Nine years, nine months, and thirty days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, nine months, and thirty days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and sixteen days since the Arrival.)
In its time, the Galactic Empire had raised the question of the Corporate Sector's actual autonomy more than once.
The pro-Imperial government of the wealthy sector, which actually had many privileges compared to most of the Outer Rim territories, was almost a thorn in the side of those from the Core Worlds. For the most part, they were irritated that the 'corporates' possessed a large degree of sovereignty, and also acquired old Imperial military equipment for next to nothing, or virtually for free.
However, the latter term mostly referred to weapons of the previous generation, still combat-effective and essentially not having lost their relevance. It was just that the Imperial Center decided to give away boring toys to loyal autonomies, since the military-industrial complex tirelessly supplied newer and newer killing tools.
The 'corporates' and very few knew this — were among those 'lucky ones' who put considerable effort into ensuring that the Empire's war machine received the necessary funding.
The level of exactions imposed on the local population, oddly enough, even satisfied the locals themselves, whom the Empire bled dry for every last credit.
Taxes reached astronomical percentages relative to the amount of transactions or wages — higher than anywhere in the Empire. In exchange for their colossal contributions, the 'corporates' had the opportunity to 'take a peek' into the arsenals of old Imperial weaponry and acquire it at completely laughable prices.
Not to mention that the population was effectively shielded from military conscription, so natives of Corporate Sector planets could not be found serving in the armed forces of the Galactic Empire.
Grand Admiral Thrawn used something similar regarding the merchant worlds that were part of the Dominion. Moreover, judging by information from colleagues, he used it extremely successfully.
But right now, Rederick was more interested in what was happening on Etti IV.
This planet was located near the northern terminus of the Hydian Way, which was the planet Bonadan. Furthermore, it was a crossroads for a number of regional trade routes, which in its time determined its role as a trading world, convenient for concluding deals and conducting negotiations between various parties.
Etti IV, possessing no significant natural resources but having excellent landscapes, attracted the attention of sentients for a completely different reason. Planets located at the intersection of regional hyperspace routes or major galactic transport arteries are not uncommon, including in the Corporate Sector.
But the Government of the 'corporates', as well as the heads of large criminal and semi-criminal groups, chose Etti IV as their base of operations because of the beauty of the planet's landscapes.
No mining or building into ecumenopolises had ever been conducted here. Neat but at the same time luxurious residences were quite sufficient.
Rederick was currently in exactly one such residence.
In a relaxed two-piece suit and a snow-white shirt with a thin black tie, the agent watched with feigned indifference the motley crowd of various officials, businessmen, and semi-criminal elements.
They had all received invitations to a party organized by the head of the 'Rossum' company, which manufactured droids.
Once on the rise, the company had slid downhill many years ago.
And now, a young woman currently at the head of the corporation had managed to conclude a profitable contract with the Corporate Sector Government for the supply of B-2 model droids.
Indeed, Separatist war machines thirty years old, retaining their design which had once instilled fear in most of the galaxy's population, were 'in demand' again due to the actions of Grand Admiral Thrawn and the increased activity of the Imperial Remnants. The Corporate Sector was following the path blazed many decades ago by the CIS: spending money not so much on a living army (the 'corporates' had one, but only as law enforcement forces and elite units), but on cheap droids that would crush their enemy through mass.
Rederick looked at the crowd, consisting of numerous pompously dressed men and women surrounding a middle-aged, beautiful blonde woman.
Ellie Stark.
The head of the 'Rossum' corporation (yes, yes, yes, they had gotten rid of the extra words in the name) was cheerful (after six alcoholic cocktails, it was surprising she was still on her feet), dispensing smiles left and right, trying with all her might to appear confident.
Although in a dress that concealed less than it revealed, one must have a truly Beskar-like sense of self-respect and dignity to move so casually in circles that were the lion's share of the most significant sentients in Government and crime.
True, from their motley outfits and completely identical, pompous-and-debauched behavior, one's head started to spin.
"This is a short step away from epilepsy," Rederick lamented, turning away from the main hall where the entire party was taking place.
The bartender (a Human, oddly enough) smiled routinely and readily freshened the whiskey. The man, clearly no longer young, deftly handled the bottles with the skill of a circus performer.
Admirable — Rederick, no matter how much he tried to learn this art, always failed. He never had much free time for such activities anyway.
He didn't have any now, either.
"New to Etti?" the bartender inquired, busy polishing glasses.
"Is it that obvious?" Rederick asked, grimacing on purpose to give the impression he was upset by the remark.
"You came in a strict, classic suit," the bartender winked at him, as if emphasizing the similarity of their attire. The talkative man himself was dressed in a simple shirt, clearly from the mid-price range and bought for work at occasions like this current celebration, over which he wore a strict black vest. "That's not the custom here. Unless, of course, you intend to blend in with the waitstaff," the bartender smiled, winking at the agent.
A joke with only a grain of humor.
Because under Rederick's jacket, he indeed had a vest. It was just currently secured under the jacket so as not to draw attention. But when (and if) the time came — deploying it would be a matter of seconds.
"I'd be happy to blend in with them," Rederick nodded towards the local elite. "Industrialists, bankers, Government officials... Useful connections for me."
