As expected, the enemy chose to fight rather than surrender.
And this principle applied both to the Republicans and to nearly two squadrons of ARC-170s bearing the black "cogs" of the Empire on their fuselages.
Home One focused entirely on defense.
The starship, showered with turbolasers, lasers, concussion missiles, proton torpedoes, and ion cannons from all sides, surged forward like a massive torpedo launched from an equally massive tube.
Captain Schneider squinted as he watched the New Republic's air wing sent forward in a futile attempt to execute their favorite tactic—disabling the flagship via an aerial assault.
The Nemesis withstood the enemy fighters' assault, generously rewarding the X-wings, A-wings, and the unexpectedly supporting Imperial ARC-170s with fire from its laser cannons and medium turbolasers.
The Star Destroyer Nemesis under enemy fire.
TIE Interceptors, engaging the fighter-bombers, were successfully destroying them, preventing the enemy from striking the Star Destroyer.
TIE fighters from the heavy cruisers' bays conducted a massive hunt for the enemy, while the latter maniacally strove to destroy the destroyer.
Well, the Republicans had managed to inflict some damage, but the heavily armored triangle hull of the Nemesis paid no heed to the numerous concussion missiles of the X-wings and A-wings.
The enemy had evidently intended to use those craft exclusively against their own class, and they had no time to rotate.
"Sir," the watch officer approached Schneider. "Distance to enemy: fifty units. The enemy is successfully repelling our attacks on their deflectors."
"Are the bombers in position?" Von asked.
"Yes, sir," the officer confirmed. "However, the speed differential between the ship and the proton torpedoes is such that..."
"I want to hear the essence of the problem, Lieutenant," Schneider ordered.
"Yes, sir," he said quickly. "The enemy's speed is too high for the proton torpedoes to hit from a safe distance..."
"Then have them attack from an unsafe distance," the Nemesis commander ordered. "Has the New Republic ship's trajectory changed?"
"No, sir. Still heading straight for us."
The fish-faced bastard.
"Enemy is now within forty units, sir. Begin evasive maneuver?"
"No," Schneider ordered. "We hold position. Begin evacuation of the bridge and superstructure. Transfer ship control to the backup command post."
"Sir, but..."
"Do it!"
For the first time on the ship, the watch crew carried out an order they didn't understand. But clearly, without panic, without confusion, they transferred control to the secondary terminals, leaving the bridge and leaving the ship's commander alone.
The procedure seemed standard, except for one nuance that had come to light only after the Battle of Endor.
If the primary control equipment wasn't deactivated and hadn't handed over control to the reserve systems, then when the bridge was destroyed, a systemic failure occurred, requiring a great deal of time to regain control from the backup command post. So it was better to do it in advance. Even so, it would be a close call...
But it was better than doing nothing.
Two minutes later, the Star Destroyer commander's comlink erupted with confirmation from the senior officer that all compartments above the ship's triangular hull had been evacuated.
"Good," Von said. "Executive officer, listen to my instructions."
"Yes, sir," uncertainty crept into the deputy's voice.
But Captain Schneider no longer paid it any attention.
He had already figured out the enemy's tactics.
And realized they had lost.
Admiral Ackbar had used all available energy resources of his starship to strengthen his shields and engines and prevent his ship from being stopped. He was deliberately sacrificing armament to make his ship invulnerable to energy weapons.
If not stopped, the ambush would be ineffective, the blockade would be broken.
And at that moment, at a distance of twenty-five units, surrounded by a cocoon of explosions, Home One was taking proton torpedoes from the bomber squadron into its hull.
Kinetic projectiles tore armor and gutted the ship's hull, even damaging several engines. But that was not enough to stop the star cruiser.
Captain Schneider cursed himself for not having deciphered the enemy's intentions earlier, and now he was in a stalemate.
Ackbar was threatening to ram the Nemesis, thereby destroying both the ship and its crew.
The distance and disposition of the standard trap did not allow Schneider to move his ship out of the Mon Calamari's path—otherwise, Home One would break the blockade, bring its fire to bear on the Black Asp or bypass it, and then leave the battlefield.
The massive bomber strike was supposed to damage Home One enough that Ackbar would either be forced to abandon such a maneuver or stop his advance.
Neither happened.
The sequence of proton torpedo launches against the fast-moving ship did not result in a concentrated strike on a single point—the proton torpedoes had undoubtedly damaged a significant portion of the ship, causing internal fires and localized explosions, making the hangar deck a local branch of hell...
But the Hutt-damned engines remained intact.
Home One continued moving forward.
Von Schneider had no data on the capabilities of this particular model of star cruiser, but he was sufficiently aware that the enemy ship could withstand much more.
Of course, a collision with a Star Destroyer would leave nothing but scrap metal of the star cruiser, but Ackbar wasn't suicidal.
So at the very last moment, he would adjust Home One's trajectory to scrape its "belly" across the Nemesis's command tower.
This ship had no proton torpedo launchers; otherwise, Ackbar would have simply shot the Nemesis full of the Rebel's favorite weapon.
But he couldn't escape the trap without destroying the Nemesis's command.
So a choice had to be made.
Von quickly walked to the Star Destroyer's first pilot's chair. Settling into it, the man restored control to the primary console.
"First officer, comply with my commands," he said quickly, switching several systems to manual control. "Begin recording in the ship's log. Initiating protocol forty-four slash eleven. Transferring command of Nemesis and the task force to the first officer. Assuming direct control of the Star Destroyer. Control post one is under my command. Responsibility for all subsequent actions rests solely with me."
