Nine years, eight months, and thirteen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, eight months, and thirteen days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and thirty-three days since the arrival).
The fast-attack Bellator-class dreadnought, retaining its former name from its service in the Republic fleet, moved leisurely through the infinite darkness of interstellar space in the Nidjun sector.
The objective of the "Red Star" squadron lay three hundred light-years from the current position of the Star Destroyers assigned by Grand Admiral Thrawn to Commodore Shohashi's command. One short hyperspace jump directly ahead, and the bustling system, home to a significant number of pirate vessels operating within the Nidjun sector, would become even livelier.
Like the tip of a spear, the Crimson Dawn was aimed toward the dim star of the Aar system, homeworld of the Aar'aa species. These sentient reptiles, willingly and eagerly used by the Hutts as "cannon fodder," were among many such species, it must be said.
These reptiles were unaware that they had become the first target of the "Butcher of Atoan." But for him, an Alderaanian seated in a chair before a double row of monitors, scrutinizing data on one of the screens, the Aar'aa were not merely a name on the list of sentient species in the galaxy. As fate would have it, to their misfortune, Erik knew of the Aar'aa's existence. And of their trade.
Had Shohashi wished for his ships to arrive in the system at sublight speeds, it would have taken some time.
However, he had no intention of wasting it. The squadron had already been delayed at the Tangrene shipyards to ensure it embarked on its combat mission at full strength.
— All systems have been brought to combat readiness, — reported the central command post. — Readiness reports have been received from the Imperious, Judicator, Twilight, Point of No Return, and Red Gauntlet.
— The Constrainer? — inquired Erik, turning his head toward the source of the voice.
— Fully combat-ready and able to jump to the Aar system on your command, — reported the duty officer. Erik had known this officer since his first assignment as commander of the Imperious.
Indeed, his flagship was a new vessel. But the core of the crew remained the same—he had taken every member of the Imperious's crew with him to the Crimson Dawn before handing the Star Destroyer over to another officer. Yet, Shohashi had no intention of parting with the ship that had been his home all this time, a ship that had become something more to him.
With Thrawn's permission, he had secured the Imperious for his squadron. It was for the best—call it sentimentality if anyone dared, but Shohashi would not allow his former ship to fall into the hands of some incompetent who might crash it into asteroids. For now, let it serve within the squadron, prove itself, and only then could it be entrusted to a commander and crew for independent missions. Anyone dissatisfied? Go ahead, appeal Shohashi's decision to Thrawn.
As it turned out, no fools stepped forward. Or at least, none had yet.
In assembling the "Red Star" squadron, Erik had not forgotten to transfer his old—and perhaps only—friend to his command. Brandei, upon learning of this, grumbled, of course, about favoritism and the like. Erik saw no need to explain to his comrade that the Judicator had been chosen solely for its highly trained crew. Brandei was no child—he would figure it out himself.
Thrawn, however, made his own adjustments. In exchange for transferring the Imperious and Judicator to Shohashi's squadron, he removed Amberclad and Dawnstrider, replacing them with Twilight and Point of No Return—Star Destroyers from a Republic modernization project, equipped with missile launchers at the expense of artillery.
In Erik's view, such ships were unnecessary to the fleet, suitable only for convoy duties or as stationary platforms. Still, when the task was to seize an entire sector comprising eight inhabited systems, starships suited for garrison duties would prove useful.
He had them—Twilight, Point of No Return, and five Vindicator-class heavy cruisers. Seven starships he could leave in conquered systems to maintain order without significant disruption to his current mission, supplemented by a few light starships from the seemingly endless supply of Corellian corvettes. But the Aar system would require his personal attention.
It was the only point on the Nidjun sector map where trouble could be expected.
— Begin phase one, Lieutenant, — ordered Shohashi. — Inform me when the Judicator, Imperious, and Constrainer reach the Aar system.
— Yes, sir.
The commodore returned to reviewing the sparse information displayed on the monitor.
"The Aar'aa could change their skin color to blend with their surroundings. Tall and muscular, their bodies were covered in scales, with claws, a thin dorsal crest, and large faces with thick brow ridges overhanging small, glowing eyes. As cold-blooded beings, they became lethargic in extremely low temperatures. Their eyes had reddish-orange hues."
That was all known about the Aar'aa species.
No strengths, no weaknesses—just biological data.
Similarly, there was little substantial information about their weapons production, the number of ships they possessed, or anything else necessary for a successful operation.
Thus, Erik did not act recklessly. He simply ordered the dispatch of several transport ships through the sector carrying small quantities of cargo particularly appealing to the Aar'aa—food supplies, to be precise.
Now, the majority of those starships were at Aar'aa pirate bases. What misfortune for them. For, alongside the food supplies, the transports carried concealed reconnaissance equipment, disguised to avoid detection without a full disassembly of the ships. Judging by the continued transmission of telemetry, the intelligence technicians had earned an "excellent" rating. A rare case where they provided aid rather than sabotage.
