Nine years, eight months, and thirty-four days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fourth year, eight months, and thirty-fourth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and nineteen days since the Arrival.)
Captain Makeno was trying to appear composed.
Even now — cut off from his ship, his allies, his equipment, surrounded by guards who could turn from impassive sentries into executioners in an instant — he was trying to maintain appearances. Such self-control could not help but command respect.
But at the same time, the consequences would be dire if one forgot who this man truly was. And in the long list of his "accomplishments," turning his navy special forces comrades into a gang of mercenary hijackers was, indeed, only a small part of his "exploits."
"I am grateful that you delivered my people safely to their destination, Captain Makeno." We were conversing in the conference room, not far from the main hangar.
All communication frequencies were currently blocked, so even if he had any electronics that my specialists hadn't found during the search, it would do him little good. Including in matters of information.
"I was promised payment," Orsan said in a calm tone.
"You will receive your payment," I confirmed the terms of our earlier agreement. "Immediately."
Major Tierce, standing behind me, stepped up to the table and placed a small, shiny ingot upon it. It wasn't heavy — about a hundred grams, no more. Or so the engraving on its surface claimed.
But it was auridium — which meant that even such a small portion of treasure from the Guardian's holds was worth millions at any exchange point in the galaxy.
The captain's pupils dilated in surprise.
"That must be close to twenty million," he said quietly. Uncertainty colored his voice.
"This is a small auridium ingot, smelted to all Imperial Treasury standards," I explained. "Its value on the black market is around fifty to a hundred million. Judging by your reaction, this is the first time you've seen such a large sum in exchange for your services."
Orsan swallowed audibly.
If he sold such an ingot even at the average of the prices I'd mentioned, somewhere in Hutt Space, he and each of his fourteen accomplices would net about five million. Which meant each of them could overnight become the owner of their own first-class ship. Or they could use banking services for investments, deposits, and so on, while living out the next few years without major financial troubles on some resort planet.
On the man's face, a battle of emotions played out — greed warring with honor and duty.
Of course, I could take the time to "break" him and verify what was encoded in Rederal's ciphered message — that Makeno was clearly working for someone who very much wanted to know where I was.
But… why, when I could solve all my problems with money in a single stroke?
Yes, it was wasteful. Some might even call it foolish. But time was the most important thing right now. Only that.
Because if I didn't act in time, it would hurt very, very badly.
And possibly fatally.
"I didn't think those two were that important to you," Makeno muttered. "I imagined a generous reward, of course, but this generous…"
"This isn't just payment for saving my people," I explained, sending the ingot sliding across the table toward the special forces officer with a casual flick. "It's also payment for betrayal."
Makeno, who had already been reaching for the ingot, stopped. The auridium came to a halt a few centimeters from the table's edge on his side.
The officer lifted his gaze from the precious metal and looked at me with displeasure.
"Say that again," he said, implying that I'd better explain myself.
"By all means," I replied indifferently, stroking the ysalamiri lounging in my arms. "You traded a career as an excellent Imperial officer for the fate of a raider, a mercenary, and, effectively, a pirate. You persuaded fourteen of your colleagues to do the same. You broke the Oath you took when you pinned on the command badge of an Imperial officer."
"Decided to lecture me?" the man squinted.
"Stating facts," I corrected.
"Then we're in the same situation," Makeno said. "You were the Supreme Commander of Imperial Space, the official successor to the Galactic Empire. Now you've become the leader of the Dominion — supposedly a pro-Imperial state, but it's your own fiefdom, isn't it?"
"Correct," I didn't deny it. "The Dominion is my creation."
"Then you're as much a traitor as I am," Makeno said boldly.
Rukh, a gray shadow, materialized behind the special forces officer's chair.
"Stand down," I ordered, before the obsidian dagger could sink into Orsan's neck. "This man has rendered us invaluable services. Moreover, he is our guest, and killing those who come to us voluntarily, who have shown hospitality, who have given shelter to their brothers-in-arms, is unforgivable. And immoral. Isn't that right, Captain Makeno?"
The officer glanced at Rukh sheathing his weapon. He looked at me slowly, licking his lips furtively.
"Right," he said hoarsely.
"The Dominion values qualified personnel, Captain," I continued the process. "You and your men could take their place as an elite unit in our fleet. Especially since, according to what you've reported, your contract with the previous employer ended in failure. Does that mean you are currently looking for a new position?"
The special forces officer looked at the auridium.
Then back at me.
"We have certain obligations that preclude working for you," he said, his voice trembling slightly.
"Is that so," I said in a knowing tone.
We were silent for a few seconds, after which I broke the silence once more.
"Tell me, Captain, what are your rates? You and your men?"
"It depends on the nature of the activity and the assignment," he answered evasively.
"So you always ask your client to disclose their intentions in advance?" I clarified.
"Yes," the man replied.
"And you receive full payment upfront?" I asked again.
"After the job is done," the man replied. From the expression on his face, he was beginning to have a vague suspicion.
Good. I appreciated sharp-witted sentients.
"In that case, would it be a major breach of contract on your part if I asked you to tell me what price Warlord Ennix Devian put on my head?" The question hit the special forces officer like a blow to the gut.
He started breathing rapidly, his eyes bulging, his hands involuntarily clenching into fists…
"Don't make any sudden moves," I advised, stroking the lizard, which, for the first time in our entire acquaintance, bared its teeth at the naval special forces officer. "Rukh will kill you before you can do anything to harm me or any of the other sentients present here. I would hate to lose such a promising asset."
