Nine years, nine months, and thirty-second days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, nine months, and thirty-second days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and eighteenth days since the arrival).
Commodore Shohashi displayed no emotion as he was briefed on the results of the spy droids' observations.
Fifty-seven Acclamator-class assault ships of both variants, eighty-three Corellian-manufactured corvettes and gunships, and over half a hundred Venator-class Star Destroyers.
Not to mention the enemy's habitable sphere with an unknown quantity and type of armaments. And several thousand cargo ships. Thousands! Given their size, each of these starships could serve as a carrier for launch platforms, which already suggested significant issues with missile and torpedo attacks.
Against all this wealth stood one Crimson Dawn, two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, two Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, twelve Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, and thirty Corellian corvettes.
It was fortunate that the ships' starfighter wings were fully staffed and all damages repaired.
As always—quantity versus quality.
What other options were there but to speak of the defeat of Ennix Devian's forces?
The victory achieved by Shohashi at Hypori was glorious, especially considering the cost at which it was won and the wealth of trophies and valuable intelligence gained. Yes, Salukemai and Shola refused to join the Dominion, but no one had insisted too strongly.
The upcoming battle would be so massive that the previous operation would pale in comparison, becoming a mere shadow of the campaign's finale to destroy Ennix Devian.
Even though four battle-worn Imperial-class Star Destroyers, supported by nine Acclamators, were hastening to his base, they would have no impact on the battle's outcome.
The "Butcher of Atoan" was unmatched in carnage, and now, under his command, an ideal strike force had been assembled to execute the combat task set by Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Despite the enemy's numerical superiority, the attack plan was as simple as it was effective.
The Sentinel and Eternal Wrath would prevent the enemy from escaping into hyperspace, supported by half of the heavy cruisers.
The remaining starships would form an attack line, wedge into the enemy's ranks, and inflict maximum destruction and casualties. Advancing toward the habitable sphere, the Crimson Dawn, along with the Judicator, Imperious, and their supporting ships, would simultaneously deploy boarding parties to the targeted starships, neutralizing them and securing trophies.
Then, the battle for the habitable sphere itself would commence.
There was a small window of time before the arrival of the enemy's Star Destroyers and assault ships from Mustafar.
They had to act swiftly.
Not a single major enemy ship would escape this unnamed system, especially since, according to intercepted communications, Ennix Devian himself had not participated in the battle against Thrawn at Mustafar.
— Commodore, two minutes to target, — reported the watch officer from the other side of the bridge.
— Battle stations, — commanded Erik, switching to his comlink. — Crew of the Crimson Dawn: listen in your sections. Stand by your posts, prepare for combat. Boarding party commanders—prepare for deployment.
Erik shifted his weight onto his cane, its handle gripped in his right hand.
With a habitual motion, he pulled an archaic chronometer from his uniform pocket and flipped open its cover.
His gaze, as it had hundreds of times before, settled on the image of Irenez, and his thumb traced the rough surface of the engraving.
He felt the familiar vibration of deceleration, and the view through the bridge's observation port transformed from the pale haze of hyperspace into the stark darkness of real space.
A glance at the tactical display was enough to confirm a simple truth: the fleet had emerged from hyperspace in exactly the same numbers it had entered and precisely at the designated coordinates.
The enemy fleet was divided into several squadrons, each drifting in its assigned sector of space, awaiting orders. The only thing they had in common was the small refueling stations to which Ennix Devian's ships were docked.
Massive reservoirs of tibanna gas and fuel.
Such plump, unwieldy targets.
The explosion of each could severely damage the ships docked at the stations...
— Fire! — commanded Erik, snapping the chronometer's cover shut.
***
The battle had barely begun, and warlord Ennix Devian was already horrified by how swiftly the Dominion's fleet was destroying what he had painstakingly gathered and organized over years.
The first shot from the eight-kilometer-long Bellator-class dreadnought obliterated a refueling station, where light patrol forces were docked. Thirty CR90 corvettes of various configurations, tasked with patrolling and escorting transports with hired mercenaries, were practically vaporized after the massive ship's initial salvo.
