Nine years, nine months, and twenty-six days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, nine months, and twenty-six days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and eleven days since the Arrival.)
Neck vertebrae crunched distinctly, and the Republic commando went limp, sliding to the floor, no longer held by the hands in black armor.
The Assault Commandos had reached the Lusankya's backup command post, leaving behind a dozen Republic commando corpses and several technicians who had tried to shoot the Dominion soldiers in the back.
TNХ-0297 and TNХ-0333 assessed the situation again.
A T-shaped corridor, its wide base abutting the heavy doors of the Star Super Destroyer's backup command post.
The thickness of those doors reached half a meter and could withstand a direct turbolaser blast.
A refractory material that would take days to cut through. Even the high-temperature flame of TNХ-0333's flamethrower wouldn't help — there simply wasn't enough fuel mixture.
The Assault Commandos didn't have that kind of time.
So both abandoned the idea of entering through the main entrance.
Fortunately, during the capture of the Guardian and the still-unnamed Star Super Destroyer of faction ×1, the 501st Legion had gained excellent experience in storming this type of ship. Practical experience, not on simulators.
But still, a way inside always existed.
At this stage, there was no way to obtain data on the ship's layout after Republican repairs.
But Agent Bravo-II had taken care of that when he disconnected the supercomputer from the Star Super Destroyer's peripheral systems.
The emergency entrance to the ship's CP had a manual drive, and it could only be opened from the inside.
No entry there.
The backup bridge was located deep within the starship, so storming it after the Lusankya exited hyperspace through the main viewport was also impossible.
Breaking through from below was impossible — the monolithic deck plate was the same thickness as the entrance door.
Essentially, the CP was now an armored capsule from which the enemy could, one way or another, try to regain control of various systems. Especially if they could retake the engine and navigation compartments.
Control of the hermetic doors was also from the inside — for the safety of the ship's final control center. A decent move on the part of the Republic engineers.
The Republic had redesigned the ventilation shafts to a different, much smaller diameter.
No human could crawl through there.
But the Assault Commandos weren't planning to go there personally.
Catching a service mouse droid didn't take long. They just had to activate its recall through a special service console.
The MSE-6 was a geometric box twenty-five centimeters high that moved swiftly on four wheels across the decks of Imperial ships.
The model line and programming of this type of assistant droid provided for many duties aboard ships. That included delivering messages, small cargo, penetrating damaged sections to assess conditions in compartments, searching for survivors, and so on.
However, due to budget constraints, installing advanced intelligence on droids proved impractical. Therefore, each droid was created to perform a single purpose. One skill for one droid.
In this case, TNХ-0297 summoned a courier droid.
The cargo compartment occupied about half of the droid's internal space, so something large, like a turret or a powerful charge, couldn't be placed inside.
But that wasn't necessary, actually.
This little one would have a very different cargo.
As would the other couriers TNХ-0297 summoned.
While TNХ-0297 was working with the droids, TNХ-0333 was operating the flamethrower, burning through the ceiling panel in the area of the ventilation duct.
The materials used for such parts of the ship as the life support system were, of course, first-class, so the metal only gave way when the first of five fuel mixture canisters ran out.
That was fine.
It took half an hour to equip all the mouse droids with thermal detonators, improvised explosive devices based on tibanna cartridges and power cells collected from the corpses, flash-bang and thermobaric grenades.
Everything that could explode and do so spectacularly was put to use.
Then it required a certain dexterity to place each mouse droid into the burned-out ventilation duct and give the command to move forward.
In this spot, the only place a droid could reach was the ventilation grille of the Lusankya's backup command post.
The Republic had decided that an autonomous life support system for the CP was too expensive, and the two backup reactors powering the armored capsule would be useful elsewhere.
And so this section of the life support system was born.
The first droid slid through the pipe toward the grille leading to the CP, swift and purposeful.
The tiny minds of simple couriers lacked the understanding that they were following orders not from the ship's crew.
TNH-0297 approached the communications panel, which was intended for contacting the CP.
After activating a key, he waited for the brief interference to clear the airwaves and spoke.
"Surrender, or you will be destroyed."
He was not a man of many words, so he saw no point in introducing himself or phrasing his thoughts any differently.
Especially since the enemy could observe who was speaking to them through the small camera during the transmission.
"We're not opening the doors," came the reply from a short man with fleet navigator insignia. "You won't get in here, and our people are about to gain control of the navigation system. We outnumber you, and you're trapped."
"Error," stated TNH-0297, activating the detonator of the first explosive device. "You're the ones trapped."
The first droid, which had by then reached the ventilation grating, blew apart, tearing through the oxygen supply system and turning part of the metal into tiny shrapnel.
Now nothing hindered the remaining droids from traveling directly into the CP room.
TNH-0297 could have told the Republic personnel that due to the hole in the ventilation duct, the incoming breathing mixture volume had dropped to five percent and, in fact, they would have nothing to breathe within half an hour.
And then the ship's automation would inevitably have to open the doors, as soon as the oxygen content became...
But he chose to leave that realization to the enemy's conscience.
The Republic personnel tried their best.
They attempted to shoot the mouse droids, but that didn't prevent detonation.
The armor of the CP capsule held against explosion after explosion, showing no signs of giving way or threatening to disrupt the equipment's commutation.
