Nine years, nine months, and twenty-seven days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, nine months, and twenty-seven days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and thirteen days since the arrival).
The Abyssal Fury sliced through the starry expanse of quadrant T-5, completing its hyperspace jump precisely at the designated coordinates.
Captain Stormaer cast a glance at the planet suspended in the silent void.
Occupying the second orbital position from the local star, this world was not only vibrant with vivid colors—blue oceans, wispy white clouds, and green vegetation across its continents—but it was also the only one in the system suitable for oxygen-breathing life.
Cholganna.
The final destination of the Dominion's Star Destroyer, if Agent Bravo-One's intelligence was to be believed.
And, it must be said, it had been a damnably difficult journey.
Captain Stormaer had taken a risk, plunging his ship—albeit following successful reconnaissance—straight into a nebula.
Though not particularly large compared to others, this nebula posed significant challenges, especially for navigation.
The navigators had sweated profusely before finally calculating a safe course around the nebula that partially enveloped the Cholganna system. Searching for a path blindly was not the most pleasant task in the Outer Rim.
The nebula consisted primarily of gases but contained several meteoroid or dust clouds dense enough to block sensor arrays or transmitters from the inhabited galaxy. This made the journey here particularly perilous for navigation.
From a distance, the star system appeared dark red to observers, and it was slowly expanding, threatening one day to completely sever the system from safe hyperspace routes.
Stormaer, glancing at the intelligence officer calmly seated at the backup console, grimly reflected that the crew of the Abyssal Fury was, by Hutt standards, extraordinarily fortunate to have reached their destination without incident. According to the intelligence provided to the ship's commander, the previous visitor to this system was now rusting on the surface, in a condition that ruled out any constructive future use.
However… rumors suggested there was something valuable down there. Naturally, the Dominion would claim the cargo, but…
One couldn't just leave without investigating, could they? Separatist Munificent-class frigates often carried intriguing equipment, such as advanced electronic warfare systems or communication relays. Though outdated, such technology could be repurposed with minimal investment.
— Your crew performed admirably, Captain Stormaer, — the intelligence officer remarked.
— Thank you, sir, — Stormaer replied in a neutral tone. Turning to the crew pits, he inquired:
— Have the scouts returned?
— Affirmative, sir, both teams, — came the response from the watch officer.
— Summon the team leaders to me, — the captain ordered. — Briefing room seven.
— Aye, sir!
— Deploy the duty squadron of interceptors and establish a perimeter, — the commander of the Abyssal Fury continued issuing orders. — Cancel the "yellow" alert and shift to standard operations. The watch is to stand down and rest. Ensure the corvette provides cover and deploys surveillance droids. I want to know everything about this planet, down to where the locals relieve themselves.
Receiving confirmation that his orders were understood, Stormaer headed toward the turbolift, intending to descend to the hangar.
As he entered the lift and turned to face the doors, he was surprised to see the agent following him.
— I believe it would be beneficial to hear the scouts' reports, Captain, — Bravo-One explained.
— Likely so, — Stormaer replied, sensing another of Intelligence's games. — But their data primarily concerns the Cholganna system.
— I've been briefed on your fleet assignment, — the agent nodded. — To assess the planet's potential for establishing an outpost. It's a sensible objective, I must say.
— Grand Admiral Thrawn never issues meaningless orders, — Stormaer declared firmly. — If a command isn't immediately clear, that doesn't mean it should be ignored.
— I didn't suggest otherwise, — the agent smirked. — I fully agree with your assessment of the Supreme Commander's orders. Subordinates need only know what the situation demands.
— Precisely, — Stormaer confirmed.
And for that very reason, the rest of the task force waited outside the nebula, deploying a gravity well to intercept any potential "guests" or fugitives. Though the escorting cruisers and corvettes were crewed by clones loyal to the Dominion, the mission's high secrecy classification demanded utmost discretion.
Arriving in silence at the scouts' briefing room, Stormaer entered and waved a hand at the two pilots—commanders of the ARC-170 reconnaissance teams sent to the system a week and three days prior to the Abyssal Fury's arrival.
The captain took a seat at a small table typically used by the flight director and nodded for the first pilot to begin the report, utilizing the holoprojector.
The scout quietly settled into a seat in the back row.
— The system has four planets, sir, — explained the leader of the first team. — Cholganna is the second from the local star, which is a yellow spectral class. There are no gas giants, but surface scans indicate significant deposits of natural resources, including rare earths, on the three uninhabited planets. Cholganna has similar deposits, but the first and fourth planets draw more attention due to their high concentrations. Detailed ground surveys are needed. Additionally, orbital data suggests the planets pass through the nebula during their annual orbit, which could result in meteor showers.
The report was followed by detailed images and scan results for each uninhabited planet, pinpointing geographic locations of major mineral and element deposits.
Even the surface scans conducted from orbit were sufficient to confirm that the uninhabited planets could easily meet the Dominion's current demands for rare earth metals, used in a wide range of products. It was clear that mining colonies would be established here.