"There's also a considerable number of underworld bosses present," the bartender said, lowering his voice.
"Is that so?" Rederick feigned surprise. "And how does one tell them apart? The one from the other?"
The bartender smiled, looking at him with the sort of glance a father gives his child when the boy asks another naive question: "Where did it all come from?"
"There's no difference at all," the bartender said in the same whisper. "Point your finger at anyone and you'll find a criminal wearing the face of a bureaucrat or an industrialist. The Corporate Sector stopped seeing distinctions like that a long time ago."
"I didn't know," Rederick lied. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."
"Always happy to help," the bartender said, winking again.
Did the man have a nervous tic or something?
Picking up his glass, the Dominioner turned his back to the bar, scanning the crowd again for the young woman who interested him.
And he found her without any trouble.
She was surrounded by a massive man whose appearance left no doubt about what he was or how he made his living.
He was openly pressing Ellie Stark against a snack table, stroking her bare shoulders in a way that left nothing to the imagination.
The girl seemed to have sobered up from the whole situation, and she looked frightened. But she was keeping herself under control, politely interacting with the guest. Except her smiles and movements had become less confident, more nervous.
"Who's that?" Rederick turned his head toward the bartender.
But instead of the winking man, he saw only a droid.
"Would you like something, sir?" the tin can inquired.
The disappearance of the human bartender was unsettling, but in the absence of objective evidence that problems were arising for him, it was better not to stick his neck out.
"No, nothing," Rederick waved a hand, indicating the nearly full glass in his grip.
"Didn't your mother tell you that lying is bad?" he heard a languid voice to his left. Turning his head, the man was surprised to see a middle-aged woman standing beside the bar, dressed in a rather revealing dress. But one of absolute black.
The beauty sat on a bar stool, her long, tanned legs crossed, busily sipping a cocktail from a glass she'd just received from the droid bartender's manipulator arm.
"I'm sorry, madam...?" Rederick tensed, staring unwaveringly straight into his interlocutor's eyes.
"Seems like the people who raised you also failed to teach you how to lie convincingly," the lovely stranger said in the same sensual voice.
A lovely stranger.
The scout gave the girl an appraising once-over from head to toe.
Clearly not some simple girl. A dress made of expensive fabric. Pricey jewelry. Understated but professional makeup that only a true expert could apply. A salon hairstyle. Apparently natural tan, and judging by the shade — seaside.
Etti IV had plenty of small saltwater seas. And every single one of them had been turned into pay-to-enter beaches, with access costing a very pretty penny.
So the lady was clearly no ordinary lady.
"I apologize for my ignorance," Rederick said with a remorseful smile, glancing at the droid bartender. "Serve this beautiful miss whatever she asks for."
He turned his gaze back to his companion and clarified:
"Will that do as an apology?"
She simply smirked, smiling charmingly and flashing a set of impeccable, pearl-white teeth.
Yes, it might sound amateurish, but a person's teeth made it easy to tell how well they matched their outward image.
The lady clearly spent a lot of money on herself, because there wasn't a single crack, discoloration, or yellow spot on her teeth.
And no trace of lipstick either, which happened when a girl used fake cosmetics.
"Forgivable for an out-of-towner," she said condescendingly.
"Looks like by the end of the night, even the floor-polishing droid will know I'm not from around here," Rederick joked.
"If you were part of Etti society, you'd know there's a simple rule laid down by law: any insult or display of ignorance toward a local woman must be made up for by the man with jewelry," the stranger said in a singsong voice. Her slender fingers brushed a lock of hair aside, revealing large hoop earrings... made of aurodium, studded with small but brilliantly cut diamonds. "These earrings were a gift from a Sector Government member who noticed I'd wobbled on my heels."
The girl straightened her leg a little, brushing it against Rederick's trouser leg, showing off dainty shoes with heels so high and thin that the man seriously doubted anyone could even walk in them. In fact, this intricate heel looked more like a knitting needle... sharpened at the base and on one side — for cutting.
What wild fashion they had here...
A chill ran down the man's spine.
The comment about her gait was nothing compared to how he'd nearly insulted the girl by addressing her as if she were a married or older lady.
And if they gave away earrings worth a decent cruiser for such a trifle here, what would she demand for his miscalculation? A Star Destroyer?
"Looks like this little trip is going to cost me a pretty credit," Rederick thought.
He needed to quickly redirect the bitch's attention to something else.
Self-absorbed ladies loved courteous guys, didn't they?
"Allow me to offer my sincere apologies, miss..." He paused, realizing he still didn't know his companion's name.
Meanwhile, she smiled benevolently and looked at the man with such a condescending gaze that he almost felt sorry for himself.
"You seem to have completely overworked yourself in a male-only environment," she smiled. "I haven't heard 'compliments' like that in twenty years, when I first read the Imperial etiquette manual for closed boarding schools on how young men and women should interact."
Rederick said nothing, desperately hoping the warmth in his cheeks wasn't because he'd been caught in such a delicate nuance.
"A blush on a man's face isn't something you see often either," the stranger said, continuing to rub her foot against the guest's leg. "Especially from someone who's spent the whole evening doing nothing but openly staring at Ellie Stark."
And right there, alarm bells started ringing in earnest.
