Nine years, nine months, and eighteen days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-fourth year, nine months, and eighteen days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and three days since the Arrival.)
Commodore Shohashi tore his gaze from the report, looking at the semicircle of blue-white holograms burning before his eyes.
But at the moment, only one of them interested him.
"Esumea has been brought to peace?" he repeated, examining the woman's hologram with undisguised interest.
Hairless, with tattoos whose meaning clearly escaped the uninitiated, clad in tight-fitting clothes that advantageously emphasized her trained figure, Asajj Ventress looked at him with a bored gaze, as if she had never been concerned with what he had asked.
"Demonstrative defiance," Eric determined instantly.
Judging by how Brandei — whose hologram towered nearby — shook his head disapprovingly, the commander of the Red Star squadron clearly wasn't impressed.
Apparently, operating in isolation from the main forces hadn't done the Dathomirian witch any good.
Good. Noted. We'll take that into account and re-educate.
Can't — we'll teach. Won't — we'll destroy.
"Yes," she said after several seconds of silence.
"How?"
The beings living on Esumea were not known for a highly developed culture.
They weren't even aggressive by nature. Until the Galactic Empire placed their planet under quarantine.
But times changed in the galaxy, and with the fall of Imperial prestige and power, Esumea was once again open to the wider galaxy. And those who knew this remembered that the three-meter-tall Esumeans were, in fact, giants true to their word and their work, who before the quarantine were considered some of the least picky and lowest-paid mercenaries in the galaxy.
As "cannon fodder," they were almost always useful.
And their straightforwardness and loyalty made members of this race amazingly effective guards.
Of course, as long as it didn't require extensive knowledge of technology, since the Esumeans themselves were at that stage of development where they knew how to use blasters (not a tricky business), but could not produce high technology.
Somewhat similar to Gamorreans in terms of how they were used, but an order of magnitude smarter.
And they really, really disliked the Empire.
And everything associated with it.
It was assumed that if the Esumeans refused negotiations, the planet would be placed under quarantine again. No one was going to supply mercenaries who would act against and to the detriment of the Dominion.
An Esumean.
"How did you manage that?" Brandei inquired.
Eric gave his friend a meaningful look, reminding him that he was also a subordinate.
The commander of the Adjudicator put on a look of complete submission.
I understand, old friend, you don't like doing these cleanups either. But it's necessary. The Fleet has to eliminate threats before they actually become dangerous.
"I challenged their leaders to combat," Ventress said, pretending to be interested in her nails. "And killed them all."
Brandei seemed to choke.
At least he had the sense to turn off his microphone, so his coughing was visible but not audible.
In Imperial times, he would have been killed for that in the presence of a commander. Lately, my dear and only friend had been allowing himself too much.
That wouldn't do — if I let him get away with it, the rest would understand that they could ignore regulations and rules. And that would destroy all discipline in the squadron as a whole and on every ship individually.
"Consequences?" Eric clarified.
He wasn't familiar with Esumean culture, so he wanted to know if this "bringing to peace" would result in a partisan movement in the rear.
"The locals are still cleaning blood and brains off the arena where I fought," Ventress continued in an indifferent tone. "The tribal system on Esumea has officially outlived itself. I ordered the tribes to forget their inter-clan feuds and that henceforth they are citizens of the Dominion. If they obey Dominion law, they will enjoy all rights and privileges. Since the planet suffered several famines during the quarantine due to the inability to import fertilizers and pesticides for pest control — of which there are countless here — the tribal representatives decided to accept my offer. As was stated in the negotiation agenda, I offered them service as guards for colonization and reconnaissance expeditions. On my own behalf, I can also recommend considering them as overseers in the penal system. I'm sure even Wookiees would think twice before rebelling against a crowd of dim-witted but strong Esumeans. Who can crush boulders with a single punch," she added with a smirk. "If you put heavier armor on them and let them loose on the battlefield… that would be a bloodbath."
"Or — send them into a breach in the tight corridors of starships," Shohashi immediately completed the thought.
With reliable armor, such fighters could genuinely break through enemy defenses, allowing the second and third lines of attackers to focus on the actual mop-up.
Not to mention that as guards for the colonization forces, they can provide reliable protection against wild beasts.
Even if they had vibro-axes instead of blasters, like the Gamorreans and their kind.
"I wonder what kind of combat talents you demonstrated that those giants didn't smash your head in?" the commodore thought.
"Not bad," Shohashi approved. "Your report, with remarks and additions, will be sent to Grand Moff Ferrus for a final decision on the matter. Leave a garrison and a mobile base on the planet to protect our forces, then return to Abafar."
"Why leave a mobile base here if the Esumaeans are already building a stone fortress-citadel for the future planetary governor and garrison?" Ventress inquired.
Eric heard the challenge in her words.
It seemed the Dathomirian was deliberately trying to do more than was required. An approach aimed at 'scoring points' with the higher-ups.
And clearly not with Shohashi.
"Send me all the data you actually omitted from your report," he ordered. "It's obvious you were too busy to prepare a full official document."
"Chopping heads like grain in the field, not lounging on the orbit of some quiet little planet" and now this was a direct challenge.