Of course, constructing self-sustaining mining settlements would be costly, but the long-term returns would undoubtedly justify the investment.
Stormaer nodded, acknowledging the completion of the first pilot's report.
As the first pilot returned to his seat, the second team's commander stepped forward.
He inserted his datachip into the holoprojector, and a three-dimensional projection of Cholganna appeared.
— The planet is habitable, but no sentient life has been confirmed, — the second commander stated. — A day is four hours shorter than standard. The climate is temperate, though temperatures in the northern hemisphere are low. The landscape is dominated by forests, including tropical ones in the southern latitudes. The mountains are rich in metallic ores. Local fauna includes a high population of nexu, clearly at the top of the food chain. Particularly troublesome are the octopuses, which ambush prey by dropping from tree canopies. My crew nearly lost a gunner but managed to fend them off.
— That's all well and good, but I'm more interested in something else, — Stormaer interrupted. — You said there's no sentient life. Yet our intelligence indicates a settlement of crash survivors.
— There is one, sir, — the team leader confirmed, pointing to a red dot on one of Cholganna's continents. — A small village, built from local materials, primarily wood and ship parts. It's designed for roughly fifty people. We observed signs of generator activity and defensive emplacements.
— Is the crash site of the Sa Nalaor far from the settlement? — the intelligence agent asked, reminding them of his presence.
— Over a hundred kilometers, sir, — the scout commander replied. — The ship lies in a mountainous area near a cliff's edge, bordered closely by forest. During observation, we noted significant nexu activity hunting in that region. The settlement is also in the forest, on a clearing. There are signs of cleared trees around a perimeter fence.
— They've been securing a safe zone, — Stormaer voiced his thoughts.
— And gathering building materials, — Bravo-One added. — Do the locals visit the ship? Any vehicles capable of space travel?
— From what we observed, a speeder departs the settlement roughly once a day to reach the frigate's wreckage, — the scout replied. — They're retrieving long-shelf-life rations, based on the markings. Apart from a few old Separatist speeders and speeder bikes, no other vehicles were detected.
— Have you determined the cause of the crash? — Stormaer asked.
— The hull shows multiple breaches of varying sizes, but no signs of plasma weapon damage, — the scout explained. — It's likely the result of asteroid impacts during hyperspace exit.
Stormaer shuddered, imagining what might have happened to his Star Destroyer if it had encountered such a natural anomaly.
— Or possibly meteor showers, — he suggested.
— That's possible, sir, — the scout agreed.
— Crews, stand down and rest, — Stormaer ordered, heading for the exit.
The intelligence agent was, predictably, right behind him.
— What are your thoughts? — the agent inquired.
— The system is prime for colonization, — Stormaer replied candidly. — However, the meteor showers and expanding nebula… those are problematic. The nebula's growth complicates navigation, and planets passing through it risk stonefall from the sky. Not to mention the local fauna. Nexu are a significant threat to settlers.
— They can always be tamed or exterminated, — Bravo-One remarked.
— At the cost of countless troops, — Stormaer countered. — Regardless, the primary objective is the cargo. Everything else is secondary.
— I fully agree, — the agent said. — I'll need several AT-ATs on the surface and AT-RTs for support.
— You intend to deploy? — Stormaer asked, so stunned that he halted mid-corridor.
— Correct, Captain, — the agent stopped as well, meeting the Star Destroyer commander's gaze calmly. — Securing the Sa Nalaor's cargo and crew is my task. You're providing support.
— And I'll be held responsible if some crazed local or hungry nexu kills you down there, — Stormaer grumbled.
— First, no one will hold you accountable for that. We're not in the Empire anymore, — the agent laughed. — My decision, my risk. To minimize it, I'll take troops and walkers. If you have no objections, air support would also be appreciated. A rescue team has already visited this planet, and we don't know where their ship is. I won't let anyone from the Sa Nalaor's crew escape.
Stormaer stared into the agent's eyes for a moment.
The remark about the Empire being gone was all well and good.
But there was still the matter of operational common sense.
Colonizing the system was secondary.
The cargo and surviving crew were the priority.
— I'll organize a planetary blockade with the air wing, — the Star Destroyer commander declared. — I guarantee no ship will break through.
— Inform the task force that any ship entering the restricted zone without my authorization is to be captured, regardless of affiliation, — the agent instructed.
— Understood.
***
Nearly three hundred years before the birth of Jesus Christ, a war raged between the Roman Empire and the Kingdom of Epirus.
In 279 BCE, the Epirote army waged a two-day offensive against Roman forces and ultimately broke their resistance.
This occurred near a place known as Ausculum.
However, the losses suffered by the kingdom's army, composed of professional and seasoned warriors, were so great that King Pyrrhus remarked: "If we win another victory over the Romans, we shall be utterly ruined."
