As soon as the Eta-2 Actis-class light interceptor emerged from hyperspace, the luminous tunnel ceased to exist.
Only an endless sea of stars surrounded the Togruta, confined within the cramped cockpit of the interceptor.
The young woman stretched languidly, loosening up after the meditative trance that had occupied her throughout the journey.
The first sensation she registered was the sudden lurch of the Actis as it surged forward, accelerating instantly.
The second was the shrill beeping of her astromech, berating her in binary with such fervor that, had she possessed human ears, they surely would have flushed red.
— My apologies, my apologies, — the girl muttered, lifting her foot from the accelerator pedal. — It's not my fault this cockpit is so cramped and my legs are so long…
The astromech, a cantankerous bucket with an optical sensor and a considerable assortment of internal components, indignantly chirped through each of the sixteen points in the operational guidelines for piloting this type of vessel that she had violated in that brief moment.
— "And to think I once considered Senator Amidala's protocol droid to be the fussy one," — the girl sighed. — Disengage the hyperdrive ring, switch to the interceptor's sublight engines.
Silently, the clamps released, and the nimble craft shot forward, its panels unfolding.
The cockpit's automatic polarization system activated as soon as the sensors detected excessive glare.
And, indeed, there was plenty to illuminate.
Fully aware that she was observing a binary star system, where her target planet traced a figure-eight orbit, Ahsoka could not tear her eyes away from the grandeur of the spectacle.
Occupying only the third orbital position, the planet in question had two moons, though they held little interest for the Togruta.
She had come here following the beacon signal of an old friend who had long since vanished and ceased communication.
Ahsoka traced the signal to quadrant R-6 in the Auril sector…
— Is the beacon signal stable? — she asked, just to be certain.
The astromech hummed an affirmative response.
Well, she had no other reason to delay the communication.
— Establish contact with the Grand Admiral, — she ordered, guiding the interceptor at a low speed to approach the target along the least conspicuous orbit.
Whatever had happened here, Eymand would not simply vanish without a trace.
No matter what authority Thrawn had granted him, disappearing entirely was unlike him.
The reason why the Grand Admiral himself had not raised the alarm when reports from the Zabrak ceased remained a mystery.
In broad terms, she understood that the Shadow Guard, of which Eymand was a part, were not ordinary agents who reported every triviality to Thrawn. Nor were they the type of sentients who would consult with superiors to avoid mistakes.
These were highly professional sentients, capable of operating independently for extended periods.
At the very least—Jedi.
Well, after everything she had done in her life, and considering her intentions toward the Dominion's ruler, one could say she was extraordinarily fortunate to have been inducted into the Shadow Guard.
However, she clearly viewed it as a significant advance.
An advance so substantial it could only be rivaled by a Hutt gorged to the size of its own repulsor barge.
Or perhaps a Jawa's sandcrawler…
Either way, this was a promotion and recognition of her merits.
A confirmation of the loyalty she had resolved to strengthen after the battle on Hypori.
Grand, noble plans were all well and good, but there was one issue: a single Jedi, no matter how skilled, was not a warrior.
And, however skeptically she viewed the concept of Jedi serving Imperials, the fact remained. Neither the Jedi nor the Empire, in their original forms, had survived.
One could pound their chest and proclaim the nobility of being peacekeepers, but facts, as they say, are stubborn things.
The New Republic was not a state capable of ensuring peace and order.
Master Yoda would surely have wept upon hearing her assertions.
And he certainly would not have regretted the High Council's decision to expel her from the Order.
It was a pity, a great pity, that democracy was merely an illusion.
At the galactic scale, certainly.
— Lady Tano, — a miniature hologram of Thrawn flickered to life from the portable projector.
To think—she was trusted by the very person she had once considered killing if his vision for the galaxy's future displeased her.
Yet those with whom she had lived side by side her entire life had not believed her during the bombing of the Jedi Temple.
Perhaps, in truth, the Jedi were a relic of the past, and the Force, the galaxy, and the role of the gifted should not be viewed solely through the lens of Light and Dark?
— Grand Admiral, — she responded in the same tone. — I have arrived in orbit around Ossus. The beacon is active, and I am beginning my descent to investigate the circumstances of Master Eymand's disappearance.
— Very well, — Thrawn replied. — I am transmitting the frequency for contact with the Hand—she is already on-site and will brief you.
For a moment, she processed his words.
— Understood, — the girl said, deactivating the transmitter.
Very well, perhaps full trust still needed to be earned.
***
When the holoprojector dimmed, Dor Reder appeared neither particularly impressed nor distressed.
For him, it was as if nothing had changed.
Erik swirled the contents of his glass, subtly suggesting to his comrade that he could relieve his tension with some fine Corellian whiskey.
Dor followed his advice, taking a small sip.
The women seated on the plush lounge sofas continued to glare at each other with murderous intensity.
On one hand, it was amusing; on the other…
Who could understand these women?!
It wasn't as though he could ask Ventress and Niclara why they were at odds.