— What's happening!? — Ennix Devian leapt from his desk, glaring furiously at the hologram of his aide. — It's the Dominion!
The figure in a heavy cloak, hood concealing their face, merely chuckled meaningfully:
— The Dominion has come to avenge you and X1 for the attack on their leader near Mustafar.
The hired assassin ignored the rebuke.
— I knew your advice to ally with X1 was foolishness! — he roared. — What now?
— Fight, — the ally replied indifferently. — And die in battle.
— I need support! — Devian demanded. — You promised to establish contact with the Imperial Ruling Council! I need their ships! Here! Now!
The ally didn't even pretend to care about Devian's words.
— I promised, and I delivered, — they said calmly. — Now fight. And let your Imperials fight. I'm certain that if you exert all your efforts and throw every ship into the fray, you might survive.
— That Bellator will smear me across the vacuum! — Devian declared in panic, watching as a second station exploded, crippling a dozen assault ships. Like giant toys broken by a child, they began to drift slowly, barely managed by the sparse watch crews aboard.
Before the campaign against the Dominion, Devian, on his ally's advice, had allowed his crews to rest. After all, they were supposed to conquer the entire Dominion...
Now, most of the crews were aboard the habitable sphere, while the enemy was obliterating operational starships with their guns and deploying boarding parties onto those no longer posing a threat.
The former mercenary watched as the Bellator-class dreadnought, escorted by two Star Destroyers and a dozen heavy cruisers, advanced in a frontal formation toward his base.
Devian's heavy cruisers and corvettes opened fire on the enemy, but the Venator-class Star Destroyers, under the assassin's orders, were slow to join the battle with their artillery, releasing only a handful of starfighters. After all, the pilots were also aboard the station!
Before his eyes, an assault ship took several direct salvos before its shields were activated, granting it a brief respite. The ship slowly detached from the refueling station, firing all its meager weapons, when its superstructure vanished in the flashes of dozens of concussion missiles.
The ship lost control and was immediately seized by tractor beams. Within a minute, its hull was dotted with numerous boarding shuttles deploying assault teams.
One of the Venator-class Star Destroyers exploded under crossfire from both Dominion Star Destroyers. Judging by the speed of its destruction, the hits struck the open main hangar, and from there, it was a short path to the ammunition and bomb bays.
Other Star Destroyers and assault ships that avoided significant damage in the battle's opening retreated closer to the habitable sphere, converted into an armed fleet repair station and simultaneously Devian's faction headquarters.
Under the protection of such a giant, the fleet hoped to regroup and repel the enemy's advance.
Devian, with his single real eye, watched as the Dominion's forces precisely targeted the retreating ships.
Thrawn's corvettes charged into the fray, clearly aiming for the withdrawing starships.
The corvettes fired relentlessly at the engines, slowing the retreating ships, allowing Dominion interceptors and fighters to unleash a slaughter near Devian's base.
A base filled with personnel on leave.
An alliance with X1, which he hadn't wanted but agreed to in order to eliminate an alien and several of his enemies.
The promised alliance with Orinda and their aid in the battle against Thrawn, followed by the conquest of the Dominion...
Everything his ally had promised turned out to be a lie.
X1 was destroyed, his fleet and resources captured.
Devian's own fleet, if not annihilated, was certainly unusable for victory in this battle.
Even the nearby reinforcements, battered by Thrawn at Mustafar, offered no hope of winning this engagement.
The only exit from this system was blocked by Dominion ships, firmly secured by Interdictor-class Star Destroyers.
There was no chance the station's crews could reach their starships in time to organize effective resistance!
A crushing defeat, just as he had begun assembling forces to triumph over the pathetic Imperials and Republicans!
But now, he realized—undeniably—that he was on the losing side. Even without the element of surprise, the Dominion fleet's might, arrayed against his forces, was poised to crush everything he had painstakingly gathered across the galaxy.
The pieces finally fell into place.
— Traitor! — Devian screamed, glaring at the hologram. — You orchestrated this!
The only response was his ally's mocking laughter as their hologram vanished.
And then, explosions began to erupt within the habitable sphere.
