Ten years, five months, and thirty-one days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, fifth month, and thirty-first day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year, two months, and eleven days since the Arrival.)
Major General Maximilian Cain, like everyone present in the Guardian's tactical command center, was silent, composed, and unruffled, but a fire burned within him.
The ship's chronometer had passed midnight by standard Coruscant time, meaning very little time remained until the fate of the entire operation would be decided.
Before the eyes of the commander of the Dominion's 501st Guard Legion, as before everyone present, a three-dimensional tactical map of the situation within two hundred standard units of the Super Star Destroyer Guardian's location glowed.
It and the Baneblade — two nineteen-kilometer giants, as alike as twin brothers, distinguishable only to those close to them — hung like two enormous fangs on the flanks of a modest half-bowl formation that awaited the General's fleet.
Five more standard minutes, and it would be clear whether the audacious plan conceived by Grand Admiral Thrawn had succeeded or not.
A question so tormenting for those present that the Jurgen standing next to Cain drew his comrade's attention with a single motion: the commander of the 501st had already split the seam on his gloves.
"Sithspawn!" Cain thought automatically, seeing that through the tear, indelible paint was visible on his finger.
A small, motivating prank aimed at one capable officer had resulted in him being forced to wear standard gloves constantly to conceal his involvement in creating the Rancor Battalion emblem.
The "Slouching Rancor" had already proven itself on the battlefield and was beloved by the troops.
But the paint, typically used to mark starships, could not be removed by any solvent that didn't strip skin and flesh from bone along with the color.
Cain glanced sidelong at Thrawn, who was calmly speaking with Captain Pellaeon away from the holographic projector.
The Jensaarai Defender, Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, was also present, stoically and silently gazing at the projection.
Or perhaps just sleeping — impossible to tell under the sealed armor.
Numerous clone officers conferred among themselves in barely audible whispers, reporting the slightest changes in the situation or confirming the absence of foreign objects or ships in the fleet's operating zone.
Waiting was one thing, but no one had relieved the patrol squadrons from their duty of securing the anchorage.
Logically, he, Maximilian, should relax and wait in silence for the fleet officers to give the order for the stormtroopers to move toward the ships with which contact had been lost.
That was how the Empire worked — the donor's memories suggested that interdepartmental negligence in the Galactic Empire's armed forces was practically a badge of honor.
In the Dominion, though…
Cain hardly belonged among the fleet officers, but he worried about their possible failure as if it were his own.
After all, if the plan failed and only the General's starships emerged from hyperspace without the Empire-design ships stolen from the Rendili shipyards, the consequences were hard to imagine.
Communications systems on all ships don't just fail simultaneously on their own.
Not all ships, without exception, fail to report the presence of enemy saboteurs on board.
The Dominion, perhaps drunk on its own impunity, had carried out a risky operation.
Aboard each of the trophy ships were not only defectors from the Galactic Alliance and New Republic — there were clones.
Thousands of clones.
And the Dominion's possession of cloning technology was not exactly widely disseminated information.
Furthermore, if even one starship broke off its flight and returned to its former masters, not only would the secret of the clones be revealed — the New Republic would immediately know who had attacked them.
And then the Grand Admiral's plan to pit the Alliance against the Republic would fail with such a crash that…
"Mass detectors have detected large metal volumes moving!" one of the officers at the consoles reported. "Estimated arrival time — two and a half standard minutes."
Down to the second with the expected fleet.
"Course?" Thrawn, though looking unruffled, spoke with a tense, concerned tone.
Cain met Jurgen's gaze.
The Rancor Battalion commander winked at the man who bore the exact same face he himself did.
As if to say, well, yes, Thrawn is the embodiment of composure, but he's still not immune to human emotion.
Even emotions he rarely shows to anyone, even his closest subordinates.
"Matches the General's fleet's calculated course, sir!"
"Gentlemen," Thrawn looked at the assembled generals. "Your units should already be aboard the ships and ready to depart for the starships."
"Yes, sir, exactly."
"You may begin."
Without a word, the Jensaarai Defender sprang from his spot and slipped through the barely opened armored doors.
And two minutes later, a message arrived that he, his students, and the Jedi Jaden Korr had left the Guardian and were moving with the boarding team fighters to the Reaper.
While Cain and Jurgen were issuing orders, dozens of starships cut through the blackness of hyperspace.
At first, nothing caught the eye except for stars and a couple of Mon Calamari battlecruisers, until...
Like a blade striking straight into the heart, a battered, smoking nineteen-kilometer Super Star Destroyer with gaping holes fell into the gravity well trap organized by two Dominating-class Star Destroyers.
Hundreds of transport ships immediately headed toward it through designated sectors.