"What do you want?" Makeno asked quickly.
"Your honesty," I said. "The very fact that you didn't deny being hired by Devian pleases me. I appreciate your candor. Still, won't you satisfy my curiosity about the price?"
The officer was silent for a few seconds.
"Two million," he admitted at last. "In Hutt currency."
"If I remember the exchange rate correctly, that would be six million in New Republic credits. In Dominion currency — ten. Not a bad fee for a single assassination."
The mercenary said nothing.
"I don't think I need to tell you that your men are currently under arrest, and my specialists are already working on your corvette," I continued. It wouldn't be rational to mention right now that we had initially done this to conceal the movement of Pellaeon and several pilots to the Guardian. "Including the Mr. Pent you're acquainted with."
"So I take it he's a very good 'slicer' if he managed to crack the encryption algorithms of the Raider's communication systems," Orsan spat.
"One of the best," I acknowledged. "But that's not the point. Didn't you ever ask your employer why he wanted to eliminate one of the most effective Imperial commanders who had clashed with the New Republic over the past ten years?"
"The motives of my employer do not interest me," Makeno said. "Besides, hardly anyone would tell you."
"On the contrary, I'll tell you." The statement sparked genuine interest in the special forces officer. "Have you ever been to Warlord Devian's base in the Ghost Nebula?"
"A couple of times," the special forces officer answered evasively. Wise — why persist when your game was already lost? Cooperation helped prolong life and find an opportunity to preserve it in the long term.
Especially since I had demonstrated my knowledge of a matter that was a secret to most sentients in the galaxy. A truthful answer would only help him establish contact with me to obtain more information. A mercenary was a mercenary, but you didn't trade in your past that quickly — the desire to fill information gaps was always great.
"Did you ever wonder why most of his fleet consists of ships from the Clone Wars era, belonging to the Old Republic?" I inquired.
In truth, I had no certainty about this — the former hired killer of Palpatine likely had other types of starships, more modern than the veterans of a conflict that had concluded almost thirty years ago.
"He has plenty of modern destroyers too," the special forces officer answered cautiously, continuing to study me with his gaze.
"Correct," I confirmed. "However, he received the bulk of his forces from a secret fleet mothballing base. Not long ago, I took the remaining assets from it. For this reason, left without a source to replenish his fleet and equipment, the former hired killer decided to get rid of me. A fairly simple — I would even say, primitive — logic: decapitate the command in order to seize control of the remaining forces."
"But it has worked many times in the past," Makeno objected.
"I won't argue," I agreed. "However, I suggest you think about why Devian — himself a professional killer — didn't dare to carry out this mission himself."
"Thinks a warlord shouldn't be on the front lines?" Makeno suggested. "He is, after all, the leader of his own faction."
"I believe you saw, when you approached our destroyer, that we recently engaged in battle," I said.
"Naval commanders, unlike ground ones, don't sit in the rear," Makeno recalled a well-known saying.
"And combat officers also know the value of allies," I continued. "More than once on the battlefield, an enemy can become a friend."
"And vice versa." Oh, how I'd been waiting for you to say that yourself.
"More than true," I confirmed. "The logic of a hired killer doesn't involve leaving witnesses alive. Especially ones to whom Devian owes money. And — very large sums of money, at that."
From the height of a Dominion ruler, it might seem that ten million isn't such a large sum. Even a hundred million.
But not so long ago, we were suffering from a lack of credits, so we continue spending them wisely. A small sum could be spent — and Makeno and his men let go, kicked in the ass with a regulation boot. As in, thank you for keeping our specialists safe, but we don't need you anymore.
Or we could kill them all, take the Raider-class corvette for ourselves, and quietly continue the operation.
Or we could spend a hundred million but gain something far more valuable than an ingot of aurodium. Especially since I already have a deposit under my control. Which, upon our return, will of course be developed much faster and on a larger scale. Not to mention the search for precious materials in other parts of the territories under Dominion control. Oh, the asteroid field around Lok, new 'guests' await you.
"He never tried to part ways with us like this before," Orsan stated. "And he always honored the terms of the contract."
So the story about executed comrades is a fabrication. No one really doubted it, but it doesn't hurt to confirm.
"In that case, I suggest you remain aboard the Chimaera," I said. "And personally observe how events unfold. I believe that in the near future, Warlord Devian's fleet will pay us a visit."
Orsan shuddered again.
I wonder what he knows that makes a man, an experienced soldier and saboteur, feel so uneasy?
"I don't have a choice anyway, do I?" he clarified.
"Not the slightest," I agreed.
The special forces captain thought for a few seconds, then said:
"In that case, I agree..."
Well, of course; as if anyone would be interested in your objections.
On the contrary, you and your men are destined for front-row seats in the upcoming spectacle.
."..though," the special forces officer continued, "I'd like to return to my own ship. You know, we hunted for it for quite a while. The perfect machine for our group's raids."
"I'm afraid I must deny you that small favor," I countered. "You see, I'll need the Raider-class corvette for a certain demonstration — for you and your subordinates. Don't worry," I added, seeing the concern on the captain's face. "Your men won't be harmed. Provided we come to a mutual understanding, of course."
"And if we don't?" he asked warily.
"Then they will become victims of your employer's treachery," I replied simply. "And yes, do take that aurodium ingot. It's yours regardless. As already stated — services involving betrayal must be rewarded."
"I don't consider this betrayal," Makeno declared. "I do the work I'm best at."
"As do we all," I agreed. "In that case, consider that I've bought this Raider-class corvette from you."