When thermobaric grenades detonated in the CP following the explosive devices, the personnel — whom TNH-0297 could see through the intercom screen — resorted to flash-bang grenades.
Disoriented and deafened, the Republic personnel tried to hide behind damaged and shrapnel-scarred control panels. The latter were no longer of any use, since the central computer's shutdown had transferred systems to manual control.
In other words, the ship was controlled by whoever had their hands on the consoles in the reactor, engine, and navigation compartments. And, thanks to the droidekas and sabotage droids, all three critical sections of the ship were controlled by fleet spec ops units.
The Assault Commandos merely eliminated any possibility of command being seized at the CP.
It was only when gray clouds of suffocating smoke from smoke grenades began to swell in the room that the remaining sentients in the CP finally realized they had nothing to breathe.
The amount of oxygen still coming through the punctured ventilation duct was so negligible that panic broke out among the survivors, enveloped in smoke and covered in sweat from the lack of breathing mixture.
They rushed about, trying to get rid of the smoke grenades and flash-bangs, but it was all in vain.
The tear gas vapors, irritating their mucous membranes and eyes, prevented the Republic personnel from thinking clearly.
Not many among them were actual military. Specialists are not quite as prepared to see death up close, as their service takes place behind control consoles.
But credit where it's due — not one of them rushed to the door-opening mechanism.
Not one showed weakness.
The Republic personnel chose to die rather than surrender the CP.
TNH-0297 and TNH-033, watching the backup command post's automation fling open the massive doors on its own, merely switched the visor modes on their helmets to make it easier to pick out the enemy bodies in the smoke clouds and among insulation that had caught fire in several places.
After conducting the execution sweep of the bridge's brave crew, the Assault Commandos reported mission completion to Agent Bravo-II, and then, using fire extinguishers, began combating the small pockets of fire.
After two droidekas arrived to guard the CP, the men in black armor continued carrying out the overall task of clearing the Dominion ship of any accidental and unfriendly passengers.
* * *
There were no idiots among the Republic forces attacking the navigation compartment, nor among the Dominion forces defending it.
So, no blasters or grenades were used in the fight.
Only paralyzers and cold steel.
In the first case, a miss would cause no harm to the fragile equipment; in the second...
Given the characteristic dispersal of the defenders, combat knives and their vibro-capsule variants were used far from the control consoles and the navigation computer block.
Orsan swept aside the arm of a Republic soldier who had drawn a blaster and intended to fire at a spec ops man.
Whether the weapon was set to paralyze mode or combat mode remained a mystery at the moment.
Makeno simply twisted the enemy's arm, redirecting the weapon away.
The convulsively clenched fingers released the weapon, and the Republic soldier immediately took a punch to the ribs.
Gasping in pain, he lost control of his limb, allowing the captain to execute a throw and flip the enemy over his back.
An obsidian blade flashed, and the enemy was left lying on the deck with his throat cut.
Hearing the approach of a new enemy, Makeno smoothly sidestepped, kicking the dead commando's blaster away as he moved.
The new enemy was tall, powerfully built, and clearly had more experience than the one Makeno had just dispatched.
The captain's eyes slid over the insignia on the Republic soldier's chest plate.
"Lieutenant Page," Orsan grinned. "Well, we finally meet, rebel. Your boys are extremely poorly trained."
"Yours aren't exactly shining examples of skill either," the Republic soldier declared, pulling something resembling a machete from his belt.
A jungle knife.
Half a meter of hardened durasteel, sharpened to cut through thin metal.
And in the hands of this particular commando, the weapon looked like a child's toy, so easily did he handle it.
Orsan cast a quick glance at the battlefield.
The commando droids operating on the approaches to the compartment were practically wiped out.
Since the enemy was here, it meant the droideka guarding the entrance and shooting anyone not affiliated with the Assault Commandos or fleet spec ops had also been defeated.
Of the five men, including the captain himself, two were dead.
The other two had switched to defense, firing pale paralyzer bolts at the Republic forces.
Of which about ten remained.
Out of the fifty who had stormed the compartment.
Well, not a bad "exchange."
Especially good that General Madine was currently holed up in cover, bandaging a penetrating wound to his right thigh that Makeno had inflicted during their first clash.
That particular special ops veteran could single-handedly turn the tide of the battle.
And right now, as long as at least one spec ops man was alive, there was still a chance.
Ten against three.
That's all...
The jungle knife's blade whistled past the spec ops man's face, but he managed to dodge while simultaneously blocking Page's kick.
Dropping low, Orsan swept Page's supporting leg, and the commando crashed to the deck.
The lieutenant blocked the combat knife thrust aimed at his throat.
Not letting the enemy recover, Orsan used his legs, kicking the enemy's torso, ignoring the pain in his foot from hitting the armor.
Page rolled aside and, as if made of springs, was on his feet in an instant.
He immediately switched to attack, aiming to slash at the spec ops man's left collarbone.
Orsan chose to jump back.
Then again, dodging a sweeping horizontal strike.
And again, avoiding a thrust to the head.
This time, he stepped forward, blocking the hand holding the jungle knife, pinning it with his forearm against his own collarbone, thus minimizing the enemy's maneuverability to wrist movements alone.
Holding the burly commando's muscular arm with both hands, Makeno delivered a kick with both feet, dropping Page with a "scissor" motion at the knees.
