Nine years, nine months, and thirty-two days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fourth year, nine months, and thirty-second-day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and eighteen days since the Arrival.)
Commodore Shohashi showed no emotion when he was informed of the spy droids' observations.
Fifty-seven Acclamator-class assault ships of both modifications, eighty-three Corellian corvettes and gunships, more than fifty Venators.
Not to mention that the enemy possessed a habitat sphere with an unknown number and type of weapons. And several thousand cargo ships. Thousands! And looking at their size, each of those starships could be a carrier for launch tubes, which already suggested major missile and torpedo problems.
And against all this wealth — one Crimson Dawn, two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, two Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, twelve Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers, and thirty Corellian corvettes.
Good thing the air wings were fully stocked and damage had been repaired.
Well, as always — quantity against quality.
What other options were there besides talking about the defeat of Ennix Devian's forces?
The victory Shohashi had won at Hypori was glorious, especially considering the cost at which it was achieved and how many trophies and valuable information had been obtained. Yes, Saleucami and Shola had refused to join the Dominion, but no one had particularly insisted.
The coming battle would be so large-scale that the previous operation would become a pale shadow of the finale of the campaign to destroy Ennix Devian.
Even though four battered Imperials, supported by nine Acclamators, were rushing to his base, they wouldn't affect the outcome of the battle in the slightest.
The "Butcher of Atoa" was the best at slaughter, and now under his command, the perfect strike force had been assembled to carry out Grand Admiral Thrawn's orders.
Despite the enemy's numerical superiority, the attack plan was as simple as everything effective.
Sentinel and Eternal Wrath would prevent the enemy from escaping into hyperspace, supported by half of the heavy cruisers.
The remaining starships would move into the attack line and wedge themselves into the enemy's formations, inflicting maximum destruction and casualties. Fighting their way to the habitat sphere, Crimson Dawn, along with Overlord, Imperious, and the ships supporting them, would simultaneously distribute boarding parties to the attacked starships, taking them out of the battle and securing the capture of trophies.
And then there would be the battle for the habitat sphere itself.
A small window of time before the enemy's destroyers and assault ships arrived from Mustafar.
They had to make it.
Not a single large enemy ship would leave this nameless system, not to mention that Ennix Devian himself, according to intercepted radio data, had not participated in the battle with Thrawn at Mustafar.
"Commodore, two minutes to target," reported the watch officer on the other side of the bridge.
"Battle stations," Eric ordered, switching to his comlink. "Crew of Crimson Dawn: listen in the compartments. Stand by your positions, prepare for battle. Boarding team commanders — prepare for deployment."
Eric shifted his weight onto a cane, the pommel of which was clenched in his right hand.
With a habitual motion, he pulled an archaic chronometer from his tunic pocket and flipped open the lid with another familiar gesture.
His gaze, as it had hundreds of times before, fixed on the image of Irene, and his thumb ran over the rough surface of the engraving.
He felt the familiar vibration of deceleration, and the view through the observation port beyond the combat bridge transformed from the whitish haze of hyperspace into the real blackness of space.
A single glance at the tactical monitor was enough to understand a simple and obvious truth: the fleet had emerged from hyperspace in exactly the same numbers it had entered it. And precisely at the designated point.
The enemy fleet was dispersed into several groups, each drifting in expectation of orders at its own point in space. The only thing they had in common was the small refueling stations to which Ennix Devian's ships were docked.
Huge tanks of tibanna and fuel.
Such fat, clumsy targets.
An explosion of each of them could cripple the ships docked at the station…
"Fire!" Eric commanded, snapping the chronometer lid shut.
* * *
The battle had barely begun when Warlord Ennix Devian was already horrified at how swiftly the Dominion fleet was destroying everything he had gathered and maintained for years.
With its first shot, the eight-kilometer fast dreadnought destroyed a refueling station next to which light patrol forces were docked. Thirty CR90 corvettes in various modifications, which had been engaged in patrolling and escorting transports carrying recruited mercenaries, literally vanished after the first salvo from the gigantic ship.
"What's happening?" Ennix Devian jumped up from his desk and glared furiously at the hologram of his assistant. "That's the Dominion!"
The figure in a heavy cloak with a hood covering its face merely grunted significantly:
"The Dominion has come to take revenge on you and ×1 for the attack on their leader near Mustafar."
The hired assassin chose to let the reproach fall on deaf ears.
"I knew your advice to ally with ×1 was stupid!" he roared. "And what do we do now?"
"Fight," the ally said indifferently. "And die in battle."
"I need support!" Ennix Devian demanded. "You promised to establish contact with the Imperial Ruling Council! I need their ships! Here! Now!"