"Finish your mission and return to the Crimson Dawn," he said in an unwavering tone. "In case blood and dirt have clogged your ears, let me clarify: that's an order."
The woman held his gaze for a while, as if testing him.
She might have been trying to use the Force, but the cage with ysalamiri was always nearby.
"Understood," the woman finally conceded. "I'll order my ship prepared for departure."
With that, her hologram faded.
"With those executions, we could have stumbled into a civil war with the Esumaeans," Brandei lamented.
"Yes," Eric agreed, glancing discreetly at the chronometer. Noon by Coruscant time. Time to check on the progress of defensive structures and the garrison on Abafar itself. After all, no one was going to leave the only source of rhydonium without reliable protection. "What do you have?"
"No problems with Jagridia at all," Brandei sighed. "The locals are absolutely in favor of joining the Dominion. Although... you know, I think they'd agree to join anyone, just to be left alone."
"Questions will arise about their alcohol, which gives human men a beer belly," Eric declared.
"I explained that too," the commander of the Judicator said. "They're ready to discuss options, including exclusive export contracts, but only if the Dominion provides both transport and protection. Because lately their sales have dropped — someone's been intercepting their freighters and supplies in recent months. The company bought the latest ships, they vanished, and frankly, they're one foot into bankruptcy..."
"Stop," Shohashi said quietly but commandingly. "Economics is the least of my interests. My task is to pacify the sectors and destroy pirates and overt enemies. The faster, the better. Let Grand Moff and his staff deal with socio-economic issues."
"No argument there," the old friend backed down. "Just thought you might be interested in becoming a shareholder. Their turnover is decent, and Dominion law doesn't forbid such things..."
It was clear. Brandei had invested in the enterprise and was now looking for support from a friend.
"Sorry, I'm not interested," Eric stated.
He shifted his attention to the work computer, adding Esuma and Jagridia to the list of star systems in the Sprizen sector that had joined the Dominion.
Right there alongside Abafar, Ashera, Portminia, Priole Danna, Trailia, Salin, Sprizen...
All that remained was to solve the problem with the Ramoa system, whose inhabitants, outwardly nearly identical to Gamorreans, had no understanding of Galactic Basic, and, let's be honest, weren't much smarter than Gamorreans either. Blockading the system would be stupid. It had plenty of mineral resources, but extracting them under garrison protection was impractical. The locals needed to be negotiated with amicably. And better yet — to recruit them for the work themselves. Of course, there would be any suitable job for them in Dominion enterprises and planets, but those were minor issues.
The Red Star represented the state's interests.
Eric had already made a sixth attempt to negotiate with the Ramoa, but without success.
Hutt, and they'd expected most of the problems to come from New Agamar, whose inhabitants were descendants of settlers from Agamar.
Peaceful farmers, used to paying tribute to the Cavrilhu pirates to keep their crops intact and their population off the slave markets, practically threw themselves at the feet of the Dominion stormtroopers.
It wasn't yet clear on what terms they were joining Grand Admiral Thrawn's state, but one thing was already certain — they were joining in a single heartfelt impulse.
And no alternative.
There was one more system in the sector, but that one required specialized personnel. Because the planet housed a mad artificial intelligence, tricked by insurgents many years ago, meaning the promising terraforming technology that reconnaissance droids had seen with their own eyes might be inaccessible.
And fighting an entire planet that could trigger earthquakes and burn with lava from volcanoes just didn't seem appealing.
Figuratively speaking, most of the work was done.
All that remained was to find and destroy the Cavrilhu pirates' lair.
Counterintelligence and reconnaissance had promised to help, but apparently the pirate base in this part of the galaxy was very well hidden...
Well, once the issue with the Ramoa was resolved, the Sprizen sector, like Nidjun before it, could be peacefully handed over to the Grand Moff — let him handle the internal affairs himself.
"Eric." Brandei's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "I'd like to ask you a favor. As a commander and as a friend."
An interesting twist.
"I'm listening," Shohashi stated, turning to face the hologram.
"Arrange a transfer for one of my military medics," Brandei's eyes suspiciously darted away.
"Write a report about unsuitability for the position, and HQ will find a place for her." Though, what HQ... Just personnel service, accounting, analysts, supply officers... But personnel matters were handled, and that was the main thing in this specific case.
Unsuitability for the current post was practically the only option for a ship commander to remove an undesirable crew member. The procedure, however, required certification. And certain problems for those deemed unsuitable for one reason or another. A pay cut was the least of their worries.
"That's the catch," which meant it was something personal, since the open and direct Brandei clearly didn't want to look him in the eye. "You see, the girl is young, transferred from the Tangrene hospital. A competent specialist, they even entrusted her with monitoring Counselor Organa-Solo's pregnancy during her captivity..."
"Get to the point," Shohashi requested.
"Can you transfer her to the Crimson Dawn?" Brandei clarified. "As a routine rotation."
Interesting...
"Don't you want to explain?" Eric asked.
Brandei stared gloomily at him.
The very familiar look of a man in love.