Behind the giant, dozens of fast bombers dropped out of their sprint, ready at a moment's notice to unleash a massive volley of proton torpedoes that would cripple the ship but not allow it to escape anywhere.
Two Imperial-class Star Destroyers materialized beside it, along with heavy cruisers and Lancer-class frigates.
Except there was one fewer of the latter — the Avengers and Lancers — than expected.
"We're registering main engine shutdown on the Reaper!"
"Interceptor pilots report multiple flashes in the viewports!"
"There's a fight going on aboard the ship," Pellaeon determined.
"Boarding team contact!"
"Landing on the bridge!"
"Rancor Battalion delivered AT-RTs to the flight deck!"
"Sir, we're registering turbolaser targeting!"
"Target?"
"Just into space..."
"Ion cannons to battle stations!" Pellaeon barked. "Prepare to open fire on the Reaper and silence its artillery!"
"Where are the other ships?" Jurgen quietly asked Cain, but he just waved off his twin.
"Pilots report breaches inside the navigation room!"
"Assault Commandos report multiple decompression events in the outer compartments!"
"Turbolaser is firing!"
"Hits?"
"They're firing into space, sir!"
"At the interceptors? Corvettes?" Pellaeon was clearly on edge, which was understandable given the current situation.
"No, sir, directly into space... And the rate of fire is strange... Two types of pauses between shots. No more, no less..."
"It's a signal," Thrawn said. "Activate light signal codifiers!"
"Yes, sir!" The decryptors instantly began the necessary analysis of possible signals.
"Report from the General!"
"Read it out!" Thrawn's voice was like durasteel.
"All captured ships went into jump. Reason for one cruiser and one frigate missing from the rendezvous point unknown. Requesting instructions," the comms operator rattled off briskly.
"Target the prizes — destroy them if they attempt to move or raise shields. Send all available infantry units aboard the destroyers, cruisers, and frigates," the Grand Admiral ordered clearly. "We'll handle the Reaper ourselves. Warn the ship crews via semaphore and laser comms — we're coming to assist."
The right prioritization.
Even all together, the other ships couldn't represent the same value as an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer.
No ship must leave the rendezvous point — otherwise, it could be said the vessel had been captured by the enemy.
The already unclear fate of two prizes pointed to the likelihood of either their destruction or their capture by the enemy.
Both options were catastrophic, but one couldn't simply give in to despair and wave a hand at what was happening nonetheless.
The seconds dragged on agonizingly, during which the generals had already received the first reports that contact had been lost with the soldiers of Torrent Company as soon as they'd delved into the corridors of the giant's superstructure.
Now, even the portable repeaters of the comms troopers involved in this boarding couldn't help inform them of their fate.
"We have a decryption!" one of the decryptors barked, grabbing a datapad from his console and rushing to Pellaeon.
The commander of the Guardian snatched the device from his hands, exchanged significant glances with Thrawn, and immediately read aloud:
"'There are a hundred thousand Devastator-class droids on board. Intend to maintain control over key compartments of the ship. Bridge has fallen, equipment disabled. Seventy percent of the crew eliminated. Battery deck is de-powered, but the enemy is working on restoration. Fighting ongoing for the engine, reactor, and drive compartments. Central computer is still under Dominion control and is being defended by naval special forces. Deflector generators are missing. Continuing sabotage of weapons systems. On behalf of Bravo-Three, astromech R7,'" he read, looking at the Grand Admiral. "This dispatch was sent by an astrodroid, sir? What the hell is going on in there?"
"How can one droid block the weapons system?" Jurgen was stunned.
"That's my astromech," Thrawn explained. "Before a memory wipe, it belonged to the Skywalker family and was named R2-D2. And if it survives this battle, it seems we'll have to introduce a practice of awarding medals to droids, gentlemen. Well, for now — to work!"
* * *
The droid's dome-shaped head appeared from behind the bulkhead, and a trill with a whistle sounded.
"Brilliant, bucket of bolts!" Rederick shouted, pressing his body against the cover and swapping out a power cell. "We survive this — I'll polish you myself!"
R7 burst into beeping and began rocking side to side on its support legs.
"Oh, Sith take you!" the scout snapped. "Are you sure they can't interrupt the gun diagnostic process?"
An affirmative whistle.
"Are the other gun emplacements securely sealed with blast doors?"
The droid croaked affirmatively again.
"In that case — let's get the hell out of here!" Rederick ordered. "Roll out, I've got your back!"
Leaning out from behind the bulkhead, the man lined up the head of the nearest Devastator and melted it with a powerful blast.
The droid didn't even react to the rude hit, after which Rederick shot through its torso and servo control module.
With a crash, the enemy fell to the deck at the feet of its comrades, who simply walked over it as if they hadn't even noticed.
