Nine years, eight months, and twenty-nine days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, eight months, and twenty-ninth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and fourteen days since the Arrival.)
I looked at the markers glowing on the tactical display of the 'Chimaera' and couldn't believe it.
They say you can't be that beautiful in the world.
But, at the same time, as our political officer at the academy used to repeat: 'There's no place for the stupid in the active army. That's why I'm busy teaching you.'
Agreed, the phrase has more than a double edge, but in cadet times it allowed for jokes. Until the political officer's next 'I'm no snitch, but I know the report form' brought in information about 'talkers'. And then, 'hello, duty detail, we'll meet again.'
But this...
"All systems of the 'Chimaera' are on battle alert," Gilad said.
"Thank you, Captain," I said. "Are the 'Guardian' and 'Phoenix' reliably hidden from scanning by the planetary shadow?"
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon responded. "Unless our opponents have a fast reconnaissance starship to fly around Soulex and come directly at the ships—they are invisible to sensors."
The old good trick—hide the ship in low geostationary orbit so that the gravity field prevents the enemy from detecting the ship earlier than circumstances require.
In principle, that's exactly why we kept the 'Chimaera' between the known vector of hyperspace exit and the planet. The only bastion separating the battered 'Guardian'—whose condition I intended to keep secret—and the 'Phoenix', still stuffed to the brim with spare parts, whose combat effectiveness against the arriving enemy fleet is very, very minimal.
'Chimaera' awaiting a brawl.
Six Acclamator-class assault cruisers, supported by two Corellian CR90 corvettes.
Not very much like a fleet that aimed to capture and destroy everything possible. Frankly, even in such a sorry state, the 'Guardian' would have shredded this detachment across the vacuum and wouldn't have broken a sweat.
But there's a nuance.
There always is.
It's called simply: 'I need ships.'
Eight excellent starships to replenish the Dominion fleet collection... And why not, one might ask?
Moreover, there's no need even to worry about the possibility of the enemy ships escaping the system.
And from the crew of the Super Star Destroyer, we can always form transfer crews. Especially since we have an excellent opportunity to retreat relatively safely to the Dominion via the Hydian Way.
Planet Soulex is located in Wild Space, in quadrant R-3. For reference—Tangrene, where I intended to transfer the ship for repairs—is 'stationed' in quadrant O-4. And 'by eye' the distance 'in a straight line' seems not large—one quadrant, no more. The very border of the Korva sector—one of those that I, along with the Meram sector, was considering as a direction for secret expansion.
(in the very center of the map, second from the top, and Tangrene is in the lower left corner, between the black names of the Nijun and Meram sectors)
Only it's the edge of the galaxy, little-studied, almost devoid of stable hyperroutes. We had to spend considerable time to get here, but the result was worth it.
Not every day you find a ship, and a Super Star Destroyer at that, stuffed with local 'gold', and with a crew that turned out to be loyal to you...
The only thing that spoiled everything was the very fact of the disclosure of Soulex's location.
This is a world unknown to the galaxy's astrography, with no information about it even in the part of data we obtained during the information raid on the Obroa-Skai system.
For the last 'nearly five years', the study of the planet was carried out by members of the 'Guardian' crew exiled to the surface by the deceased Admiral Drommel.
Located in a yellow star system, a lone habitable planet with an oxygen atmosphere, oceans and continents of the usual colors, posing no serious danger to colonists. The latter—only because the local 'immigrants' had at their disposal three mobile bases of Imperial manufacture, as well as practically all small arms and heavy weapons.
Actually, that's how they managed to fight off local predators and even established some semblance of life, settling into a kind of settlement on the surface. And, I must say—quite decently settled.
Robinson Crusoe approves.
Planet Soulex.
"Are they trying to contact us?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," Gilad replied. "Transmission is coming from the flagship Acclamator. They demand immediate surrender and transfer of control over our ships. The latter is obviously about our corvette."
"Obviously," I said, pondering the enemy's words. "I hope our opponent introduced himself?"
"Signed by some Bothan admiral with an unpronounceable surname... some Kre'fey," Gilad grimaced. "First time I've heard of him."
I, on the other hand, have. I just doubt I'm dealing with the notorious hero of the Yuuzhan Vong war, Traest Kre'fey. Probably the only Bothan I respect based on my knowledge of the universe. But I'm more than sure that I'm up against someone from his clan. And the 'fey' part of the surname unambiguously points to indirect kinship with Borsk Fey'lya.
So, the councilor didn't dare stick his head in the same noose twice.
Did he actually learn his lesson?
However, what am I saying—in that case, the remnants of the Bothan fleet wouldn't be here.