— Commodore Shohashi! — a voice called from the turbolift leading to the bridge. Erik, ignoring the irritating source of the noise, retrieved a pocket chronometer from his tunic and flipped open its cover. Watching the second hand tick, he traced his finger over the image of Iren.
Another day spent in service to peace and order. If the countess were alive, she would be pleased.
And, most likely, she would be leading an assault with fighters.
— Commodore...! — the voice sounded just steps away. Simultaneously, the distinctive clank of two BX-series commando droids, his personal bodyguards, echoed. Yes, Thrawn had assigned ten guardsmen to him, currently escorting Chief Shipwright Reyes from the turbolift to the command chair. But those guardsmen were Thrawn's men. The Alderaanian preferred those loyal to him personally by his side.
The commando droids, purchased on the black market years ago, had accompanied him early on while he dealt with traitors. Had he acquired them before his first officer's betrayal, he might have avoided his limp.
Now, with his flagship staffed one-third by personnel from the Ciutric Hegemony and Dominion-allied worlds, and two-thirds by clones and the Imperious's crew, ensuring personal security was prudent. Perhaps Thrawn had similar considerations when assigning guardsmen to every Star Destroyer and heavy cruiser—two or more, depending on the ship's importance. On the other hand, in the event of a mutiny, those two could certainly neutralize any threat.
What additional tasks Thrawn had assigned them beyond protecting the command, he did not share. Nor did anyone ask—everyone understood that, with the fleet's expansion and recruitment of new volunteers, personal security was a pressing concern.
Not that Erik planned a rebellion and thus acquired the BX droids. No, that was not in his plans (who in their right mind thought a pair or a company of commando droids could stop Thrawn's guardsmen?). But security precautions were never excessive. Never.
— Commodore...!
Now the voice was barely a meter away.
Erik calmly snapped the chronometer's cover shut and returned it to its place. Only then did he turn toward the chief shipwright.
— You are not at the Shaum Hii livestock market, Chief Shipwright Zion, — he said loudly, clearly, and calmly. — You are aboard a Dominion fast-attack dreadnought, where your authority is less than a Jedi's conscience. Henceforth, if you have questions, approach me and ask them, rather than disturbing my bridge with your hysterical outbursts.
This watch included many newcomers—volunteers and former officers from the Ciutric Hegemony. They would now understand that painting the golden-yellow "gear" of the Dominion's official emblem on the hulls of its starships did not negate adherence to Imperial regulations. No one would be allowed to turn the bridge of a warship into a sty.
The shipwright, accompanying a group of technicians and engineers from the Tangrene shipyards, had joined this campaign. He claimed it was necessary to assess the prospects for future modernization of the fast-attack dreadnought, restored to its original condition (largely thanks to reactor parts delivered on a freighter captured by Captain Abyss's team) during its operation.
However, Erik suspected the chief shipwright was simply avoiding a meeting with Grand Admiral Thrawn after the fleet under his command tested Amberclad.
That Star Destroyer, an "ISD-III," the first of its kind, had passed all possible trials. Minor flaws were corrected, but how it would perform in actual combat—not against pirates, as Erik faced, but against New Republic regulars—remained unknown. Only the shipwright was deeply convinced that his "ISD-IIIs" were the finest in the familiar "triangle" lineup.
— I understand, Commodore, — Zion gritted his teeth, his cybernetic eye glinting. — But... did you really order the main reactor activated?
— Is there a reason I am not authorized to issue that order? — Shohashi asked sternly.
— No, of course you are, it's just... — The shipwright hesitated. — I thought we'd conduct standard tests. Not in combat conditions!
— As I recall, repair regulations stipulate that all ship systems must be ready for combat, — Shohashi noted. — Are you suggesting your repair report is inaccurate?
— No, certainly not, — Zion flared, offended. — My engineers and I calculated the power consumption under standard conditions, but activating the main reactor skewed the infograms, and now we'll have to recalculate everything from scratch, which, in turn...
— Shipwright Zion, — Shohashi cut off the verbal torrent. — Standard conditions for a warship involve engaging in battle. With all weapons. At the limits of structural capacity. Other interpretations are for civilians. If you need data, you'll get it in battle. Which will soon commence.
— But the starship just came out of repairs! — Ryan Zion reminded him. — The testing protocol...
— I have no time to rehash the same discussion, — Shohashi interrupted sharply, glancing at the ship's chronometer. — Duty officer! Have the Judicator and its detachment arrived in the Aar system?
— Yes, sir!
— Establish a transmission, — he ordered. Once the communications station reported the task complete, he switched to his personal comlink. A Liinade III model, no less. Credit where due—the new communication devices were impressive: Imperial quality at reasonable prices. No wonder Thrawn arranged their supply to the fleet.
