to achieve this result.
The shields held for a second or two, then collapsed. Alarms howled as the missiles struck, crumpling the armor in the ship's bow like paper. A couple of internal explosions rolled through the forward section, warping the starship and deck plating. Though it only looked terrifying. In reality, attacks like this destroyed one or two compartments — fairly easy to deal with.
It would have been much worse if they'd been using proton torpedoes.
"Artillery, switch to destroying the enemy's missile launchers!" Pellaeon's booming command rang out. "Report damage!"
"Decks two and three are breached! Air leak contained!" Lieutenant Tszhel's voice came over the intercom. "I've organized repair work, sir."
"Send a bomber squadron along Crimson Dawn's flank, on our course," Gilad ordered. I didn't interfere — this was his ship, he was responsible for it.
Chimaera's gunners fully repaid the Republican 'colleagues' for that unpleasant 'surprise.'
Energy bursts from the turbolaser batteries shook Crimson Dawn's unprotected flank. Unlike us, her deflector generators couldn't offer the crew strong protection — the dreadnought simply didn't have enough power for defense, offense, and mobility. So now, eleven Star Destroyers were effectively attacking her, stripping away the last of her maneuverability while covering the Imperious's withdrawal.
The outcome of the battle was already emerging.
While we held the flagship at bay, fighters, interceptors, and bombers were battering Crimson Dawn's escort ships. Some of the heavy cruisers had pushed forward from their positions and clashed with the escort frigates. As a result, the latter were caught in a crossfire — one side hammered by the Star Destroyer's undamaged broadside and the other by a pair of heavy cruisers.
The combat effectiveness of a dozen Nebulon-B frigates, not designed for this kind of humiliation, was crumbling before our eyes. Hulls groaned, explosions sent chunks of armor flying outward.
Three or four frigates were already combat-ineffective — they were so badly beaten that they could only drift, hoping to put out fires. But judging by the number of boarding shuttles, Imperial stormtroopers would be doing that for them.
One of the escort Star Destroyers, caught in a bad spot between the Death's Head and the Warlike, was clearly fighting with its last strength. Starfighters had stripped its turreted artillery, turbolasers had knocked out its deflectors on both sides, and the enemy ship now looked like nothing more than a charred, broken triangle. It was practically a ruin, barely distinguishable from the state of our Imperious.
There was a great temptation to shift to a 'higher' tier and attack the ship's unprotected bridge, but that would mean the complete failure of the plan to capture important prisoners and at least some of the classified information that had to be aboard the flagship of an entire fleet.
One of Crimson Dawn's heavy turbolaser batteries began to slowly train on Chimaera.
Pellaeon spotted the threat in time and gave the appropriate order to our artillery.
Chimaera's starboard ion cannons fired simultaneously. The enemy battery fell silent forever, its barrels of formidable but utterly useless machinery staring helplessly at an unreachable target.
There was a strong temptation to order the Venators to strike the enemy starships — at least those built by the Imperials. But at the same time, I understood that after this battle we would have a huge number of prisoners of war, who would be handed over to the New Republic on one basis or another — depending on 'how things went.' And they would inevitably provide data on the rate of fire of our space-based ion cannons.
Which would, in turn, deprive us of the element of surprise in the future.
The next moment, ahead of Chimaera's course — as she cruised along Crimson Dawn's starboard side — a massive pillar of flame erupted, cutting through the vacuum for a dozen kilometers.
When the fire stream vanished, it took a colossal chunk of the star dreadnought's hull with it to the great designers in the sky — about five hundred meters long and at least thirty meters 'deep' into the enemy ship.
"Captain Bren has attacked the proton torpedo launchers," Grodin Tierce explained, as if I hadn't figured it out myself.
"Thank you, Major," I said, glancing his way. "I'm confident I can manage observing the battle on my own."
"Yes, sir," the guardsman reported quickly.
Turning back to the battle, I arrived just in time to see my flagship's gunners finish turning the enemy's broadside artillery into a heap of scrap metal.
Now, from this side, the enemy ship looked like nothing more than a chewed-up and thoroughly spit-out piece of metal.
Meanwhile, every single Star Destroyer — including the Imperious, Shohashi's ship, which had finally collected itself — was exchanging fire with its targets.
And winning, which was also a significant factor.