"Interesting," Makeno chuckled, turning the ingot over in his hands and tucking it into his trouser pocket. "Do you often pay mercenaries such generous sums?"
"More often than you can imagine," I stated, glancing at the chronometer. Yes, it's about to start. Provided, of course, that the analytical department correctly correlated the information from the Raider's onboard computer with the data received from Delta Source. "But in this particular case, it may happen that the Raider won't survive the day."
Makeno's face turned so pale you could draw on it like chalk.
* * *
"Registering the 'mutants,'" reported the officer in charge of the scanning systems.
"Number?" Captain Stormaer inquired.
"Up to three squadrons," came the immediate reply.
"Send two squadrons of TIE interceptors and a support corvette from our escort group to counter them," the formation commander ordered.
"Aye, sir."
The Fury of the Void was entering high geostationary orbit above the "galactic junkyard" the surface of the planet Raxus Prime.
Once, this world (and others like it, though less "replicated") had been used by the Galactic Empire to process metal delivered to the planet over millennia. Near the planet existed one of the Empire's most famous shipyards, producing large starships. Mostly, these were ships of the Imperial-class, which among naval officers were nicknamed "trash ships." Of course, the derogatory nicknames referred primarily to the source of the metal, which was smelted at the shipyard to produce necessary hull and armor components.
Overall, however, the ships built at this shipyard were qualitatively no different from those produced on the slips of Kuat Drive Yards, Fondor, Foerost, and dozens of other large and small enterprises across the galaxy.
For example, the Imperial I-class Star Destroyer once named the Allegiance was built right here. Before a mysterious incident on the planet led to the shipyard's destruction.
Now the Allegiance no longer exists. The same Star Destroyer exists, but it bears the name Fury of the Void. And Antonias learned about where it was "born" not too long ago. Usually, ship commanders don't bother with such information, but upon receiving orders to move to this planet, the destroyer's captain decided to check his wild guess...
And here it turns out he commands one of those very "trash" Star Destroyers...
Offensive?
Not in the slightest.
Because in the Dominion fleet, no one cares where your Star Destroyer was built. Among captains of this type of ship, there is an increasingly strong desire to hurry to a shipyard and let the workers turn a "Mark I" or "Mark II" into a "Mark III."
Rumors about a new version of the Imperial-class, cautious at first, then increasingly obvious, appeared almost immediately after the annexation of the Oplovis sector to the Dominion was announced.
From this, one could conclude that the battle baptism of the "Mark III" or "Mark IIIs" took place directly there. Quite possibly, the ship is now being rid of structural or other errors identified during initial operation (a standard practice), after which mass conversions will begin. But logic suggested that the first to receive such changes would be the numerous destroyers captured during recent operations — including in Oplovis itself.
It's rather costly to take a completely intact, undamaged ship and send it to a shipyard for a month or more to gut its combat-ready interior and turn it into something far more lethal. It's economically more advantageous to do this with damaged ships — and even then, only when they need medium or even major repairs.
So Antonias didn't fool himself about the speed of the Fury of the Void's conversion. At least because no official announcements about the appearance of this ship type had come from command. That meant there was still work to be done on the prototype.
Thoughts about modifying the ship vanished as soon as the forward fighters engaged the enemy "mutants."
The abundance of damaged and scrapped fighters, interceptors, and bombers of all types across the galaxy gave pirates, scavengers, and other criminal and associated dregs the opportunity to create the most unimaginable spawn of a designer's hell in metal.
This hideous-looking hybrid was called "mutants," but there were no strict evaluation criteria. See a fuselage of one small craft welded with parts from another? Don't waste time identifying the ship type — call it a "mutant" without hesitation. You won't be wrong.
"The task force ships have begun establishing a blockade," the watch officer reported.
"Maximum vigilance," Stormaer ordered. "Monitor vectors from Raxus Secundus, as well as system entry vectors. We don't need to clash with Tion ships as well."
Hearing confirmation of his order, the commander of the Fury of the Void looked at the tactical monitor.
So, the Star Destroyer under his command had already moved into the region of space indicated by Dominion intelligence agents. And the scanners had already detected the primary objective of the entire operation — the Imperial Star Destroyer believed destroyed when it crashed onto the planet.
However, data from Viper-class scout droids launched from the flagship of the formation not participating in the current events indicated that this was not the case at all.
Yes, serious hull damage and torn plating were visible in many places, but traces of makeshift repairs were also present. Still, the scanners indicated that the hull had no critical damage. Therefore, the load-bearing beams were intact, not deformed to the degree that the starship would fall apart struggling against the gravity of Raxus Prime.
Alright, we admit, the repairs aren't that makeshift after all.
"Radiation scan!" Antonias ordered.
"Readings within normal parameters, sir!"
Thus, the solar ionization reactor on the enemy starship either wasn't damaged in the fall or had been restored.
A third option, where the main power plant is shut down, isn't even considered — since the ship is fighting, firing all weapons, that means its primary energy source is functional. Otherwise, the ship could never operate in such a state.
This, by the way, is the main difference and one of the biggest drawbacks when comparing this type of Star Destroyer with Mon Calamari star cruisers. The latter, despite the relative weakness of their main reactor, have many secondary ones that not only keep the ship moving when the main power plant is offline but also allow it to continue fighting without any serious loss of firepower.
Ah, if only this ship "ailment" were fixed on the "Mark III." How much freer would that make commanders of such ships serving the Dominion in battles with line-class ships belonging to the New Republic or other enemies.