Of the latter I was reasonably certain—the New Republic would have brought more ships, and they wouldn't be as morally obsolete as the assault cruisers the Bothans own. Incidentally, it's quite possible that the study of the 'Acclamator's' technical specifications in the future prompted the Bothans to create their own assault cruiser project.
But all this is unnecessary lyricism.
"Captain," I addressed Gilad. "Reply to our uninvited guests with the same message they sent us, but under my authorship. Also add that they have violated the borders of the Dominion."
"And Soulex became part of the Dominion?" Pellaeon's eyebrows rose.
"Yes," I answered calmly.
"I'd like to know when," the captain grumbled.
"Yesterday," I reported, recalling when I decided to finally take this beautiful planet into my tenacious hands. It's a shame the planet's location has been revealed. Because I was thinking of placing New Honoghr here and arranging another migration of the Noghri to the planet. Yes, it's not right—to 'shuffle' an entire people like that, but to allow my secret killers and saboteurs to live side by side with the Jensaarai... Well, no, by God—each egg should have its own basket. Otherwise it's some kind of chicken coop...
"Sir," the Commander of the 'Chimaera' interrupted my thoughts. "They are replying."
I'd bet it's with profanity.
"They are furious and intend to wash away with blood the shame we inflicted on their people in the Battle for the Ciutric Hegemony."
"Indeed?" I looked at Gilad. He nodded silently. "Well, it's worth acknowledging the fact that the enemy is not lacking in faith in their own superiority."
"As practice shows—numbers aren't always a deciding factor," Pellaeon remarked. "So I take it there's no need to inform the fleet about the necessity of defecting to us?"
"Correct," I nodded in agreement. "We don't even need an interdictor cruiser to prevent the enemy from fleeing the system. These are Bothans who came to settle personal scores and defend the honor of their people. They won't leave here until they are defeated."
"Unless they realize earlier that their operation is under threat of destruction and much greater shame," Pellaeon suddenly said. "Sir, what if this is just an advance reconnaissance detachment, whose goal is to damage us as much as possible and render us combat-incapable?"
I didn't show that I was interested in the Star Destroyer commander's words, but it can be said that progress is evident. If in the past we, like the Empire, used the key doctrine of a battle line based on qualitative and/or quantitative superiority over the enemy, now we fully employ tactical maneuvers as the basis for gaining an advantage in battle and occupying the most advantageous position.
"In that case, we will have a much greater selection to obtain trophy starships, Captain."
Pellaeon twitched his mustache, smiling.
"Yes, sir," he said firmly. "Orders?"
"To battle, Captain Pellaeon," I said. "Let's demonstrate to the Bothans that once again they have completely unnecessarily crossed our path. Give the commands, Captain—after all, this is your ship."
And also let's see what other lessons you've learned from past battles, Gilad Pellaeon.
"Aye, sir!" Gilad confirmed. Touching his comlink, he activated the intercom of the 'Chimaera':
"Battle stations! Man your positions, prepare for engagement! Raise deflectors, charge weapons. 'Drop' the corvette, launch interceptors. Bombers—pre-launch readiness..."
'Chimaera' begins the attack.
* * *
"Black-Two, stay closer," Lieutenant Kreb increased the speed of his TIE Interceptor, moving away from the underside of the 'Chimaera'.
"Received." Tia's reply was as dry as the surface of Tatooine.
Good. She was finally starting to get used to the fact that service wasn't about running your mouth during a mission.
The distance to the enemy ships was too great to guarantee that hordes of X-wings weren't flying toward them. They had to trust the sensors and the warning system.
No hordes of X-wings were flying.
The Bothans had put up one squadron of Ashek interceptors from each of their assault cruisers against them.
Kreb glanced at the control display — Operations Control Center had sent target instructions.
"Black Wing," he opened a channel to his pilots. "Our target is the port assault cruiser. Acknowledge receipt of orders.
Eleven clicks on the comlink.
Good, everyone understood.
Meanwhile, the Chimaera was already starting to zero in its range.
The triangle of the starship held precisely to the center of the enemy formation. Which, in general, looked strange.
Both Corellian corvettes were in the center, while the assault cruisers, broken into two groups of three, were approaching from the flanks. The distance was steadily closing, which clearly indicated that soon the large ships would begin testing each other's deflector shields.
The onboard computer blinked — the recognition system had refined the details.
It took Kreb just one look at the monitor to understand — no, the enemy really had formed up quite well.
They weren't just facing Acclamators, but second-modernization starships. The very ones considered predecessors or cheaper analogues of the Torpedo Spheres.