— A solid offer, — Dor finally said, half-draining his glass. — Retention of all Imperial service benefits, a pay increase, reinstatement into active duty, and a normal life, if one could call it that…
— I'm certain there are crew members who won't take kindly to serving the Dominion, — Niclara remarked quietly. — Even on the Kruger, there are those who aren't fond of aliens.
— Thrawn was quite clear on that matter, — Ventress reminded her. — Those who are displeased are free to leave in any direction they choose. There will be no pursuit.
— Easy to believe, — the Alderaanian's tone suggested otherwise.
— Regardless, I consider the proposal sound, — Dor declared, putting an end to the women's bickering. — Erik, we're returning to the Kruger. I'll need a few hours to convey the Grand Admiral's offer to the crew. Some time will also be required to settle accounts with those who wish to depart immediately. I assume Thrawn won't object if I allocate the Marauders to those who want to leave?
— I'm certain he won't, — Erik agreed.
The Dominion had little of such morally outdated, "veteran" equipment. Judging by its reassignment to defense fleets, Thrawn was gradually moving away from the mindset of "whatever works."
Slowly but surely, the Dominion's fleet was achieving uniformity.
Over time, these stopgap measures and the motley assortment of ships that had somehow fallen into the Grand Admiral's hands would fade into obscurity, becoming training vessels no one would notice when they finally fell apart.
— In that case, I'm departing for the Kruger, — Dor said, rising from the sofa. — Niclara, are you coming?
— With your permission, Captain, I'd like to remain on the Crimson Dawn, — the woman replied coolly, staring directly into the eyes of her squadron commander.
— If Commodore Shohashi has no objections, — Dor noted, glancing between the Alderaanian man and woman.
— If you don't mind, Captain Reder, I'd like to speak with your first officer, — Erik stated.
— Of course, — Dor smirked, his stoic demeanor finally cracking. — We won't disturb you. Lady Ventress, would you do me the honor of a brief tour…
— Perhaps to the incinerator, — the Dathomirian witch, as always, was the epitome of decorum.
A paragon of femininity, encased in a shell of fury and a maniacal urge to kill.
Regardless, only the two Alderaanians remained in the lounge.
Erik reached for the bottle and poured himself more whiskey.
The crystal decanter clinked loudly against the glass's rim.
— I see you still haven't sorted out those nerves, — Niclara remarked.
— A lingering effect of the mutiny and my injuries, — Erik said, setting the bottle aside. — I won't offer you any. I recall you're not fond of alcohol. Or has something changed?
— Everything's the same, — Niclara replied, looking away. — I also heard about the mutiny on the Imperious… and about your raids in the Outer Rim after Endor…
— Of course you did, — Erik said through gritted teeth. — You survived. Billions perished, and you're alive. Alive and silent all this time!
— That sounded like you're not glad I survived, — Niclara said with disdain.
— I buried you! — Shohashi roared, sweeping the glass and bottle off the table in a fit of rage.
Both crystal items shattered with a crash.
Niclara didn't flinch.
— Your nerves are clearly not in order, — she stated.
Erik growled.
— You were alive! — he repeated. — All these years since the Battle of Yavin, you were alive!
— And so what?! — the Alderaanian woman matched his volume without preamble. — Was I supposed to send you a message?! Drop by for a visit?! Apologize for my husband shooting at you?!
— You could have just said you weren't on the Death Star! — Erik shouted.
— I was transferred just before the jump to the Yavin system, — the young woman replied. — Right after Grand Moff Tarkin tested the superlaser, which I helped calibrate, on our homeworld, I was reassigned to the Star Destroyer Pulsar as senior gunnery officer under Commander Dor Reder. It was there I learned my dear husband turned traitor and tried to kill you. But I was bound by a non-disclosure agreement!
— I don't give a damn about your agreement! — Erik gripped the head of his cane tightly. — I served alongside Reder! You could have passed word through him!
— I couldn't! — Niclara shouted back. — The ISB had just cleared me after investigating my husband's actions, and I was sent on leave. On Ord Mantell, I tracked down a couple of Rebel operatives. I intended to capture them to restore my reputation, but I failed! That led to the deaths of several Imperial soldiers. I was demoted but kept aboard the Pulsar until the Battle of Endor.
— When Palpatine died and everything went downhill, you could have contacted me then! — Erik didn't lower his voice. — No one would have cared about what happened! Everyone was scrambling for power!
— Yes, except when the Pulsar's crew and I were captured by the Republic and escaped, you were nowhere to be found! No one knew where you were! I followed Reder into service under Drommel, but I deserted that bastard, gathered a small crew, and harassed Rebels in the Outer Rim, hoping to find you! And you vanished into a black hole!
— I was honoring my oath!
— And what, was I staring at Twi'lek dancers in a strip bar?! — Niclara snapped, leaping from the sofa to stand face-to-face with the Crimson Dawn's commander. — Then you joined those scum in Imperial Space! And that story about Iren's death came up, with Isard's fingerprints all over it! Did you expect me to broadcast: "Looking for my brother across the galaxy! Distinguishing traits: pirates soil themselves at the sight of him, and he loves hunting his own kind. Yes, I'm the sister of the 'Butcher of Atoan,' come settle your scores!" Was that what I should have done?!