The enemy began to fall backward, and this allowed Makeno to slam his hand hard against the deck as they both hit the metal floor on their sides.
The enemy's hand involuntarily opened, and the jungle knife fell.
Out of the corner of his eye, Orsan saw Page reaching for the blaster in his thigh holster, so without a second thought, he drove his fist into his throat, crushing the trachea.
While the enemy reflexively grabbed his neck, Orsan snatched the fallen weapon and drove the jungle knife into the chest of the New Republic commando.
Gurgling something with foam on his lips, Page went to a better world.
Without wasting time, Orsan threw the weapon, spotting the exposed back of the nearest Republic soldier.
The trophy hit him squarely in the lower back, and the commando fell, ceasing fire from his paralyzer.
Makeno dove like a fish behind the nearest terminal, dodging the pale ring of a paralyzing shot.
Tucking into a roll as he fell, he rolled aside, drawing a blaster from the holster at the small of his back.
His thumb flipped the fire selector switch, and a pale flash struck the Republic officer who had fired in the chest.
The Rodian crashed to the deck.
And Makeno, realizing he was behind enemy lines, near the entrance, scooped up a vibroblade from one of the sabotage droids and rushed toward another shooter who was enthusiastically firing at the last living member of Makeno's squad.
It was unknown how the other two five-man spec ops teams were faring elsewhere on the Lusankya, but here, the battle was clearly tipping in the Dominion's favor.
Pulling the vibroblade from the commando's sternum, Makeno saw two enemies flanking his soldier, while a third was keeping him pinned down.
This was the end — he himself was too far away to provide covering fire.
But...
He could win this battle.
General Madine tried to shoot him with a blaster as Orsan leaped over the terminal where he was hiding.
The vibroblade cleaved the weapon into pieces, and the blade's tip pressed against the throat of the former Imperial covert operations specialist.
"General Madine," Orsan moved his hand so the blade touched the prisoner's chin. "I think you already understand what needs to be done."
"We have more men," Crix said, looking at him with an indifferent gaze. "We won't give you the Lusankya. Even if you kill me, you won't win. The jump vector has already been calculated — finding you is a matter of time."
"Order your men to lay down their arms," Orsan commanded.
"Not a chance," the general rejected the offer. "You can execute me right now."
"Hey, you," Makeno shouted, drawing the attention of the survivors. "Drop your weapons immediately, or I'll skewer your general's head on my sword!"
The surviving Republic soldiers froze in place, exchanging glances, wisely staying in cover.
"I'll count to three," Makeno warned. "Then your general will undergo a quantitative increase, but not a qualitative one."
The Republic forces exchanged uncertain looks, assessing what to do next.
"One!"
One of the soldiers obediently raised his hands and emerged from cover.
And in the same instant, he was taken down by a paralyzer shot from the last surviving spec ops man.
Naturally, with the enemy's numerical superiority, no one was going to take risks.
"Two!"
Madine, realizing the specter of victory was slipping away, deftly pulled a small blaster from his pocket.
But he didn't intend to shoot Orsan — he raised the weapon to his own temple.
His index finger pulled the trigger...
And the vibroblade shifted, then gently, as if cutting the most delicate soufflé, severed the Republic general's forearm from the rest of his arm.
Madine choked on the pain, letting out a hoarse but muffled scream through clenched teeth.
"Don't do that, General," the spec ops commander advised. "The Dominion has already seen that trick with generals trying to shoot themselves."
The Republic soldier didn't answer, too busy bandaging the stump.
"I'm giving you one more second, after which he'll lose not just a hand, but his head!" Makeno warned.
The remaining Republic soldiers resignedly pushed their weapons away and rose from cover.
Several pale flashes settled the question of the enemy's combat capability.
"Your training methods haven't changed, General," Makeno said contemptuously. "Still raising softlings."
Crix, his teeth clenched, looked at his captor with a gaze full of hatred.
"Nothing personal, Madine," Orsan said. "Just business."
He didn't wait for the general's answer, instead shooting him with a pale charge.
* * *
When Luke was escorted by two guards in blue-and-black uniforms to the bridge of the Chimera, he could observe the unfolding battle through the central viewport.
Dozens of Dominion Star Destroyers and fifty heavy Dreadnaught-class cruisers, supported by nearly a hundred Corellian corvettes, were arrayed in a wide semicircle, enveloping the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser fleet, which had already finished its reformation and opened a hurricane of fire on the enemy.
And between the two fleets, in a tangle of fury and laser fire, the small starfighters of both sides clashed, destroying each other without mercy or quarter, following the orders of their respective commanders.
As he crossed the walkway separating the turbolift from the central platform where the Grand Admiral's chair was located, the Jedi Knight noted the tactical monitor.
Four Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, staying in the rear under the protection of an equal number of Venators, maintained an artificial gravity zone sufficient to prevent any Republic ship from leaving orbit around the planet Sarapin and a significant area near it.
A classic trap, executed by the most dangerous enemy of the New Republic, who had turned such tactical maneuvers into a routine.
The Star Cruisers, using the advantage of their shield generators, held orbit under the protection of half a dozen Golans, which supported the Republic forces with fire from all their guns.
The distance between the adversaries was seventy units, and judging by the fact that during the minute it had taken Luke to reach Thrawn, the Dominion fleet hadn't changed its position, the Grand Admiral was satisfied.