* * *
Lieutenant Kreb executed a fast barrel roll to starboard, buying more space for himself and his wingman. Then he spun his fighter into a complex spiral with longitudinal rotation along the machine's axis — a maneuver Imperial pilots considered advanced aerobatics. It was only the irritated huffing over the commlink on the squadron-wide frequency that made him realize his mistake.
"Black-Two, tighten up," he ordered, seeing that the interceptor following him couldn't match the maneuver.
"Yes, Black Leader," came the sullen mutter. A woman's mutter. And the tone suggested he should say something… Apologize, maybe. No, that couldn't be. What nonsense.
His squadron was transitioning to the attack, having dealt with the X-wings that had tried to defend a lone Procursator that had deluded itself into thinking it could break through the heavy cruiser blockade. Now the gunners on that pocket Star Destroyer would have a hard time trying to lock onto a jinking interceptor. But they could shoot down his wingman.
I should have given her to the bombers, Kreb thought grimly, watching his wingman's straight-line maneuvers. Yes, she wasn't bad, but… let's be honest — a TIE interceptor wasn't for Tia.
Because the enemy gunners would never — even in their worst nightmares — take him out with a single shot. But that couldn't be said for Black-Two. One accurate laser shot or a stray turbolaser blast, and there'd be nothing left to recover.
Kreb hammered a burst from all four cannons into an opposing laser cannon turret, burning through both the emplacement and the compartment beneath it. Whoever among the crew was lucky died instantly from the tibanna detonation. The rest were blown into space.
The lieutenant switched his comm channel to his wingman.
"More maneuvering, Black-Two."
"Uh-huh," the girl replied.
"That's an order," Kreb reminded her, just in case.
"Uh-huh," the Twi'lek repeated.
It seemed someone was trying to annoy him.
A pointless endeavor.
Turning his fighter across the Star Destroyer's course, the lieutenant approached from the lower hemisphere, keeping an eye on his wingman to make sure she wasn't falling behind.
It was hot down here.
Three Ashek fighters, like a pack of hungry predators, were tearing apart the poor souls in TIE fighters, using their speed and superior rate of fire.
"Black-Two — engaging," he warned his wingman.
"Uh-huh," the girl replied.
Alright, that was it. He'd given her a chance. Brought her on the mission, after clearing it with Pellaeon. And Pellaeon, to put it mildly, was not thrilled. Not thrilled at all. Sure, she'd helped once, but letting her near an interceptor…
He'd had to remind Chimaera's commander that the girl could have easily escaped during the attack on the Corellian 'dreadnought' no one had thought to remove the hyperdrive from the H-6. But she'd stayed and done everything right.
So letting her feel like an interceptor pilot was a small motivation for professional growth. The basics of personnel management — reinforce positive actions and punish insubordination. Maybe Pellaeon had simply forgotten what they taught at command courses for junior officers.
Either way, Lieutenant Kreb was going into battle with a blatantly green cadet whose experience with a TIE interceptor was about thirty hours in a simulator. Not exactly Jedi-worthy, but…
It was a chance to make peace with the girl — at the very least.
At most — to show her his favor by letting her participate in a real battle.
And to have her watch his back.
Every pilot knew how important a wingman's work was. And he'd decided to trust her with it. If she managed — by the Hutt, he'd go all the way to Grand Admiral, but he'd ask to keep the girl assigned to the squadron. After all, according to the roster, his wingman was supposed to be his own clone, but this way… The copy had reinforced the Greys — Chimaera's brother interceptor squadron. Hmm… did that mean he'd already given two of his wingmen to the Greys? No, the third one was definitely staying with him.
The first enemy interceptor was caught during a half-roll — Kreb precisely burned out the enemy's cockpit. He made the decision in an instant, the moment he saw what had been done to the poor fighter. A sliding shot into the cockpit of the Imperial machine. If you're accurate enough, you can tear the whole canopy off — and then the poor pilot gets thrown out. The LSS, if it survived, would keep him alive for the first few minutes. But given the scale of the fight, a shuttle clearly won't come for a downed pilot until everything here settles down.
In other words, the Rebel was just taunting the Imperial pilot.
Bastard.
Kreb veered his ship aside, preventing his right stabilizers from being sliced off. Apparently this pair of New Republic interceptors had decided to abandon their hunt for TIE fighters and intended to get payback for their downed pilot. The pilot the Lieutenant had practically vaporized with a precise shot.