— This is Commodore Erik Shohashi, Dominion fleet, — he announced, noting on the monitor that his signal was relayed through the Imperious's communication stations and broadcast openly into the Aar system for all to hear. — Three days ago, pirate bands based on Aar, supported by the local government, attacked a Dominion transport caravan. I demand the immediate surrender of the perpetrators, their ships, and the seized cargo, — he omitted mention of crews, as risking sentients in this operation would be foolish: the freighters were piloted solely by droids.
— Get lost, Shohashi, — came an almost immediate reply. Likely the pirate leader, or a government representative—here, they were essentially the same. — Your squadron is nothing to us. The cargo's ours, and you and your Imperial scum can fly wherever you please.
Their ability to count was undeniable—over two dozen cruisers of various types orbited Aar, not to mention numerous corvettes, frigates, armed freighters, and more. In a direct engagement with two Star Destroyers and an Interdictor cruiser, they had every chance to claim trophies.
— Is that your final word? — Shohashi asked. — Does everyone in the system stand with you?
The monitor displayed data on enemy ship movements. They were preparing to strike.
— Shohashi, we've heard of you, but take my word—scram at full hyperdrive! — they "advised." — The Nidjun sector is ours. Not just one system, the entire sector stands with us!
— Very well, — Erik sighed with a smile. — You've made your choice.
— Go to— — at his signal, the communication channel with the criminals was cut.
— Order to the Constrainer, — Erik rose from his chair, leaning on his cane, and moved slowly toward the central viewport. — Activate all gravity well generators. Report deployment vectors. Fleet to combat readiness. All ships prepare for the jump.
This was not merely a tactical strike against the New Republic, one of many conducted by Dominion ships alongside his "Trash Removal" operation.
Erik's smile remained as the space before the Crimson Dawn and the rest of the "Red Star" squadron stretched into white-blue streaks, transitioning into the haze of hyperspace.
A slaughter awaited.
A spectacular, powerful, devastating, and elegant performance by true professionals of anti-piracy warfare. No prisoners, no mercy, no delays between crime and punishment.
There were no innocents here—everyone in space, everyone with a weapon, was a bandit, robber, thief, pirate, murderer, or worse.
Legitimate targets, in short.
No mercy.
A bloodbath awaited him and the "Red Star."
And in such matters, he had no equal.
That was why he was here.
The Aar'aa should have fled. But in the few minutes it would take him to reach the target with all available forces, escape was impossible. Nor could they significantly damage Brandei's formation.
When the fleet emerged from hyperspace, plunging into the nascent battle between Dominion forces and the pirates, Erik uttered a single phrase:
— Let the slaughter begin. Spare no one.
***
The operation to liberate the Oplovis sector from New Republic forces took nearly two weeks—since the government on Harrod showed Coruscant the door.
Surprisingly, they complied.
While the Chimaera and other ships moved toward their objective, traveling outside hyperspace lanes to avoid early detection, I immersed myself once again in history and Imperial bureaucracy.
Because untangling the web of facts and directives was precisely what an analyst craved. Crisis managers, prepare yourselves.
So, what do we know about the Oplovis sector?
The Oplovis sector.
A standard sector within the administrative boundaries of the Old Republic. Nothing remarkable about it in the Imperial records we accessed, one way or another.
But the sector's history suggests otherwise.
During the Clone Wars, the Oplovis sector was in Separatist space. Meaning, democracy from Coruscant was not particularly favored here. Nor were decaying regimes that had lost their strength.
In the Imperial era, the sector was protected by a standard sector fleet. After the Battle of Endor, the Oplovis sector attempted to rebel against the Empire. However, the Imperial admiral turned warlord Gaen Drommel soon returned to his homeworld of Oplovis and took control of the sector as his own territory.
The primary defenses of the sector were the Guardian, leading the standard sector fleet, and the fortress world of Ketaris. But Imperial presence here did not last long. After Drommel's defeat at the Battle of Tantive V, which occurred in the same year as the Battle of Yavin, the sector's fleet was considered destroyed. As we now know from prisoners, the damaged Guardian was stranded in the Fardon system with an inactive hyperdrive. According to the same prisoners, the rest of the line fleet was indeed destroyed at Tantive V. Thus, in his hypothetical campaign to reclaim his home sector, Drommel could rely solely on the Guardian—in its current, deplorable state.
Good in one sense, less so in another.
The sector comprises only eight inhabited star systems but is "strung" along the Braxant Run, a significant regional hyperspace route originating in the Agamar system. Which, by the way, recently displayed extreme hostility toward the New Republic. The situation there is unfolding intriguingly, but that's a story for another time.
There's something noteworthy about what the Braxant Run represents, according to astrogation. Especially when overlaying Imperial navigation charts with our partial copy of data from the Obroa-skai library.