Luke felt a chill, remembering that four Venators were holding position in the rear of the Dominion fleet.
And Thrawn had already demonstrated that he had the imagination and the will to give obsolete starships a new lease on life.
One didn't need to claim the title of Grand Master of the Jedi Order to say with certainty: each of those ships was equipped with a planetary ion cannon. And as soon as Thrawn needed it, he would order them to disable the New Republic ships, after which he could easily let the crews suffocate or blow themselves up trying to restart the systems.
And the rest, he would simply capture...
"Thank you, Jedi Skywalker, for agreeing to keep me company," Thrawn said, not even looking in Luke's direction.
Instead, he was fully rewarded with a disapproving glare from the Noghri bodyguard crouching nearby.
Darth Vader's son momentarily tried to summon the Force, but it remained as deaf to his calls as before.
Luke looked around, noticing cages with brown lizards placed around the perimeter of the bridge, the names of which he didn't know.
The same ones were carried by the guards escorting him.
And every time he couldn't use the Force in Thrawn's presence, he had to assume these lizards were nearby...
Well, now it was clear how the Grand Admiral Protected himself and his troops from the Force.
"It's not as if I had the right to refuse," Luke replied.
"On the contrary," Thrawn countered, "you insisted on meeting me. Well, I have granted your request. Speak."
If only he knew what about...
Because Luke, despite his determination to meet Thrawn, still hadn't been able to think of what to talk about.
"I see you have no words," the Grand Admiral said, not even looking at him. "Literally."
"I suppose it's pointless to ask you to spare the New Republic fleet and return to the Dominion?" Luke asked, harboring little hope.
Strangely enough, Thrawn even deigned to look at him.
"Well, you're an optimist, Jedi Skywalker," he commented, looking back at the battlefield. "Captain Pellaeon, relay the order to the Arbiter to shift fire to the escort frigate at point three-three-nine. It must not escape the kill zone."
"Consider it done, Grand Admiral," a man with gray hair showing from under his uniform cap replied briskly.
"At our last meeting, you said you had no intention of attacking civilian targets of the New Republic," Luke reminded him.
"And I still keep my word," Thrawn nodded.
"I won't remind you about Coruscant, but Sarapin is a peaceful planet," the Jedi said. "They produce energy here."
"Yes, Sarapin's geothermal plants provide eighty percent of the Core Worlds' energy consumption," the Grand Admiral confirmed his knowledge.
"So you've escalated to attacking peaceful worlds?" Luke asked.
"If I wanted to conquer Sarapin, it would already be part of the Dominion," Thrawn replied.
"Then what are you besieging the planet for?"
"The planet?" The Grand Admiral looked at Luke as if he had just blurted out some obscenity among high society. "Honestly, Jedi Skywalker. I could believe your moral compass has gone faulty, but that your eyes are failing you — that's news to me."
Luke understood the reason for the verbal jab — his actions on Ossus.
"My fleet came to the Sarapin system not for the planet itself," Thrawn continued. "The Provisional Council and General Bel Iblis decided to use this place for a fleet rendezvous, the very fleet that was supposed to fall upon me during the conclusion of a fake deal to exchange the Lusankya for you, Jedi Skywalker. I, in turn, decided that the circumstances were ideal for conducting training exercises for my forces and testing the fleet's equipment. There have been certain changes recently, so experience in this kind of confrontation will not be superfluous for my subordinates."
"They wanted to exchange me?" the Jedi asked in surprise, paying no attention to the rest of the Grand Admiral's words.
"They wanted to," Thrawn confirmed, tilting his head slightly and watching a series of detonations that tore one of the New Republic cruisers apart from bow to stern. "But couldn't."
"The Lusankya is a very valuable ship," Luke stated. "I doubt the New Republic seriously wanted such an exchange..."
"I was undoubtedly meant to be trapped," Thrawn confirmed. "I decided not to fall into it."
Just like that.
He didn't want to — and didn't fall for it.
Thrawn reasoned as if it was he who decided how and which events occurred in the galaxy.
Though, given what had been happening for the last half a year — suspicions were creeping in that things were exactly as Luke had thought.
"And what happens next?" the Jedi asked.
"First, I will destroy General Antilles' fleet, which you see before you," Thrawn said. "Ship by ship. One after another."
Luke felt everything inside him clench.
Wedge was commanding this fleet?
"Just like that?" Luke asked.
"Yes," Thrawn nodded almost imperceptibly. "Just like that."
"But you've positioned yourself as an opponent of senseless bloodshed," Luke said.
"Views are prone to change, Jedi Skywalker," Thrawn explained. "When they refuse to listen to you, you have to resort to extreme measures. However, you are familiar with this position. On Ossus, you demonstrated it more vividly than ever, killing my subordinate and his student."
"You intend to create a distorted incarnation of the Jedi Order," Luke said. "Mix teachings, disfiguring everything Jedi fought for over millennia. I couldn't allow that."
"I understand," Thrawn agreed, paying attention to how two Star Destroyers were literally grinding a Nebulon-B2 on the left flank into dust with the crossfire of their turbolasers. "Allow me to inquire about your progress in this endeavor?"
Luke felt his face start to flush.
"I'm working on it," he said.