In another version, Pyrrhus said: "If I achieve one more such victory over the Romans, I shall have no soldiers left from those who came with me."
Earth's history and wisdom were never more relevant than in the current situation.
Of eleven Imperial-class Star Destroyers and a dozen Acclamator-class assault ships, we can take only six of the former and four of the latter.
The remaining ships, damaged by our own actions, are beyond repair without extensive work at professional shipyards.
Not to mention that the Death's Head has sustained such extensive damage to its technical systems that attempting to move it out of the system would be a significant risk. The fleet's repair teams couldn't restore the ship to a state where it could reliably make a hyperspace jump.
Thus, six Star Destroyers remain in the Mustafar system—five from Ennix Devian's fleet and my Death's Head, along with eight Acclamators. Three damaged CR90 corvettes and seven Dreadnought-class cruisers will depart with us.
We have the means to replenish our losses, but the fact remains: Operation Crimson Dawn is not only falling behind schedule but has also been complicated by unforeseen battles in its final phase.
The questions troubling the ships' crews are simple and clear: "Where are we going?" and "When are we leaving?"
The answers exist but will not be disclosed now.
While the fleet grappled with its survival, the 501st Legion, the elite guard, was assaulting the offworld fortifications of the H1 faction.
And the assault… was not going smoothly.
This was precisely the subject of General Maximillian Cain's briefing, as he stood before me.
— Our bomber squadrons have suppressed all ground-based anti-landing defenses, — reported the clone, a general-major under Veers. — The 501st Legion continues its advance. We're engaged in heavy combat at the B-1 droid production facility. Fighting is ongoing in the foundries, and we're progressing, but slowly—the enemy has substantial droid reserves.
— Our specialists have completed the dismantling and loading of production facilities under stormtrooper control, — Pellaeon interjected, adding his five decicreds. — We've also extracted six ore smelting and refining plants, not to mention the material stockpiles and equipment. It's old, from the Confederacy era, but in decent condition. It appears to have been recently maintained.
I acknowledged the information with a silent nod.
Not bad.
— But you haven't advanced to the H1 fortress? — I clarified, keeping my gaze fixed on the legion's commander.
— No, sir, — he confirmed. — The enemy is putting up strong resistance in that sector. The Wookiees fighting for H1 are a major issue. Reports from the front indicate they're clones, sir. And they're utterly deranged. They've torn several of our troops apart with their bare hands.
— Psychotic rugs, — Pellaeon grimaced. — And the Force-users fighting for H1, General—are they clones as well?
— Not all of them, sir, — Cain replied. — Roughly a third are clones. Reports indicate at least two hundred are either Dathomirian witches or sentients wielding lightsabers, launching rapid, diversionary strikes with their Force abilities. The cloned Force-users lack any self-control and attack almost barehanded, without tactics or strategy. They cause significant disruption but are easier to eliminate due to their emotional instability.
— A flaw in the cloning process, — I stated. — So, General, the lack of specialized equipment and training for combat on a planet like this is also hampering our forces?
— Correct, sir, — Cain admitted reluctantly. — In the past, the Stormtrooper Corps had "hazard" or "magma" stormtroopers. Their specialized armor and training allowed them to withstand hostile environments. Magma stormtroopers were previously deployed on Mustafar and Sullust. Unfortunately, we lack such specialization. We're relying on "acid" troopers instead. Their armor, designed for acidic environments, allows them to endure Mustafar's anomalous conditions longer. Our progress is largely thanks to these troops, along with flamethrowers, missile troops, and heavy infantry. The high number of Force-users in the enemy's ranks prevents us from advancing at an acceptable pace.
— Additionally, the H1 faction has a significant amount of Imperial hardware, — Pellaeon noted. — They're actively deploying specially modified AT-ATs designed for these conditions. The Chimaera is supporting the assault with orbital strikes on such targets, as our ground forces can't easily take down AT-ATs.
— That's what they were designed for, — General Cain remarked, a slight note of offense in his voice. His professional pride was stung, as the original of this clone had devoted much of his life to perfecting the AT-AT. Now, his "descendant" was tasked with destroying those same machines.
— Is there a factory producing them on the planet? — I inquired.
— Yes, sir, — Cain confirmed. — General Jurgen, despite heavy losses, seized it half an hour ago. He's currently holding it against enemy droids while landing barges evacuate the industrial equipment. Unfortunately, as with the repulsor tank and droid production facilities, the enemy is using their entire stockpile of finished products against us.
— How long do you need to capture the H1 fortress? — I asked.
— Fleet special forces and storm commandos are already inside, sir, — Cain replied. — They'll soon sabotage the defense generators, allowing us to breach the enemy's fortifications once the heavy artillery and deflector shield are down. Given all this, I estimate no less than ten hours.
— Too long, — I stated. — You have three.
