The enemy was fleeing, and there was nothing surprising about that.
"Sir, electromagnetic radiation is blocking our targeting systems," the senior gunner reported to Captain Kalian.
The commander of the Steel Aurora gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists.
Well, that was a fine how-do-you-do.
The problem wasn't even that massive detonations of enemy ships had caused this issue. Yes, the Empire hadn't had such large-scale victories in a long time (perhaps never), so the possibility that electronics would malfunction on such a scale hadn't been anticipated by the manuals.
The problem was precisely that the senior gunner, who had previously served on the Steel Aurora, had been recalled by the Grand Admiral due to his high performance in service.
An excellent officer who had trained no less talented subordinates.
And the new man...
He lacked the experience his predecessor had.
Even if he had previously been the deputy senior gunner on the same ship.
It's just that not everyone is given the ability to think clearly in an unconventional situation.
It happens.
There's no need to be ashamed of it—you work with it.
Not with shouting, not with punishment, but with explanation.
"Lieutenant," Kalian addressed his subordinate. "Are our optical sights working?"
"Yes, sir..."
"Can we calculate the lead for firing, knowing the position and speed of the enemy ships?"
"Yes, sir, that's part of the training program."
"Then let's combine all that knowledge, and order our fine gunners and launch operators to give the retreating enemy a proper thrashing?" Kalian suggested.
"Sir, yes, sir!" the subordinate grinned, rushing to the star destroyer's artillery control panel.
Five seconds later, ranging salvos rang out.
The enhanced artillery firepower of the Steel Aurora literally mixed the numerous debris and damage on the ships' hulls with its plasma charges, causing even more harm to the Republic starships.
"Receiving telemetry for missile launchers from the Crusader," the communications officer declared. "Sir, these are targeting instructions for direct fire with lead relative to the speed of the ship holding the center of the enemy formation. Vice Admiral I-Gor demands we strike the tail of the enemy column."
"Vice Admiral I-Gor, as always, a step ahead," Kalian sighed. "Thank him on my behalf and transmit the data to our launch operators. Disable homing heads—we aim manually, accounting for lead."
A moment later, the Steel Aurora's central computer confirmed the correctness of the entered data.
"Launch bays one through twenty—fire!" Kalian commanded, watching as the Victorys under that Vice Admiral's command in this battle fired a group salvo from their forward torpedo tubes.
Twelve Victory–class Star Destroyers, each spitting out twenty anti-ship missiles at once.
What could be more devastating than the fiery squall produced by a dozen Victorys?
Only those same four hundred and eighty anti-ship missiles, sent in accompaniment with numerous heavy turbolasers from the same Victory–class Star Destroyers.
To the accompaniment of hundreds of turbolasers from their larger Imperial–class "brothers."
And all of that—against the backdrop of an unceasing battle with Republic starfighters, which were pouring in from every corner of space, intent on striking, on avenging the destroyed ships.
The fiery squall engulfed the rear of the retreating enemy column.
Many missiles still didn't reach their target—their electronic brains couldn't withstand the pressure of the electromagnetic radiation, so internal systems malfunctioned and the warheads detonated prematurely.
But for the six MC80 Liberty–class star cruisers closing the retreating enemy column, even that was enough.
The enemy starships drowned in an ocean of fire unleashed upon them by the Dominion Regular Fleet.
Deflectors couldn't withstand it and gave way, allowing missiles and turbolasers to rip open the Republic ships' hulls with impunity, like giant red-hot can openers.
The Republic starships' plating tore and burned as if it were made not of durasteel, but paper.
The six retreating star cruisers, each having felt what numerical superiority in a five-to-one ratio meant, could no longer resist the inevitable.
Their engines exploded, their decks burned, their gun blisters turned into fountains of flame.
Time and again, turbolasers and anti-ship missiles penetrated the ships' structure, tearing out precious internal contents, collapsing the entire framework.
The New Republic starships were dying.
And along with them died the starfighters that had not managed to break off in time and now fought—bravely but foolishly—to the last Republic soldier.
The first six enemy star cruisers had left the system together with a well-known freighter.
The remaining star cruisers exploded one after another, as did the New Republic fighters.
Now, undisputed advantage on the battlefield belonged to the Dominion Regular Fleet.