"Sir, what's going on?" the first officer asked, bewildered.
Saving us all from a tribunal and the mission from failure, Fon thought. But aloud, as often happens, he said something entirely different:
"The enemy intends to force Nemesis off its trajectory by threatening a ram, then escape into hyperspace. Black Asp cannot leave its position in time nor reorient its gravity trawls. Energy weapons fail to penetrate the enemy's shields. Proton torpedoes cannot stop the enemy vessel. I believe Home One will ram our superstructure to disable the task force and escape."
"Sir, the superstructure has been cleared, there's no one there..." the first officer fell silent. "Except you. Sir, get out of there!"
Fifteen units.
"I cannot trust anyone else to correct my own miscalculation," Fon declared. "I should have ordered the bombers to attack the moment they appeared. My mistake, my responsibility. When Thrawn arrives, transmit the ship's log data to him. My plan is as follows..."
* * *
"Admiral, sir!" the captain of Home One said excitedly. "Nemesis is beginning to move to the lower echelon!"
"Distance to the enemy?"
"Three units, sir! At the current maneuver speed, the Imperials will clear our trajectory at a distance of one unit!"
Gial looked at the hologram of the unfolding events.
Home One was burning, breaking apart, but still surging forward.
Enemy bombers had dealt colossal damage to the ship, destroying escape pods and every vessel on the hangar deck capable of participating in a crew rescue.
Now they had only one option left — to see it through to the end.
The enemy commander had seen through Gial's plan of a ramming threat, done everything to disable the engines, hyperdrive, and evacuation systems, hoping to force the Mon Calamari to abandon his plan.
But that would not happen.
Gial understood perfectly that he had just devised a tactic for breaking through standard enemy ambushes, but unfortunately, he could neither transmit it to headquarters nor even to the fighters, whose numbers were dwindling by the second.
Only one option remained — break through on his own. But in this condition, dreaming of reaching Coruscant was pointless. They would have to jump to Elom — the base of the New Republic's Third Naval Fleet. Make repairs there, and only then...
"Sir, we have multiple hyperdrive system failures," the captain reported. "It seems the enemy hit us hard. The navigation computer is down. The database is lost..."
Oh, the devil had brought bad news!
"Continue the breakthrough," Admiral Ackbar confirmed his order.
"Sir!" a voice from the scanner operator. "We have multiple interferences... Looks like more ships have arrived... Cannot identify..."
"Don't bother," the commander advised. "It's Thrawn closing his trap."
By Gial's estimate, the Grand Admiral's ships should be at a distance of seventy units. Consequently, all they can do now is test the deflectors' strength. But as this battle's experience shows, turbolasers won't cut it.
And for proton torpedoes, anti-ship missiles, and other kinetic weapons, Home One is too far away.
"We're above Nemesis, sir!" the captain announced. "Sir, we've practically broken through..."
The strike that hit Home One in the lower hemisphere was so terrible that Admiral Ackbar literally flew out of his chair.
The Mon Calamari hit his large, domed head on the upper bridge bulkhead, then sprawled across the deck flat out.
"Collision!" the ship's captain roared.
"Extensive decompression on the lower decks!"
"Decks one through three are not responding!"
"Fuel supply to the lower engine cluster is disrupted!"
"Decompression!"
"We're losing air!"
"Over three hundred crew members lost overboard!"
The strike disoriented the Mon Calamari admiral for a moment, but he grabbed the armrest of his chair and pulled himself to his feet.
Nearly falling, he dropped heavily back into his seat.
"What about the deflectors?" he asked, completely unaware that he was shouting.
"The lower hemisphere is exposed to attacks!"
"Our entire belly is torn open!"
"Can the fighters cover us?" Ackbar asked, struggling against the colorful circles swimming before his eyes.
"Sir, there are none! Destroyed!"
"We've lost twenty percent speed!"
"Shut down the deflectors!" Ackbar ordered. His vision was slowly returning. "All power to engines. Distance to Black Asp?"
"Two units, sir!"
"Speed restored! Engines at maximum!"
They'll hold, Gial thought. Just a little more...
"We've passed Black Asp!"
"We're outside the artificial gravity zone!"
"The interdictor cruiser has shut down its generators and is turning around..."
Time for a decision.
"Navigator," Ackbar said, his voice strained. "Set hyperspace jump coordinates manually!"
"Y-yes, sir," the officer stammered. "But the database..."
"Triple zero!" Admiral Ackbar ordered. The only coordinates easy to remember. No navigation computer database needed. "Jump to Coruscant!"
"Aye, sir!"
Seconds later, the stars before Home One stretched into white-blue streaks as usual.
* * *
Making her way through the viscous, bog-like darkness, she followed the call.
And she had no idea how or why she was doing it.
She didn't feel the movement of her limbs, but somehow thought her legs were measuring out steps. When the darkness grew too thick, she began to swim through it.
Several times she wondered how she managed to endure plunging into this slimy, thick darkness without worrying about breathing, but found no answer.
She only heard the call, yet couldn't make out any words or intonations. Honestly, she didn't even understand whether she was hearing a voice at all, or if it was just a collection of sounds...
But somehow, quite suddenly, she found she had reached the source of the call.
It lay in the middle of the viscous darkness, but had neither form nor identity, nothing she could define.
And then she was simply yanked out of the viscous darkness.
And she found herself in oblivion.
How long she spent there, she did not know.
She simply opened her eyes one day.
And stared at a gray, tasteless ceiling that hung over her like a tombstone.
