Nine years, nine months, and twenty-five days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, nine months, and twenty-five days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and ten days since the Arrival.)
A cargo shuttle, which according to documents was supposed to deliver a shipment of electronics aboard the flagship of the "Rendili StarDrive" corporation's yards, was tracked the moment it entered the system.
Dawn was breaking on Rendili, but as it happened, sunset was approaching by Coruscant time. The day was drawing to a close, and midnight was about to pass, bringing the new day closer to the end of the current year for the galaxy's beings.
Lieutenant Page, commander of a special unit of Republic Commandos, stood on the auxiliary bridge, studying the blue-and-white holographic projection of the approaching transport.
"Are your men ready, Lieutenant?" he heard a quiet voice behind him.
The former prisoner of the Dominion turned.
Redeemed along with his comrades by their relatives, using funds from the New Republic budget (which had provided the necessary money to the prisoners' families), he held no grudge against his superiors.
Not for the long delay in liberation, not for the filtering process, not for anything at all.
Like the other commandos, Page understood what "operational necessity" meant. And he had a sacred belief that the New Republic did not abandon its own.
Nor did it make deals with those who, in one way or another, plotted evil against the very cause of Page's life.
"Every one of us, General Madine," he reported. "We're deployed in accordance with the plan, along with the technical crews. Weapons are distributed throughout the ship. We will do our duty."
"The technicians must not be harmed," said the New Republic's Director of Intelligence. "Among them are high-level specialists, defectors from Kuat, familiar with these systems. Thanks to them, we brought the ship into service ahead of schedule."
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant confirmed, casting another glance at the approaching Brail-class freighter. "The cover story about the unregistered main drive worked, since they decided to go for the capture."
The Sullustan-built starship, delivering specialized electronics to the ship, had already entered the weapon range of the Lusankya. A single volley could have solved all the problems, but command intended this time to get guaranteed confirmation of the elimination of the main threat to New Republic stability.
Capture.
Trial.
Death.
In that exact order.
"Sir, isn't it foolish of the Imperials to try smuggling dual-use chips onto a starship?" Page asked.
"They're desperate, Lieutenant," Madine explained. "To Isard, the Lusankya is a gift from the Emperor. A symbol of her power and position. She cannot allow this Super Star Destroyer to remain in our hands. Isard must take it back. Or die trying. Besides, Thrawn and Kaine already have one Executor-class each, even though we haven't been able to figure out if he built it or if we missed one of the earlier ones. Similar rumors have clearly reached Isard and the Imperial Ruling Council. They won't miss their chance to snatch a fully repaired ship from under our noses. So we allowed them to bring in and install the automation chips, so as not to scare Isard off. Let her think she's been leading us by the nose until the handcuffs snap shut on her wrists and a blaster is trained on her temple from one of our commandos. I hope none of them will have a shaky hand and the Iceheart's brains won't leave her sadistic nature too soon. We need her alive for the trial; the fact that she'll personally come here to lead the attack and witness her own triumph will be her undoing. Although, I doubt she'll have much time to grasp her situation — the criminal case files against her are just waiting for the court's resolution to pass the death sentence."
Page was silent for a few seconds, turning over in his mind a thought that had been troubling the man ever since he first met the Dominion counterintelligence officers in captivity and heard what they had to say.
"Do you believe he survived, sir?" the lieutenant asked, glancing sideways at General Madine.
Feeling the Director of Intelligence's interested gaze, the commando squad leader elaborated:
"Palpatine, General. Me and my boys in the Dominion had our brains washed about the old bastard surviving and hiding in the Deep Core."
Madine didn't answer immediately.
He stood, silently watching the freighter approach.
"The Emperor is dead, Lieutenant," the man said firmly. "And he will never live again. Nothing Grand Admiral Thrawn is trying to implant in our minds will work. The transitional period will end. The Empire will be defeated once more. We are ready for the election of a head of state, for the normal functioning of the Senate... We just need a push, an idea, the understanding that we are capable of fighting. No matter what. No matter what wild rumors the enemy commanders and propagandists spread."
Page, who knew the Director too well, simply nodded silently.
Bound by duty to state secrets, the commando understood that even if the exact opposite were true, the Director of Intelligence would not say so.
There is knowledge that is best kept from subordinates to avoid panic.
On the other hand, what difference does it make whether Palpatine is alive or not?
We killed him once — we'll kill him again as many times as it takes for the galaxy to finally breathe peacefully.
"I understand, sir."
"There shouldn't be a single ship near the Lusankya by now," Madine said suddenly, pointing to the port side.
"That's right, sir," Page frowned, raising his macrobinoculars.
The marine watched for a few seconds as a battered Lambda-class shuttle, showing all the signs of prolonged use back in the Alliance to Restore the Republic era, separated from the airlock.
"That's shuttle forty-two, sir," he explained. "They were delivering ammunition for us, disguised as another batch of cargo. Their hydraulics and life support broke down — it's not a new ship. They were stuck with us for two days while the techs repaired this tub. They're clearing out now that they've at least patched it up."
"Was the cargo scanned?" Madine asked quickly.
"Yes, sir," Page said. "Ammunition. No life signs. The empty containers were already delivered by the techs to the storage bay on the Lusankya's stern."
"Was the crew checked?" Madine pressed.
"Of course," the commando leader replied. "The pilots are regular hired Ithorian working stiffs. They've been with us since the Alliance to Restore the Republic; they have a certain standing with the logistics service. Conscientious, and they hate the Empire so much you'd sometimes envy them."
