Ten years, four months, and four days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-five years, four months, and four days after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year and nineteen days since the Arrival.)
Whether by coincidence or design, the blocking forces vacated their positions precisely at midnight.
Following the four Dominion Venators that had withdrawn from the system — the only regular fleet ships to survive that terrible carnage.
And after the enemy fleet surged along vector six, leaving the space of the Lura star system.
Captain Vigor, having confirmed that his formation's starships had safely jumped to the backup point, practically flew out of the combat control room.
Reaching the nearest sanitary room on the deck, he barely waited for the door to slide aside and let him inside.
And only there, alone in the ship's head, did he allow himself to light a thin cigar, blowing streams of smoke into the ventilation grate.
"Hutt knows what," the commander of the Raider was shaking badly from the realization that an entire assault fleet had been annihilated. "That was... that was a meat grinder..."
"Relax, will you?" a calm male voice came from the far toilet stall. "So they blew up a few things... Not the first time."
Vigor, almost choking on tobacco smoke, mentally cursed his carelessness.
Smoking aboard starships was strictly forbidden.
Not for the same reasons as in deep antiquity, like the danger of smoke filling the already cramped living spaces on spacecraft.
It was a requirement of the Charter to keep the bodies of military personnel in the healthiest condition possible.
Water began running in the stall, and Vigor was already extinguishing the cigar in the metal sink.
An expensive item, by the way — fifty credits apiece.
But he couldn't allow the commander himself to be caught violating the Charter on his own ship.
Just as he couldn't overcome his bad habit, which actively fried his nerves in stressful situations.
The lock clicked, and a tall, powerfully built human male appeared in the corridor between the stalls.
On his chest was the same command badge as Vigor's.
A fleet captain.
Vigor strained his memory but couldn't recall this individual's name, though he knew all senior officers not only by name but by face.
"The far stall has a better exhaust fan," the man said, as if nothing was wrong, walking over to the sink and activating the spray for hand sanitizer. "Your cigars are overly aromatic, Commander. No hard feelings or ranks, but what's that garbage you're smoking? I thought my eyes would burn out from the sting."
Too late to back down.
"Carababba tobacco with armudu spices," Vigor muttered. "Sir, who exactly are you?"
"Ah, right, we haven't met yet," the man chuckled, drying his hands with the mechanism. "Captain Makeno, commander of a special forces unit. They attached us to you before the last raid."
The commander of the Raider furrowed his brow.
"I was briefed on the unit's embarkation by a completely different person," he said, inadvertently taking a step back.
He did so for one reason — the man claiming to be the unit commander had unbuttoned the top of his tunic and reached inside with his right hand.
"That was my deputy," the spec-ops soldier said, as if nothing was wrong, pulling a thin pack of cigars and an electric lighter from an inner pocket. "My head ached so badly after the procedures I could barely stand. Care for one?" He extended the open pack to the ship's commander. "Ours, Dominion-made. Almost no smell, but plenty of quality tobacco."
Valum, after a moment's thought, accepted the offer.
He'd already flushed his own cigar down the drain, and the shaking hadn't stopped.
The spec-ops soldier also put a cigarette in his mouth, lit the commander of the Dominator's, then his own.
Both smoked in silence.
"If needed, I can provide a code cylinder too," Makeno said with a grin, looking at the destroyer commander, who was staring blankly at the polished wall in front of him.
"Huh?" the destroyer commander started. "N-no, that's not necessary. The system would have reported an intruder anyway..."
All ships of the "three" project were equipped with recognition systems, rumored to have been borrowed from one of the Super Star Destroyers captured by the Dominion.
The central computer tracked the movement of every crew member according to their identifiers.
Any attempt by someone without proper authorization to board the ship would instantly trigger an alarm and activate internal lockdown and counter-boarding systems.
Yes, those large-caliber turrets protruding in the corridors weren't there for decoration.
They'd successfully punch through anyone who didn't have a crew member tag.
But no one explained exactly how the ship's onboard computer determined "friend" from "foe."
Certainly not by code cylinders.
Even though Dominion scientists had modified them to respond only to the legal owner's fingerprint, DNA, and biometrics, it was unlikely that was the only identification method.
"That's right," the spec-ops soldier released a barely visible puff of smoke. "Worried about the massacre our commanders set up in the system?"
"It was a slaughterhouse," Valum nodded. "Dozens of ships, thousands dead — and that's just our side!"
"There was no one there," Makeno took another drag.
"What do you mean, 'no one'?" the Star Destroyer commander didn't understand.
"They gathered the oldest junk from the scrapyards, stuffed droids in as crew, and threw it at the breakthrough," the spec-ops unit commander explained. "What else are they for, if not suicide missions?"
Vigor took a deep drag.
And really, it was logical.
Every Dominion ship, besides its crew, also carried several types of combat droids.
A legacy of the CIS, of course — B-1s, B-2s, droidekas...