"All squadrons and corvettes of the Steel Aurora—regroup and begin hunting the enemy's small craft," Captain Kalian ordered, noting that the enemy starfighters, after the withdrawal of their "senior comrades," had also decided not to test fate any further and were fleeing into hyperspace.
* * *
The smile did not leave Executor Sedriss's face.
How long he had waited for this!
The blue-skinned alien, the thorn in his side, was finally dead.
A pity, of course, that he hadn't been able to do it himself, following the Emperor's will, but what could you do...
Thrawn's death was an integral part of the future operation's plan.
He had done the impossible—united the Imperials, destroyed up to a quarter of the New Republic's armed forces, partially wrecked their logistics, separated hundreds of sectors from that vile bastion of democracy...
And now, after this battle, Thrawn's authority would clearly have risen above the Emperor's.
There would have been two focal points of military and industrial power—those who supported the Emperor and those loyal to the Grand Admiral.
That could not be allowed under any circumstances.
Therefore, Sedriss, after Agent Blackhole and his entire Ubiqtorate had vanished into oblivion, had received (for the first time in several months) a direct order from Palpatine.
Destroy Thrawn.
Do it in such a way that all traces led to the New Republic.
The righteous fury that was supposed to strike the Dominion and the Imperial Remnants, among whose inhabitants and military there were many supporters of Thrawn (both overt and covert), would bring them under the Emperor's banner.
All the Emperor would have to say was that Thrawn's campaign was an agreed-upon vanguard of the invasion, coordinated with the ruler of the Empire. That Thrawn and Palpatine had acted in tandem, as subordinate and master.
And that the Emperor would not leave the death of his last Grand Admiral unavenged.
A simple populist trick that would certainly have its patriotic effect, serving as the beginning of the consolidation of fragmented Imperial forces in the Emperor's hands.
And now, as it turned out, he didn't even have to do anything.
Luke Skywalker—the prisoner whose presence in his cells Thrawn had kept hidden—had done everything for Sedriss.
And now there was no need for the disguises and all the image changes Sedriss was currently undergoing to look like Skywalker.
The son of Darth Vader had done what was needed.
Killed Thrawn.
And now his separatist inclinations would vanish into oblivion.
All that was needed was a surgical strike—to destroy Gilad Pellaeon, who clearly bore the highest rank, after Thrawn, in the Dominion Armed Forces.
And therefore, was his direct heir in the militarized society of the Dominion.
Thrawn's destruction would not provoke a crisis of power and confusion in the minds of the Dominion's citizens.
Because there was Pellaeon.
But if there was no Pellaeon either, then dozens of star destroyer commanders would surely fall to squabbling among themselves.
And the appearance of Emperor Palpatine on the galactic stage would form a center of power in the vacuum created by the deaths of the commander and his successor.
A center everyone would follow.
Therefore, it was time to strike.
And to do it in such a way as to deliver to the master what he desired, thereby finally regaining his favor.
Sedriss grinned, holding the helm of his disguised ship on course.
How long had he spent in it, following the Chimaera wherever it went?
Long enough to...
Learn nothing.
And nearly die a dozen times.
That much, at least, was undeniable—Thrawn knew how to keep his secrets.
More reliably than the Muuns of the InterGalactic Banking Clan.
Sedriss had personally (through the transparisteel of his cockpit and the viewport of the combat bridge) observed what was happening on the Chimaera's bridge, giving Luke Skywalker the opportunity to do all the work for him.
He killed the Grand Admiral?
Kill his apprentice as well.
And the power of the Sith would once again reign over the entire galaxy...
* * *
They say luck always follows Corellians.
Sometimes they're just faster than it.
And common sense.
But luck is always nearby.
Today, though, it had clearly decided to step aside.
And that had led to the death of Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Gilad ran his fingers over the Supreme Commander's eyelids, closing his fiery eyes forever.
The thought pounded in his head—one he had heard and firmly remembered from his first aid courses at the military Academy.
The brain still lives for a few minutes.
He just had to evacuate the Grand Admiral to the medical bay.
Freeze him, hook him up to respirators.
Throw him into a bacta tank.
Anything, anything at all—but Thrawn's life had to be preserved!
At any cost!
But why in the Hutt's name were those Assault Commandos still fiddling with the magnetic lock?!
The shock state of his body slowed his reactions and knocked all thought out of his head.
