Nine years, eight months, and thirteen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, eight months, and thirteen days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and thirty-three days since the Arrival.)
A Bellator-class fast dreadnought, which had shed its former name from the Republic fleet, moved unhurriedly through the endless darkness of interstellar space in the Nidjun Sector.
The objective of the Red Star Squadron lay three hundred light-years from the current position of the Star Destroyers that Grand Admiral Thrawn had placed under Commodore Shohashi's command. One short jump straight ahead, and the bustling system — which held a large concentration of pirate ships operating within the Nidjun Sector — would become even livelier.
Like a spearhead, the Crimson Dawn was aimed toward the dim star of the Aar system, homeworld of the Aar'aa race. Sentient reptiles that the Hutts used willingly and without complaint as cannon fodder. Alongside many other races, it must be said.
These reptiles had no idea they were the first target of the Butcher of Atoa. But for him — the Alderaanian sitting in his chair before a double row of monitors, studying the data on one of the screens — the Aar'aa were not just a name on a list of the galaxy's sentient races. As it happened, to their misfortune, Eric knew of the Aar'aa's existence. And of their trade.
If Shohashi had wanted his ships to reach the system at sublight speed, it would have taken some time.
But he wasn't about to waste it. He'd already been delayed at the Tangrene shipyards, waiting for the entire squadron to assemble before deploying for the combat mission.
"All systems are at combat readiness," came the report from the central control post. "Readiness reports received from the Imperious, the Overlord, the Twilight, the Point of No Return, and the Red Gauntlet."
"And the Lovchiy?" Eric asked, turning his head toward the source of the voice.
"At full combat readiness and capable of jumping into the Aar system on your first command," the watch officer reported. Eric had known this officer since his first assignment as commander of the Imperious.
Yes, his flagship was a new ship. But the core of the crew remained the same — he had taken every single crew member from the Imperious with him to the Crimson Dawn before handing the Star Destroyer over to another officer. But Shohashi had no intention of parting with the ship that had been his home all this time, the ship that had come to mean something more to him.
He'd requested Thrawn's permission and received the Imperious as part of his squadron. That would be better — let them call it sentimentality (if anyone dared), but Shohashi didn't want his former ship falling into the hands of some incompetent who would smash it into asteroids. First, let it fly with the squadron, prove itself, and then he could entrust it with independent missions under a commander and crew. Anyone unhappy? Go ahead, appeal Shohashi's decision to Thrawn.
No idiots came forward. Or not yet, anyway.
When assembling the Red Star Squadron, Eric 'hadn't forgotten' to transfer his old — and possibly only — friend under his command. Brandei, upon learning of it, grumbled, of course, about cronyism and all that. Eric didn't bother explaining that the Overlord had been chosen solely because of its crew's high level of training. Brandei wasn't a little boy — he'd understand on his own.
Though Thrawn had made his own adjustments. In exchange for transferring the Imperious and the Overlord to Shohashi's squadron, he had removed the In Amber Clad and the Forward Unto Dawn from its roster, replacing them with the Twilight and the Point of No Return — destroyers of a Republic modernization project, fitted with launch bays at the expense of reduced artillery.
In Eric's opinion, the fleet didn't need ships like that — only for convoy duty or serving as station ships. However, when you're about to capture an entire sector consisting of eight inhabited systems, starships suitable for guard duty would come in handy.
Eric had them — the Twilight, the Point of No Return, and five Vindicator-class heavy cruisers. Seven starships he could leave in conquered systems without much trouble for the current mission, to maintain law and order, assigning them a few light vessels from the endless supply of Corellian corvettes. But the Aar system would have to be handled personally.
It was the only point on the map of the Nidjun Sector where problems could be expected.
"Begin Phase One, Lieutenant," Shohashi ordered. "Inform me when the Overlord, the Imperious, and the Lovchiy reach the Aar system."
"Yes, sir."
The commodore returned to reading the scant information displayed on the monitor.
"Aar'aa could change the color of their skin to match their surroundings. Tall and muscular; their bodies covered in scales, equipped with claws, a thin dorsal ridge, and large faces with thick brow ridges overhanging small, glowing eyes. Being cold-blooded creatures, they became sluggish at extremely low temperatures. Their eyes had reddish-orange hues."
That was everything known about the Aar'aa race.
No strengths, no weaknesses — only biological information.
Just as there was no substantial data on their weapons production, the number of ships they possessed, or anything else necessary for a successful operation.
So Eric didn't act blindly. He simply ordered several transport ships sent through the sector with small cargoes most attractive to the Aar'aa. Food supplies, to be precise.
And now the overwhelming majority of those vessels were sitting on Aar'aa pirate bases. What a misfortune for them. Because the transports carried not just food, but also reconnaissance equipment, disguised well enough that it wouldn't be detected without a full ship breakdown. Judging by the fact that telemetry was still transmitting — the intelligence techs knew their business with an 'excellent' rating. Well, that was that rare occasion when they actually helped instead of pouring waste into the fuel tank instead of fuel.
"Commodore Shohashi!" a voice called from the turbolift leading to the bridge. Without acknowledging the source of the annoying sound, Eric took a pocket chronometer from his tunic and flipped open its lid. Watching the second hand tick, he ran his finger over the image of Irene.