As I mentioned, the Braxant Run begins at Agamar, passing through all Imperial territories, and is essentially the shortest route to most worlds of the Imperial Remnants. But there's something even more interesting.
The final destination of the Braxant Run, as one might guess, is the Braxant sector. And a number of its planets, particularly a world known as Sartinaynian. Nothing stirring in your memory? No guesses why this planet piqued my interest?
Fine. The planet has another name.
— Bastion, — Captain Pellaeon inhaled deeply and exhaled noisily. Though, to be precise, he should be a flag-captain, given he's chief of staff, commander of the flagship... Many reasons to grant him that rank. But I haven't fully grasped the Imperial rank system yet. I'd hate to promote Gilad in a way that removes him from my flagship's bridge. A chief of staff can't command a ship. — Sir, if we secure Oplovis, we could effectively establish a checkpoint on the supply route to all the Imperial Remnants.
— Sooner than I'd like, — Pellaeon admitted. — But, on the other hand, sir... Strategically, securing Oplovis and integrating it into the Dominion is advantageous. We could control most hyperspace routes through the New Territories!
— In that case, to form an unbreakable core of Dominion-controlled sectors, we'd need to secure the Kanz sector, from which we're currently moving toward Oplovis, — I explained. — Only then can we avoid rear attacks, which are currently being conducted by our own forces. Moreover, without subjugating Agamar, turning it into a fortress world, and thus conquering the Lahara sector, we cannot establish a "nodal defense." To fully secure our territories with fortress worlds, preventing enemies from advancing by bypassing them, we must control at least six nearby sectors. I'm confident this would be strategically beneficial, but practically, it's difficult to achieve, given the vastness, inaccessibility, remoteness, and prevalence of pirates and other criminals.
— Not to mention that Palpatine would surely disapprove, — Pellaeon sighed. — And his operation might begin much sooner than we can prepare our defenses.
— Precisely, — I confirmed. — The wider the front, the more resources we need for defense. And we don't have many yet.
— If we had more ships, we could remind the Corporate Sector of their obligation to share profits, — Pellaeon sighed. — As it was under the Empire. Fifty percent of revenue in exchange for second-tier equipment supplies to support a pro-Imperial government and a promise not to interfere in internal politics...
I learned something new. So, the reason the Corporate Sector enjoyed indulgences during the Galactic Empire, like an entire fleet of Victory-class ships sold or transferred gratis by Palpatine's decree, was quite simple.
Money.
And solidarity.
The Corporate Sector funded Palpatine's regime and projects, wholeheartedly supporting it as one of its strongest and most influential allies.
Well...
Despite apparent differences, this universe isn't so different from my homeworld.
I'll need to keep tracking such parallels.
— Regardless, Oplovis cannot serve as a staging ground for our main forces, — I concluded. — Except for Ketaris, we'd need to build defenses for each system from scratch.
Unless we extend the sector's defenses beyond its borders. I have some ideas, but I lack the resources and technology to fully implement them. At least until Mr. Zakarisz Ghent completes his mission. But again, that requires funding. A lot of funding. Obscenely so.
— There's something else noteworthy, — I continued.
— Sir? — Gilad looked at me, surprised.
— Let's turn to history, Captain, — I suggested. — Before the Clone Wars, naval task forces, known as "fleets," existed in many, if not most, of the thousand or so sectors comprising the Old Republic. During the turmoil that led to the Republic's fall and the establishment of the New Order, the Grand Army of the Republic was divided into twenty sector armies, each with a theater of operations far larger than a single traditional sector within known administrative boundaries.
— That's correct, — Gilad confirmed. — For example, the Fourth Sector Army was the primary command of the Grand Army for the entire Outer Rim. Shortly after the sector armies emerged and the Declaration of a New Order, the first moffs were appointed to govern sectors, which, at least in some cases, were significantly larger than Old Republic sectors.
— Yet it remains unclear how this reorganization affected what we might call "sector fleets," — I noted.
— Oh, — Pellaeon chuckled. — That's a debated topic in every military academy. No answer has been found.
— What's curious is this, — I continued. — In the Imperial order of battle, the concept of a "sector fleet" was abandoned immediately after the reorganization of the Grand Army into the Imperial armed forces. The term lingered in common use but was officially replaced by "sector group," which denoted all army and navy units deployed in a sector.
— Too many terminological reorganizations for anyone to keep track, — Pellaeon grumbled.
— Typical in such circumstances, — I remarked philosophically. — Well, let's refresh events nearly thirty years old.
The Chimaera's commander gave me a look that read, "Fine, art's one thing, but what's your issue with history?" No matter, it would soon become clear.
— As the Empire's territories grew, so did the number of moffs, — I continued, ignoring Pellaeon's bored expression. — Eventually, each moff controlled a sector comparable to, or often identical to, an Old Republic sector. And in each such sector, Imperial armed forces units, known as "sector groups," were deployed.