— Sir, — the clone gritted his teeth. — I'm no Jedi, nor am I training to be one. In three hours, we can only breach the forward line if the generators are disabled. But that's it. The second defensive line is riddled with kill zones, including Separatist J-1 proton cannons. They'll obliterate any walker, and the assault will stall.
— You don't grasp the gravity of the situation, General, — I said. — Captain Pellaeon, share the latest intelligence.
— Our scouts report that the enemy has deployed squadrons from Naboo and Sluis Van, totaling fifty star cruisers, not counting smaller vessels, — Pellaeon lamented. — They'll arrive in twelve hours. Given the time needed to secure and clear the fortress and extract valuable equipment, three hours is tight, but we can't afford more.
— In that case, sir, — General-Major Cain looked at me. — I'll need additional forces. A legion, or even two. Losses will be heavy, but if we neutralize the Force-users and Wookiees holding us back, I can guarantee we'll take the fortress in three hours. Not fully, but the critical sections you need—definitely. I repeat, we can't counter hundreds of frenzied Jedi burning our troops with lightning or two-meter anthropoids with inhuman strength.
— That's all I require, — I said. — Captain Pellaeon.
— Yes, sir? — the Chimaera's commander responded.
— Have the Void Wanderer and Bellicose reassign their ground contingents from guarding captured starships to support the assault. Additionally, prepare to use one or more of the Acclamators we can't take with us. Be ready to drop it on the H1 fortress once we secure access to the target assets. Is the Scimitar repaired?
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon replied, visibly stunned.
— Deploy Major Bren for precision strikes on enemy positions where it won't hinder our future advance, — I ordered.
— Are orbital strikes on the targets canceled? — Pellaeon clarified.
— Continue them until the enemy's resistance is suppressed, — I insisted. — But upon withdrawal, we destroy all structures. The enemy must not know what we found or took.
— Understood, sir, — Pellaeon agreed.
— The briefing is concluded, — I said, exiting the conference room with Tierce and Rukh in tow.
There was someone I needed to speak with.
This assault had dragged on too long.
And I had a suspicion about how to address the "madness" of the Force-users and cloned Wookiees.
***
— Abyssal Fury, deployment has begun, — the clone of General Covell announced into his comlink's microphone. — Perimeter secured, commencing force deployment.
Harsh and perilous,
Merciless and crimson,
The AT-AT is glorious.
— Acknowledged, General, — came Captain Stormaer's reply. — Keep me updated on the situation.
— Understood, — the clone grimaced as if every tooth in his mouth ached simultaneously. By habit, he even rolled his eyes, a silent gesture of how thoroughly fed up he was.
He exerted maximum effort to avoid broadcasting his true thoughts about these "orders from the clouds" over the comm channel.
Hutt-spawned cleanboots. Sitting up there in their armored boxes in orbit, watching monitors, and issuing commands. Report to them, they say. If you want to know the status of the ground operation, have the guts to come down from orbit, climb into an AT-AT's "head," and see a real battle with your own eyes.
Not that the cloned general-major despised fleet officers outright—no. Though he'd inherited this attitude from his template, who had kept it buried deep, right now, this particular General Covell was irritated by commanding the forces of this specific Star Destroyer.
Was the Abyssal Fury even capable of serious operations, or was this operational-tactical unit created solely to scavenge scrap metal from the galaxy's backwaters?
Or was it because this destroyer wasn't part of the guard? After all, Grand Admiral Thrawn had assigned General Veers' clones to the guard destroyers, which handled the most dangerous and strategically vital missions.
And what about him, Covell? Was he supposed to sulk because others were fighting real enemies and honing their skills while he was stuck languishing under the Abyssal Fury's shadow?
Now they'd flown to the Hutt-forsaken edge of nowhere, deployed a legion with walkers, and for what?
To capture some village?
By the Emperor's black bones! What nonsense he was forced to deal with!
— Believe me, — a voice nearby interrupted, — I'm hardly thrilled about this either.
The cloned general turned his head to see the intelligence officer seated on a fold-down chair.
Clad in black armor tailored for combat, this officer had not only imposed himself on the general for the ground operation but was also the mission's commander.
Covell's first instinct was to vent everything he thought about his role in scavenging scrap, but…
Fine, enough grumbling.
Such were the burdens of service. He could've ended up like his template, locked away in a secure facility, stripped of any chance to participate in ground battles.
— Did I say that out loud? — the clone asked.
— No, — Bravo-One replied calmly, pointing at the AT-AT's forward viewport. — Your reflection.
Covell recalled his reaction to Stormaer's words and chuckled at his own lack of restraint.
— Got it, — he said. Sharp-eyed, this intelligence officer.
But, to be fair, this sentient was clearly no desk-bound womp rat.
His gear wasn't new—scorch marks and wear showed it had seen combat. The loadout was properly fitted, the utility belt clearly not for show. And he held his blaster rifle with an experienced grip.
— Started in the infantry? — Covell asked, signaling the walker's driver to begin moving.