The massive engines attached to the sides of the damaged ship indicated that its current owners intended to lift the Star Destroyer from the surface. And if the droids correctly identified the type and make of the attached contraptions, there was every chance the enemy would succeed.
But he wasn't getting out of here.
"Detecting warm-up of makeshift launch engines!" the watch officer reported. "Four additional squadrons of 'mutants' launching from the surface. Correction," the same officer added a second later. "The enemy is lifting another seven squadrons of droid fighters and Hyena-class bombers... Correction! Another twelve squadrons of droid fighters! Launching from camouflaged hangars on the surface."
One could almost believe the Separatist machines were simply waiting their turn on the scrap heap, pretending to be abandoned junk.
"Detecting the enemy ship breaking away from the surface! Gaining altitude! Flak fire from turret artillery!"
"Our corvette has damage! Beginning evasive maneuvers, moving off the attack vector!"
Antonias licked his lips furtively.
Oh, how he wanted to open fire on that destroyer now and send it crashing back to the planet's surface.
But under no circumstances could he do that, because the primary goal of the operation was to capture the ship, not return it to the pit where it had lain all this time.
"Enemy destroyer has reached the atmosphere boundary!"
"Detecting explosions in three launch engines!"
"Brief altitude drop!"
"Recovering! Continuing to gain altitude!"
"Enemy on lower geostationary orbit!"
"Using a massive screen of droid fighters to counter our interceptors and corvette! The 'mutants' are staying close to the enemy ship!"
The Fury of the Void, standing in the path of the once-damaged ship, absorbed the full weight of its turbolasers and ion cannons the next moment. But with the deflectors reinforced by the SEAL system salvaged from a smashed Republic MC80-class star cruiser, they didn't even think of collapsing.
Antonias glanced at the tactical monitor. There, a diagram displayed data on the enemy ship. And the Fury of the Void's onboard computer, based on scanner readings fed into it, made an unequivocal conclusion — the enemy ship had an extremely low organic crew count. No more than two dozen.
But the minimum possible crew required to even make a Star Destroyer move is five thousand sentients.
The commander of the Fury of the Void didn't believe the enemy could have modified the ship so successfully since its crash to eliminate the need for a large crew. That's simply impossible.
It's far more plausible that, since the enemy was restoring Vulture droids and Hyena bombers, they had requisitioned and reprogrammed Separatist droids, using them as the missing crew members for the destroyer.
Soon enough, Stormaer's Star Destroyer's boarding teams would establish that with guaranteed accuracy.
"Sir," the watch officer appeared beside him. "Scanners show the enemy destroyer is jettisoning the launch engines. They're preparing for a breakthrough."
"They won't make it," Captain Stormaer assured him, watching as the huge sublight engine cylinders — once belonging to Providence-class carrier/destroyers — began tumbling chaotically along both sides of the enemy ship.
Ah, how much good stuff on this planet is hidden under tons of garbage...
What a shame the system is in space controlled by the government of the Tion Hegemony. And the Tions essentially dance to Valles Santhe's tune, and she dislikes both Imperials and Dominionites.
"Order our pilots to fall back and regroup near the Fury," Antonias said quickly. "Signal the formation — 'Jump!'"
Six heavy cruisers, an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, and eight Corellian support corvettes arrived minutes later, while the two triangular ships exchanged ranging salvos from their broadside batteries.
Now, to Stormaer's lone Star Destroyer and the four screening corvettes of the flagship, all the forces of the division were added.
"Deploy the gravity shadow generators, start laying interference. No ship gets out of here!"
One lone, crudely restored Star Destroyer and twenty-six squadrons of similarly low-quality small craft, against an Imperial I-class, a dozen Corellian corvettes, six Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers, and a destroyer whose gravity trawls had just taken away everyone's right to leave the site of the impending massacre over the right to possess the Imperial legacy.
Ah yes... On the Dominion formation's side, there were also seven squadrons of TIE interceptors, one squadron of bombers, kindly brought to the battle site by both destroyers, and one hundred and four TIE fighters that had just emerged from the heavy cruisers' hangars.
Twenty squadrons of Dominion small craft, supported by a dozen Corellian corvettes that had eaten a ranchor for breakfast neutralizing enemy air power, against twenty-seven enemy squadrons, most of which were droids?
Don't make me laugh. The only enemy small craft from which one could expect "surprises" and a relatively even fight were the "mutants," unpredictable by nature.
And droids... Garbage. Right that they're on a scrap heap. That's where they'll return.
The Empire didn't disdain the use of unmanned aerial vehicle technology aboard its ships for no reason.
Droids are stupid and fight according to templates loaded into their electronic brains.
The Dominion's cloned ace pilots had already slammed into the enemy droid small craft formation at extreme speeds.
On the Fury of the Void's tactical monitor, enemy droid markers began vanishing at tremendous speed...
Smiling, Antonias listened to the report that no message had come from the system requesting the Tion fleet to arrive at the battle site.
All the better — that meant he could fully enjoy the process of "acquiring" another Star Destroyer.
"Assault trooper boarding units — take positions in the assault shuttles," Antonias ordered. "Helmsman — moving to close with the enemy. Laser cannon and intermediate-caliber crews — stay alert; the enemy has numerical superiority in small craft. Ion cannons..." He paused for a moment. "Belay that. Tractor beam operators and ion cannon gunners — collect us some trophies from the 'mutants' and Hyenas."
In the fireball on Raxus Prime's orbit, the Void began gathering its bloody harvest.
The battle for possession of the "trash" Imperial I-class Star Destroyer had begun.