From the far end came the whistle of the astromech, which had acquired five new scorch marks on its chassis.
The little astrodroid, having connected to an information port, spun its probe, intending to open a passage into the adjacent room.
With the clear sound of a magnet engaging, its support legs became inextricably linked to the deck.
Rederick grabbed the nearest handrail with all his strength, threading his left forearm under it for good measure.
The doors to the adjacent compartment, where the Rendili crew hadn't yet managed to restore hull integrity, hissed open.
The inhuman force of decompression yanked Bravo-Three toward the breach into the void, and the arm he was using to hold the handrail nearly snapped in half.
But it was worth it.
Two droids didn't react to the depressurization in time and tumbled out through the man-made gap.
Four others, even though they managed to magnetize their feet, couldn't resist the unstoppable force of the escaping air, bending at the waist.
Rederick, pushing through the pain in his arm from the handrail, emptied his cell, punching holes in the enemy battle droids' chassis before they could adapt to the new conditions.
"Close it!" the scout roared, and the astromech, working its magic on the electronic devices, slammed the compartment doors shut, preventing death from oxygen starvation.
Quickly reloading his weapon, the scout fired control shots into the key modules of the defeated but partially combat-capable enemy droids, and only calmed down after they stopped showing signs of function.
Only then, using a vibroblade taken from one of the droids, did he finish the job, dismembering the metal "skeletons."
"Now I'm sure no one's going to shoot me in the back," he said vengefully.
Beside him, R7 hummed questioningly.
"I don't care which of them killed Vex — I'll destroy every Ubrikkian-manufactured son of a bitch I meet on my way!"
A questioning hoot.
"I don't give a damn that they don't feel anything! But I get joy from the killing!" the scout grimaced.
The droid puffed something disapprovingly.
"At least you get off my back, will you?" Rederick asked. "Let's go — there's another group three compartments over. And yeah, contact Ghent, ask if they need our help..."
* * *
Streams of green plasma from the AT-RT's cannons whistled overhead, but Fodeum paid them no attention.
The Jensaarai Defender pulled his lightsaber from his belt, holding it in his right hand, allowing the balance within him to slip toward the Dark side.
Fodeum knew the Dark side well; once he'd sunk too deep into it, and it had led him down a path of the uncontrolled rage typical of madmen.
But right now, he needed to use aggression, which meant channeling the Dark side.
He sank into it easily, crouching, then leaped straight up, letting the Force carry him.
The Defender crossed the distance separating him from the fighting Jaden Korr, then without hesitation pierced the head and chassis of a Devastator with his blade, before spinning to cut a droid that had been about to strike Mace Windu's student in the back with a vibroblade into two uneven halves.
"Thanks!" Korr blocked a second droid's vibroblade with his weapon, sliced its weapon apart, then Force-pushed it away from him.
"Fool!" Fodeum roared, not letting the droid fly away and crushing the Devastator into a shapeless lump with a Force grip. "Destroy! Don't incapacitate!"
"But Master Windu—!" the Jedi tried to object, parrying several shots aimed at him.
"Will tear you a new one in the Force if you're stupid enough to leave yourself open!" the Jensaarai snarled, continuing his advance.
Behind them, the walkers thundered, turning the Reaper's landing deck into a battlefield where they destroyed everything that didn't look like a Dominion soldier with cannons and grenade launchers.
As unpleasant as it was to note that the bodies of killed special forces and crew shuttles also suffered from the explosions, there was simply no other option.
Either total clearance and turning the main hangar into a beachhead for advancing deeper into the ship, or the nimble Devastators would make the landing force drown in its own blood.
Practically nowhere else could the Dominion deploy even small units like the AT-RTs.
They simply couldn't fit through the emergency airlocks, so the only way to get them aboard the ship along with battle droids, 501st stormtroopers, Assault Commandos, and special forces squads was the main flight deck.
Well, and the cargo hangar, where another legion's armored vehicles, based on the Striking Blade, were operating.
Fodeum accelerated with the Force, pushed off the hull of a droid Gantoris had taken down, soared into the air, and crashed down onto the deck like a stone, releasing a Force Wave in all directions.
The droids were scattered like casino dice, allowing the nearest stormtrooper squads to lean out from cover and go on the offensive.
A familiar crackle of Force Lightning struck his ears — Magash Drashi was venting her fury on the mechanical enemies, frying their circuits.
Fodeum grabbed a droid armed with a sniper rifle with the Force, yanked it toward him.
Cutting through its weapon with his lightsaber, the Jensaarai sliced it from belly to head and hurled the pieces at two other Devastators.
They deflected the incoming projectiles with vibroblades, but only knocked their weapons aside.
Which was exactly what Fodeum had been aiming for.