The ally didn't even pretend to be interested in Devian's words.
"I promised — and I established contact," he said calmly. "Now you fight. And let your Imperials fight too. I'm sure that if you give it your all, throw every ship into the battle, you might survive."
"That Bellator will smear me all over the vacuum!" Devian declared in a panic, watching the second station explode, disfiguring a dozen assault ships. Like huge toys broken by a child, they slowly began to drift in space, barely controllable with the few watch officers on board.
Before the conquest campaign against the Dominion, Ennix, on the advice of his ally, had preferred to let his troops rest. After all, it was assumed they would have to conquer the entire Dominion…
And now most of the crews were aboard the habitat sphere, while the enemy was blasting combat-capable starships with their guns and landing boarding parties on those that could no longer pose a threat.
The former mercenary watched as the fast dreadnought, accompanied by two Star Destroyers and a dozen heavy cruisers, advanced in a frontal formation toward his base.
Devian's heavy cruisers and corvettes opened fire on the enemy, but the Venator-class Star Destroyers, having received orders from the assassin, were in no hurry to join the battle with their artillery, instead launching a small number of fighters. After all, the pilots were also on board the station!
Before his eyes, a nearby assault ship took several direct salvos before its shields were activated, giving it a brief respite. The ship slowly pulled away from the fuel station, firing with all its pathetic guns, when its superstructure literally disappeared in the flash of several dozen strike missile explosions.
The ship lost control and was immediately caught by tractor beams. A minute later, numerous landing shuttles were attached to its hull, deploying boarding teams.
One of the Venator-class destroyers exploded when it came under crossfire from both Dominion Star Destroyers. Judging by the speed of the ship's destruction, the hits had struck the open main hangar, and from there it was a short distance to ammunition and bomb magazines.
The other destroyers and assault ships that had managed to avoid significant damage in the opening engagement retreated closer to the habitat sphere, which had been converted into an armed fleet repair station and simultaneously the headquarters of Devian's faction.
Under the protection of such a giant, the fleet intended to regroup, hoping to repel the enemy's onslaught.
Devian, with his one true eye, watched as the Dominion forces fired accurately at the fleeing ships.
Thrawn's corvettes rushed into the fray, their target clearly the retreating starships.
The corvettes relentlessly fired at the engines, slowing the retreating ships, allowing Dominion interceptors and fighters to stage a real massacre near Devian's base.
A base filled with personnel on leave.
An alliance with ×1, which he hadn't wanted but had made to destroy the alien and several of his enemies.
The promised alliance with Orinda and their aid in the battle against Thrawn, followed by the capture of the Dominion…
Everything his ally had promised him — all of it was false.
×1 was destroyed, his fleet and resources captured.
Devian's own fleet, if not defeated, certainly couldn't be used to win the current battle.
Even the nearby reinforcements had been so badly mauled by Thrawn at Mustafar that there was no point in even thinking about winning this battle.
There was only one way out of this system — but Dominion ships blocked it, and Interdictor-class Star Destroyers securely locked it down.
There was no chance that the crews from the station would reach their starships in time and organize reliable resistance!
A rout, when he had only just begun to gather strength to defeat the worthless Imperials and Republic!
But now, he found — and it was impossible to deny — that he was on the losing side. Even without the element of surprise, the power of the Dominion fleet, which his forces were facing, would crush everything he had so diligently gathered from various corners of the galaxy.
The picture finally came together.
"Traitor!" Devian screamed, looking at the hologram. "You set all this up!"
The only response was the mocking laughter of the ally, whose hologram vanished.
And immediately after that, explosions began to ring out inside the habitat sphere.
The first one literally vaporized Warlord Ennix Devian, who was still staring at the deactivated holoprojector.
* * *
Ten Imperial-class Star Destroyers emerged from hyperspace where the trio of Republic ships had not expected them.
The deployed gravity trawl allowed the Republic to drag into realspace any ships passing through the Zonju V system along routes from Wild Space toward the Hydian Way.
The only correct move for someone who lacked information about the existence of other, uncharted hyperspace routes.
We were not among those.
That was why, several light-years from the system in question, the fleet had exited hyperspace, split into two groups, made micro-jumps to position themselves outside the coverage zone of the enemy Immobilizer.
And now, executing a classic Imperial fleet maneuver known as the "Tartar attack pattern," the fleet had pinned the three enemy starships from both flanks, mercilessly pounding them with turbolaser and ion cannon fire.
In its classic form, the tactic involved dropping out of hyperspace directly above the enemy after checking their position with a nearby fighter squadron, to take them by surprise and block their hyperspace vector.