Well, fine.
"Black Two, be careful, we're up against aces," the ease with which those A-wings escaped his locks made that obvious truth plain. And at the same time, dangerous. Because his wingman clearly wasn't ready for an opponent of this level. "Cover me, I'll handle it."
"Understood," oh, she does know other words?! Splendid. So she can learn.
Lieutenant Kreb turned aside, tracing four green lines literally right in front of one opponent's nose. Fast. Good. And the Imperial interceptor — maneuverable.
He glanced at his wingman — she was sticking to him like glue. Good. Though, if Krieg Jainer were his wingman, those A-wings would already be space debris. Oh well, time for a lesson.
"A-wing behind," Black Two warned.
Uh... and then what?! What are you even there for? Scare him off with all guns blazing, make him break off into a turn.
Kreb opened his mouth to answer, but the girl broke the silence:
"Clear now."
Hm... indeed.
But there was only one way she could have done that.
"Did you put the interceptor on its tail?" he clarified, settling in behind the fleeing machine's stern.
The maneuver involved the pilot cutting the engines abruptly while working the stabilizers. The ship literally reared up and, governed by physics, flipped upside down. And it could fatally surprise the enemy with a shot along their course. It takes a second to execute. But hitting anything during such a spin is practically luck. Or years of practice. But pilots of Imperial fighters and interceptors don't live for years. Their life expectancy is ten combat sorties. And Kreb, apparently, was already living on credit.
"Yes," Black Two replied.
He wanted to give her a real earful. Because in his time, dozens of more skilled pilots had died attempting that maneuver — they didn't manage to kill the enemy before the enemy opened fire. In his case, it could have meant death for both his wingman and himself.
"Well done," he said, switching his focus back to the chase. This is exactly why only pilots who've "meshed" together through extensive experience should fly in pairs — so they don't have to worry about each other.
Because while he was preoccupied with thoughts about the girl and her behavior, the interceptor had vanished. It wasn't on the scanners, either.
"Black Two, I've lost the target," he admitted. He needed to find and kill it quickly, before the bastard slipped away. Dropships were coming soon — the last thing they needed was to count those among their losses.
"I know," a playful note crept into her voice. "Don't worry, Kreb, he's no longer a threat."
"Reason?"
"He dropped to the lower echelon, and I blew him up."
Alright, fair enough.
"Well done," the pilot replied. "Heading for the stern. We'll execute an ascending 'hill' and destroy the deflector shield projectors. First pass is mine, then yours."
"Understood," the girl replied. Was it his imagination, or could she actually answer without those tantalizing feminine undertones in her voice? If so, Kreb would make a good TIE interceptor pilot out of her yet.
Or they'd both die during the stern attack on the Procursator.
* * *
It was pleasant to look at the battered bow section of the Republic Star Destroyer. Especially when you know it's the work of your gunners.
Captain Stormaer, standing on the bridge of the Abyssal Fury, showed no outward sign of the pleasure flooding through him.
Commanding an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer mostly meant either staying in the second line of battle or engaging in a slow exchange of fire with the enemy without the ability to maneuver — because your primary task was to prevent enemy ships from escaping into hyperspace. That's exactly what five starships from Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet were doing right now, exchanging fire with the Crimson Dawn at extreme range.
But the Abyssal Fury was, as they say, on the front line. And its crew could see the results of their actions with their own eyes.
From the breaches in the Republic ship's hull — which the Imperial destroyer's gunners had been "smoothing out" with their port battery — air streamed into the vacuum, the edges of the fresh holes glowing dimly. The enemy starship was smoking heavily and trying to evade the Imperial vessel blocking its free passage into the operational space.
But that wasn't going to happen.
The Republican's stern was blazing — the bombers had worked it over. Only half of the enemy's engines could be functioning at the moment — and that was only because they needed to use this starship later to tow it out of the system.
"Two frigates approaching from starboard, sir," his watch officer warned.
"Suppressive fire," Antonias commanded. "Ion cannons — maximum rate of fire against the Nebulons' sterns. Starboard turbolasers — target hull damage. Dispatch two fighter squadrons to the first ship. One interceptor squadron to the second."
Escort frigates were weak individually against a ship like an Imperial Star Destroyer. But operating in groups, they could give even one of those a serious pounding. That's exactly why he intended to force one of the attackers to veer off, to look after its own safety and maneuverability. The second one would be legitimate prey.
