Grand Admiral

— Just like that? — Fodeum grimaced, casting a glance out the cockpit viewport of the Graceful Lady.

— Yes, — answered the hologram of a woman he had known from birth. And as always, her tone allowed no argument. "Female leader despotism"… That was how Vex had once described her opinion of his stories about dealings with his mother. — This alliance will bring stability and prosperity to our people.

— And nothing more than dragging us into someone else's war, — the would-be Jensaarai snorted.

— First, we'll assess what the Grand Admiral has to offer us, — the woman admonished him. — He's taken his first step—Susevfi is now regularly supplied with everything we need. Completely free of charge.

— Aren't you worried this alliance might be worse than the one you made with Leonia Tavira? — Fodeum ventured.

— The Jensaarai are working to discover the Grand Admiral's true intentions, — she replied, as always, with vague phrases whenever she didn't have a definite answer.

— I'm sure most of the New Republic is asking itself the very same question, — Fodeum said. — Especially on Coruscant.

— He promised that the Empire under his command would change and become a better version of itself, — the Jensaarai leader reminded him.

— As if the Imperials have never swindled anyone, — the commander of the Graceful Lady rolled his eyes. — After our experiences dealing with Tavira…

— Don't think that coming from my womb gives you the right to lecture me, — the Saarai-kaar cut him off sharply.

— That's called common sense, Mom, — Fodeum said. — I understand that women your age can have issues with that…

— I clearly didn't thrash you enough as a child, — the Jensaarai leader grumbled.

— It's in our Order's teachings, — Fodeum smirked. — No violence, only defense, ideals of peace and the pursuit of knowledge.

— You could have made a decent Defender-Jensaarai if you'd learned when to keep your mouth shut, — his mother muttered.

— Inability to stay silent and to think clearly in critical moments is our family trait, — Fodeum retorted, once again hinting at the deal the Saarai-kaar had made with Leonia Tavira. A deal that forced the Jensaarai to serve bloodthirsty pirates.

— In any case, you're going to serve under the Grand Admiral, — his mother said firmly. — I've already informed Thrawn that a Jensaarai will remain at his side at all times. You will serve him and protect him.

— And keep an eye on him, — Fodeum snorted. His mother chose not to reply. — Admit it, you just decided to make sure I never left the Chimaera. You know, when we agreed to start over, I didn't think you'd make me pose as some obedient defender the very next moment.

— Don't exaggerate, — the woman huffed. — You've spent far more time among the stars than our people. That means you understand them more deeply…

"I can barely understand my own assistant sometimes," Fodeum thought. "And we speak the same language and have known each other longer than I've known Thrawn."

But aloud, by way of a final argument, he said something else entirely:

— Don't forget, I never did become a Defender of the Jensaarai. And I certainly can't sense direct threats aimed at a protection target the way those who served Leonia Tavira could. Also, I don't have my own lightsaber. And I don't have the parts to—

— You won't need them, — his mother declared.

— Then forgive me for not understanding how I can be of any help at all to the Grand Admiral, even formally, — Fodeum said.

— In that case, allow me to solve your dilemma, — came a voice that made a chill run down his spine. With a strained smile, Fodeum turned around. A white uniform, glowing red eyes, blue skin, black hair… and a brown lizard on his shoulder.

— Grand Admiral Thrawn, — Fodeum said, feeling his palms start to sweat. — I didn't hear you come aboard the Graceful Lady.

— Quite logical, given that I didn't want you to know, — the Grand Admiral replied. Slightly inclining his head, he gave a barely perceptible nod to the hologram of the Saarai-kaar, who bowed low and ended the transmission.

— Grand Admiral, sir, if my words offended you in any way… — Fodeum began stammering an attempt at an explanation, but the Imperial commander cut him off with a curt gesture.

He held out to him… No way!

— Take this weapon, — Thrawn ordered. — And head out on a mission. We have holdups at the orbital yards. They require a specialist of your caliber…

— Um… — was all Fodeum managed as he accepted the item, which was practically radiating the Light Side of the Force. Somehow, it didn't match up with the Empire's usual activities. — May I ask where you got it?