Descending on the Devastators like a force of nature itself, he was already at another enemy a second later, having used the Force to get there, leaving only sparking technical wreckage behind him.
The new victim stood with its back to the Jensaarai.
But it seemed it had still sensed Fodeum's approach and started to turn.
Fodeum gestured, using the Force, and pulled it toward him.
Like a blurred streak of light, his blade slashed the droid to ribbons, and a Force Push turned it into shrapnel.
Ballistokinesis with large projectiles tore a small squad of Devastators to pieces.
Fodeum sensed danger and rolled aside, turning to face the enemy.
Three Devastators were coming up behind him at once.
One was firing at him from two rapid-fire blasters simultaneously, blocking any chance to counterattack.
Fodeum had to expend all his energy blocking the shots and channeling the Force through himself to accelerate his reflexes.
Which was exactly what allowed him to sense the new threat.
And he had no choice — the young man pushed off the deck with the Force and performed a backflip.
Landing on a pile of transport containers, he saw an AT-RT sweep its cannons over the droids that had been pressing him, turning them into scrap metal.
The Jensaarai struck with Force Lightning, shorting out two more droids, then cut them apart.
Spotting one of the Devastators preparing a rocket launcher to fire at the walker, the Defender reached out with the Force and tore the droid apart.
The rocket managed to launch, but Gantoris intercepted it with the Force and, with monstrous strain on his face, sent it into the enemy droid formation by the far wall.
The explosion mangled several enemy machines and allowed the walkers to shift fire from their blasters and mortars to the enemy reinforcements.
Something resembling a hand-held anti-tank launcher fired before Fodeum could react.
The AT-RT that had saved him from the attacks from behind managed to twist its chassis and took the charge in a support "leg," which shattered into pieces.
The war machine pitched forward, pinning its cockpit to the floor.
Meaning the pilot was doomed.
But not on his watch.
The Defender, noting that both students and the Jedi were making decent progress forward, dashed to the fallen "little one."
Using the Force, he flipped the AT-RT, tore off the warped front panel, and with a swipe of his blade cut through the clearly jammed metal safety straps pinning the pilot to his seat.
"Alive, Lieutenant?" the Defender asked, noting the command plate on the driver's chest.
"My legs are pinned!" On the right half of his jumpsuit was the inscription "T. Roach." "Shrapnel in my arm, but that's nothing... Hey! What are you doing?"
"Saving your life."
The air smelled of coolant and fuel, meaning this AT-RT was far more damaged than it appeared.
With two swipes of his blade and the Force, Fodeum twisted the lower part of the cockpit so he could eliminate the metal misalignment trapping the lieutenant's lower limbs.
Fodeum tore those free with the Force, then pulled the pilot out and sent the walker flying beyond the atmospheric field of the flight deck with a Force Push.
"Here," sitting the pilot with his back against a massive transport container, the Jensaarai Force-pulled the weapon of a nearby destroyed Devastator and handed it to Roach. "Welcome to the infantry, Lieutenant!"
"That's not funny!" T. Roach shouted after him, but Fodeum was already returning to the front line, having formed a Force Shield around himself and turning into a living projectile with Acceleration.
Like a steamroller, he crushed everything before him, and several dozen enemy droids around him scattered into pieces.
The stormtroopers' suppressive fire relentlessly mangled the battle droids' chassis, preventing them from getting up and continuing the fight.
Fodeum rushed forward, dodged a vibroblade thrust by crouching and pivoting on his heels, struck the New Republic battle droid in the chest with his blade, causing it to hesitate for a moment, switching damaged systems to backups.
Gantoris didn't let it finish — with a sweep of his blade, he cut the death machine in half and immediately sliced the next enemy from shoulder to hip with his lightsaber.
With a blood-curdling howl, Magash Drashi charged two droids at once and severed their limbs before they could harm her.
The Jensaarai Defender, though blazing with the controlled Dark Side of the Force, noted that his students, despite their predisposition to it, were keeping themselves in check.
It hadn't even been a year, and they'd finally learned.
"Hell, I'm teacher of the year!" Fodeum thought, parrying a blaster shot back at the shooter and melting its faceplate.
The droid recoiled, but a moment later, just as Fodeum intended to cut it apart, aimed shots from behind the Jensaarai struck the enemy at the manipulator joints, and the machine crashed to the deck, trying to use its backup systems.
Fodeum dismembered the enemy and glanced covertly at the uninvited helper who'd beaten him to the attack.
Lieutenant T. Roach saluted him and continued firing at the New Republic droids.
The Jensaarai Defender, smirking, returned to his work, unleashing streams of electricity at a squad of droids, making their attack stall in electrical convulsions.
To his left and right, Magash and Gantoris joined him.