* * *
"Data decryption complete," Mr. Pent declared, leaning back from the computer. A satisfied smile wandered across his youthful face as he looked at me. Expecting praise, probably.
Frankly, I still strongly resist using the GeNod program, but under current circumstances, it was simply necessary.
The internal data network of Kuat Drive Yards is reliably protected against "external" intrusion — meaning it's impossible to access it except from terminals at Kuat's own facilities.
So I had to create a clone of the Slicer, removing from his memory everything the original had learned during his work for me and alongside Mara Jade. The probability of the man being captured is too high — and unlike Rederick, he would "sing like a nightingale." Even programming for loyalty can't guarantee the enemy doesn't have special means to suppress such conditioning.
Of course, the intelligence operative received an order — eliminate the Slicer, whose clonic nature he didn't know, in the event of capture threat. But that's a backup in case the clone falls into enemy hands, and his true origin isn't exposed. I'm not ready to tell anyone about the "ace up my sleeve." Palpatine, surely, if he doesn't know for certain, at least suspects that someone is after his treasure vault. But for now, the teams left on Wayland still report that no one has even tried to visit Mount Tantiss.
The main thing in all this is that Mr. Zakarisz Ghent himself doesn't know that there are clones of him in the galaxy. For him, it was a routine medical examination aboard one of the Acclamators, to which the cloning facilities were transferred shortly before the creation of the Dominion was announced.
And the "information warfare" that the Ghent clones are orchestrating — that's something truly remarkable. I wonder how effectively they would work if they were allowed to do whatever it takes to destroy the New Republic? Well, we'll see about that in the distant future.
"Thank you, Mr. Pent, good work," I said, examining the list of files uploaded to separate data chips.
Judging by the device labels, the data is of a significant volume. So there's no need to even consider that Pent somehow failed the task.
I opened a few files, quickly scanned the data in one, then another...
Technical descriptions, design documentation, development information, even historical chronicles... I don't know who compiles this kind of data in corporate files, but I suspect that after this invasion, they'll stop relying on their server security and switch to a "library" method of storing the most critical data — on data chips, as Palpatine did.
"Those naval specialists are quite clever," Pent stated. "They managed to get through the first layer of encryption and gain access to the file names."
"So Captain Makeno and his men are aware of what exactly you and your escort were doing at Kuat Drive Yards?" I inquired.
"They don't know the details," the clone clarified. If you look at him, he's increasingly acquiring a confidence uncharacteristic of the original. Less cowed behavior, more comprehensible, coherent statements. Is it the fact that he knows about his origin that's affecting him, or the shock of being captured? "I almost immediately changed the file names, creating duplicates. So, if the cipher had been removed by someone other than me, they would have gotten 'Medium Turbolaser Technical Specializations' instead of 'Gravity Shadow Mines.' Judging by the data chip logs, the names didn't impress them, and the special forces didn't try to 'break the ice' further. They probably thought the operation's goal was exactly that — technical data on weapons for independent production..."
Yes, Pent is no Ghent. It's even more pleasant to work with him. I wonder if Moff Ferrus is cursing me with third-tier profanity for such a "gift"?
The idea to send the original far from the Chimaera came to me almost immediately upon receiving the data about the successful cloning of Mr. Ghent. And why lie, I made a mistake when I first assigned him to work with Palpatine's files, only later realizing that the real Ghent wasn't really all that loyal.
So the boy was handed over to assist Moff Ferrus, but the clones... Each of them has their own task. Some work in groups, some alone...
Mostly, they work on verifying data on volunteers, recruits, and uncovering the ins and outs of the Ciutric Hegemony's economy. Things are getting more and more interesting there every day...
In fact, a lot rests on these clones.
They "crack" the encrypted data of Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel and his former circle, monitor information on the HoloNet, track the activity of buzz droids scattered across the galaxy, decrypt the data they supply, compiling a list of New Republic fleet ships, marking their bases of deployment. Not to mention that it is they who monitor the ship databases of the Imperial Fleet, determining the fate of almost every ship. Initially, the last task was necessary to understand how many ships Palpatine had taken for himself. The resulting number was impressive and amounted to almost half of the entire known fleet strength, which is naturally not the case. Therefore, the work continued to filter out the starships that have a guaranteed "trace."
Mr. Ghent's clones are searching for New Republic prisons holding Imperial prisoners, extracting enemy ciphers from the stream of messages passing through the relays under our control, which helps Lieutenant Colonel Astarion find and destroy enemy agent cells.
Everything that "slicers" can do — it's all on the clones' shoulders. Even ensuring the encryption and secrecy of communications between the bases and ships of our fleet. With a certain degree of skill, it is always possible to extract military communications from the data stream, even if they are encrypted with top-secret codes, as they are at present.
However, most of their assignments are unknown to anyone, even the hundred guards who provide round-the-clock security and support.
Of course, "no one" means "no one but me." I could task them with far more confidential information, such as Palpatine's secrets, but there's a problem.
Slicers of Mr. Ghent's level and his clones are uniques who, with all their obsessiveness and simple-mindedness, can overnight expose secret surveillance devices, uncover secrets, crack what is meant to be hidden.
And in the future, they have a task to make encryption turn our military frequency communications into unremarkable civilian messages. After all, enemy specialists can't possibly listen to every housewife conversation across the entire galaxy, can they?
Not to mention that it is they who oppose, in the HoloNet, attempts by Bothan and Republic slicers to gather as much information about us as possible and break into our data.
So they have an immeasurable amount of work, and it grows every day.
But Mr. Pent is needed on board the Chimaera.