In simple terms: find out where the enemy fleet is, exit the jump at an echelon above, and position your ships so that you are between the enemy's position and the vector for leaving the system.
In my case, the role of coordinators was played by scout droids, which transmitted precise data on the location of two Victory I-class Star Destroyers and an interdictor cruiser. Cheap and effective.
And now, having arranged my ships in a staggered formation, where each subsequent ship held a position slightly ahead and to the side of the previous one, the enemy had allowed my Star Destroyer groups, which had emerged from hyperspace in a line abreast, to deliver a dagger-like broadside against the sides of all three ships.
The enemy had seconds to raise their deflector shields… And we denied them that opportunity, destroying the protective field projector domes with the very first salvo, practically point-blank from ten destroyers.
"Celonian Flame, Fire of Korusca," Captain Pellaeon read the names of the two Star Destroyers that were left without protection and were now reaping hurricane fire from ion cannons on their launch tubes and gun emplacements. "The interdictor — some Olovaine. Captured from the Empire, I presume."
"Presumably," I agreed.
"If you wish, I can order an investigation into the previous names of these starships," Pellaeon offered.
"There is no need, Captain," I noted calmly. Turning my head, still stroking the ysalamiri, I asked:
"Is the battle recording being made?"
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed.
"Excellent," I nodded. "Deploy boarding teams."
"Take the crew prisoner?" Gilad clarified.
"Not at the expense of the overall mission," I cautioned. "The objective of this mission is to prepare a response to the false claim of our fleet's destruction made by Madine on the HoloNet. And also to replenish our losses among interdictor cruisers."
"Two Victorys won't be superfluous," Pellaeon stated meaningfully.
"Indeed," I smiled. "Don't you find it amusing that the Republic's usual cavalier disregard for facts has today worked against them?"
Gilad chuckled.
"When it comes to opposing you, Grand Admiral, it always works against them."
"Probably," I didn't deny. "Madine claimed he captured a large number of our starships, and our losses amounted to a hundred cruisers and corvettes. Well, that's a rather unpleasant fact. Only he clearly doesn't have the information. At present, considering recent acquisitions, the Dominion possesses more than forty Star Destroyers — and that's just the Imperial class. Victorys, including these two," I pointed to Celonian Flame and Fire of Korusca, "about a dozen. And ships of other types even more."
"Hint taken, sir," Pellaeon sighed. "Do we need an inventory of our forces?"
"Exactly," I confirmed. "We need to bring as many ships as possible into service to continue our strikes. Commodore Shohashi is currently engaging the remnants of Ennix Devian's fleet and has captured more than twenty Venators and fifty Acclamators. In fact, we've already replenished our losses at Mustafar. Given that Devian's survivors, who fled from Mustafar, are currently returning to his base, it's safe to say that the number of Star Destroyers in the Dominion is increasing to about fifty."
"We'll need somewhere to repair all of them and bring them to combat readiness," Pellaeon reminded me. "We may not have enough working berths in the Hegemony, Oplovis, Venin… Obviously we'll have to involve Tangrene as well — and for regular ships at that."
"Chimaera, Bellicose, and the trophy Star Destroyers from Mustafar will go to Tangrene," I declared. "Given their condition, the best course is to immediately put them through the modernization program and get about ten to fifteen Threes by the end of the year. They will serve as the advanced ships of the regular fleet for a certain time, buying us time to modernize the rest. But these are all details."
"Repairs at Tangrene could take longer," Pellaeon noted. "Considering that Guardian and that new ship made from Iron Fist are there, the yard's forces might simply not be able to handle the servicing in such a short time."
"You are right, Captain," I agreed, making an instant decision. "Inform the navigators that we will make a stop at the Karthakk system. I want to pick up something important for our fleet from there."
"At once, sir!" Pellaeon saluted and stepped aside.
Half an hour later, when the droidekas and stormtroopers of the 501st Legion had finally broken the resistance of the ships' crews, the fleet, now stronger by two Victorys and one interdictor cruiser, made another jump.
But not along the Hydian Way, leaving the Republic's traps once again without prey.
* * *
The troop compartment of the Lambda-class shuttle was dark, lit only by the dim glow of emergency lighting and the reflections of panels from working consoles positioned along the bulkheads.
"Crimson Dawn reports multiple detonations inside the habitat sphere," the crew chief informed Asajj.
"Mission canceled?" the Dathomirian witch looked at the officer with a displeased gaze. "Did Commodore Shohashi issue such an order?"