Rederick had carefully masked his interest, but apparently, this lady wasn't the spoiled socialite she pretended to be. Yes, women had a supernatural ability to notice a man's interest in other women, even if it was based on nothing more than a single fleeting glance.
But they didn't mention it to random acquaintances as a complaint with strictly defined goals.
And it was unlikely that it was customary among the locals to get married by rubbing a man's leg.
"I confess, I'm guilty," Rederick smiled apologetically. "I intend to get to know that strong-willed woman a little better. For commercial reasons, naturally," he said, realizing he'd allowed a double meaning into his words.
"The only ones who don't want to 'get to know' Stark better are complete pushovers," the girl sighed sadly, turning her attention to her glass and demonstratively pursing her lips to sip her drink through a straw.
Rederick felt the stranger's leg starting to rise higher...
He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs: "What the Hutt do you think you're doing?! I'm on a mission!" but the remnants of his sanity held him back.
The thing he hated about "deep cover" operations was that they required a more subtle knowledge of etiquette and corresponding mental fortitude. It had always been easier for him to infiltrate working structures or groups than these kinds of "elite societies."
"I assure you..." It was starting to get hot, even though the air conditioner readings showed it was working at full blast. "I'm purely here out of professional interest..."
"Why are you making excuses?" The girl stopped torturing the straw only when her glass was empty. What a trooper — finished it in one go. "I'm not complaining. You're probably trying to strike some work contract, right?"
"Something like that," Rederick agreed, using a finger to free his neck from the grip of his suddenly tight collar. "I want to buy something from the Sector Government. And I'm looking for a reliable intermediary."
"Is that so?" the woman purred, leaning forward gracefully. A spark of interest lit up in her eyes. "So maybe forget about Stark? She clearly won't be up for new acquaintances anytime soon. And I can help you too."
"The only problem is, I don't really want to split the task in two," Rederick thought.
"Do you have connections to the Government?" he inquired politely, pondering why absolutely no one around was paying any attention to the fact that this girl had practically climbed on top of him. What about the proverbial chastity, maidenly modesty, and all that?
Rederick turned his head toward the local ladies.
They were just joining a fiery dance, arching their bodies in their revealing outfits to such an extent that the stranger's behavior could practically be considered a model of decorum.
Now he understood why Zsinj had clung so tightly to the Corporate Sector back in his day. The ladies here practically threw themselves at you.
Disgusting.
All the millennia of evolution in the male nature, flushed down the drain.
"Well, I have a few connections that would definitely suit you," the girl whispered in his ear, sliding off the stool and practically pressing her whole body against him. "If you're interested in a liaison, I can arrange it right now."
The lady was thoroughly drunk.
And tactics dictated that in such situations, you shouldn't reject a pushy miss: otherwise, it could lead to trouble or a scandal.
Rederick needed neither, so he agreed with a smile.
Wherever they went, he'd have the time and opportunity to get rid of the persistent interlocutor.
And get rid of his jacket while he was at it.
Apparently, a semi-official approach was no longer possible — the local hostess was being attacked by people more important than him. That meant he'd have to switch to the "waiter who calls the hostess aside" scheme. A lousy scheme, honestly.
Rederick, with the tipsy girl clinging to his elbow and dragging him somewhere away from the event, had moved a good ten meters from the bar when he felt a heavy gaze on him.
Turning around, he met the eyes of the bartender, who had appeared from nowhere.
The man was staring at him with a piercing look.
Then, moving only his lips, the bartender said a single word: "Run!"
And that warning had an oppressive effect.
The bartender clearly understood more than he did about what kind of woman this was.
If she were just a simple girl of easy virtue from an elite establishment, it wouldn't raise any questions. Getting rid of her would be nothing.
But the warning clearly hinted at obvious problems.
So the lady was nothing like who she pretended to be.
Which meant he had to act and stay alert.
The agent still saw no way to solve the problem without attracting unwanted attention.
So when the girl led him into one of the small corridors, clearly leading to the guest wing, the man tensed up.
Usually, places like this had residence security responsible for ensuring no trouble arose with intoxicated guests.
But here — only a corridor. With a rich interior — that much he couldn't deny.
The girl insistently dragged him to the far end of the corridor. She was clearly navigating the hallway. And she wasn't wobbling at all in her uncomfortable shoes, which you'd expect from a tipsy lady pretending to be what she'd been all this time.
It didn't just smell like a trap anymore — it reeked of it from a parsec away.
The scout tensed internally, memorizing his surroundings. He clearly needed to know how to get out of this maze of corridors.
"We're here, sweetie," the "drunk girl" purred in his ear, pointing to a heavy wooden door in front of which they'd stopped.
A dead-end section of corridor.
Two similar doors.
And a very telling arched passage about five meters behind them.
It looked very much like this part of the palace was built using the "chain" method.
Architects used it when they needed to conceal the existence of a certain part of the corridor.
So everything was arranged so that a door could be lowered into the passage — into that arch, for example. And you didn't even need to guess that it would immediately look just like a door. And the three "rooms" would be cut off from the rest of the corridor. All this splendor was controlled from a tiny remote that the head of security usually carried.
The girl swiped a magnetic key card across the lock, and the door swung open with a dignified creak.
Beyond it, lavishly furnished apartments were visible. Perfectly suited for both rest and... other pleasures.
