If what Captain Irvin saw before him was the normal state of the hangar on Alliance ships, then he should drag the first officer, flight director, and flight deck chief here by their noses, wipe all hangar surfaces with them, then place them against the nearest hangar wall and execute them by Hutt.
Necessarily — in full view of the entire technical crew.
And the pilots.
Best of all — with a broadcast of the entire event to the entire crew of the battlecruiser.
With the creation of a log of marks about watching the video.
And then execute everyone who signed but did not heed the visual warning.
Because what Captain Irvin saw on the flight deck of the MC90 Calamari could be characterized briefly and succinctly.
Mess.
Devastation.
Mountains of dismantled units and components of small craft, piled up in the far corner.
Damaged fighters, including types unknown to Irvin, scattered across the landing deck.
Impact marks on the overheads and deck plating, scattered equipment and maintenance mechanisms.
"Boss!" one of the fighters called him, pointing somewhere behind Irvin. "Look at this little vessel."
Irvin stood opposite the atmospheric shield in the semi-darkness of the hangar's emergency lighting.
And noted two things at once.
First — the enemy had clearly worked to minimize damage from ion cannons on the Venator platform.
Because on the ship, there was at least some lighting and artificial gravity working.
And also the atmospheric shields had not deactivated — there were not even visible traces of all this debris being dragged across the hangar.
Consequently, the enemy did not experience the "delights" of decompression.
Which already did credit to the Mon Calamari designers — they had learned lessons from the past and improved the design of their new creation.
Second — Aut-O was right.
The Colicoid Swarm was falling apart before his eyes, right alongside the MC90.
Internal explosions were tearing the ship apart like paper.
And each such flash was reflected inside Irvin as spiritual pain, as if it were not the hull of his ship being destroyed, but the privateer captain's own body.
It turned out he had grown too attached to his starship.
Surely — because it was the last flagship of the Separatist fleet with which he was connected.
The Invisible Hand perished.
The Black Pearl was in the hands of Tyberos.
The Colicoid Swarm...
A powerful flash illuminated the hangar's dimness.
At the same time marking the detonation of the stern section of the starship that had broken in two.
The Colicoid Swarm perished.
"Damn them," Irvin hissed through his teeth.
"Take it easier," advised the head of the tactical super-droid held in his hand. "The Providence is too old to fight on equal terms with modern starships."
"But the Black Pearl survived," Irvin objected. "Even though it was battered thoroughly, smoked more than usual, but the fact remains — that ship received no less damage than ours, but it is still intact."
"Because Tyberos invested more in the ship's modernization than it deserves," explained Aut-O. "Weapons, launchers, generators and projectors of deflector shields — from the Victory-class, the hull was almost completely overhauled and modern armor installed, reactors, engines, partially replaced the structural frame..."
"Enough," Irvin waved his hand. "We still have Vane's Gozanti..."
"Boss!" the same subordinate called him again. "Look here! It seems we have another little ship..."
Without hiding his skepticism, the commander of the destroyed carrier-destroyer shifted his gaze to the object the talkative subordinate had pointed out.
Even the rays of the burgundy-blood emergency lighting were enough to make out the starship in all its glory.
Not too large, not reaching the size of even a small corvette or frigate.
Something between a patrol ship and a private yacht.
The seamless assembly and overall appearance of the hull — nothing protruding, no dangling equipment or cables or conduits — made it clear this was a factory-built starship.
The predatory lines of the hull and the laser cannons pointed to a clear military origin and purpose.
The smooth, mirror-like surface of certain hull panels hinted at the use of special polymers and alloys designed to reduce detection by scanners and onboard sensor systems.
And the side-mounted solar panels suggested that the folks at Sienar Fleet Systems had a hand in its creation.
In all his years crisscrossing the galaxy, Irv had never seen a ship like this.
If there were a production line for these things, one would have shown up somewhere by now — even if only in smuggler gossip and tall tales.
No, this was clearly a bespoke, one-of-a-kind design for a small military vessel built for extended autonomous operations with a minimal crew.
Too light for a raider.
Too big for a fighter.
No, this was a ship for covert missions by a small team — perhaps even a single operator.
Armament enough to fend off fighters.
Engines powerful enough to outrun pursuers.
Stealth systems to stay hidden from the scanning arrays of capital ships and orbital stations.
Irv had no doubt this starship cost an absolutely obscene amount of money.
Comparable to the cost of building a frigate — or even a light cruiser.
And the amount sunk into the stealth systems alone wasn't even worth mentioning out loud.
Expensive.
Lavish.
And clearly built with special operations in mind.
Irv's gaze shifted to the lowered boarding ramp at the stern of the specialized little vessel.
"Already had a look?" he asked, licking his lips.
"Yeah," the subordinate nodded. "Can be flown by one person, two max. But it's rated for eight beings."
Obviously, that wasn't enough to evacuate nearly three hundred of Irv's men from the MC90.
But letting a prize like this slip away would be stupid and short-sighted.
Finding a use for a ship like this would be easy — from a simple black-market sale to the classic option of handing it over to Thrawn in exchange for something substantial.
Like that battlecruiser, for example.
The only question was who owned this ship.
So he asked.
"With seventy percent probability, this starship was built for a specialist commando team," Aut-O chimed in.
Nobody had asked for his opinion, frankly.
"Nah," the mercenary waved a hand. "The files say it was piloted by Admiral Eclipse herself..."
Taking compensation from that bitch for the Colicoid Swarm would be a pleasure, not a disgrace.
Irv looked around.
Several other shuttles sat on the deck, including a couple of battered but still flight-worthy Lambdas.