"I don't want to say it out loud," the commander of the Judicator said. "Or bother you. But I don't want to break the regulations either. There's something developing between us, but the prohibition on direct command of relatives..."
"Send me the medic's personnel number," Eric said coldly. "I'll approve the transfer."
"Thank you," Brandei breathed in relief. "Sorry again. I understand that after Irene, this topic for you..."
"Return to patrol," Shohashi ordered in a tone devoid of emotion. "Meeting adjourned."
"Aye..." Brandei said dejectedly, ."..Commodore."
Friendship and service can't be mixed.
Brandei should understand that personal matters must remain personal. And not come into conflict with official duties.
Judging by the fact that he'd addressed Shohashi by his rank, he understood perfectly.
The commander of the Red Star squadron sat for a few minutes before the deactivated holoprojector, pondering what had happened.
The fact that an old friend had turned to him for help was undoubtedly correct. The mere fact that he was the commander of his beloved would have been enough to permanently dismiss both from the fleet without explanation.
That was how it had been in the Empire.
How Thrawn would react to something like this... was unknown.
However, in the Dominion fleet, and indeed in the armed forces of the Grand Admiral's state, the regulations were still Imperial.
And it was better not to set a precedent in such matters.
It was enough that he'd place his friend's woman in the infirmary of his flagship, but Brandei...
Eric reached for the computer with a touch of sadness.
Habitually, he found the report file.
His eyes ran over the lines of the draft order for promoting several officers who had distinguished themselves during the sector pacification campaigns.
He stopped at the line with his old friend's name.
."..to confer the military rank of Flag Captain..."
He reached the second part of the order, where his eyes naturally snagged on the same name:
."..Remove from the position of Commander of the Star Destroyer Judicator... Appoint as Commander of the fast star dreadnought Crimson Dawn... Appoint as Chief of Staff to the Commander of the Red Star squadron..."
For a few agonizing minutes, he debated whether the chance to serve on the same ship as a beloved woman was worth the risk of losing everything — including command stripes, the job...
No, it wasn't.
Otherwise, Brandei himself wouldn't have brought up this conversation.
You could talk all you wanted about the Dominion being the best incarnation of the Galactic Empire, but unforeseen factors couldn't be overcome.
Among a thousand patriots and understanding officers in counterintelligence, there would always be that one careerist formalist who'd want to bleed you dry and earn favor by discovering a procedural violation.
The Grand Admiral's fleet had grown to such proportions that there was no point in deluding oneself that Thrawn controlled everything that happened on every ship.
He was a lone rancor himself, and who knew how he'd react to such violations by his subordinates.
Which meant the order would have to be revised.
The rank of "Flag Captain," or as they'd been called since the Old Republic — "Line Captain" was a small but significant promotion in every fleet officer's life.
This rank effectively allowed one to command a formation of ships, and not a small one.
Or to become a staff officer for a formation commander, like a squadron...
That pivotal moment when you could choose — whether to advance your career along a military or a staff path.
For some reason, Thrawn ignored promoting most destroyer commanders. The fact that they had effectively become Line Captains was reflected in their duties — each commanded a formation.
But the stripes remained the same... Only a decent sum was added to their salary...
It was most likely that the pseudo-Admiralty, the headquarters on Ciutric IV, still couldn't sort out the Dominion's command-and-staff structure, so nothing significant was happening.
But you couldn't just drift with the current.
Since Eric had agreed to the medic's transfer aboard his starship, transferring Brandei himself to the position of Chief of Staff or Ship Commander would be dangerous, and the consequences wouldn't be long in coming.
But leaving a comrade, through whose efforts half the sectors of Nidjun and Sprizen had accepted Dominion citizenship, to twist in the wind wasn't right either.
Without false modesty, Brandei was a good officer. Competent, responsible, diligent, tactically savvy, a loyal friend, and a true battle comrade.
People like that should advance in their careers to serve as an example for new recruits.
Eric pondered how to reconcile the irreconcilable.
Both the promotion and preventing his friend and his beloved from being in a chain of command...
He thought for a long time.
Right up until one of the BX-series droids, also acting as his assistant, reminded him to check the final construction phase on Abafar.
"Sir," the droid monotoned. "Since the other squadron formations are on similar assignments, as the commanding officer, you must personally inspect the completion, or delegate this to a subordinate officer and..."
"Quiet," Eric snapped his fingers.
After thinking for a few more seconds, he erased everything unnecessary from the order.
Creating a new file, he began drafting a new document.
This time — addressed to the Supreme Commander.
Thrawn was unlikely to be pleased, but he was a sensible officer. One could always "bargain."..
* * *
TNH-0297 stepped back from the doorway, saving himself from being impaled by several blaster bolts.
The other two Shock Troopers turned their heads toward the squad leader.
The sergeant showed his men, positioned at the other side of the doorway, three fingers.
A second later — two.
TNH-0333 clicked the safety off his hand flamethrower.
One.
The deadly bursts ceased as if cut off — the enemy had gone to reload.
The trio of Shock Troopers appeared simultaneously from both doorjambs, opening fire.
Two with blaster rifles.
The flamethrower man — always a flamethrower man.