Well, and for interrogations, the Emperor himself would approve.
"Come in, baby," the girl nibbled his earlobe.
"I recall we were talking about connections to the Government," the scout began, stalling for time.
"First, you'll pass my interview," the girl pressed her whole body against him, wrapping her tenacious arms around him from behind. "Come on, don't be so uptight. You need to loosen up a bit before meeting important people. A little preparation like this."
"The chance of leaving here in one piece depends entirely on my eloquence, doesn't it?" Rederick dropped the charade, stroking the girl's bare back.
Their eyes met.
In her fathomless gaze, passion and incomprehension swirled.
Her toned leg lifted, sliding up his thigh and higher...
When she abruptly brought her leg down, intending to pin his foot to the wooden parquet with her stiletto, the scout was already ready.
With a loud crack, the heel embedded itself in the wood, locking her leg in place.
Her leg slid sideways, and the hand that had been stroking her back grabbed her hair.
Yanking it backward and downward, he made the girl lose her balance, after which he received a very sensitive kick from her dainty foot, now free from the shoe's captivity.
Straight to the jaw.
Stumbling backward, the scout released the girl from his grip.
Arching like a forest panther, the comely interlocutor described a backflip "wheel," launching her second shoe at him in the process.
Rederick honorably avoided injury — the stilettos truly served other purposes.
The girl assumed a combat stance. And the short dress clearly wouldn't be a problem for her in the upcoming fight. Unlike the scout's own tight suit.
"You should have done this the easy way, Imperial," the girl said, demonstratively yanking the hoop earrings from her ears. One imperceptible press and the jewelry turned into two spikes sharpened on both sides. And reinforced with precious stones. "Honestly, I would have been gentle with you first — you're just too tasty."
"I prefer not to have anything bitten off me," damn it, there goes a jacket worth a month's salary. Let accounting just dare to deny the mission expenses.
The young man tensed his shoulder and back muscles. The pre-cut seams gave way, no longer restricting his movement. He didn't have the time or opportunity to carefully remove his clothes — if he did that, the girl would attack.
Now, with three quick movements, he shed the cut-up jacket and wrapped the fabric pieces around his forearms.
Gripping the longest piece of cloth in his palms, he prepared to parry strikes.
The most fundamental rule of a fight with an opponent armed with a stabbing and cutting weapon: don't let them use that sharp thing on your body. Spikes might not cause much damage if they stuck into your body, but they could easily be coated with something special. From sleeping agent to poison.
And with the extra fabric, he could both deflect a thrust and protect part of his arms from scratches.
"Have you read anything besides textbooks, Imperial?" the girl asked with a chuckle. "Do you really think you can beat me with old-fashioned methods? You were still crying in diapers when I already knew all this."
"You've aged well," Rederick praised her, matching her words to his own age.
"You're being cheeky, boy," the girl smiled. "I'll try not to mess up your pretty face."
"I can't promise you the same," the scout replied.
With a smirk, the girl went on the offensive.
Rederick blocked her first thrust, catching her right wrist in a trap of cloth held between his hands. With a quick motion, he took the opponent's limb "in an overlap," crossing the sides of the cloth together.
The girl didn't appreciate his concern for her manicure and thrust with her free needle.
Rederick repeated the maneuver, pinning the girl's upper limbs together.
For a moment, their eyes met.
Then, pushing off the floor, the opponent jumped up, executing an unimaginable somersault that ended with her slender legs wrapping around Rederick's neck. For a moment, their eyes met.
"Your head between my legs... Looks very grown-up," the girl said slyly.
Then she arched her back like a bow.
And the next moment, the scout was flying face-first toward the floor, cursing physics with every word.
Rolling over, he raised his hand to block a kick to his torso, then another to his head, intercepted a thrust at his chest, deflected a needle strike to his torso, and another to his arm.
He caught the last one quite ungallantly, twisting her wrist while depriving the opponent of one of her needles. But immediately caught a knee to the gut, which forced him to retreat back toward the doors.
"Not bad, not bad," the stranger broke into a grin. "Definitely has potential. Free advice, boy. When you're on an infiltration, stop using military hand-to-hand combat. You need to be more refined. You reek of soldier from a couple of parsecs away."
"You reek of rotten Mon Calamari," Rederick snorted. Questions about smells were truly offensive to girls and could easily throw them off balance.
At least, that's what the manual said...
Oh, looks like it worked!
The smile vanished from her face.
"That's very impolite," the stranger said in a voice that had gone cold, adjusting her grip on the second needle. "I'm afraid I'll have to touch up your pretty face after all. And break a few bones. It's going to hurt a lot..."
And in the next moment, two things happened.
First — the sound of a muffled shot.
Second — the stranger grabbed her neck, where a tiny dart had embedded itself. But the next second, she crumpled to the floor, eyes closed.
Oh, and a third thing...
"Has Imperial Intelligence really degenerated so much that they send fleet special forces on infiltration missions?" The bartender from earlier stood in the archway, clutching a wrist chronometer in his hands. But judging by how he was holding it, it was clearly a multi-purpose device. For instance, it could at least fire paralytic darts.
"I'm not from fleet special forces," Rederick hissed.
"Of course," the bartender nodded, smoothing his black hair. "And I always drink my whiskey without ice. Who do you work for, kid?"