"Good," Madine said. "Signal your men — have them prepare to repel an attack. That freighter could be carrying a considerable number of enemy troops."
"And there aren't just five of us here," Page grinned. "And every one of us has a score to settle with the Imperials."
The comlink on the Director's belt beeped.
Madine activated the cylinder: "General, Admiral Duplex reporting. The enemy fleet has been pulled out of hyperspace. Twenty-three Imperial-class Star Destroyers of both modifications and six support ships."
And that was against nearly fifty Mon Calamari star cruisers, not counting the smaller New Republic ships waiting in the same ambush.
As planned, the enemy squadron had been pulled out of hyperspace a day before they were due to reach Rendili.
The Imperials were probably gnashing their teeth in rage at what happened, but there was nothing to be done — either surrender or death.
"Good, Admiral. Deal with them," Madine wished. "Things are about to start for us, too."
* * *
The Lusankya was approaching with every passing moment.
Her silhouette, like a narrow dagger, grew closer with each second, revealing all nineteen kilometers of power and invincibility in their full glory.
Like an ancient blade drawn from its sheath, this weapon was only waiting for the moment to plunge into the enemy's heart (or hearts), crushing them in their death throes.
Colonel Wessiri noted that the ship's hull had been restored, and the repairs after the battle for Thyferra had been done thoroughly.
The New Republic emblems on both sides of the hull, the underside, and the upper deck irritated and stirred an unquenchable rage, wounded pride, and a desire for immediate vengeance.
But the Colonel had to restrain himself.
Now was not the time.
Not yet.
The man watched as the hull of the enormous ship, housing the population of a small town, was dotted with porthole lights and running lights.
He was familiar with the ship's original design and noted that the rebels had reinforced the armor during the repairs.
As far as the eye could see, the starship was in a state of combat readiness, only waiting for a firm hand to detach it from the berthing dock and lead it into space, towards glorious victories.
Almost immediately after the ship had become the property of the New Republic, rumors began spreading from Coruscant that the Super Star Destroyer would be broken up for parts, melted down, that the symbol of terror and fear would never see the stars again.
As always — the Democrats lied.
They had only dragged the wounded giant away, hidden it in the deepest hole they could find, and repaired it at their leisure.
The Republicans could point all they wanted at the Imperials needing such ships to demonstrate their power, but the fact remained — they had stashed the Lusankya with the same intentions.
This ship, like any other of its type, is capable of single-handedly smashing an entire fleet; it's an excellent tool for conquering the Galaxy.
The New Republic, having lost ground in battles with Grand Admiral Thrawn, would never let such a weapon slip from its grasp.
Especially after losing dozens of line-class ships, being humiliated time and again by Thrawn, and practically gifting him a fast dreadnought.
Which had already been spotted in the galaxy, repaired and combat-ready.
The communications officer sitting next to the Colonel transmitted the access codes that the Republicans themselves had given him.
The rebels were letting the ship's true owners board it.
Amateurs who were just lucky.
"Rendili Flight Control to Brail freighter, you are cleared to dock with the Lusankya. Proceed on course four-two-point-seven-two to main hangar."
"Brail to Rendili Flight Control, course four-two-point-seven-two received, proceeding to main hangar."
"End transmission, Brail. And don't forget to get new recognition codes for your next visit."
"Received, Flight Control. We won't forget. End transmission."
After the officer shut off the transmitter, Wessiri looked at him.
"No changes from the last visit," the Colonel noted in a mocking tone.
"None whatsoever, sir," the comms officer confirmed.
"Good," Wessiri smiled. "Did we scan the ship?"
"Yes, sir, Colonel," the co-pilot replied. "Same as last time, most of the beings on board are concentrated in the aft sections. Currently — just over three hundred signatures."
"A tenth of what we had last delivery," the first pilot noted suspiciously.
"They're pulling our leg," Wessiri chuckled. "The ship is practically ready. The Director calculated everything perfectly — they're expecting an attack from the Imperial Remnants, and Orinda's fleet has already moved out. The ship is at full combat readiness a day and a half ahead of schedule, so the crew movement data is accurate too. In two hours, the system will be packed with liners carrying crew members under Admiral Argentis Duplex's command. And when Orinda's fleet arrives here, the Lusankya's guns would have met them."
"We have a full company of elite stormtroopers on board," the co-pilot shuddered. "And only fifty specialists. Will that be enough to capture the ship and control it?"
"The ship is heavily automated," Wessiri stated. "Once the Director loads the codes into the central computer, the Lusankya will jump to the rendezvous point, and we'll have a decent enough crew to head for the Deep Core. Besides," he focused on the monitor displaying scanner data, "the Republicans aren't wasteful. Artificial gravity and life support are only working in a quarter of the ship — the superstructure, central sectors, and the stern. Engines on standby, weapons and launchers inactive. No covering fighters. This will be a very simple boarding action. We'll make the technicians work at the consoles — it's not hard with a blaster muzzle breathing down your neck. We'll take control of the superstructure, input the codes, and vanish before these wrecks," he pointed to the two Mon Calamari star cruisers patrolling the perimeter, "can accomplish anything. The Republicans are working on Imperial protocols, which means the ordnance is already loaded on board. A few clusters of anti-ship missiles will be enough for us to break through. And both squadrons of TIE Defenders will cover us, while the Brail rams one of them and explodes in a final farewell."
"I'd love to see the faces of the Republicans when they find out how neatly we pulled the wool over their eyes," the first pilot grinned.