The stream of insistent flame was like a pack of hungry rancors let loose in a dark space. Filling the void, the fire-breathing rancors surged forward, consuming and destroying everything in their path.
By the time the three soldiers were back in cover, the corridor of the star super-destroyer looked like a vast black rectangular intestine.
Soot-covered and melted walls, dotted here and there with smoldering plastic and burning thin-sheet metal; the floor coated with ash and grime...
And six enemy soldiers — regular officers in fleet uniforms, of which only deformed belt buckles and insignia that once adorned their caps remained.
"Forward," TNH-0297 ordered.
The three soldiers advanced at a brisk pace, re-forming on the move to check various compartments whose entrances lined the sides of the scorched corridor.
"Clear," the sergeant reported.
Switching to the command frequency, he reported.
"Deck seven, from the emergency hatch to the entrance to the backup command post, is cleared. Resistance suppressed."
"Copy," came the reply. "Continue your assigned objective. Infantry is moving up."
"Copy," the clone of the long-deceased Colonel Selid confirmed. "Continuing the operation."
Of course, they weren't talking about army infantry.
They had no business aboard a spaceship.
To consolidate control over the seized part of the behemoth, space infantry was used — the same stormtroopers the Empire, by old tradition, called "marines."
In the Dominion, they'd been given the correct designation, reflecting their purpose.
However, for the Guards 501st Legion, no mission was impossible.
On the surface, in the air, underwater, and in space — they could handle any task.
Because they were the Guard.
A soft beep sounded in the comlink.
TNH-0297 stopped, quickly glancing at the squad's technician.
The commando-technician signaled — enemy approaching. Then he tapped lightly on the part of his helmet covering his ear.
Left, at three o'clock, forty meters and closing. Heavy movement down the corridor they had just entered.
The enemy had reacted to the incursion and was desperately trying not to lose control of the ship's bridge.
A waste of effort.
These were Shock Troopers here, so the mission would be completed.
Hand signals — the universal way to convey information to comrades when moving through enemy-held territory. An additional danger: a ship of this size was sure to have encryption and decryption equipment.
Therefore, communication systems could be compromised.
That's what the technician indicated.
The sergeant silently yielded the lead of the squad to the commando-technician.
The technician, pulling a periscope with a fiber-optic probe at the opposite end from his pack, bent its tip at a right angle.
Then he lowered the camera to floor level and carefully poked it around the corner.
The sergeant and the flamethrower man silently watched as the technician signaled with his right hand.
Six targets.
Full armor.
Light weaponry.
Thermal detonators present.
Ten meters.
Approaching on foot.
When the technician looked at him, TNH-0297 struck his own neck twice with the edge of his palm.
The soldier, understanding he should wrap up, stowed the equipment and retrieved his rifle from TNH-0333.
SoroSuub blaster rifles were second to none for the work of Shock Troopers and fleet special forces.
Flash and sound suppression devices sometimes saved them from early detection.
The sergeant ordered a retreat and dispersal in the corridor behind them.
How do you hide a black nexu in a corridor?
That's right — burn the corridor down, the nexu is the color of night anyway.
Shock Troopers also wore armor of the same color.
Six stormtroopers appearing from around the corridor corner froze for a moment, seeing only a long, dark corridor before them without a single light source, where plastic was still smoldering.
"Rookies," TNH-0297 realized instantly.
Soldiers trained on Carida didn't behave like that.
The enemy's hesitation was the cause of their swift death.
TNH-0333 breathed fire, the technician unloaded a multi-charge Verpine shotgun, and the sergeant himself opened a barrage of fire.
They killed four outright.
Two, whose armor had taken powerful streams of fire, rolled on the deck, moving out of the blasters' line of fire.
The sergeant gave a covering signal. Both soldiers immediately took control of both corridor branches.
TNH-0333, without taking his eyes off his watch, drew a blaster pistol from his holster with his left hand and, barely aiming, put the stormtroopers being consumed alive by the unstoppable fire out of their misery.
The sergeant ejected an empty power cell and replaced the gas cartridge. Then both soldiers performed the same procedure in turn.
After reloading their weapons, the squad moved on.
The trio of Shock Troopers barely noticed the next attempt to stop them.
Fleet specialists who ran out of a storage compartment froze for a moment, unsure if the figures before them were enemy or friendly.
TNH-0333 resolved their complex dilemma in two seconds with his hand flamethrower.
With aimed fire from three rifles, they mowed down four bridge guards.
But they couldn't go further — the turbolift they intended to take up to the bridge level was de-powered.
It was literally shut down before their eyes.
Meaning this ship had a much more advanced defense system than they knew.
This ship wasn't a standard design.
Receiving a hand-signaled order, the technician instantly connected to the data port.
It took his equipment about three minutes to bypass the computer security and connect to the ship's information database.
They couldn't access the ship's information environment, only the starship's plan, before the central computer de-powered the panel. An annoying setback.
Another confirmation of fact — this ship was built to an improved layout.
The technician quickly unfolded a holographic map of the ship section where the Shock Trooper squad was located.
So, the bridge was six levels up.