Through the forward viewport, she could see a series of explosions ripple through the vast bays of the station, converted into a shipyard.
The hulls of ships visible beyond the blue shimmer of the atmospheric shields were being twisted by explosions and pillars of fire.
"Negative, ma'am," he replied.
"Then we continue the landing," Asajj declared.
Ahsoka Tano, sitting opposite her, smiled.
Her snow-white teeth were clearly visible in the red emergency lighting.
Shining like polished stormtrooper armor, they were practically begging for someone to take a heavy object to them.
"What are you grinning at?" she demanded.
"I'm looking and thinking about how obedient you've become," the Togruta declared. "A real model officer..."
"One more word," at that moment the Dathomirian felt the assault ship's hull touch the hangar deck of the enormous station. "And you're leading the charge."
"Easy," Tano kept smiling.
Rising from her crash couch, the girl headed for the lowered ramp, unclipping her lightsabers from her belt as she walked.
"Stormtroopers, follow me!" the Togruta ordered. "And anyone who isn't quick enough will get a kick from that mean witch. Want to know how I, as a Padawan, used to wipe the floor with her in combat?"
With the roar of a wounded rancor, Ventress lunged after the talkative little upstart.
The years pass, but some personalities never change.
* * *
The metal of the temporary prosthetics installed aboard the Chimaera clanking with each step, Maul strode toward the compartment he had been ordered to report to.
The Zabrak was irritated by absolutely everything.
The guardsmen in blue-black armor following at his heels. The impossibility of commanding the Force, which had been suppressed in some incomprehensible way ever since he had surrendered to Thrawn's mercy.
And the former Hand of the Emperor walking ahead of their procession, who clearly felt right at home on this ship.
Empty corridors, not only devoid of any sentients, with sealed bulkheads... Not even any of those Hutt mouse droids crossed the path of this motley procession.
One overwhelming impression remained: that someone had deliberately ensured Maul's transfer from his quarters to the meeting place had no witnesses whatsoever.
This suggested they clearly intended to deal with him "quietly."
Well then, foolish beings. You can strip a Sith Lord of the Force, you can take away his lightsaber, but making sure the execution goes smoothly — that is definitely beyond your power.
Maul intended to fight for his life until the very end.
Suddenly, a grey-skinned freak standing by one of the doors came into view.
He was accompanied by four more Dominion guardsmen, who clearly formed the security detail for the compartment where Maul was being taken.
The Zabrak tensed, ready to fight at the slightest attempt to finish him off...
The door leading to the compartment opened...
"Hello, Lord Maul," he had been brought to what appeared to be a conference room.
Inside, sitting at a long metal table, was Grand Admiral Thrawn, stroking some strange little creature that looked like a lizard.
A few chairs, a holoprojector... Nothing that could in any way indicate the Zabrak had been brought to an execution site.
The Hand, stopping by the compartment entrance, silently nodded, signaling he should enter.
Maul, baring his teeth in a feral snarl, complied.
He walked inside silently and, without any preamble, sat down on the chair directly opposite Thrawn, staring challengingly into those crimson eyes.
The compartment door closed.
Inside remained only Thrawn, the lizard, the Hand, the grey-skinned freak, and the four guardsmen.
"Your assistance in eliminating the clone known as ×1 has been duly noted," Thrawn said in a calm tone.
"Is that so?" Maul said irritably. "Then why am I treated like a prisoner? Is this how you treat your allies?"
The Hand smirked, taking a position behind and to the right of the Grand Admiral. Only now did the Zabrak notice she was also unarmed. The only sentients carrying weapons were the four guardsmen, standing in pairs. The first pair by the doors, the second behind Thrawn. To their left, crouching, was the grey-skinned freak with the demeanor of a bodyguard.
Which, in all likelihood, was precisely what he was.
"Not at all," Thrawn assured him, patting the lizard on the head. "I am accustomed to building only trusting and mutually beneficial relationships with my allies."
"Then why am I under constant guard?" Darth Maul inquired.
"Because your status at the present moment is still undefined," Thrawn stated. "You joined us to avoid the wrath and retribution of ×1. Your motives were purely selfish — to eliminate a potential threat. ×1 is dead, his faction is completely destroyed. Any factors restraining you, ensuring your loyalty to me and the Dominion, no longer exist."
"If I wanted to, I would have already killed all your guardsmen and taken the ship," Maul said irritably.
"Allow me to clarify," Thrawn noted. "'If you could,' not 'if you wanted to.' It is precisely because of your unpredictability that you are under house arrest. Your further fate depends directly on the outcome of this meeting."