— A certain acquaintance of mine had several, — Thrawn replied cryptically. — So this one is yours.

"That was… awkward," Fodeum thought, hooking the weapon onto his belt.

— So what do you need me to do?

— I'll explain while you prep your ship for takeoff, — the Grand Admiral said.

And again came that traitorous chill down the spine…

Maybe the ship's heater was broken?

***

The Inexorable, like an inevitable doom from which there is no hiding or escape, was closing in on the Golan I orbital defense platform.

Its fall would throw the doors wide open for an invasion of the shipyards and the landing of the remaining legion based aboard the Star Destroyer.

The Mon Calamari cruiser had surrendered. Capitulated immediately after its deflector shields had been melted into charred, twisted wreckage scattered into local space, and the rest of the hull was streaked by Inexorable's starfighters and Interceptors finishing off its final turbolasers.

— Even a stubborn New Republic soldier knows when to give up, — Alexander murmured, cracking his neck.

The fight against a pair of Mon Cal Star Cruisers hadn't left his ship unscathed. Two squadrons were lost for good, six craft lay in the repair bay—and word from there said those birds wouldn't be rejoining the battle for at least twenty hours.

Which meant the Inexorable would be going up against the orbital station with half its original fighter and interceptor complement.

Holding position off her port side, the Relentless had a nearly full fighter wing, as did the Bellicose, which had managed to take another torpedo that wiped out much of its port-side turbolaser batteries. But Dorya had ordered that destroyer to oversee the capitulation of both MC80 cruisers, which had laid down arms upon realizing further combat was pointless. Its own fighter wing remained to protect the mother ship.

So out of ten squadrons' worth of fighters and bombers across two Star Destroyers, Dorya and Mor had only six left. Not great. But still more than that station could launch, even if it hadn't already scrambled every last X-wing.

Alexander smirked.

The New Republic was mimicking much of the Galactic Empire's tactical doctrine—once spotting an enemy, launch every starfighter, leaving only bombers, recon craft, and special units behind in the hangars.

The only catch was that the New Republic didn't really use "pure" bombers. Every starfighter type could carry either proton torpedoes or concussion missiles. TIE fighters, for instance, could also mount a few warheads on external racks, but that would change the Sienar ships' flight speed and handling, requiring special training. Altering the aerodynamics of a light craft whose main advantage lies in speed and maneuverability basically means re-training the pilot from scratch. Hardly rational, given that TIE fighter pilots rarely survived five engagements anyway.

Then again… why re-train all your pilots? You could form separate specialized units. Take the most capable pilots or the clones that keep appearing aboard our ships more often…

Hmm. An interesting thought. Worth giving it serious consideration and sharing it with Thrawn. At least it would be a bit of initiative on my part this week. Or perhaps propose that the Grand Admiral shift to TIE Avengers and Defenders? Or some other advanced projects…

— We're in firing range! — the watch officer announced.

Alexander shelved all extraneous thoughts. That could come later.

For now, the battle.

— Coordinate with the Relentless, — he ordered. — Identify the enemy's weapon emplacements and pick the best angles of approach.

Which meant maneuvering so that the station's firing arcs had the fewest shots on him, while his own ship could bring the greatest volume of fire to bear. Golan stations were specifically designed for 360-degree defense, but in the current situation, that principle wasn't too important.

The Colicoid Swarm had already thinned the station's batteries, so all that remained was to appraise the final threat…

— Calculations complete! Heading three-seven-zero. The Relentless positions itself at two-four-nine. There's also another vector…

— We'll take the first one, — Alexander ordered, watching as the Inexorable advanced to a distance of seventy units, near the absolute limit of turbolaser range. But the ships held themselves just outside the station's modern launcher range. A long fight loomed. Yet pure math would decide the outcome.

In a straight duel, the station lacked the sheer number of guns a Star Destroyer could bring, though its shields were stronger than Mor's and Dorya's ships. But the Imperials had superiority in heavy weapons, which were already digging into the station's energy shield… The Hapan defenders of the Hast yards were stalling for time, hoping reinforcements would arrive before they fell.