Shira tasted medicine in her mouth, bacta. She also realized she was in a semi-reclining position and couldn't move either her arms or legs.
Casting her eyes to the side, the girl saw numerous IV tubes connected to her body. Through them, medicines and nutrients flowed into her veins — as a cyber-prosthetist, she was perfectly familiar with such preparations. Around her head and along the sides of the bed were medical devices, their purpose obvious at a glance.
Thanks to them, she could breathe — two catheters ran from the ventilator under the tight sheet. They had surely pierced her skin and were integrated directly into her lungs to supply oxygen. Because she didn't even feel the reflex to inhale or exhale... Her chest was rising, yes, but she wasn't the one doing it.
Her mouth turned sour. But not from the bacta anymore, from something else. Just as chemical, but sharper, more disgusting...
Ah, it was saliva.
Well, that was clear.
"You're awake," she heard a voice beside her. Something familiar stirred in her memory, but...
And now, when the source of the voice emerged from behind the machines and sat down on a chair he had placed next to her bed, she recognized him.
"You!" her own voice sounded to her like the quintessence of metal scraping glass, generously diluted with metallic filings that had packed her throat.
The instant she uttered that single word, her body's reflexes made her lungs contract, producing an exhalation...
The ventilator beeped, and a medical droid appeared as if from nowhere.
"Calm," the medic droid said in a voice devoid of emotion. "Only calm. You have regained consciousness, and I can disconnect some of the equipment. Describe your sensations to me."
She wanted to tell the insane machine everything she thought of it, but remained silent, understanding that it wouldn't solve her problems.
Right now, if she wanted to sort things out as quickly as possible, she should follow the medic droid's instructions.
"I'll come back later," Torin stood up and, without saying goodbye, headed for the exit.
Several hours later, after several dozen catheters had been pulled from her body and she began to feel at least some semblance of sensation in her limbs, after endless tests for reflexes and sensitivity, he returned.
"You have a visitor," the medic droid informed her, rolling most of the medical apparatus aside.
"The same one as before?" she asked, still with the same rasp. Speaking was painful, her throat was constantly tearing apart, and her vocal cords seemed to refuse to obey. The droid had explained the reason — before her body was found and evacuated, the damn swampwing had managed to tear open her throat, trachea, and gouged part of her lekku.
Everything was so bad that no one could even guarantee whether her spinal motor centers would recover or not. Bacta sometimes worked miracles, and she had literally been pulled back from the brink of death, but no one dared to offer hopeful prognoses. People could claim all day that Twi'leks were physiologically similar to humans, but in reality, that would never be true.
"No one else has visited you," the medic droid replied, extending a container of pleasantly smelling mixture to her lips. "Take this. This solution will help reduce the strain on your speech organs and aid recovery."
"And what does he want?" she asked after drinking the medicine.
"Ascertaining such questions is not within my operational parameters," the droid admitted. "However, I must note that since a living being has spent so much time with you, there is a high probability that it is not indifferent to you."
"What, he's really been spending a lot of time here?" the girl asked, not believing the droid's words.
"From the moment of your hospitalization until the moment you woke up, he was here," the droid explained, pointing to the neighboring bed.
"Uh-huh," the girl glared angrily in the indicated direction. The bed, if it had ever shown signs of use, was certainly not related to anyone sleeping on it. Everything was neatly made, as was typical on Imperial ships.
Oh yes, she had practically realized where she was immediately. And this was definitely not the ship Reom had intended to raise from the surface of Raxus Prime. The marauders had long since stripped that destroyer of all its medical droids, along with the medbay, and sold them — likely right near the crashed ship itself.
"Let him in," her voice became a little softer, and her throat stopped tearing at every sound.
And he entered.
The girl looked over the man who had stood up for her on the Wheel, unafraid to confront those Rodian thugs.
And yes, her guess was right — this man was clearly wearing a uniform. Because he had gotten rid of those bruisers far too easily. In her life, Shira had seen plenty of fights and knife-fights, but this was the first time she had witnessed a Rodian being "broken." Usually, it happened strictly the other way around.
"The first time, dressed like a simple smuggler, you impressed me more," the girl declared.
"That was part of my wardrobe for field work," the man replied readily. "And this," he pointed to his uniform. "Let's say, changed into home clothes. I'm more comfortable this way."
"The Empire," she said quietly. So, it all fit together — they had tracked her down, she had led a spy to Reom's base, and then the Imperial had called in a destroyer.
"No," he sat down in the same chair. Calm, back straight as if his shoulders were welded to a plate behind him. Clear gaze, confidence in every movement. Clearly a professional. Assault commando or...
"Dominion Intelligence," he explained.
Well, yes, just like that...
"And that's what they call you?" Shira snorted. Something like that was what she had suspected, but she had hoped... Damn it, what had she even hoped for when she dragged an Imperial spy to Reom's base?
Ashamed to admit it, but she had hoped she was wrong and this guy wasn't the kind of Gamorrean she thought he was.
"They don't call me," a smirk played on his lips. "I come on my own."
"I liked you better when you were serious," she shot back, hoping to hit a nerve.
"Bravo-One, if that's more convenient for you," he said with the same smirk. "Heard you're feeling better."
"Maybe you could stop pretending you care, huh?" Shira asked. "You're not sending me to Kessel anyway — I can barely move on my own."
"Yes, I know your motor center is damaged," Bravo-One admitted. "I'm sorry I didn't kill that swampwing sooner."
"Stopped for a snack?" the girl clarified.