"Which fully coincides with my conclusions," Thrawn confirmed. "Would you like some free advice, Knight Skywalker?"
"Free?" the Jedi was surprised. "Do you usually charge someone for sharing wisdom?"
"Everything has its price," Thrawn stated. "And yes, you are quite right. I charge for the lessons I give. Usually — with Star Destroyers. But, given that in the foreseeable future, my people will seize control of the Lusankya, I am ready to share an observation completely free of charge."
"All the more reason that I have nothing to pay you with anyway," Luke said grimly, watching with pain as two more Republic ships turned into flashes of light.
"Oh, you underestimate yourself, Jedi Skywalker," the address Thrawn used correlated with how the late clone of Master C'baoth had addressed him and Horn. "Your droid, your ship, your fighter, your lightsaber... To one degree or another, all of this has value, don't you think?"
"For me — undoubtedly," Luke said.
Thrawn gestured to get his attention.
The Jedi silently watched as the Grand Admiral showed him a small compartment in the armrest of his own chair.
Where the Jedi, with the greatest surprise, discovered the protruding hilt of his lightsaber!
"During the Clone Wars, a cyborg named General Grievous fought on the Separatist side," Thrawn said, closing the compartment, shocking Luke even more. What was the point of that display? Boasting was not in the Grand Admiral's style. "That sentient had a rather unfortunate fate, but that's not what this is about. General Grievous was famous for hunting Jedi, loving to kill them in a sadistic manner in one-on-one combat. He took the lightsabers of the Jedi he defeated as trophies. I have no inclination towards sadism or excessive bloodshed. And my subordinates have no desire to collect such archaic weapons from a more civilized age," Luke flinched, recalling similar words from Obi-Wan Kenobi. However, Thrawn had already demonstrated his knowledge of circumstances at which he absolutely could not have been present. "I will not engage in single combat with you, Jedi Skywalker. I will only say that your lightsaber told me a great deal about you."
"You've been studying me?" Luke frowned.
"Just like anyone who intends to stand between me and my goal," Thrawn confirmed. "I have great plans for you, Jedi Skywalker. Now that you've crossed the line, I believe you are one step away from taking a direct part in the proper conclusion of my plan. Captain Pellaeon, on the right flank of our ships, General Antilles wants to send bombers. Inform Captain Reder that I would prefer the enemy not succeed in carrying out their intentions."
"Yes, sir!"
They were silent for several minutes.
Luke watched as several more New Republic Star Cruisers turned into flashes of light.
Too many, given the distance between the combatants.
Something was clearly wrong.
Star cruisers couldn't just explode at the wave of a hand, as if an undetected bomber had slipped in and emptied its entire payload of proton torpedoes or bombs into vulnerable spots.
"So what is it?" Luke asked hoarsely, tormented by the pain of being unable to help his comrades in battle, just like at Endor, forced to simply watch.
"Ah yes, the advice," Thrawn said, as if remembering what they had been discussing. "It's quite simple, Jedi Skywalker. It concerns the actions necessary against an enemy who will not back down from his position."
A bad feeling stirred inside Luke.
Thrawn was hinting at something...
Or rather, at "someone."
"And what is this advice?" the young Jedi asked, his voice suddenly raspy.
"As strange as it may sound, it's succinct." Thrawn tore his gaze away from watching the battle, and his burning eyes literally seized Luke's. "Kill, whatever it costs you."
Luke felt a phantom pain in the artificial part of his right hand.
A shiver ran through his entire body.
Before his eyes rose the laughing face of Palpatine, urging him to kill the Emperor to save all the rebels at Endor from destruction.
Luke stared unblinkingly into Thrawn's blazing eyes, feeling as though hellfire was literally consuming him from within.
It took an immense effort to look away.
"I thought as much," Thrawn said, losing all interest in him and returning his gaze to the battle. "A Jedi's sword is needed for defense, not attack... A dangerous philosophy that completely rules out the possibility that one blow could mean the death of a single sentient being but the salvation of billions. Make yourself comfortable, Jedi Skywalker. Your actions have determined your future. In the upcoming conclusion of my campaign, you have a front-row seat."
Luke's guards sat him down in the nearest chair behind a deactivated panel, from where he had a view — heartbreakingly beautiful — of the destruction of Wedge Antilles's fleet.
* * *
Colonel Wessiri, accompanied by a squad of stormtroopers, made his way from the combat bridge to the room that didn't exist on the Lusankya's schematics in just a few minutes.
Located several levels above the bridge, it now practically beckoned with the red trim of its double doors. In the dimly lit corridor, it seemed as though the doors were painted with blood.
But what puzzled the colonel most was that as he approached, the doors slid apart, even though they were supposed to respond exclusively to Iceheart.
The mistress's identification was so deeply embedded in the star superdestroyer's base systems that not every slicer could even learn of the existence of these subsystems.
And yet, apparently, the electronics had been hacked...
A thought flashed through his mind: after the central computer was disabled, such a protection system might indeed have failed.
Lady Director hadn't exactly explained how such systems worked. No one likes to share their secrets.
Iceheart, least of all.
"Maximum alert," he ordered the stormtroopers.
"Yes, sir," the sergeant gestured for most of the soldiers to remain on guard.
A couple of men would be enough inside.
Holding his blaster before him, the colonel entered a room that was enormous, even compared to the size of the bridge.