They were used for storming enemy ships and for forming ferry crews for captured vessels.
The commander of the Raider hadn't even considered using droids in this capacity.
Or rather, he simply hadn't thought the command might act that way.
But one question remained.
"Why do they do all this?" Valum asked.
"They don't brief me," Captain Makeno shrugged, exhaling smoke. "Even if they offered to let me in on their secret plans of that level, I'd definitely refuse."
"Why's that?"
"Had enough already," the spec-ops soldier darkened. "Got invited into one project... Not only did they turn me practically inside out..."
"I sympathize," the ship's commander said.
"It's fine," Makeno winced and waved his hand. "We're used to worse. All kinds of things have happened over the years of service. But this one woman I dealt with... Brr, she was something else. All sweet and nice, but with this indifference and a maniac's interest in her eyes. She'd walk around, constantly chewing something. Once she came up to me and said: 'Captain, how would you feel about me opening up your skull?'"
The commander of the Raider felt his fingers start to tremble.
The ash from his cigar tip couldn't withstand the vibration and fell to the floor.
"Is that some kind of joke?" he asked.
"I wish," the interlocutor winced. "It was a completely serious proposal. My frontal lobes interested her. Digging around in brains is like me disassembling a blaster. Obsessed with it... Honestly, I only started smoking after meeting her. If you'd seen those eyes... Utter indifference to everything. Just wants to eat and poke around in brains. Droids show more empathy than she does. When I was left alone with her in the lab, I was never so scared..."
"Why does the Dominion even need such butchers?" Valum suddenly felt disgusted by the whole situation. "It's... it's simply immoral."
"Tell that to General Maximilian Veers," Makeno advised. "The man spent several years in a wheelchair, going from a dashing officer, the progenitor of all modern warfare strategy, to an invalid who wasn't really needed as an active officer anymore."
"And... what's your point supposed to mean?" the Star Destroyer commander clarified, realizing there must be more behind the spec-ops soldier's words.
"They transplanted his brain into a cloned body," Makeno whispered, lowering his voice. "You were at the Academy for command courses. Didn't you have general classes on ground unit tactics?"
"Of course we did," Vigor said, embarrassed. "But Veers wasn't there in person, just his interactive lectures and tactical exercises."
"Well, there you go."
"I thought they were old Imperial recordings," the Star Destroyer commander admitted. "Nothing had been heard of Veers for a long time. I, and many others in the Commonwealth, thought he'd died quietly somewhere..."
The spec-ops soldier snorted.
"Oh, sure," a smile appeared on his lips. "Veers went into service for the Dominion. And now, as if Palpatine himself were chasing him, he's rushing all over the Dominion, organizing the armored forces and army units. He teaches at the army Academy himself. I've heard he keeps trying to sneak to the front, but they won't let him — until the army is 'on its feet' and can develop without his motivating kicks, he'll be stuck in the rear. But it seems like things are working out for him. Maybe we'll see him on the battlefield soon..."
Valum took another drag.
Exhaled the smoke slowly.
Repeated this simple algorithm again.
Then he looked at the special forces unit commander.
"And why did you tell me all this?" he asked, looking the other man straight in the eye. "Half of what you said is probably classified information you shouldn't be sharing with someone like me."
His interlocutor raised an eyebrow in a display of stern surprise.
Reinforced it with a deep drag.
"'Someone like me'?" he clarified.
"I haven't been on your side that long," Valum explained. "I probably don't have the commanders' trust yet. And discussing secret projects with me, including brain transplants into cloned bodies... It's obvious I won't talk about this..."
"Ah," the spec-ops soldier grinned. "Well, let's keep it simple. Most of your crew on the ship are clones. That the Dominion uses clones to crew its ships is known to a very limited circle of individuals. Excluding those who work with them directly. Do you think they'd have put you in command of the Dominator if they didn't trust you? That's a fairly new ship, by the way. It barely passed military acceptance and trials before they handed it over to you. And no one would have put you through the Academy if they doubted your loyalty..."
"Yes, but no one told me the operation plan either," the ship's commander felt a twinge of annoyance at his own words.
He felt like he was complaining to the interlocutor about being shortchanged.
"What do you mean, no one told you?" Makeno was surprised. "I just told you."
"But you're not my command, you're attached forces."
"Ah..." the spec-ops soldier nodded knowingly. "Well, it's simpler than that, Captain. You're told — and will be told — only the information that pertains to your role on the battlefield. For the rest, be so good as to engage your brain and analyze. The Dominion isn't the type to just chew up every order and spoon-feed it to you. Thrawn did that at first, last year — before the battle for the Lock shipyards. Then he changed his approach. He only gives the general strategic objective to the unit commander..."
"In our use, it's called a formation," the commander of the Raider corrected, stubbing out the remains of his cigar on the sink's edge.
"Doesn't matter," the spec-ops soldier waved his hand, following his example. "You were given a task. Informed about what you needed to know. The rest, you'll find out in due time. You surely received encrypted order packets for the unit before launch, right?"