They could get there via the turbolift, which was now deactivated and de-powered. The central computer had blocked access to the transport device, meaning their actions were being observed.
But no matter how much the technician scanned the surrounding space, he found no surveillance devices.
Strange.
So the unseen enemy was relying on sensors located in the corridors?
It seemed so — no other explanation could be found.
Noted; operation continuing.
It took three minutes to find an alternate route to the target.
The turbolift shaft, which surely had service ladders, wasn't considered — with control over the ship's electronics, the enemy could easily move the cabin and crush the commandos.
No one was going to waste time inspecting the shaft to find an alternative route through it or not.
While TNH-0297 encrypted a text message to command about the countermeasures being employed on the starship, the technician calculated the necessary route that wouldn't use turbolifts.
So, three corridors to the right, cross the navigation room, the workshop, take the emergency stairs up to the required level, get to the standard secondary entrance to the bridge.
Doable.
"Forward," TNH-0297 signaled.
The squad moved toward the target, spreading out to a distance of two meters from each other.
Given the enemy's capabilities, the possibility of other countermeasures couldn't be ruled out...
In the first corridor, the flamethrower burned out an enemy ambush without the slightest compromise to operational security. A short spit of fire, a sustained stream — and four enemies were reduced to bone remains and molten metal.
The sergeant calculated the reasons and conditions under which the automatic defense system activated, as well as possible variations of its use.
In the second corridor, they came under fire almost immediately as the door opened.
The flamethrower man was hit — a burn wound on his right ankle.
But TNH-0333 held up admirably, treating the wound himself while the technician identified who they were up against.
The answer wasn't surprising, but still unusual.
An autoturret.
In other words, an automated heavy blaster, reacting via a network of sensors and scanners to threat conditions programmed into it.
Essentially the same mounted blaster, but with a minimally independent artificial intelligence.
And to defend against its fire, something far better protected than commando assault armor would be needed.
There were several options in this situation.
Sergeant TNH-0297 started with the most obvious.
He threw a thermal detonator, factoring in the distance to the enemy obtained again via the commando-technician's fiber-optic probe.
After the first explosion, the autoturret continued firing. But the fire was interrupted periodically by dry clicks — apparently the tibanna gas booster or the breech locking mechanism was damaged.
A good sign; it meant the autoturret's armor wasn't thick.
Three more grenades solved the turret's existence problem.
The trio continued moving.
They had to bypass the navigation room without engaging in battle.
The compartment turned out to be literally packed with crew members and enemy soldiers.
Twelve of the former and two squads of the latter.
After flooding the compartment with thermal detonators and blocking the exit by destroying the door control panel, the squad adjusted its route once again.
They had to cut through the navigation compartment.
Two stormtroopers hiding there were swept aside, not even managing to slow down the assault commandos.
The workshop had to be bypassed through yet another corridor.
In which they encountered another turret, which was destroyed by the flamethrower before it could identify its targets.
However, it managed to fire off a few unaimed volleys.
No one was hit, but the result was... surprising.
It was hard to surprise TNX-0297, but the fact that after melting the turret, he and his men found themselves inside force fields projected from the ceiling, also known as "stun beams," was unexpected.
This technology was in use, known throughout the galaxy, but required a large energy output to equip ship decks with it in large quantities.
It was unlikely that it had been installed only here.
Most likely, either the central computer couldn't handle processing all the data coming from different parts of the attacked ship, or the assault commandos had previously managed to avoid traps in other compartments of the ship.
In the time it took the flamethrower operator TNX-0333 to burn out the projector on the corridor ceiling, TNX-0297 realized why they had managed to avoid traps in the past.
In every corridor they entered, in every compartment where they fought, there were living enemy soldiers. In cases where there were none, the flamethrower would burn out the compartments and the sensors would be destroyed.
And so it was now: a thin stream of fire melted the projector, and the squad leader was free.
They covered the rest of the corridor without any issues.
And this suggested that the automatic defense systems activated when the sensors in the corridor were intact, but only reacted when there was targeting data on Dominion soldiers. And in the room with the trap, they were alone, without enemy soldiers.
An interesting hypothesis, which he shared with the command.
The report, along with methods for countering enemy traps by destroying projectors disguised as ceiling lighting panels, was received, processed, and adopted for use.
Given that the assault commandos were moving at the tip of the attack — specifically their squad, while the other units of the 501st Legion were fighting in other parts of the massive ship where the enemy was invariably present — the traps were destroyed before they could even be detected.
But auto-turrets and the blocking of turbolifts where fighting was occurring turned out to be a common problem.
Thus, whoever designed this ship made sure that assault units would not only be delayed by system shutdowns and automated defensive equipment, but also provided countermeasures in the form of stun beams for small groups of saboteurs moving in parts of the Super Star Destroyer where personnel and crew were not present.
Consequently, the central computer has recognition systems that help it distinguish the crew from intruders.
Not bad, really not bad.
But it won't help them anyway.
The emergency staircase greeted them with darkness and low temperatures. Apparently, the central computer was diverting power from secondary systems and unused crew compartments to power other parts of the Super Star Destroyer, including the traps.