"You said it," Wessiri snorted, heading for the cockpit exit. "Proceed to the main hangar on the given course. I'll inform the Director that the operation is beginning and give the orders to the pilots, the stormtroopers..."
* * *
The planet Brentaal IV, as the name suggests, was the fourth world from its local star, located in the star system of the same name in the Bormea sector, quadrant L-9.
In its own way, it was the only planet in the galaxy situated at the intersection of two major hyperspace routes — the Hydian Way and the Perlemian Trade Route.
And this navigational fact transformed Brentaal IV, sometimes shortened to simply Brentaal, from a simple arid planet with two massive polar ice caps into a priceless asset in this part of the Core Worlds.
Nearly all usable surface area of the planet was built over with various warehouses, storage facilities, trade exchanges, and other structures tied to commerce — commerce that had allowed this world's government to grow rich and develop for millennia.
But at the same time, Brentaal IV's favorably positioned location made it a tempting military target.
No large-scale armed crisis ever passed without one side or another attempting to seize Brentaal.
It changed hands like a legitimate and valuable trophy.
Blood flowed like a river in Brentaal's orbit, and after the fiercest battles, the orbital space was so cluttered with debris it was hard to imagine how merchants coped, having to risk their ships navigating past the battlefields.
And today, at the end of the ninth year after the Battle of Yavin IV, another slaughter was destined to take place in Brentaal IV's orbit.
Argentis Duplex watched calmly as events unfolded beyond his MC80a's bridge.
Minesweeper cruisers, taken as trophies once captured by the New Republic from the Galactic Empire, were retreating under the protection of forty-eight Mon Calamari star cruisers stretched in a semicircle.
Twenty-three Imperial-class Star Destroyers — Mark Is and Mark IIs — accompanied by six Ton-Falk-class escort carriers.
Named after the battle at the planet Ton-Falk, a humiliating defeat for the Empire, these ships posed considerable problems for the New Republic fleet.
An escort carrier of this type was well-protected and well-armed. Its ten twin laser cannons could threaten both enemy starfighters and light ships like corvettes and frigates supporting Admiral Duplex's fleet.
Aside from decent armament and protection, these five-hundred-meter vessels standardly carried six full squadrons, five of which were TIE fighters. The remaining dozen were TIE Interceptors. In effect, the full air wing of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer on a ship one-third the size.
Not to mention that escort carriers had massive repair crews and were sometimes used by the Imperials as mobile workshops. The technical personnel aboard escort carriers could repair both starfighters and the light transports based on them. Unlike the workshops aboard ISDs, the Ton-Falk repair crews could practically resurrect a damaged TIE-class vessel. All it needed was a cockpit and engines — the repair crews would rebuild everything else from scratch.
Not to mention that the ship could transport a large number of passengers.
And undoubtedly, just as with the Star Destroyers, Orinda was now using the escort carriers to deliver at least part of the crew aboard the Lusankya.
"The enemy is re-forming into an attack formation," reported the flagship's commander.
"Launch the starfighters," Argentis ordered.
Yes, the Empire had brought a large number of ships to this unexpected battlefield. And their air wing was larger than what the MC80s and MC80as under Admiral Duplex's command possessed.
But unlike the Imperials, the New Republic's fleet commanders had one undeniable advantage — their starfighters could travel through hyperspace unhindered.
"Open a channel to the Imperials," the Zeltron said.
The order was carried out, and the man spoke into the microphone from his command station:
"Imperial fleet, this is Admiral Argentis Duplex of the New Republic Defense Forces. You have illegally invaded the territorial space of our state. Surrender, or you will be destroyed."
The reply came without delay.
"You'd better get out of our way, Republic," said the hologram of an Imperial Guardsman, whose face, unusually, was not hidden behind a sealed helmet. Instead, that angular, relatively young face looked at Argentis with a gaze that regretted not being able to kill from a distance. "My name is Carnor Jax. Bow before me, hand over the Lusankya, or you will be destroyed."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Carnor Jax," Argentis replied calmly, even phlegmatically, "but neither we nor our ships are going anywhere. Surrender..."
"Then I'll step over your corpses," the unknown Imperial practically growled. "And I'll still take what belongs to us by right."
"As you wish," Argentis replied, just as politely.
He cut the holographic connection, then switched his comlink to the fleet commanders' frequency and said:
"Begin. Destroy them all."
And the next moment, dozens of new Mon Calamari star cruisers emerged from hyperspace, halted by the gravity wells of cruisers that once served the Empire.
Accompanied by elite squadrons of the New Republic.
Admiral Argentis Duplex noted that every single New Republic starship selected by General Bel Iblis for this operation had appeared on the scanner screens.
The number of capital ships under Admiral Duplex's command outnumbered the Imperial starships four to one, and there was no doubt about who would win.
The Republic commanders had set up a glorious ambush, using against the Imperials the same tactics Grand Admiral Thrawn had employed.
There was probably a certain irony in this — defeating the Imperials using Imperial tactics.
Another meat grinder in the orbit of Brentaal IV began two minutes before the twenty-fifth standard day of the current month bled into the twenty-sixth.
Deep night had settled over Coruscant, while near Brentaal, the first dwarf supernovae began to bloom.
* * *
Sergius, whistling some catchy tune he'd picked up while working aboard the Lusankya, unhurriedly left the turbolift cabin and strolled down the corridor toward the small cargo bay.