In essence, it was still a "sector fleet," but bureaucracy and legalism in a galaxy far, far away were far from extinct. Quite the opposite—they thrived comfortably.
The concept of sector groups emerged somewhat accidentally: moffs, appointed under the Sector Governance Decree in the Republic's final days, complained that the Imperial Navy's needs to suppress Separatist resistance often deprived their sectors of resources, disregarding local security needs. Per the Sector Governance Decree, moffs retained the authority of old governor-generals to recruit forces and began forming local militias. Alarmed by the prospect of local forces disloyal to the Imperial center—Coruscant—the Admiralty intervened and created sector groups. These were local forces directly controlled by moffs but closely monitored by Coruscant. For example, what is now called the Morshdine defense fleet is, in essence, a "sector group."
A very small one. A dwarf. But, amusingly, a couple of ships patrolling a single star system somehow suffice to minimize trouble. One might wonder what competent internal policy and the absence of oppression toward non-human species have to do with it?
— Have you ever wondered, Captain, why an unremarkable admiral like Gaen Drommel commanded an Executor-class super star destroyer? — I asked.
— Never crossed my mind, — Pellaeon admitted.
— He was a protégé of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin, — I explained.
— Odd he didn't have a portable Death Star, then, — Gilad muttered. A fair point.
— He had something better, — I said. — How many star systems are in the Oplovis sector?
— Total? — Pellaeon raised his eyebrows. — No idea.
— Captain, — I looked at him indulgently. — You know perfectly well that a sector's value is determined by the number of explored, mapped, and habitable star systems with Type I atmospheres.
That is, suitable for oxygen-breathing species.
Sectors typically contain hundreds, if not tens of thousands, of star systems.
But over millennia of galactic species' development, many of these worlds lost value, became depopulated, uninhabitable, depleted of resources, or were located in inaccessible regions, reducing their appeal.
For most sentient species, it's more cost-effective to exploit worlds that are easier to reach, cheaper to mine, and simpler to transport resources from.
It's no surprise that, over tens of thousands of years of active galactic exploration (by one historical account), many sectors remain superficially studied.
Because it requires time, money, and even more money.
Another parallel to my past life is hard to miss.
— Eight, — Pellaeon answered correctly. — Galactic backwater, being in the New Territories, and resources...
— Exactly, — I confirmed. — There's little of value here—at least not officially known. Yet, by Grand Moff Tarkin's will, Admiral Drommel was entrusted with an entire sector group to guard this territory. In full.
Pellaeon's eyes nearly popped out.
What is a standard "sector group"?
Initially, they were formed largely from old Planetary Security Forces, nationalized in the Old Republic's final days. After the Admiralty's intervention in sector defense, a standard sector group comprised... two thousand four hundred ships.
The exact composition of such units isn't always known—only with access to a sector fleet's original records.
But some things are certain: of those nearly two and a half thousand starships, two dozen were Imperial-class Star Destroyers, and sixteen hundred were smaller warships, military transports, repair ships, supply vessels, and so forth. Logic suggests the remaining starships were combat vessels, likely cruisers or destroyers.
Meanwhile, the Imperial order of battle restricted the term "fleet" to large formations with duties spanning an entire sector but subordinate to the sector group hierarchy. Reflecting this, these fleets were commanded by fleet admirals, answerable to a high admiral commanding the sector group, often the moff himself. There was no rigid system for organizing the types and numbers of fleets under a sector group. However, the group's combat elements were divided between "Superiority" and "Escort": Superiority fleets were space combat forces led by six Star Destroyers and nominally supported by a battle squadron of eighteen smaller ships; Escort fleets consisted of support forces tasked with combating pirates and raiders, serving as the Empire's first line of defense, protecting civilian freighters, attacking pirate havens, and guarding remote outposts. Ships dominating Escort fleets included old Trade Federation frigates and CR90 corvettes, later replaced by EF76 Nebulon-B escort frigates and escort carriers.
To delve fully into sector group organization, consider this:
Additional fleets outside combat elements included assault fleets capable of deploying four full ground armies; support fleets meeting the sector group's vast logistical needs; deep dock fleets providing repair capabilities; and bombardment fleets, rare formations nominally comprising eighteen torpedo spheres used to destroy planetary shields in offensive operations (though never at full strength during the Galactic Civil War, as the Empire never built more than six torpedo spheres, per the manufacturer's records).
One thing remains unclear: were there fleets outside the sector group hierarchy? It's known that some of the Empire's most powerful combat fleets were tied to specific sectors: for example, Azure Hammer Command, the primary fleet guarding the Core, was the sector fleet for "Sector 1," the Imperial central oversector, while Admiral Zsinj's fleet in the Quelii sector, tasked with warring against the Drackmarians, was considered the Empire's most powerful.