Another day he spent in service for the sake of peace and order. If the countess were alive, she would have been pleased.
And — most likely — she would have been leading the attack with small craft forces.
"Commodore...!" The voice sounded two steps away from him, accompanied by the characteristic clanking of two VX-series droids — the personal bodyguards of the Red Star Squadron commander. Yes, Thrawn had assigned him ten guardsmen, who were now escorting Chief Shipwright Reyes on his way from the turbolift to the command chair. But the guardsmen were Thrawn's men. Beside him, the Alderaanian wanted to see those loyal to him personally.
The commando droids he had bought on the black market years ago had accompanied him at first, while he dealt with traitors. If he'd made that purchase before his own first officer betrayed him, it might have saved him from his limp.
Well, now that his flagship was filled a third full with people from the Ciutric Hegemony and planets allied with the Dominion, and the other two-thirds with clones and the Imperious crew, it would be prudent to attend to personal security. Perhaps these were the considerations Thrawn had in mind when he sent a pair — or more, depending on the ship's importance — of guardsmen aboard each Star Destroyer and heavy cruiser. But on the other hand... if a mutiny broke out, these two could indeed eliminate anyone.
What additional tasks they had been assigned beyond protecting command, Thrawn hadn't mentioned. No one asked — everyone understood perfectly well that with the fleet expanding and more and more volunteers being recruited, the question of their own security was acute.
Not that Eric planned to start a rebellion and had therefore worried about the VX droids. No, he had no such plans (who in their right mind thought a pair or a company of commando droids could stop the guardsmen?). But security concerns were never excessive. Never.
"Commodore...!"
Now the voice sounded literally a meter away from him.
Eric calmly snapped the chronometer's lid shut and returned the device to its proper place. Only then did he turn his head toward the chief shipwright.
"You are not at the Shawm-Hai livestock market, Chief Shipwright Zion," he said loudly, clearly, and calmly. "You are aboard a Dominion fast dreadnought. Where your authority is less than a Jedi's conscience. Kindly, from now on, if you have any questions, approach me and ask them — do not fill my bridge with your hysterical shouting."
There were many newcomers on this watch — both volunteers and former officers from the Ciutric Hegemony. They would now understand that painting the golden-yellow 'gear' of the new state's official crest on Dominion starship hulls did not cancel the fact that they continued to live by Imperial regulations. And no one would allow them to turn a warship's bridge into a barn.
The shipwright had set out on this campaign along with some artisans and engineers from the Tangrene shipyards. By his own account, it was necessary in order to evaluate the prospects for future modernization of the fast dreadnought during its operational use — a ship restored to its original state (largely thanks to the main reactor parts that arrived on the freighter captured by Captain Abyss's detachment).
Though, as Eric suspected, the chief shipwright was simply looking for an excuse to avoid a meeting with Grand Admiral Thrawn after the fleet under the grand admiral's command conducted combat trials of the In Amber Clad.
That very Star Destroyer — the 'Three,' the first of its kind, having passed every possible test. Minor flaws had been fixed, but how the ship would perform in a real battle... Not against pirates — what Eric was about to fight — but against the career military of the New Republic. No one knew the outcome. Only the shipwright was deeply confident that his 'ISD-III' were the best ships in the line of well-known (sometimes to the point of 'soiled trousers') triangles.
"I understand you, Commodore," Zion said, gritting his teeth as his ocular prosthetic flashed. "But... did you really order the main reactor connected?"
"Is there a reason I'm not authorized to give that order?" Shohashi asked sternly.
"No, certainly you are, it's just that..." The shipwright hesitated. "I thought we'd conduct standard tests. Not in combat conditions?!"
"As I recall, the repair work regulations stipulate that all ship systems must be in a state ready for combat," Shohashi noted. "Are you saying your repair report was inaccurate?"
"No, not at all," Zion flared with offense in his voice. "My engineers and I conducted power calculations under standard conditions, and connecting the main reactor has distorted the infograms — now everything will have to be recalculated from scratch, and this, in turn..."
"Shipwright Zion," Shohashi interrupted the shipwright's verbal torrent. "The standard condition of a military vessel is conducting battle. From all guns. At the limit of structural capabilities. Other interpretations are for civilians. If you need to obtain any data — you will get it in battle. Which will happen shortly."
"But the ship just came out of repairs!" Ryan Zion reminded him. "The testing package..."
"I don't have time to discuss the same thing twice in a row," Shohashi cut him off sharply, glancing at the ship's chronometer. "Watch officer! Have the Overlord and its detachment arrived in the Aar system?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Set up the broadcast," he ordered. As soon as the comm station confirmed the task was complete, he switched to his personal comlink. Liinade-III production, incidentally. He had to admit the obvious — the new communication devices were genuinely worthwhile: Imperial quality at reasonable prices. No wonder the grand admiral had arranged for these devices to be supplied to the fleet.
"Commodore Eric Shohashi speaking, Dominion Fleet," he said, noting on the monitor that his signal was being transmitted through the Imperious's communication stations, and from there into the Aar system on an open channel. So that absolutely everyone could hear. "Three days ago, pirate gangs based on the planet Aar and supported by the local government organized an attack on a Dominion supply convoy. I demand the immediate surrender of those responsible, the ships, and the captured cargo." There was no mention of the crews — it would have been foolish to risk sentients on this operation: the freighters were piloted exclusively by droids.