The first blast vaporized warlord Ennix Devian, still staring at the deactivated holoprojector.
***
Ten Imperial-class Star Destroyers emerged from hyperspace where the trio of Republic ships least expected them.
A deployed gravity well allowed the Republicans to pull ships into realspace as they passed through the Zonju V system along routes from Wild Space toward the Hydian Way.
The only logical move for someone unaware of other, uncharted hyperspace routes.
We were not among them.
For this reason, several light-years before the target system, the fleet exited hyperspace, split into two squadrons, and executed microjumps to position itself beyond the range of the enemy's Immobilizer 418.
Now, executing the classic Imperial fleet maneuver known as the "Tartar Attack Pattern," the fleet pinned the trio of enemy ships from both flanks, mercilessly hammering them with turbolaser and ion cannon fire.
In its classic form, the tactic involved dropping out of hyperspace directly above the enemy after confirming their position with a nearby starfighter squadron, catching them off guard and blocking their hyperspace vector.
In simpler terms: locate the enemy fleet, exit hyperspace above them in echelon formation, and position your ships between the enemy and their escape vector.
In my case, recon droids provided precise coordinates for two Victory I-class Star Destroyers and an interdictor cruiser. Cheap and effective.
Now, with my starships arranged in a staggered formation, each ship slightly ahead and to the side of the previous one, the enemy allowed my squadrons of Star Destroyers, emerging from hyperspace in a frontal formation, to deliver a devastating broadside attack on all three ships.
The enemy had seconds to raise their deflector shields... and we gave them no such chance, obliterating the shield generator domes with the first salvo, fired point-blank from ten Star Destroyers.
— Selonian Fire, Coruscant Flame, — Captain Pellaeon read the names of the two Star Destroyers now defenseless, reaping the whirlwind of ion cannon fire targeting their launch bays and gun emplacements. — The tractor ship is some Olovayn. Captured from the Empire, presumably.
— Presumably, — I agreed.
— If you wish, I can order an inquiry into the previous names of these starships, — Pellaeon offered.
— That won't be necessary, Captain, — I replied calmly. Turning my head, while continuing to stroke the ysalamiri, I inquired:
— Is the battle being recorded?
— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed.
— Excellent, — I nodded. — Deploy the boarding teams.
— Take the crew prisoner? — Gilad clarified.
— Not at the expense of the overall mission, — I cautioned. — The objective of this operation is to prepare a response to Madine's false claim of our fleet's destruction, broadcast over the HoloNet. And to replenish our losses among tractor beam cruisers.
— Two Victories won't hurt either, — Pellaeon remarked meaningfully.
— Indeed, — I smiled. — Don't you find it amusing that the Republic's typical disregard for facts has worked against them today?
Gilad chuckled.
— When it comes to opposing you, Grand Admiral, it always works against them.
— Perhaps, — I didn't disagree. — Madine claimed he captured a significant number of our starships, with our losses numbering a hundred cruisers and corvettes. A rather unpleasant claim. Except he clearly lacks accurate information. As of now, factoring in recent acquisitions, the Dominion commands over forty Star Destroyers—and that's just the Imperial-class. Victories, including these two, — I gestured toward the Selonian Fire and Coruscant Flame, — number about a dozen. And other ship types are even more numerous.
— Understood, sir, — Pellaeon sighed. — Do we need an inventory of our forces?
— Precisely, — I confirmed. — We must commission as many ships as possible to continue our strikes. Commodore Shohashi is currently engaging the remnants of Ennix Devian's fleet and has captured over twenty Venators and fifty Acclamators. We've effectively offset our losses at Mustafar. Considering the stragglers fleeing Mustafar are returning to Devian's base, we can say the Dominion's Star Destroyer count is approaching fifty.
— We'll need to repair and restore them to combatව
System: combat readiness, — Pellaeon reminded. — We may lack sufficient drydocks in the Ciutric Hegemony, Oplovis, or Venine... We'll likely need to involve Tangrene for standard ships as well.