It's hard to find definitive examples of Imperial forces operating outside sector hierarchies. Ten percent of the Imperial Navy's ships were held in reserve in the Core, ready for deployment against threats galaxy-wide; but such deployments could easily involve redirecting them between sector groups.
— So what was Drommel doing here, controlling nearly four times the line ships we have, yet his fleet surrendered and scattered after he vanished? — Pellaeon asked. — Why did he need such forces?
— We'll ask him in person, — I shrugged. — Once we reach Harrod, we must organize a local fleet base and supply center for our troops. Commodore Shohashi should already be starting operations to clear the Nidjun sector, so logistical lines will soon be established.
— Sir, — Pellaeon addressed me. — I... Where did it all go?
— Pardon, Captain? — His question caught me off guard.
— The galaxy has hundreds of sectors, — Pellaeon said. — Each with thousands of line ships... What's left now? A handful?
— Much of our fleets were either destroyed or fell into the hands of the New Republic, pirates, Hapans, neutral sector governments, Hutts, Mandalorians, the Zann Consortium, warlords, or retreated to the Deep Core, — I said. — Too many possibilities to account for each.
— But the fact remains, — Pellaeon's face hardened. — We lost a starfleet with tens of thousands of Star Destroyers alone.
— The New Republic didn't aim then, nor does it now, to board ships, — I reminded him. — They prefer destroying or forcing surrender over capturing by brute force, as we do. The Imperial Civil War cost us not only most of our fleet but also decades of veteran experience.
To be precise, the New Republic's four fleets currently match, in quantity and quality, four "sector groups" from the Galactic Empire's peak.
It's understandable why despair pervades the Imperial Remnants.
Controlling vast spaces, they lack the forces they once had. Intelligence data is approximate, but roughly, Kaine or the Imperial Ruling Council each possess fleets equivalent to one, perhaps two, sector groups at most. But this is a matter of quantity—quality is far less clear.
My forces, however, are fewer.
By orders of magnitude.
If the Imperials can match a sector group, questions about support forces, cruisers, and so forth remain open.
So many questions, so few answers...
— Securing the Oplovis sector systems will require us to determine the fate of its sector fleet, — I said. — If the ships were captured or destroyed, that's one thing. But if they're in reserve or mothballed, we need them.
— Sir, we've already exhausted all mobilization reserves to crew our current forward fleet, — Pellaeon noted. — If we keep expanding the fleet's numbers, we'll eventually have ships but lack crews and resources to maintain them.
— We've been through this, Captain Pellaeon, — his remark harked back to when we couldn't dream of controlling the Ciutric Hegemony's resources. — I'd rather have ten, a hundred, a thousand starships mothballed in the Karthakk system than leave them in enemy hands. Especially since we'll soon witness Amberclad's trials. If Chief Shipwright Ryan Zion's modernization program proves successful, we can confidently address increasing our Star Destroyer numbers. Especially since the enemy kindly lets us reclaim their disarmed Imperial ships—cargo included.
Pellaeon sighed heavily.
— When I imagine how much we need to start those factories, to build ships ourselves and stop relying on pirate raids, stop humiliating ourselves before shipwrights, robbing them, or buying production lines at exorbitant prices, my hands just drop.
— Unjustifiably so, Captain, — I said. — Compared to other warlords and Imperial Remnants, we have one undeniable, crucial advantage.
The Chimaera's commander looked at me skeptically but intrigued.
— What's that, if I may ask, sir? — he said.
— We don't try to bite off more than we can chew, — I replied. — Greatness stems from small beginnings. And it's valued for the effort invested in its creation. No matter how long it takes, the Dominion will endure all the galaxy's trials.
— And the New Republic, the Remnants, Palpatine? — Gilad clarified.
— Simple, — I answered. — They'll die.
Judging by Pellaeon's expression, he didn't quite believe me.
A grave mistake.
***
Rederick moved swiftly but carefully, avoiding attention.
His experienced gaze scanned the atmosphere in the administrative complex of Kuat Drive Yards, and he cursed mentally.
Profusely.
In both languages he knew, plus a couple of dialects.
Because the situation was turning dire.
So dire, it was tempting to declare the mission a failure.
— Can you move a bit faster? — he asked quietly to the blue-haired youth trailing behind.
— We've already trekked a good kilometer! — the kid protested. What was this freeloader's name? Pent? Who came up with this punk's operational alias? — Let me catch my breath, Mavik!
— You can catch it on the ship, — Rederick suggested, ignoring the kid's labored breathing and strained attempt to utter his fake name, — or Kuat's security officers will beat it out of us both. How's that for an alternative?
The kid tripped on flat ground, nearly face-planting into the station's deck, but was yanked upright by the fleet scout, trained to react to any change in circumstances.