"You first," Rederick demanded, not particularly expecting success.
The bartender shook his head in disappointment.
"That's not how this works, kid. Just because I saved you from Aveka doesn't mean I won't knock you out and leave you as a present for her."
"I just want to buy a few ships from the Sector Government, that's all," Rederick displayed annoyance on his face.
"Is that so," the stranger shook his head. "Sorry, that answer doesn't satisfy me. Good night."
Before the scout could react, he felt a treacherous prick in his neck.
Then the world went dark, and he collapsed onto the body of the woman he'd just been fighting.
* * *
The Chimaera emerged from hyperspace, and through the bridge's central viewport, a world came into view that looked more like a ball covered in sand, rocks, and dust.
A few sparse clouds and massive mountain ranges were present...
And two dozen heavy Dreadnaught-class cruisers.
And an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, which had pulled them out of hyperspace with its gravity well projectors.
And nearly a hundred transports of various types and degrees of wear. Most of them looked so battered that even the most meticulous patrol wouldn't want to inspect them by sending a boarding party.
Like a Venator-class Star Destroyer, surrounded by numerous...
Gilad exhaled discreetly.
TIE Interceptors.
Friendlies.
"Stand down from 'yellow' alert," Pellaeon ordered, removing his cap and wiping the sweat from his forehead discreetly.
The most nerve-wracking journey through the galactic rim he could imagine.
First, Zonju V, to whose borders the battered Dominion fleet had never even reached, emerging from hyperspace in such a way that they couldn't be identified. Then, jumps into several uninhabited and poorly charted star systems. They weren't even listed in the galactic atlas, but Thrawn knew their coordinates perfectly.
And now this barren little ball, guarded by such a powerful Dominion fleet group.
One had to ask: "What the Hutt is going on?"
With approximately this question, Captain Pellaeon headed for the Grand Admiral's quarters.
Passing the guards standing post at the door, the ship's commander entered the semi-dark airlock.
The familiar twilight and the realization that he'd have to confront Rukh again sharpened the Chimaera's commander's attention.
He strained his hearing and other senses as much as he could, intending to figure out where the playful bodyguard was lurking.
But nothing came of it.
He could assume Rukh wasn't here, but then why wasn't the second door opening automatically?
Gilad, not wanting to waste time, decided to provoke Rukh.
The captain threw a few punches in the air, intending to make the bodyguard respond to his attacks, but nothing happened.
Rukh didn't respond.
He wasn't even moving.
Pellaeon, abandoning all pretense of propriety, simply walked along the walls, jumped up to see if the Noghri had hidden on the ceiling.
Nothing.
He stood there for about five minutes, but nothing happened.
The waiting was starting to get annoying.
Seems the Noghri had decided to play on his patience...
Damn subhuman! He'd made him waste so much time searching, while Gilad hesitated to enter, thinking the Noghri was about to start his perverted game of hide-and-seek again!
He'd stood here for ten minutes, groping along the walls in the dark like a complete idiot, and the little bastard just wasn't in the airlock!
He'd fooled him by playing on the fact that he was always at his post!
Thought he could pull one over, did he?
Well, think again.
The captain approached the inner door control panel and touched the button that released the door panel.
The panel slid aside with a soft hiss, revealing the Supreme Commander sitting at the console, surrounded by a double row of monitors.
The man took a step, opening his mouth to report...
"Sir, Captain Pellaeon has arrived," Rukh's meowing voice came from behind the Chimaera's commander.
His nerves gave out.
With a blood-curdling cry, Pellaeon leaped away from that demon.
* * *
Watching the clearly self-satisfied Rukh leave, I kept my eyes fixed on Gilad, whose glare could rival any "Death Star."
And they say you can't kill with a look. I can vouch that if that bodyguard had been looking at the Chimaera's commander this time, that statement would have been definitively disproven.
"Everything all right, Captain?" I inquired.
"Well, I definitely haven't gotten any more gray hairs," muttered Pellaeon, smoothing down the bristling gray hair on the back of his head.
"Admirable composure," I assessed. "However, at the moment, I'm directly interested in the current state of our fleet."
"Oh, right, sir, the transition is complete," Gilad said, flustered. "Leaving five Star Destroyers from Ennix Devian's fleet and our 'Death's Head' in the Mustafar system, along with seven Acclamators, we brought into this system three damaged CR90s, seven Dreadnaught-class cruisers, five Star Destroyers from the ×1 fleet, and one from Devian's, plus our four. And four Acclamator-class assault cruisers also arrived. Not to mention the transport ships that also made it to the system..." Gilad hesitated. "In short, here, sir."
"We are in the Yalara star system, Captain," I explained. "Quadrant I-21, Wild Space."
"Understood, sir," said the Chimaera's commander, but his tone said the complete opposite.
Which is unsurprising.
"In its time, this star system attracted the interest of Darth Vader," I explained. "Many years ago, the Jedi built a cloaking device here, hiding the planet visually and from all types of sensors."
"Judging by the fact that we can observe the planet through the viewport, has the cloaking device decayed with time?" inquired Gilad.
"Strangely enough, no," I countered. "However, it is in a deplorable state. Our technical teams are studying and restoring it. I am confident that in time the mechanisms will be repaired, and we will obtain detailed technical schematics of this device's operating principle for subsequent replication."