Maybe it would have gone that way if the Grand Admiral's fleet weren't about to wrap this battle up far sooner than any help could arrive.

Because help reached Bravo group first.

***

The Colicoid Swarm was barely holding together.

From the bridge, Captain Irv winced at the news that yet another squadron of Vulture droid starfighters had been destroyed.

— Eh, junkheap, we've got another couple dozen squadrons where that came from, — he said, shaking the ash from his cigar onto the deck.

— Roger-roger, — replied the tin can of a B1 droid.

In truth, the ship's position was precarious.

They'd already lost half their artillery courtesy of a jump into the gravity shadow cast by the Black Asp. While that blind and defenseless carrier destroyer was reactivating its systems, the Golan III had pumped a good ten turbolaser hits into its flank. Dead on…

So precise that the top "fin," which contained a luxurious suite for high-ranking officers, was vaporized by well-placed proton torpedoes.

All right, so the superstructure wasn't the reactor; losing it was survivable.

Especially when the landing forces—droids from the ship's own arsenal, delivered aboard by the ion cannon–disabled station—would be serving up plenty of surprises for the enemy.

Thousands of B1s, B2s, and droidekas, all marching along the corridors of a powerless station that lacked air or heat, killing everything in their path… And behind them, stormtroopers from the Phoenix, clad in vacuum suits, seizing control of the primary compartments—gun decks, reactors, shield generators, munitions depots…

This raid would be profitable. The payout would more than cover the cost of repairing and upgrading the ship's systems. Plus, maybe they could sell Thrawn something else he didn't need, like the tanks and droidekas… Or no, wait. He'd already sold them the droidekas.

As he surveyed the battlefield, Captain Irv couldn't help but marvel at the scale of it all.

On the right flank, Bravo group had not merely subdued two Mon Cal Star Cruisers but all but captured them. Judging from the damage, presumably enough remained to tow them away. Otherwise, why bother boarding? Wipe them out and be done. It also wasn't logical to leave an entire Star Destroyer behind just to guard two prizes you didn't plan on salvaging—especially if time was of the essence. The ship, though damaged, could still help Dorya and Mor with the artillery duel against that Golan I they were bombarding with turbolasers and ion cannons. By the looks of it, that would take a while—Golan stations, even older models, were tough nuts that could shrug off a single Star Destroyer's pounding for a long time. Two destroyers cut that time, but still… If speed was a priority and an enemy convoy was out there, you'd expect more reinforcements for Bravo group.

The Star Destroyer Crusader was currently being hammered by the remains of the Golan II's turbolasers and ion cannons, and it looked like the Chimaera was rushing to send boarding parties to that station itself.

Elsewhere, group Cresh's three Star Destroyers were pummeling two Mon Cal Star Cruisers that refused to surrender, whittling down at least a third of their guns. Their fighter coverage had dropped to about ten ships. Even the local patrol squadrons were a non-issue, as a pack of Corellian Corvettes had descended on them like predators on a pen of domesticated livestock, thinning out the Republic starfighter ranks so severely that only minor pockets of resistance remained. Some short-on-fuel fighters, or those cut off from resupply by ion or laser blasts, simply surrendered and were now being hoisted aboard the Bellicose by tractor beams. The Bellicose seemed assigned to guard the prizes. And no doubt some of Thrawn's damaged ships. Out of the 21 corvette signals, 10 were gone entirely, six were still fighting, while five limped behind Captain Aban's protective covering in smoke and wreckage.

One Golan I platform remained intact. Group Cresh was still busy with the MC80s. Whether that was due to the skill of the New Republic commanders or an oversight by the Imperial group leader wasn't really relevant. The main point was that Captain Astorias had fallen behind schedule.

Judging by how the Dragon was no longer firing its ion cannon, either the reactor was low on power or…

Then again, there it went.

A scarlet discharge (it seemed the reactor wasn't up to twin-salvo operation—ordinarily a v-150 Planet Defender shot was a "double tap") streaked through space, striking the same station the Crusader had been attacking.