"Black Leader to Chimaera OCC," Kreb considered it his duty to contact the mother ship. "The Acclamators are Mark Twos."
"We know, Black Leader," the controller replied. "Continue your mission."
"Received," Kreb acknowledged.
Well, if the flagship knew everything, that was a good thing.
And now, it was time to teach the Republic thugs in their Ashkas a lesson.
Rolling his craft onto its side, the lieutenant and his wingman engaged in battle with the interceptor fighters of the Bothan squadron.
* * *
It's always useful to look through Imperial military manuals and learn something new.
That way, you don't have to sit and wonder if it's time to run from an enemy that's closing you in a pincer, ready to destroy a Star Destroyer with a massive missile and torpedo barrage.
Yes, the Acclamator-II is precisely the modernization of the ship where the laser cannons providing anti-air cover turned out to be "completely unnecessary," but the caliber of the launcher tubes increased.
But, one thing at a time.
The Acclamator performed reasonably well in the first half of the Clone Wars, earning a certain respect in the military and attention from shipbuilders. Who, yet again, decided to cross a snake with a hedgehog, expecting a "perfect war machine" as a result.
It didn't work out.
From the large troop transport its predecessor was, the Acclamator II became a ship for landing force fire support.
Mark Two Acclamators are outwardly indistinguishable from their predecessors (the difference is insignificant and invisible to the naked eye).
The attack systems were radically redesigned. Defense was left unattended. Both deflectors and hull plating — everything remained at the Mark One level.
But the weapons...
The number of torpedo tubes was halved — from four on the Acclamator-I to two on its descendant. However, the caliber increased and the power of the torpedoes' warheads grew.
The number of turbolasers doubled, but the ships were equipped with less effective targeting and fire control systems. An analytical memo, dating back to the early years of the New Order, mentions that the effectiveness of the Mark Two's guns dropped by almost a third.
Guidance for the launchers was carried out manually, with minimal electronics involvement in the matter. But despite all this, the same Imperial Navy analysts noted that the new generation of ships performed quite successfully against "counterparts" from the side of Separatist remnant vessels.
The secret of this parity lay in the fact that the proton torpedoes used on this ship type were designed to penetrate almost any type of shield, including particle shields. The latter are meant to repel attacks by kinetic weapons, which is what a projectile like a missile is. But proton torpedoes punch right through deflectors due to their nature.
Planetary shields, used in the galaxy for a long time and successfully, have a rather... interesting nature. They read as energy shields, but at the same time are ready to deflect kinetic projectiles. It's no accident they are "penetrated" by massive missile and torpedo strikes or by high-power energy weapons.
I haven't yet gotten to an in-depth study of the nature of a phenomenon like a "planetary shield," but after returning from this mission, I firmly intend to arrange for their acquisition for strategically important worlds. Anti-space defense systems alone will clearly be insufficient to repel a large-scale, prepared attack.
That covers the "pluses" of the Acclamator-II.
As for the "minuses.".. there are quite a few.
I find it hard to imagine how such a huge vessel, this type of assault cruiser, could, with the same length of seven hundred and fifty meters, be stripped of the ability to carry its previous number of troops and equipment during the replacement of artillery and missile-torpedo armament. What they did to the ship is unclear.
But the fact remains: now, starships of this type can only carry one and a half regiments of troops with all their standard armored vehicles. Whereas the predecessor could carry seven regiments. Also with full attached support.
The most significant and frankly incomprehensible "minus" is the complete absence of anti-aircraft artillery for ship cover. Let me remind you, the ship was created in the second half of the Clone Wars, and consequently, the CIS was continuing to strengthen its position in mass attacks by small craft. Depriving a ship of light artillery when your enemy can field several squadrons is unwise.
In other words, these ships are practically useless in battle without their own fighter wing cover. Which they don't have. In the current situation, it's clear that the Bothan assault cruisers have undergone modernization and can deploy at least one squadron of fast Ashka-type interceptors on the battlefield.
Based on this technical data, the enemy's attack pattern was clear without any fancy analysis.
But for now, I remained silent, as I had said I would, letting Pellaeon command the battle himself.
His order — to send fighters against the enemy's equivalent machines — was perfectly logical and justified.
Ashkas are dangerous, so they need to be tied up in a fight. A Corellian corvette and the Scimitar squadron will cover the Chimaera. Bombers, loaded to the brim with self-guided shaped-charge rockets, are a perfectly adequate countermeasure against the enemy's fast aircraft.
"Port side artillery," Gilad commanded. "Target — the nearest Acclamator. Starboard side — same."
This way, we were engaging two of the six large enemies with firepower simultaneously. The Bothan corvettes were coming head-on toward us, but they met with suppressive fire from our own screening starship and the bombers.