— Stormtrooper Corps, — the intelligence officer replied, surprisingly comfortable with the informal tone. The template's memories held plenty of instances where Imperial Intelligence agents would throw fits over such soldierly directness. — A few years in scout armor, then into intelligence.
— And how do you like all these covert shenanigans? — the clone asked. — Doesn't it wear you down?
— My specialty is field intelligence, sabotage, provocation, and deep-rear destabilization, — Bravo-One said calmly. — Exactly what I did in armor, just with… peculiar leadership.
— That's for sure, — the clone smirked. — Ever seen a battle from an AT-AT's cockpit?
— Only from the troop bay, — the Dominion agent replied in the same easy tone.
— Then buckle up and enjoy, — the general chuckled, turning to the instruments.
— Already looking forward to it, — came a chuckle from behind.
— This is General Covell, — the clone said, switching to the channel for the other combat vehicles. — Let's get to work. Group Alpha, move to the crash site and secure it. Group Beta, we're heading to the survivors' camp. AT-RTs, take point, maintain a five-hundred-meter distance from the AT-ATs. Let's do this.
Confirmation signals followed.
In the next instant, the durasteel cockpit of the AT-AT shuddered, signaling the start of the twenty-two-and-a-half-meter, four-legged behemoth's movement.
To someone unfamiliar with the intricacies of modern Imperial armor, an AT-AT might seem like a massive, slow, cumbersome, and ungainly walker.
Visually unappealing, "hunchbacked," with deceptively thin legs that armchair critics deemed vulnerable, the tank moved briskly toward the edge of a vast clearing. Burned out in the forest equidistant between the crash site and the survivors' settlement via an orbital strike, it served as an ideal landing zone for the landing barges.
The first wave's ground contingent established a mobile base, securing the perimeter. Then the walkers arrived.
The deployment was shielded by massive rock formations over ten kilometers high, so unless the locals had an observation post there (which the fleet assured they did not), there was no need to worry about them spotting the approaching forces. Scout troopers had already encircled the settlement, and soon the first AT-RTs would reinforce them.
Fifty kilometers of dense forest might have been an issue for others, but not for an AT-AT, built by the Empire and upgraded by the Dominion.
Let the Republic try to topple a walker by entangling its legs now. Good luck with that.
Each "leg" was now equipped with vibro-directors capable of severing any cable. And the second vulnerable point—the "neck"—was securely armored with a "collar." Rumor had it the fleet designed it, but that was nonsense, wasn't it? What did those flyboys know about ground forces' needs?
The general smirked as he watched the nimble AT-RTs dart ahead, weaving through the trees. The agile "little ones" were perfect for reconnaissance and maneuverability in such dense terrain. A dozen of them sped far ahead to prevent any locals from escaping into the forest.
Assuming they hadn't already fled upon hearing the orbital strike.
Through the AT-AT's armored viewport, the general watched with relish as the massive hull and legs plowed through the undergrowth, leaving a trail for the other walkers to follow.
Three tanks and a hundred "little ones" had been allocated to capture the settlement. They could've simply swooped in on Lambda-class shuttles and dropped stormtroopers from the sky, but then, pray tell, what was the point of having ground forces on the ship?
This was at least some training for the troops.
Besides, the skies were covered by interceptors and a few shuttles with reinforcements.
Though the general had serious doubts about needing them for this operation.
The AT-RTs consistently reported no mines, tripwires, traps, or other defenses the locals might have set up to protect their settlement. A large concentration of nexu in the forests was a problem, however. Three "little ones" had already fended off persistent predators, blasting entire packs with their grenade launchers and laser cannons.
Scout troopers had warned of such dangers, avoiding them only due to their speed. Well, training on predators was still training.
Over the years his template had served the Empire, he'd conducted numerous assault operations. And no matter how much this clone identified with him, this operation was also a test of his own abilities.
Swaying in the commander's chair at the center of the AT-AT's cockpit, the general monitored the tactical display, tracking his forces' movements.
The second group had covered over twenty-five kilometers in half an hour. Given the time and the AT-ATs' speed, they were moving near their maximum.
Good.
Group Beta was approaching the base of the cliffs. Scouts had identified a spot to cross the mountain ridge without detouring for kilometers.
A massive stone arch, carved long ago by a now-dry river.
The "little ones" had already navigated this treacherous terrain, leaving only the AT-ATs to cross.
Covell smirked, considering the trap's convenience.
Cliffs on both sides. Bypassing them would take a day.
If he were the locals, he'd collapse the arch, blocking the pass with rubble and an AT-AT's carcass.
— Scanners! — the general demanded.
— Clear, sir!
Sure, of course.
With large mineral deposits in the rocks, scanner accuracy dropped significantly. If the locals had any sense and didn't want visitors right now, this was the perfect time and place for an ambush.
So far, everything was going well.
But the clone had a gut feeling this was a trap. The location was too convenient.