Clearly captured Imperial ships, who knew how old.
But they'd count toward the compensation too.
."..and one Jedi," the subordinate finished.
"A Jedi?" Irv tensed.
"Yeah," the mercenary said flatly.
"And where is he?" Irv asked warily.
He had seen what Jedi could do.
He didn't want a repeat performance.
"Hell if I know," the member of the fallen Colicoid Swarm's crew shrugged indifferently. "Maybe he's dead. Or not on this ship. Maybe he took a fighter out..."
Uh-huh.
If only it were that simple.
"Yazuo," Vane activated his comlink. "There may be a Jedi on board. Watch yourself..."
But all he got back was the silence of static.
The comlink was active, but nobody answered.
That was troubling. And a little frightening.
"Vane!" Irv repeated. "Be careful when you grab the admiral. We found a Jedi trough here..."
"And you'd better leave my ship alone," came a voice that sent a chill down his spine. "Or I'll kill you as fast as I killed your friend on the bridge."
Irv felt everything inside him drop into an abyss.
Was it true?
No, no, no — it couldn't be!
The kid had survived far more dangerous situations!
"What friend?" he asked, dreading that his guess might be correct.
"The owner of this comlink," the unknown voice said in a matter-of-fact, yet still ominous tone. "You have a few minutes to clear out of the hangar. Otherwise, I'll kill all of you."
There was no more doubt.
"Come and get me, you son of a bitch!" Irv shouted into the comlink, cutting the transmission.
He looked at the mercenary.
Then at Aut-O's head.
"If it's true, then it's a shame about the kid," the tactical super droid said. "I certainly wanted him dead, but at the hands of a Jedi..."
"I don't care who he is," Irv growled, switching his comlink to the frequency of the Colicoid Swarm's boarding party in the hangar. "Listen up, everyone. A Jedi is coming in, and he just bragged about killing Yazuo Vane. He's probably wiped out the rest of our boarding teams. I intend to kill that bastard! Whoever's with me stays in the hangar. Whoever isn't — grab anything that flies and get out. Fly to the Stormhawk and tell them to blast this tub if we don't report the Jedi's death."
"Irv, that is not the most sensible idea," Aut-O declared. "The survival chance in a battle with a Jedi..."
"I don't give a damn about statistics," the privateer snapped. "That scumbag killed my friend. I'm not letting that slide!"
"It is my duty to warn you," Aut-O said. "But since you have made your decision... I will assist with all I know."
"You know how to kill a Jedi?" Irv asked, surprised.
"The most effective method is Geonosian sonic cannons," the tactical super droid's head replied casually. "The Clone Wars, especially the battle at the Petranaki arena, clearly demonstrated that even the Jedi's extrasensory abilities, their innate threat premonition, and their capacity to endure inhuman pain cannot withstand sonic weaponry."
"What about stun guns and shockers?" the mercenary asked. "I heard the clones at the end of the Clone Wars just shot the Jedi with blasters."
"We have those, but Geonosian sonic weaponry has been a rarity even on the black market for quite some time," Irv scratched his chin, watching the transport ships lift off from the hangar. "Well, there aren't that many brave souls among us..."
"The weapon types you mentioned are effective against most Jedi," Aut-O agreed. "But statistics indicate we are not facing a typical Jedi. Vane was a skilled fighter. And his boarding teams were not inexperienced either. The use of ultimate weaponry is required."
"Which we don't have," Irv reminded him.
"Grenades and flamethrowers would also suffice."
"We're not exactly swimming in those either," Irv's expression darkened. "At best, one per boarder. Flamethrowers weren't even in the Colicoid Swarm's arsenal to begin with."
"In that case, I recommend ambush tactics and crossfire," Aut-O advised.
Irv looked at the three or four dozen mercenaries who had stayed in the hangar.
"I hope this is enough," he said.
"The most effective option would be to escape," Aut-O suggested. "And blow up the ship along with the Jedi."
"Yeah," Irv agreed. "But I want to look that bastard who killed Vane in the eye."
"As you wish," Aut-O said indifferently.
"Boss," one of the nearby mercenaries broke the silence. "All the ships have left the hangar."
"Including that cool starship," a second added, pointing at the departing "Jedi ship" that had been discovered.
Now only damaged junk remained on the landing deck — nothing capable of even sustaining a pilot's life support.
Punctured cockpits, shattered canopies, blown-off engines and control surfaces...
"By the way, what's that miracle ship called?" Irv asked his subordinate out of pure curiosity.
But the man didn't answer.
An unseen force ripped the mercenary off his feet and dragged him a good fifteen meters toward the hangar entrance.
Where a pillar of white-blue light erupted from his chest.
"Jedi!" Irv shouted, drawing his blaster and diving behind the nearest pile of debris for cover.
The dead mercenary was tossed aside like a dirty rag.
The other members of the Colicoid Swarm crew scattered, following their commander's lead.
Dozens of blaster bolts flew toward the man.
He deflected them with ease.
None of the mercenaries, not even Irv himself, managed to hit the Jedi — he was that quick.
"My ship is called the Rogue Shadow," the wielder of two lightsabers announced in a loud, emotionless voice. A woman's body rested on his shoulder. "And you should have run."
He gently laid the blonde woman's body on the hangar floor, then spun the two lightsabers in his hands.
"Recalculating statistics," Aut-O announced. "Irv, I have bad news. His defense and reaction speed data exceed what I have in my memory. Your probability of success is below a third..."
"A third of a percent?" Irv clarified, firing at the opponent who was already descending on the nearest mercenaries.
He killed without hesitation, without doubt, without mercy.