"Get lost, Shohashi," came the reply almost instantly. Seemingly, he was speaking to the lead pirate. Or a government representative — here, they were essentially the same thing. "Your detachment is a bite-sized snack to us. The cargo is ours, and you and your Imperial bastards can fly wherever you want."
You couldn't deny their counting skills — in orbit around Aar alone there were over two dozen cruisers of various types, not to mention numerous corvettes, frigates, armed freighters, and the rest. In a direct engagement with two Star Destroyers and an interdictor cruiser, they had every chance of scoring some trophies.
"Is that your final word?" Shohashi inquired. "Do all those in the system share your position?"
Data on enemy ship movements appeared on the monitor. They were preparing to strike.
"Shohashi, we've heard of you, but take my word — get the hell out of here on every hyperdrive you've got!" they 'advised' him. "The Nidjun Sector is ours. Not just one system — the whole sector stands with us!"
"Well, then," Eric sighed with relief, a smile spreading across his face. "You've made your choice."
"Go screw yourself..." At his signal, the communication channel with the criminals cut off.
"Order the Lovchiy," Eric said, leaning on his cane as he rose from his chair and unhurriedly made his way toward the main viewport. "Activate all gravity generators. Report deployment vectors. Fleet — battle stations. All ships prepare to jump."
This wasn't just a tactical strike against the New Republic, one of many the Dominion's ships were conducting in parallel with his Operation 'Garbage Disposal.'
The smile never left Eric's face as the space before the Crimson Dawn and the rest of the Red Star Squadron's vessels stretched into white-blue streaks, replaced by the haze of hyperspace.
A massacre lay ahead.
A spectacular and powerful, crushing and elegant job by true professionals of war against piracy. No prisoners of war, no humanity, no delays between crime and punishment.
There were no innocents here — everyone in space, everyone holding a weapon, was a bandit, robber, thief, pirate, murderer, rapist.
Legitimate targets, in short.
No mercy.
A slaughter awaited him and the Red Star Squadron ahead.
And in this, he was simply without equal.
That was why he was here.
The Aar'aa simply needed to flee. But in the few minutes it would take him to reach the target with all available forces, they would not manage to escape. Or to significantly damage Brandei's formation.
When the fleet emerged from hyperspace, wedging itself into the battle that had only just begun to flare between the Dominion forces and the pirates, Eric spoke only one phrase:
"Let the massacre begin. Spare no one."
* * *
Nearly two weeks had been spent preparing the operation to liberate the Oplovis sector from the New Republic forces — ever since the government on the planet Harrod had shown the forces of Coruscant the door.
Strangely enough, they had complied.
While the Chimaera and the other ships moved toward their objective, making transits outside hyper-space routes to avoid early detection by the enemy, I immersed myself time and again in history and Imperial bureaucracy.
Because untangling the web of facts and instructions was exactly what any analyst could wish for. A crisis manager might want to prepare, too.
So. What do we actually have regarding the Oplovis sector?
The Oplovis Sector.
A standard sector, within the administrative boundaries that existed during the Old Republic era. There is nothing remarkable about it in the Imperial bureaucracy records we've accessed one way or another.
But the sector's history suggests things aren't so simple.
During the Clone Wars, the Oplovis sector was in Separatist space. Which means democracy from Coruscant is not particularly loved here. Nor are the rotten regimes that have lost their power.
During the Imperial period, the sector was defended by a standard sector fleet. After the Battle of Endor, the Oplovis sector attempted to rebel against the Empire. Nevertheless, the Imperial admiral who became Warlord Gaen Drommel soon returned to his home planet of Oplovis and took control of the Oplovis sector as his own territory.
The main defensive factors of the sector were, in fact, the Guardian, leading the standard sector fleet, and the fortress planet Ketaris. But the Imperial presence here didn't last very long. After Drommel's defeat at the Battle of Tantive V, which occurred in the same year as the Battle of Yavin, the sector fleet was considered destroyed. As has now become known, the damaged Guardian was stranded in the Fardon system with an inactive hyperdrive. According to the same prisoners, the rest of the line fleet was indeed destroyed at Tantive V. Consequently, in any hypothetical campaign to seize his home sector, Drommel could rely solely on the Guardian. In whatever condition it currently found itself.
That is to say — in a sorry state.
On one hand, good; on the other — not so much.
The sector consists of only eight inhabited star systems, but at the same time, it is 'strung along' the Braxant Run — a fairly significant regional hyper-space route that begins in the Agamar system. Which, incidentally, not long ago demonstrated extreme unfriendliness toward the New Republic. The situation there is unfolding quite interestingly, but that's for another time.
There is something notable about what the Braxant Run actually is, according to astrography. Especially if you superimpose the Imperial astro-navigation charts over the prism of our portion of the data copy from the library on Obroa-Skai.
As I've said, the Braxant Run originates on Agamar, passes through all Imperial territories, and is essentially the shortest way to reach most of the Remnant worlds. But there's something even more interesting.