— You did nothing! — Erik roared in her face. — I mourned you for ten years!
— Damn your focusing lens, Shohashi! — the gunnery officer cursed. — Are you even thinking straight?! I just explained why I didn't! Or would you have preferred Isard finding me, luring you out with me as bait, like a Jedi on a galaxy-saving mission?!
— The Iceheart has been dead for months! — Shohashi shot back.
— I've been stuck in the Outer Rim and Unknown Regions for two years! — his sister retorted. — I didn't even know you were alive! We only just emerged and got intel from our suppliers! I've been in known space for a day! When I saw you, the Imperious, this fleet, I was so overjoyed I couldn't speak!
Erik stared into his sister's eyes for several seconds, refusing to look away, as if searching her face for the faint wrinkles that come with years lived.
Niclara Varnillian (Erik Shohashi's sister).
Conflicting emotions warred within him.
The urge to unleash everything that had built up.
The longing to embrace and hold close the one he had long believed dead…
And simple human emotions, suppressed for so long…
Shohashi closed his eyes, shutting out the surrounding reality.
He took a deep breath.
Exhaled.
Opened his eyes.
— I'm glad you're alive, Niclara, — he said calmly, in a more familiar, almost formal tone.
— I believe you, — the Alderaanian replied, offering a faint smile. — I'm glad to see you too. Believe me, I thought staying silent and avoiding Isard's wrath was the best way to protect us both…
— It's all in the past, — Erik said, extending his left arm to embrace his sister. — You're alive, I'm alive… and we're on the same side.
— Always have been, — Niclara, as she did in childhood, nuzzled her voluminous hair against his chest. — Well, except for that time you nearly strangled me…
— You married my first officer, — Erik recalled.
— If I'd known he'd betray you, I'd have shot him at the altar, — Niclara declared, running her hand over his multicolored insignia. — Commodore's bars… You've long deserved them. Will you tell me how you earned them?
— Absolutely, — Erik promised. — Right now, we need to finish securing the Corsa sector…
— We can help, — Niclara assured him.
— Repairs come first, — Shohashi stated firmly. — I won't lead a damaged ship into battle, especially one not yet in Dominion service.
— I'd forgotten what a stickler you are, — the Alderaanian sighed, pulling away from her brother. She glanced quickly at the ship's chronometer. — I'm confident about myself and Reder; we'll join the Dominion. The others… let the task force commander decide. But we have time to catch up on the last ten years.
— Of course, — Erik gave a strained smile, fully aware that today was all they'd have for now. No matter how much he wanted to keep this piece of his past, miraculously within arm's reach again, Niclara would serve in another unit. Relatives must not be under each other's command.
He hadn't made an exception for his friend, and he certainly couldn't afford such a luxury as breaking the rules himself. If you don't follow them, why should your subordinates?
— Good, — Niclara smiled at her brother. — Start by telling me how you ended up commanding a star dreadnought and an entire task force the size of a strike fleet.
— It's ridiculously simple, — Erik declared. — I decided to attack that very dreadnought with the Imperious.
His sister coughed.
— Prey attacking the predator? — she clarified.
— Yes, — Erik confirmed. — But I wasn't alone, of course…
***
Elli Stark shot him a far-from-friendly glance.
— And that's all you want to ask me after all these years? — she demanded. — Whether I'm working with the Zann Consortium?! Not "Hello, good to see you!" or "Sorry I abandoned you," but this?
Jahan vigorously massaged his temples.
Three hours of the same thing.
And, oddly enough, only Stark could evoke in him a headache, tenderness, and sympathy all at once.
— Elli, — he said as gently as possible, knowing that pushing her would make her shut down completely. — This is genuinely important. The sentients who contracted you are puppets of the Zann Consortium!
— I heard those criminals were brought to justice long ago, — Elli had a wonderful trait. Not her only one, of course, but her ability to instantly grasp a situation and separate the critical from the trivial was exactly why Jahan had once recommended she become an Imperial agent.
And who knows, she might have succeeded, if not for her lineage and the Empire's bureaucratic hurdles.
— Unfortunately, not all of them, — Jahan stated. — The leadership went into hiding, and in the current climate, we, the Dominion, must eliminate them.
— I recall the Empire once took it upon itself to be the galaxy's police, — the girl remarked. — And in just over twenty years, that precinct fractured into rival departments.
He wanted to say it was entirely different, but engaging in debate during an interrogation was unwise.
— Dear, — Jahan slid closer, offering a disarming yet understanding smile and putting an arm around her. — I know a gulf has formed between us over the years. But right now, the mission is bigger than you and me. The Zann Consortium is preparing a counteroffensive. They're on the verge of acquiring a droid army and a fleet.
— You're exaggerating about the droid army, — Stark noted, brushing his hand off her shoulder. — The Rossum factory was destroyed.