"And if the outcome is not what you have imagined?" Maul inquired. "What then? Get rid of me?"
"We will discuss that if such a course of events becomes the most probable," Thrawn remarked diplomatically. "What are your future plans, Darth Maul?"
"I see no reason why I should tell you," the Zabrak leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, staring defiantly at the Grand Admiral.
"There are at least four," it seemed no simple provocation could rattle Thrawn.
Well, nothing. This was only the beginning.
Over the course of his life, Maul had spent considerable time on negotiations of this sort.
"And what would those be?" the Zabrak inquired.
"The four guardsmen," Thrawn said, "my bodyguard, my Hand, the crew of the Chimaera. Each of them is capable of following my order and throwing you out of an airlock on this Star Destroyer."
"That's a rather crude way to try and recruit me," Maul snorted, understanding the reason for such an interesting dialogue. "Your foolish threats don't scare me. I walked through hell, training under Darth Sidious, so I look at promises like that with nothing but laughter."
Black daggers, dark as night, appeared in the grey-skinned freak's hands.
"Perhaps it is crude," Thrawn nodded. "But my schedule is quite packed to spend too much time on conversations of this sort. So, I propose you work for me. And I want to hear your conditions of employment."
"Stockpiling Palpatine's cast-off servants to have a supply of your own Sith?" Maul thought he had correctly guessed the intentions of the non-human sitting before him.
A contemptuous expression appeared on the Hand's face.
But the Grand Admiral's expression did not change in the slightest.
"Thank you for the excellent idea," he said, almost mockingly, "but I have no need of Sith. On the contrary, I am offering you the chance to join us and get the opportunity to face Palpatine directly and destroy him once and for all."
Maul felt a chill of anticipation run down his spine.
A tempting offer.
Very tempting.
To get another chance to confront his former master in battle and show him his true power.
Of course, Darth Sidious was strong even after death. Incredibly strong — he was the master, after all. He knew the Dark Side better than any currently living sentient.
Maul had already considered arranging a rematch.
That thought had crossed his mind before he handed over ×1's fleet in the Quelli sector to Thrawn. But it had never gone beyond a mere thought.
Darth Maul had his own pride, so he would never have gone begging Thrawn for such a favor — to fight Sidious.
And now, they were practically offering him exactly what he wanted.
A coincidence?
No, a carefully set trap.
"To defeat him, I will need something," the Zabrak said in a cocky tone, feeling that he was currently in a winning position.
"And what would that be?" judging by his intonation, Thrawn either possessed great composure to continue speaking in the same manner as at the start of the conversation, or he didn't understand what Maul was planning.
"An army, ships, underlings capable of supporting me in battle," Maul raised the bargaining bar. "None of them will be coming back."
"You ask for a lot," Thrawn stated.
"But I also offer a great deal," the Zabrak noted, beginning to worry that he had overstepped with his demands. "Your little red-haired pet animal won't be able to kill Palpatine..."
With a soft hiss, Maul's shoulder exploded with a wave of pain.
The Zabrak, his eyes widening in surprise, looked at his left arm, where a black dagger was now embedded in his bicep.
Exactly like the one currently in the grey-skinned freak's hands.
Out of habit, the Zabrak tried to call upon the Force to use it to get rid of the injury...
But again, he could not — the Force around him seemed absent. And something prevented him from penetrating the barrier separating him from that magnificent energy.
Grabbing the hilt, Maul furiously began to pull the weapon from the wound.
A new wave of pain, accompanied by a barely audible crunch at the wound site and the sensation of many small foreign objects inside it, nearly drove him mad.
It took great effort for the Zabrak to overcome the pain and not scream.
"Never touch a Noghri's weapon," Thrawn advised. "You have just done something foolish: you shattered the blade, and its tiny, sharp fragments are now inside the wound."
"Are you trying to kill me before I deal with Palpatine?" the Zabrak snarled.
Thrawn's face remained just as impenetrable to ordinary human emotions. Which was understandable — he wasn't human, after all.
"A small hint that you should choose your words carefully when speaking about any of my subordinates and associates," the Grand Admiral clarified the situation.
And his tone had not changed a single note.
Composure worthy of the finest Sith Lords Darth Maul had ever read about.
"I trust this thought is clear to you?" Thrawn inquired.
"More than clear," Maul said, glancing at the abundant rivulets of blood flowing from the wound. "Don't think that you can break me and force me into servitude with a single dagger strike. I am a Sith, and I serve no one but myself and my own goals!"