The terminal route of the Braxant Run, as you might guess, is the Braxant sector. And a number of planets there, particularly the world known as Sartinaynian. Nothing stirring in your memory? Any guesses as to why this planet interests me so much?
Fine. The planet has another name.
"Bastion," Captain Pellaeon said, inhaling deeply and exhaling noisily. Though, to be precise, he ought to be a flag captain, seeing as he was chief of staff, commander of the formation's flagship... There were many reasons to give him that rank. But I still hadn't fully figured out the Imperial rank system. I wouldn't want to promote Gilad so high that he left the bridge of my flagship. Because a chief of staff cannot command a ship. "Sir, if we subdue Oplovis, we could effectively set up a checkpoint on the supply route that goes through all the Remnants."
The Braxant Run.
"In that case, they would have to restructure their entire logistics chains," I noted. "How long do you think it would take before every first cargo vessel traveling the Braxant Run gets intercepted, and fleets with Orinda and Bastion IDs show up at our doorstep?"
"Sooner than we'd like," Pellaeon admitted. "But on the other hand, sir... Strategically, subjugating Oplovis and making it part of the Dominion is advantageous. We could effectively hold under our control most of the hyper-space routes passing through the New Territories!"
"In that case, to form an unshakable core of Dominion-controlled sectors, we would have to take control of the Kanz sector — from which we are currently moving into the Oplovis systems," I explained. "That is the only way to avoid strikes from the rear — which are currently happening under our own efforts. Moreover, without subjugating Agamar, turning it into a fortress planet, and thereby conquering the Lahara sector, we won't be able to create a 'node defense.' To completely block approaches to our territories with fortress planets so that no one can advance forward by bypassing them, we need to subjugate at least six nearby sectors. I am confident this would be strategically beneficial, but practically — difficult to achieve, given the extent of the territories, their inaccessibility, remoteness, the infestation of pirates and other criminal elements."
"Not to mention that Palpatine will clearly look askance at this," Pellaeon sighed. "And his operation could begin much sooner than we can prepare our defenses."
"That's right," I confirmed. "The wider the front, the more resources you need for defense. And for now, we don't have all that many."
"If there were more ships, we could remind the Corporate Sector of their obligation to share profits," Pellaeon sighed. "Like in the days of the Empire. Fifty percent of income in exchange for second-echelon equipment deliveries to maintain a pro-Imperial government and a promise not to interfere in internal politics..."
But I'd discovered something new myself. So it turns out that the reason the Corporate Sector enjoyed such indulgences during the days of the Galactic Empire — like an entire Victory fleet sold or transferred to them by Palpatine's decree — was rather revealing.
"Either way, Oplovis can't be used by us as a territory to serve as a staging ground for our main forces," I concluded. "Except for Ketaris, we'd have to build the defenses of each system from scratch."
Unless we push the sector's defense beyond its borders. I have certain ideas about that, but I lack the resources and technology to implement them fully. At least until Mr. Zakarisz Ghent finishes his mission. But again, it takes money. Lots of money. Disgustingly much.
"Something else is noteworthy," I continued.
"Sir?" Gilad looked at me with surprise.
"Let's look to history, Captain," I suggested. "Before the Clone Wars, ship task forces known as 'fleets' existed in many, if not most, of the thousand or so sectors that made up the Old Republic. During the years of turmoil that led to the Republic's fall and the establishment of the New Order, the Grand Army of the Republic was divided into twenty sectoral armies, each with its own theater of operations much larger than a single traditional sector within the known administrative boundaries."
"That's right," Gilad confirmed. "The Fourth Sectoral Army, for example, was the Grand Army of the Republic's main command for the entire Outer Rim. Shortly after the creation of the sectoral armies and the Declaration of the New Order, the first Moffs were appointed to govern sectors that, at least in some cases, were also significantly larger than the sectors of the Old Republic."
"And yet it's still unclear exactly how this reorganization affected the structure of what could be called 'sectoral fleets,'" I noted.
"Oh," Pellaeon chuckled. "That's a debate in every military academy. The answer still hasn't been found."
"Something else is curious," I continued. "In the Imperial order of battle, the concept of a 'sectoral fleet' was lost immediately after the reorganization of the GAR into the Imperial Armed Forces. The term remained in use colloquially, but was officially replaced by 'sector group,' which referred to all the army and fleet units deployed in a sector."
"There were too many reorganizations of terminology for anyone to keep track," Pellaeon grumbled.
"Typical situation under such circumstances," I observed philosophically. "Well, let's continue brushing up on events from nearly thirty years ago."
The commander of the Chimaera looked at me with an expression that read: "Alright, fine with the art, but what complaints do you have about history, huh?!" Never mind — it'll all become clear soon.
"As the Empire's territories grew, so did the number of Moffs," I said, ignoring Pellaeon's bored expression. "Eventually, it came to the point where each Moff controlled a sector comparable in size to one of the Old Republic's historical sectors, and often identical to it. And in each such sector, a deployment of Imperial armed forces was carried out, known as a 'Sector Group.'"
In practice, it's still the same "sectoral fleet," but bureaucracy and red tape in a galaxy far, far away are far from an extinct beast. On the contrary — it's a creature feeling quite comfortable and thriving.