A true machine of death.
"Below a third of a percent," Aut-O clarified grimly.
"Weeeell," Irv unclipped a thermal detonator and armed it, setting a short delay before detonation. "Not bad odds for a win."
"The question is whose," Aut-O commented as the explosive flew through the piles of scrap metal.
Irv didn't answer.
It was obvious enough.
* * *
"Han!" Lando said reproachfully. "This is the dumbest idea I've ever heard from you."
"Then add it to the list!" Solo declared, drumming his fingers on the control panel. "Chewie, what's the status on the launcher?"
The relatively recently installed mechanism on the Millennium Falcon for launching modern shaped-charge missiles with homing warheads needed frequent calibration.
They just couldn't get the firing controls to work from the cockpit.
Manually — sure, no problem.
But to get everything working right...
The truth was, they were on this flight for only one reason — Han had finally decided to trust the professionals.
And headed for Lantilles.
Because the Mon Calamari had switched all their shipyards to accelerate production of more and more MC90s.
Yes, the Alliance hadn't gotten the support of the Tion Hegemony, but they still had money...
Some, at least.
And the Mon Calamari themselves had come to understand that the days of being paid handsomely for building ships were behind them.
Victory demanded sacrifices.
So they built on credit, content with the small, irregular tranches the government was sending.
Finding available mechanics on Dac had proven impossible.
Only Lantilles remained, with enough slipways and drydocks for any type of starship.
Han was racing there, knowing full well that his ship would find a suitable dock and a team of mechanics.
He had chosen the old smuggler's route along the borders of the Thanium Worlds sector.
That way, he solved several problems at once.
Including delivering Leia to Lianna for a meeting with several new Alliance members.
Some distant systems from the Centrality sector had decided to join them and chose demilitarized Lianna as the meeting point.
Although...
"Demilitarized" was the official line.
Even the E-wing production had been moved from there to the Mon Calamari home sector.
In reality, a fleet was being assembled in orbit around the planet — the fleet needed to go help Juno Eclipse.
But it was assembling far too slowly.
Bel Iblis was practically pulling one ship from every squadron.
And the resulting ragtag collection of escort frigates, corvettes, and a few star cruisers could hardly be called a serious force.
So when he heard Eclipse's distress call, Han didn't hesitate — he dropped out of hyperspace, set course for the coordinates in the message, and started broadcasting that he was bringing an entire fictional battle group with him.
Chewbacca, sensing a fight, was trying to fix everything that refused to work properly.
Leia sat pensively in the co-pilot seat.
Calrissian, claiming to be an expert on everything that had ever happened or was happening in the Centrality, had insisted on tagging along as the deposed general's wife's advisor and escort. He was now a passenger on board.
And he kept pestering her with advice.
"Do you realize that if there actually is a battle, the Falcon won't change a thing?" he asked.
"Yeah," Solo snorted. "And I also realize that the Dominion can't spare more forces to intercept Eclipse than she has. Juno reported their forces. It's not that much — we've come out on top against worse odds. Either way, I relayed the distress call to Lianna. I bet the Dominion will back down when they hear a whole battle group is coming to Juno's rescue."
"If they back down," Calrissian warned, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Don't assume they're idiots. They probably know you've been relieved of command and won't believe it..."
"Don't be such a pessimist," Han advised. "We can't just fly past either."
"You're reckless," Calrissian said with resignation.
"That's why I'm married to a princess," Han winked at his wife. "And you keep getting into shady business. Which I have to bail you out of almost every time, you know."
"Still better than working for the government and waiting for some bureaucrat to decide I don't deserve reinstatement without the proper authorization," Lando grumbled, heading for the cockpit exit. "If anything happens, I'll be at the top turret."
"Great," Han grinned crookedly.
Once they were alone, the Corellian's smile vanished the moment he looked at his wife.
The former princess had been quiet lately — suspiciously quiet for someone who could ignite a fire in the hearts (or whatever equivalent organs) of beings with a single phrase.
And her complexion wasn't exactly healthy.
Han didn't like that.
Or the fact that he had to leave her.
"Sweetheart, everything okay?" he asked.
Leia shook her head.
"The closer we get, the more worried I am," she explained. "I... I mean, I didn't even finish my Jedi training. Just the basics. But I can already feel that Galen... He's consumed by grief. By rage. Those emotions are like a beacon for ships at sea in the night or fog..."
"The kid is clearly not in his right mind," Han replied, biting his lip. "I don't even know what could have set him off like that."
"Maybe Juno is already dead," Leia voiced her darkest suspicion very quietly. "And there's no point in flying there anymore, darling..."
But Han heard her anyway.
"No," he cut her off. "We don't abandon our people. It was bad enough we couldn't help Luke back in the day. Couldn't help Horn find his wife. And now they're both somewhere in the galaxy doing who knows what. Losing another Jedi would be like signing our names on the Falcon's hull — that we're worthless heroes whose time is past, and it's time to make way for the younger generation."
"I'm not sure we'll win this time," Leia admitted. "The odds are too uneven..."
"Remember when we faced down two Death Stars?" Han chuckled. "And we're still in one piece..."
"Luck runs out eventually," Leia reminded him. "The Alderaanians know that better than anyone."
"That's why you married a Corellian," Han tried to steer the conversation away from this gloomy topic. "We've got enough luck for the whole family..."
The next moment, the white tunnel of hyperspace predictably collapsed, stopping the Millennium Falcon nearly a hundred and fifty units short of the specified coordinates.
"Gravity mines," Han grimaced. "Well, who's surprised..."