"As always," Valum nodded.
"Then everything you need to know is written in them," Makeno shrugged, clapping his interlocutor on the shoulder. "Me, for example, I have to open my next envelope when we exit hyperspace."
"Same here," the commander of the Raider mentally cursed himself for his display of weakness.
He'd fallen apart.
Panicked.
Started worrying about losses...
It was obvious that what they'd done to him at Balmorra had affected the commander of the Raider more than he thought.
The spec-ops soldier looked at the chronometer.
"About twenty minutes until we exit into real space," he announced. "Well, Captain," he extended his hand, "don't lose heart. The Dominion doesn't treat allies as idiots. If something seems too simple and obvious, it means it's not at all. That's Thrawn's favorite tactic, which he serves up to the enemy under different sauces. And they lap it up by the spoonful."
"Yeah, well..." Valum returned the handshake, then froze, struck by a thought. "Wait a minute... Thrawn's tactic, which he serves up... You said that in the present tense. He's alive?"
"Yeah," the spec-ops soldier echoed back. "Did you think our Supreme Commander could actually be killed by some Jedi runt?"
"But..." Valum hesitated. "Honestly, I thought someone would have told me..."
"Well, I just told you," Makeno snorted. "Or were you expecting Thrawn to personally inform every commander that he's been leading the entire galaxy by the nose for months?"
"No, of course not," Captain Vigor said, embarrassed. "It's just... Why isn't he taking part in a campaign like this, then?"
"Who told you he isn't?" the spec-ops soldier was surprised. "He's taking the most active part. He's in Lura's orbit."
"What?" Valum's eyes widened. "The assault fleet was completely destroyed."
He wasn't a simpleton, but what his interlocutor was telling him...
No, that wasn't it.
It was the matter-of-factness with which the spec-ops soldier relayed things that simply couldn't be true that threw him off balance.
"The fleet, yes," the spec-ops soldier agreed. "But the Grand Admiral's flagship has almost certainly slipped through the breach they punched in the minefield and is moving behind the enemy orbital stations, ready to surprise them all with one salvo..."
By the Emperor's black bones!
If Thrawn was on the Guardian, how could he possibly sneak a multi-kilometer ship past the thousands of eyes aboard the station crews?
Unless...
There were camouflaged enemy ships in the system.
Who said the Dominion didn't have any?
* * *
Fo F'e really is a treasure trove of technology.
Generators, reactors, weapons...
They truly have a lot to offer us.
It's just a shame they never built engines for Super Star Destroyers and don't even have the slightest understanding of what they should look like.
Still, that's not the biggest problem out there.
The Fo F'eans learn quickly and are perfectly adept at modern technology, enough that one day they'll produce their own version of the necessary tech to replace the Executor's main drive engines.
While examining the blueprint for the Dominion's primary Star Destroyer — a reworked and deeply modernized version of the Imperial — I caught myself thinking that incorporating Fo F'e into the state had enormous and undeniable advantages.
The final development of the Imperial is a ship that outwardly resembles its progenitor but is simultaneously stronger, better protected, and... faster at sublight speeds.
The standard speed the Imperial's main engines can achieve is sixty megaphotons.
Is that a lot?
It's fairly decent.
The Guardian's cruising speed is forty megaphotons.
Considering that the same TIE Interceptor in its basic variant reaches an output of "only" one hundred and ten megaphotons.
The Empire managed to achieve speeds of one hundred and twenty-five megaphotons with a radical overhaul of standard systems.
Which inevitably led to a significant increase in the ship's cost.
Interestingly, the manufacturers of the TIE series equipment, after reviewing the technology proposals from Fo F'e, hypothesized that with some not-too-complicated or expensive modifications to our machines, they could achieve similar results.
And improve the power of our ships' deflector shields.
By purchasing more compact and productive reactors from Fo F'e and reworking several systems.
Work on this front is already underway.
Consequently, we'll see results soon.
If they're acceptable, we can expect our Star Destroyers to become faster.
Not radically, but definitely more "lively" than their predecessors.
Which is sorely needed, given that the Alliance is mass-converting its air units to E-wing starfighters — the infamous "E-wing."
Whose cruising speed is one hundred twenty megalights.
Pretty... good news, actually.
The superiority of the Alliance's main machines over ours in speed and other characteristics just means more casualties among our pilots.
Unfortunately, there's nothing more to be done about the bomb and missile payload for our small craft.
In a sense, we're approaching the limit of durability and modernization for ships designed at the dawn of the Empire.
Obviously, none of our opponents will mass-rearm their entire armed forces the moment they get a new fighter type.
It's expensive.
Insanely expensive, when you look at it.
Last year, the backbone of our flight fleet consisted of Imperial-manufactured TIE fighters.
Their replacement with interceptors has been and continues to be carried out at a furious pace, with enormous expenditure on component purchases.