This is where equipment was stored — spare parts for the panels and systems on this deck. And specifically, in this situation, for the ship's central computer.
But the Republicans had chosen to fill this storage room with weapon crates instead.
Dozens of enormous containers, packed to the brim with blaster rifles and light repeating blasters, armor, and other gear the Republic commandos needed for combat.
Enough to arm two hundred men. The very same commandos who had come aboard the Lusankya a few days ago, replacing most of the technicians.
And now, all of them were armed and ready to repel an attack.
Armed to the teeth — just like the two guards standing here.
Ten meters of distance.
"Hey, tech!" one of the guards called out, seeing Sergius approach them, scratching his back through his coveralls with a hydrospanner. "Didn't you hear Lieutenant Page's orders?"
"Nope," Sergius replied in a folksy tone, closing in another couple of meters. "What's up?"
"Communications are down," the first guard explained. The second one waved a hand at the agent. He recognized the worker, who'd been seen in almost every corner of the Lusankya. He probably also remembered that Sergius was the one responsible for delivering the weapon crates and unloading them right after they'd been brought aboard two days ago from an old Lambda-class shuttle. "You and the other techs should be in the engine room right now."
"What the hell are you even doing here?" the second guard, a Zabrak, gave the Dominionite a suspicious look.
Thick skull.
Well, he wasn't exactly quick on the uptake either.
Five meters.
The agent shifted his grip on the tool in front of him.
"I was fixing the mouse droids," Sergius explained, taking a couple more steps and turning slightly left, pointing toward the turbolift with his heavy tool. "Deck below."
Three meters.
"Oh, that happens," the first guard nodded. "Alright, get yourself to the stern — this superstructure's about to become a battlefield."
"Maybe I can help?" Sergius asked, turning his head toward the guards as he kept approaching. "Your comms aren't working..."
One and a half meters.
Sergius adjusted his grip on the heavy tool, still pointing it toward the turbolift.
"Not needed," the first guard waved his hand. "We'll manage here on our own."
"We've been stuck here since we unloaded that rust bucket," the second grumbled, glancing toward the turbolift. "While the guys over there are probably already fighting those bastards..."
"Uh-huh," the first snorted. "And we're guarding half-empty weapon crates."
"Happens," Sergius agreed. "Could you let me in? I left my jacket inside during unloading yesterday. I'd like to grab it."
The hydrospanner, swung with full force, smashed through the Zabrak's helmet and caved in his temporal bone.
Before he hit the ground, the second guard managed to raise his weapon, but Sergius was already right there.
A palm strike to the throat crushed the man's larynx.
In the next motion, he ripped the weapon from the Republican's hands, grabbed his head with both palms, and forcefully drove it into his own knee.
Immediately after, as the choking Republican struggled with the pain, Sergius wrapped his arms around his head and snapped his neck.
The corpse slumped to the floor like a sack, and the agent picked up the blaster, putting a bolt through the first man's head.
A clean shot seared through the back of the skull, leaving a melted hole in his occiput.
Sergius quickly searched both bodies, then, taking the dead men's weapons, cracked open the storage room's code panel.
Shorting the wiring with a lockpick he'd improvised from salvaged materials, the agent forced the metal bulkhead to slide aside, revealing a spacious room where two rows of two-meter-tall shipping containers stood — the same ones the old Lambda had delivered under cover of equipment transport documents.
Sergius smirked, remembering how thoroughly every ship and its cargo arriving at the Lusankya had been searched over the past week. Strangely enough, the containers were still in place, and the Republican operation commander's paranoia hadn't extended to moving or opening them.
And that was a mistake.
Republic intelligence had been hunting for potential spies and saboteurs, expecting the Empire to inevitably send its troops here to seize the ship.
Bravo-II walked up to the first container and knocked on it.
No answering sound.
He had to knock on every single shipping container before he got the result he wanted.
An answering knock, in the predetermined sequence, came from inside seventeen containers.
Just as agreed with command.
Sergius waited a few minutes — the time needed for nineteen soldiers to remove the false walls separating part of the interior space from the real walls.
Bravo-II waited calmly as two Assault Commandos and fifteen Fleet Special Forces soldiers climbed out into the open, leaving behind the silhouettes of human bodies in massive carbonite plates.
If you knew how life-form scanners worked, you understood how to bypass them. And how to remotely trigger the thawing system for the boarding party during unloading — the troops now stretching and checking their weapons, while some soldiers kept opening false walls container after container, awakening commando droids and droidekas also hidden behind the fake bottoms.
The advantage of patented weapon transport containers was that the manufacturer did everything to protect the cargo inside. That included a complex compensation mechanism, which the Dominion troops had simply thrown out, replacing it with decoys and frozen panels with saboteurs behind decorative false panels.
Two men approached Sergius — one Assault Commando and one man in Fleet Special Forces armor.
"Sergeant TNX-0297?" Sergius confirmed with the black-armored soldier, receiving an affirmative nod.
"Yes, sir."
"Captain Orsan Makeno?" The special forces soldier was stretching his limbs while chewing a high-calorie energy bar. Must have been hungry after so many days in cryo. Though that was just his brain playing tricks on him.
"The same."
"I'm Agent Bravo-II, commanding this part of Operation Fool the Deceiver," Sergius introduced himself. "Once all the droids are activated, proceed according to plan. I've taken the long-range comm system offline mechanically — Agent Isard's troops won't be contacting the Pride of the Emperor, and the starfighters won't respond. The central computer is locked down, all airlocks are sealed, and without serious hacking, neither the Republicans nor the Imperials can get to it."