The level of sector group organization emerged somewhat by chance: the Moffs of Imperial sectors, appointed under the Sector Governance Decree in the Republic's final days, complained that the Imperial Navy's demands for forces to suppress Separatist resistance usually stripped their sectors of resources without adequate consideration of local security needs. Under the Sector Governance Decree, the Moffs retained the authority of the old governor-generals to raise forces and began creating their own local militias. Alarmed by the prospect of local armed forces not loyal to the Imperial Center — that is, Coruscant — the Admiralty stepped in and created sector groups. These were local armed forces directly controlled by the Moffs, but closely monitored by Coruscant. So, for example, what is now called the Morshdine Defense Fleet is, in essence, a "sector group."
Just a very, very small one. Dwarfed. But — and here's the funny part — for some reason, even a couple of ships are enough to patrol one star system and minimize all negative situations. You'd think skilled internal politics and the absence of various forms of oppression against non-human races would have something to do with it?
"Have you ever wondered, Captain, why a man as insignificant and utterly unremarkable among other admirals as Gaen Drommel suddenly had an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer under his command?" I asked.
"Never even looked into it," Pellaeon admitted.
"He was the protégé of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin," I explained.
"Strange he didn't have a portable Death Star in that case," Gilad muttered. Fair point.
"He had something better," I said. "How many star systems are in the Oplovis sector?"
"Total?" Pellaeon raised his eyebrows. "I have no idea."
"Captain," I looked at the officer condescendingly. "You know perfectly well that a sector's value is determined by the number of surveyed, charted, and habitable star systems containing planets with a Type One atmosphere."
That is, breathable oxygen.
Well, anyway.
"Eight," Pellaeon said without error. "The backwater of the galaxy, since the New Territories, and the resources..."
"Exactly," I confirmed. "There's not much of value here — at least not officially known — but by Grand Moff Tarkin's will, Admiral Drommel was entrusted with an entire sector group, at full strength, to guard this territory."
And at that, Pellaeon's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
What is a standard "sector group"?
Originally, they were mostly drawn from the old Planetary Security Forces, nationalized in the Republic's final days. After the Admiralty intervened in sector defense matters, a standard sector group came to consist... of two thousand four hundred ships.
The exact composition of such units isn't always known — only with access to the original data and documents of the sectoral fleet.
But one thing can be said for certain: of these nearly two and a half thousand starships, two dozen were Imperial-class Star Destroyers, and another sixteen hundred hulls were small military vessels, military transports, repair ships, support ships, and so on. The remaining starships, as logic suggests, should be combat vessels. Things like cruisers. Or destroyers.
Meanwhile, the Imperial order of battle limited the term "Fleet" to a class of large formations with responsibilities distributed across an entire sector, but subordinate to the sector group command hierarchy. Reflecting this subordination, these fleets were commanded by fleet admirals answerable to the senior admiral commanding the sector group — who was often the Moff himself. There was no rigid or fast system for organizing the types and numbers of fleets under a sector group's command. However, the Group's combat elements were divided between "Supremacy" and "Escort": a supremacy fleet was a space combat force led by six Star Destroyers and nominally accompanied by a battle squadron of eighteen smaller ships; escort fleets, meanwhile, consisted of escort forces intended for fighting pirates and raiders, which in practice meant they were the Empire's first line of defense, protecting civilian cargo ships, attacking corsair hideouts, and guarding remote outposts. Ships dominating the escort fleets included old Trade Federation frigates and CR90 corvettes, which over time were replaced by EF76 Nebulon-B escort frigates and escort carriers.
But if we're going to fully dive into the staffing and organization of "sector groups," I should add the following.
Additional fleets not part of the combat element included an assault fleet capable of deploying four entire ground armies; a support fleet used to meet the enormous logistical needs of the sector group; a deep dock fleet providing repair capabilities; and a bombardment fleet — a rare formation nominally consisting of eighteen torpedo spheres, used to destroy planetary shields in offensive operations. (Despite its nominal composition, such fleets were never at full strength during the Galactic Civil War, as the Empire never built more than six torpedo spheres, according to data from the company that produced them.)
Only one thing is unclear: whether any fleets existed outside the sector group hierarchy. It's known that several of the Empire's most powerful battle fleets were assigned to specific sectors: for example, the Azure Hammer Command, the main fleet guarding the Core, was the Sector Fleet for "Sector 1," the Imperial central oversector, while Admiral Zsinj's Fleet in the Quelli sector, tasked with waging war against the Drakmar, was considered the most powerful fleet in the Empire.
It's hard to find any categorical examples of Imperial forces operating outside the sector hierarchy. It's known that ten percent of Imperial Navy ships were held in reserve in the Core, ready for deployment against threats anywhere in the Galaxy; but such deployment could easily be accomplished by redirecting them from one sector group to another.
"So what was Drommel doing here, if he had practically four times as many capital ships under his control as we do, and his fleet still surrendered and scattered after the admiral disappeared?" Pellaeon asked. "What did he even need such forces for?"
"We'll ask him when we meet him in person," I shrugged. "Once we arrive at Harrod, we should start organizing a local fleet base and a supply center for our troops. Commodore Shohashi should already be beginning operations to clear the Nidjun sector, so logistics lines will soon be established."
"Sir," Pellaeon addressed me. "I... Where did we put it all?"