Showering us with a fan of scarlet fire, they retreated to preserve their own integrity.
The battle threatened to turn into a prolonged conflict, which was decidedly not in our interests.
Gilad acted admirably, but he didn't know everything.
By the concept he proposed, we would win — but after a certain amount of time.
"Thrawn speaking," I said quietly into the comlink. "Put me through to Captain Tomax Bren."
Gilad, standing nearby, gave me a searching look.
I remained silent, waiting to see if he would understand my intentions.
"Captain Bren on the line," the communication device responded.
I kept my eyes fixed on Gilad. Then I shifted my gaze to the corvettes fleeing from us with all the power of their nozzles...
The Chimaera's commander followed my gaze.
"Captain Bren, Captain Pellaeon speaking," he caught on. Excellent. He understands me. But his decision-making speed needs work. "Prepare the Scimitar for a strike."
* * *
"PLAE is ready to begin operation," Alex reported to him.
Tomax finished checking all systems.
The Scimitar, still unique in its kind, left the rectangular maw of the Chimaera's main hangar.
"OCC — commencing mission," Tomax said into his helmet microphone.
"Distance to enemy — forty-three units," Alex reported.
How quickly technicians turn into full-fledged bomber crew members.
"Targets locked, transferred to seeker heads," the technician continued.
Then again, when your bombardier is essentially also a flight mechanic, it's a huge help for maintaining the bomber in combat-ready condition.
A very sensible division of duties. The pilot is responsible for flying the ship and firing the side-mounted guns; the bombardier is responsible for managing the external weapons systems and the machine's condition.
Yes, I should supplement the Scimitar pilot training manual with this point.
"Burn," Tomax warned, pushing the accelerator control stick forward.
The acceleration on the Scimitar doesn't even compare to a micro-jump, for one simple reason.
It's too slow. And not nearly as spectacular.
Two seconds after activating the PLAE, Tomax returned the lever to its original position.
The world around returned to normal speed, only the swift machine continued its motion, positioned precisely between the streams of fire spewed by the retreating enemy corvettes as they began their next pass.
"Computer has locked targets," Alex reported. "Shall we bang them?"
"We'll bang them," Tomax said, not one for beating around the bush.
He raked the stern of one corvette with his cannons, forcing it to veer slightly...
And at that moment, self-guided shaped-charge rockets slipped out of the Scimitar's bomb bay.
"Maneuvering," Tomax warned, fully aware that staying in the middle of the ocean of fire that both corvettes' gunners, now realizing why a hostile contact had appeared on their scanners, were about to unleash on the bomber.
Sensors reported the launches of the shaped-charge rockets.
Banking into a turn, he used the PLAE again to get clear.
As soon as Tomax cut the engines, relaxed his fingers gripping the PLAE control stick, the high-speed bomber plummeted like a stone into the sea of laser fire the pilot had been so carefully avoiding for a fraction of a second.
They ended up near the stern of an Acclamator-II, which the guys from Grey Wing squadron were diligently polishing with all their guns.
Lieutenant Krieg Jainer and his subordinates, having lost one craft, were forcing the Ashkas to do something unusual for them — defend themselves.
A rocket passed about ten meters from the Scimitar, and then the bomber emerged from the crossfire zone — without a single scratch.
Tomax gave a grim smile. He belatedly realized he still had "presents" left in his bomb bay. Both Bothan corvettes were spinning at a distance of thirty units from the bomber's current position, helplessly tumbling in the hope of fixing their dire situation. Interesting, how did they plan to do that when they no longer had engines?
"Chimaera OCC to Scimitar-Leader," came the voice in his helmet's earphones. "The Grand Admiral conveys his highest approval."
Still, it would have been better if they'd delivered more rockets. Straight into the bomb bay.
But all the same — the comment warmed the soul.
"New assignment," the controller continued. "Prepare to strike."
"Scimitar-Leader to OCC," Tomax acknowledged, laying the craft over onto its right wing, avoiding an Ashka that came head-on and simultaneously shredding it with his burst. "Ready for mission."
* * *
If this were happening in an atmosphere, you could say Jainer's interceptor dropped onto its prey with the piercing screech of a diving bird of prey.
In reality, it's much more prosaic.
Sound doesn't travel in a vacuum.
But that doesn't make it any easier for anyone.
The guns of the Grey Wing leader's craft burned a black scar into the assault cruiser's armor.
Already completing his climb and pulling into a turn, Krieg slammed a burst into a turret that came into view.