"Cloaking technology for entire planets..." Pellaeon said dreamily. "That is very valuable technology."
"Undoubtedly," I agreed. "Especially in light of recent events."
Gilad remained silent but continued devouring me with his eyes expectantly.
"Agent Bravo-IV's team on Maramere managed to uncover and completely liquidate the local underground," I said. "In a way, it's almost a shame that Agent Steben decided to transfer to counterintelligence. Well, in that field, he also proved himself competent in his last mission."
"The amphibians thought they could rebel against us?" Pellaeon asked, surprised by the news.
"Oh, no, just a small but very proactive group," I clarified. "Their commander is already giving testimony, and Moff Tavira has received valuable instructions regarding the discovered deposits of stygium crystals on the island where the resistance fighters were based."
"Stygium?" Pellaeon's eyes bulged. "I thought that mineral was a thing of the past. After..."
The officer hesitated again.
He's rather uncertain today.
However, he stopped himself at the point that was directly prohibited by Imperial regulations. Namely: discussing the decisions, actions, and orders of superior officers. Of course, no one adhered to this rule "behind the scenes," but when speaking with me, Pellaeon was still cautious about breaching discipline.
And rightly so — until Imperial rules, doctrines, and standards are reworked to fit the norms and emerging ideology of the Dominion, we live by Imperial law. With stipulated exceptions, of course. But that particular norm was not among the leniencies. And it never would be.
"Exactly right, Captain," I continued. "After Grand Admiral Martio Batch destroyed the planet Aeten II to extract all known stygium deposits from its depths, the mineral became a subject of speculation on the galactic market, and it's simply impossible to find it. So, we have a definite advantage over our enemies."
"Selling stygium in small batches could be an excellent source of income," Pellaeon noted.
"There is no need for that," I said. "Expedition Bravo-I also ended successfully. We found 'Sa'Nalaor,' its crew, and its cargo. Now the Dominion's treasury will be enriched by two hundred trillion credits in auredium equivalent. And that's an estimate from thirty years ago. And as you know, the value of that metal has increased significantly since then."
Gilad, unable to restrain himself, let out an expressive whistle.
"It seems our financial difficulties are in the past?" he clarified.
Ignoring his slight liberty, I nodded in agreement.
"We have a significant financial buffer, which we will use to create a viable real-sector economy for the Dominion, as well as to strengthen its security," I explained. "Grand Moff Ferrus has already received additional instructions on this matter. Even considering the annexation of new territories — sectors and systems — we are able to ensure their security in proper order. And this is precisely where we will focus our attention in the current conditions, in the short term."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon replied, regulation-style.
But from his tone, it was clear that he hadn't quite grasped the essence.
"We withdrew to Yalara because the Dominion already has the capacity to produce everything necessary for the war machine," I began my explanatory work. "Everything we obtained on Mustafar will be left on this planet. The Dominion is attracting the attention of many of our opponents, so we need a base for military materiel production where it won't be detected by the enemy. A planet that can, in the future, be cut off from the galaxy and any scouts by a cloaking field, and is also rich in natural resources — that's exactly what's needed for slowly building up the potential for future offensives."
"But... then for what purpose are we exporting some of the equipment to the Dominion or the Karthakk system?" inquired Pellaeon.
"Precisely so that a strike on one part of the Dominion doesn't lead to the collapse of everything," I explained. "The inaccessibility and fortification of Karthakk are easily complemented by the presence and basing of a significant fleet and repair facilities there. Yalara, in this regard, requires large financial and labor investments, so drawing attention to it is more than undesirable. If we had had a choice to escape the Mustafar trap by any other route besides using the Hydian Way, the Corellian Trade Route, or regional hyperspace lanes — I would have given that order. We must not underestimate our opponents — having the opportunity to eliminate our fleet, they won't miss their chance until they completely despair of doing so. Our withdrawal into Wild Space will cool their ardor — the routes here are dangerous and unknown. Not knowing the exact coordinates, they could search for us forever and never find us. This will give us the chance to repair the damage and restore combat capability for a counterstrike. And during the time I am out of the New Republic's sight, they will take other necessary steps for Operation 'Crimson Dawn' to end with the best possible outcome for the Dominion."
"But what about the Lusankya, the real Isard, Ennix Devian, Moff Delurin, Lady Santhe, the attack on Sluis Van?" inquired Pellaeon. "Are those operations neutralized or adjusted?"
"Commodore Shohashi will handle the remnants of Ennix Devian's fleet," I explained. "Sluis Van, as previously indicated, will be the finale of the 'Crimson Dawn' campaign. After the strike on Coruscant and the reduction of subsidized sectors, the New Republic is taking every step to make the strike on Sluis Van even more devastating than planned."
"Sir?" Pellaeon tensed.
"What do you think, Captain, will the New Republic do with the ships we left in the Mustafar system, including the 'Death's Head'?" I asked. "Six Star Destroyers, seven assault cruisers... And one ship directly from the Dominion fleet."
"They'll declare them their trophies," Gilad hypothesized.
"Correct," I agreed. "Moreover, I'll tell you that they will make every effort to present their actions as part of the campaign against me and the Dominion. These starships will become symbols for them of that much-needed little victory they currently have over me."