The sentients around them—humans and aliens—paid no mind to the pair. Everyone was eager to get away, perhaps to hide in the deepest hole possible.
The blaring alarm from every speaker made it abundantly clear that Kuat's "specialists" would soon seal off the potential security breach zone, and a total sweep would begin.
Regular Kuat Drive Yards employees were accustomed to this—it was part of their lives, always complying with security. But the numerous clients, visitors, and those just "dropping by" wanted to be anywhere else. For one simple reason: not all were clean before the law.
While Kuat's security turned a blind eye to visitors when things ran smoothly, when the central control hub received a report of a cyber-defense breach because some slicer-idiot couldn't exit the system without screwing up, that was another matter.
In such cases, a thorough check of everyone on the station would commence.
Kuat's security officers would dig through all their archives, follow every lead, identify all fake transponders and IDs, and expose every visitor.
And there were so many shady clients here that they'd happily hand over the scout and slicer to the "security" just to avoid having their own identities revealed.
Because Kuat didn't take kindly to criminal scum—especially after their reputation as the most reliable and heavily armed supplier of all ship types cracked wide open.
Exaggerated, perhaps, but the fact remained: if they were exposed, things would turn so sour they'd have to resort to the backup plan.
And that was highly undesirable...
But allowing Kuat to even hypothetically link them to the Dominion was unacceptable. Absolutely not.
The stream of sentients showed no sign of thinning, which was good—they blended into the colorful crowd bustling back and forth. But there was a troubling trend: Kuat Drive Yards employees were clearly heading to their workstations, patiently awaiting their checks. And they made up the bulk of the flow.
It took just a couple of minutes to realize they couldn't push through the crowd to the hangars. Meaning they'd have to destroy both the equipment and the slicing results, curse it all.
— To the right, — Rederick ordered, spotting a small corridor branching off the main path. The crowd wasn't heading there, but seeing security personnel in distinctive uniforms moving toward and behind the crowd, clearly searching for someone, it was easy to guess they at least had images of their targets.
Well, isn't that just perfect!
Rumor had it Kuat's "security" was a bunch of unqualified slackers incapable of swift action.
Yet, just fifteen minutes since the alarm, they'd pinpointed the breach, pulled security footage, identified the slicer and his partner's appearances, and tracked their route.
No doubt, the hangar bay with their shuttle was identified, likely cordoned off, and definitely not a place to head if life and freedom were dear.
Well, clean and fast work. No wonder Kuat had been poaching the best Imperial operatives for years.
Pity his former colleagues wouldn't let them go. No, they'd probably "interrogate" with even greater zeal. At best, that process would involve feet. To the face, naturally.
As they neared the corridor, Rederick shoved the slicer in the right direction without repeating himself. The kid clearly intended to stick with the crowd. Ears flapping, not listening to orders.
— Hey! — "Pent" protested. — That hurt!
— Wipe your nose, — Rederick advised, grabbing the kid's elbow and dragging him along the new route. — I left the vest you could cry into at home.
This passage had fewer people. And now it was clear why—a corridor for very wealthy, privileged clients. Just great!
— I'll report you to command! — the blue-haired "Pent" declared.
— Go cry to Darth Vader's ashes, — Rederick suggested, striding down the corridor, ignoring the glances from the pair heading toward the elite landing pads. — Won't help. You botched the op!
— Who knew they had a second layer of security!? — the kid whined. — I was sure I'd disabled all their safeguards at the base programming level! Nothing should've triggered! So stupid...
— That's why I'm now making a plan on the fly, — "Mavik" explained. — Otherwise, you'll be explaining yourself to people who don't care for small talk about the weather but excel at quickly extracting information. Speaking of which—the data chips, you got them?
— Of course, — the kid patted his jumpsuit pocket.
Good, now Rederick knew where they were. If it came to it, searching the body would be easier.
For now, he needed to focus on escaping quickly while it was still possible.
Thank the stars for those who paint maps on walls.
Rederick now had a sense of the maze they'd stumbled into. This corridor had more branches, and more beyond that... They'd need to weave through to find a suitable spot to steal someone's ship before security caught up.
Oh, blast that ion matrix!
As they turned into a private corridor, Rederick caught a glimpse of a dozen Kuat Drive Yards security officers entering the main corridor for the elite. Curse them to a red dwarf! Or Carida! Why couldn't they be slower?
Or was their pair just that sluggish?
This side corridor was empty, so Rederick broke into a run. "Pent," apparently grasping the urgency, stopped whining and asking dumb questions.
A turn, now left, forty meters straight, another turn.
Time to vent some anger.
— Freeze! — was all the wardrobe-sized guard in standard Kuat security garb managed to say. Clearly not the sharpest—he only reached for his blaster upon seeing the pair in technician jumpsuits, clearly not Kuat employees, sprinting around the corner two meters away.