Unfortunately, he didn't see an explosion, but the turret stopped firing. Rushing past it again, the lieutenant grinned — he had cleanly sheared off the turbolaser barrels.
He switched to pursuing his next opponent.
The Ashka was fighting desperately for its survival, constantly trying to break away, but who was going to let it?
From one side, then the other, the pilots were raked with green or golden-crimson fire.
The Ashka darted aside, avoiding a turbolaser shot from the Chimaera — and at that moment, Krieg gutted the enemy craft with a short burst.
Immediately after, he dove "down," preventing his own craft from getting damaged by flying through the cloud of debris.
Right ahead, crimson beams lanced across, and an Ashka flashed past behind them. The squadron commander pressed the trigger — but only managed one insignificant scorch mark on the armor.
The enemy was pulling away, heading closer to its mother ship.
Leaving behind the wreckage of one of Jainer's interceptors.
So, he had already lost two.
He made a note on his scanner.
"Squadron," he addressed his pilots on the appropriate channel, "this one is mine."
The death of one's pilots cannot go unpunished.
Especially when you have half a unit under your command — pilots with minimal flight skills. They had participated in a few battles, but nothing more. That's not enough to "toughen up."
And now they'll never become aces.
Just like those bastards who shot them down.
Judging by the identification markings on the hull, he was now chasing not just any ace who had shot down several dozen Imperial pilots.
He was pitted against a squadron commander.
His pilots were in "free hunt" mode, attacking the enemy in pairs. Meanwhile, the rookies were making the attack runs — only four of them were left now. The "veterans" were guarding the space, letting the young ones gain experience.
It seemed the enemy pilots' training was poor — their maneuvers were standard, formulaic, like they had textbooks in front of them. Seemed like they were new to the controls. That made it easier — those types are easier to hunt.
But their commander...
Krieg threw himself into the pursuit, fired again, painting another black spot on the Ashka's armor, almost in the same place as the first time. The enemy started climbing, using acceleration to execute a loop and get on Jainer's tail. The Grey Wing squadron commander leveled his craft, flipped over, and met the enemy completing its maneuver with fire from all guns.
The shell of the Ashka's cockpit burst like a broken egg.
A fire flashed inside — the equipment exploded.
The craft continued its flight, then exploded — systems overload.
"You are avenged, pilot," Jainer said quietly to his fallen subordinate. "Eternal flight."
Yes, the dead won't hear.
But it would ease the guilt a little, the guilt of not giving this particular pilot everything needed to survive a fight against an enemy ace.
The longer he commanded his own unit, the more he understood why Kreb never smiled.
Too many pilots had died before Black Wing became an elite squadron.
Too many were never given the knowledge and experience to survive in battle.
Krieg rolled his craft to the side, avoiding being shredded by a blue-white turbolaser shot from the nearest Acclamator-II.
"Come here," Jainer addressed the assault cruiser, accelerating to quickly get into the gunners' dead zone. "Thinking of taking me on?"
Slipping under the ship's "belly," he watched with a grim smile the welcoming, blinking magnetic containment field of the ship's only hangar.
"That's too obvious an invitation to pass up," he muttered, steering his craft into the hangar opening.
And a second later, he unleashed his fury on the ship's crew.
* * *
Having received a sensitive blow that literally tore a chunk out of its bow, the target on the starboard side began maneuvering, trying to move off the line of fire...
But couldn't — a huge white-orange flame swelled at the spot where its stern had been.
The sphere of fire expanded, nearly engulfing the entire ship in its light.
The viewport polarization systems activated, saving our eyes from temporary blindness.
When the radiation subsided, it turned out the ship had lost its tail fin. And half its engines.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tiny dot appear on the tactical monitor near the Chimaera.
"The Scimitar has returned to the hangar for rotation," came the report from the pit.
"Transmit telemetry — next target is the medium cruiser on the port side," Gilad ordered. "Grey Wing has already destroyed the escort squadron there, so..."
Pellaeon stopped mid-sentence, watching as internal explosions tore the starship he had indicated to pieces.
I watched with interest as the shockwave bulged the seven-hundred-meter starship's hull, tearing it like paper, erupting in fountains of fire into the vacuum, where they died, deprived of fuel and oxidizer.
There is a certain charm in the death of starships... until it's your ship exploding.
"Sir, we have an update," a watch officer approached us. "Lieutenant Jainer flew into the hangar of that Acclamator-II," he nodded towards the disfigured hulk, "and shot the fuel tanks and ammunition dump."
"You're joking, right?" Pellaeon snapped, staring at the watch officer, who was wishing very hard at that moment that he could sink through the deck down to the engine room level. "What idiot keeps that in a hangar? Even back in the GAR days it was explicitly forbidden..."