"We're ready to storm the navigation section," the Assault Commando immediately stated.
"And we're ready for anything," Makeno declared.
"In that case — begin," Sergius ordered. "But before we start, there are two conditions. First — the Lusankya must leave Rendili headed in only one direction. The direction we set." Both commanders nodded in understanding. "And second. The ship's commander on Agent Isard's side, Colonel Wessiri, is to be taken alive under any circumstances. That last one is my personal request."
"It will be done, sir." If the special squad commanders were surprised by such a combat objective, they chose to remain silent.
* * *
The Brill reduced speed, arriving at the main hangar bay's threshold.
The ship cut its main drive power to minimum, then began maneuvering so the tractor beam operator could guide the vessel into the internal space as the Imperials required.
The aft cargo hatch remained within the main hangar's magnetic field projection, allowing technicians to blow the pyrotechnic charges. The ramp slammed down onto the deck with a crash, making several commandos disguised as ordinary workers, who were nearby, jump at the unexpected turn of events.
They were already preparing to curse out the owners of this freighter, verbally and with blaster fire, when a familiar screech erupted from inside the ship.
Clamping their hands over their ears to keep their eardrums from bursting due to the echo created by the cramped cargo bay of the Brill, which also acted as an unintentional amplifier, the Republic commandos dropped to the deck, witnessing twenty-four TIE Defenders emerge one after another from the ship's open cargo hatch.
The Imperial ships, bursting out of the main hangar at lightning speed, immediately surrounded the colossal vessel, using sniper-precise fire from all their cannons to destroy the magnetic docking anchors and boarding tubes connecting the Lusankya to the shipyard.
They mercilessly, with genuine professionalism, blasted service shuttles and peacefully drifting cargo barges, the battered old Lambda-class shuttle, rapidly clearing space around the massive sword and freeing it from the grip of its moorings.
The dazed "workers" began to rise, horrified by what had happened, and rushed toward the hangar exit, hoping to raise the alarm aboard the ship.
They fired their blasters at the open personnel hatch, hoping to slow down the boarding party that was beginning to land.
The other commandos, rushing to their aid, supported them with blaster rifle fire.
But it was all in vain.
Boots stomped down the personnel ramp of the Sullustian Brill-class freighter — stormtroopers emerged into position, ready to seize the ship.
Their mission was to eliminate all resistance aboard the vessel, clearing the way to the bridge for a small group of fleet specialists and officers selected from the crew of the Victory-class Star Destroyer called the Pride of the Emperor, properly trained to command a Super Star Destroyer.
And they began their work as soon as they left the Brill.
With short, precise bursts, the stormtroopers mowed down those unfortunate commandos unlucky enough to be here.
One of them managed to reach a comm panel and even triggered the alarm — but the emergency systems never lit up.
That soldier, along with the fifty other fighters who had been in the hangar, died within the first minutes of the landing, never alerting their comrades that the Imperial assault had begun.
Meanwhile, the freighter, having disembarked all its passengers, including a notable figure in sealed dark gray armor, slipped out of the cargo hangar with minimal effort to fulfill its final purpose. Programmed pilot droids were already in its cockpit, and the detonators on the warheads inside the starship were primed.
And now the ship was fleeing the Lusankya, broadcasting distress calls on all frequencies, reporting malfunctions and a threat to the crew's lives.
The nearest star cruiser raced to intercept, intending to help the poor soul.
Naive Republicans.
"The alarm didn't trigger," Colonel Wessiri remarked, approaching the designated panel.
Behind him, the ship's blast doors slammed shut with a crash.
This was something new in the plan.
He was hearing about this for the first time.
"Our slicer already tried connecting to the central computer," the stormtrooper company commander explained. "No luck. The peripheral systems have been switched to manual control. The comm system is down — both external and internal. The external airlocks are blocked, the hangar bay doors are sealed. The compartments are sealed off, control is locked. The ship is completely under our control."
Wessiri cast an approving glance toward the Brill, from which the hacking had been carried out.
But he couldn't figure out why the plans had changed — the figure in the sealed armor, playing a key part in the operation, had already disappeared with a squad of stormtroopers into the opposite end of the hangar, using a separate exit and heading toward the goal Ysanne Isard coveted aboard this vessel.
Iceheart intended to make her way to her secret quarters, which offered the best view of the bacchanalia the Lusankya was about to unleash on Rendili before its departure.
There were undoubtedly other reasons for acting contrary to the plan, but it wasn't the time to ask those questions, was it?
Well, to hell with it.
If Isard decided they should cut off the computer and operate without communications, so be it.
But it left a bad taste.
It seemed the Director didn't trust anyone at all.
"The Director has done her job," the officer said. "Moving to the bridge."
The soldiers began moving.
They encountered almost no resistance as they advanced, deck by deck, compartment by compartment, toward their goal.
The few Republic commandos, armed with light weapons, were overwhelmed by the heavy ordnance used by Director Isard's stormtroopers.
Not without losses, sometimes getting drawn into bloody firefights, the Imperials pushed toward their target.
Wessiri noted with a smile how enthusiastically the fleet specialists used their standard-issue weapons, cutting down New Republic soldiers with their fire.
The naive Republicans actually believed the Director wouldn't see through their pitiful attempt to capture her.
As if they ever had a chance.
The stormtroopers exterminated all life they found in their path without hesitation.
No mercy, no doubt.
The count in this operation was measured in seconds, and hesitation was death.