"Was checking droid patrols," he corrected her assumption. "I must state the obvious — you're a very good mechanic."
"Could you hand me a multitool so I can tighten a couple of screws to make it easier for you to bow to your new master?" the girl snorted.
"Master?" Bravo-One's eyebrow rose. "Ah... No, friend, I don't need slaves, servants, or orderlies. But you, as I understand it, need freedom, don't you?"
"You can't pin anything on me anyway," Shira remarked.
"You talk as if anyone here cares about a trial," the Dominion intelligence officer smirked. "No, friend, it's all very simple."
"Then maybe you'd like to share some information to fill in my gaps?" Shira suggested. "You know yourself, a swampwing pecked my spinal cord. I remember this," she indicated the right side of her head with her eyes, where the damaged lekku lay, "I don't remember this," and a similar gesture toward the left, wrapped in bandages from tip to base.
"It's simple," he switched to a dry, official tone. "Your father founded IsoTech to sell cybernetic prosthetics and products on the black market, supplied to him by Captain Harsol from the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Later, Harsol disappeared, but after some time, he apparently contacted either your father or you and your brother to evacuate them from wherever they are. Your brother hired that Rodian clan to do all the dirty work. You used all available resources for that. As I understand it, enormous fees were promised. I am also certain that the first team from their Yiyar clan on Rodia found Rel Harsol's Sa'Nalaor and its cargo. And since the cargo is a very large pile of jewels and technology," the Rodians likely asked for a percentage. That's why they were killed. As I understand it, your task was to restore the ISD on Raxus Prime to return and retrieve both the cargo and the surviving passengers. But your brother wasn't satisfied that his stupid plan was unworkable.
"And why is that?" Shira was surprised. Yes, this Bravo-One clearly knew a lot. Practically everything.
"Because no one would ever allow a Star Destroyer to fall into private hands," the intelligence officer replied.
"Booster Terrik managed it," Shira noted.
"Not for long," the interlocutor countered. "The former Errant Venture is already under the command of Dominion forces. Same as your ship. But you can say thank you, because our attack helped you avoid instant vaporization — to activate the main hyperdrive, you would have needed to power up the solar ionization reactor. And it, as it turns out, had serious malfunctions and would have exploded an hour after startup. Don't worry, our techs fixed everything."
"And what do you want from me?" the girl asked. "I'm practically an invalid, you know."
"Yes, but at the same time, you're a certified cyber-prosthetist," Bravo-One noted. "I'd be wrong if I said you weren't on the Sa'Nalaor. And you surely know that there are ways in the galaxy to get you back in the game. But the best of them are on the Sa'Nalaor."
The girl, after a moment's silence, laughed hoarsely.
But she stopped a second later, as her throat began to spasm, and a choking cough nearly made her spit out the alveoli of her own lungs. Yeah, so much for laughing.
Another intervention by the medic droid eased the symptoms. But it took a few minutes to get back to normal.
"Nice try," the girl said. "So, I take it Reom didn't tell you anything?"
"He's having some trouble with verbal information transmission," Bravo-One replied evasively.
"Is that so?" the girl arched an eyebrow. "And what happened?"
"I knocked out his teeth and broke his jaw," the intelligence officer said, as calmly as if he were talking about a new speeder bike model.
"Upper or lower?" Shira clarified.
"Both, in sequence."
"And what was the reason?" the young Twi'lek continued to satisfy her curiosity.
"That guy clearly likes to inflict pain on others," Bravo-One stated. "On those weaker, who can't put up serious resistance. The medic droid says you have many old fractures. He was responsible, wasn't he?"
"We're not what you'd call loving siblings," the girl said. "Childhood... Everyone has their own."
"And yours was filled with broken bones," Bravo-One summarized.
"If I ever need a psychologist, I'll know who to turn to," the girl said, still with a strained smile.
"I understand, it's psychological defense and all that," the man nodded condescendingly. "I understand and accept it. But what's the point of being so hostile? Believe me, no one wishes you harm — otherwise, I simply wouldn't have bothered saving you."
"You needed someone more agreeable than my brother," Shira said. "And then there's this standard situation: 'Damsel in distress.' You thought that if you didn't let me die, I'd just spill everything?"
A flicker of surprise crossed the agent's eyes.
"First," I saved you and ordered your evacuation, and only then decided you could be a source of information, "he admitted."
"And most importantly, how convenient, isn't it?" Shira forced herself to smile against her will. "Part of my brain is damaged, I can feel my body but can't move it. And then my savior, Bravo-One, shows up and reminds me that far, far away, there's the Sa'Nalaor, where there might be wonderful prosthetics to get me out of bed. A wonderful option, thank you for the alternative. Except, unlike you, I have some understanding of my own anatomy. And I know that if that damn bird damaged the part of my spinal cord responsible for motor functions, it won't recover. So you're wasting your time, Bravo-One — even prosthetics and implants won't help me. Thanks for saving me, of course, but it would have been more merciful to leave me to the swampwing and let me die instead of bringing me back to life and making me a prisoner of my own body."
"It's anger and pain talking," the Dominion intelligence officer rose from his chair and smoothed his uniform. "I understand you. Believe whatever you want, but what's done is done. I'm sorry you suffered indirectly because of me. If I had known about your brother, I might have done things differently."
"Are you apologizing or mocking me?" the girl asked, momentarily taken aback by such frankness. Apologies weren't often offered to her, especially in this context.
"I am a man of service and duty," he said firmly. "I have a mission, and I will complete it. I'm offering you to help me, and in return..."