"Well said," Thrawn replied impassively. "However, you are fundamentally mistaken. I do not intend to oppress anyone, including you. If you wish, with my help, to reach Palpatine and exact your long-awaited revenge — I will help you. But on my terms. If not — you can try to do it yourself. I am confident the statistics of your previous failures are entirely on your side."
Maul ground his teeth, understanding full well what Grand Admiral Thrawn was getting at.
In the past, he had failed to defeat Palpatine.
And now he was weaker than ever. He would have to spend a lot of time finding the remnants of Death Watch and any remaining fragments of the Shadow Collective to scrape together a pathetic fleet... And if he had to start from scratch, it would take considerable time.
"I will join you," Maul assured Thrawn. "But solely for Palpatine's death, nothing more."
"I require nothing else," the Grand Admiral said indifferently.
"I am ready to begin immediately," Maul said.
"I'm afraid your mere readiness will not be enough for me," Thrawn countered. "As the Hand says, ×1 was not even remotely as strong as Palpatine. Yet he was able to defeat you."
"Nothing more than a coincidence," the Zabrak snorted.
"Perhaps," Thrawn agreed. "But in this matter, coincidences are unacceptable. Return to your quarters and prepare — soon the Chimaera will exit hyperspace, and your ship will depart for a mission."
"What kind?" Maul inquired.
"Before you kill Palpatine, you will first destroy his servants," Thrawn declared. "As it happens, I know where they can be found..."
* * *
By the time the proton torpedo, fired by the dying Acclamator, finally detonated, the bridge watch of the Overlord-class Star Destroyer was ready for the inevitable.
Thanks to the marksmanship of the nearest interceptor's pilot, the projectile detonated before reaching its target.
But it still caused damage: the transparisteel of the main viewport had literally ceased to exist.
In the moments when you see your own death approaching, your senses are heightened. And when the comfort of atmosphere gives way to decompression, you have to adapt to the physical sensations of being pulled out of the hull.
The sealed bridge hatches stood as a reliable barrier against the atmosphere being sucked out of the compartments nearest the bridge. But the combat information center itself...
They had a rough time.
The detonation had created a breach in the viewports, and before the air leak made itself felt, the crew was first blasted by a wave of razor-sharp shrapnel.
Brandei, clutching the chair bolted to the deck with his left hand, exerted every effort not to be sucked out with the debris and wreckage.
At the same time, he felt the decompression pulling the precious red liquid from his body, punctured in several places by shrapnel.
His right arm, damaged by a fragment near the elbow, dangled uselessly in the air. His tunic, along the entire right side of his body, was turning red from the blood pouring out.
But it could have been worse.
It could have been like the ensign he was now staring into the glazed-over eyes of.
Just a boy, no older than twenty-five. And a shard of transparisteel the size of a human hand was sticking out of his neck.
Blood still gushed from his severed throat, coating everything in its path toward the breach.
The remaining crew members, who had managed to stay at their combat stations, were taking all possible measures to preserve their own lives.
Oxygen masks, part of the emergency kit placed near almost every combat station, were now in high demand.
Another of Thrawn's innovations. Regarded rather ironically, but as practice had shown, the Grand Admiral had not devoted such close attention to it for nothing.
A plastic mask, fitting securely to the face, with an oxygen supply for ten to fifteen minutes. Quite enough to leave a place that had suffered decompression.
Of course, provided you survived.
But Brandei understood his time was running out.
The fingers of his right hand were weakening; his left was useless.
His mask had been torn off to hell in the very first moments of decompression, while the watch was transferring ship control to secondary stations.
Judging by the fact the starship was still actively engaged in combat, the first officer had clearly assumed command successfully.
Now if only he could survive...
Dizziness began to set in, weakness flooding his body...
The bleeding further weakened his organism, and now, soon...
He felt his fingers relaxing; any moment now, he would be thrown clear of the bridge.
Hell, just think — one broken viewport. It could have been covered with something, like a hangar bay with an atmospheric shield or armored blast doors...
His fingers slipped from the back of the chair, and the sensation of free fall seized his body.
The man felt free, like a bird in the sky. His consciousness grew confused and slipped away, adjusting to the rhythm of what was happening...
A sharp jerk nearly tore his arm from its shoulder socket.
Against his will, he screamed, then looked through blurred vision toward the source of the pull...
He met only the faceless black-and-red visor of a guardsman's helmet, who was holding him by the arm, reeling him in like a rope.
At the same time, he himself was being held by the legs by a second guardsman, who had apparently managed to secure himself in the left "pit."
Right, of course! He himself had ordered them to take position there, to stay out of the line of fire during the battle...
A few seconds later, when it became noticeably cold and the air was so thin that even the working life-support system couldn't help, he was dragged into the "pit."