The space to the right of the Abyssal Fury's bridge blossomed with beautiful bluish flame: the ion cannon gunners had fired a salvo. Then switched to rapid fire.
As expected, the commander of the frigate being pounded by ion cannons instantly realized what threatened his ship if he continued on his original course. Being left without engines when a fully combat-capable Imperial Star Destroyer was right next to you... Yes, there were less insane ways to commit suicide.
The rapid fire from the port turbolasers had borne fruit — the gunners had managed to adorn the enemy destroyer's hull with a new hole. And just a moment ago, a line-of-sight elevated battery of medium turbolasers had been located there.
Looking at the huge, smoking crater that partially affected even the superstructure of the Republic starship, Antonias ordered the port ion cannons to shift their fire there.
The enemy was quick to snap back with all its turret-mounted turbolasers. Though it only managed it once — the next moment, bombers coming in from the stern unleashed a mass missile salvo that cleared the Republic ship's superstructure of everything valuable — antennas, sensor clusters, deflector domes...
The remnants of the enemy ship's defenses melted away before his eyes.
"Port turbolasers — fire on the enemy's turret mounts," Antonias ordered.
No, there was definitely something magnificent about being on the front line of a space battle.
The Captain glanced at the Watchman. His former ship was still obediently staying in the second line, alongside the retreating Torpedo Sphere, whose gunners were also adding tibanna to this carnage, though without much enthusiasm.
Though they had targeted a Republic Star Destroyer that had decided not to retreat back along the vector it had entered by, but to continue its course.
A course that would inevitably lead it to both the Torpedo Sphere and the Interdictors.
"Open a comm channel to the Chimaera," he ordered. Perhaps Grand Admiral Thrawn simply couldn't see this.
"I'm listening, Captain Stormaer," the Commander's voice was, as always, quiet, calm, and measured.
"Sir, one of the enemy destroyers intends to attack our interdictors," the commander of the Abyssal Fury reported quickly.
"Yes, I know," Thrawn replied calmly. "Don't worry about it."
The Grand Admiral's hologram faded.
Um... Well, as you say, of course. But generally speaking, one ISD, even a Mark I, could do some serious damage to the interdiction vessels. Because it outmassed them in shipboard artillery by almost an order of magnitude.
But the next moment, Antonias understood why Grand Admiral Thrawn was so serene.
In the upper echelon, above and slightly behind the Republic Star Destroyer, the Steel Aurora and the Crusader were moving.
And their bow launch tubes had just fired a salvo.
* * *
No, definitely and unequivocally — returning to the deck of your own Steel Aurora was far more enjoyable than playing privateer on a Mon Calamari scow.
Kalian felt like he still stank of the fish that had permeated the entire captured ship. No matter how many times a day he'd called "clear the decks" since boarding the MC80, no matter how much he'd kicked the technicians to get them working on the life support systems — the smell still lingered.
So now, standing on the bridge of his own Victory-I, he was breathing in the tasteless air deeply. And trying to figure out where the hell, by all the Jedi, the smell of rotten fish was coming from!
It was, however, the least of his problems at the moment.
Thrawn had set them a difficult task.
Given: a Republic (and formerly Imperial) Star Destroyer intending to break through to the interdiction vessels and damage them, or force them to abandon their position. In that case, the enemy could escape the system without much trouble. Not all of them, of course — but a part.
Required: prevent this. But the starship must remain in a condition suitable for repair. Otherwise, they could simply ask the Torpedo Sphere's commander to solve the problem with one salvo. Even if a hundred proton torpedoes reached their target, all that would remain of the ISD of Republican affiliation would be memories. And a disfigured hulk that scavengers would gleefully tear apart for scrap.
Solution: so how exactly is this supposed to be done when the Republican has a speed of sixty megawatts, and a Victory-I-class Star Destroyer only forty?
Yes, the turbolasers were currently confidently polishing the fugitive's stern deflectors, but they could keep poking at him like this for a long time — even though both Victory-class destroyers were engaging him.
Well... the more senior officer from the Crusader, with more years of service, had a theory about this. And a proposal.
Which Kalian had listened to with great enthusiasm.
"I'm sure Thrawn has an Imperial-class stern stashed away somewhere," he said.