The locals had let the "little ones" pass, either because they didn't dare engage or hadn't prepared the trap in time. But they wouldn't let the AT-ATs through without consequences.
— All units, halt! — the general commanded.
The three AT-ATs froze in place.
— Form a line!
In a couple of minutes, the column reformed into a front.
— Elevate seven degrees, fire all weapons!
And thunder roared.
A torrent of crimson fire from two heavy laser cannons and blaster turrets melted the rock, collapsing the arch into the pass.
Simultaneously, two explosions at the edges of the newly formed ravine triggered small rockslides.
— Remote detonator detected! — the driver reported. — Source: the settlement.
— Simple and effective, — the intelligence officer remarked.
— Blockade group, commence the assault on the settlement, — the clone of General Covell chuckled smugly.
Let the locals revel in their brief victory—it meant nothing to the operation's outcome.
The scouts knew precisely that thirty survivors were in the camp, frantically trying to build defenses from scrap and wood.
Against walkers.
Hoping the collapse would change something.
As if.
— Fire, — the general ordered.
The trio of AT-ATs opened fire.
Stone—massive boulders and fine gravel—melted within minutes under relentless bombardment from all onboard weapons, forming a pool of molten slag in the path of the war machines.
The five-meter stone barrier ceased to exist in an instant.
— Resume advance, — the clone of General Covell smirked.
Half an hour later, after trudging through the jungle and burning anything that could slow them, the walkers emerged onto a clearing carved out years ago, surrounding a palisade that protected the settlement from natural predators.
With admirable synchronicity, the "little ones" appeared from under the forest canopy, encircling the settlement. At the same moment, scout troopers roared through the air, their engines howling…
— Not a bad jungle stroll, — the intelligence officer commented.
— Could be better, — Covell admitted frankly. — The troops need training. Instead, we're stuck doing Hutt-knows-what.
— Oh, believe me, General, — Bravo-One chuckled. — You'll get a reward for successfully completing this operation.
Giving the agent a scrutinizing look, the clone chose to hold his tongue to avoid trouble.
Instead, he scanned the instruments.
The settlement was clearly active—four operational energy sources, likely former auxiliary reactors, based on their signatures. One was in the settlement's center, the other three near the walls in spacious wooden sheds.
That was a lot of power for simple settlers.
Unless they had…
— Droids! — came an alarm signal.
The general smirked as the settlement's gates opened, and Separatist B-1 droids marched out in neat formations.
With thirty-year-old blaster carbines, their metal faces devoid of any trace of intelligence…
— Are they joking? — the general's cheek twitched.
— I'm afraid not, — the agent pointed at an equally ancient AAT tank rolling out from the gates. — They're using what they have. They likely had no chance to upgrade their defenses without leaving the planet. That's why they wanted to seize that patched-together Imperial-class Star Destroyer. To flee wherever they could. Now we know where all those B-1 droids on that ship came from—pulled from the Sa Nalaor's holds.
The clone looked at the agent, bewildered.
— So what do I do, Agent? — he asked. — Fight this scrap heap? It's a laughingstock.
In lieu of an answer, one of the AT-RTs exploded, torn apart by a torpedo from the AAT.
A retaliatory shot from another AT-RT shredded the Separatist tank, raining shrapnel on the soulless droids.
— Does that answer your question?
— Fine, — Covell sighed, switching his comlink to the command channel. — All units, let's stretch our legs a bit. Troopers, while we're practicing our aim, round up the locals.
As the Lambda shuttles descended into the settlement, their engines wailing, the Dominion's armor opened fire.
And droid parts flew in all directions, scattering through the alleys…
***
"This is an utterly insane idea," Mara thought. "And it was from the start."
But, as always in such situations, the young woman held her tongue.
The atmosphere of a troop shuttle deployment wasn't conducive to debating orders.
She'd voiced her opinions before—more than once.
The last time, provoking Thrawn into candor, she'd nearly landed in serious trouble. Not only did the Grand Admiral take note of her behavior, but she'd also shown her unprofessionalism by letting her guard down.
The result: Thrawn's suspicions about her potential disloyalty.
Of course, the Grand Admiral likely recognized her behavior as provocative, not reflective of her true motives, but he'd drawn a conclusion. Whether it was about her acting skills or her susceptibility to enemy propaganda remained unclear.
But she couldn't allow herself not to probe Thrawn's motives regarding his actions on Coruscant.
It was obvious that cloaked asteroids packed with explosives weren't created in a couple of days. Thus, the counterattack using this weapon wasn't a spur-of-the-moment idea born in Thrawn's intricate mind after the attack on him at Soullex.
He'd planned this project long ago—but for what purpose?
To be honest, staging that confrontation, Mara feared most that Thrawn would reveal he'd abandoned the relatively humane approach to warfare he'd demonstrated thus far. It would've been excruciating to learn that the sentient she'd chosen to trust, after surviving a personal attack, would cast aside his honor and begin burning worlds.
Like Palpatine.
But no.