And Jaden Korr...
The Jedi was fighting selflessly against a dozen droids trying to chop him up with vibroblades.
And in about three minutes, they'd succeed.
"Gantoris," Fodeum addressed his student. "Help that big oaf before he gets killed."
"Help a Jedi?" the hot-blooded fighter from Eol Sha was stunned. "Teacher...! I'm a warrior, not a babysitter!"
"Yes, yes, yes, I know that as long as he's not in the Order, he's practically an enemy," the son of Saarai-kaar grimaced. "But think — we won't get the knowledge of Vaapad from Master Windu if his student buys the farm like the Jedi Council did thirty years ago, will we?"
Understanding dawned on Gantoris's face.
Well yes, the forgotten seventh fencing style, which could become an undeniable advantage for the Jensaarai thanks to their ability to balance the Dark and Light sides of the Force within themselves, must not be lost.
And beating it out of Windu by force...
No, there were no fools for that.
"The Jensaarai protect the weak!" Magash Drashi proclaimed, rushing swiftly to Korr's aid. "Jedi, don't falter, I'm coming...!"
And in that same instant, she crashed into the crowd of enemies surrounding the Jedi, instantly adapting to his sweeping fencing style.
"Hmm," Gantoris parried a couple of blaster shots back at the shooters without looking. "They're working together pretty well..."
"Exactly," Fodeum narrowed his eyes. "Hmm, hmm, hmm... What if I pawn this Dathomiri pain-in-my-nerves off on Windu?"
* * *
ST-7711 and the other stormtroopers of Torrent Company are going on the attack.
A shot to the left shoulder comes right after a hit to the right side of the sternum.
ST-7711 is spun involuntarily to the left.
But this same misfortune saves him from a burst fired by an Ubrikkian battle droid.
The soldier covering on the right, taking a crimson energy charge to the chest, crashes to the deck, arms flailing.
Torrent Company of the 501st Legion fights like rancors, fighting their way to the backup command post.
ST-7711, regaining his balance, opens precise fire on the droids ahead.
The target is close — beyond this corridor intersection is the backup command center.
The droids the enemy had killed managed to report that the Ubrikkian war machines had begun breaching the blast doors.
The deck was littered with the corpses of Assault Commandos and disabled droids, droidekas, and mangled automated turrets that had held back the enemy onslaught.
Dozens of Ubrikkian Devastators had met their end here, but no less than three dozen were still fully operational.
Half of Torrent Company had already been destroyed.
Even the improved armor of the Dominion Stormtrooper Corps couldn't protect against the enemy's hurricane fire.
A clone stormtrooper could withstand one, two, maybe three hits, but the Devastators were literally flooding the corridors with crimson energy bolts.
Mowing down everything living, they were determinedly aiming to seize control of the ship's last command center.
But the Dominion stormtroopers wouldn't allow it.
"Rockets!"
The warning over the comlink made the soldiers in smoke-stained white armor scatter to cover.
Portable rocket launchers fired from behind the soldiers' backs.
Kinetic munitions streaked forward, detonating on contact with the enemy.
Detonation waves struck in all directions, mangling and breaking the war machines' chassis, mutilating corpses, and scarring the deck, bulkheads, and decorative panels.
Stormtroopers know no mercy.
Stormtroopers follow orders.
Following the rocket attack, company squads switched to suppressive fire.
The wall of energy fire they formed melted the droids' armor, cut parts off the Ubrikkian death machines, severed drives, and broke equipment, weapons, artificial limbs...
The forward enemy droids were destroyed.
"Rockets!"
And again, the stormtroopers took cover.
The munitions, leaving barely visible trails, streaked toward the enemy.
It all repeated, again and again.
Time after time.
Rocket attack — stormtroopers take cover.
Stormtroopers attack — rocket troopers reload.
And start over.
Monotonous work that had to be done.
The enemy squad was scattered by another explosion.
Ahead — not a single New Republic fighter left on their feet or capable of opening fire.
"Forward! Secure damaged droids!"
ST-7711, raising his blaster to his chest, advances with his comrades to complete the clearance and move on to storming the second group of droids.
Underfoot — a mash of bones, bodies, and machinery.
Occasionally, cut wiring sparks, or enemy mechanisms start to twitch.
The stormtroopers finish off the Ubrikkian Devastators with aimed fire and march on.
The backup command post is under Dominion control.
But a dozen enemy droids have already planted explosives to breach the armor at the entrance.
They've already breached two of the three blast doors in sequence.
If they get this one open — a massacre will start inside.
Dominion personnel will die.
The ship's control systems will fall into enemy hands.
An unacceptable outcome.
Torrent Company goes on the assault.
Thermal detonators are the first into battle — the droids spread out to protect themselves.