"We're talking about Bothans, Captain," I reminded him peaceably. "The New Republic is in no way bound by the regulations and codes adopted by the Imperial Starfleet."
Pellaeon was silent for a second.
"After all, it's not our ship," he decided.
"Well... it certainly isn't now."
"Watch officer," Pellaeon addressed the officer standing nearby. "Make a note for the executive officer to conduct an inspection of explosive safety protocols aboard the Chimaera after we return to base."
"Aye, sir," the officer rapped out, turning to leave.
"Amendment," I said quietly. "Across the entire fleet."
It's easier to prevent a disaster than to deal with the consequences.
If you have a live example right before your eyes, isn't that a reason to conduct your own inspection? By the end of the month, the fleet should be returning to base — the time is more than convenient for inspections.
Besides, as practice shows, the sooner you announce your intention to hold a massive emergency review across the fleet, the sooner ship commanders and crews will get things in order, noticing even those minor oversights they preferred to overlook during campaigns.
"Aye, sir," the watch officer said, a bit louder. A smile even flickered across his face.
Understandable — the thought that your crew won't be the only one running around with their tails on fire warms the heart.
The key question remains — did Lieutenant Tschel miss the safety moment, or didn't he?
It would be unfortunate if such a promising officer allowed such a major violation.
* * *
Shira had just finished diagnostics and reprogramming of an old Separatist B-1 model droid when the door to the technical bay swung open, shattering her solitude.
"You said no one followed you?" no sooner had she lifted her gaze from her work, glad that another metal "dummy" would be returned to service, than two strong male hands grabbed her by the collar of her jacket and yanked her out of her chair.
Flying into the air, the girl looked in horror at her brother's face, twisted with rage. She even ignored the fact that she had dropped both her tool and datapad from her hands.
Reom was, of course, far from being a "good brother," but she had never seen him in such fury before.
Reom.
The tips of his lekku twitched erratically, indicating the emotions overwhelming her brother. His pupils were dilated, as if he had recently taken spice. His hands held her so tightly that her clothes began to dig into her body.
"What are you even talking about?" the girl blurted out. "I was careful, I lost the tail and..."
"You stupid idiot!" Reom roared in her face. "An Imperial Star Destroyer in orbit! And a bunch of other ships with it! TIE interceptors are prowling over Raxus Prime! Landing barges are coming in for touchdown! You led them right to us!"
"That can't be," Shira shook her head in denial. "It's a mistake! A coincidence!"
"Idiot!" the girl screamed in her face, hurling her away from him with force.
Flying about a meter, Shira slammed her back into a technical cabinet, hitting the back of her head painfully.
"Holy prosthetics, what a massive screw-up!" Reom continued shouting. "All these years, everything was fine! Those morons from Yiyar found the ship, saved the crew and cargo! I spent years restoring this tub! We were on the verge of freedom! And just when I'm ready to try and lift the ship off the surface, go for the cargo, the Imperials show up! Right after you, you worthless fool, showed up here where nobody asked you to come!"
"For me to just sit tight in IsoTech, someone should have been sending me money and equipment!" Shira flared up. "Yav Yiyar nearly tore me apart! Only an idiot would just sit and wait for you to deign to carry out your plans! I spent years playing a target so nobody would come to this dump! Enough! I'm tired!"
"You're tired?" Reom bellowed. "All you had to do was sit and play the grieving sister!"
Her brother was right next to her, and before she could raise her hands, he landed a terrible blow with his fist to her face.
"You worthless fool!" Reom kept yelling. "Do you know how much it cost to restore this hulk? Millions! Do you know how many Imperial asses I kissed to make sure this ship was listed as destroyed in all reports? Do you!?"
Almost every one of his words was accompanied by a blow from one hand or the other. Sometimes he added a kick with his knee, but Shira, accustomed to beatings since childhood, curled up, diligently protecting her face and head.
It helped, though, not much.
Either she had grown unaccustomed to Reom's regular beatings, or he had gotten better at it. Probably the latter, considering how many years he'd spent defending this place — the ship — from Rodian marauders.
"How could we possibly have the same father, you dimwitted…" He let slip a curse equivalent to 'whore,' deliberately trying to wound her because he knew his sister was nothing of the sort. "You animal!"
He grabbed her lekku with his hand and squeezed until it hurt, making the girl cry out and drop her guard.
And at that moment, he punched her in the jaw, shattering it.
From the wave of pain washing over her, the girl could only moan and try to block the next blow, but…
Her brother had anticipated that.