— And it may not be the only one producing combat droids, — Jahan countered. — That's why I need the name of whoever offered you this contract. Elli, I'm asking you to tell me that name, or names, for the sake of saving lives.
Whoever this sentient was, they clearly knew both the production capabilities of Rossum and the needs of the Zann Consortium.
It could be someone from the company's workforce or, conversely, from the Corporate Sector's government. The latter had signed the contract, but they must have first verified whether Rossum could fulfill it.
— Jahan, do you realize how absurd this sounds? — Here was her flaw.
Like any human woman, Elli couldn't sustain logical arguments or prioritize the greater good over her own interests and ego for long.
— You spied on me, kidnapped me, blew up my factory, dragged me to an Imperial state notorious for spreading terror and chaos across the galaxy, and now you ask for my help? — The girl looked at the agent as if he'd lost his mind entirely.
— First of all, I saved you, — Jahan clarified. — The Zann Consortium doesn't leave witnesses. They'd either brainwash you or eliminate you. There are no other options. After their organization's defeat, its leadership has become far more ruthless.
— And you destroyed the factory to keep the enemy from getting the droids, — Elli nodded understandingly.
— I knew you'd understand, — Cross assured her.
— But there's a flaw in your plan, — the girl stated.
— And what's that?
— Why do you assume I'm not working directly with the Zann Consortium? — she asked. — You said they could brainwash me. Or they could have coerced me…
— The latter is no longer their method of problem-solving, — Jahan stated. — They don't take people at their word. It's either elimination or brainwashing.
— Fine, but why do you think I haven't been brainwashed and wasn't acting out of loyalty to them? — she pressed.
— Because in that case, no one would have paid you billions for such a large batch of droids, — Jahan explained. — Criminals don't spend credits where they can cut costs. It would've been easier to frame it as charity for your company—you'd have produced those droids at cost. And I believe in your honesty and integrity.
— Thanks for that, at least, — the girl huffed, crossing her arms.
She sat in silence for a few moments before saying:
— The Government Advisor for the military-industrial sector of the Corporate Sector, — her voice carried a hint of resentment. — He's the one who suggested I upgrade production for those droids. He provided all the updated documentation for manufacturing advanced models. He lobbied for the contract's approval within the Corporate Sector's government. Aveka mentioned you were at the reception celebrating the deal.
— Yes, — Jahan agreed.
— Then you must've noticed the brute who practically groped me, — she said with disgust. — That's him. A vile type—especially after we signed the contract, he started acting as if we were on a master-slave level of familiarity.
— I'm sorry I couldn't spare you his company sooner, — Jahan leaned in and kissed her cheek. — Everything will be fine now. About the destroyed factory… The Dominion is opening several production complexes, including for droid manufacturing. The Grand Admiral is looking for capable managers…
— Compensation for the destroyed factory? — Elli raised an eyebrow.
— Something like that, — Cross assured her.
— Trading ownership worth billions of credits for managing state property, — the young woman sighed. — You clearly think that's the best offer imaginable.
— It is.
— Because you've already decided the Dominion will be my new home? — she asked.
— I'm afraid you have no choice, — Jahan shook his head. — Anywhere else, the Consortium's mercenaries could reach you without issue. Here, you'll be protected—it's part of the deal for cooperating in managing droid and military production. Plus, a small villa on a tropical planet as a bonus.
— And a marriage proposal isn't part of the deal? — Stark asked venomously. — I recall you said a lot of things…
— Once the Consortium's threat is eliminated, — Jahan said unexpectedly, looking into her eyes, — we'll marry.
Elli stared at him with disbelief.
A spectrum of emotions played across her face, every one a young woman could muster.
— Just like that, — she faltered, clearly unprepared for such a response. — I… We haven't seen each other in years! I need time and…
— As much time as you need, — Jahan assured her, kissing her hand. — Think about our future while I return to work.
Leaving the girl visibly stunned by what she'd heard, Agent Cross exited the guest quarters in the government palace where Stark was staying.
Silently passing the guards, trying not to notice the Noghri lurking in the shadows, he entered a small room adjacent to the guest quarters. Such rooms rarely drew attention from ordinary residents—typically, they housed droid recharging stations.
But this one held several sentients.
All were clad in long, dark cloaks that made them resemble Jedi.
Except, beneath the cloaks were not light tunics but armor. And their faces were hidden behind sealed helmets.
All but one—a Mon Calamari. Understandably so—finding a helmet for a native of Dac, complete with all necessary protective features, would be a challenge.
— Thank you for pulling her out of her focused state, — the Mon Calamari said.
— I didn't realize an emotional outburst could aid your analysis as well, — Jahan replied. — Reading micro-expressions and gestures during a sudden flare of emotions.
— It did, — the Mon Calamari confirmed. — We'll continue observation and analysis of her emotional field.
— As per the Grand Admiral's orders, — Jahan nodded understandingly. — But broadly speaking, can you at least say if she's being genuine or if this is all a skilled act?