At that moment, the stormtroopers unleash a dagger-fire of stunners at the charges on the blast doors.
The ionizing effect of the ring-shaped shots is minimal, but if two dozen stormtroopers are firing — the electronics will inevitably short-circuit, turning the demolition charges into useless equipment.
That's exactly what the stormtroopers of Torrent Company were aiming for.
Even if they all died, the sentients inside would have time to prepare a defense.
Or destroy the ship's control instruments.
The primary objective of controlling the Super Star Destroyer was lost on the navigation bridge.
The secondary objective was currently being fought for tooth and nail at the backup command post.
Tertiary control systems scattered across various compartments were also under the Dominion soldiers' control.
Any delay in securing the control systems primarily benefited the Dominion.
Two full-strength, battle-hardened Dominion legions of professional soldiers were operating aboard the Reaper.
And their droids.
Fighting raged from bow to stern of the leviathan, and in a situation where victory might not be possible, all you had to do was stall for time.
Help was on the way.
Torrent Company had lost contact with command.
Their objective was known to command.
The most obvious reason for the communication loss was the unit's destruction by the enemy.
Regulations dictated sending reinforcements.
ST-7711 pumped several shots into the enemy droid, forcing it to drop its blaster from its manipulators.
Closing in on the opponent, he put three shots into the control block on its chest, shot through its head, depriving the Devastator of its ability to orient itself in space, then yanked the opponent toward him.
The shots aimed at ST-7711 were absorbed by the back of the Ubrikkian war machine.
Using it as cover, ST-7711 shot one enemy droid in the head and blew a limb off another.
He had to retreat when a third attacked him with a vibroblade.
ST-7711 vaporized part of its wrist, and the vibro-weapon clattered to the deck, but that didn't stop the droid.
It drew a blaster pistol — ST-7711 shot the weapon with his own blaster rifle.
The explosion of the gas cartridge and energy cell cost the enemy a second limb.
The stormtrooper had to fall back — his ammunition was spent.
He dove sideways to avoid a blow from the stump aimed at his head.
His thumb found the eject button for the spent cell and cartridge.
The soldier ducked, dodging another wide swing, and took a kick to the face from the Devastator.
Falling onto his back, he mechanically slammed a new cartridge and cell into the weapon.
The weapon came alive just as the damaged droid decided to crush the soldier with a stomp of its mechanical limb to his chest.
A blaster burst tore through the Devastator from the bottom of its chassis to its head, forcing it back to switch to secondary body-control systems.
From the side, another stormtrooper laid down supporting fire — a salvo from a heavy repeater blasted the enemy away.
The soldier who came to help was right there, laying down suppressive fire, and extended a free hand to ST-7711.
Yanking himself to his feet, the stormtrooper finished off a droid about to kill another soldier with a precise shot.
The Ubrikkian machine fell to the deck and didn't move again.
ST-7711 swept the area.
No enemy machines.
The thinned-out company was converging on the entrance to the backup command post.
Two surviving sappers were hastily removing demolition charges to prevent accidental detonation.
Four soldiers swept the area, finishing off any still-active enemy droids, and with that, the job was done.
"Set up a perimeter!" commanded a nearby sergeant, wounded in the leg but ignoring it. "Gather ammunition! Tend to the wounded! Recon the nearest compartments!"
Apparently, he was the highest-ranking soldier left in the unit — Torrent Company had lost its officers.
But the mission was complete.
They had fought their way to the CP.
But they weren't to enter — the sergeant had already contacted the personnel inside, confirming they were Dominion.
The entrance was welded shut and blocked.
So be it.
An extra safety guarantee for the crew.
ST-7711 joined the other soldiers, dragging the wounded to the sealed blast door where medics would tend to them.
The stormtroopers posted sentries and began gathering ammunition.
No comms.
No one knew what was happening in other parts of the ship.
But if the enemy tried to attack, Torrent Company would do its duty to the end and wouldn't abandon its position.
Even if they were all killed here.
To be a stormtrooper is to live forever!
* * *
Another moment and he wouldn't have made it.
THX-0333 leaped forward, driving his obsidian blade into a battle droid's arm servo.
The manipulators released their grip, and the blue-haired young man collapsed to the floor of the central computer compartment.
He scrambled under an instrument panel, leaving the Assault Commando to deal with the droids that had breached the room.
The Fourth Special Squad of the Assault Commandos, like a black mist, moved with lightning speed.
The combat knife's blade snapped off at the hilt with a crunch, but THX-0333 was no longer concerned with the lost weapon. He shoved his blaster pistol under the Devastator's chin and fired at maximum power, draining the cell and cartridge in a single shot.
But the result was worth it — half of the Ubrikkian battle droid's head simply ceased to exist.