— The Chimaera, Bellicose, and the captured Star Destroyers from Mustafar will head to Tangrene, — I declared. — Given their condition, the best course is to immediately enroll them in a modernization program to yield ten to fifteen Imperial III-class ships by year's end. These will serve as the vanguard of the regular fleet, buying time for the modernization of the rest. But those are details.
— Repairs at Tangrene may take time, — Pellaeon noted. — With the Guardian and that new ship built from the Iron Fist there, the shipyard's capacity may not handle such a load in the short term.
— You're right, Captain, — I agreed, making a swift decision. — Inform the navigators we'll make a stop in the Karthakk system. I want to retrieve something vital for our fleet from there.
— Aye, sir! — Pellaeon saluted, stepping aside.
Half an hour later, when droidekas and stormtroopers of the 501st Legion finally broke the resistance of the enemy crews, the fleet, now bolstered by two Victories and one tractor beam cruiser, made another hyperspace jump.
But not along the Hydian Way, once again leaving the Republic's traps empty-handed.
***
The landing bay of the Lambda-class shuttle was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the dim glow of emergency lighting and the flickering panels along the bulkheads.
— The Crimson Dawn reports multiple detonations inside the habitable sphere, — the crew commander reported to Asajj.
— Is the mission canceled? — the Dathomirian witch glared at the officer. — Did Commodore Shohashi issue such an order?
Through the forward viewport, she could see explosions tearing through the massive openings of the station, converted into a shipyard.
The hulls of ships, visible through the bluish shimmer of atmospheric shields, were wracked by explosions and pillars of flame.
— Negative, ma'am, — he replied.
— Then we proceed with the landing, — Asajj declared.
Sitting across from her, Ahsoka Tano grinned.
Her white teeth gleamed distinctly in the red glow of the emergency lights.
Shining like polished stormtrooper armor, they practically begged to be struck with something heavy.
— Why the grin? — Asajj demanded.
— Just looking and thinking how obedient you've become, — the Togruta declared. — A model officer...
— One more word, — the Dathomirian felt the shuttle's hull touch the hangar deck of the massive station. — And you'll lead the assault.
— Easy, — Tano continued to smile.
Rising from her crash couch, the young woman headed toward the lowering ramp, unclipping her lightsabers from her belt:
— Stormtroopers, with me! — the Togruta ordered. — Anyone not quick enough will get a kick from that angry witch. Want to know how, as a Padawan, I bested her in combat more than once?
With a roar like a wounded rancor, Ventress lunged after the talkative little pest.
Years pass, but some characters never change.
***
Clanking with the metal of temporary prosthetics installed aboard the Chimaera, Maul strode toward the compartment he'd been ordered to report to.
Everything irritated the Zabrak.
The guards in blue-black armor trailing him, the inability to control the Force, which had been inexplicably suppressed since he surrendered to Thrawn's mercy.
And the former Emperor's Hand leading their procession, clearly at ease on this ship.
Empty corridors, not a single sentient in sight, sealed bulkheads... Not even Hutt-spawned mouse droids crossed their path.
It left an indelible impression that someone had deliberately ensured Maul's transit from his quarters to the meeting point would go unwitnessed.
This suggested they intended to deal with him quietly.
Well, foolish sentients. You may strip a Sith Lord of the Force, take his lightsaber, but ensuring an execution goes smoothly? That's beyond your power.
Maul intended to fight for his life to the very end.
Suddenly, a gray-skinned runt stood by a door, accompanied by four Dominion guards clearly securing the compartment Maul was being led to.
The Zabrak tensed, ready to fight at the slightest attempt to kill him...
The door to the compartment opened...
— Greetings, Lord Maul, — as it turned out, he'd been brought to a conference room.
Grand Admiral Thrawn sat at a long metal table, stroking an unfamiliar lizard-like creature.
A few chairs, a holoprojector... Nothing suggested this was an execution site.
The Hand, pausing near the entrance, silently nodded for him to enter.
Maul, flashing her a feral snarl, complied.
He strode in silently and, without preamble, sat directly across from Thrawn, staring defiantly into his crimson eyes.
The door closed.
Inside remained only Thrawn, the lizard, the Hand, the gray-skinned runt, and four guards.