— She's sincere, — the Mon Calamari declared.
— Mostly, — the shortest of the three helmeted figures interjected. — She's hiding something she's afraid to tell you.
— Are you certain, Defender Sabre De'Luz? — the Mon Calamari asked.
— Yes, — the defender replied. — When you, — he turned his head toward Jahan, — proposed marriage, she grew anxious, thinking you might uncover something she's kept hidden since your parting…
— It could be related to recruitment, — the Mon Calamari suggested.
— No, — Jahan said firmly, his tone tinged with sadness. — It's tied to our past. Something I found in the Intelligence archives. The real reason she wasn't accepted into the Imperial Intelligence Academy.
— You feel pain and shame for your actions, — Defender Sabre De'Luz observed. — Guilt…
— Yes, — Jahan's voice grew somber. — Entirely my fault. Nearly thirteen years ago, Elli Stark was pregnant with my child. She went to Blackhole himself to secure permission for Academy enrollment. That bastard ordered her to abort the child as proof of her loyalty to the Empire.
— I suspect that was a perverse jest by the Director of Imperial Intelligence, — Defender Sabre De'Luz said. — Her memories of what she's hiding are painful, filled with self-reproach…
— She believed my assurances that her place was in Imperial Intelligence and went through with it, — Jahan's voice wavered briefly before he steadied himself. — And Blackhole discarded her.
— The Jensaraai Order offers its condolences, — the Mon Calamari said. — A heavy loss…
— It'll be lighter once we find that bastard and make him pay, — Jahan said firmly. — Bre'ano Umakk, are your defenders ready for the operation to destroy the Ubiqtorate?
— The finest I've trained are here, — the Mon Calamari declared. — The first fully trained Jensaraai defenders in ages…
— Good, — Jahan interrupted. — Leave someone to watch over Elli, and the rest, please, board the ship—it's time for the rendezvous. The humiliation of the Ubiqtorate begins today.
— Did you mean "destruction"? — Defender Sabre De'Luz clarified.
— Eventually, yes, — Jahan confirmed. — But first, we'll humiliate them across the galaxy.
***
The star system, nameless and absent from astrogation charts, bore only a faint designation.
It lay within the boundaries of the Korva sector in the Outer Rim.
One of the most remote systems in the sector, it contained a planet habitable for oxygen-breathing species.
No native species had ever been recorded—at least, that's what was noted in Republic documents seized during Grand Admiral Thrawn's assault on Coruscant.
In the past, the Alliance to Restore the Republic, and now the New Republic, maintained a covert, well-hidden fighter base on this unnamed planet.
In New Republic Intelligence's internal documents, the facility was designated "Titan Base." According to those same documents, located deep in territory near the borders of Imperial Remnant space, this base never maintained direct contact with command, operating in isolation.
The Republic kept Titan Base's system location secret even from Rebel agents transported there from elsewhere. A sound approach when secrecy is paramount.
The enemy made only one mistake—dispatching a courier ship to warn the base's personnel of the compromised location data. And they did so by sending the vessel through territories patrolled by Dominion raiders.
Now, retribution had come.
At least, that's what was said during the briefing when the mission and transport were assigned.
Sergeant TNX-0297, like the other members of the Fourth Storm Commando Squad, viewed this raid as just another job, nothing more.
One to be executed, as always, flawlessly. Errors in storm commando operations were a sign of inefficiency.
Unacceptable.
They had obtained the base's full schematics from the Republic's own documents.
Located in an underground cavern with a single entrance serving as both a landing strip and access point, it accommodated a dozen X-wings stationed at the base, as well as supply or personnel shuttles arriving periodically.
The unit based here was called Nightmare Squadron, equipped with a dozen T-65B X-wing starfighters. Raiders responsible for destroying several Imperial facilities in nearby sectors. Their greatest fame came from a raid that obliterated an Imperial superweapon prototype known as the Shell-cracker. The prototype was designed to destroy enemy starships, featuring a complex shield structure with lattice ion energy to disrupt particle and ray shields, delivering a series of bombs to the target.
This information, along with details of the complete destruction of both the project and its personnel, was also contained in the Republic's mission report.
Nightmare Squadron and Republic agents had eliminated over three hundred Imperial scientists and specialists. Irreplaceable losses.
However, for the purpose of retribution, this was merely a pretext, a justification.
The true reason the Fourth Squad was sent on this mission was simple and timeless.
Eliminate the enemy on territory being conquered in the Korva sector.
An order was given—it would be carried out.
The captured Republic freighter, after exchanging codes with Titan Base's control point, passed the outer perimeter and approached the natural hangar's entrance.
Once inside, the ship traveled several hundred meters before the captured Republic pilot, taken with the vessel, maneuvered it into a niche carved into the rock.
As far as the eye could see, the base resembled a small underground city, albeit haphazardly organized within the cavern.
Makeshift homes, narrow streets, attempts to give the military facility the appearance of a surface settlement.
Only artificial lighting replaced natural daylight. Even the cavern's "ceiling" was painted in white and blue to crudely mimic the sky.