"A pension with the best doctors for the rest of my life, until my body finally gives out, and the best I'll dream of is finding someone to perform euthanasia?" the girl hoped her verbal bravado would sound proud, but the words were filled with bitterness and pain.
Simply because she understood her future perfectly.
Disability and the inability to get out of bed. At best, neuro-conductive implants would be grafted into her body, connecting to her nervous system and serving as conduits for an exoskeleton. But one way or another, she would never walk with her own limbs again. At least not without prosthetics or other machines simulating her movements.
"And on the other hand," Bravo-One said quietly, "would it be better to spend the rest of your life unwanted? I think you understand that no one will need you if you refuse to cooperate."
"And there's the ultimatum," the girl stated. "So, if I don't say anything about the Sa'Nalaor and its crash site, you'll dump me in some backwater and hand me over to a charity-run nursing home? Where I'll kick the bucket even faster..."
"Are you suggesting I take you home and feed you with a spoon?" Bravo-One clarified. And there was surprise in his voice.
"Ah," the girl carefully filled her voice with caustic intonations, trying to get under her interlocutor's skin. Because if he hadn't appeared in her life... Well, who the hell knew how it would have turned out. But the fact was, it would have been better than this. Much better. "So I'm not cute to you anymore, like you said back then, on your tub?"
"No," the man answered honestly. "You're pretty, even after what that swampwing did to you. That's something your race can't lose. But non-human girls have never attracted me before, and they don't now. Especially those who..."
"Spare me the lecture, okay?" Shira winced. "You've already done enough to turn my life upside down. And I have absolutely no desire to listen to the reasons for your personal preferences. Same goes for cooperating."
"What a pity," Bravo-One said, genuine sadness showing on his face. "You see, while you're a specialist in your field, you don't know what I know. Then again... this information came to me from command not that long ago. So if you happen to be interested in helping us find the Sa'Nalaor, in exchange for returning to a full life, plus getting protection from the Rodians — not to mention a high-paying job — then we have things to discuss."
"Such as?" Shira asked with interest.
"Such as, I know your brain isn't damaged," Bravo-One continued in a calm tone. "And I know that with enough effort, it could be extracted and moved to another vessel, thereby bypassing the fate of being a 'vegetable' for the rest of your days..."
The girl went pale.
"Are you shell-shocked or something?" she asked, her eyes wide.
"I've had a few concussions," the man replied in the same instructive tone. "But not recently."
"For your information, I'm perfectly aware of the existence of the B'omarr Monastery," the girl said. "And I have absolutely no desire to hand myself over to a bunch of fanatics who will cut my brain out of my body, put it in a jar of nutrient solution, and then I'll be running around in a spider droid body contemplating the great mysteries. You might as well just shoot me."
Bravo-One smiled. The man walked over to the girl lying motionless on the cot, his gaze gliding over her bandaged body.
He slowly leaned down until their faces almost touched.
"If you dare violate me, I'll scream," Shira warned.
"You clearly have some kind of complex about this," Bravo-One frowned. "No, I'm this close for a completely different reason."
"I'm not kissing you either," the girl replied. "I may be helpless, but I didn't just crawl out of a dumpster..."
"Technically speaking, I pulled you out of a galactic dumpster," the man smirked, looking her straight in the eyes.
Shira found nothing to say to that.
"So, coming back to the B'omarr Monastery," her interlocutor said, lowering his voice. Shira flinched, feeling her heart beat faster. "As a spider droid, you'd definitely be less of a pain in the ass, but I think you'll be interested in what I have to say."
"Tell me you're my Jedi in shining armor and that you'll love me all my life while my internal organs fail and you have to carry my bedpan," Shira batted her eyelashes. Since she couldn't properly get back at the agent for her dire situation, she could at least "drink his blood" and rattle his nerves — oh yes, buddy, get your psyche ready for heavy-caliber bombardment.
"No," Bravo-One gave a crooked smile. "I don't like those temple-keepers. However, I'm authorized to tell you a couple of things. Things that will change your mind and make you help us."
"Tell me your command is forcing you to marry me as punishment for failure," Shira said with feigned breathlessness. "I promise, I'll love you so, so much..."
The man laughed.
"Not bad. Very not bad," he praised. "But what would you say if I told you the B'omarr monks can not only cut out brains and put them in a jar, but also transplant them into another body?"
The smile vanished from Shira's face as quickly as her desire to mock the Dominion scout.
"You're lying," she guessed. "I'm a prosthetic specialist — I would have heard about that. New developments spread fast in our circles, so if someone could actually do that..."
"You can take my word for it, or you can refuse the offer," Bravo-One continued. "But a fact is a fact. We can transfer your mind into another body. Though it will cost a great deal of money."
"Which I don't have..."
"But the Dominion does," the scout reminded her gently. "Help us find the Sa'Nalaor, and we'll finance your... well, let's call it 'resurrection.'"
"It smells like a setup," the girl admitted. "It would be easier for you to torture Reom until he gives you the coordinates of the planet where the Sa'Nalaor crashed. But instead you're cooking up some clever scheme..."
"Everything Grand Admiral Thrawn does is part of a plan," Bravo-One declared. "Help us, and you'll get a new body, a new job, protection from the Rodians. If you want, I'll even stop torturing your brother."
"Ah," Shira grinned. "So that's it. You're working both angles. Whoever agrees first — me or Reom."