"Not entirely accurate, but the public won't bother with the details," said Gilad.
"Precisely," I confirmed. "The reduction of the New Republic's logistical front allows them to minimize the number of military ships involved in transport. 'Delta Source' reports that Imperial-class starships have already begun arriving at Sullust and Sluis Van, which the Republic intends to repair and restore to combat readiness. The ships from the Mustafar system will be added to their ranks and repaired. At the Republic's expense, naturally. Then we will strike and reclaim the fully repaired trophies from Mustafar, along with all those Imperial starships that will be in the shipyards. Preparatory work for this is already underway on Tangrene."
"Give them a small ideological victory to deliver a much more devastating blow," admiration sounded in Pellaeon's voice. "That's... brilliant, sir."
"Perhaps." This is just logic, nothing more. But, unfortunately, in this galaxy, it's worth its weight in auredium. "Despite having a large number of shipyards and orbital workshops, it's quite problematic for us to supply them with the necessary specimens of weapons and equipment at the proper level. The Republic will do that for us. Just as they are doing with the Lusankya."
"You think it will be commissioned ahead of schedule?" Pellaeon clarified.
"Yes," I nodded. "Because the Republic will undoubtedly try to use it in the battle against Lianna. An interesting fact — Lady Santhe is involved in producing some secret order, according to our intelligence. It's being manufactured in orbital assembly bays, one of which I intended to purchase from her. As you recall, she refused. Now the reason for the refusal becomes even more obvious."
"She's working for Palpatine," Pellaeon said, growing serious.
"The most obvious fact," I acknowledged. "Given that the shortsightedness of the New Republic prevents them from believing my words, they consider Lady Santhe my ally, who is manufacturing military equipment I need on her company's industrial lines. That makes her a suitable target for a strike. Propaganda is strong when supported by real circumstances. At the moment, the New Republic is preparing an information bomb based on data from the battle at Mustafar. A small victory over me, in their opinion, they already have. Now they need something major to make the population believe in a turning point in the conflict. The destruction of the Dominion's ally — Lianna — is perfectly suited for this purpose."
"Unless Isard attacks first and takes the ship for herself," Gilad offered his hypothesis.
"The Iceheart will soon learn that her operation to infiltrate 'Rogue Squadron' into Ennix Devian's armed forces was unsuccessful. Consequently, she will bet on capturing the Lusankya when it's ready, not before. Intelligence is already working at 'Rendili Shipyards,' and we will know exactly when the ship will be in a state where its readiness and security are at a level where Isard can attack it with the resources and forces she has available. By that time, we will have dealt with Moff Delurin and Ennix Devian," I promised. "And the number of operations currently underway will be significantly reduced. In fact, only Sluis Van will remain unresolved, but those are just minor details."
"The end of the year remains tense for the Dominion," Captain Pellaeon said with a cheerless smile.
"Such is our fate," I noted philosophically. "A militaristic state will never coexist peacefully with a democratic one until we bring them to peace and demonstrate conclusively that messing with us is more trouble than it's worth."
"I understand, sir," Pellaeon sighed. "Now we have construction equipment for developing planets, we have machine tools and assembly lines for producing weapons and starship components. We have the ability to build an economy... But there's a traitor among us."
"Captain Dobramu is a very specific person," I agreed. "Right now, he is quite proud that he has not only managed to pull the wool over my eyes, but also that his loyalty to the New Order allows him to familiarize himself with the perimeter defense map using Project 'Asteroid-II.'"
"Don't you consider that an excessive risk?" my flagship's commander asked warily. "We clearly understand that as soon as Palpatine emerges from the shadows, Dobramu will be one of the first to defect to his side. And his knowledge of our defense system will become practically the key to destroying the Dominion. And that is clearly in Palpatine's or his ambitious officials' plans."
"Dobramu's knowledge poses no threat to us," I dismissed Captain Pellaeon's concerns. "The fact that the commander of the Striker, and indeed its entire crew, knows where the camouflaged asteroids were placed doesn't mean they will still be there when Palpatine's forces try to attack the Dominion."
Surprise appeared in Gilad's eyes.
"You intend to change the location of the asteroids after they are installed?"
"Exactly that," I confirmed. "The example of Coruscant showed us that an enemy fleet is perfectly destroyed when caught in the path of invisible asteroids. Of course, our earlier collision with the Ubiqtorate's ships left no doubt about that either."
"But how?" asked Pellaeon. "The asteroids block any signal and can't be detected. We simply can't deactivate their cloaking to move them to new orbits."
"You're forgetting, Captain, that we have something our enemies don't," I noted, keeping my eyes fixed on Gilad.
"Experience in handling this weapon?" the latter guessed.
"That too, among other things," I confirmed. "Additionally, on Tangrene we have a crystal gravfield trap, with which we can determine the asteroids' location. And flying up to them after that, deactivating the cloaking, and towing them to another location is not a problem."
"There's one on Bilbringi too," Pellaeon clarified. "And in several other places in the galaxy."
"And we have intelligence and superior saboteurs," I countered. "A CGT is a very expensive tool, so after losing them all in the first attempt to storm the Dominion, the enemy will lose momentum. But we won't. However, that's not the main thing, actually."