His thumb hit the eject button for the spent cell, but THX-0333 didn't have time to reload.
The opponent tried to fire point-blank, but the Assault Commando jerked the weapon aside, changing its trajectory.
A crimson blaster bolt scorched the side of his cuirass, and the grip of the Dominion weapon crushed the mechanical hand.
The enemy's blaster was now in the commando's hands, and three shots pierced the droid's vital components.
The enemy fell, followed by two finishing shots.
That droid would harm no one else.
Nearby, a dying commando gurgled, thrown from the opponent's vibroblade.
His partner died, choking on blood beneath his helmet, but his paired blaster pistols ripped into the victor, turning the droid into a mechanical slurry that went still on the floor.
THX-0333 took out two more droids with the captured weapon, disabling them, before realizing that blaster was empty too.
The dying Assault Commando's hand movements caught his attention, and THX-0333 turned his body toward him.
The captured weapon clattered to the floor, and the standard-issue blaster pistols dropped by the dying man settled into his hands.
Two-thirds charge in each.
THX-0333 rolled out of the line of fire of three droids, managing to shoot the blaster rifle of one.
The detonating tibanna tore the enemy apart.
But that was a fluke.
Unlikely to be repeated.
THX-0333 fired both blasters and shredded another droid, turning it into scrap metal.
The last one wounded him in the right shoulder, and one blaster fell from his now-limp hand.
Bad.
THX-0333 took cover behind a smashed panel.
To his left, the blue-haired young man appeared.
His face showed shock and terror.
But he clutched a loaded blaster pistol — the Assault Commando's own, dropped during the fight.
"I... I'll help!"
His face said otherwise.
This man wasn't someone you could count on in a fight.
He could do something, but he wasn't an Assault Commando.
THX-0333 waited until the Ubrikkian battle droid was close, and, heedless of his legs, swept its legs out from under it.
Bones and muscles screamed from the impact against metal, but the Devastator crashed to the deck.
The sergeant pinned one manipulator with his body, preventing the blaster clamped in it from firing accurately.
His pistol fired point-blank.
The motor control center was hit, several servos, the power core was damaged...
But the enemy machine still wouldn't shut down.
THX-0333 kept firing.
The droid struck his leg and shattered his shin.
The Assault Commando bit his lower lip until it bled, but kept working.
He couldn't afford to lose!
If he died, the central computer would be captured.
That would give the enemy control over every system on the Super Star Destroyer.
Worse, it would mean the death of Mr. Ghent, who was trembling in fear behind the Assault Commando.
A second blow from the enemy's manipulator shattered the cuirass's mounting, followed by several ribs.
THX-0333 had already disabled all systems controlling the droid's lower half — only the sensors in its artificial head remained, and then the machine would be blind, deaf, and an easy target with just one working manipulator.
Another blow made THX-0333 spit blood onto his visor.
A real fire blazed in his chest, and blood ran down his throat.
Hemopneumothorax.
He had to hurry.
Another blow made his vision go dark, but the Assault Commando's left arm wrapped around the enemy's manipulator and twisted.
If his enemy were a human, he'd be howling in pain.
The opponent simply shifted the commando's body sideways, tilting its own chassis and...
THX-0333 braced his feet against the Ubrikkian Devastator's chin and arched his back.
Simultaneously, he thrust his chest forward and pressed his chin to it, fumbling for the clasp.
It was difficult, almost beyond his fading strength, but he managed to unfasten the cumbersome helmet and, with a jerk of his head, throw it off.
At the same time, he spat out a mouthful of blood and managed one short breath with his wounded chest.
He couldn't breathe deeply — he might pass out from shock.
His feet pressed against the droid's mechanical head; blood from his brow dripped into his eyes; fire burned in his chest.
The Assault Commando's left leg coiled, and like a piston, he struck the "face" of the Devastator, which had turned its photoreceptors to assess the enemy's position.
The monolithic protective sole of his armored boot shattered the organs of artificial sense.
One blow, a second, a third.
The head was a mash of microchips and wires.
The droid tried to lift and smash the stormtrooper against the floor, but at that moment, wild blaster fire cauterized the head and upper torso of the Devastator.
The death machine went still, but the green flashes of blaster fire kept tearing into it until even the crackle of a short circuit died out.
THX-0333 relaxed.
Artificial gravity slammed him onto his back.
Pain in his chest, pain everywhere.
A convulsion wracked him, and blood fountained from his throat, flooding his face and nostrils.
He couldn't breathe.
His brain was on fire; he had no strength left.
The Assault Commando felt himself being turned onto his side, and after a few seconds, when the blood drained from his throat and nostrils, he took a convulsive, instinctive gasp. It darkened his vision, pain ripped through his chest, but he was still alive.