— Your assistance in eliminating the clone known as X1 has been duly noted, — Thrawn said calmly.
— Is that so? — Maul snapped irritably. — Then why am I treated like a prisoner? Is this how you deal with allies?
The Hand smirked, taking a position behind and to the right of the Grand Admiral. Only now did Maul note she was unarmed. The only armed sentients were the four guards, standing in pairs: two at the door, two behind Thrawn. To their left, the gray-skinned runt crouched with the demeanor of a bodyguard.
Which, in all likelihood, he was.
— Not at all, — Thrawn assured, patting the lizard. — With allies, I build only trusting and mutually beneficial relationships.
— Then why am I under constant guard? — Darth Maul demanded.
— Because your status remains undefined, — Thrawn stated. — You joined us to escape X1's wrath. Your motives were purely selfish—to eliminate a potential threat. X1 is dead, his faction obliterated. The factors ensuring your loyalty to me and the Dominion no longer exist.
— If I wanted, I'd have already slaughtered your guards and seized this ship, — Maul said irritably.
— Allow me to clarify, — Thrawn remarked. — 'If you could,' not 'if you wanted.' Your unpredictability is precisely why you're under house arrest. Your fate depends directly on this meeting's outcome.
— And if the outcome isn't what you envision? — Maul inquired. — What then? Dispose of me?
— We'll discuss that if it becomes the likely scenario, — Thrawn replied diplomatically. — What are your plans, Darth Maul?
— I see no reason to share them with you, — the Zabrak leaned back, crossing his arms defiantly.
— There are at least four, — Thrawn said, unfazed by the provocation.
Well, this was only the beginning.
In his lifetime, Maul had spent plenty of time in such negotiations.
— And those are? — the Zabrak asked.
— Four guards, — Thrawn said, — my bodyguard, my Hand, the Chimaera's crew. Each could execute my order to jettison you out an airlock.
— A crude recruitment tactic, — Maul snorted, sensing the purpose of this intriguing dialogue. — Your feeble threats don't scare me. I've endured hell under Darth Sidious's training, so I laugh at such promises.
Black-as-night daggers appeared in the gray-skinned runt's hands.
— Perhaps crude, — Thrawn nodded. — But my schedule is tight, leaving little time for such talks. I propose you work for me. Name your terms.
— Stockpiling Palpatine's discarded minions to build your own Sith reserve? — Mau thought he'd correctly guessed the non-human's intentions.
The Hand's face twisted in contempt.
Thrawn's expression remained unchanged.
— Thank you for the excellent idea, — he said, almost mockingly, — but I have no need for Sith. Instead, I offer you the chance to join us and confront Palpatine face-to-face, to destroy him once and for all.
Maul felt a chill of anticipation run down his spine.
A tempting offer.
Very tempting.
Another chance to face his former master in battle and prove his true strength.
Of course, Darth Sidious remained formidable even in death. Incredibly so—befitting a master. He knew more about the Dark Side than any living sentient.
Maul had contemplated a rematch.
The thought had crossed his mind before he betrayed X1's fleet to Thrawn in the Kwelii sector. But it had remained just a thought.
Darth Maul had his pride; he would never beg Thrawn for such a favor.
And now, he was being offered exactly what he wanted.
Coincidence?
No, a carefully laid trap.
— I'll need something to defeat him, — Maul said boldly, sensing his advantageous position.
— And what would that be? — Thrawn's tone remained steady, either from great restraint or ignorance of Maul's intent.
— An army, ships, subordinates to support me in battle, — Maul raised the stakes. — None of them will return.
— You ask for much, — Thrawn noted.
— But I offer much, — Maul countered, worrying he'd overreached. — Your pet redhead can't kill Palpatine...
With a soft hiss, a wave of pain erupted in Maul's shoulder.
Eyes wide with shock, the Zabrak stared at the black dagger embedded in his bicep.
Identical to the one now in the gray-skinned runt's hand.
Out of habit, Maul tried to summon the Force to heal the wound...
But again, he couldn't—the Force was absent, blocked by an invisible barrier.