"What else?" Pellaeon asked, surprised.
"Mr. Pent's and Agent Bravo-III's raid on Kuat," I said. "What do you think its purpose was?"
"Obtaining technical data for a number of equipment items we can't produce ourselves," Pellaeon answered promptly. "Couldn't, at least at that time."
"Among other things," I agreed. "But the main goal of this mission was to obtain data on hyperspace routes such as the Rothana Route, a branch off the Triellus Route leading directly to that planet. They also obtained the exact coordinates of the Kiberon Line, connecting Rothana to Kamino."
Pellaeon frowned again.
What's with this habit of facial expressions?
"No one has had contact with Kamino for many years," he reminded me. "And the Rothana Route is inherently dangerous due to the presence of gravity shadow mines. Without the correct IFF signal, navigating that route is impossible. Any 'foreign' ship is immediately pulled out of hyperspace by an artificial gravity zone and lands in a minefield from which no one escapes alive."
"Exactly," I agreed. "According to my theory, the 'Zann Consortium' didn't simply dissolve after that purge a few years ago. They retreated to Rothana and Kamino and are preparing their armed forces for a return. The industrial capacity of Rothana and Kamino allows them to do this in relatively short order. Indeed, Commodore Shohashi's attack on Hypori demonstrated the enemy's possession of a large number of modern and upgraded starships. As well as their drive to evacuate as many resources and production facilities as possible to their base. This indicates only one thing — preparations for an invasion are in their final stages. Most likely, by next year, Zann will have a cloned army and hundreds of ships to attack the worlds of the galaxy. I cannot allow this. Nor can I allow Kamino or Rothana to fall under the control of any state other than the Dominion."
"Banta puudu," Pellaeon swore. "Sir, but what about..."
"It's simple, Captain" judging by his expression, for Gilad it was anything but simple. Studying technical documents does provide certain advantages after all. "Kuat Drive Yards is not the kind of organization that would create reliable protection for a secret production planet without a safety net. Mr. Ghent's clones are dealing with the transponder signals — I'm confident we can either detonate them remotely or disable them. Either option will suit me."
"Sir, but... will we have enough strength to then hold these worlds?" Pellaeon inquired.
"We will, Captain," I declared. "Moreover, I will tell you that in the Dominion, on one of our new planets, construction is already underway on a very productive factory whose sole product is our own gravity shadow mines. With which we will quite generously fertilize the hyperspace lanes leading to the Dominion, as well as to planets loyal to us. Not to mention that our current financial capabilities will help us produce objects based on the 'Empion' mines, developed by Warlord Zsinj."
"I've heard of them," Pellaeon grimaced. "Extremely expensive stuff. It's the same gravity mine, but instead of destroying the ship, it hits it with an ion salvo. Such things will cost the budget dearly."
"No one mentioned mines, Captain," I noted. "I only spoke about objects manufactured based on these mines. An expensive, but single-use project is the 'Death Star.' In our case, we have the necessary blueprints for the 'Empion' mines, data on gravity generators, and also many star systems containing fairly large asteroids. We'll equip them with hyperdrive generators, engines, cloaking fields, weapons, and leave them in the middle of minefields and camouflaged asteroids. As it happens, the excessive initiative of one operative presented us with a large number of state-of-the-art ion cannons with a rate of fire surpassing traditional turbolasers. Plus, we have stygium, which cloaks an object, bypassing the same communication problems that plague technology based on hybidium. Moreover, thanks to Captain Steben's efforts, we have a practically working sample of this technology. Our asteroid stations with ion cannons will see the enemy dropping out of hyperspace in the middle of a minefield, while they won't see us."
Gilad thought for a few minutes, then said:
"A field of IFF-responsive gravity mines, camouflaged asteroids, a huge asteroid with an ion cannon capable of disabling large starships... If we produce enough of these defensive measures, no enemy fleet will even reach the outskirts of the Dominion!"
"Exactly, Captain," I agreed. "Therefore, after finishing with the New Republic and securing the Dominion, we will move on to eradicating Tyber Zann's gang and continue our campaign to reclaim Imperial property from places we couldn't reach due to insufficient weaponry and fleet numbers. After the completion of 'Crimson Dawn,' the New Republic will be weakened to the point where they simply won't have time for us."
"But you're also planning to weaken Palpatine, aren't you?" Captain Pellaeon inquired cautiously.
"Absolutely," I confirmed. "I have no interest in the New Republic being destroyed. At this moment, they exist in accordance with my plans. After we get rid of Palpatine and look into the darkest corners of the galaxy to reclaim what is ours, the New Republic will cease to be even a potential threat to us. Rothana and Kamino will allow us to contain any threat."
"But our fleet isn't strong enough to inflict significant damage on Palpatine," Pellaeon shook his head. "Even if we commission all Star Dreadnoughts, even if we capture all Imperial ships from the New Republic, including the Lusankya... We wouldn't last long in an open battle."
"Most of Palpatine's campaign relies on remote information gathering by Agent Blackhole's forces," I explained. "The Ubiqtorate gives Palpatine far too great an advantage. I think it's time for us to start hunting them. Especially since we know how..."
Gilad opened his mouth to ask a question...
"And besides, we've already started doing it," I dispelled his doubts.