"Hold on, hold on, I've already called for medics on the intercom!"
"My belt," THX-0333 coughed. "Blue syringe..."
He felt hands fumbling at his tactical belt.
The field medkit was found, crudely and carelessly opened, its contents scattered across the blood-soaked floor...
The collar of his undersuit peeled away from his body.
The needle slid into a clearly visible vein.
The stimulant spread cold through his body, clearing his mind and partially numbing the pain, pushing it into the background.
"Hey," the bloody palm of the terrified "slicer" slapped his face. "Don't you dare die! Open your eyes! Don't fall asleep! You can't die after winning! I lowered the blast doors in the corridor, there's a defense in place just in case!"
THX-0333 looked into the eyes of Mr. Ghent, who was leaning over him.
He noticed the fear hadn't gone anywhere, only intensified — his trembling jaw said as much.
"I'm not asleep," THX-0333 replied. "I've been conscious the whole time. My eyes weren't closed."
"Uh..." The blue-haired young man flushed. "Sorry..."
"It's fine," the special squad commander replied. "Could you step aside? I need to get up."
"No, no, you need to lie down, your ribs are broken! I turned you so you wouldn't choke on your blood."
"That's exactly why I shouldn't be lying on them."
Mr. Ghent turned redder than a superheated reactor.
THX-0333 wasn't complaining.
Was this the first time an ally, with the best intentions, had rolled him onto the side where his ribs were broken and blood was filling his lung?
Hmph...
Well, yes, it was the first.
He couldn't call this experience interesting.
* * *
When the last droid crashed to the deck, Captain Mecano realized he was spent too.
The commander of a naval special forces squad, not a single living soldier left except himself, sank heavily onto the deck.
The machinery of the reactor room rumbled around him; damaged wiring sparked here and there; instruments hit by blaster fire and explosions hummed...
"It's over," the officer muttered, kicking a piece of an enemy droid without any malice.
The Dominion had defended its right to possess the Reaper.
Or, at least, its reactor compartment.
Falling onto his back, experiencing temporary discomfort from the armor digging into his spine, the man winced slightly.
"Let the entire New Republic army come here now, I'm not moving an inch!" he declared to the empty space.
Lying on the deck, surrounded by the dead, the special forces squad commander saw nothing shameful in resting a bit.
However, the sound of metallic footsteps from the corridor changed his intentions.
Snatching up his rifle, he checked the charge and prepared to fight to the last round.
As he later explained, the Dominion BX droid that took a blaster bolt to the head looked anything but friendly...
* * *
"Mopping-up operations are complete on all ships, sir," Captain Pellaeon reported quietly.
And the reason for his lack of cheer was hard to overstate.
The legion from the Striking Blade was virtually wiped out, except for a few companies.
The 501st Legion had suffered sixty percent casualties.
Fewer than ten percent of the Reaper's crew had survived — and even those were wounded or in comas.
The droids that had attacked were simply gone.
And it wouldn't be right to count them as losses.
That's what they were created for — to take the fight and reduce organic soldier casualties.
"Are the wounded receiving necessary aid?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. They've been distributed across all fleet starships."
"Are there any ships unable to make the jump?"
"Repair work on two cruisers and the Reaper will be completed shortly. In one hour, all starships will be ready to move out."
"Assign crews from the Guardian and Striking Blade watches to the prizes," I ordered. "Make sure the ships survive the transit."
"The Reaper only has a backup hyperdrive operational. We won't be able to reach the homeworld quickly."
"I'm aware of that, Captain," I nodded in time with my thoughts. "Inform Commodore Brandei that we are heading to the Karthakk sector. Repairs for our prizes will be carried out there."
"But will they manage, sir?" Pellaeon clarified. "It's one thing for the Imperials, Avengers, Lancers, another thing entirely for the Reaper."
I looked at the Guardian's commander, who preferred to look away.
"Get me Intelligence, Captain," I said. "Before the destruction of the Silri Syndicate begins, I want to be sure that they were the ones who helped the New Republic — which was skimping on military spending — purchase almost two hundred thousand combat droids from the Ubrikkians, at a market cost of nearly forty thousand per unit."
Because nothing happens for no reason.
And the behind-the-scenes games of the Dathomirian witch were entirely in keeping with her campaign, as was her connection to the New Republic government.
It was naive to think she would limit herself to passive waiting for us to fly into her trap.
An unforgivable mistake.
Pyrrhic victories are not the path to success.
"It will be done, sir. But... what if it isn't Silri?"
"Then we destroy the Syndicate first, and then we go after whoever facilitated such a qualitative leap in our enemy's tactical thinking."
"And..."
"And we kill them, Captain. With particular cynicism."
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