The first thing he felt was a prick in his shoulder. Then another, and another, and another.
Someone tore open his tunic, and Brandei's hazy gaze managed to see a massive wound. His own ribs gleamed — a couple of them were broken, as it turned out.
Bandages and hemostatic patches covered his side with terrifying speed.
"Combat cocktail," he heard the voice of one guardsman. The other, without a word, handed him a pneumatic syringe, and then another prick. But this time it was his neck.
A moment later, the fog and weakness receded.
And an oxygen mask appeared on his face.
"Orders, sir!" a mechanical voice from beneath the helmet demanded instructions. "You have two minutes before your body shuts down. Give your orders!"
Of course, there was the first officer, but...
Ah! The bridge watch crew! They needed to be saved!
His consciousness cleared as the Overlord's commander took a second breath of air.
"Seal the breach!" Brandei ordered. "We need a shield, a patch, an atmospheric shield generator to stop the airflow, or we'll all suffocate."
He cast a mournful glance at the shattered viewport.
Ah, if only there were a simple trapezoidal shield here, to fit exactly along the edges of the struts and seal the breach...
"Guard him," the first guardsman ordered the second. "I'm going."
In the same instant, he did something the Overlord's commander had not expected.
The guardsman tore the mask off his own face, then placed something large and dark over the ship commander's head. And this was happening in an atmosphere where sounds had become so faint, barely distinguishable...
"Stop, where are you going!?" Brandei's tongue began to slur, and his strength started to ebb.
It became quite cold, and Brandei now realized that, in fact, the air had been sucked out of the bridge. The deafening silence was shocking, and only now did the captain understand that he could only hear because what had been put on his head was not a mask at all.
It was a helmet, which had securely sealed around his neck, and before the commander's face danced numerous visor icons. Somewhat reminiscent of a stormtrooper or pilot helmet, but more modern and...
With a wandering gaze, Brandei saw the guardsman, having placed the oxygen mask — blinking a red light indicating the breathing mixture was depleted — over his own face, silently climb out of the "pit."
A vibroblade came to life in his hands, and the bodyguard drove it into the deck plating.
The refractory metal did not give way easily, but a few cuts allowed the weapon's tip to penetrate. The guardsman, his face flushed red, leaned on his vibroblade, cutting a trapezoidal shield out of the deck plates...
The guardsman had cut three edges when he collapsed to his knees. The vibroblade, halfway through its work, broke.
"He's suffocating!" Brandei said in a weakening voice, feeling something else dig into his arm. Looking at the tube with a catheter snaking toward his hand, he realized the guardsman was transfusing plasma intravenously. And there was another — reaching toward the lower part of the helmet — through it, the second guardsman was giving the commander his own oxygen. From his own reserve in the bulky armor, which was impossible to remove without assistance and specialized equipment. "Help him!"
Brandei understood why the guardsman had connected his life-support system to him. There was almost no blood left in his body, or it was at critically low levels.
"It is our duty," the second guardsman clipped, starting to rise to help the first, but he shook his head negatively.
The guardsman, barely moving his arms, grabbed the edge of the deck plate with his last strength. Exhausted and suffocating, he, with a clearly weakening hand, drew a blaster pistol from its holster.
The limb slowly rose upward.
Brandei cast a glance at the bridge watch crew members... Their oxygen had run out too. More than half were already slowly cooling corpses in the vacuum, and only a couple were still showing signs of life.
No one could help the guardsman except the second guardsman.
But if the second went to help his comrade, he would have to interrupt the medical care being given to Brandei himself...
A dead-end situation.
The first shot at the ceiling panel produced no effect.
Brandei wanted to say something as he saw the impact point.
A blaster scorch mark right next to the life-support system's shutoff valve. If it were damaged, air would rush onto the bridge in a powerful stream, and then...
The thought seared his weakening mind.
The almost completely sawed-off deck panel would be torn free and would most likely cover the breach, restoring pressure.
But the guardsman could not manage it.
He held onto the bent section of the deck panel with his last ounce of strength.
His glazed-over gaze turned toward his partner and Brandei himself, then slowly returned to the shutoff valve...
"I understand you, brother," the second guardsman's voice rang out in Brandei's helmet.
The Overlord's commander looked at the second guardsman. An indicator was blinking on his armor, signaling the depletion of the armor's life-support system resources. The second guardsman was also suffocating.
He drew his own blaster pistol, aimed it at the shutoff valve.
A shot — and a hurricane formed inside the bridge.
With a muted crash, the partially sawed-off panel tore free and, with a barely discernible noise, held by the first guardsman — who was no longer showing signs of life — was ripped from its place.