He threw his sister onto the floor and kicked her square in the gut with his heavy boot, putting his full weight behind it. Shira rolled to the side, tried to get up, but Reom, with a single sweeping kick, broke her elbow joint, striking it from the opposite side of its natural bend.
A groan of pain tore from the girl's chest.
Which Reom accompanied with a boot to the face.
Bones cracked audibly.
"You animal! Traitor! Bitch!" Reom kept screaming as he rained down blows. "I raised you, you ungrateful creature!" a fist to her face. "I gave you an education so you wouldn't have to shake your ass in clubs!" Now he grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her into the floor. "All you had to do was follow my orders! You have no idea how much money is on the line! Billions! Hundreds of billions!"
He insulted her and hit her, hit her and insulted her. Shira's eyes had already lost focus. Her mind began to cloud, and a thought surfaced — why wasn't Reom's beloved marshwing with him? The creature absolutely loved tearing flesh with its claws and licking up the blood that now streamed from her and…
After yet another blow slammed the back of her head against the floor, when she had already stopped resisting entirely, hoping it would all end — and this time, for good — Reom pulled back. He kicked her in the side. The girl could no longer even groan.
"Daddy wasn't wrong calling you the weakest link in our family." She felt something settle on her chest… Not very heavy, but… with claws. "It was high time to dump you like ballast. Too bad those idiots from the 'Yiyar' clan didn't finish you off — then I wouldn't have had to dirty myself with your pathetic life. Well, never mind — that's fixable. You die, and my share grows. Goodbye, fool. May your death be as agonizing as the last ten minutes of your life."
With these words, the man strode toward the exit and disappeared into the corridor. The girl thought distantly, staring at the ceiling, that he was probably already in the turbolift, heading to the bridge… And he'd left her to die.
And at that moment, a blurred shadow clouded her vision.
"Kraaawwww!!!" a blood-curdling shriek, familiar since childhood, the sound of her brother siccing his pet on her — made the girl tremble.
Oh no, no, no!
How many times as a child had she thought her life would end like this — that after a fight, Reom would make his marshwing devour her, peck out her face, her eyes…
In any other situation, rational beings would laugh at these fantasies — marshwings fed exclusively on small animals, despite being able to carry up to ten times their own weight.
But Reom's marshwing had been trained by her brother quite differently.
Her vision treacherously cleared, and the blurred green-gray shadow gained definition.
With a squeal closer to a gurgle, Shira tried to shove the creature off with her relatively healthy arm. But it only flew upward, and after she rolled onto her stomach to get up, it landed on her shoulders, sinking its claws into her skin through her jacket.
Shira screamed when the creature's beak stabbed the back of her head. The girl felt blood trickle down her skin. The creature hadn't pierced her skull, which meant…
The marshwing's next peck struck her lekku, making the girl scream at the top of her lungs, roll across the floor, and try to fight the creature off. But the marshwing, trained to kill, did not relent.
It tore at her with the claws of all four of its legs, leaving painful wounds, pecked at any exposed skin, increasing the number of large and small wounds across her body…
Shira was screaming, trying to fight back.
She looked for a weapon to hit the creature with, but couldn't find anything because of the streams of blood flowing into her eyes from the wounds on her forehead.
She tried to crawl away, but the marshwing grabbed her and literally dragged her back. For a creature weighing only about five kilograms, her body was no burden to carry, and…
She shouldn't have thought that.
The next moment, the girl felt all four sets of claws dig into the skin of her back. She screamed as she felt the marshwing lift her off the deck.
After making a small circle around the workshop, it rose all the way to the ceiling and dropped her onto the deck from a height of thirty to fifty feet.
After her body exploded with a fountain of pain from head to toe upon impact, Shira, lying on her back, no longer gave a damn that her limp body was being torn apart by claws and beak.
She could barely feel anything anymore. The fall had evidently broken her spine.
The girl's vision was clouding, the pain was fading, and she couldn't care less that her stomach was being clawed open and torn to pieces by the strong bone beak.
As paradoxical as it sounds, she felt a breath of cold filling her body and was glad that it was all ending as her consciousness faded.
And it ended.
Forever.
* * *
We were finishing the Bothan slaughter.
The Chimaera was literally sweeping everything off the decks of the last combat-ready Acclamator II with hurricane fire — anything that stood out even slightly from the plane of its armor plating.
Proudly displaying four breaches on its starboard side — gifts from the enemy's anti-ship missiles and proton torpedoes — my flagship destroyer was burning out the last pockets of resistance on the enemy vessel.
The net result: we had damage, lost two turrets and one battery. Fourteen TIE Interceptor pilots and two bomber pilots would not be returning to their launch bays.