"And there were mines here too," Leia added, also familiar with the content of Admiral Eclipse's message.
"Which is why," Han pushed the Millennium Falcon's sublight engines to maximum, "we're going to fly fast. Very fast. Whatever those mines are, they can't keep up with my girl. And they're probably calibrated for ships with more mass than the Falcon..."
The next moment, something hit the ship hard, and alarms screamed inside.
"Okay, almost right," the Corellian said calmly, deftly weaving through the mines in his path. "You know, honey, if you were on the bottom gun, it wouldn't be so dangerous to blow us up..."
"I'll do what I can," Leia headed out of the cockpit.
Han, pushing the Millennium Falcon's engines to their absolute limit, noted that the maneuvering thrusters of the mines couldn't keep up with his ship. A crooked smile played on his lips as he surveyed the distant battlefield.
His ship was approaching it faster and faster.
It looked like Juno had given the Dominion flotilla a serious beating.
But the condition of her own ship clearly showed who was winning this battle.
The best they could hope for was to rescue someone from the doomed flagship.
* * *
What could be more satisfying than the sound of a cracking enemy skull?
Only the hum of a lightsaber in a hangar where you're following your enemy's trail.
Tyberos caved in the head of an Alliance soldier who had popped up in front of him, then ripped his pickaxe from the corpse's skull and sprinted through the doorway leading to the MC90's main hangar.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he knew he had finally reached where he had been so persistently heading.
A powerful explosion rocked the hangar deck.
The shockwave knocked the lightsaber wielder aside.
But a few seconds later, he was back on his feet, weapon activated, charging at the nearest enemies.
"Damn, a Jedi with a freaking saber," Tyberos said admiringly, watching the flashing blades of light carve through the Dominion's hired guns left and right. "Now that's a slaughter."
Looked like Captain Irv's men.
And there he was, hiding behind a pile of junk.
"Commander, what are your orders?" asked a fighter from Kavil's Corsairs who had appeared out of nowhere.
Tyberos turned to the voice in surprise and saw several squads of mercenaries rushing toward the hangar behind him, their armored boots clanking on the corridor floor.
Tyberos! This is your last chance to back out! He's out of your league!
The giant ignored the voice in his head.
He just flexed his wrists, anticipating a worthy fight.
Adrenaline boiled in his blood, mixed with a volatile core of rage and wrath fueling the man's Dark Side.
"Drive him toward me," Tyberos said, licking his lips, pointing to the left and right of himself. "Don't let him slip away."
"And where's he gonna go?" the mercenary asked in surprise. "There's not a single working starship in the hangar."
True, there were no operational ships in sight.
But at the same time, Tyberos had no doubt that any opponent, even one stronger than you, would find a way to try to escape in a moment of mortal danger.
He had learned that lesson in the Hutt Space gladiatorial pits.
And he also knew from his late Force-sensitive friend that there was no more cowardly creature than a Jedi.
The more powerful they were, the more often they resorted to a "tactical retreat" when things started to smell bad — no, when they stank so badly it was hard to breathe.
"Hey!" Tyberos roared, addressing the lightsaber wielder just as he ran his weapon through another of Irv's men. "Come here, baby Jedi!"
The man looked at him with clear surprise.
It was the same look the giants in the fighting pits used to give him.
Though not exactly small himself, Tyberos must have seemed like a dwarf to some of them.
Arrogant, cocky, and clearly not worth much attention.
But the Jedi clearly didn't think so.
Without looking, he parried a couple of shots with his lightsabers, then walked slowly toward Tyberos.
"You don't look much like Skywalker," Tyberos mused, getting a better look at his opponent through his mask's computer systems.
"My name is Galen," the other replied flatly, parrying another shot and redirecting it toward the shooter.
"Well, that's a mix-up," Tyberos sighed.
So he had been chasing the wrong man.
His friend had warned him...
The closer he got, the more Tyberos realized the extent of his mistake.
He was facing a walking reactor that annihilated everything living in its path.
And the Dark Side radiating from him...
Tyberos frowned.
No, it wasn't a Sith.
The Dark Side was there, but...
It was somehow blurred.
"You," Galen pointed one blade at Tyberos and the other at Irv. "With them?"
It seemed the Colicoid Swarm crew had seriously pissed off this death machine.
"Irv, what's going on?" Tyberos shouted.
He wanted to know what the crew of the task force's second carrier destroyer was doing here.
"He killed Vane!" the former Separatist shouted. "And his bitch admiral blew up my ship! And damaged yours too!"
What?
The cocky half-breed was dead?
The Alliance had damaged his ship?!
Tyberos ground his teeth, gripping his pickaxes tighter, and strode toward his opponent.
Only a few dozen meters separated them...
The next moment, the commander of the Colicoid Swarm was lifted into the air from behind his cover, clutching his throat.
The Jedi was choking him with an invisible grip.
"You will not speak another word about Juno," he said menacingly, raising his blade. "And before you die, you should know that I helped start the reactors. I am the one who gave this ship the power to destroy your vessel. And now — I will kill you. Like I killed your friend. And everyone who stands in my way."
Irv's body jerked.
He would have been impaled on the lightsaber for sure, if the commander of the Colicoid Swarm hadn't fired at the opponent's face.
The Jedi swatted the shot away with his lightsaber, continuing his planned execution of the Separatist.
But the next moment, the pick of Tyberos's weapon dug into his left forearm, the one holding the lightsaber.
The Jedi instantly lost concentration, Irv crashed to the floor, gasping for air.
And Tyberos was already there.
His second pick swung down, aiming to split the opponent's skull, but the Jedi dodged.