Bursting into the combat bridge, Colonel Wessiri was surprised to find it empty.
The fleet specialists rushed to the control consoles, and confusion showed on their faces.
"Sir, control has been transferred to the backup bridge," the senior fleet officer reported. "The Republicans covered their bases..."
The colonel's breath came fast as he tried to force as much oxygen into his lungs as possible in the bridge's thin atmosphere.
"Right, right," he muttered. "As if we won't get them there too. Can we restore internal communications?"
"Yes, sir, we'll patch through the intercom system," the fleet officer said.
Within minutes, Wessiri had a full picture of his troops' actions aboard the Lusankya.
"The reactor bay is fully under our control."
"The batteries are secured and sealed."
"The Republic commandos have been pushed back to the stern and the engine room."
"Heavy resistance at the backup command bridge..."
"Get in touch with the second squad," Wessiri ordered. "We need full control of the ship."
As far as he understood, Isard's private quarters had a direct connection to the central computer, and from there, they could restore access to all systems.
"No response, sir."
"Are they jamming the signal?" Wessiri frowned.
"No, sir. They're just not responding."
"This is bad," the colonel bared his teeth. "Four stormtroopers, with me! Moving to the Director's quarters. The rest of you — to the backup bridge. I want this ship under my command in ten minutes. Move it!"
* * *
The holographic projector displayed the wreckage of the Brill-class ship, shot to pieces by every cannon of a Mon Calamari star cruiser.
The warship's captain hadn't fallen for the approach trick — and judging by the explosion sphere, he had done absolutely the right thing.
Too bad neither he nor the second cruiser had any way to chew through the Lusankya's thick defenses and force her to stop.
Their cannons couldn't penetrate the deflectors, and two dozen TIE Defenders had turned more than one New Republic starfighter into scrap when it tried to attack the enormous vessel.
General Madina felt the deck tremble beneath his feet, and that fact alarmed him more than anything.
"The hyperdrive has activated," Lieutenant Page confirmed his fears, stepping away from the nearest console. "We can't do anything — the enemy has cut us off from the central computer, and the jump coordinates were entered manually. Someone is also manually controlling the deflectors and main engines."
"This couldn't have happened," Madine said in surprise. "I was assured that possibility had been eliminated on the Lusankya!"
"And besides, my best men are in the hyperdrive compartment," Lieutenant Page said through clenched teeth, gripping his blaster tighter.
The Director of New Republic Intelligence drew his own weapon from its holster.
"Assemble the squad, Lieutenant," he ordered. "Everyone except the Lusankya's CP specialists. Leave them a dozen men for cover. Everyone else — to the hyperdrive compartment. Whoever sent the Lusankya where she's going, and wherever that is, we must not allow her to reach her destination. Even if it costs us our lives, Lieutenant, we cannot let this ship fall into enemy hands."
"I don't need that explained to me, sir," Page assured him, issuing orders to his men.
* * *
The hologram hovering above my desk surface was trying its hardest to appear calm.
But it was obvious even so that Lando Calrissian wasn't handling his assigned role very well.
"So you claim you're acting in the interests of Han Solo and Leia Organa Solo," I said slowly.
"And how else could I have gotten this comlink?" the former Republic general asked, hinting at the device I had given the Rebellion's heroes for contacting me with the Lusankya's coordinates when I last saw all of them together.
"Knowing your talents, I could offhand suggest anywhere from twenty to two hundred possibilities, any of which could be the very reason you came into possession of that communication device," I said indifferently.
"How many?" Calrissian asked with genuine surprise, but recovered himself quickly. "You flatter me, Grand Admiral. Regardless, whatever you may think, I'm acting with my friends' consent and in their interests. But they have their own duties and affairs, which is why they can't speak with you personally."
"Let's assume that," I said. "So, trading the Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker for the Lusankya... Quite an interesting separate agreement, don't you think?"
"One might think you didn't capture Luke for that very purpose," Calrissian grumbled.
"I might surprise you by saying it was an accident," I said. "You're free to believe my words or not, but that's how it was. Taking Skywalker prisoner was not part of my plans."
"I wonder why?"
"I explained it at our last meeting," I had to remind him. I was getting the impression that the Alliance's heroes either had poor memories or were so virtuously letting my words go in one ear and out the other that it was no wonder I had to literally hammer basic truths into their thick-headed organs of higher nervous activity.
"Yes, Palpatine," Calrissian's hologram shuddered. "I have no doubt that Luke should avoid any contact or personal meeting with him."
"At the moment, Skywalker's fate doesn't interest me either," I said.
"Then why not just let him go?" Calrissian lit up with the idea. "Make an appearance on the HoloNet in your usual style, announce what a noble deed you're performing by releasing a prominent figure of the Rebel Alliance. I'm sure it would bring you considerable dividends in public approval."
"A tempting offer," I assessed. "In that case, perhaps you could persuade the Provisional Council to turn over all the Imperial ships you've captured to me as a gesture of neighborly relations. That would allow me to stop my fleet's pointless slaughter of your armed forces."
"Pointless?" Calrissian was surprised. "I thought you derived genuine enjoyment from it. As far as I know the breed of Grand Admirals, most of you never did anything without reason."
"A high compliment coming from you," I remarked. "Well, I see no point in repeating myself — my goals were openly stated during our last rendezvous. Judging by the fact that I have to achieve them through simpler means by fighting you, you don't trust me."