Grabbing the hilt, Maul yanked the blade from his wound with fury.
A fresh wave of pain, accompanied by a faint crunch and the sensation of countless tiny foreign objects in the wound, nearly drove him mad.
It took immense effort to suppress a scream.
— Never touch a Noghri's weapon, — Thrawn advised. — You've just made a mistake: you shattered the blade, and its tiny, sharpened fragments are now in your wound.
— Trying to kill me before I can face Palpatine? — Maul snarled.
Thrawn's face remained impassive to human emotions. Understandable—he wasn't human.
— A small hint to choose your words carefully when speaking of my subordinates, — the Grand Admiral clarified.
His voice didn't waver a note.
A composure worthy of the greatest Sith Lords Maul had ever read about.
— Is the message clear? — Thrawn inquired.
— Quite clear, — Maul said, glancing at the streams of blood flowing from the wound. — Don't think a single dagger strike will break me or force me to serve you. I am a Sith and serve no one but myself and my goals!
— Well said, — Thrawn replied calmly. — But you're mistaken. I don't intend to oppress anyone, including you. If you wish to reach Palpatine with my help and exact your long-awaited revenge, I'll assist you. On my terms. If not, try it alone. I'm sure your past failures are entirely in your favor.
Maul gritted his teeth, fully aware of Thrawn's implications.
He had failed to defeat Palpatine before.
And now, he was weaker than ever. It would take years to track down the remnants of Death Watch or the Shadow Collective to assemble a meager fleet... Starting from scratch would take time.
— I'll join you, — Maul assured Thrawn. — But only for Palpatine's death, nothing more.
— That's all I require, — Thrawn said indifferently.
— I'm ready to begin immediately, — Maul stated.
— I'm afraid your readiness alone isn't enough, — Thrawn countered. — As the Hand noted, X1 wasn't nearly as powerful as Palpatine, yet he defeated you.
— A fluke, — Maul snorted.
— Perhaps, — Thrawn agreed. — But in this matter, flukes are unacceptable. Return to your quarters and prepare—the Chimaera will soon exit hyperspace, and your ship departs for a mission.
— What kind of mission? — Maul asked.
— Before you kill Palpatine, you'll first eliminate his minions, — Thrawn declared. — As it happens, I know where to find them...
***
When the proton torpedo, fired by a dying Acclamator, finally detonated, the bridge crew of the Star Destroyer Judicator was prepared for the inevitable.
Thanks to the pinpoint accuracy of a nearby interceptor pilot, the projectile exploded before reaching its target.
But it caused damage: the transparisteel of the central viewport ceased to exist.
In moments when you see your death approaching, your senses sharpen. When the comfort of atmosphere gives way to decompression, you must adapt to physical sensations as your body is pulled toward the hull's breach.
The sealed bridge hatches stood firm against the loss of atmosphere in adjacent compartments, but the command bridge itself...
They had it rough.
The detonation breached the viewports, and before the air loss became evident, the crew was pelted with razor-sharp shards.
Brandei, clutching a deck-mounted chair with his left hand, struggled to avoid being sucked out with the debris.
He felt the decompression pulling the precious red liquid from his shard-pierced body.
His right arm, damaged at the elbow by a shard, dangled uselessly. His uniform's right side was soaked red with blood.
It could have been worse.
It could have been like the ensign whose clouded eyes he now stared into.
A mere boy, no older than twenty-five. A transparisteel shard the size of a hand protruded from his neck.
Blood still gushed from his severed throat, flooding toward the breach.
The surviving crew members fought to maintain their posts and preserve their lives.
Oxygen masks, part of the emergency kits near every station, were in high demand.
Another of Thrawn's innovations, once mocked, proved vital, as practice showed.
The plastic masks, tightly fitted with a ten-to-fifteen-minute oxygen supply, were sufficient to escape a decompressed area.
If you survived.
Brandei knew his time was running out.
His right hand weakened, his left useless.
His mask had been torn away in the initial moments of decompression as the watch handed control to secondary stations.
Judging by the ship's continued combat activity, the first officer had successfully taken command.