But we're not scrapping the old ships either.
Those that can still be sold to the Imperials go for export.
But most of the TIE fighters decommissioned from the regular fleet are transferred to the Defense Forces, which have a massive logistical hole when it comes to aerial cover for planets and patrol ships.
To conduct a mass rearmament all at once, we'd need dozens of manufacturing plants.
Building them requires time and mountains of money.
The budget is already bursting at the seams because of the numerous programs the Dominion is implementing, both in the civilian and military production sectors, not to mention dual-use items.
The scope we've taken on is too broad.
But we can't cut these programs now, either.
The only way to "trim the sturgeon" is to delay the implementation of all existing sector development programs on the territories slated for capture in the second phase.
Right now, our military industry dominates over civilian, which isn't right.
Grand Moff Ferrus is bending over backwards, but he's trying to boost the civilian economy's output.
It's yielding certain results, sure, but you have to understand that it takes at least a few years for something like a landspeeder factory to pay for itself.
Another option is to increase the selling price of goods, which would lead to a drop in demand.
A delicate game on a knife's edge.
I set aside the reading of the Grand Moff's reports and leaned back in my chair.
While the Guardian moves into position, there's time to study the current reports delivered by courier ships.
My gaze slid to the viewport.
Past the Guardian, moving "leisurely" through a debris field, floated the wreckage of an assault fleet destroyed not long ago.
Was it rational to destroy such a large number of ships just to break through the minefields?
Yes, it was rational.
Old and requiring massive investment to repair or maintain their combat effectiveness, these ships were a heavy burden on the military balance of the Dominion Armed Forces.
Sure, many of them were restored and put into service with the Defense Forces.
Corellian CR90 corvettes, also Corellian gunships, Carrack-class, Tartan-class, patrol ships, customs frigates, Lancer-class pursuit craft...
A lot of what was captured is frankly junk that the New Republic held onto out of the principle of "well, it flies, so it's good for some purpose."
We use them on roughly the same principle.
But at the same time, we're achieving the unification and optimization we discussed not long ago.
Relatively speaking, even an MC90 in excellent technical condition isn't worth more of our attention than a dozen battered CR90-type corvettes.
The latter are far more common in the galaxy; spare parts for them are cheap and readily available.
And their interchangeability with analogues is quite inexpensive, practical, and widespread.
With the regular fleet's transition to Crusader II-class corvettes for escort, support, screening, and reconnaissance duties (in other words, they cover the entire range of tasks assigned to light forces), I planned to transfer all CR90 and DP20 type starships to the Dominion Defense Forces.
We've accumulated about a thousand ships of this type (in various modifications, of course), which more than compensates for the state's internal security needs in areas that don't require active regular fleet intervention.
And yet, once upon a time, every ship of this type was seen as something important, rare, hard to come by.
And now — one raid on Sullust, the active work of cloned ship-jacking gangs in the form of Niles Ferrier, the merger of the Karthakk Sector fleets and a number of private initiatives — and we have more ships than we need.
As with the interceptors, the replacement of the Corellian light ship niche by the Crusader-class doesn't happen overnight.
Orbital repair stations work around the clock restoring and upgrading these kinds of ships.
As much as I'd like to bring the entire regular fleet under a common standard, we have to account for the fact that our shipbuilding capacity for producing Crusader-class vessels is insufficient to supply all large ships and fill the required roster.
It's all been draining money at a tremendous rate.
That's why Pellaeon would be happy to offload all this "non-standard" equipment to anyone but himself — at the very least, to get rid of the logistical headache.
Transferring this entire behemoth to the Defense Forces is easy enough — one order would suffice.
And overnight, that would leave half of our large ships without their light forces.
Which isn't right.
We have to rotate them out slowly.
And swallow the losses.
Of course, I could strike a pose and say that I should have thought about the budget sooner.
And that I shouldn't have given Dorr the order to take everything in sight from Sullust during last year's prologue to the Battle of Sluis Van.
But as they say, having a spare doesn't weigh down your pocket.
We sacrificed a considerable number of ships, but we have even more in reserve.
That's point one.
Point two: having ships that can be sacrificed without harming the regular fleet or the Defense Forces is always a boon.
For example, the assault on the mine positions at Lure clearly demonstrated why Rothana never (until Imperial times) suffered a direct enemy attack.
Even during the Clone Wars, no one dared to attack it.
And there's not a single mention of Tyber Zann ever conquering Rothana by brute military force alone.
Though, you can't deny his resourcefulness either.
It took several more hours to handle most of the military and industrial issues.
Not that I'm making direct, fundamental decisions on the matter that affect development prospects.
That's not a strategist's job.
That's the work of executors.
I just need to stay informed about the fulfillment of the tasks assigned to them, to track the vector of development.
The Guardian needed another hour before all five blocking detachments would return to the system, and a sixth, previously unaccounted for and never shown to the enemy, would also approach.