Its walls were paneled long ago with exotic wood. A golden light poured from the ceiling, visually warming the compartment, which sharply contrasted with the cold artificial lighting of the corridors and the rest of the Lusankya.
The first thing that caught his eye was a wooden emblem of the New Republic.
As repulsive as those that adorned the belly and upper deck of the star superdestroyer.
Sleek, with curves, it was the complete opposite of the sharp, angular, starkly contrasting emblem of the Galactic Empire. Without soft transitions, warm or neutral colors, the "gear" had always been the embodiment of power, indestructibility, specificity, and the absence of compromise.
And this "bird" of the rebels... Just a smear.
He noticed that the passage to the adjacent room was open and made two realizations right away.
First, the rebels had clearly gotten here during the ship's repairs. You'd have to be a complete idiot to walk past big red doors.
Second, in the room, dead stormtroopers from the covering squad lay on the floor. Judging by the absence of scorch marks on the walls, floor, and ceiling, the job had been done quickly and cleanly. And if you looked closely at the neat burns on the back of their helmets, you could tell the killer had been behind the Imperial elite soldiers.
And since he had managed to kill them all without any unnecessary shooting, it pointed to the attacker's high professionalism.
In a high-backed chair at the center of the room sat the one he had come for: a figure in closed gray armor.
Imperials were well acquainted with this angular type of chair — the ruler of the Galactic Empire had loved them.
And his loyal servants had followed that trend.
But right now, something else occupied his thoughts.
In the center of the armor's lightweight chest plate, a massive combat knife handle protruded. Judging by the fact that blood was no longer dripping down the equipment, the woman had been killed quite some time ago.
Perhaps immediately after sitting down in this chair.
His thoughts began a feverish gallop.
What the hell was going on?
Who had killed everyone here? Where was the Lusankya heading? What to do next? Who was responsible for all this?
He found no answers to these questions.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a hand gripping a powerful blaster pistol emerging from behind the doorframe leading to the adjacent room.
The stormtroopers raised their weapons, but they weren't fast enough.
There would have been no questions about the stormtroopers' sluggish reaction if yesterday's recruits had been standing next to Broal. But no — the best soldiers trained on Karide in past years had been sent to storm the Lusankya.
Of course, those available on the Emperor's Will.
But now the man also noticed a young woman in a light combat suit standing in the doorway.
Judging by the cold fury in her eyes, she was definitely not an ally.
He had to admit the obvious — the Republican was better than the stormtroopers.
It happens.
The man fired a shot, but because the shooter had managed to shift to the side, it only singed her shoulder instead of puncturing the base of her neck.
Before he could correct his mistake, a return shot burned his hand, and his weapon clattered to the floor.
"Hands," she said, jerking the blaster upward to indicate he should place his palms above his head and not try to resist.
Colonel Broal Wessiri simply laughed.
"That's not how this works, Agent Wessiri," he explained. "There are simply more of us on the ship. And we're all armed. My death won't change anything."
"Yeah, these guys didn't come here with toys either," the Republican said, flowing behind the back of the chair in one fluid motion, gaining a small but significant advantage. "And, as you can see, it's over."
"Is it really?" Broal smirked. "I'm just a pilot, of course, but something tells me all these bodies found when I arrived here aren't your handiwork."
"And not yours," said Iella Wessiri.
"Anything is possible," the man said indifferently. "Maybe there was a secret agent among us. Like your husband, Diric..."
"Shut your mouth," the woman ordered.
Her tone, contrary to the pilot's expectations, was not hysterical, angry, or even sarcastic, as Iceheart had once assumed when discussing with Broal the agentess's determination in searching for the Lusankya's prisoners.
The woman spoke calmly, deliberately, as if Broal wasn't talking about her beloved, whose mind Isard had turned inside out, but about something mundane, like brushing her teeth or polishing aircar hull.
Still, in the time he had served Isard, the colonel had learned a thing or two.
For instance, to recognize when people only wanted to appear indifferent in front of other sentients.
If the talk about her deceased husband didn't affect Wessiri, she wouldn't have cut him off so sharply. No, the woman had simply grown accustomed to her pain, but that didn't mean she had overcome it.
He could use that.
He just needed to distract her.
"You know, we're alike," Broal declared.
Wessiri shook her head.
"Other than sharing the same last name, nothing connects us, Colonel Wessiri," she said.
"Oh, so you know who I am," Broal smirked.
"Yes, the rogues told me everything," Iella said. "About you, about your attempts to recruit them to stir up a fog, about Isard, and the stories about the clone. I'm afraid you miscalculated a bit, Colonel."
The woman pointed to the closed helmet of the dead woman, still lounging in the chair.
"Your boss is dead, Colonel. The Lusankya is full of Republican commandos. There's no need to shed blood and die so simply and pointlessly."
"Pointlessly?!" Broal seethed. "What do you even know about what's happening in this galaxy, Agent Wessiri? What do you know about dedication to your cause and ideals? You, a CorSec operative who defected to the rebels and got a cozy spot in exchange for your loyalty."
"I fight for freedom," Iella said firmly.
"Save those fairy tales for someone else, alright?" the pilot chuckled. "You and Corran Horn and several of your already dead friends served in CorSec when it was nothing more than an appendage of the Imperial intelligence services. You were ruled by the Center of the Empire's appointees, and your work was dictated by those who took orders from the Emperor. You, me, Isard — we all did what the Emperor wanted."