"We're firing half-salvos fifteen seconds apart," the Crusader's commander had the expression of a man who had been to hell and personally shaken hands with every creature that lived there.
Before his forced stay in orbit over Linuri and the subsequent assignment to the auxiliary fleet, Kalian remembered him as a fairly cheerful man.
Something had happened during his absence, and I-Gor had clearly withdrawn into himself. He could, of course, ask directly, but even in his younger years, Kalian hadn't suffered from a desire to get "under the skin" of his comrades. Wearing a command bar and holding the position of a combat ship's commander left a mark of corresponding etiquette and behavior.
"Bow mounts are ready," Kalian reported. I-Gor was older and more experienced than him, so the young officer had no desire whatsoever to cause any kind of dispute over leadership in their improvised detachment.
"First through tenth — fire," the commander of the Crusader ordered.
Both Victorys ejected ten anti-ship shaped-charge missiles each — their main trump card compared to their faster "big brother."
Naturally, the enemy reacted — sending their fighters to intercept. Well, nothing else was expected — an Imperial-class Star Destroyer had virtually no stern defense. A couple of turbolaser turrets capable of rear firing, and a few laser cannons in some modifications — it wasn't even funny. It was absurd. That was precisely why...
...the second half-salvo missed the Republican pilots, who, with their characteristic lightheartedness and fervor, were playing at hunting two dozen missiles. Madmen. But what else could you expect from those who were deeply convinced that chasing a fast-moving self-propelled projectile was a sound idea? It was obvious — the New Republic was clearly recruiting pilots via classified ads on some Tierfon. If they'd studied at proper institutions, they'd know that shooting down projectiles that way was more about luck than skill.
Shipboard laser cannons were successful in such endeavors precisely because they were powered by the ship's own reactors, and automation increased their rate of fire. Plus, the computers responsible for target acquisition and tracking were themselves half the size of an X-wing.
The Republicans tried. Honestly.
The problem was that the Imperials knew better how to reliably disable an Imperial Star Destroyer.
The enemy managed to shoot down several missiles on approach. Still, fifteen shaped-charge anti-ship warheads reached their coveted target.
Apparently, at the last moment, the enemy Star Destroyer's commander tried to dodge, to avoid the strike, as he banked his ship hard to starboard. In addition to the three massive Destroyer-I model engines, a furious light came from a quartet of smaller Genon-IVs, which the Republican tried to use for a thrust surge.
But who in their right mind would expect to escape homing missiles in a starship over one and a half kilometers long?
The Republic Star Destroyer's stern blazed as the fifteen anti-ship missiles bit into its main engines, extinguishing the glow in their nozzles forever.
"We'll approach from opposite sides and destroy all artillery with missiles," Captain I-Gor ordered.
"Executing," Kalian acknowledged. Catching the information from his first officer that the bow launch tubes were reloaded, the commander of the Steel Aurora ordered the port-side turbolaser turrets to be targeted.
By the time they reached direct line-of-battle range, the main threat to the Steel Aurora from the port side would be neutralized.
Captain I-Gor, whose hologram was still active, tracked the direction and result of the strike, and a barely noticeable smile appeared on his lips.
"Nice move. Any objection, Captain Kalian, if I use it from the target's starboard quarter?"
"Be my guest," the commander of the Steel Aurora spread his hands.
* * *
"The point-defense on this giant is an absolute monster!" Captain Vane's hologram complained. "That's the third hundred missiles gone — and practically no use!"
"Continue," I ordered.
"With all due respect, Grand Admiral," Captain Irvin remarked cautiously, "this tactic is only leading to an excessive expenditure of anti-ship torpedoes. The number of targets destroyed is minimal."
As if I didn't know.
At first, the Crimson Dawn's point-defense was suppressed by proton torpedoes from the identically named spherical starship in the void. Now I was using both Providences for this purpose.
Though, my order to them wasn't: "I will use your launch tubes to save my pilots' lives and occupy the enemy's point-defense," but rather: "Use anti-ship torpedoes to destroy the Crimson Dawn's turbolaser turrets in the upper hemisphere."
"In that case, I suggest you find your own way to carry out the order given to your ships," I said, looking at both holograms. "I'm sure you can find an option that won't require me to make further deductions from your bonuses."
Captain Irvin chuckled, a smirk spreading across his face.