They would completely block the system, and then the problem of the enemy's "invisible" fleet in the Lure system could be solved.
Why didn't the invasion start immediately?
For one simple reason — time was needed for the enemy's "visible" ships to leave the system.
Along with the Lurrians and Lurrian technology they were transporting aboard their ships.
This entire fleet, which supposedly "crushed" our assault formations, also needed to move a sufficient distance away from the system.
This was necessary so they wouldn't return to Lure at the most inopportune moment.
Flying to the borders of the Aparo sector with second-class hyperdrives takes about two days.
We'll spend half that time getting our ships — both mine and those under the command of Rear Admiral Shohashi — into their designated positions.
Only then will the assault begin.
The tracking stations, hastily constructed, confirm that the enemy is moving directly towards the junction of the territorial borders of the "Corporate" territory and Aparo.
Consequently, after traveling half the distance, even if they learn of the attack on Lure, they will have only two options.
First — to return to the system and give battle.
A deliberately losing tactic.
If they find out what's happening in Lure (and they'll be able to do that as soon as Cronal connects with one of the local commanders), then the information about the presence of an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer and blocking detachments in the system can no longer be hidden.
The goal of the maneuver the enemy performed was to get out of the system and evacuate the most valuable assets.
Returning to Lure means returning to a trap, with guaranteed subsequent defeat and loss of their plunder.
That's strategically unacceptable.
So they will continue their journey to the border.
And, most certainly, they'll call in additional forces from the Corporate Sector to ensure unimpeded passage through the minefields on the border.
Well, we have something to counter that.
But for now...
I have time to study the most important report among those on hand.
I inserted the information crystal, delivered by the guards from the Third's laboratory, and decrypted its contents using my code cylinder.
Symbols flashed across the screen, indicating message decryption and authenticity verification.
So, there are no copies of the report, the recording is one-time.
After review, in the best traditions of Imperial Intelligence, the information will be deleted without the possibility of re-examination.
It will be enough for me to study it once.
Perhaps it will shed light on the questions that have interested me ever since I opened my eyes in this new body.
And universe.
Above the holoprojector, a volumetric image of the Third formed, a quarter of her actual size.
The woman, as always, held food in her hands.
Something resembling a sandwich.
It seems her passion for food is as constant as the existence of the Force in this universe.
Sometimes I think that if you deprived this lady of food while she was working, she'd wither like a flower in the cold.
"Grand Admiral, your task is complete," the Third said, chewing a piece and wiping her mouth on her robe's sleeve, looking straight ahead. "As you requested — the genotype has been studied. The clone autopsy has been performed. I have comprehensive data on your species. So, 'Chiss,' as you call yourselves, like humans in the past, shared a common ancestor..."
* * *
"Leader," the Dathomirian witch looked at the leader of the Lurrians. "Are your people ready?"
"Yes, Lady Ventress," he replied, glancing at several hundred of his compatriots, armed with blasters that were archaic, yet still deadly. "Ready to begin drilling the underground passages on your command."
Kyp Durron watched his mentor with interest.
"Are we attacking them from underground?" the young man asked.
"We already are," Ventress chuckled.
Durron's mouth dropped open in surprise.
"Since the alliance was formed, our organisms have been boring through the rock," explained the Lurrian leader. "It's not a fast process, but our Asgnats are bred for boring through stone. Those forced to work for the occupiers have nothing of the sort, not even close."
"And... how far have we gotten?" Durron asked, glancing towards several new five-meter tunnel mouths that hadn't been in this part of the main passage to the underground city before.
"Another day, and we'll break into the occupied settlements," the Lurrian leader explained.
"Did you make surface exits where I ordered you to?" Ventress specified.
"We didn't dig shafts to the surface, as they'd be too easily noticed," the leader explained. "But we've done all the preparatory work for it. One command from you, and within five minutes, the Asgnats left in the tunnels for this purpose will breach the surface."
"The depth of these shafts?" the Dathomirian witch inquired.
"From ten to forty meters."
"Good," Ventress grunted. "My apprentice and I will advance with your people to the front line. We'll move at the attack threshold. Assign several of your warriors to stand guard near the shafts and inform the landing troops which direction to move in."
"Yes, Lady Ventress," the leader bowed to her. "But... how long do we wait for the assault to begin?"
"We attack as soon as we get the signal. Your observers will inform us."
"But the weather on the surface is bad," the Lurrian reminded. "We're unlikely to spot or detect the transmission..."
"Your observers won't miss this signal for anything," the Dathomirian witch smirked.
"Is that so..." the Lurrian drawled meaningfully. "But... I'd like to know what this signal will be, in principle. So there isn't the slightest delay."
"Stations," Ventress smiled, almost a snarl. "Exploding and falling from orbit — those stations will be the signal for the liberation of Lure."
Silence fell in the tunnel.
It lasted several minutes, after which the Lurrian leader sighed and said:
"Yes, my observers certainly won't miss a signal like that."