Psychological comfort for those forced to serve in deep isolation due to the unique conditions of their posting.
The base consisted of a command center, hangar, barracks, and a firing range. The buildings were a standard three stories tall.
Wasteful.
A dozen X-wings were housed in rock caponiers on either side of the landing strip.
Typical arrangement.
Personnel—just over fifty, with only half serving as security.
But well-trained—Republic commandos were formidable opponents with proper training.
It wouldn't be easy, but otherwise, they wouldn't have sent a special forces squad.
All logical.
Time to begin.
— They're supposed to assist with unloading, — TNX-0293 instructed the pilot, who relayed the message into his comlink.
— What's the issue? — suspicion crept into the base commander's voice.
— You're rushing, falling behind schedule, — the Fourth Squad's commander repeated the procedure.
— Fine, — the commander replied reluctantly. — The guys are busy at the range. I'll send technicians. How much to unload?
The base's secrecy and lack of direct contact with command cut both ways. No one knew about you, but you knew nothing either.
Perfect positioning.
— Twenty containers, — the pilot repeated, as instructed by TNX-0297.
— Alright, technicians are on the way, — the commander said. — Pilots and guards are at the range, competing in marksmanship, so don't hold it against us. Pulling them from that is just asking for trouble.
No discipline.
The psychology of remote garrisons with small crews was typically tied to reduced efficiency, morale, and adherence to chain-of-command principles.
— Waiting, — the Republic pilot replied, glancing at the squad commander clad in black scout trooper armor.
Even better.
— What'll happen to me? — the pilot asked, voice trembling.
The response was a swift, powerful strike to the jaw, sending the Republican into a long slumber.
— Prepare for combat, — TNX-0297 ordered over the squad's internal comms.
He exited the cockpit, checking his SoroSuub blaster rifle on the move. Designed to suppress both the sound and flash of its shots, it was indispensable for "delicate operations."
TNX-0333 strapped a modified flamethrower to his back. This time, they'd test something new—a commando-developed prototype.
The other two fighters armed themselves with rifles—for the upcoming battle, specialized equipment or long-range weapons weren't as critical.
As the cargo ramp lowered, eight Republicans in technician jumpsuits stood waiting.
They laughed and chatted among themselves, barely paying attention to the dark maw of the cargo hold, expecting repulsor carts with containers to descend.
They didn't see the four commandos in matte-black gear.
That was the plan.
But no illusions—everyone on this base was a trained soldier with security clearance.
— Engage, — the sergeant commanded.
A volley from four rifles, muffled shots, cut down all eight in less than a second.
— Proceed, — TNX-0297 ordered.
The four commandos split into pairs, swiftly moving to their designated targets for the first strike.
The command center was currently half-empty.
A lone guard-commando sat bored on a crate, engrossed in a computer game on his datapad.
He died instantly as a glossy black obsidian blade pierced his right eye, lodging in the socket.
TNX-0297 didn't waste time retrieving the weapon from the body—seconds were critical.
Together with his partner, he entered the command center.
Two short bursts, and a dozen operators died at their terminals, never raising the alarm.
The base commander, wounded in the leg, collapsed to the floor.
In the next instant, a storm commando incapacitated him with a quick blow to the head.
Another second to restrain and gag the prisoner.
Leaving the command center, TNX-0297 received a report from the second pair's leader.
TNX-0333 reported seven additional targets eliminated, all with knives—no alarm raised.
Not a hint of an alert—and twenty-seven enemy combatants neutralized. One prisoner.
Twenty-two remained.
Pilots and commandos—tough targets for a firefight.
Especially since they were currently at the firing range, armed.
A direct assault could lead to losses.
Unacceptable.
— Proceed, — the sergeant ordered the flamethrower operator.
The range's single entrance, separated from the rest of the base by weathered permacrete walls, was adjacent to the recently cleared barracks.
Blocking the only exit, the storm commandos initiated the final phase of Titan Base's neutralization.
The remaining enemies were gathered at the targets, discussing their shooting results.
Perfect timing to test the new weapon, providing feedback on whether it required refinement or was ready for mass production by the Dominion's military-industrial complex.
The hand-held assault thermobaric grenade, designed by the weapons engineers, was intended to disable and destroy enemy personnel within a twenty-five-meter radius in open terrain, behind cover, in enclosed structures, or fortifications.
Detonation method—impact or remote.
Suitable for direct attack, defense, or ambushes.
The firing range met all criteria for this weapon.
At the sergeant's signal, the commandos set the experimental munitions to remote detonation.
Distance from the entrance to the enemy's position—thirty meters. Enclosed space, no extra windows or doors. Ceiling height—over twenty meters, a natural cavern.
Guaranteed elimination.
Survivors would become prisoners.
Four grenades sailed into the range in a single throw.
— Detonators! — a Republican soldier shouted.
Blaster fire erupted toward the entrance.
But the shots either missed the commandos or were absorbed by the walls, leaving only black scorch marks.