He blocked the second strike with his lightsaber, momentarily stunned that Tyberos's weapon hadn't been cut in half by contact with the energy blade.
Oh, yes, quite an unpleasant surprise.
"Find yourself an opponent worth your time," Tyber offered, pulling his second war pick from the enemy's grip.
And landing a solid kick to Galen's chest.
One of the lightsaber hilts slipped from the damaged hand and Tyber kicked it toward Irvin.
"Save my trophy for me!" he commanded, twirling his picks as he slowly advanced on his Force-gifted opponent. "Nobody fire! I'll finish him myself!"
Eymand had taught him a lot.
And Tyber, for all that he'd listened, had never thought he'd become a Jedi.
He hadn't wanted that fate.
But he had learned exactly how to kill a Jedi — even without being in the same weight class.
First, though, the little bastard would suffer.
A lot.
Tyber had more than enough reasons and pretexts to toy with his opponent.
"So you're the one who helped damage my ship," Tyber declared, launching the first accusation as he jabbed downward with his right pick.
The enemy blocked it with his lightsaber.
Tyber twisted his hand so the blade was trapped between the haft and the beak of his weapon.
Mandalorian iron had never come in handier.
From the enemy's eyes, two smoldering coals stared back at him.
With a second swing, Tyber carved a deep gash across the enemy's shoulder guard.
Pity it hadn't punched through.
The Jedi could only fight with one hand — the other hung limp along his body.
But credit where it was due — through the next flurry of Tyber's strikes, he didn't take a single hit.
Impressive, even with just one lightsaber.
The enemy counterattacked, swiping the tip of his blade across the base of Tyber's torso.
The man barely reacted in time — and instead of being split in two, he only lost his load-bearing belt.
"You shouldn't have killed Vane," Tyber rumbled. "That clown boy didn't deserve to die."
"He killed my love!" Marek howled back like a wounded rancor.
From the economy of his defensive movements, Tyber understood he was concentrating again.
Rage was building inside the enemy, preparing to erupt into spectacular trouble.
That did not serve Tyber's interests.
The enemy tried to dive at his legs, but Tyber's picks locked his weapon.
Holding the lightsaber in the bind of his picks, the mercenary smashed his armored mask into the enemy's face.
The Jedi cried out in pain and staggered back, dropping his second lightsaber.
But the move hadn't disoriented him.
Galen raised his hand, aiming it at Tyber...
The former gladiator understood exactly what kind of electrifying prelude his opponent was preparing.
Being fried by a stream of lightning wasn't in his plans.
"Fire!" he roared, leaping to the side.
A branching bolt of lightning struck the spot where he'd just stood.
The discharge, even if off-target, caught Tyber's legs — they erupted in a wave of pain and lost all feeling.
A lightsaber returned to the enemy's hand, and he began deflecting the blaster bolts fired at him.
Masterfully wielding his weapon, Galen spun like a top, unleashing Force Lightning from his good hand while shoving shooters away with Force Push.
And to Tyber, those electrical discharges seemed far weaker than the one that had crippled his legs.
Feeling slowly returned, but Tyber still couldn't control his lower limbs.
Still, he could use this pause — with the enthusiasm and professionalism of a gladiator — to assess his opponent.
Yes, his lightning grew weaker when he wielded his lightsaber with one hand.
One mercenary caught by such a bolt was knocked aside but still got up from the floor — moving slower than before, but still able to fire and maneuver.
Tyber grinned in satisfaction as he felt his limbs regain sensation.
Though every step and movement sent monstrous pain through him, Tyber channeled the pain to feed the Dark Side.
Another explosion hurled the Jedi a good dozen meters away.
He landed just five or six paces from the former gladiator, who was already savoring the long-awaited reckoning.
Staggering, Tyber advanced on his opponent.
"Come here, you Jedi rat!" he shouted, spinning his picks in circles as his opponent, grunting and grimacing, took position for the duel.
* * *
The Millennium Falcon heeled onto its starboard side, letting a TIE Interceptor pass just above.
The enemy's shots went wide as well, causing no damage.
Judging by the relentless firing, the Dominion pilot clung stubbornly to the rear shields.
But thanks to Han's flying, he couldn't catch the freighter — surprisingly nimble for its venerable age and the damage it had taken crossing the minefield.
Leia clenched her teeth, pulled the trigger, and watched the crimson beams of her cannon shred the overconfident Imp into confetti.
The Falcon tumbled again...
"Look!" Han shouted over the intercom, pointing at the MC90's hangar bay. "It's Marek!"
Seizing the moment, Leia glanced over and spotted a lone white-blue blade deep inside the spacious hangar deck.
And several shuttles speeding away from the starship, including the familiar silhouette of the Wandering Shadow.
Reaching out with the Force, she directed it toward the ship...
No. Only alien, utterly repulsive minds that gushed with emotions of profit and greed were there.
Nobody she knew could be there.
And the course of the ship string — straight toward the mangled Imperial Star Destroyer that had lost its superstructure and a good third of its hull plating — confirmed her suspicions.
"Leia! Below!"
Lando's warning came a little late, because the Millennium Falcon showed some old tricks and executed a maneuver that broke every regulation and manual — a cross between a corkscrew and a barrel roll.
The young woman nearly threw up.
An unwelcome memory of her previous pregnancy surfaced.
"I need to check the results," Leia thought.
She'd run plenty of tests before departing, feeling that her health had shifted somehow.
But she never got the data — Mon Mothma had demanded she appear for negotiations on Lianna.
While the Alliance leader herself was locked in heated diplomatic battles in Congress.