"I think once they break all the bones in his legs and move on to his upper spine, he'll start talking," the Dominion scout assumed. "So, friend, you have a chance to agree while this offer is still on the table."
"I'm not getting 'time to think,' am I?"
"Reom only has his right femur still intact," Bravo-One admitted. "So if you think that..."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're a first-rate piece of bantha poodoo?" the girl inquired.
"That's written in my personnel file," the scout nodded.
"Well, fine," the girl sighed. "I hear you. But I have a condition. I want to be sure you won't kill some poor Twi'lek girl for a body. I don't need anyone suffering because of me."
"Relax," Bravo-One chuckled. "The new 'skin' will be obtained by completely legal means. As I was told — you won't even notice the difference."
"I doubt I'll get used to a body that's green or orange..."
"Oh, right," Bravo-One snapped her nose. "News item number two. Your brain won't be moved into someone else's body. But into your own."
"I don't follow," the girl admitted. "Why extract the brain at all then? Since after the transplant I'll still be crippled and..."
"Your new body will be a clone of your old one," the scout explained.
Shira blinked once. Twice...
"Are you saying the Kaminoans are working with you?"
The scout gave a crooked smile.
"There are other cloning methods besides the Kaminoans. At least — we have them available."
It suddenly felt unsettling...
These people were looking for the Sa'Nalaor and clearly had their sights set on the advanced cybernetic technology aboard.
Plus, they knew how to negotiate with the priests of the B'omarr Monastery for brain transplants...
And on top of that, they had cloning equipment...
And for some reason, they decided to clone her, move her brain into a new body, offered patronage, and were ready to give her a job in her field.
To get all of this, she just had to give them the coordinates of the Sa'Nalaor and let the Dominion get their hands on not only the aurodium-filled holds of the old Separatist frigate, but also the cybernetic projects no one in the galaxy had managed to replicate or surpass.
The alternative was to spend the rest of her short life bedridden as a cripple, a prisoner of her own flesh — flesh she could feel but couldn't control...
"Weeeell..." Shira drawled, frantically trying to understand the true reason for the Dominion's interest in her person. But she couldn't find it. "Let's say I agree. What will happen to my brother and the other beings on the Sa'Nalaor?"
"I'm authorized to offer them jobs and Dominion citizenship too," Bravo-One said. "Competent beings are always in demand..."
"Maybe," Shira said coldly. "But if I agree, Reom has to pay for everything he did to me."
"I never noticed that bloodthirsty side in you before," the Dominion agent remarked. "But I don't think it'll be a problem. Besides causing trouble, this guy doesn't have any useful qualities. So, what do you say — should I confirm the deal with you to my command?"
"Confirm it," Shira said. "But first, I want to see Reom blown out an airlock and die."
The agent was silent for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
"And here I thought you were such a quiet, calm little Twi'lek..."
* * *
A dead silence reigned on the bridge of the Chimaera.
"Sir," Lieutenant Tschel addressed me quietly. "Home One has jumped into hyperspace."
As if I hadn't seen that myself.
That Mon Calamari bastard...
It took an enormous effort to keep myself under control. So enormous that I could literally feel the fingers of my left hand digging into the edge of the armrest. Even the gloves didn't protect against the pain...
Strange.
I looked at my snow-white hand, trying to understand why the gloves had taken on a white-blue tint. And why the plastic of the chair seemed to be digging under my nails...
Then I understood.
When the ysalamiri realized that I wasn't petting it, and that the fingers of my right hand, digging into its head, could crush its tiny skull, the little creature, clearly not understanding what it had done wrong, did what nature dictated.
It bit me.
Not painfully enough, but enough to snap me out of my tense stupor and add some clarity.
First — I was without gloves.
Second — I had miscalculated.
Third — I'd nearly broken the left armrest and almost crushed a lizard's skull with my right hand.
"Grand Admiral?" Lieutenant Tschel repeated his address.
"Direct emergency rescue teams to the Nemesis," I said, taking control of my emotions. "Take all measures to preserve the ship and its crew. Also, I want to know who gave the order to ram the lower section of Home One with a Star Destroyer's superstructure."
"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Tschel said in a shaky voice.
"I'll be in my quarters," I said. The ysalamiri, clearly distrustful after nearly dying, wisely jumped aside, landing in the arms of Tierce, who had approached me.
In complete silence, accompanied by Rukh and the major, I reached my quarters. I walked inside impassively. And as soon as the door closed behind me...
I punched the metal shelf of info-chips next to me with all my strength.
The pain was sobering. But not enough.
I hit with the other hand.
Good.
Not enough.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again...
* * *
I didn't know how much time had passed when a sound in the quarters announced a visitor.
I sat silently in the chair, examining the files sent to me from the Nemesis's log.
A sense of inner emptiness coexisted with the urge to immediately give chase, pull Home One out of hyperspace, and turn its crew — mostly consisting of Admiral Ackbar's countrymen — into crab sticks.
"Enter," I ordered.
As expected, Tierce came to report.
The major glanced quickly at the marks and the dented side panel of the shelf, but wisely remained silent.
"Preliminary reports are ready, sir," he handed me a personal datapad. And he did it in his usual tricky way — offering it to me to take with my own hands.
"Put it on the table, Major," I ordered, still staring at the computer monitor. I kept both hands, bloodied and wrapped in sterile bandages, under the desk so as not to leave stains. "Report on the situation."