— Detonate, — TNX-0297 ordered, holding the corresponding device.
The squad followed his command.
The shockwave and explosion in the confined space partially collapsed the permacrete walls.
It also scattered the mangled, broken bodies of the Republic dead across the range.
Two survivors, choking on blood from shattered ribcages, were mercifully finished.
They wouldn't survive as prisoners.
Unnecessary suffering for the doomed was wrong. Inefficient.
Sadism.
Not the Fourth Squad's way.
The enemy deserved respect and mercy in their final moments.
So believed Colonel Selid. And his clones had no reason to doubt the wisdom of their genetic donor's experience.
Two muffled red flashes ended the enemy's suffering.
The Fourth Squad makes a "boom."
Two minutes later, the four commandos searched the base and counted the bodies.
After the cleanup and confirmation, the Fourth Squad's commander activated the freighter's comlink:
— Star Destroyer Adamant, mission accomplished, — previously, this Victory-class had guarded the planet Wayland. Now it was reinstated to the regular fleet.
And served as cover for this mission.
— Acknowledged, — the ship's commander replied. — We're moving into the system. Prepare for evacuation—Grand Admiral Thrawn has requested your return to the Chimaera.
— Acknowledged, — TNX-0297 replied calmly.
A redeployment meant a new mission.
Exactly what was needed to bring the two new squad members up to standard.
***
— Luke, are you sure? — Leia's hologram undoubtedly conveyed suspicion and concern, mirroring the emotions she felt during the conversation with her brother. — It's a very remote region of the galaxy.
— Yes, we've cross-checked the navigation databases, — the white-blue projection of the Jedi Knight replied with a smile.
— I sense a disturbance in the Force, — his sister said, somewhat embarrassed.
— Those are echoes of what's to come, — Luke replied, his tone growing serious. — That's why I must continue this mission. The fate of all Jedi depends on this journey.
— Wait at least a day or so, — Han interjected, stepping beside his wife and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. — I'll contact Elom, and they'll send a couple of Mon Calamari star cruisers. Not much, but far better than sticking your head into a krayt dragon's mouth.
— If something on that planet is stirring you so much, you should at least hold off a bit, — the princess supported the Corellian.
— I'm sorry, — Luke shook his head. — The Force is calling me there, and I must go. There's no other way. Otherwise…
— Yes, you've said, — Leia grimaced. — The future of the Jedi depends on your mission. But you should take some precautions. You're alone, and if there's an enemy there… Remember Polis Massa.
— I'm not alone, — the Jedi Knight assured his sister. — I have the Force…
A polite cough interrupted.
— And Irenez, — Skywalker added, glancing aside.
Han let out a tactless whistle.
— Oh, well, if you've got my fellow Corellian at your side, everything's bound to go… — Solo broke off, wincing from his wife's sharp elbow. — Everything's bound to be fine.
— Thanks for the encouragement, — Luke smiled. — We need to prepare for the hyperspace exit, so… if no one objects, I'd like to focus on piloting. This system has significant gravitational fluctuations, a binary star, and all that…
Han opened his mouth to clarify the terminology of astronomical objects, but Leia tested his ribs again.
— Of course, — she said. — We'll be waiting for your update.
— As soon as there's news, absolutely, — the Jedi nodded, ending the holocall.
Leia stared at the spot where her brother's hologram had been.
— I'm uneasy, — she admitted.
— You're not the only one, — Han shared her concern, frantically searching through his comlink. — And I think the kid's overestimating his strength, heading there alone.
— He's got that new friend of his, — Leia said with a hint of jealousy. — Irenez…
— Which is exactly why, when dealing with Corellians, you always need a backup plan, — Solo shared his worldly wisdom with his wife.
— You could've told me that back when we were swimming in the Death Star's garbage compactor, — Leia kissed her husband's cheek. — I'd have been more careful choosing companions.
— Sweetheart, when it comes to Corellians and Jedi-level luck, I wouldn't advise leaving the house at all, — Han, having apparently found the contact he needed, pressed the call button.
— You're calling someone to help Luke? — the princess clarified.
— Not "planning to," I'm already calling, — the former smuggler corrected. — And not just "someone," but a guy who wouldn't mind sparing a bit of his precious time to save our relative's life and limbs.
— Such as? — Leia raised an eyebrow.
But the comlink's built-in holoprojector answered for itself.
— Han, Leia, — the New Republic's youngest general greeted them. — How can I and the Rogues help you?
— Hey, Wedge, — Leia waved, catching on. — There's a small favor we'd like to ask.
— You know I'm always ready, — Antilles responded eagerly. — What's the cargo, where are we hauling it, and who're we running from?
An old smuggler's quip.
Never more relevant than now.
— You're currently in the Third Fleet's area of responsibility, right? — Han asked.
— That's classified, technically, — the young general sniffed.