But securing new government loans from the sectors and planets that made up the Alliance was, as always, a slow process.
The lower turret fired, and even in the cockpit she could hear the Wookiee's battle cry from the saloon.
Chewbacca was celebrating another solid hit.
"Nice shooting, sweetheart," Han approved, leveling the ship. "Interceptors are falling back, yeah?"
"Don't count on it," Calrissian's voice came instantly through the comm. "An interceptor squadron just appeared at point three-niner-one. Pretty sure they intend to shoot us down."
Meanwhile, most of the enemy's starfighters seemed to have peeled off for rotation or were guarding the perimeter.
But they'd descend on them soon enough.
Leia stared thoughtfully at the Dominion destroyer, flanked by several cruisers and support ships.
Another destroyer — a Venator — was rushing to join them from behind.
The Falcon heeled to starboard, letting a crimson energy bolt from an ion cannon streak past.
"So, we've got time until it recharges," Lando commented from the upper turret.
Leia chose not to think about what would happen if luck turned against them.
"Chewie, get up to the cockpit for a minute!" Han called to his first mate. "I've got a great idea."
Leia shuddered, remembering what the evil genius Grand Admiral Thrawn had turned these Clone Wars veterans into.
One of the perfected instruments of victory.
A flying ion-cannon platform capable of engaging large numbers of enemy ships from an even greater distance.
The Mon Calamari and their engineers had struggled to find a way to negate the enemy guns' devastating effect.
But all their experiments and schemes yielded little practical benefit.
"Chewie, ready?"
Han's voice again.
And again — Chewbacca's answering roar.
But not from the cockpit — from the Falcon's saloon.
"Didn't Han call him to the cockpit?" Leia wondered.
"Uh," Calrissian's voice came through. "Guys, don't you think the enemy is paying us a little too much attention?"
Leia blinked and looked at the scanners.
For some reason, Han had sent the ship toward the approaching squadron.
"Dear," she called to her husband. "Are you all right?"
"Never better," the Corellian replied. "But these guys," green needles rattled against the Millennium Falcon's deflectors, "are about to have problems. Chewie, now!"
The Wookiee's roar shook the ship as he did what was planned.
At first, Leia didn't catch what was happening.
But in the next moment, after punching the throttle, the Falcon executed a dizzying turn, blasted a towering pillar of light from its engine nozzles, and shot straight for the MC90's stern.
And the enemy interceptors — with the looming hulks of enemy Star Destroyers behind them — kept pressing.
She suddenly remembered the escape from Hoth, when Darth Vader's fleet was on the Falcon's tail and the captain and his first mate bickered as they made running repairs...
An instant later, Leia aimed her cannon at the pursuers and fired at one of the craft...
But it — along with several others beside it — erupted into tiny sparks, their scanner signatures vanishing.
The remaining ships scattered, as if they'd lost all interest in the Solo family freighter.
"Han," she called to her husband. "What happened?"
"What do you think," her beloved grumbled. "We need new missiles. I burned through all twelve we had. So we've got a couple of minutes to pick up whoever's still fighting in the hangar. The boys in those stylish black flight suits have bigger problems than us right now. And no other neighbors in the vicinity."
"For now," Calrissian chimed in.
"You always have to ruin everything with your pessimism, don't you?" the Corellian grumbled, guiding his ship into the docking bay of the linear cruiser's main hangar.
* * *
Thump.
The right war pick lovingly sank into the enemy's left shoulder, shattering bones into fragments and driving its beak several centimeters into his flesh.
This time, the armored pauldron didn't save him.
Tyber swung his left pick, but the moaning opponent managed to block it.
The gladiator grinned, raised his right leg, braced it against the enemy's chest, and yanked the right pick toward himself with all his strength.
Stumbling back a full meter, he held up a chunk of his opponent's torso with undisguised pleasure for the man now on his knees before him.
The mangled arm hung by shreds of skin, remnants of muscle and sinew, drenching the deck with the jetting, spurting blood of the Jedi.
"What, not so fun fighting someone who knows how to tear you Jedi bastards to pieces?" Tyber asked, stepping closer to his prey.
Though he savored the victory, he knew perfectly well that he'd only beaten this monster through understanding the "mechanics" the Jedi used for their surreal tricks.
Sure, his legs burned like fire and the little bastard had given him more than one gash with a lightsaber — but the fact remained.
He'd broken the Jedi's concentration, and with that, all his tricks became no more dangerous than an angry rancor.
Now all that was left was to finish him...
"Tyber!" a shout from somewhere to the right and behind him.
"What does Irvin want now? Huh, repulsors? One of his boys must be back..."
The pick deflected the lightsaber that tried to shield its master, leaving him open to the bloody strike of its twin.
A moment, and the beak would pierce the Jedi's head...
And the next moment, Tyber realized he was flying — away from his enemy.
He crashed onto his side and saw, in surprise, that he was lying behind a pile of debris, right where he'd intended to execute the Jedi.
Only then did he finally notice Captain Irvin pinning him to the floor.
Above the captain's back, crimson streaks from what were clearly blaster or laser cannons flashed.
"What the Hutt?" Tyber roared.
"A freighter just flew into the hangar!" the man explained. "They'd have killed you if I hadn't gotten here first!"
"Hutt spawn!"
The gladiator shoved the commander of the destroyed carrier aside.
The firing died down, and he risked a look over the improvised barricade.
He ducked right back down as the guns opened up again.
"Run!" he barked at Irvin, yanking him to the side.
The moment they fled, their cover turned into a blazing bonfire, and blaster bolts hammered the floor behind them.