A shimmer of red arcs flickered along the station's hull.

While the Grand Admiral's capital ships and the handful of Republic vessels still fighting had workable shields, the stricken station had none.

Nor did it have lights or any working systems…

Captain Irv narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.

Now that the Black Asp had deactivated its gravity well projectors, it and the Dragon were shepherding in the "star galleons" from the rear. Judging by how a good half-dozen of these ships latched onto a Mon Cal Star Cruiser that had been disabled early on (one that had wisely not tried to restart its reactors after the ion barrage), Imperial techs and boarding teams were already starting repairs on that first prize. That's presumably why the Interdictor and that ungainly Venator were heading for the stations—apparently Thrawn had adjusted his plan once the Chimaera and the Crusader made for the untouched Golan I.

Evidently the Dragon needed more and more time to recharge, and Thrawn decided not to waste another twenty or thirty minutes waiting for a full ion blast. Instead, he used what energy remained to finish off the already damaged, powerless station. Troop shuttles from the Chimaera were now racing in to board it, while the star galleons sped up to the New Republic's immobile warships and the orbital repair yard. The Phoenix's stormtroopers were having a grand old time there; from the new transponder signals, it looked like both ex–Republic Star Destroyers were under Imperial control, as were most of the escort frigates. Two of the seven Star Cruisers— gleaming white hulls stripped of artillery—were flagged as friendly. Not much remained: five more MC80s and two out of five Nebulon-Bs. The 20—no, 22!—CR90 Corellian Corvettes were apparently no threat, given that they'd all turned their point-defense guns on an incoming wing of X-wings that tried a proton torpedo run. So those were in Imperial hands… but how sluggish their return fire looked. Probably the corvettes had to fend off boarding parties, lacking real crews or even enough naval officers. Not good.

The monitor beeped as the Republic hammered a volley into some immobilized ships…

Oh, looks like Thrawn just lost five CR90 prizes and one Nebulon-B. The latter's not disintegrating, but from what we can see, the Republic clearly knew where to strike— the ship's practically split in half. Its deflectors let an enemy fighter slip in or they got hammered by lasers or ion blasts, and there's now a gaping hole in the "neck" connecting the forward and aft sections. The ship's a goner if it jumps to hyperspace—it'll just tear apart.

— Captain, — a B1 intoned. — Grand Admiral Thrawn is calling for you.

— I was wondering why it felt so quiet, — Irv quipped. He eyed the droid swinging its vacant head around in confusion. — Patch him through, you bronze-headed bucket.

A second later, the Grand Admiral's hologram appeared before Irv.

— Captain Irv, — Thrawn said. As always, not a trace of emotion in his voice, an almost chilling detachment. Sure, most Imperial officers weren't exactly merry jokesters, but seriously—did this weird humanoid alien ever smile? Now would be a perfect time: the shipyard defenses were basically broken, the boarding troops had seized most of the starships, and in an hour or two, the Empire would have the entire New Republic fleet in this system. Not to mention the 20 medium freighters that the New Republic basically forgot about (given bigger issues) that Irv had taken with hardly a shot fired or even the Republic noticing. By simply pointing a few turbolasers at them, maybe warning shots across their bows, and sending in BX commando droids on Droch-class boarding craft. — I hear you've captured some medium GR-75 transports.

Droch-class boarding ship.

— That's correct, Grand Admiral, — the pirate said with a nod. Of course the intel reached you—TIE Interceptors from your escort squadron flew around those trussed-up New Republic freighters about four times.

— Might I inquire as to what assets you used to secure them? — Thrawn asked calmly.

— Found a few Droch-class boarding craft in my hold, — Irv replied. Which was hardly a lie. He really did have them—twice as many as someone might've guessed. Did Vain truly think Irv would sell him a fully equipped warship?

— We need to discuss what else might be in your hold, Captain, — Thrawn said.