"You call the open slaughter of the New Republic Defense Forces across the entire galaxy a 'simpler means'?" Calrissian was taken aback.
"Until I turned my attention to the New Republic, diplomacy and negotiation seemed to me the simplest way to avoid conflict," I noted. "But the problem is that you don't understand talk. I have to communicate with you in the language of force. Judging by the fact that you did decide to accept my offer to hand over the Lusankya, in a certain sense, there's been progress in your perspective. Despite the circumstances."
"Can't tell whether you just praised us or humiliated us in such an elaborate way..." Calrissian admitted.
"I'll leave that intrigue for your conscience to resolve," I said. "I'm confident that unlike most of your acquaintances, you personally still have one, and in quite decent condition. As far as I recall your past as a professional deceiver and gambler, it no longer prevails in your daily life, having given way to business reputation. That's significant personal growth. Future generations of New Republic servicemen could take an example from you, if you'd wanted to remain in that state's Defense Forces."
The hologram's face twitched — whether from interference or if Lando Calrissian had indeed involuntarily reacted to the barb I'd slipped in, it was unclear.
"Business reputation," my interlocutor grimaced. "You know, you're not exactly one to talk to me about that. Because thanks to you, my life's work of recent years has been destroyed. Capital, the efforts of many sentients... All of it literally burned. Because of your actions, Thrawn!"
"Don't exaggerate my involvement in your life, Mister Calrissian," I advised. "The attack on the Nomad at Nkllon had strictly military objectives. You were supplying metals to the New Republic's shipbuilding industry, which I'm at war with. Don't insult me by pretending you didn't understand that under those circumstances your business was at risk."
"You practically robbed me," Lando reminded me.
"Yes, but even so, my subordinates only disabled your facility," I reminded him. "And deprived you of your ore stock. The destruction, as well as the salvation, of the Nomad was entirely in the hands of the New Republic."
And now the sharpening features of Calrissian's face clearly indicated that our thoughts had aligned.
"However, Mister Calrissian, since we're having a rather candid conversation, I should note that the actual destruction of your facility saddened me," I continued my game.
If Calrissian, and his friends and associates sitting beside him but outside his projection zone, thought this empty chatter was aimed solely at killing time, they were sorely mistaken.
This was a probe of the ground and a simultaneous attempt to lay a foundation. Whether construction would proceed further, or this conversation would become another episode of "cheated investors," only time would tell.
"Is that so?" Calrissian asked, not hiding his surprise. "Why would that be?"
"Unlike a significant number of your acquaintances, in my eyes you're the only person with a worthy goal," I explained. "Creating your own business, instead of serving someone else, is commendable."
"Now you're supposed to say we're alike because you also love your work," Lando smirked.
"You're mistaken," I stated. "We're not alike. At all. But that doesn't stop me from respecting you as a person. I'll say it frankly — at present, I would like to make amends for the harm caused to you by the destruction of your enterprise on Nkllon."
Calrissian blinked silently for a few seconds.
"I'm not sure I understand you," he said.
"As you've probably already noticed, my forces strike exclusively at military targets," I reminded him. "Nkllon, as well as a number of other strikes at dual-use facilities, were nothing more than a necessary measure pursuing strategic interests. I think you understand what a long-term perspective means."
"Let's assume so," Calrissian said slowly.
"I don't have a habit of destroying sentients, grinding them into dust, if they're not plotting against me," I said. Calrissian's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and wrinkles appeared on his face. "I'd like to say I'd be willing to pay for the restoration of the Nomad and its other infrastructure, but as my people discovered, even the New Republic couldn't make the project work. Instead, they squandered the remnants of the skyhoppers and the Nomad's capacity itself, and their plans went up in smoke."
"Yes, someone clever made off with the last skyhoppers," Calrissian said, staring intently into my eyes.
"Judging by the fact that even my people couldn't find them, the ships were probably melted down for scrap," I continued. "And building new ones would cost enormous sums..."
"I'm aware of that without your lecture on economic theory," Calrissian declared. "What are you getting at, Thrawn?"
I allowed myself a sparse smile.
"You have no idea, Mister Calrissian, how pleasant it is to deal with a person with an entrepreneurial streak. Instead of excessive preparatory talk, direct negotiation."
"Time is money," Lando reminded me. "And judging by your hints, you clearly have a proposal for me."
"Of course, if you're willing to hear it," I said diplomatically. "And if you have no other affairs or obligations."
Hmm, I wonder if my hint that the conversation had veered in a completely different direction from the original would be noticed and recognized?
"Speaking with you is exactly my business," Calrissian said. "But let's get back to your proposal. What's its essence?"
"As you may know, the Quelli sector recently joined the Dominion," I said.
"I've heard something to that effect," the dark-skinned man grunted.
"The sector is quite promising, as are the rest of the Dominion's territories, I must say," I declared. "A special place in our economy is occupied by mineral extraction."
"With your militaristic focus — naturally," Calrissian grinned.
"It's not just about armaments," I corrected him. "Natural resources are used in construction, exploration, and colonization of new worlds as well. To successfully supply Dominion enterprises with resources, I need experienced entrepreneurs whose businesses the Dominion is ready to support with preferential loans, reduced tax rates, and other economic stimulus measures."
Calrissian blinked, realizing how different what I'd just said was from what happened across the galaxy. In the New Republic, for instance, the only thing a young entrepreneur could count on was having to first slip considerable sums into the right offices, and only then would they have to bust their gut to make ends meet.
Though, I shouldn't single out only the New Republic.