Now, if only he could survive...
Dizziness set in, weakness flooding his body...
Blood loss further weakened him, and soon...
He felt his fingers loosening, about to lose their grip and send him tumbling out of the bridge.
Hutt's spit, to think—a single shattered viewport. It could have been sealed with an atmospheric shield or armored shutters...
His fingers slipped from the chair's back, and the sensation of freefall gripped him.
He felt free, like a bird in the sky. His consciousness faded, aligning with the rhythm of events...
A sharp jerk nearly tore his arm from its socket.
Against his will, he screamed, then looked hazily toward the source holding him.
He saw only the blank black-and-red visor of a guard's helmet, gripping his arm.
The guard pulled him in, climbing like a rope.
Another guard held the first by the legs, clearly anchored in the left "pit."
Of course! He'd ordered them to stay there, out of sight during combat...
Seconds later, as the cold set in and the air grew too thin for the life support system, they pulled him into the pit.
The first sensation was a sting in his shoulder. Then another, and another.
Someone tore his uniform, and Brandei's foggy gaze caught a massive wound. His ribs gleamed—two were broken.
Bandages and hemostatic patches covered his side at an alarming rate.
— Combat stim, — a guard's voice said. Another handed him a pneumatic syringe, and a new sting hit his neck.
Within a second, the fog and weakness receded.
An oxygen mask appeared on his face.
— Orders, sir! — the mechanical voice from the helmet demanded. — You have two minutes before your body shuts down. Give your orders!
Of course, there was the first officer, but...
The bridge crew! They had to be saved!
His mind cleared as Brandei took a second breath.
— Seal the breach! — Brandei ordered. — We need a shield, a patch, an atmospheric generator to stop the air loss, or we'll all suffocate.
He cast a desperate glance at the shattered viewport.
If only a simple trapezoidal shield could fit the frame and seal the breach...
— Guard him, — the first guard ordered the second. — I'm going.
In that instant, the guard did something Brandei didn't expect.
He tore the mask from Brandei's face and placed something large and dark over the commander's head. In the near-silent atmosphere, sounds were faint...
— Stop, where!? — Brandei's tongue slurred as his strength faded.
It grew cold, and he realized the air had nearly vanished. The deafening silence shocked him, and only now did he realize he wasn't wearing a mask.
It was a helmet, sealed at his neck, with visor icons dancing before his face. Like a stormtrooper or pilot's helmet, but more advanced...
In his wandering gaze, Brandei saw the guard don an oxygen mask, its red light blinking with depleting air, and climb silently out of the pit.
A vibroblade sprang to life in his hands, and the bodyguard plunged it into the deck plating.
The refractory metal resisted, but several cuts pierced it. The guard, face reddening, leaned into his vibroblade, carving a trapezoidal shield from the deck...
He cut three sides before collapsing to his knees. The vibroblade, halfway through, snapped.
— He's suffocating! — Brandei said weakly, feeling another sting in his arm. A tube with a catheter fed plasma into his vein. Another tube ran to the helmet's base—the second guard was sharing his oxygen from his armor's bulky reserves, impossible to remove without aid or equipment. — Help him!
Brandei understood why the guard had connected his life support. His blood was nearly gone, critically low.
— It's our duty, — the second guard said sharply, rising to aid the first but stopping at a shake of the first's head.
The first guard, barely moving, grabbed the edge of the deck plating with fading strength. Exhausted and suffocating, he drew a blaster pistol from his holster.
His arm crept upward.
Brandei glanced at the bridge crew... Their oxygen was gone. Over half were cooling corpses in the vacuum, only a few showing signs of life.
No one but the second guard could help the first.
But if he aided his comrade, he'd have to stop treating Brandei...
Almost certainly costing Brandei's life.
A deadlock.
The first shot at the ceiling had no effect.
Brandei wanted to speak, seeing the shot's mark.
A blaster burn near the life support valve. If damaged, air would flood the bridge, and...
A thought seared his fading mind.
The nearly severed deck panel would be torn free, likely sealing the breach and restoring integrity.
But the guard couldn't do it.
He clung to the bent panel with his last strength.