"In that case, we move to the front line," Ventress commanded. "And make sure only those Lurrians who don't possess unique knowledge take part in the assault. You're only needed for the first blow. Then the stormtroopers of the 501st Guard Legion will take over. Thrawn's Fist will break the spine of any enemy, even one that burrows underground."
* * *
"First, the biological questions," the Third looked at the sandwich in her hand and, with visible effort of will, set it aside.
Now that's a feat from her.
This gesture indicates that the issues she's about to address are very important.
For me, certainly.
"The oxygen content in the atmosphere has a direct influence on blood pigmentation and eye color," the woman reported. "The more oxygen in the atmosphere, the more intense the eye glow, the richer the skin tone. Melanin in your bodies is quite dependent on oxygen. Even more so than in the average human. Hair analysis indicates that black-blue is the most common shade. A study of body chemistry, blood supply, general immunity, and a number of other physiological features indicates, by the way, that graying isn't much of a threat to you," she smiled at her own joke, then couldn't resist and took a bite of her sandwich.
After chewing it, she returned to her narrative.
"As I said, there's a great genetic overlap with humans, which suggests that your people may be descendants of one of humanity's colonization attempts. Considering the existing differences and established mutations, I can say this happened a very long time ago. The predominant distinctive physical features — eyes, hair, skin color, characteristics of internal organs, nervous system — all these are dominant traits, fixed in every new generation. Eumelanin so dominates pheomelanin that you can immediately kick out of the house any woman who gives you a child with light or red hair. He's definitely not of your lineage."
At first, this rhetoric threw me off.
I was expecting a full, proper report without any asides from the Third.
But now I realize that expecting a "clear and to the point" message from someone unfamiliar with military doctrine and codes of conduct is a pipe dream.
"A number of analyses comparing distinguishing traits of humans and Chiss allows me to hypothesize that dominant genes, like the ability to see in the dark, became fixed in your species due to living underground, or on a world lacking sufficient illumination from its local star..."
The first option is correct.
As far as I remember, the Chiss have lived under the ice on their homeworld for a long time.
"Skin tone, however, appears to be the result of exposure to minerals unknown to modern science, which on your home planet may be dissolved in the soil, the food grown in it, the water, and so on," the Third rambled. "The mutation probably didn't occur in the first, or even the immediately subsequent generations after landing. It's more likely a cumulative effect from exposure to unidentified trace elements."
I have absolutely nothing to say about that.
"And now for something very interesting," the Third's hologram's eyes literally gleamed. "Your muscular framework is more developed than that of humans. Muscles are well-adapted to loads, excessive even for strong humans. And where humans need to work on developing their musculature, in Chiss, genetics does it all for them. And not just in your case — your entire genetic code is literally a demonstration of superiority over humans. This is also very telling and points to accelerated evolution. However — it's not directed; there are no traces of genetic intervention. It's natural selection, which, for some reason, is accelerated in your species."
Probably due to the harshness of the worlds the Chiss have had to inhabit all this time.
The capital planet alone is a giant glacier, where not everyone can survive.
"What's interesting is the accelerated metabolism," the Third continued. "It's about twice as intense as a normal human's. This, in turn, explains the lack of tendency towards excess weight and the developed musculature. Yes, your body temperature is also lower than that of standard humans. Which, again, is a rather strange evolutionary turn, since I didn't see any particular genetic changes that would indicate adaptability to a world with low temperatures. Neither the lower body temperature nor the skin pigmentation provides anything like that, no advantages. And that your homeworld is a snowy world with low temperatures is easy to understand from the complex of physiological differences. Particularly, the adaptation for seeing in the dark. Again — genetics, hereditary. Just like aging..."
Now this is interesting.
Because age worries me almost more than anything else in the context of this body.
"Yes, a bit more about the similarities to humans," the Third moved a hand to her temple, as if driving in a thought trying to escape. "Beyond the obvious physical features, Chiss physiologically resemble humans to the point of having comparable circulatory, nervous, digestive, and reproductive systems. The vocal apparatus of Chiss is similar to the human one, but there are obvious differences, which evidently allow for a characteristic timbre and the use of sharper sounds for communication. I take it your national language consists mostly of them..."
Unfortunately, I can't say either "yes" or "no" to that, as I don't know the language the Chiss commonly use in their Ascendancy.
"Returning to the matter of aging," the Third continued. "This issue isn't as straightforward as it might seem. A rather interesting aging mechanism is programmed into the Chiss genes. Between the ages of one and ten, there's a rapid surge of biological growth and physiological development. By the age of ten, a Chiss is essentially a fully formed average twenty-year-old human male..."
How interesting...