"Your next assignment," I said, handing him the infochips from Palpatine's personal collection from Mount Tantiss that interested me. The real Ghent was told that his assignment had simply changed and that he was primarily needed to assist Moff Ferrus. Then something new would be found for him — for example, developing protection against that very code that allowed Mara Jade to connect to the central computers of Imperial military ships. Currently, he is working on this in his free time from his main job. And his main job at the moment…
The Slicer took several chips in his hands. He glanced through them.
"Is there a preference as to which of them should be cracked soon?"
Honestly, I would very much like to gain access to the files on the chip labeled "Thrawn's Hand." I know that was the name of the fortress that the real Thrawn founded in the Unknown Regions on the planet Nirauan. But something tells me that among the hundreds of files listed in the root directory of this chip, there are not only the geographical coordinates of the planet's location. Perhaps there is complete information about the resources of the future Empire of the Hand, the number of colonies, inhabited planets, data on concluded alliances, personal files of the Chiss and Imperials who sided with Thrawn, his own thoughts and conclusions of the real…
So, stop.
Enough of this.
"The real Thrawn," "the original Thrawn"… I am Thrawn, it's time to accept that. Yes, I need to somehow distinguish between what my predecessor in this body managed to do and what I have done, but constantly emphasizing that I am not the rightful owner of this body, but some kind of "hanger-on" that smacks of a mental disorder.
Perhaps, by this time in the events known to me, during his campaigns, territories comparable to those occupied by the New Republic were subjugated, but the original Thrawn could not…
No, there it is again.
Alright, in any case, for my own understanding, I should distinguish between us — but Thrawn is me. And everything that was before me was done by Mitth'raw'nuruodo. That's it, and only that.
So, let's return to my thoughts.
The real Thra… Mitth'raw'nuruodo clearly did not hide from Palpatine what he was doing in the Unknown Regions. He was sent there on just one Star Destroyer (whose location has still not been determined), but one must understand that with one ship and one, even the best crew, it is impossible to build such an Empire. Especially if one does not forget the fact that, right up until his return from the Unknown Regions, Mitth'raw'nuruodo was fighting against the Dominator Nuso Esva, who controlled almost all of the Unknown Regions.
It is also worth remembering that the "Hand of Thrawn" duology directly indicated that Nirauan had its own types of small craft, similar to Imperial ones, but in large quantities. Also, the fortress itself on the planet was perfectly armed and defended. What conclusion follows from this?
That's right — the Empire of the Hand (by the way, is it already called that now, or not yet?) has its own production. And it couldn't have grown out of nothing. Consequently, the industry there is either a result of Mitth'raw'nuruodo's fruitful cooperation with local species, or the results of Palpatine's support for him until his death almost six years ago.
Which version is actually true doesn't really matter.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo could not have failed to provide reports on his activities in the Unknown Regions, and Palpatine could not have kept them in open access. Consequently, the information chip should contain the most detailed information about what Mitth'raw'nuruodo "dug up." At least in those scales that Palpatine considered most valuable and worthy of preservation.
But, again, if you look at the names of other information chips, it becomes extremely interesting. Because there is a suspicion that the Emperor stored data on literally everything. But without a deep analysis of this information, you can't just say whether something is outdated or not.
And, what is most annoying, he used completely different algorithms for encrypting and archiving information to protect the data. That is, having "found a key" to one program, there is no hope that it will work on the others…
Oh, how happy I was when I got my hands on the decryption program with which Zakarisz Ghent was able to crack the chip with the "Caamas Document." However, the joy did not last very long.
And to carry out such work on board the Chimaera, when it keeps getting involved in conflicts, is unsafe for both the information itself and the person to whom I entrusted its decryption.
And this leads me to think that it would be a good idea to equip Pent with a "quieter place," where he can calmly and under protection engage in cracking, without worrying that Republicans, Imperials, pirates, free warlords, Palpatine's minions, and so on might attack at any moment…
That is why, and also for a number of other reasons, my choice fell on…
"The Eye of Palpatine," I said.
The Slicer nodded understandingly, selecting the necessary chip. He returned the rest, smiling apologetically.
"After the raid on the Kuat Drive Yards, I decided not to keep too much original secret information with me. You never know…"
A short pause hung. Commendable. While Zakarisz Ghent was working on the Chimaera, information chips with secret documentation were practically lying under his feet.
"Your intention is clear, Mr. Pent," I said. "I advise you to quickly take all the necessary equipment and depart for the Guardian."
"Yes, yes, of course," the Slicer said absently, looking at his wrist chronometer. "You do remember that there's less than three hours until the first arrival? And four until the second."
"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Pent," I replied. No, still, he isn't radically different from Zakarisz. "You are dismissed."
"Yes, sir, Grand Admiral," with a smile on his face and the boyish restlessness characteristic of Ghent, the clone saluted me and shuffled out of my quarters.
"Well then," I sighed, left alone in the quarters. "Let's begin."
Let's see what exactly Mr. Pent and Rederick obtained on Kuat.
And how close this will bring me to unraveling the secret of Rothana's and Kamino's inaccessibility, and also — ensuring their rapid conquest.
Or destruction.
* * *
An ocean of green turbolaser fire that the Abyssal Fury was unleashing upon her classmate was crisscrossed by crimson bursts and the laser cannon trails of the "freaks," fighters, interceptors, and corvettes that had set up carousels of death around the destroyers locked in a clinch.
Antonias winced, seeing how a successful salvo from the enemy had knocked one of the medium-caliber triple-gun turrets off the armor, gifting part of the Abyss's hull with black burn marks.