"Excuse me, Captain?" I admit, the question caught me off guard.
"There are hundreds of sectors in the galaxy," Pellaeon said. "Thousands of capital ships in each... And what's left now? Ghost towns?"
"A significant portion of our fleets were either destroyed, fell into the hands of the New Republic, pirates, Hapans, neutral sector governments, Hutts, Mandalorians, the Zann Consortium, warlords, or retreated into the Deep Core," I said. "There are too many possible outcomes to account for every single one."
"But the fact remains," Pellaeon said, his face hardening. "We lost a star fleet that numbered tens of thousands of Star Destroyers alone."
"The New Republic never sought in the past, and doesn't seek now, to board and capture ships," I reminded him. "They prefer to destroy enemy vessels, force them to surrender, rather than seize them by brute force like we do. The Imperial Civil War cost us not only most of the fleet, but also the veterans of past decades."
And to be perfectly precise, the New Republic's four fleets are currently equal, both quantitatively and qualitatively, to four "sector groups" from the height of the Galactic Empire.
You can understand the despondency that now reigns in the Imperial Remnants.
Controlling vast territories, they lack forces commensurate with what they once had. Intelligence data is quite approximate, but by "eyeballing it," you could say that even Kaine or the Imperial Ruling Council each have fleets amounting to at most a "sector group" maybe two "per brother" at most. But that's a question of quantity — qualitatively, things are much less clear.
My forces, however... are fewer.
By orders of magnitude, even.
If the "Imperial" remnants have enough to match a sector group, the questions about auxiliary forces, cruisers, and so on remain open.
So many questions, so few answers...
"Once we subjugate the systems of the Oplovis sector, we'll need to take measures to determine the fate of the sectoral fleet," I said. "If the ships were captured or destroyed, that's one thing. But if they were moved to a reserve or mothballed somewhere — we need them."
"Sir, with the advanced fleet we currently have, we've already exhausted every possible mobilization reserve," Pellaeon noted. "If we keep increasing the fleet's quantitative component, we'll eventually reach a point where we have a fleet, but not enough crews for it. Or the resources to maintain it."
"We've already been through this, Captain Pellaeon," the remark took us back to the state of the fleet back when we couldn't even dream of controlling the Ciutric Hegemony and its resources. "I'd rather have ten, a hundred, a thousand starships mothballed somewhere in the Karthakk system than leave them in enemy hands. Especially since we'll soon witness the trials of the In Amber Clad. If the modernization program proposed by Chief Shipbuilder Ryan Zion proves itself, we can confidently address the issue of increasing the number of Star Destroyers we have. Especially since the enemy graciously allows us to take their disarmed Imperial ships. Cargo included."
Pellaeon sighed resignedly.
"Whenever I imagine how much we need just to start production at all those factories, to build ships ourselves and stop depending on these pirate raids, stop groveling before shipbuilders, robbing them or buying production lines at triple the price — my hands just drop."
"Completely in vain, Captain," I said. "Compared to the other warlords and the Imperial Remnants, we have one indisputable, very important advantage."
The commander of the Chimaera looked at me with distrust. But — with interest.
"What is it, if it's not a secret, sir?" he asked.
"We don't try to bite off more of the pie than we have the ability and intention to chew," I said. "Great things are born from small ones. And they are valued because of the labor that went into their creation. No matter how long it takes — the Dominion will survive all the hardships that befall the galaxy."
"And the New Republic, the Remnants, Palpatine?" Gilad clarified.
"Simple with them," I replied. "They'll die."
Judging by the expression on Pellaeon's face, he didn't really believe me.
A very, very big mistake.
* * *
Rederick moved quickly, but at the same time tried not to attract attention.
With an experienced eye, he took in the atmosphere reigning in the administrative building of the Kuat Drive Yards and cursed mentally.
Profanely.
In both languages he knew and a couple of other dialects as well.
Because things were taking a completely dismal turn.
So dismal that it was time to declare the mission a failure.
"Can you move a little faster?" he asked quietly of the blue-haired youth shuffling behind him.
"We've already done a good kilometer!" protested this... What was the name of this freeloader? Pent? Who came up with the operational alias for this milk-fed brat? "Let me catch my breath! Come on, Mavik!"
"Either you catch it on the ship," Rederick suggested, ignoring the fact that the kid was breathing heavily and could barely force out his fake name, "or the Kuat security officers beat it out of both you and me. How does that alternative sound?"
The boy, tripping on level ground, nearly plowed the station deck with his nose, but changed his intentions in time, caught by the scruff of the neck by the fleet scout, trained to react to any change in circumstances.
The sentients scurrying around them — humans and non-humans — paid no attention to the pair of men. Everyone was trying to get as far away as possible, maybe even bury themselves in a deeper hole.
Because the alarm signal blaring from every speaker indicated, more than unequivocally, that the local "specs" were about to seal off the potential security breach zone and begin a total inspection.
The regular employees of the Kuat Drive Yards were used to this — it was part of their life; they always obeyed the security service. But the numerous clients, visitors, and sentients just "stopping by" wanted to get as far away from here as possible. For one simple reason — not all of them were clean before the law.