"In general, the genes of your species exhibit a mechanism of accelerated aging, by a factor of two, throughout the entire lifespan," the Third narrated. "Besides biological development, I can say there's also a high probability that, during the evolution of the civilization, such accelerated growth led to premature mental maturity and psychological maturation. Between the ages of ten and fifteen, there's a peak of hormonal activity, which occurs in the first half of this period, and then declines. By the age of ten, a Chiss gains the height, weight, muscle mass, and other parameters their body will possess for the rest of their life. I'm not entirely sure, but I assume the body continues to grow for about another two to two and a half years, after which biological development stops. At the same level typical for humans twice that age. A ten-year-old child is a young man of twenty; a twenty-year-old Chiss is already a man in his prime with mature judgment..."
And if you also consider the mandatory military training for all males in the Dominion, the excellent military preparedness for any comparable age is unsurprising.
At ten, a Chiss is already a soldier.
At fifteen — an officer.
At twenty — a commander.
And after thirty — a ready-made warlord.
Interpreting this mental maturation, one can confidently name the reason why Mitth'raw'nuruodo turned out to be more talented than his comrades in the Imperial Navy.
And why his protégé, Captain Pellaeon, wasn't as talented at the same age, unlike the overwhelming majority of Imperials.
The original Thrawn was simply emotionally more mature than his opponents, and therefore skillfully predicted their moves.
Just as an adult can anticipate a child's behavior in a given situation and understand their reaction, Mitth'raw'nuruodo could "crack" the enemy's plans like nuts.
Yes, for the Chiss, he was also a nonentity, the best among the best, the first among the first...
Which makes him even more dangerous.
Who wins a battle — a twenty-year-old lieutenant or a forty-year-old colonel?
Under normal circumstances — the latter.
Even if the lieutenant has been learning the art of war since he was sixteen, the colonel is more experienced, calmer, and more level-headed.
And he's not distracted by what a growing organism might be thinking about.
It's currently ten years after the Battle of Yavin IV.
Twenty-seven years before Luke Skywalker torpedoed the first Death Star, Mitth'raw'nuruodo was already commanding a unit and destroyed the Outbound Flight.
In total, about thirty-seven standard years have passed.
Recalculated in Chiss terms — seventy-four years.
How much experience could Thrawn have accumulated over almost forty years of service and continuous tactical analysis?
Now it's clear why his mind works like a computer.
It's clear why I care so little about all these political intrigues.
Let's note this down.
At ten, he's a twenty-year-old youth with a developed physique and a mental understanding of what's going on.
At twelve and a half — he's the average twenty-five-year-old, well-developed man with an analytical mindset.
Who's going to tell them apart?
Who can accurately determine a Chiss's age without knowing the secrets of his genetic species development?
No one.
I stopped the hologram playback.
The image began to render.
Alright, let's take standard years as the unit of age measurement.
Thirty-seven standard years have passed since the destruction of the Outbound Flight.
For the Chiss — seventy-four.
By the age of ten, a Chiss is as developed as a human male.
Furthermore, the Third indicates that the hormonal surge occurs precisely during this segment of the path, after which it declines.
Well...
A bit of logic and assumptions.
Attraction to the opposite sex is driven by chemical reactions, a biological need for procreation.
Hormones and body chemistry are responsible for that.
During the destruction of the Outbound Flight, Mitth'raw'nuruodo captured the smugglers — Jorj Car'das's crew.
The latter's crew included a woman who, judging by indirect evidence, was the object of unambiguous attention from the young Chiss.
Later, I can't recall a single episode where Thrawn devoted the same zeal toward the opposite sex.
What if, at the time of the expedition beyond the galaxy, Thrawn was already between ten and fifteen standard biological years old, which accounts for his attention to the human woman?
If so, my body is currently between forty-seven and sixty-two standard biological years old.
Double it according to the rule of Chiss development.
Between ninety-seven and one hundred twelve "Chiss" years.
Yet — a clear mind, excellent physique, no signs of dementia or age-related changes.
Mother of God...
For the first time ever, I felt like I couldn't breathe...
Truly, only the Force and the Chiss's own carelessness in missing the Noghri's betrayal right under his nose saved the New Republic from complete annihilation in Thrawn's original campaign.
How can a child even fight an adult?
How old are the main heroes of the New Republic?
Around thirty?
For a Chiss, that's adolescents — beating them at holochess is as simple as taking candy from a baby.
Multiply that by Mitth'raw'nuruodo's unique ability...
No magic.
No Force.
Nothing supernatural.
Just genetics, evolution, logic, and analysis.
."..The average human can live about one hundred to one hundred twenty years without significant biological changes," the Third continued meanwhile. "That's the average lifespan most notably observed in members of the human race. Which in turn determines the approximate lifespan of the Chiss with their characteristic metabolism to be roughly the same period. But the final figure in standard years varies, of course. It depends on many factors. For instance, reference data indicates that Force-sensitive beings, Jedi, could live up to two hundred standard years, but their level of dementia and activity during that period is a rather sparse topic. However, based on what I've analyzed from your genome and from the body of the clone created, I can state directly: your level of Force sensitivity is no higher than that of an ordinary sentient. You will not become a Jedi."