"Ion cannons — intensify fire on the enemy's starboard guns!" Stormaer roared, watching as bluish lightning bolts turned the last of the "freaks" into mountains of now-useless metal.
A little over twenty minutes had passed since the start of the battle, and credit must be given to the enemy — he is not backing down.
And this also indicates his stupidity.
An unforgivable, ringing stupidity.
Through maneuvering, Antonias had placed the enemy Star Destroyer in a "crossfire."
While the starboard side of the "trash" ship was being worked over by the gunners of the Abyssal Fury, the port side suffered slightly less — due to the fact that on his former ship, the Sentinel, an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, the designers had simply provided fewer weapons. But Antonias, perfectly familiar with the features of his former ship, ordered reinforcement of our attack on the enemy's port side with five Corellian corvettes.
Like starving nexu, the CR90s raced around the enemy ship, blasting it with their turbolaser and laser armaments.
In general, finding even within a single formation identical CR90s, even in Imperial times, was a great rarity. Primarily because the Corellian Engineering Corporation supplied them for export in several modifications.
But it so happened that Stormaer had under his command a dozen completely identical CR90s, which could "upset" the enemy with two twin-barreled turbolaser cannons, model H9 produced by Taim & Bak. Located in the upper and lower hemispheres of the ship, they made a quite significant contribution to the task of inflicting damage on the enemy capital ship, preventing the generators from slowly restoring deflector shield power.
And four single-barreled laser cannons, placed on the side "semi-wings," became a deadly threat to the remaining enemy droid fighters.
The "Gray Devils," nicknamed for the snow-white-gray paint of the Dominion CR90 hulls, were already bearing many scorch marks from hits on their seemingly fragile but sturdy hulls.
But they were doing their job excellently — the number of enemy small craft was steadily decreasing every minute of the battle.
Currently, the enemy, pressed from both sides by Star Destroyers, and in the lower and upper hemispheres by two groups of three "dreadnaughts" each, was experiencing major problems with their starfighters.
The "freaks" and "hyenas" being shot down by the interceptors and ion cannons of the destroyers, even though they had managed to inflict some damage on the ships of the formation under Stormaer's command, ended their "career" very, very quickly.
Now, the enemy's numerical superiority in starfighters was completely unnoticeable.
Because it didn't exist.
The formation had lost no more than a dozen pilots, while the enemy had lost a similar number of squadrons. The remaining Vulture-class droid fighters, despite having missile armament, continued to suffer tangible losses from the TIE fighters.
The superiority of the latter in maneuverability and speed, in executing turns, as well as advanced aerobatic maneuvers that the cloned aces performed with enviable regularity, left the "Vultures" exclusively in the role of prey.
The electronic brains of the droids, despite all their computing power, efficiency, and speed of decision-making, could not cope with human reaction.
The Dominion pilots turned the droids to dust every time they "got on their tail." Yes, the "Vultures" were nimble, and even dangerous… for the technology of the Clone Wars era.
But not for modern machines.
And not for the best pilots of the Dominion fleet. Why the best? Because others do not get into the regular fleet.
One could argue for a long time about what is better — unmanned machines or manned ones. But the fact remains — at least for the Dominion fleet.
Every clone is a person loyal to the Dominion, created to fight for the interests of the state. He knows that his life is short due to the way he was born. And he knows that he left the incubator to fight. And most likely — to die.
Yes, producing droid fighters is cheaper, faster. All it takes is a couple of tens of thousands of credits to create a machine. And several billion to build a factory for their production, which must be continuously supplied with electronics and an extremely expensive component — limited intelligence. Because droids should not be equipped with artificial intelligence — let the Great Droid Revolution remain in the distant past, it cannot be forgotten.
That is why droid fighters, like most other droids in the galaxy with rare exceptions, have their memory formatted after every battle. Of course, if they survive it. And the droid enters the next battle with the intelligence and experience at factory default settings. Because only formatting prevents droids from developing their personalities and becoming fully sentient beings who have a nasty habit of starting rebellions. At best, they will flee from conflict; at worst, they will destroy organic commanders, as the tactical droids of the CIS did during the Clone Wars.
No one wants a repeat of such a situation.
Just as no one wants to spend billions on developing more advanced intelligence for droids, which would increase their cost. And the very fact of whether they would be effective enough in battle to survive it is highly doubtful.
The Confederacy of Independent Systems produced droids in the quadrillions precisely to cover their endless losses. And in the long run, this represents enormous expenditure — because in a battle with a real organic pilot, rare droids can remain intact.
The statistics of the Clone Wars speak for themselves — in a single battle, one clone pilot could shoot down up to a squadron of droid fighters. And as the clones accumulated combat experience, their efficiency grew.
But to grow one clone pilot requires a full fourteen days. And only after that does a perfect combat unit appear, which needs no teaching or training — he already knows everything. He flies a machine whose maximum cost does not exceed fifty thousand Dominion credits. In a month, he consumes in the mess halls a little less than a hundred credits worth of food. And his salary, in case of death and absence of close relatives, is transferred to the fund for aiding the wounded and disabled, whom prosthetic help could not, for one reason or another, return to service.
Antonias did not know how much it cost to produce one clone in the Dominion, but he increasingly saw these guys with identical faces. Which made him doubt that the Dominion actually produces clones, applying any financial effort to the process.
Most likely, the military handles this process, not private contractor companies. Which almost certainly indicates that the Dominion treasury does not pay for the production of clones — only the payment of salaries to the employees of the cloning "farms" and the renewal of equipment.