As for the Bothan fleet — destroyed.
And that wasn't just a pretty "figure of speech."
We had smashed the last major ships of Bothawui.
They had nothing left — only layered defenses consisting of a planetary deflector shield and anti-space defense weaponry.
In practical terms — we could attack tomorrow and burn the Bothan homeworld with orbital bombardment.
Another man in my position would have done exactly that, as a retaliatory measure for a personal vendetta against his person.
But why give the enemy grounds to cry about being a victim of aggression?
No, it would all be far more prosaic.
Bothawui had no fleet.
All of their career military personnel were either destroyed or in our custody. And that opened up opportunities for exchanging prisoners for "something substantial."
Money, valuables, technology, blackmail…
Among the captured enemies were representatives of very prominent and well-known Bothan clans.
Like Admiral Kre'fey himself, currently on his knees in hologram form, surrounded by fighters of the Fourth Squad, glaring angrily around. He was evidently not pleased that I had three extra legions of stormtroopers on hand, who took his ship with ease — albeit without the support of droidekas (of which the Chimaera clearly didn't have enough for such a large boarding force). Or maybe it was because his precious fur had been singed by a flamethrower during the storming of the Bothan flagship's bridge?
Either way, it wasn't particularly important right now.
The result was the same — we had crushed the Bothawui fleet.
And the net result was that the fleet would gain another pair of CR90 corvettes (after their sterns were built up and engines installed — or they'd simply be scrapped for parts) and four Acclamator II assault cruisers. Two of them would have to be left behind until a ship with engine and hyperdrive parts arrived from Tangrene.
For now, watching the tactical display, I observed the four assault cruisers and several shuttles using tractor beams to tow the hulls of the enemy corvettes toward the zone where the repaired Guardian was drifting. The wrecked CR90s would be brought aboard the Super Star Destroyer, while the cruisers would undergo whatever repairs were feasible and temporarily become escorts for the wedge-shaped ship.
Once we finished all our business in the system, we would need to leave a garrison here to guard the ships from any attempts to take them, as well as the mobile bases on the planet… What was the point of bringing them back aboard the Super Star Destroyer? It would be far more useful to actually leave a permanent outpost and listening station here to observe the sector and use its results for the upcoming expansion.
The battle had once again confirmed a simple truth — we needed to increase the number of Scimitars. Their mass deployment would allow us to seize control of the battle, taking enemy starships out of action with fast, pinpoint strikes.
Though, once again, we'd either have to keep a ship with spare parts on "standby" or avoid striking hyperdrives.
Because the number of operational groups exceeded our ability to provide each of them with an interdictor cruiser or an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer.
Still, there was always a chance that we would gain the production capacity to manufacture our own ships of this type. But for now, the only thing we could do to increase the number of such ships in the fleet was to follow Robin Hood's rule.
If everything went well, Captain Irvin and Captain Tyberos would soon deliver us another Immobilizer 418.
However, these were all details.
"Damage repairs are proceeding at full capacity, sir," said Gilad, approaching my chair and stopping beside me out of habit.
"Good," I said, issuing an order to Sergeant TNX-0297. "Deliver the enemy fleet commander to a cell aboard my flagship."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," the stormtrooper confirmed, and the hologram faded.
"What are your further orders, sir?" Pellaeon inquired.
"Take the Chimaera to its starting position," I ordered.
"We're not preparing to withdraw from the system?" Gilad was surprised.
"No, Captain," I confirmed his suspicions. "You don't think this little battle — a foregone victory — was the crowning achievement of the Guardian's campaign?"
The Chimaera's commander twitched his silver mustache.
"Attention!" came the gravacoustic operator's voice. "Registering movement on an incoming vector. Small vessel. Estimated class — corvette."
"Battle stations!" Gilad barked.
"Belay that," I ordered. Our gazes met for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "Not yet, Captain."
A second later, the predatory hull of the Raider-class corvette emerged from hyperspace.
"Receiving identification codes," the watch officer reported. "Codes confirmed. It's Captain Makeno's ship. Confirmed presence of two of our personnel aboard."
"I wouldn't call that blue-haired Slicer a military serviceman, even in a fever dream," Gilad grumbled.
"And yet, Mr. Pent is part of our Cryptography Department," I reminded him.
"Consisting entirely of sentients who all look alike," Gilad sighed.
"What can you do, Captain," I said. "Hard times call for proportionate measures. Would you do me a favor?"
Gilad looked at me with surprise.
"Yes, sir, of course…" he said hesitantly. "How can I be of service?"
"Have you ever commanded an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer?"
To say that a grim suspicion appeared on Gilad's face would be an understatement.