Both managed to dive behind an X-wing that had belly-landed, avoiding being riddled with enemy tibanna.
Seizing the moment, Tyber peered out from behind the new cover.
Hovering on its repulsor cushion near the mutilated, broken Jedi, the Corellian freighter lowered its boarding ramp.
Holding the handrail, a man in a vest and pants with Corellian blood stripes appeared — Tyber recognized a fallen star of the criminal underworld: Han Solo.
The latter was firing his blaster pistol at the surviving mercenaries trying to get revenge.
The Wookiee, who jumped down from a half-meter height, fired his bowcaster at a pair of mercenaries, then lifted Galen as if he weighed nothing and carried him onto the ramp.
As soon as the Wookiee vanished into the hatch, Solo fired a few more shots before the ship started moving.
Snatching the blaster from Irvin, Tyber surrendered to the Force.
Barely aiming, he fired at Solo several times.
Three misses — the bolts vanished into the black maw of the ship's interior — on the fourth, Tyber got his hit.
A crimson blaster bolt sank into Solo's thigh, sending him rolling down the ramp.
He would have certainly fallen if the same Wookiee who'd saved Galen seconds earlier hadn't grabbed him by the collar.
The Millennium Falcon, ignoring the hail of small-arms fire, turned inside the ship's hangar.
Tyber's eyes widened beneath his mask as he saw the freighter's engines brighten.
"Get down!" he shouted, dropping to the deck.
Only Irvin followed his advice.
The rest of the mercenaries, who'd emerged from cover and were firing at the legendary ship, were blasted from their positions and smeared into bloody stains against the nearest vertical surface.
"Bastards!" Tyber cursed, watching the Millennium Falcon's rear engine light fade. "They stole my trophy right from under my nose!"
"If you'd played with him less, you'd have cracked his skull long ago!" Captain Irvin yelled back.
"Don't teach me how to fight a gladiatorial duel!" Tyber snapped. "I came here for Luke Skywalker's head, not this Jedi imitation!"
"He killed almost all of my men!"
"Then they're weaklings," Tyber shrugged. "Killing a Jedi is easier than taking candy from a baby."
"Who gives babies candy in the first place?" Irvin stared.
"Sniper mercs who don't know how to raise or love kids," Tyber grunted, activating his comlink. "Black Pearl, send a shuttle for me."
"And tell them not to fire on that ship from the Stormhawk," Irvin added. "I'll need that vessel for hunting..."
* * *
Captain Pellaeon passed through the airlock leading to Grand Admiral Thrawn's quarters.
He automatically noted that he hadn't been subjected to any of the bodyguard's "jokes" again.
Ever since he'd been created and as soon as Thrawn had set up his headquarters aboard the Guardian, Rukh — as if emphasizing the difference between a clone and his original — conspicuously ignored the captain.
Fascinating...
And he had "tested" Gilad Pellaeon.
Well, perhaps the bodyguard saw no reason in the Guardian's commander to play the "games" he'd had with his donor.
As Thrawn would say: 'Fascinating.
The Grand Admiral himself sat at his workstation, surrounded by a double ring of monitors.
The semi-darkness of his cabin was dispelled by the yellow holograms of art objects.
Pellaeon didn't even try to guess which people or civilization they belonged to.
But he noted that there seemed to be two groups here.
Or that's just how it seemed to him.
"Bothan art and the art of the Dathomirian witches from the Night Sisters clan," the Grand Admiral explained, as if reading his thoughts.
"Is there something common between them?" Pellaeon wondered.
"The latter, surprisingly, exist," the Chiss said. "After we annexed Dathomir, I asked our diplomatic service to send me holographs of every object found on the territory the Night Sisters clan had occupied. Now it's time to study them properly."
"Yes, sir," the Guardian's commander replied automatically.
"Quite interesting," Thrawn continued. "Despite different paths of evolution, development, psychology, and values, they do share one trait. They seek power. The more, the better. But, like the Bothans, the witches cannot stop at what they've achieved. What's fascinating is something else. Both peoples have an innate drive for greatness. Yet at the same time, ordinary members of both civilizations are willing to tolerate their subordinate position — until an opportunity arises to rise above their comrades. A notable trait for many species. But only the Bothans and the Night Sisters are willing to walk over their kin."
Now it wasn't hard to guess the Grand Admiral Thrawn's next target.
"Do we have the results of the prisoners' opinions?" Thrawn asked.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon replied, stepping up to the terminal and handing the Supreme Commander a personal datapad.
The Chiss' eyes ran quickly over the text.
A wry smile appeared on his lips.
"How interesting," he declared. "Ninety percent of those we captured in the battle against General Solo's fleet expressed a desire to join our cause."
"And only thirty percent of those we captured at the Battle of Kessel," Pellaeon added. "That makes roughly two hundred and fifty thousand sentients, sir, who have decided to pledge allegiance to the Dominion."
"After counterintelligence and the Jensaarai have done their work, about fifty to seventy thousand more will be weeded out," Thrawn said calmly.
"Sentients," Pellaeon corrected.
"Precisely human," Captain, the Grand Admiral countered, returning the datapad. "What attracted members of other species in the Alliance and the New Republic was the possibility of rising through the power structures, military, and other social elevators — something they could not achieve in the Empire. The Dominion's offer interests them. Do you know what conclusion follows from this?"
"That we have an opportunity to crew roughly twenty to twenty-five Imperial III-class Star Destroyers?" Pellaeon guessed.