Rederick, gauging the guard's height, dashed to a point, leaped, and struck the Kuati in the temple.
The brute merely shook his head. Seriously?
— You little—! — He abandoned drawing his blaster, giving Rederick the chance to sweep his legs. As the guard's head hit the metal floor, disoriented, the fleet scout yanked the blaster from his holster and knocked him out with a blow from the grip.
No need to kill him—the man was just doing his job. Like Rederick. Like "Pent."
— Move! — he barked at the slicer, bolting down the corridor.
Two turns, and they'd reach the hangar entrance. Per the wall map, a starship was there now. Whose it was, who owned it—irrelevant. They could steal, bribe, or intimidate—just get off the station. Even if they couldn't jump to hyperspace, they could head planetside, lay low, wait out the manhunt, procure another ship, and escape the system for good.
At the hangar bay entrance, Rederick prepared to fire on the customs post guards when he realized that, instead of people at the consoles, he saw two motionless bodies on the floor.
With clear blaster wounds to the head.
And no signs of a firefight.
Whoever killed these men did it cleanly. Remarkable precision.
— Hack it! — Rederick ordered the slicer, pointing at the computer panel controlling the hangar doors.
"Pent" rushed to the console, while the fleet scout grabbed the dead men's weapons. A couple of extra blaster pistols wouldn't hurt.
— Someone's already been at this, — "Pent" noted as soon as he plugged his personal deck into the console.
— Just work! — Rederick growled, impatiently glancing at the turn they'd come from.
Come on, come on, come on...!
— Done! — the kid shouted as the hangar doors began to part.
— Inside, now! — Rederick grabbed the kid by the collar and shoved him through the gap between the slowly opening doors.
He slipped in after, instinctively scanning for threats. Some wealthy types left their ships guarded by combat droids...
— Look at that beauty! — "Pent's" voice carried genuine awe.
— Blast it all, — Rederick cursed, assessing the starship they'd stumbled upon.
One glance was enough to identify it.
Wedge-shaped hull, one hundred fifty meters long.
Imperial design.
Six twin laser cannons, multiple single light turbolasers. Judging by the launch tubes, it was the second model, introduced to the fleet after the Battle of Yavin IV. The first generation had ion cannons.
— Raider, — Rederick shook his head.
A Raider-class corvette (second generation).
Was this some kind of joke?
Escape on an Imperial raider corvette? Couldn't they find a simpler ship?
Perhaps there were others nearby, but time was slipping away like Emperor Palpatine down the reactor shaft of the second Death Star—swift and relentless.
— Get aboard! — Rederick ordered the slicer.
Such a ship typically required a crew of fifteen officers and nearly eighty enlisted. But if the goal wasn't combat, just escape, they could try to...
A dry click sounded behind him.
The sound of a military-grade blaster's safety being disengaged.
"Kriffing Gamorrean swill," Rederick thought grimly, calculating how, on a clear landing pad, he could dodge the line of fire from an opponent behind him and survive. Oh, and save the botch-job slicer, too...
— Thanks for doing the work for us, boys, — a voice, presumably the blaster's owner, said. — Now step aside and don't interfere with us taking the ship.
Something stirred in his memory.
— Uh... Well... — the slicer stammered. — We got here first, you know.
Idiot, who negotiates with hijackers like that...
Rederick turned slowly, careful not to provoke...
The people behind him.
Exactly fifteen men, middle-aged, solidly built, short-cropped hair. Their gazes were professional, clearly trained.
Their weapons, aimed at various firing sectors, left no doubt who they were.
— Who's in charge? — Rederick asked, lowering his hands.
The criminals didn't flinch.
— Section seven, paragraph four... — the fleet scout began, only to amuse one of the sentients before him.
— Seriously, pal? — the apparent leader asked. — Quoting the fleet special forces communication protocol?
So, definitely them.
— No, — the scout replied. — Just confirming I'm dealing with the right people. Commander Mavik, Dominion fleet intelligence. I propose we escape together, then go our separate ways. The ship's yours; we just need to get out. I'll ensure payment to your account upon completion. No questions asked.
The fifteen armed men exchanged uncertain glances.
— Dominion? — one repeated. — You mean Thrawn's "grubby" lot?
"If you called me that fleet intel nickname to my face under different circumstances, you'd be scrubbing every bulkhead on the ship, including the inter-armor space," Rederick vowed silently.
— So, what's it gonna be? — he pressed. Time, time, time...
— Interesting offer, — the group's apparent leader said. — But you're out of luck today, Commander Rederick.
The scout tensed instantly. He hadn't used his real name on Dominion missions, so...
— Captain Orsan Makeno, — the leader introduced himself, gesturing with his blaster toward the ship's boarding ramp. An unmistakable signal—they were being taken hostage. — Imperial starfleet special forces.
Lousy day.
Looked like he wouldn't be scrubbing bulkheads today.