His young "colleague," however, was clearly not happy with what he heard.
"So, we could also end up owing money?" His eyes practically bulged. "Grand Admiral, for the record, I didn't borrow that much to pay it back."
"And yet, your ships are failing to complete the assigned task," I noted. "The enemy's artillery continues to operate and inflict damage — quite significant damage — on my starships. This shouldn't be happening if your ships were operating more effectively."
"Yeah, easy to be effective when those tin cans keep running to you to double-check every order," Yazuo Vane complained. "What am I to them, some Jedi archive, supposed to know everything?"
A joke... probably a funny one. But the situation was terrible. I was starting to understand Tyberos, who was firmly convinced that Vane had absolutely no idea what he was doing on the bridge of such a ship. Meanwhile, a Providence, with certain upgrades, could prove to be a far more effective ship. Yes, we couldn't build starships yet — we lacked the necessary production base — but upgrading them was always an option.
Given the ships' size, their large hangars, moderate crew requirements, and over a hundred anti-ship missile launch tubes, the Providences could become an excellent analogue of a missile cruiser. And a front-line one, at that.
It would be enough to rework some of the interior spaces, replace the outdated Separatist artillery (which we had purchased in large quantities specifically for such occasions at the Raxus Prime scrapyard from a Twi'lek clan — special thanks to Captain Hoffner, who had proven useful for once) with the guns used on the Victorys — quad turbolaser turrets — and it would be quite interesting.
Unfortunately, due to a tight schedule and several broken agreements, it wasn't possible to implement this project. But during the repair of the Steel Aurora and the Black Pearl, the shipwright Zion had come up with several good ideas for further upgrades to the interior spaces of those starships. And the Venators. And the Acclamators. He was even ready to rush off and implement them in metal right away, if he hadn't received a serious dressing-down from Moff Ferrus, who reminded the shipwright that the project to convert the Vindicator-class heavy cruisers into something more valuable wasn't going to complete or implement itself.
That was the shipwright Zion for you — a fountain of ideas that seemed to gush from a cornucopia. Only, once he created the design drawings and verified their viability using mathematical and engineering models, his execution of the plan would stall. He simply lost interest in the concept.
People said of him: "A creative person." His strength was precisely in the flight of thought and imagination. It was all the same to me, really, but would you be so kind as to not just wave digital blueprints in my face, but to actually embody at least one ship "in metal" under your own watchful supervision, put it through a series of tests, and if everything is fine and good — then fine, other ships of the series can be built/converted by others.
Bridge builders proved the reliability of their construction by driving multi-ton vehicles across it and walking on it themselves. In the realities of my current existence, I couldn't literally apply this approach to the shipwright Zion, so he'd have to follow the rule stated above: I needed at least one starship "in metal" under his "authorship" the lead ship of its series. The construction/modernization of the rest could be handed over to Chief Engineer Reyes — there were no obvious problems with him. The man wasn't prone to excessive ego, was diligent, but... at the same time, he was more pragmatic and rigid when it came to novelty.
However, one way or another, the modernization of the Providences was only possible if their captains were in my service.
Or the ships were without captains.
"One way or another, gentlemen, in this operation you are not fulfilling the terms of your contract," I noted.
With a great deal of stretch, formally, I was right.
They held letters of marque. They received a cut from them. But at the same time, brought in for a military operation, they were not only failing to meet the conditions, but also, by their actions, causing harm to my ships.
The consequences for the Star Destroyers, frankly, weren't the most critical — scars embellished an Imperial Star Destroyer.
"So you're the one setting us impossible tasks," Yazuo Vane said, a note of grievance in his voice.
"And who is forcing you to agree to participate in them?" I inquired calmly.
"The privateering contract," Vane grumbled.
In simpler terms — money. At the very least, the white-haired half-breed was accustomed to each mission bringing in a fabulous profit. And that profit was important to him as the holder of a ship like a carrier-destroyer. Otherwise, he'd simply go bust. But he couldn't just break the contract — he simply didn't have enough money to pay the penalty.
"Signing it on those terms was entirely your own initiative, gentlemen, and yours alone," I noted. "If the conditions don't suit you, we can part ways. In accordance with the terms of the agreement."
"Which we are unable to fulfill," remarked Captain Irvin, who had been silent until now.
Well, I would never have said that about him.