— You know how it is—a big ship like this, you never know what might still be inside, — Irv smirked. Honestly, he had little real need for the boarding craft and commando droids (save maybe a few as personal bodyguards). Yet he had held off on revealing them until now. The operation at the Hast shipyards was a perfect chance to show off the "merchandise" in action, and thus drive up its price. After all, at the end of this raid, Thrawn would owe him not just for helping disable the orbital station and land troops on the yards and starships but also for capturing those 20 medium transports quickly, discreetly, and with minimal shooting. And he'd likely show interest in commando droids, oh yes. That would cost him… big credits indeed.

BX-series droid commando.

No need to mention that out of two hundred BX droids, fewer than half had survived the boarding actions. That would kill the resale value of this old Separatist junk.

— My advice is to do a thorough inspection of all compartments once the operation is done and your ship is in drydock, — the Grand Admiral replied with a threatening edge. Irv stiffened. — Unless you'd prefer I send my own logistical specialists?

— That won't be necessary, — the pirate said stiffly. — I'm sure I can manage.

— Then proceed to assist Aurek group, — Thrawn ordered. — Disable the station's deflectors and artillery. After which, I suggest you locate any additional Drochs and commando droids and send them in the first wave to capture Golan I—before I start thinking you might be hiding something from me.

— On my way, Grand Admiral, — Irv answered. Only after the hologram blinked out did he exhale.

— Helm, take us to the station, — he ordered the nearest B1 droid. It gave a characteristic "roger-roger." — Alert the hangars—have them prep the last Drochs. Any more BXs?

— Negative, sir, — the droid rasped.

— Then load yourself, tin can, — Irv told him. — And bring along a couple platoons of your dimwitted brethren. One shared brain wrinkle is enough.

He needed to seize that blasted station fast, before Thrawn asked too many questions.

He looked at the decapitated metal head mounted on his chair's armrest, a three-eyed droid helm. Habitually, he patted it.

— Well, Aut-O, you always complained about a lousy fate.

— Traitor! I hate you! — the tactical super droid growled. But who cared about its feelings? If not for that little marvel, who knew where Irv would be. And that was definitely worth keeping a secret.

***

Once the breaching charge detonated, ripping out the door panel, the first things to fly in were thermal detonators. According to station schematics, nothing critical lay on the other side—certainly not in the core deck.

Sergeant TNX-0297 and his eight stormtroopers waited for the blast, then, on the clone's signal, surged forward.

All nine, clones bearing his exact face, took positions inside, each seeking cover. Blaster shots spat at them, but they spread out among the recesses.

They needed only a few seconds to take stock.

The detonators had killed three New Republic soldiers. Their shredded remains lay on the metal deck, blood pooling around them. No threat.

But five others had barricaded themselves behind a heavy overturned table on the far side, easily strong enough to shield them from blasts and shrapnel—and from grenades too, since it was about forty meters away, too far for a safe throw while under hostile fire.

Even so, Sergeant TNX-0297 quickly found the solution. The enemy had covered their position well, but they'd overlooked the possibility that scattered tables and chairs—also metal—could be used as cover by the troopers themselves.

— Suppressive fire, — he ordered via the squad's internal comm. The eight troopers, timing the enemy's lulls, forced them to take cover behind the table, firing their rifles to keep them pinned. None of them had any desire to die. — Teams of two, move up to the closest cover.

Two troopers sprinted forward, shooting on the run. Reaching a toppled shelf, they crouched behind it. Another pair dashed forward, joining them…

It took exactly one minute for half the squad to gain ten more meters of ground and settle in safely. The enemy popped up to shoot but was pinned right back down.

From a second squad, another two troopers hustled over. Securing the position, the pair dashed another seven meters to hide behind a smashed holoprojector.

The trooper armor's helmet optics prevented them from being blinded by the red flashes of enemy fire. Whoever designed this gear knew what troops needed. To the stormtroopers, the compartment looked as bright as midday.

— With me, — Sergeant TNX-0297 barked, picking the moment to lead a final rush to an overturned couch. They covered about twenty-two meters, ducking behind soft upholstery that wouldn't last long. Pressed up against it, the sergeant and two troopers lobbed thermal detonators overhead.