The Third smiled at another joke and finally finished her sandwich.
"Considering age-related and other changes, I can project your approximate lifespan at about eighty standard years," she mumbled, chewing the remains of her food. "Genetics allows for longer, but I think you understand yourself that it depends not so much on that as on external factors. In any case, I've figured we could use the cloning method to create a young body for you if that option becomes necessary. With proper genetic manipulation, which requires additional time and resources, it will be possible to halt premature aging and thereby produce a clone completely identical to your body without modifications. At the same time, rejuvenation cycles of brain cells can be initiated in the old body to avoid dementia and perform a brain transplant..."
I stopped the message playback.
The Guardian was approaching its target.
We'll begin soon.
The results didn't particularly please me, but they shed more light on the nature of the Chiss.
That's good.
There's an understanding of questions that were previously unknown or misunderstood to me.
But at the same time, they raised new questions.
There's no point in deluding myself with the hope that the Chiss are so desperate as to let fifteen-year-old teenagers command ship squadrons, as I assumed regarding the Outbound Flight situation.
Surely that's not the case.
At least forty-seven years lived.
Or thereabouts.
No one will ever say for sure.
Even in Thrawn's personnel file, created upon his recruitment into Imperial service, his age is not listed.
Nor is there such data in the Emperor's decrypted files.
Nothing but riddles.
And the endpoint of life is a highly variable quantity.
There is no data on how long the Chiss live.
At least not in open access.
Fly to the Empire of the Hand, or the Ascendancy, to ask that question?
No, nonsense.
I've already lived one life.
It's logical to understand and accept the fact that the second life will end one day too.
Is it worth grieving over this?
No, it's not.
Only those who have wasted their years regret them.
Right now, the main — I'd even say the most important — question is to finish the initiatives I've started.
Even if I don't live to see the Yuuzhan Vong arrive in the galaxy, I must ensure the outcome of their invasion is different.
It would be foolish to spend so much time, resources, and lose so many subordinates just for the finale of this story to end like the events I know.
Or even worse.
There's still time.
There are still resources to fix and adjust everything, to prepare and "rehearse."
To train those who will replace me.
To eliminate threats that, in the events I know, would have required excessive effort.
To be useful.
So...
No reason for despair.
The body feels excellent.
Good genetics.
Decent projections too.
Live and work on.
What do career military personnel say to melancholy?
That's right: "Not today, friend. Go bother the gadget generation. We're busy with real work, but those guys have their jeans unevenly cuffed, their hoverboard's dead, and their smoothie isn't green enough."
As if on cue, the comlink came to life.
"Grand Admiral, the Guardian has reached the designated point," Captain Pellaeon's voice was brisk and beamed with anticipation of battle.
"I'll be on the bridge in ten minutes. Declare battle stations. We begin on my order."
"It will be done, sir!"
The air inside the Guardian filled with piercing sounds, encouraging the crew who had been waiting impatiently.
That's good.
The battle will put everything in its place.
The other thing is bad.
I already know a place in this galaxy where a year counts as two.
And I don't believe in coincidences.
* * *
Major Kreb took his place inside the cockpit of his Avenger.
The top hatch was sealed, systems checked and ready for battle.
His gaze, through the helmet's visor, fell upon a holo-photo.
Tia's smile encouraged new feats.
The major pressed the pedals to check the rotation mechanisms of the twin ion engines.
He was ready.
The machine of death awaited orders.
Also waiting its turn was the fulfillment of a promise made by Krieg Jainer to the commander of the destroyed enemy squadron.
Find the daughters.
Lie about how their father died.
Should he do it instead of Jainer?
According to the Charter — no.
By the laws of honor — the leader is responsible for the actions of his wingman.
And the fact that Jainer was no longer his second-in-command at the time of making the promise changes nothing.
Beyond morality, there are the laws of conscience.
"OCC, this is Avenger-Leader," he opened a communication channel with his squadron's controller.
"Listening carefully, Avenger-Leader."
"Book me a two-week leave after completing this mission," he said. "With departure outside Dominion territory."
The controller was silent for a few seconds.
"Sir, this can only be done by order of the ship's commander," the controller warned. "And the DSB will likely want to 'talk' with you about the motives for such an action."
"Well, in that case, schedule me for an appointment with Captain Pellaeon," Kreb cut in laconically, flexing his wrists. "I'm not afraid of a talk with 'counterintelligence.'"
But a dispute with his own conscience — that he very much was.
"Received, sir, the request has been sent," the controller reported. "Attention! Launch of the entire wing!"
Kreb smoothly guided his craft off the guide rails and surged toward the open hangar bay.
Ahead, targets loomed — enemy stations, absorbing oceans of turbolaser fire.
And spewing back streams of plasma and dozens of fighters.
Major Kreb assigned targets for himself and his wingman, then rushed toward the first victim.
The machine of death began its harvest.