"Yes, that would be a significant boost in light of our recent losses," Thrawn nodded. "The destruction of Rear Admiral Irvin's flotilla is a heavy blow to the Dominion's military strength. Yes, the prisoners will eventually be integrated into our armed forces. After all loyalty checks, of course. And after appropriate training. To start, we'll put them through tests and drills. Let them 'cut their teeth' on our equipment in rear systems."
"You promised them a place in the fleet," Pellaeon reminded him. "I think they'll quickly see the difference between the Defense Forces and the Dominion's regular military."
"Of course they will."
"In that case, they might think you've deceived them by promising to preserve their service records and merits. They'll think you're using them to plug rear-area holes."
"No, they will be assigned to regular fleet ship crews," Thrawn stated. "We have a large number of vessels undergoing modernization — escort frigates, heavy cruisers, minesweepers, and Star Destroyers. Corvettes are being built. We need crews, and our clones are insufficient. We can replace stormtroopers with Kavil's Corsairs, but their resources aren't infinite either. By the time we finish with Tyber Zann's satellites, Captain Anilex's armed units will be too few to entrust with full-scale missions like the ones happening now. But they will become far more professional. So we have some time to use the dispersal of prisoners among clones on small Dominion vessels — up to and including heavy cruisers — to build up our own regular fleet reserve. Especially since the Dominion's territory has expanded recently, and we need a large number of patrol ships to detect all types of threats. Until the Perimeter is extended to our new sectors, our new fighters will operate there as patrols and defenders, alongside the clones who will enter service shortly."
"It's a test, isn't it?" Pellaeon clarified.
"Without a doubt," Thrawn nodded. "It's easy enough to sound the call and invite someone into service. It's harder to start trusting those who were shooting at you. That's why I intend to staff mostly new ships with defectors and new clones. They'll have no grievances against each other. However, some of our new soldiers and ratings will have to be used to fill out crews on already-active ships."
"Frankly, I thought you'd put them all on captured Mon Calamari vessels and organize an attack on the New Republic to avenge the defeat they're craving," Pellaeon admitted. "The attack on Rendili to seize the Reaper and the remnants of Grand Moff Kaine's fleet would have been timely."
"That possibility has been accounted for, Captain," said Thrawn. "For now, it's unnecessary. Fey'lya and those who remain loyal to him are smart enough to grasp a simple truth: we cannot slip unnoticed past their agents in the Alliance and Empire to suddenly strike Rendili or any other part of the New Republic from the known territories of the Dominion. If we do it now, Lady Silri will whisper Fey'lya the location of our base in the Karthakk sector. The forces there are insufficient to stop a full-scale invasion of the sector. The Perimeter there isn't ready. Plainly put, production in the Karthakk system lacks manpower. But they'll be delivered soon — as soon as the Alliance POWs who refused to join the Dominion undergo the preventive meetings prepared for them with the energy spiders in the Kessel mines."
With demonstrations like this, Thrawn quite literally broke the spine of most potential organizers and participants in uprisings.
"The Dominion is expanding, Captain," Thrawn's voice purred. "The galactic conflict is widening. We need greater output from our illegal enterprises. More defensive stations, more planetary shields, more ion cannons and turbolasers, mines, asteroid stations. More metal for our production. Roughly speaking, after all the screening procedures, we'll have about one hundred and fifty thousand POWs, whom we'll send to our heaviest industries."
"Isn't it dangerous to send POWs to the mines and secret production facilities in the Karthakk system?" the Guardian's commander clarified. "There could someday be a chance they'll be liberated. Some of them might be educated enough to identify the system and point it out after their release."
"I'm afraid I misspoke, Captain," a sly smile appeared on Thrawn's face. "Without a doubt, the local population is handling their work in the Karthakk system, and I have no intention of letting any POWs in there. They won't actually reach our secret production facilities. We'll ship them all to the Dominion along with convoys of spice, equipment, and weapons from Karthakk, Horn, and Kessel. The new territories have a large number of facilities that require brute physical strength, and the labor itself involves a certain risk to life. And the existing labor resources of Dominion citizens will be moved to less dangerous areas."
"That doesn't change the core issue, sir," Pellaeon objected. "Instead of one system, liberated POWs could tell them about dozens of facilities where they were held."
"Of course," Thrawn continued smiling. "But by the time we negotiate their exchange, half of them will have broken, unable to wait for liberation, and will curse their old homeland, seeking ways to escape hard labor. Then THEY will be asking us to join the Dominion — which allows US to dictate the terms of their future lives. And those who do manage to wait for liberation, no matter what they say, won't be able to harm us."
"Why, sir?"
"Because by the time they're liberated, the sectors we're annexing now and where we'll send the prisoners will be deep in the Dominion's metropole's rear," Thrawn explained. "And to get there, our enemies would have to break through the Perimeter. As the Zann Consortium's offensive demonstrated — that only leads to the loss of strike forces."
A crooked smirk appeared on Pellaeon's face.
As always — a plan within a plan.
Thrawn fully accepts that the enemy might want to continue open war with the Dominion.
And he's even ready to help them do it.
Luring them into yet another trap.
"Are there any officers or ship commanders among the prisoners who wish to join the Dominion?" Thrawn interrupted his train of thought.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon snapped to attention, swiping away the open file on the desk and transmitting different information to the Chiss for review. "Quite notable individuals, if the Republic intelligence database is to be believed."
"Indeed," the crimson eyes of Thrawn seemed to flash with the hungry fire of a volcano about to erupt. "Quite notable personnel… It appears we have an opportunity to staff several Star Destroyers with sharp-minded officers. The main thing is that their desire to serve us must be sincere and genuine."
Worse for them if they think of betraying us, Pellaeon thought. They feed people like that to the energy spiders without delay.