Vane's mentor possessed a fairly large sum of credits — at least the tens of millions that had been paid to his former charge for the assault on the Errant Venture.
"On the other hand," I offered peaceably. The idea of swapping ships had occurred to me, unfortunately, after I had spoken with Captain Tyberos and promised him a Mon Calamari Star Cruiser. "I could always accept one of your starships as compensation. Because it's plain to see that your participation in this operation is not only not bringing you profit, but is also causing me damage. I suggest we resolve this little difficulty here and now."
If Captain Irvin just chuckled knowingly, Mister Yazuo Vain barely managed to pick his jaw up off the floor at such a blatant act of "business repossession." What can you do? A far, far away galaxy. We Slavs are a rather resourceful people.
First we prayed to wooden idols, and later we burned them with great relish.
We drowned the invincible German "pig" in a lake.
We overcame the Tatar-Mongol yoke by simply standing on the riverbank and "flexing our muscles."
We lived through the nineties in the post-Soviet space. Without abandoning our home fleet, even when ships and submarines were being cut up for nails.
And the most interesting thing — through all this chaos, we survived and learned our lessons. Not the most noble ones, but who's going to judge us? There are no idiots here.
The ability to find the optimal way out of the worst situation is perhaps the best trait of the Slavic peoples and our brother nations.
And if I have a new idea for "placing" the Mon Calamari star cruisers to good use, and in exchange giving Captain Tyberos his so-coveted "Black Pearl" let's try to solve the problem peacefully.
And where better to do that than against the funeral epitaph of a Republican battle division led by a fast star dreadnought?
Is this right towards an ally? No, certainly not. But these privateers aren't allies either. They're only interested in money.
"I won't give up my 'Black Pearl'!" Vain declared.
"Foolish," I stated. "According to maintenance records. She's in a far worse state compared to the 'Colicoid Swarm.' Captain Irvin knows how to properly operate his vessel."
"Thank you for the compliment," Irvin smiled. Looking at the hologram of his "protégé," who had already essentially understood the ship was "out of the picture" for him, the senior privateer asked:
"Can we, in that case, change the terms of our privateer's patent? Including becoming free privateers, but in your service, with the right to refuse missions imposed on us. That is, without the tight leash you're jerking us around on."
"Is that so?" I became interested. Irvin intends to switch to free raiding? How intriguing. "And what is the price of this change? Considering that you will give me one of your ships as payment to cover the damages for failing to fulfill the current agreements in the present battle?"
"It's easy for you to dictate terms to us, Grand Admiral Thrawn," Captain Irvin shook his head. "When we're in the middle of a battle and practically under the turbolasers of a dozen Star Destroyers, and in an artificial gravity zone. But I have something for you. You did say that important information also has a reward?"
"Correct," I confirmed, not hiding my interest. No, rightfully, I am genuinely curious — what can this privateer offer for me to reconsider the patent terms? "What kind of information are you prepared to offer me, Captain Irvin, since you're demanding concessions and the termination of the patent. Especially considering this is your initiative, and such an act comes with a penalty of two hundred and fifty million."
"Believe me, what I'm about to tell you is valuable enough," the aging privateer smiled. "For example, my good acquaintances told me that Prince-Admiral Krennel, for the 'reception' of the New Republic fleet in his territories, has taken very serious measures to increase the number of combat-ready vessels on his side. I know their number, as well as the list of pirate gangs that intend to participate on his side."
"How interesting," I admitted. But what interests me even more is whether this sentient intended to tell me this beforehand. Well, why not find out?
So, without overcomplicating things, I voiced my question:
"Immediately after this battle," Irvin said without flinching. "You're not the only one who can plan, Grand Admiral. I'm sure that after your ships were battered in the current battle, you would have agreed to pay me the requested two hundred and fifty million to find out the size of the cesspool you're about to wade into."
"Oh, undoubtedly," I leaned forward. "The battle is coming to an end, Captain Irvin. I expect your arrival immediately after the 'Crimson Dawn' capitulates. And you as well, Captain Vain," the half-breed nodded dejectedly. "We'll discuss the changes to your patents. And you'd better not be mistaken, Captain Irvin. I will not forgive betrayal or deceit."
"In that case," Captain Irvin smiled. "I will bring a copy of the message from Prince-Admiral Krennel, which he is sending out to pirates all across the Outer Rim."