— Then let's pretend I didn't ask, and you generously didn't question, — the former smuggler compromised. — But Luke's off on his Jedi business to a rather notable system. Near your base, by the way. Says it's about the fate of the Jedi. If Leia and I weren't busy getting Imperial ships back in order, I'd head there myself, but you know how it is…
— I think, — Wedge perked up, — my guys could use a stretch. We'll go on patrol… Word is, Imperials are stirring nearby. So, where's our favorite Jedi headed to meet his destiny?
— Auril sector, — Leia said. — Adega system…
— Some planet called Ossus, — Han finished.
— Consider us already there, — the New Republic's youngest general winked boyishly.
***
Major Tierce entered my quarters without hindrance from Rukh.
A fleeting thought crossed my mind: why does the bodyguard only torment my flagship's commander?
Hypotheses, including those based on the Noghri's own words, had yet to yield answers. Asking directly… Why bother when both seem content with their game of "catch the Noghri"?
If Pellaeon tired of it, he'd have quietly shot him and spaced him long ago. Then try proving "there was a Noghri."
— Vinsoth has fallen, Grand Admiral, — my adjutant reported crisply, clicking his heels impeccably.
I glanced covertly at the chronometer embedded in the corner of one of my monitors.
Two hours.
Exactly two hours since the 501st Legion began its landing.
Not that the Chevin lacked an army—they had one, armed with relatively modern weapons, no less.
But to fall so quickly…
— Losses?
— Two percent.
In other words, just under two companies. An excellent outcome.
— Contact headquarters and request support for establishing a garrison, — I instructed.
— Yes, sir, — Grodin replied briskly.
The adjutant stood rooted, awaiting further orders.
Fully aware there would be more.
There always were.
— Take a shuttle to our facility in quadrant T-6, — I said, handing him an information crystal.
Even in the dim light, I could see Tierce tense.
— Permission to ask a question, sir? — he said quietly.
— Yes, we're moving to the final phase of this campaign, — I replied, anticipating his concern. — You, Grodin, are the only one I can trust to execute the last stage flawlessly.
The guardsman's hands clenched into what could be called "fists of iron."
— Sir, forgive me, but this is an extremely risky move, — he said, barely audible.
— There's no alternative, Grodin, — I concluded, meeting the guardsman's gaze. — We both know this is the only way to buy time. Regrettably, our defensive fortifications aren't in a state to allow us to hold out comfortably. We need time—far more than we currently have. The territory is too vast. But we must act now, or we'll be rooting out remnants from every system later.
— I understand, sir, — the guardsman assured me. — But… I'm certain there's another way. This move could unravel everything you've built. The power structure is still fragile.
— Yes, we could face a miniature version of the Empire's post-Endor collapse, — I agreed. — That's why there are always contingency plans. You and Pellaeon are the only ones aware of their existence. You, Grodin, know them all. Gilad knows only the parts he needs to play his role. He's a fine soldier, but against this enemy, even with the files I've given him, he cannot prevail.
— Sir, — Tierce pursed his lips. Curious. The first time I've noticed that from him. — It's an honor to serve under you. No matter how events unfold, I've never regretted my decision to follow you.
This…
Unexpected…
A revelation.
To hear such words from a guardsman capable of single-handedly clearing an enemy station…
It meant something.
— Thank you for your candor, Major, — I replied. — Rest assured, that respect and recognition are mutual.
Heels clicked, and Grodin saluted.
In complete silence, he left my quarters.
Ten minutes later, a Lambda shuttle carrying my adjutant departed for the rendezvous point, where Grodin would transfer to another ship and proceed to the target.
I stared at the monitor screens, slightly dazed.
The campaign's once-orderly plan was fraying at the seams.
That no one saw the dispersal of forces or the emerging "slippage" didn't mean it wasn't happening.
Too much needed to be done in the waning month.
The Ubiqtorate.
Isard.
Lusankya.
Lianna.
Sluis Van.
Not to mention dozens of smaller operations, the outcomes of which must align into a cohesive picture.
And above all, we couldn't lose sight of Palpatine's impending return. Nor could we ignore the Corporate Sector's reckless dealings with the Zann Consortium's remnants. Not a good prospect, in any scenario.
But first…
How intriguing, the movements of certain New Republic fleet groups. Without knowing they're amassing for an attack on Lianna, one might genuinely think the Republic is frantically simulating activity to show the galaxy their prior defeats haven't broken them.
I activated my comlink:
— Captain Pellaeon, are we receiving telemetry from our spy droid in the Vinsoth system?
— Affirmative, sir, — Gilad replied. — Stable and identifiable. Tragan Cluster, system M2934738.
So, they're not far off.
Practically on our doorstep.
All the easier for us.
— Excellent, — I concluded, reviewing the list of available ships. — We'll make some adjustments to the upcoming operation. I'm sending you the list of starships we'll need for the first phase.
— Yes, sir… — the Chimaera's commander responded.
A second later, he asked:
— Crimson Dawn? Sir, Commodore Shohashi is conducting operations in the Corsa sector.
— I'm aware, Captain. But I'm confident he'll make a small exception to his current plans for a special assignment. He'll be pleased to know his efforts won't go to waste this time.