His sense of danger was dulled.
Sounds around him reached him as if through cotton wool, so he saw the reflection of the emerald lightsaber before he heard the hum of the weapon that had ended the life of one of the most brilliant military commanders since the end of the Clone Wars.
The polished deck plating gave the Jedi away completely.
Despite his respectable age, Gilad put all his remaining strength into the jump.
His uniform boots pushed off the deck, and the Vice Admiral dove to the side toward the right pit.
A chill ran down his spine as he twisted to shoot at the Jedi and saw that his eyes were burning with an amber fire.
But his index finger didn't waver, and the crimson bolt went toward the target.
It was instantly reflected by the energy blade and hit a tactical monitor.
The polished deck surface didn't stop him at the end point, and the Chimaera's commander tumbled to the bottom of the control pit.
His left shoulder exploded with pain and a distinct crack.
Gilad howled, cursing quietly and colorfully.
To his surprise, he found the blaster still in his right hand.
The Vice Admiral got to his feet, taking a few steps back, seeing the dark figure of the Jedi with an activated lightsaber appear before him.
"You will all die," Skywalker said ominously.
In his blue eyes could be found the reflection of the icy deserts of Hoth, killing with the same indifference.
The Vice Admiral blinked.
Blue eyes...
Was it really?!
Well, now you'll dance, you whelp!
Gilad licked his dry lips.
"You're the same kind of animal as your father," he said, dodging to the side from the lightsaber while simultaneously firing his blaster. "Take my word for it—I met him before he got his stylish life-support suit. He was already a rancor's belch with an inordinate sense of self-superiority back then."
The emerald blade cut through a control panel and gouged a molten trench in the deck plating of the pit before it was supposed to return to Skywalker's hands...
But it didn't.
Which meant Gilad had been right—Skywalker was in such a frenzy that he hadn't even realized he had entered a Force-suppression zone created by ysalamiri.
"Looks like you don't have the Force anymore," Pellaeon sneered, seeing the deactivated lightsaber hilt still lying on the deck of the right pit. "Well now, bantha crap, hold on tight."
Before Skywalker could react, Pellaeon fired.
The crimson bolt hit the son of Darth Vader in the stomach.
The young man clutched the wound and took a few steps back, moving out of Pellaeon's line of sight.
"Where are you going, you bastard?!" the Grand Admiral roared, feeling the adrenaline in his blood sweeping away his ethical principles, hardened over the years. "We've only just begun!"
He rushed to the ladder, with the firm intention of climbing up and emptying the entire charge remaining in the gas cartridge and power cell into the Republican.
He didn't climb the steps from the pit; he literally flew, landing on the "terrace" separating the pits.
Skywalker had already moved behind the Grand Admiral's chair, moaning like a little girl and barely holding onto the back of the seat of the inhuman being who was worth dozens of such undersized Jedi.
Gilad fired—and a crimson dagger of energy seared the Republican's left shoulder, causing him to collapse to the deck with a cry of pain.
Another shot hit Skywalker in the thigh.
"I need to practice more often," Gilad muttered through his teeth, realizing that missing a second time while aiming for the head was just unacceptable.
The Vice Admiral cast a glance at Thrawn's body, which even in death had left behind an aura of majesty.
And he looked at the whimpering wretch trying to save his own life.
"You weren't worth the fingernail of the man you killed," Gilad said, approaching to about five meters.
Close enough that missing would be sheer idiocy.
He raised the blaster and aimed it at Skywalker's head.
His index finger began to squeeze through the slack...
* * *
Seems that Skywalker was just lucky to finish off Thrawn.
Because now Pellaeon was about to blow his brains out, and that could not be allowed—it would be a failure.
Palpatine craves Darth Vader's son alive.
Anyone involved in his death will die after horrific torture.
Pellaeon is now the first face of the Dominion.
If he finishes off the Jedi, Palpatine will turn his wrath on him.
And consequently — it's not even worth thinking that the Dominion, which has acquired hundreds of warships, will simply fall in line under the Emperor's banners.
No, the operation to conquer the galaxy will be thwarted.
The Emperor already has to change his plans because of Thrawn's actions, altering orders literally on the fly.
The original plan to conquer the Dominion, which Agent Blackhole had pushed, Sedriss managed to destroy after the latter's death.