Reaching the bridge, the assault commandos didn't stand on ceremony with anyone inside.
They simply bombarded the ship's command compartment with thermal detonators and doused it with the remaining fire mixture.
After which they blocked the entrances and exits to the bridge.
When the oxygen inside burned out, along with the people inside, the ship's defenses shut down.
The computer or sentient controlling the security systems burned out on the job.
"The bridge is cleared," Sergeant TNX-0297 reported to the command, looking at the huge soot-filled room with damaged control terminals and handfuls of cremated remains. "Ship control is disrupted. Moving to the alternate command post."
* * *
Captain Makeno, when storming enemy starships — especially military ones built to last — followed one principle that invariably saved him from a shot that would end his mortal existence.
"Grenade first, then yourself."
And he trained and educated the fighters of his squad in exactly the same realities.
A thermal detonator or grenade is cheap, but getting treatment in case of injury is long, expensive, and not always high quality.
And burying is even simpler.
But few were satisfied with the latter option.
That's exactly why, when encountering fierce resistance in the crew berthing on board an enemy Star Destroyer, the naval special forces, as they had dozens of times before, sent "presents" to the enemy.
And only after the roar, screams, and moans merged into one did the men go on the attack.
But before them — a flashbang grenade.
Waiting until the enemy was disoriented by the flash and terrible sounds causing unbearable idiosyncrasy, the special forces began the assault on this compartment.
Pouring streams from heavy blasters and rifles at anything that could in any way pose a danger, the special forces crossed the barracks in mere seconds, counting a hundred naval specialists who had organized resistance here in their naive narrow-minded simplicity.
Why so many?
It's because when you fight an enemy that outnumbers you, you should use not just ammunition, but ammunition whose "jacket" consists of fragmentation elements.
Wounded and stunned, the enemies don't pose much danger, but no one here promised to take prisoners.
They should have surrendered when offered.
During a sweep, the only ones who might interest the special forces are the officers. They know more than ordinary crew members.
However, this principle is not universal; it all depends on the perspective and nature of the operation.
In this case, among those eager to quickly depart this world, there were no officers.
So no one was going to spare the sailors and specialists.
Those who survived but were doomed to die in agony — must be finished off.
This is something like a final gesture of courtesy for those who serve in a navy. No matter whose.
But no one should suffer.
Except for the ideological ones.
No one likes fanatics.
These guys didn't seem completely insane, but they didn't listen to the voice of reason either.
Therefore, two soldiers at the rear of the formation performed "control," finishing off mortally wounded enemies with single blaster shots.
Better that than drowning in their own blood or lying on the deck, scooping back their insides that have spilled from a torn belly.
War is dirt and death.
This should be remembered by those who choose as their profession, by calling, the destruction of the enemy and the protection of their state's borders, interests, and security.
The next compartment — another barracks — the special forces doused with incendiary grenades, not wasting time on a firefight.
A hastily organized barricade with a heavy repeater in the center was neutralized by the squad's sniper, making an extra hole in the enemy stormtrooper's helmet that wasn't structurally intended.
The shooters in white assault armor along with the barricade were blown apart with a grenade launcher.
The model was old, from the time of the Clone Wars, but that didn't affect its lethality and destructiveness.
Having finished off the stunned but surviving ones, the special forces fought their way to where they had originally been heading — to the stormtrooper barracks, which for some reason were under quarantine and guarded.
The command had already informed the boarding parties that on board the Super Star Destroyer there were hostages — workers from the local shipyard, whom the enemy planned to take along with their escape from the Barpine system.
On board the destroyer, which the special forces had already determined was disguised as the "Liquidator," destroyed nine years ago shortly before the Battle of Yavin, there could well be other prisoners.
The Grand Admiral ordered their safety to be ensured.
Most likely, given previous experience working with the Grand Admiral, it seems that the liberation will be followed by an offer to come under Dominion jurisdiction.
Well, let politicians handle politics; the special forces have entirely different tasks.
The special forces soldiers took out the stormtrooper sentries quickly and without problems — rarely does anyone manage to escape a sniper when he doesn't want them to.
Organizing the defense took a bit more time, which coincided with the time needed for the technicians to crack the code locks on the entrance doors.
However, as soon as the bulkhead swung open and the naval special forces soldiers looked inside, there were more questions than answers.
"Who are these?" one of the squad's soldiers asked in surprise, observing the prisoners.
"Women," another muttered uncertainly, quite quickly identifying the primary sexual characteristics of the female prisoners.
"Let's say," Orsan said meaningfully. "Ugly, of course, but... Can someone explain why the hell these lunatics needed pale-faced, fully tattooed human women? And packed like this?"
There were no takers to try their luck with a correct answer to such a burning question.
Either there really were no options except the most obvious, and therefore clearly wrong ones.
Or under the furious gazes of the aforementioned women, encased in strange metal boxes and held suspended by force fields, tormented by quite painful and disorienting electrical shocks, the brave special forces of the regular Dominion fleet felt uncomfortable.
That's what they reported to the command.
Let them figure it out themselves.
The naval special forces had completed their tasks.