"The Nemesis has lost its superstructure, sir," Tierce began with the obvious. "No casualties — except the ship's commander. Sensors from the Black Asp indicate that Home One took damage to the lower hemisphere of the cruiser, which stripped its shields and damaged some engines. Ackbar dropped shields and pushed the engines to their limit to escape the ambush. According to the latest data, Captain Schneider transferred control from the primary bridge to the backup at the moment of the collision, thereby preventing a loss of control over the destroyer, while sacrificing himself."
"Understood, Major."
I could scream and rage at Schneider for essentially killing himself. I could scream because he wasn't a Jedi who could predict Ackbar's maneuver.
Or I could use my head — pain clears the mind, after all.
First, I had to understand that Schneider couldn't have predicted what Ackbar did. Literally, a new tactical maneuver was born before the Nemesis commander's eyes. And he did everything he could to complete the mission.
He couldn't order the corvettes or heavy cruisers to ram Home One — the distance and closing speed of the star cruiser were not on our formation's side.
He tried to attack with bombers — and achieved some results. The ship was damaged, and now there was no way to evacuate from it — the buzz droids were sending data in real time.
And I didn't have squads equipped with interdictor cruisers or Interdictor-class ships to intercept the Admiral on his way to Coruscant. The buzz droids had also reported his destination after damaging the navigation database in an attempt to stop Ackbar and trap him.
It hadn't worked.
Schneider acted bravely and... correctly.
He personally piloted the ship to execute a maneuver that could have stopped Ackbar — destroying the power conduits feeding the engines should have worked.
But Mon Calamari engineering, with its damned backup power sources, worked against us.
I could blame Schneider for sacrificing himself — after all, there was a backup command post; he could have piloted the Star Destroyer from there.
But there was one problem.
Lira Blisstex, designing the ship, traditionally saved money wherever she could. Otherwise, such a ship simply wouldn't have been bought.
That's why on "Imperial" ships, there's one universal and optimal control system — the primary one. The secondary and tertiary systems consist of a huge number of control stations with various operators, and coordinating them is a nightmare. That's why Schneider piloted the ship himself and transferred control at the last moment.
Because after Endor, another flaw in Lyra's ship designs came to light — if command isn't transferred to the backup command post before the primary one is destroyed, the central computer can't do it itself in time, continuing to send control signals to the bridge. Which is usually already destroyed.
That's how the Executor was lost.
An inefficient command redundancy system — one reason for the enormous crews on Imperial Star Destroyers. Someone decided to save money and instead of multiple identical, mutually duplicating command posts, put the most efficient one as primary and a cheap but completely inconvenient one as secondary. That's why the backup command center often sat empty on destroyers — there was practically nothing to do there.
Zion the shipbuilder solved it in his project "Troy." He simply installed duplicate second and third-tier systems identical to the primary ones. Yes, it's more expensive, but more effective.
So, to sum up, Admiral Ackbar not only avoided being captured by me, but also, through his actions, not only put the Nemesis out of commission for a certain period, but also inflicted much more serious strategic damage.
The question of tactical and strategic gains (as well as losses) now stood as never before.
So, the gains.
The Bothans had essentially handed over the remnants of their fleet to me, which would bolster the military transport part of my forces.
I got the Guardian, most of its crew, tens of thousands of stormtroopers, qualified army specialists, and the armored vehicles that were on the Super Star Destroyer.
Six Raider-class corvettes, two Gladiator-class Star Destroyers, several dozen damaged enemy small craft, and — in the future — the coordinates of Warlord Ennix Devian's base, plus fifteen fleet commandos under Captain Makeno's command.
Nine Mon Calamari MC80 star cruisers in various versions and modifications, with almost full crews, and in relative integrity. Plus escort frigates, gunships...
The battle had cost us no significant losses — a few heavy cruisers had serious damage, plus a couple of minor holes. And the Chimaera went without saying.
The Nemesis had lost the upper part of its superstructure — effectively the entire primary command center of the Star Destroyer. Losses among the air wings of the entire operational-tactical formation were small, and among the crew of the flagship — only one man. The ship's commander.
Tactically, the battle in the Fardon system was won.
Strategically...
The enemy now knew I had a Guardian-class Star Destroyer. In these circumstances, with the New Republic leaking classified information like a defrosting Ocean refrigerator, it was no wonder that soon it would be known not only on Coruscant, but also in the Sectors.
Not to mention Palpatine.
Ackbar knew about the Dragon. Even though the buzz droids confirmed that the battle data wasn't saved in Home One's computers, republic soldiers still had eyes and brains.
And now the plan to lure the enemy to Soulex, to bring the Dragon and the Guardian into the battle to speed up the victory, no longer seemed like such a good decision.
Nor did allowing Ackbar and the republican, Imperial fighters to escape the trap to avoid wasting time searching for them in the system itself.
The double bottom of the ambush had sprung a leak — Ackbar had escaped. And in the process, he'd put a Star Destroyer out of commission.
And developed a tactic for breaking out of the standardized convoy ambushes that had been used successfully all this time. You didn't need to be a genius to understand that within a week of Ackbar's return to Coruscant, this tactic would be distributed to all other ships in the republican fleet.
Something had to be done about this.
Because the plan cobbled together on my knee — let them escape from Soulex, Schneider will intercept them, the Chimaera, Crusader, and Steel Aurora will intercept and capture them — had failed.
I had miscalculated.
People died because of my miscalculation.
And a perfectly qualified Star Destroyer commander. Yes, he'd been scanned long ago and was a clone donor for our fleet. But the loss of the original... I'm no specialist, but something told me that using clone DNA to create new clones wasn't the best option. Genetic degeneration or something similar.