It slammed across the breach, turning one powerful decompression stream into several smaller ones. But, roughly speaking, the shield was wedged diagonally, and it did nothing to stop the oxygen from escaping into space.
The first guardsman vanished from sight, but against the grey interior of the bridge, black fingers were visible, protruding from behind the edge of the shield.
Clenched deathly into the deck plate, they were exactly where the first guardsman had grabbed them before the lunge...
Then the fingers shifted their position slightly, and the shield moved. Barely noticeably, barely discernibly.
Then it shifted again.
And again.
With a deafening crash, the cut-out deck panel slid into place, sealing the breach as best as possible.
With a barely audible sound, the first guardsman's fingers, severed by the curvature of the strut, fell to the floor.
The turbolift doors opened, and emergency rescue teams rushed inside.
Brandei felt extremely cold, but the air around him became warmer. Not by much, but still...
The helmet was torn from him, and dozens of needles dug into his body.
The red-and-black blot of the second guardsman faded from view.
Chaos reigned all around.
The crackle of welding equipment and the soft hiss of working sealant devices drowned out the cries and conversations of the crew members.
Someone yanked Brandei out of the "pit" and placed him on an anti-grav stretcher.
Someone else, with very cold fingers, turned his head to the side, and a treacherous IV dripped into his neck. His body grew warmer.
And he wanted very much to sleep.
Brandei saw a figure in red-and-black armor, bent over the spot where the shield had been.
He picked up an oxygen mask that had somehow survived from the floor and, one by one, placed his comrade's severed fingers inside it.
The first guardsman had suffocated, sacrificing his own life to save his comrade and Brandei himself.
The Overlord's commander's own eyelids were closing.
The last thought that crossed his mind was how faithful to his oath that guardsman was, to choose suffocation rather than fail to carry out the order and protect the life of the guarded asset.
Brandei couldn't answer his own question — he blacked out.
* * *
When the door closed behind Maul and the guardsmen, Mara, left as one of three sentient beings in the compartment, looked disapprovingly at Grand Admiral Thrawn.
"Would you like to know why I didn't send you after Palpatine's servants?" Thrawn inquired.
"That's nothing more than a fleeting regret," Mara explained the expression that had flickered across her face. "I was hoping that someday I'd get to meet them again and have a rematch."
A sly smile appeared on Thrawn's lips.
"You will meet them, I guarantee it," he said confidently. "However, in the current situation, I have no intention of risking my subordinates. Your victory over ×1 is commendable — it's a quality step forward, the result of self-improvement. Yet I remain convinced that Palpatine's servants surpass you in training and relevant skills. Your confrontation under current circumstances could end badly. Your capture or death are both possible. And that is something I would not want."
Jade thought she had misheard.
Thrawn wouldn't want her to be captured or killed?
Interesting to hear those words from a being incapable of experiencing simple human emotions.
And considering that Thrawn's words never conflict with his intentions and actions...
It seemed he truly was troubled by the prospect of losing her.
"Worried about me, Grand Admiral?" she purred with a smile, not taking her eyes off Thrawn's face.
The latter raised his burning eyes to her.
For a moment, Mara thought she saw surprise and confusion flash across Thrawn's face.
But only for a moment.
And most likely, she was just imagining things.
"I value my subordinates," the Grand Admiral said in an overly pointed, official tone. "You are one of them. I will not send you on a suicide mission. You will have a different assignment. You'll depart as soon as the Chimaera makes a stop in hyperspace. Your ship is already prepared in the hangar. You may pack your things. Rukh will provide you with the instruction chip. The corridors from here to your quarters, and from your quarters to the hangar, have been cleared of the Star Destroyer's crew. The secrecy of your identity remains intact."
Mara had to exert considerable effort to keep from smiling and ruining the formality of the moment.
"As you wish, Grand Admiral," the girl said, bowing her head.
And when she looked at the floor for a fraction of a second, a smile still broke across her lips.
You're not so mysteriously imperturbable after all, Thrawn.
As she left the compartment, the girl allowed herself to demonstrate an art that, in her time, had made Imperial dignitaries twist their necks when she played the role of the Emperor's favorite dancer at his receptions.
Judging by the fact that the Grand Admiral coughed with an intonation uncharacteristic of him, he had clearly appreciated the hip-swinging gait.
Mara Jade returned to her quarters with a feeling of small feminine triumph.
She wasn't used to storming impregnable fortresses with her beauty, but why not have a little fun disconcerting the Grand Admiral?
It's just a little feminine wile — what could possibly come of it?