* * *
The battle in the Barpine system had ended half a day ago, and now, after the "Inexorable" along with its trophies had arrived at the orbital shipyard and all battles were finished, the time had come to analyze what had happened up and down.
And there was much to think about and decisions to be made extremely quickly. No one will forgive us for slowing the pace of the offensive.
Absolutely no one.
And first and foremost — I myself.
As always, I needed a devil's advocate to look at the situation from another angle.
And while Captain Pellaeon was dealing with things quite unusual for a flagship Star Destroyer commander, like conducting negotiations with the administration of the local network, and Major Tierce was organizing the interrogation, Zakarisz Ghent was hacking certain files of the Republic intelligence, acting on my instinct, the only sentient who was familiar with the ongoing events and capable of analysis turned out to be... Mara Jade.
"That was awkward," the red-haired girl broke the silence, lifting her gaze from the tactical monitor that displayed data on our losses in the current battle.
"I beg your pardon?" I clarified.
"My rescue," the girl explained. "I was supposed to act in accordance with the principles of autonomy and secrecy, but here... Several people saw my face on board the corvette."
"Hmm... indeed," I agreed. "This situation is fixable."
"Will you get rid of them?" the girl tensed.
"Why would I get rid of clones for whom there is excellent use?" I clarified. "They'll be reassigned to other work areas, as soon as a plausible version of who you are and what you were doing on that ship is ready."
Although, the version is already ready and disseminated.
According to it, Jade is a crew member who hid on the starship and offered resistance during the capture attempt — quite sufficient.
Events are developing so rapidly that no one will bother with minor details.
"Thank you," the girl said.
"For what?" I asked.
"I don't like unnecessary sacrifices," Jade winced. "Especially when they could happen because of me."
"I don't execute my people for saving my agent from a malfunctioning starship and thereby partially revealing the veil of conspiracy," I had to remind her of the difference between me and Palpatine. "And now, tell me everything from the beginning."
Well, the story was short.
Long independent searches, then return to Wohai, disarming the crew, hijacking the ship delivering cargo to the Quelli sector, meeting with Lieutenant Donell, hiding, battling on board the ship...
Well... it fit into five minutes of detailed narration, but the consequences... who knows what we've run into and how long it will take to clean up.
"Preliminary interrogations confirm your assumptions," I said. "Lieutenant Donell did indeed use deviations from the route for freighters, luring them into the Quelli sector to keep his fleet buildup operation secret."
"He wasn't doing it for himself," Jade shook her head to the side, indicating the Super Star Destroyer next to which the "Chimaera" was drifting. "And he wasn't building this giant for himself either."
"For your acquaintance you encountered on the transport?" I clarified.
"No," the girl shook her head negatively, scattering red strands across her face. Funny... On Earth I considered the tandem of red hair and freckles mandatory... Jade had no freckles. But what does it matter now? "During the battle, we had a conversation. He admitted he's just an executor. There is someone more powerful than him."
"An adept of the Force?" I clarified.
"Yes," the girl admitted, shuddering. "I can't imagine how insane this person must be to subdue my acquaintance."
"Who is he?" I asked.
"The instructor who trained me when I was the Emperor's Hand," the girl explained. "I don't know about his past, but he always seemed to me not what he pretended to be. Arrogant with me, but fawning in the Emperor's presence. I felt that he was afraid of Palpatine. Not respect, but actual fear. And hatred. As if Palpatine once broke him and forced him to serve..."
"That's not uncommon," I remarked. "How do you assess his actual danger to us?"
"In the past, I never managed to defeat him," the girl took a deep breath. "Today I did. But it was more of a victory on points than due to skill. I won't evade — I'm not his equal."
Well, at least it's honest.
However, I have those who can eliminate a Force-sensitive. Even if I send them all at once...
But that's another topic for conversation.
"Who might he serve?" I asked.
"Anyone," the girl stated. "But his master clearly has close ties to the Dark Side of the Force."
"Palpatine?" I clarified.
"Unlikely," the girl countered. "He didn't even suspect that the Emperor was alive."
"But you enlightened him," I noted.
Jade nodded in agreement.
"I hoped I could deal with him and the secret would go with him to the grave," she admitted.
"We all make mistakes," I replied neutrally.
It took a few seconds to admit that no data analysis would help reveal the instructor's master's name.
I simply lack data.
"What is the instructor's name?"
"Instructor," Jade spread her hands. "Those who trained me never had names."
"Consequently, can we expect more like him?" I asked.
"Hardly," Mara replied. "Among the Force-sensitives, he was the only one who trained me."
Which doesn't negate the fact that in the Empire, almost every close associate of Palpatine had a connection to the Force.
But everyone stubbornly pretended otherwise.
"I need to know who he is and put a bounty on his head," there is nothing simpler. We have money, we'll hire Boba Fett, let him work. At the same time, at a personal meeting, we can ask some questions. The only question is whether he'll take the job.
Because after the Noghri and Himron's clones thinned out the bounty hunter brotherhood, killing anyone who agreed to take a job on me, on that field only the wind howls and tumbleweeds roll.