If, of course, that is even needed.
And, in that case, the production cost of one clone pilot amounts to no more than fifty to fifty-five thousand Dominion credits.
Statistics, if they are not falsified by the performers, is a fairly accurate science.
And Antonias could say with remarkable accuracy that, at this moment, the number of pilots lost from his formation was more than ten times less than the same for the droids.
This can easily be translated into an economic model. The cost of one clone pilot with his machine is about fifty thousand Dominion credits. But the cost of at least ten enemy machines shot down by him is already from two hundred to four hundred thousand credits.
So which is more effective?
"Sir," the watch officer approached him. "The executive officer reports that the landing parties are ready for deployment."
"Excellent," escaped Antonias. "Flight controller!"
"Yes, sir!" the head of a middle-aged officer appeared from the "pit."
"Have the bomber squadron begin the attack on the enemy destroyer's deflectors," Antonias ordered. "Recall three squadrons of TIE interceptors to cover the bombers. Target — the enemy Star Destroyer's deflector shield generators. Destroy on my command."
"Will be done, sir!" the subordinate reported, stepping aside.
A few minutes later, Stormaer watched as two fireballs blossomed in the upper part of the "trash" destroyer's superstructure, leaving of the deflector generators nothing but memories and clouds of debris.
The bomber pilots, experienced in such battles, using the stern of the attacked destroyer as cover, darted under its belly, where they no longer had to fear the wrath of the enemy gunners so much.
The effect of depriving the enemy of their energy shields became visible immediately — the hull of the enemy ship began to be covered with black marks. In places, the armor bulged and shattered into fragments, and in some spots, geysers of escaping air and molten plating burst from the hull…
"Fleet — switch to sniper fire," Stormaer ordered. "Turbolasers, begin suppressing the enemy's anti-aircraft artillery. Ion cannons — silence the destroyer's superstructure and turret artillery. Landing parties — launch! Third and fifth interceptor squadrons — escort the boarding pods."
The enemy Star Destroyer was desperately trying to break free from the gravitational grip. Its commander, whoever he was, had perfectly understood that no one was going to destroy his vessel.
Perhaps he had also guessed that Antonias had shown him the Abyssal Fury at the very beginning to avoid a landing operation on the planet's surface and force the enemy to break out of the gravity well of Raxus Prime on his own. The hope of breaking through the screen of one destroyer and four Corellian corvettes had proven to be a trap that the enemy commander had fallen for.
And now he had brought his ship into space himself. Trapped on all sides by Dominion ships, mercilessly bombarded by ion artillery suppressing its weapons, continuously receiving shuttles and pods with boarding parties and hundreds of droidekas into its interior and emergency airlocks, the "trash" Star Destroyer was living out its last minutes in the clutches of its illegal owners.
The trap had snapped shut, and now the ship had nowhere to run — except to surrender to the mercy of the victors.
But giving up such a prize as a Star Destroyer would not be easy for the enemy. They had undoubtedly spent millions to restore it and carry out the work of creating a launch pad. And now…
"Receiving a transmission from the enemy ship, sir," came the voice of the communications officer. "Via hologram transmitter, sir."
Simultaneously, Stormaer noted two things at once.
First — the guns on the enemy ship had fallen silent. All of them. At once.
Second — the remaining droid fighters had shut down. All of them. At once.
"Has someone's brain finally kicked in over there?" Antonias wondered aloud, heading for the comm station. "Open the channel, let's hear what they want from us. Gunners, for sacred tibanna's sake, stop shooting them! We'll have to repair this thing eventually!"
"And tibanna actually costs money, anyway," the commander of the Abyssal Fury muttered, recalling that the precious gas, just like fuel, was supplied to the Dominion through black market dealers.
Well, and through raider attacks on New Republic supply convoys.
Of course, the price of consumables wasn't as high as it might seem, but… Why not save at least a thousand credits?
Especially since the bombardment could always be resumed, and he hadn't given the order to cancel the assault.
A few seconds later, the hologram of a middle-aged man appeared before him.
He looked calm, confident, not at all like the commander of a ship who was about to have to give up his property, so it was completely unclear what…
"Captain Stormaer, I am a Dominion agent, personal number Bravo-One, identification code…" ah, so that's it. Well, now it's clear who this is. The decryption device flashed a green light — the information was current; it really was an agent. Undoubtedly the one who had found the ship. "The destroyer's central computer has been physically disconnected from the ship's main systems. The droid control relay as well. Begin the boarding immediately. Start with the hangars and the bridge — the crew members are concentrated there."
"Of course, Agent Bravo-One," rank discipline could be reminded of later, when this intelligence officer found himself on the Abyssal Fury. As if only intelligence knew how to properly board destroyers. But it was a common cause, so… "Do you need reinforcements?"
"Not for me," Bravo-One said firmly. He wondered if they even gave names to these people, or if it was like the stormtroopers — just numbers. "Send a medical team to the engineering deck. You'll find the right section by the beacon. You just received the frequency." The decrypter flashed again.
"Information received. Boarding team orders will be adjusted," Stormaer reported. "Where should we extract you?"
"Unnecessary. Better prepare bacta tanks for the cripples from the bridge. There are definitely seven sapients there." A mask of ruthlessness settled over Bravo-One's face. "Or rather, they will be in about five minutes — I can't get to them any faster."
Then again, why all these lectures about subordination?
A good agent knows his job...
"Understood, Bravo-One," Stormaer assured him.
With that, the hologram dissolved.
Antonias activated his command comlink, broadcasting new information to the boarding parties.