One might think that anyone in their right mind would believe the promises that the Dominion would be left untouched while Thrawn lived. Ten times "funny."
And instead — push the idea of consolidating the Remnants under the Emperor's rule.
Why waste resources on conquering a Dominion where Thrawn has gathered a massive number of armed forces and means of production, when you can force them to work for the Empire?
It was enough to simply kill Thrawn.
At the peak of his influence, so that the pain of loss would provoke the right reaction among the Dominion's citizens and military.
Sedriss planned to make the late Grand Admiral a martyr, an icon of the Empire.
And he also intended to personally finish off the non-human, suspecting that he was responsible for the destruction of the Dark Side Elite members.
Perhaps this can be discovered in the future, if Pellaeon and the other Dominionists swear loyalty to the Emperor again.
Well, for now, Pellaeon must survive.
Sedriss pressed the button that lowered the ramp of his disguised ship.
The automatics activated the atmospheric shield, protecting against decompression.
The Force helped him calculate everything carefully, so the Executor, barely aiming, pulled the trigger...
Laser cannons spat fire from beneath the stygium cloaking field, streaking toward the transparisteel of the Chimaera's combat bridge.
* * *
"Sir," the watch officer addressed I-Gor. "Scout interceptors report enemy ships appearing at the system's borders."
"Composition, numbers?" the Rear Admiral demanded.
"Six MC80 Liberty\-class star cruisers, a dozen strike frigates, two escort carriers," the officer reported immediately.
"Exit vectors calculated?" asked the commander of the Crusader and the entire Victory\-class Star Destroyer formation.
"Yes, sir. Identified as the enemy fleet from the Dangjar sector."
"First of several to reach us," I-Gor nodded. "It was to be expected. Forces from the Mayagil, Sisvenna, Stenipilis, Tantra, and Elrood sectors will arrive soon. From everywhere the Sluis sector borders. And we're clearly not going to like that. Distance to the enemy?"
"One hundred fifty units, sir."
"And there are no interdictor cruisers among them," the officer narrowed his eyes. "A trap. Yet at the same time — an opportunity to further harry the enemy while he waits for new ships. Contact the Chimaera. There's an attack plan."
* * *
Gilad pulled the trigger, but the blaster only let out a short chirp, signaling a lack of power.
The man looked at the grip of his service weapon in surprise and dismay, noticing that its lower part — where the power cell connected — was damaged.
How had he not noticed that before?
Skywalker had survived, but not for long.
The assault commandos would be here soon — the audible signal already indicated that the blast door panels had parted and...
Suddenly, he caught a flash of green energy out of the corner of his eye.
What idiot fired near the bridge?
Why was the enemy allowed so close?!
Then Gilad understood what was happening.
The Chimaera was being attacked by an invisible ship!
And now it was going to hurt very badly.
Pellaeon reached the Grand Admiral's chair at the very moment the transparisteel shattered into countless small fragments, turning into shrapnel that flew across the entire bridge.
The swinging blast doors only intensified the decompression, which tore every unsecured object out into space.
Gilad struggled with the restraining straps.
He heard the long-awaited click of the buckle at the very moment his body, in its immaculate white tunic, was flung outward.
The man turned his head, seeing that Skywalker, tumbling and hitting his head hard against the viewport frame, was also leaving the Chimaera's bridge in the air stream.
And his figure almost immediately disappeared from sight, right where Gilad had spotted the source of the laser beams.
The unknown attacker of the Chimaera had brought Skywalker aboard their ship.
And who could that possibly be, he wondered?!
The Chimaera's artillery was firing methodically, along with other destroyers, creating a kill zone around the flagship.
But by the time the automatics sealed the breach in the bridge, not a single hit had been achieved.
The enemy had escaped.
"Vice Admiral, sir!..."
Gilad turned his head, looking with hatred at the approaching adjutant of the Grand Admiral, Major Tierce.
"Are you alright, sir?" he asked in a tone as if nothing had happened.
You miserable piece of filth!
Gilad himself didn't understand how he freed himself from the restraining straps' grip.
The first thing he felt was pain in the fingers of his right hand, which he had used to punch the adjutant straight in the face.
"You've broken your phalanges, sir," Tierce said calmly, wiping blood from his split cheekbone and spitting a knocked-out tooth onto the deck.