Thrawn, though he might've anticipated the Republic's foolishness, was surprised by the depth of their idiocy.
And one couldn't deny his reasoning—why should he constantly account for his enemies' stupidity? It was war, and if not all means were justified, those that secured victory certainly were.
Yes, it stung that civilians died, but Thrawn provided a perfectly reasonable example: the losses could've been avoided if the government had used its head instead of the part it sat on.
Most of all, Mara felt relief realizing that, despite his harsh methods, Thrawn continued to act with the best intentions.
When your enemies are fools but numerous, responsible for protecting nearly half the galaxy's population, you must consider forcing them—by hook or by crook—to act for the greater good.
At that point, Mara, fully aware she'd not only approached but crossed the line of what was permissible, decided not to tug the rancor's lower lip any further.
From what she knew of the Grand Admiral, his restraint in not ordering her elimination already exceeded the usual boundaries he set for subordinates. Continuing to test the hyperdrive's moorings would harm the entire ship.
Mara resolved not to doubt Thrawn's intentions or view his actions one-sidedly anymore.
After all, he'd never promised not to attack civilian worlds or their populations. Their collaboration had begun on a different note, and she shouldn't test Thrawn's patience further.
She needed to do what she did best: execute delicate orders—covertly, swiftly, skillfully, and without leaving witnesses. All for the cause she'd sworn loyalty to.
Amusingly, Thrawn hadn't asked her to swear allegiance to him personally—only to the Dominion. Palpatine, on the other hand, had demanded the opposite.
That was a telling difference between them.
She should value what she had. Losing everything a third time would be unforgivable.
She'd thought about this before but now made a final decision.
If the Grand Admiral doubted whether she still had tibanna in her cartridge or wondered if she should be replaced with someone more loyal to him personally, now was the time to demonstrate her zeal in restoring her tarnished reputation.
Especially since Thrawn had all but told her how to do it.
Save the Dominion—or him personally.
Said in his usual tone, it might've been a subtle jest from someone like Karrde.
But this was Thrawn. Humor wasn't his forte.
Though his remark about her scolding him like an errant husband was unexpectedly amusing…
Coming from Thrawn, it sounded almost like… a hint.
No, that was nonsense creeping into her head.
Probably the aftermath of a rough landing.
Why rough?
Because she hadn't batted an eye when she received the order.
And she'd agreed to the mission despite being assigned a storm commando squad and…
Maul.
The Zabrak was climbing out from under the wreckage of the troop shuttle, radiating fury and hatred toward all living things.
Honestly, Mara had never seen him in such a state. She might even admit she was a bit afraid of him right now. She knew that in a confrontation, she could lose.
The wave of the Dark Side emanating from him was so scorching, so palpable, that Mustafar's molten magma felt like a cool coastal breeze in comparison.
But accompanied by three storm commandos, Thrawn's Hand felt slightly calmer. Only slightly, but still. She should thank the Grand Admiral for pulling these troops from their mission to locate the cloning facility to assist her.
Though, according to their commander's report, the storm commandos had succeeded—the cloning facility was found.
Despite their ship being shot down by droid fire. But, one could say, they'd reached their target: the H1 fortress.
The air thundered with the cacophony of battle raging at the fortress's outskirts.
H1's fanatical followers, driven by his vile will, fiercely defended their ground, preventing the stormtroopers from advancing.
AT-ATs clashed in a ferocious duel, their blaster-absorbing armor battered by crimson energy tsunamis.
Countless AT-RTs made daring cavalry charges on H1's positions, only to end as smoking heaps of metal.
Melted tanks, speeder bikes, and gravicycles shattered into tiny fragments…
The 501st Legion was grinding through the fanatics' defenses.
Neither cloned Wookiees nor some incomprehensible Dark Side adherents could save them…
The H1 fortress on Mustafar.
— Forward, — Mara ordered, seeing Maul finally free his beskar limbs from the wreckage, clanking them against the permacrete surfaces of what was once a mining platform.
— Yes, ma'am, — responded one of the three pitch-black storm commandos.
Mara considered correcting his form of address but thought better of it.
Primarily because it was pointless to argue over minor details during a mission with the commander of her escort. For them, completing the task always took precedence over verbal niceties.
Like stormtroopers, identifying them without visor identifiers was impossible. But this one seemed to be Sergeant THX-0297, a clone of Colonel Selid, with whom she'd fought against a deranged Luke Skywalker clone on Wayland.
No surprise Thrawn sent him to aid her against another mad clone of a long-dead Jedi.
The sergeant set a brisk pace, as if someone had shouted "Double time!" Maul, still growling like a beast, followed. Mara, knowing the flamethrower and technician would cover their rear, didn't hesitate, breaking into a run.
The ship had crashed on the upper landing platform, hit by a salvo of missiles from an unknown droid.
The stern was obliterated, so they'd landed in a "falling stone" fashion.