Eighteen meters was well within a trooper's throwing range. The Republic soldiers had three seconds to grasp that fact.

One of them spotted a detonator and dove aside, only to be cut down by crossfire.

One after the other, at mere fractions of a second apart, three thermal detonators exploded. Screams, moans of the mortally wounded, and then silence.

Maintaining formation, the squad advanced, keeping every corner of the room covered—there could be a trap. Not this time.

One glance told TNX-0297 that two wounded enemies had no chance. One had shards in his lung area, drowning in foamy blood. The other, missing an arm and half his face, was blindly mumbling some half-coherent words in Basic.

— He's calling for his mother, — one trooper surmised.

TNX-0297 couldn't parse the enemy's ramblings. But he knew a palm-sized fragment had pierced the man's skull. He was beyond saving.

— Finish them, — he ordered. A trooper put two neat blasts into them. Mercy. They'd never have made it to a medbay.

Beyond them lay a heavy blast door, sealed with an electromagnetic lock. They'd conquered one section of the station; next came the next.

Checking the tactical readouts for the other 501st Legion squads tasked with seizing the orbital defense platform, TNX-0297 noted that two squads on the right flank were pinned by heavy fire. According to the map, his squad could flank the enemy if they proceeded seven meters beyond the door and turned right. Acceptable. Support wouldn't delay the final objective.

— Sweep it, — he instructed, nodding at the door. Two troopers approached the bulkhead, pulling out tools for scanning bombs and slicing locks.

The New Republic included plenty of Imperial defectors in its ranks. If these defenders followed standard fallback protocol, the attempt to open that door would trigger an explosive device that would maim or kill the troopers and jam the door locked.

— Mines, — the sapper trooper concluded, pointing to the door plating. — Laser-flechette LX-1 with motion sensors. Directed at the lower half.

All clear. Even without words, every stormtrooper recognized Merr-Sonn's lethal contraptions. The instant they triggered the door, it'd cripple their legs and jam the blast door shut. A dead end.

For any other troopers. But not for the 501st.

Not for Sergeant TNX-0297's squad. The Grand Admiral had promoted him not for loyalty or honesty, but for effectiveness—otherwise he'd be commanding rank-and-file troopers, not his own genetic brothers.

Colonel Selid's clones required no further explanation; they were already working out a solution.

— Bypass the lock, — TNX-0297 told the squad's electronics specialist. The trooper removed the control panel, methodically stripping wires and hooking up a scanner. A few seconds later his fingers danced across the screen.

— Lockdown protocol disengaged, — he said after ten seconds, stowing his gear. Glancing to his squad leader, he got a silent nod. The trooper brandished another set of tools, snipped a rainbow cable, and placed a shaped charge on the metal. Ducking aside, he triggered it. The blast tore through the plating, exposing severed wires behind the bulkhead. With a punch, the specialist knocked out a decorative panel between the outer and inner segments of the door control. On the other side, the main control fell to the floor. Another quick movement: the trooper produced a thermal detonator from his belt. The rest, including the sergeant, backed away, pressing against the corridor walls.

Holding the detonator's activation switch, the specialist slipped it through the gap and jerked his hand out, calmly joining the others.

Two seconds later, it exploded. The mines triggered, but harmlessly.

No further orders needed— the sapper scanned the corridor through the new gap.

— Clear, — he said, yielding to the electronics man. Patch by patch, he reconnected the door's circuit to his datapad and after a few seconds raised the blast door.

— Move, — Sergeant TNX-0297 ordered. — Stay sharp.

They found no sign of life in the next section and advanced at a swift pace.

At the designated junction, the sergeant sent scouts ahead, tapping the mic of his helmet to quietly warn the pinned squad they were coming. In these conditions, using wideband comms was out of the question. He didn't question orders— it was standard procedure.

Reaching an open space that looked like a lounge, the troopers spotted heavy black smoke curling near the ceiling—some furniture was ablaze. But not enough to hide from helmet optics the charred Republic bodies and a few who were crawling around, attempting either to help their fallen allies or salvage what remained of their own limbs. Screams of the wounded, overshadowed by shouts of desperation. Then bolts cut through the smoke. On the far side, four stormtroopers were pinned under fire from three directions. Their armor data indicated some were wounded. Indeed, three lay in cover with a fallen medic, a hole in his chest.