"We served the law," Iella countered. "You served your own ambitions."
"You served IMPERIAL law," Broal corrected. "And I serve it. You switched sides because things got too hot. Because you couldn't handle the circumstances. You're like an ancient weather vane — wherever the wind blows, that's where you look. Just like your pal Antilles. Just like Corran Horn. As soon as power on Corellia shifts, even a little, you'll all run to defend it, beating your chests and telling everyone what heroes you are. You rebels are nothing but convenient people — you do whatever suits you. And when your priorities shift just a little, you'll abandon your Rebel Alliance and run to wherever is comfortable at the moment."
"Not all of us are human," Iella replied coldly. "And we're no longer an Alliance."
"Call yourselves whatever you like, it doesn't change a thing," Wessiri snorted. "Even the lowest Imperial commander has more loyalty and understanding of duty than all of you combined. As soon as the Empire fell, the Remnants got their own rulers, but the law — Imperial law — remained the same. Order remained."
"You've torn each other apart, and half your commanders have long since been blown to pieces by their own ships' explosions."
"We were dividing power," Wessiri agreed. "But we didn't touch the foundations of society. And you... What did you do when you captured the Imperial Center? You immediately ran to restore democratic laws, telling everyone how great life would be without the Empire. I won't even mention the massacre in the Imperial Palace, carried out by your troopers. Hutt-spawned democrats! We Imperials, even if we're not perfect, have done more for the galaxy in the Emperor's years of rule than you can even imagine."
"If you think you're going to make me feel sorry for you, Colonel, it won't work," Iella turned the corpse in the chair to face her and began fumbling one-handed with the helmet's clasp, occasionally looking away from Broal.
Perfect. Just what he needed.
"I don't need your pity," he snorted, slowly moving his right hand behind his back. "I'm just giving examples of the difference between us. We're not afraid to get our hands dirty when necessary. And we don't hide behind props and excuses. We do what we have to do. You, on the other hand, try to navigate between public opinion and rules. That's why your New Republic is cracking at the seams the moment Thrawn gives you a little tug. How did it feel knowing that countless sentients left Coruscant after Thrawn's blockade and moved to the Dominion? How pathetic is your power, when sentients preferred to live under the rule of someone indirectly responsible for asteroids falling on their heads, rather than staying with the democrats?"
"We respect the choice of sentients," Wessiri replied, her left hand apparently working on the chin strap. "Honestly, I dreamed of killing Iceheart myself, but if I meet whoever did it, I'll buy them a drink for making the right choice. Want to see the expression on her face when she saw her killer? I think it'll be quite a sight. You'll like it, Colonel, because for you, Isard is one of the pillars of the past. I think it'll be useful to see how your universally recognized authority met death."
Broal smiled crookedly, finding his backup blaster and pulling it from behind his belt. He kept the weapon at his hip for now, not wanting to reveal it too soon.
The colonel wanted to enjoy the spectacle.
"So you're wrong, Wessiri," the woman said. "What you call betrayal is nothing more than ordinary civil choice. If a sentient wants to live and serve where it's more convenient, more comfortable, and so on — they are free to do so. That's called freedom of choice. But you Imperials have your brains washed at the academies. None of you knows anything except serving the Empire — again, in the form you understand it. That's what sets us apart. You're a simple fanatic, while I'm a realist."
Wessiri lowered her eyes as she removed the gray helmet and tossed it aside.
From the expression on her face, the colonel realized that the agentess had finally understood.
How simply and cheaply Iceheart had fooled them.
The man raised the blaster, no longer hiding it, and fired.
A scarlet bolt struck the right side of the young agentess's chest.
With a cry, she collapsed to the floor, dropping her weapon.
The colonel took exactly three seconds to quickly cross the space between them and reach his victim.
He unceremoniously grabbed the Republican by the hair, striking her face with the blaster's grip to suppress her resistance. Then he stepped on her left hand and, in one motion, broke her wrist. He repeated the same motion — accompanied by the woman's cries of pain — with her right hand.
With a sadistic smile, he shot both her thighs with the blaster, finally stripping the woman of mobility.
With a jerk, ignoring her sobs, he tore the helpless Iella off the floor and dragged her toward the face of the young woman in gray armor, distorted with shock and horror.
"See, Agent, this face? Her name was Alex, a slicer, twenty-three years old. She served the Empire, even though she was born outside it. This girl agreed to play Isard in this operation so you useless pieces of rebel trash would think you actually had a chance. You were outplayed long ago, and soon you'll be destroyed like cheap gangsters in the lower levels of the Imperial Center. General Madine probably just now realized that nothing is going according to his plan. Well, no matter, there's still time. We'll regain control of the Lusankya soon, take it to the rendezvous point with Isard, where I'll tie a bow around your Director of Intelligence and hand the traitor over to Iceheart."
"You planned this," Wessiri rasped.
"Some of it was a surprise for us," Broal admitted, driving his knee into the young woman's stomach, then savoring smashing her face against the angular armrest. "But while you were trying to catch Isard to make a show of her execution and prove you were strong, Isard was setting her trap for you. And your Madine, unlike Cracken, will be captured alive. And I'm sure Iceheart, during her wanderings, has already figured out how to restart her program for breaking sentients and turning them into sleepers, to replace the equipment you idiots destroyed the moment the Lusankya fell into your hands."