Her ears still rang, so she nearly missed the moment the squad's vanguard sharply changed direction and vanished into a side corridor on the upper level.
Cursing her sluggishness, Mara, along with the two commandos, raced to catch up with THX-0297 and Maul, who'd pulled ahead by several dozen meters and were already engaged in combat.
Their opponents were two Force-users.
Mara barely had time to gauge their Force potential—average—when one fell, his head severed.
Maul, leaping to the pair, crushed the second's skull with a blow from his prosthetics.
THX-0297 didn't slow, cutting down several B-1 droids emerging from a hidden alcove with a short burst.
This corridor likely led to where H1 was, controlling his forces like K'Baoth.
Mara sensed a concentration of the Dark Side so potent, so repulsive, so abhorrent that even memories of Palpatine's aura from her time serving him seemed pleasant.
The source of this pseudo-power seemed to be rotting alive.
As if some lunatic had learned to harness the stench of gangrenous decay on an industrial scale.
Mara felt physically uneasy in this miasma, reminding herself that the Dark Side was not the path she wished to follow.
What this self-proclaimed Sith radiated was incomparable to the awe-inspiring, terrifying power of Palpatine or the cold fury and fear surrounding Vader.
No, it wasn't that H1 was more powerful or stronger than the Sith Lords she'd known.
He was just… different.
These thoughts raced through Mara's mind in the minutes it took Maul to carve through the pathetic Sith imitations blocking his path.
She barely recognized her former instructor.
Like a wild animal, he tore through the corridor, wielding his double-bladed lightsaber like a guillotine. He hacked through enemies with such ferocity that it could've been admirable…
But Mara was only struck with dread.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she understood that the Zabrak's actions were an attempt to earn a measure of Thrawn's loyalty.
He aimed to prove his usefulness, not just as a defector who'd surrendered three scrap-built Star Destroyers without a fight.
This realization eerily mirrored Mara's own resolve to give her all on this mission, to show she was a vital tool in the Supreme Commander's hands.
It was all so strange and unnatural to her.
Jade knew her character, her motives, her aspirations.
And she noted with surprise that such thoughts had once crossed her mind—at the dawn of her time as the Emperor's Hand.
Back then, a sliver of the Dark Side she'd been taught to wield had intoxicated her. In her naivety, she believed diligent, uncompromising service to the Emperor would elevate her to something greater. Not to replace Darth Vader—whom she avoided at all costs—but perhaps one day, satisfied with her work, the Emperor would reveal new mysteries of the Dark Side, unveiling ancient secrets and…
— No way! — Mara hissed through clenched teeth, deflecting a blaster shot back at a sniper droid perched in a ventilation shaft. — That trick won't work a second time.
One simple thought, a return to the past, unlocked a different mystery.
Unwittingly, she and Maul had fallen into the Dark Side's temptations. This was likely how H1 controlled his followers, sending them to slaughter, making them spare nothing of themselves.
— Maul! — she shouted, seeing the Zabrak, his face twisted with sadistic pleasure, use the Force to snap the neck of a young man who held a lightsaber so clumsily it seemed he'd never seen one before. — It's H1! He's influencing us to crave more! It's the Dark Side!
Tossing the choking body aside, the Zabrak turned to her with crazed eyes. Looking into them, Jade found nothing but roiling madness.
"He was once Palpatine's apprentice," she recoiled, horrified by the realization.
She quickly ordered the three storm commandos to cover her specifically. She exhaled with relief when THX-0297 promptly stepped back from the Zabrak, joining his comrades.
At least she could rely on them.
— This is what I was born for, — Maul's voice echoed distortedly. He gazed at the massive armored bulkhead, behind which the administrative center likely lay. — H1 is there. I sense his Force. He's weakening. Pathetic worm. I'll kill him and reclaim my right to be called a Sith Lord. Everything he has will be mine!
With two swift strikes, he carved a diagonal cross into the door, then used the Force to collapse the edges inward.
Letting out a maniacal laugh, the Zabrak clanked his armored legs over the threshold, heading toward his prize.
— Ma'am, is this sentient now a liability to the mission's success in eliminating H1? — Sergeant THX-0297 asked.
Though his helmet's dark visor hid his eyes, Jade was certain the storm commando was looking straight into hers.
She nodded in agreement.
She understood Thrawn hadn't sent Maul lightly.
He might not grasp the Force's nuances, but he knew the Zabrak was far deadlier in combat than his Hand.
So he'd sent Maul to kill H1—a task undoubtedly within the former apprentice of the greatest Sith she'd known.
But, forgive the impertinent question: Who was supposed to stop Maul when—not if—he decided to relive his glory days and take the place of his defeated foe?
Because that was exactly what the Zabrak had just announced…
— I… doubt I can defeat him, — Mara said quietly.
— That's why we're here, ma'am, — the commando commander's calm voice replied. She looked at the sergeant, but he'd already turned to one of his men:
— THX-0333, get the flamethrower.