* * *
The reserve command post of the "Crimson Dawn" was located just around the corner of the corridor where the Fourth Squad currently was.
And at this moment, it was the only place on the nearly eight-kilometer-long ship that could hold the secret data the crew of this vessel might possess. Because on all other command crew computer panels, the enemy had managed to completely delete them and destroy the storage media.
And for the last five seconds, they had been doing the same thing at the CP.
They had to hurry — if they delayed even another twenty-seven seconds, the mission could be declared a failure.
Exactly the same fate that had befallen the Sixth, Tenth, and Fourteenth Squads, whose corpses lay in the corridor before the massive door separating the CP from the wide hallway.
And that was a problem.
Because all three wiped-out squads were effective clones from the "GeNod" project in the "Rancor" Battalion, in which the Fourth Squad also served.
That meant they had made a mistake somewhere. It seemed impossible, but the fact was undeniable.
"Stand ready," he ordered the shock troopers. Then, edging up to the corner, he quickly stuck his head around it.
And just as quickly pulled it back. Because a series of black scorch marks appeared in the metal panels of the corridor wall, right where his head had been.
"Heavy blasters," he commented. "And assault shields for cover."
Now it was clear what had happened to the other squads. The enemy had managed to set up well-fortified, long-term firing positions here. Droidekas could solve this problem in seconds. But the problem was that the nearest deadly droids were seven minutes of fast movement away. By then, the enemy would have destroyed all the data command needed. And in that case, the sacrifices of the three squads, who had tried to storm the corridor as a single unit just seconds before the Fourth Squad arrived, would be in vain.
Still, this was a problem — such an ineffective attack. Executed by a full twenty-seven shock troopers from the "GeNod" program. A deficiency that should be reported to the commander.
Twenty seconds remained. Time to make a decision.
And TNX-0297 had one. The simplest one. But one which, unfortunately, the Sixth, Tenth, and Fourteenth Squads hadn't had.
"TNX-0333, incendiary mix on hand?" he confirmed with the trooper who had red "flamethrower" markings on his armor.
"Affirmative," came the reply.
"Prepare," ordered TNX-0297.
They would only have one chance.
None of the fallen squads had had a "flamethrower" in their ranks.
"Two seconds," the sergeant held up two fingers to his subordinate for emphasis. "One attempt. After that, the attack is useless."
"Understood, commander," the "flamethrower" acknowledged.
TNX-0297 scraped his foot across the metal surface of the corridor, checking the grip of his boot soles on the floor. Then, snatching the last smoke grenade from his belt, he activated it and threw it around the corner with a ricochet so it would hit the opposite wall section beside him. After that, he lunged across the passageway.
He wasn't going on the assault.
He was drawing their attention.
At the cost of his own life. Because he knew perfectly well that his running speed, the width of the corridor he had to cross, the reaction time of the two heavy weapon operators — these parameters were incompatible. The enemy's bursts would catch him before he reached the other end.
But that didn't matter anymore. He didn't matter.
Completing the objective was paramount. Every clone must strive for this.
He heard the hiss of the smoke grenade filling the passage. He listened to the roar of the mounted blasters clattering behind him.
Only two meters remained to the opposite side of the corridor. Both blasters were trying to track him, because his white armor was still visible through the smoke. But the part of the corridor, the corner where TNX-0333 and seven other troopers remained — that was no longer visible.
Which meant…
He never got to finish the thought.
Like a battering ram, crimson beams slammed into his side, hurling him against the wall opposite the entrance to the star dreadnought's reserve command post.
Pain shot through his left leg, his side, his chest, and his back.
Sergeant TNX-0297 slid down the corridor wall, looking at the hallway through an orange-crimson haze, in which the armor of the medic clone rushing towards him seemed blood-red.
The sergeant's color perception problem had nothing to do with the heavy blaster burst that had struck his vital organs.
It was simply that the flamethrower of Trooper TNX-0333 had turned the dark gray corridor landscape into a scarlet blaze, burning out the blaster operators and melting the locking mechanism of the blast door. An effective skeleton key.
At the fifteenth second from the Fourth Squad's arrival at the "Crimson Dawn's" CP, the troopers burst inside, sweeping away enemy resistance.
At the sixteenth second, Sergeant TNX-0297's heart stopped beating, and his consciousness sank into darkness.