And if the Kuat security service turned a blind eye to those present as long as everything went without incident, in a routine manner, then when the central control panel received information about a cyber-defense breach because some stupid "Slicer" couldn't leave the system without screwing up royally — that was a whole different story.
In such cases, a total check of everyone on the station would begin.
And the local ISB officers would raise all their archives, all their leads, uncover every possible fake transponder and personal identifier, and expose every single one of their visitors.
And there were so many shady customers here that they would gladly hand over the scout and the "Slicer" to the grasping hands of the "security men" just to avoid having their own identities revealed.
Because the Kuati didn't much like various criminal scum — especially after their reputation as the most reliable and well-armed supplier of all possible ship types had cracked to the size of a rift in space and time.
Exaggerated, of course, but that doesn't change the fact: if they were exposed, things would take such a nasty turn that they'd have to use the backup plan.
And that was something he really didn't want...
But he couldn't allow the Kuati to establish even a hypothetical link between them and the Dominion. Absolutely could not.
The stream of sentients showed no signs of weakening, and generally speaking, that was good — they were getting lost in the motley crowd of people and exotics scurrying back and forth. But there was an unpleasant trend — the Kuat Drive Yards employees were clearly intending to reach their workstations and wait patiently to be checked. And those, as it happened, made up the majority of the flow.
It took only a couple of minutes to realize — breaking through the crowd to the hangars was impossible. Which meant he'd have to destroy both the equipment and the results of the hack, damn it.
"Right," Rederick ordered, spotting a small corridor leading away from the main one. The crowd wasn't pushing in there much, but at the same time, catching sight of the distinctive uniforms of security personnel moving towards them and at the tail of the crowd, purposefully searching for someone, he could guess that they at least knew the faces of the sentients they were looking for.
Well, this was just brilliant now!
And people had said the local "security" was a bunch of unqualified slackers who couldn't work quickly.
Only fifteen minutes had passed since the alarm was raised. A quarter of an hour to pinpoint the breach point, pull the security camera footage, identify the hacker's appearance and his partner's, and track their movement route.
And one thing was certain — their shuttle's hangar bay was also identified, probably cordoned off, and they definitely shouldn't go there if they valued their lives and freedom.
Well, clean and fast work. No wonder Kuat had spent so many years poaching the best of the Imperial operatives.
Too bad his former colleagues wouldn't meet them halfway and let them go. No, more likely they'd "interrogate" them with even greater zeal. And at best, that process would be conducted with their feet. Specifically, across his face.
When they approached the corridor, Rederick, without any further prompting, simply shoved the "Slicer" in the right direction. The kid was clearly intending to keep moving in the crowd. His ears were flapping again, not listening to what he was told.
"Hey!" the "Pent" protested indignantly. "That hurts, you know!"
"Wipe your nose," Rederick advised him, taking the boy by the elbow and literally dragging him along behind him on their new route. "I left the vest you could cry into at home today."
There were fewer people in this passage. And now he knew why — this was a corridor for very rich, privileged clients. Well, damn!
"I'm going to complain about you to command!" the blue-haired "Pent" declared.
"Go ahead, even call upon the ashes of Darth Vader," Rederick suggested, continuing to walk down the corridor, ignoring the looks thrown at them by the sedately walking couple heading towards the exit to the elite landing pads. "It won't help. You screwed up the operation!"
"How was I supposed to know they had a second layer of defense⁉" the boy said indignantly. "I was sure I'd disabled all their security layers at the basic programming level! Nothing should have been working! It was so stupid..."
"Which is exactly why I have to come up with a plan on the fly," "Mavik" explained. "Otherwise, you'll be explaining yourself to people who don't like to chat about the weather or anything else for long. But they know how to get all the information they need quickly and efficiently. Speaking of which — do you have the data chips?!"
"Of course," the boy patted the pocket of his jumpsuit.
Good. Now Rederick knew where they were. In case something happened, it would be easier to search the corpse.
And now, he needed to worry about getting out of here quickly while it was still possible.
Thank you to everyone who draws plans on the walls.
Now Rederick had an idea of what labyrinth he had gotten into. It turned out that this corridor had more branches, and then more and more... He would have to do some serious zigzagging to find a suitable spot to steal someone's vessel before the security personnel caught on.
Oh, your ion matrix!
When they turned into one of the private corridors, Rederick caught a glimpse of a good dozen security personnel from "Kuat Drive Yards" already turning into the main corridor for the rich. May you be tossed and land on a red dwarf! Or on Carida! May you not be so fast!
Or is it just that their pair is so slow?
This little corridor was completely empty, so Rederick openly started running. "Pent" seemed to have gotten into the moment as well, since he stopped whining and especially didn't ask any stupid questions.
Turn, now left, forty meters straight, another turn.
And now — time to vent some anger.
"Halt!" was all the wardrobe-like guard managed to say, dressed in typical Kuat Security Bureau uniform. Apparently this one wasn't the quickest — because he only reached for his blaster when he saw a pair of people in technical jumpsuits of "Kuat Drive Yards" workers running around the corner two meters from him, but clearly not being them.
Rederick, judging his opponent's height, ran to a certain point, jumped, and punched the Kuati in the temple.
The brute just shook his head. Seriously?!