The colonel threw her to the floor, settling on top of her with relish.
He set the blaster aside and began strangling the girl, savoring his victim's death throes.
The captive tried to say something, but Wessiri had already clamped his strong male hands around her throat.
"Unlike you, you Republican cheap piece, I'll live to see the moment when you 'righteous heroes' 'find' Cracken and bring him back to society. And at some parade, he'll blow out Mothma's brains, declaring the name of this beautiful ship to the entire New Republic, marking that Iceheart has outplayed you all again."
Incoherent gurgling came from the woman's throat.
She weakly struck him with her broken hands, but the colonel, who had caught the scent of an impending kill, could no longer be stopped.
His eyes blazed with fanatical fire, and his feigned calm gave way to the true essence of a sadist reveling in his victim's suffering.
He watched as Iella Wessiri's gaze grew misty, her resistance weakening.
For a moment, he was puzzled when he saw a flicker of hope in the victim's eyes, and something dark reflected in them.
The colonel turned his head and was surprised to find a middle-aged man standing behind him.
Dressed in a standard technician's jumpsuit, he was clearly not one — judging by the outline of armor visible beneath the fabric.
And considering the missing ventilation grate in the ceiling, it was obvious where he had come from.
"What the hell?!" The colonel tore his hands from his victim's throat, who took a gasping breath.
Broal reached for the blaster lying nearby, but the man grabbed his wrists, twisted them, and with one sharp motion broke both his ulnar and radial bones.
Wessiri cried out at the sight of the white-cream bone fragments protruding from beneath his skin.
But this was only the beginning.
* * *
Iella managed to roll onto her side and, overcoming the pain, remained a silent witness.
She watched as the "technician," with the parsimony and economy of movement of a hand-to-hand combat professional, turned the colonel — who shared her last name — into a piece of meat.
Blows from hands and feet landed on every part of his body, accompanied by the sounds of ruptured internal organs and breaking bones.
The woman, gasping for precious air, tried not to draw attention to herself, hoping her broken wrists wouldn't prevent her from reaching the pilot's dropped blaster.
In her life, she had seen many fights, witnessed numerous conflicts involving martial arts, and now she could identify without error the one the unexpected guest was using.
Teras kasi.
An extremely difficult martial art style, about which only legends circulated. Few could claim to have met a teras kasi master and survived that meeting.
Suddenly, the Corellian realized she had read about the lethal application of this skill before.
While working at CorSec, investigating a street brawl with seven corpses that had no intact bones left, she had managed to find a witness who described the killer's actions.
A jackhammer delivering blows that shattered bones at the speed of a blaster shot.
As soon as she had gotten close to identifying the killer, a representative of the Imperial intelligence services appeared and confiscated the case from her.
The perpetrator was never found, and the death of a few spice traders was quickly forgotten.
At CorSec, they believed it was the work of Imperial agents covering their tracks.
And now, watching one not particularly burly or muscular man turn a stocky colonel into ground meat, Iella was inclined to agree with her former colleagues' opinion.
Only a few minutes of beating had passed, and Colonel Broal Wessiri's body was already a shapeless bladder, devoid of even a hint of contour.
It was simply a mass of organic matter enclosed in a shell covered with abrasions.
But judging by the fact that the man — whom his opponent had thrown to the floor — was still moving his eyes, he hadn't died during the process.
But he couldn't move either.
"You do remember Molo Himron, Colonel Wessiri, don't you?" the stranger asked quietly, squatting on one knee next to what remained of the pilot.
Iella felt goosebumps run down her spine.
Even the pain from her fractures and burns faded into the background.
A pitiful groan came from the pilot.
"I see you do," the stranger nodded. "You and Iceheart tortured him to find out about Thrawn's plans. You turned him into ground meat. But he didn't crack. I wasn't there to stop him — Molo decided not to take any chances, afraid of becoming a puppet in Isard's hands. He took his own life, fearing that lapses in memory might indicate he had been processed into a sleeper agent. The right decision, but hasty."
The colonel's head, which had somehow escaped being broken like the rest of his skeleton, began to shake.
"I only have one question," the stranger continued. "Did you turn him into a sleeper agent or not? Your answer will determine how you die — quickly or painfully."
The colonel shook his entire bladder-like body, barely contained by the fabric of his torn uniform.
Iella held her breath as Colonel Wessiri nodded in affirmation.
"So Molo made the right decision," the "technician" said, licking his lips.
Then his right hand clenched into a fist...
The next thing Iella could make out was the stranger pulling his hand, smeared with a gray-brown substance and blood... out of Colonel Wessiri's pierced-through skull.
"For Molo Himron and his team," the stranger said. "And all those poor souls you processed and sent to their deaths."
Iella lay there, unable to move from shock.
Her eyes were ready to bulge out of their sockets as she watched the stranger rise and, with one sharp motion, shake pieces of brain and drops of blood from his hand.
The Republic woman looked at the man, and their eyes met.
"Now," the Dominion man said, squinting as if sighting her through a scope, "it's your turn, Agent Wessiri."
Iella did the only thing her body was capable of.
She screamed in terror and lost consciousness.