Such schemes worked in most sectors of the galaxy, regardless of the regime under which the economy operated. It was the same under the Empire, and the same under the Galactic Republic... And, frankly, the larger the Dominion's controlled territory became, the greater my concern that we too wouldn't escape the "corruptionization" procedure of the bureaucratic apparatus.
"Not long ago, information about the planet Varn, located in the Quelli sector, was passed to me," I continued. "Heard of that world?"
"Only in passing," Lando said. "An oceanic planet with lots of archipelagos and ocean farmers who disappeared from galactic markets with their products about ten years ago."
"That may be so in the galaxy," I agreed. "In the Dominion, however, their business is getting back on its feet."
"I haven't gotten into fish farming yet," Calrissian smirked. "And I'm not sure I have any desire to."
"That's not what I'm talking about," I warned him. "On Varn, there are mineral deposits beneath the ocean floor. It seems to me, given the beauty of the terrain and Varn's purest waters, an enterprising man like you could turn simple mineral extraction into something more. Say, an entertainment center on the ocean floor. Varn is certainly no Pantolomin with its reef beauty, but at the same time, this is only the beginning of entrepreneurial expansion. As compensation for the inconvenience caused to you in the past, I'm willing to finance the project's construction. Provided, of course, that you work for the benefit of the Dominion. I'm confident that over time, tensions between us and the New Republic will ease, and you'll have the opportunity to export your goods to other parts of the galaxy, not just within my state and the sectors loyal to us. I'm not pressuring you, not rushing you, but at the same time I wouldn't advise delaying your answer. Promising entrepreneurial projects rarely go unrealized in the Dominion."
Calrissian's hologram openly bit its lower lip.
A genuine struggle between the capitalist and the friend was raging inside the man.
It took Lando only a few seconds of glancing away from me, somewhere into the room on Sluis Van where he was, for the illumination that had been on his face to disappear.
"A tempting offer, Grand Admiral," he said in a defeated tone. "Perhaps someday we'll discuss it. But I suggest we return to discussing the exchange for Luke."
"Ah, that," I said with a knowing nod, glancing at the screen of the personal datapad Pellaeon had deftly handed me without managing to enter the projection zone of the communication device built into the armrest of my chair on the Chimaera's bridge. "The thing is, Mister Calrissian, such an exchange is impossible."
A shadow fell across my interlocutor's face.
Though that wasn't the only omen of the current moment.
The star streaks before my eyes coiled into distant points. And only the enormous molten sphere of a planet somewhat resembling Mustafar remained.
Those inexperienced in space travel could easily confuse them, but our navigation computer couldn't be fooled.
A world wreathed by five dozen asteroids and two moons appeared before my eyes in all its hellish splendor.
And also ships, hastily redeploying in orbit.
"For what reasons?" he asked quickly. "Is Skywalker all right?"
"As far as I know, he's in good health," I confirmed. "Though disappointed that he was denied a personal meeting with me. The problem is on your end."
"What do you mean by that?" Calrissian tensed.
"The thing is, you have nothing to offer me in exchange," I explained.
"What nonsense," my interlocutor protested. "We want to hand over the Lusankya to you."
"A small clarification," I said. "You wanted to hand over the Lusankya to me in exchange for Skywalker. But the problem is that the Lusankya is no longer at Rendili — she's moving to a rendezvous point with my fleet under the control of my officers. I beg your pardon, but neither me nor Isard can be caught by you."
Either there was a problem with the holographic projector's contrast settings, or Calrissian had actually paled. Probably the device was malfunctioning — I'd never seen anything like it on a black man.
"Perhaps," I continued, "I should still omit the fact that this operation's purpose was to lure me out and destroy me with the forces of the New Republic's youngest general, Wedge Antilles. I won't be wrong if I say you intended to offer me a meeting point near the Sarapin system in quadrant M-10. Quite close to the planet Ruun and about twelve hours' travel from Rendili."
Lando stood with his mouth open, realizing what I had just said.
His eyes darted about, betraying an extreme degree of shock at the situation.
"I... I... don't know what to say..."
"Don't bother, Mister Calrissian," I said. "There's absolutely no need for you to lie; don't spoil my impression of you. However, you would do me a great favor if you would ask General Solo, who is nearby, to stop trying to contact General Antilles, whose fleet is waiting for me in orbit of Sarapin."
"Hutt take you, Thrawn!" Solo barked, appearing in the projection zone. "How did you find that out?!"
"It's very simple, General Solo," I said phlegmatically, nodding to Pellaeon to begin the operation. "To keep General Antilles from waiting, I myself have arrived in orbit of Sarapin. How many times is this now that you and your wife, through your schemes, doom Antilles to battle with me? Should I give him your family's regards? Or has he ceased to be your friend, and you're merely persistently trying to get rid of him?"
To see such a mix of emotions — from bewilderment to uncontrollable rage — on the faces of Solo, Calrissian, and Organa Solo, who had appeared from behind their backs, was worth allowing myself this small childishness.
The hologram went dark.
What ill-mannered sentients — they didn't even say goodbye.
Judging by Pellaeon's smile and the whistling laugh of Rukh, lurking behind the nearest console, the joke had found its audience.
Let's see how Antilles and his "Rogue Squadron" laugh now.
"Black Wing, launch," I ordered. "Lieutenant Kreb is authorized free hunting on Rogue Squadron's pilots. I'm sure the Rogues will be thrilled to face a dozen TIE Avengers under Lieutenant Kreb and his clones' control."