In other words — a potentially Pyrrhic victory.
Because the entire ambush and raid strategy — everything had to be rethought from the ground up.
I would have to prepare for questions that would inevitably arise about the origin and true nature of the Guardian, and attempts to destroy or capture it. Meanwhile, the ship wasn't even half combat capable, couldn't perform its intended functions, and was therefore useless. It had to be hidden and brought into service at an accelerated pace, far from the Dominion. Because spies and saboteurs would undoubtedly be sent into the sectors under my control. And they would undoubtedly use sophisticated methods.
And I couldn't wall myself off from the galaxy — the Dominion didn't have the means for self-sufficiency in most areas. Moreover, sealing the borders would kill exports and imports, which would be a blow to the economy.
Yes, I would have to pay proper attention to territorial defense, but isolationism for us in the current reality would be like a fire. The economy, already barely functioning, would collapse; civil unrest would arise... The last thing I needed was internal ferment under these circumstances. Less than a month after "liberating" the sectors from the tyranny of their previous owners, was I going to drop an "iron" curtain and block all entry into the sector with fleet forces, army, battle stations, and interdictor cruisers? You didn't need to be a genius in political science or sociology to understand that my own population, not getting what they were used to in the same conditions and quantities, would be after me with pitchforks. Yes, I could fight back with repression against the dissatisfied, but, hutt's balls — then how would I be any different from Palpatine? Given that I was trying to distance myself as much as possible from his internal policies, introducing such "draconian" measures would put me and my regime on the same level.
And from there, it was a short step to the New Republic and their favorite evening program: "Support the Dissatisfied — Start a Revolution."
I needed to turn a strategic defeat into at least a "draw."
And therefore — I needed to launch a counterattack.
One that would force the New Republic not only to deal with the problems I would create for them, but also to reconsider causing me trouble.
And I needed to "occupy" them for long enough to prepare the Dominion's defensive lines.
Which meant sending ships to support the outer colonies, far from the Rim, right now. Not just symbolically, but in sufficient numbers to repel a threat.
Not to mention the need to strengthen orbital defense capabilities.
But even here, I shouldn't act recklessly. A significant part of the planets were located close to the Dominion, and therefore...
Stop panicking.
One defeat wasn't a rout.
Any insult could be turned around. And avenged a hundredfold.
That was, in fact, exactly what I had planned as an alternative — but with additional adjustments. Well, I would have to accelerate the execution of the plans — since the New Republic had decided to act, why should I give them time to prepare?
No, I wouldn't play those games.
"Major Tierce," I addressed my adjutant. "Notify the Tangrene shipyard to be ready to receive fleet ships and expedite repairs. Cease operations outside the Dominion against the New Republic. Raise the combat readiness level of troops and fleet. Take temporary command of the Nemesis — deliver her to Tangrene, escorted by the detachment's ships and under the protection of the Steel Aurora and Crusader. Upon completion of the escort operation, transfer command of the ship to the executive officer. Inform shipbuilder Zion that the Nemesis is to be added to the list of ships slated for modernization under Project: 'Troy.' He's had enough time to fix the prototype's flaws. Let the Nemesis become the second ship of this type."
"Yes, sir," said the guardsman. "May I ask a question?"
"Ask."
"What are the instructions regarding honoring Captain Schneider's memory?" Grodin inquired. "Under normal circumstances, if Home One had rammed Nemesis's superstructure, the ship would have been destroyed. In effect, Schneider saved the crew and prevented the enemy from claiming victory."
"I know, Major," I confirmed the adjutant's words with a nod of my head. "The official press release will report the ship's destruction as a result of Admiral Ackbar's actions. The crew will transfer to another Star Destroyer."
There was no point in having them idle in the shipyards while the damaged vessel underwent repairs and upgrades. Moreover, by keeping the survival of Nemesis a secret, we gained the opportunity to find a more 'interesting' use for it.
"Sir, yes, sir," the guardsman replied impassively. "Will there be any further instructions?"
"Of course, Major," I confirmed. "I need the estimated time of arrival for Home One at its destination, as well as data from the droids of Project Morrt aboard Admiral Ackbar's flagship."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral. Permission to proceed?"
"Carry on," the trembling in my fingers had practically subsided. Excellent, that meant I could use the first aid kit...
"This is none of my business, sir, forgive me, but the ysalamiri bit you," Tierce said, pulling a canister of bacta spray from somewhere in his pockets with the virtuosity of a magician and setting it on the edge of the desk. Was that a joke? The lizard's teeth weren't sharp enough to pierce the skin. "Happened to have it in my pocket. Heals superficial abrasions and scraped knuckles in a matter of hours. Thought you might find this medicine useful."
"On account of the ysalamiri bite?" I clarified.
"Yes, sir," Tierce said without batting an eye, glancing toward the shelf. "I have no other reason to offer you bacta spray. Forgive me if my initiative was out of place."
"Your initiative is appropriate, Major," I said, watching the adjutant head for the exit of my cabin. After the first door opened before him, I added:
"Thank you... Grodin."
The guardsman literally stumbled on level ground, but immediately turned it into a circular pivot over his left shoulder.
"I live to serve, sir," the man saluted and left my cabin.
I began unwinding the bandages, mulling over how to turn a Pyrrhic victory into a retaliatory slap that would break the New Republic's jaw.
By the time Chimaera returned to Soulex to oversee the repair and recovery work and prepare the fleet's transition to the base, the plan had fully taken shape.
Alright, New Republic, the jokes are over.
I.
Am angry.