His clouded gaze turned to his comrade and Brandei, then back to the valve...
— I understand, brother, — the second guard's voice echoed in Brandei's helmet.
Brandei looked at the second guard. His armor's indicator blinked, signaling depleted life support. The second guard was suffocating too.
He drew his blaster pistol, aimed at the valve.
A shot—and a hurricane erupted on the bridge.
With a muffled roar, the unfinished panel tore free, held by the lifeless first guard, and broke from its place.
It slammed across the breach, turning one massive decompression stream into smaller ones. The shield sat askew, allowing oxygen to escape.
The first guard vanished, but his black fingers protruded from the shield's edge.
Gripping the panel tightly, they rested where he'd grabbed it before the pull...
Then the fingers shifted slightly, and the shield moved. Barely noticeable.
It shifted again.
And again.
With a deafening crash, the panel locked into place, sealing the breach as best it could.
The faint clatter of the first guard's severed fingers, cut by the frame's curve, hit the floor.
The turbolift doors opened, and rescue teams stormed in.
Brandei felt freezing cold as the air warmed slightly.
His helmet was torn off, and needles pierced his body.
The red-and-black blur of the second guard vanished from view.
Chaos reigned.
The crackle of welding torches and the faint hiss of sealing devices drowned out the crew's cries and chatter.
Someone yanked Brandei from the pit, placing him on antigrav stretchers.
Another, with icy fingers, turned his head, and a drip stabbed his neck. Warmth spread through his body.
He grew sleepy.
Brandei saw a figure in red-and-black armor kneeling where the shield lay.
He lifted a surviving oxygen mask and carefully collected his comrade's severed fingers.
The first guard had suffocated, sacrificing his life to save his comrade and Brandei.
Brandei's eyelids closed.
His final thought was of the guard's unwavering loyalty to his oath, choosing death to fulfill his duty and save his charge.
He couldn't answer his own question—he lost consciousness.
***
As the door closed behind Maul and the guards, Mara, now one of three sentients in the room, cast a disapproving glance at Grand Admiral Thrawn.
— Want to know why I didn't send you after Palpatine's minions? — Thrawn asked.
— A fleeting regret, — Mara explained her expression. — I hoped one day I'd face them again for a rematch.
A sly smile touched Thrawn's lips.
— You will, I guarantee it, — he said confidently. — But I won't risk my subordinates in this situation. Your victory over X1 was commendable—a significant step forward, the result of self-improvement. However, I remain convinced that Palpatine's minions outmatch you in training and skill. A confrontation now could end badly, including your capture or death. I'd rather avoid that.
Mara thought she'd misheard.
Thrawn didn't want her captured or killed?
Intriguing words from a being incapable of simple human emotions.
Given Thrawn's words never diverged from his intentions...
He genuinely seemed concerned about losing her.
— Worried about me, Grand Admiral? — she purred with a smile, her eyes fixed on his face.
Thrawn's glowing eyes met hers.
For a moment, Mara thought she saw surprise and uncertainty flicker across his face.
But only for a moment.
Likely her imagination.
— I value my subordinates, — Thrawn said, his tone overly formal. — You're one of them. I won't send you on a suicide mission. You'll have another assignment. You depart as soon as the Chimaera exits hyperspace. Your ship is ready in the hangar. Collect your belongings. Rukh will provide your mission chip. The corridors from here to your quarters and the hangar are cleared of crew. Your identity remains secret.
Mara fought to suppress a smile, preserving the moment's formality.
— As you wish, Grand Admiral, — she said with a bow.
For a split second, as she looked at the floor, a smile broke through.
Not so enigmatic and unflappable after all, Thrawn.
Leaving the room, Mara allowed herself to display the artistry that once made Imperial dignitaries crane their necks when she performed as the Emperor's favorite dancer.
Judging by Thrawn's uncharacteristic cough, he appreciated her sway.
Mara Jade returned to her quarters with a sense of small feminine triumph.
Storming fortresses with her beauty wasn't her habit, but why not have some fun flustering the Grand Admiral?
Just a little feminine guile—what harm could it do?