"You!" He abandoned pulling the blaster from his belt holster, which allowed Rederick to sweep his legs, and then, when the enemy hit the back of his head on the metal floor and was disoriented, the fleet intelligence officer yanked the blaster from his holster, then knocked the guard out completely with a blow from the grip to the head.
There was no need to kill him — the man was just doing his job. Just like Rederick himself, just like "Pent."
"Run!" he shouted at the slicer, dashing further down the corridor.
Two turns, and they would be opposite the hangar entrance. According to the marks on the wall map, a starship was there right now. Whose it was, who it belonged to — wasn't that important. They could always take it by force, bribery, intimidation — just to get off the station. Even if they couldn't slip into hyperspace, they could always bolt to the planet and lie low there, wait out the manhunt, get another ship, and leave the system for good.
When he reached the entrance to the hangar bay, Rederick was already preparing to open fire on the guards at the customs post when he realized that instead of people at the consoles, he saw only a pair of motionless bodies lying on the floor.
With clear blaster wounds to the head.
And no signs of a firefight.
Whoever had killed these guys, it was done cleanly. Amazing accuracy.
"Hack it!" Rederick ordered the "slicer," pointing at the computer panel that could unlock the hangar doors.
"Pent" rushed to the console, while the fleet intelligence officer himself started gathering the dead men's weapons. A couple of extra blaster pistols wouldn't hurt.
"Someone already tried to work here," Pent noted as soon as he connected his personal deck to the console.
"Just work!" Rederick barked, glancing impatiently at the turn they had come from.
Come on, come on, come on…!
"Done!" the kid shouted just as the hangar doors began to slide open.
"Get inside!" Rederick grabbed the kid by the scruff and shoved him through the gap between the doors that had just started to open.
He himself slipped in after, habitually scanning the surroundings for potential threats. Some rich people left their ships guarded by battle droids…
"Look what a beauty!" Pent's voice held genuine admiration.
"Damn it," Rederick cursed bitterly, taking in the appearance of the starship they had stumbled upon.
One glance was enough to understand exactly what starship was before them.
Wedge-shaped hull, a hundred and fifty meters long.
Imperial design.
Six paired laser cannons, multiple single light turbolasers. Judging by the presence of launch tubes — this was clearly the second model, which appeared in the fleet after the Battle of Yavin IV. The first generation had ion cannons.
"Raider-class," Rederick shook his head.
Raider-class corvette (second generation).
Is this some kind of mockery?
Trying to escape on an Imperial raider corvette? Couldn't there have been simpler vessels around?!
Maybe there were some nearby in accessible space, but time was flying like Emperor Palpatine into the reactor shaft on the second Death Star — swiftly and inexorably.
"Run aboard!" Rederick ordered the "slicer."
Actually, such a ship required a substantial crew of about a dozen and a half officers and almost eighty enlisted men. But if there was no need to engage in combat, only to get the hell out of here, then it might be possible to try and…
A dry click sounded from behind.
That was the sound of the safety catch being disengaged on a standard-issue blaster pistol.
"Goddamn Gamorrean brew!" the fleet intelligence officer thought sadly, figuring out how, on a completely clear landing pad, he could get out of the line of fire of the enemy behind him and not die himself. Oh yes, and also save the "slicer"-"screw-up"…
"Thanks for doing the work for us, boys," a voice said, apparently belonging to the owner of the blaster pistol. "Now step aside and don't interfere with us taking the ship."
Something vague stirred in his memory.
"Um... Well..." the "slicer" hesitated. "We got here first, actually."
What an idiot, who negotiates with hijackers like that…
Rederick turned around, slowly, so as not to provoke…
The people standing behind him.
A full fifteen men, middle-aged, stocky, with short haircuts. Their eyes were professional, clearly trained.
And the weapons in their hands, aimed at different firing sectors, left no doubt as to who they were.
"Who's in command?" Rederick asked, lowering his hands.
The criminals didn't even move.
"Point seven, paragraph four…" the fleet intelligence officer began, but only made one of the beings before him laugh.
"Seriously, kid?" the apparent leader asked him. "Decided to recite the regulations for Fleet Special Forces communication protocol?"
So it was definitely them.
"No," the intelligence officer replied. "Just making sure I'm talking to the right people. Commander Mavik, Dominion Fleet Intelligence. I propose we get out of here together, and then go our separate ways. The ship is yours; we just need to get out. After the flight, I promise a reward transfer to your account. No questions asked."
The fifteen armed men exchanged confused glances.
"Dominion?" one of them repeated. "Are those Thrawn's 'scrubs'?"
"Oh, if you called Fleet Intelligence that nickname to my face under other circumstances, bastard, I'd wipe every bulkhead on the ship with you, including the inter-armor space," Rederick vowed to himself.
"So what do you say?" he repeated. Time, time, time…
"Interesting offer," said the one he had identified as the leader of this group. "But your luck clearly isn't with you today, Commander Rederick."
The intelligence officer tensed instantly. He definitely hadn't used his real name on missions for the Dominion, so…
"Captain Orsan Makeno," the leader introduced himself, moving the barrel of his blaster toward the ramp leading into the ship's interior. An unambiguous gesture — they were taking them hostage. "Imperial Starfleet Special Forces."
Shitty day.
Looks like it wasn't him who would be wiping the bulkheads today.