"All I can do is draw his portrait," Jade offered.
Oh, I see... The Hand, it turns out, has skills in painting. Very... Strange. I never heard anything like that before or read about it. Did it stay "off-screen" again?
"Okay," I agreed after considering the situation.
The girl walked to the table, took the datapad and stylus handed to her, returned to the chair, and began to sketch...
So, another new threat.
Someone, perhaps an Inquisitor, perhaps a fallen Jedi, perhaps someone else, has dug up from oblivion the Emperor's Hand's fencing instructor.
Together they are traditionally building their "utopian state," not shunning violence and slave labor conditions — at least that's what the workers at the local shipyard say.
There is also Lieutenant Donell, who just half a year ago engaged exclusively in small-time piracy and was based in this system, at this shipyard, keeping his ships "afloat" by reselling captured starships and forming his own fleet.
At one moment, everything changes.
The key priority becomes the construction of an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer.
Moreover, for the construction of the starship, suitable structural parts of the "Iron Fist" are used — the flagship of warlord Zsinj. The ship was destroyed many months ago over the planet Dathomir. Which is located in the Quelli sector.
Scrap metal is insufficient, so while the active part of my campaign begins, the ship's hull is already practically ready — it was being built for over a year, almost immediately after the destruction. Donell changes tactics and starts acquiring spare parts that are installed on this ship.
For some purpose, the instructor's master starts gathering Imperial-class Star Destroyers and giving them names from among the destroyed ships of Darth Vader's own Death Squadron.
The ship was planned to be taken from the shipyard along with the workers for completion elsewhere. Where? Only Donell and the instructor knew.
The first was shot by subordinates, the second escaped.
And, if the calculations of our navigators are to be believed, then the trio of TIE-Defenders made a jump straight into the Quelli sector. The most optimal course — the planet Dathomir.
Well, I have an excellent reason to visit this world.
First — Mara's story that the instructor's master mentioned recruiting Dathomirian witches, who also have sensitivity to the Force.
Actually, now it's clear why the berthing areas on the destroyer were full of them. They were being transported in the converted barracks of the destroyer.
Immobilized and deprived of the ability to use magic...
Whoever the instructor's master is, he is gathering an army. And it's unlikely he's doing it for the love of art.
In the end, I have at my disposal an unarmed and unfinished Super Star Destroyer. Which still needs to be restored.
He also has a fleet at his disposal...
All that remained was to find confirmation.
"I'm done," Mara announced.
With a gesture, I beckoned the girl to me.
Receiving the communication device from her, I clearly realized how little I know about this galaxy.
Looking into the non-human face, I asked curiously:
"The instructor is not human?"
"Exactly," the girl confirmed. "The New Order was just a fiction for those who skillfully used it."
I nodded silently...
Another encrypted message came from Ghent, which I read...
Yes, now everything falls into place. The fresh information reveals who this starship was built for, who captured the Dathomirian witches and why. As well as an excellent piece of the puzzle — a report on the discovery of severed limbs on the transport...
"With this," I set the "composite sketch" aside, "now everything is clear."
"Indeed?" the girl clarified.
"Yes," I sighed.
Yes, I should have spent more time on games and comics from this universe. But who knew it would turn out like this.
"And... what became clear?" the girl clarified.
"The name of your instructor," I said. "As well as the one he serves. We need to stop them as soon as possible."
With such names, even a second Super Star Destroyer isn't pleasing. Especially considering that Jade's instructor has been "killed" multiple times in the past.
"Will there be a mission for me to track and destroy them?" Mara asked.
"No," I declared. "We'll do it together."
The girl looked at me cautiously.
"Did you find out something about who we are to fight?" the girl asked.
"Yes," I confirmed. "Your instructor's name and New Republic intelligence data on destroyed Executor-class Super Star Destroyers brought clarity to what's happening."
Well, better late than never. However, when I first started hunting the "Executors," I didn't have the information the Republicans possessed.
Specifically, I didn't know where and when they destroyed ships of this type. But now, thanks to Mr. Ghent and Mara Jade's crooked drawing (now it's clear why this didn't become known to the public — only by the tattoos did I figure out who was drawn before me), everything has fallen into place.
And this is by no means cheerful.
Because I thought these individuals were already a past stage for the galaxy and were long destroyed.
It turns out they aren't.
Well... this turns out to be an interesting final stage...
"And..." Mara raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn't allow more to her rebellious nature. "What does my instructor's name give us?"
"The key to finding his master's base," I said, activating the comlink. "Captain Pellaeon, prepare the fleet for an immediate jump to the Dathomir system. Leave one formation to guard our trophies."
"Yes, sir," the man said after a brief silence, disconnecting the communication device.
"I understand that I can hardly demand anything," Jade cautiously noted, "but, in gratitude for helping to strengthen the Dominion with such valuable starships... May I know what is so special about the name of my old fencing instructor?"
"He is from this planet," I explained. "A Dathomirian Zabrak. One of many, but this one in his time was known as Maul..."
The girl's eyes widened.
"Darth Maul, to be precise," I said. "The first of Darth Sidious's apprentices."