"He's dead!" he hissed angrily (but he wanted to scream!).
"I know, sir," the adjutant replied, equally irritatingly calm.
"Your damned guards failed!"
"That's not true..."
"A woman, a pilot, and a Jedi whelp cut them down in seconds! These are the vaunted guardsmen Thrawn put on par with the Noghri?!"
"No, sir, these were not guardsmen," Pellaeon, waving off a medic who had approached, spat angrily:
"Too late! We had a chance to save him! Several minutes, while his brain was still alive! You all screwed..."
To his surprise, the Vice Admiral saw that the guardsmen's bodies remained where death had found them.
Looking at Tierce with hatred, he walked briskly to the severed head of one of the adjutant's clones, and, choosing the right angle, kicked the helmet with all his might, intending to send the head flying straight into the hands of the man Thrawn had trusted more than his own flagship captain.
The pain in his toes made him howl, and the Vice Admiral barely stopped himself from hopping on one foot.
"You shouldn't do that," Tierce stated, appearing beside him and lifting the helmet with its head inside with visible effort.
"Do you have durasteel instead of bones?!" the man hissed.
"No, we're practically ordinary people," Tierce stated. "But there's a nuance, Vice Admiral."
He turned the helmet so Gilad could see him separate the face mask from the main part of the helmet...
"Well, you... a sarlacc screwing a rancor, you must be joking..." All the rage drained out of Gilad, like air escaping a punctured balloon.
"Everyone acted as necessary, sir," Tierce replied. "I'm sorry for what happened here, but death is death..."
"Vice Admiral," the Chimaera's commander's comlink came alive with Lieutenant Tschel's voice. "Destroyer commanders are requesting orders regarding the incident aboard the ship. Reporting Republic starships emerging one hundred units from our positions. Requesting orders — we're close to being surrounded. What should I tell them? Rear Admiral I-Gor proposes attacking the Republic ships with a fast formation of Victorys and corvettes to disrupt their formations and then overwhelm them with all forces..."
Gilad looked at the wrecked bridge of his destroyer, then looked at the adjutant's calm face.
The Vice Admiral turned and looked through a side viewport into the space of Sluis Van's orbit.
His mind was far away.
Mentally, he was calculating the situation, assessing the combat capability of his now-own starships, the number and composition of enemy forces.
He figured how long the defense could hold, considering that, by Thrawn's order, it had been stripped bare.
He calculated the chances of holding Sluis Van and foresaw all the chaos that would soon grip the Dominion — from the core worlds to the outermost systems — as soon as news of what happened here got out.
Thrawn had named him his successor, and Gilad could not let the commander down.
He wasn't a brilliant general or a masterful military psychologist like Thrawn himself.
He didn't understand the art of predicting an enemy through music, painting, or sculptures.
He didn't possess an immense ego or excessive lust for power, ambitions, or a desire to command against all logic.
Gilad himself understood that compared to Thrawn, he wasn't a combat officer.
A ship commander — yes, but not a fleet commander.
A desk officer, a staff officer — yes, but a fleet commander...
However, Gilad had one quality that Thrawn noticed in him and explicitly pointed out for development.
Vice Admiral Pellaeon carried out orders, understanding their meaning only with a slight delay.
Simply because he wasn't fully informed.
And this was exactly one of those cases.
He had an order, and he would carry it out.
"Order all ships of the Dominion Regular Fleet," he rasped, casting another suspicious glance at the calmly composed and suspiciously unflappable adjutant. Who was holding out a code cylinder to him. The very one Thrawn himself had once given to Gilad "in case of his death." Curious... Had Thrawn foreseen his own death? "Prepare to retreat under Option Two. We return to the Dominion. Additional information will be provided at Fleet Headquarters."
He hadn't solved the problems, understanding that the crisis of leadership would clearly force some commanders to abandon the Dominion.
And perhaps even a civil war would erupt...
Gilad took the intended code cylinder from the adjutant, then limped toward the bridge exit.
He wouldn't save the Dominion, even though Thrawn had made him his deputy and successor, if he couldn't prove he was capable of continuing the Chiss's work.
He couldn't do it alone.
There was only hope that the code cylinder was now accessible and contained something that would help keep the Grand Admiral's life's work from falling apart.