They'd clearly been ambushed and driven into a corner, cut off from the corridor they had come through. Judging by their unit ID, they weren't Colonel Selid's clones. A case of standard human error.

Seven E-11 blasts from TNX-0297's squad hammered into one of the enemy squads from behind—where they'd been covered from the pinned troopers, they were fully exposed to the new arrivals. As were the few who lay moaning on the floor, trying to crawl to cover.

No one survived. You don't escape a true stormtrooper.

— Covering fire, — the sergeant told the allied squad. Then to his own men: — Suppression.

The other two enemy squads decided to retreat and live a little longer. The crossfire from the E-11s tore through many Republic soldiers. Payment for the death of Imperials… and for not wearing real armor. Human error.

Hunching low under stray bolts, the newly rescued troopers hauled out their wounded, making it back to the corridor in about fifteen seconds—where TNX-0297's unit gave them cover.

— Our medic will cover your withdrawal, — the sergeant told the other squad's leader. They needed to keep them safe from flanking fire.

Keeping up the barrage, TNX-0297 led his men, who dragged the wounded along. Two ended up behind a barricade, already disassembling the battered storm armor from an injured ally.

— Thanks, — said the other squad's sergeant, extending a hand.

TNX-0297 stared at the offered handshake. He knew it was a gesture of gratitude, but it held no meaning for him.

— Just our job, — he replied. No handshake. That was not the stormtrooper way.

He left the medic and one trooper behind to assist the battered survivors, ordering the rest onward. They had a mission to accomplish. Six men plus two wounded could handle themselves, especially with four more squads of the 501st right on their heels. The sweep continued.

A halfhearted enemy flank assault cost them more men, as the seven E-11s pinned them down.

This allowed the troopers to dash through, taking only a few minor hits. TNX-0297 checked the chrono. Three seconds behind schedule. Inefficient.

— Double-time, — he ordered, alerting the company commander. Not his old commander, who had "vanished" after a talk with the Grand Admiral. Another had replaced him, a more effective leader.

While running, the sergeant ejected an empty power cell from his rifle and slammed in a new one. The gas cartridge would last one more firefight, then it, too, would need changing.

They practically collided with a squad of New Republic soldiers rushing out from a side corridor. There was no time for an orderly firefight. Without breaking stride, the seven stormtroopers smashed into the group of ten.

Fifteen seconds later, they were stepping over the corpses, all wearing the New Republic insignia on their uniforms.

***

The Chimaera's bridge was silent.

The flagship, along with its smaller sibling—a Victory I–class Star Destroyer—advanced on its rightful prize like a predator cornering its prey.

And the defenders of that Golan I station had nowhere to run…

— Raise deflector shields, — Captain Pellaeon ordered. — Launch fighters and Interceptors. Artillery, commence harassing fire on the target.

— Batteries aligned! Firing!

— Enemy shield is holding!

— Switch to continuous fire, — I said, gently stroking the ysalamir dozing on my lap. Apparently I had at least one faithful friend. Pity you can't just lure sentients the way you lure an animal, with care and food. Or can you?

We shall see about the Jensaarai.

— The Crusader has entered firing range, — Pellaeon announced, comparing the data from the scanners. — The Emperor's Wisdom transponder is active.

— So Captain I-Gor is back on his feet, — I remarked.

— Sir? — Gilad looked puzzled.

— His son died saving the Crusader from a proton torpedo that would've hit the bridge, — I clarified.

— Oh… — Pellaeon let out what my native fleet would've called "the bosun's minor oath."

— Quite, Captain, — I agreed. — Losing one's child is the greatest tragedy for a parent. Check if the lieutenant was in the donor pool for cloning.

Pellaeon quickly pulled the files:

— No, sir. Too young and too inexperienced. We only cloned fleet veterans.

— Then the Crusader's commander will feel the loss even more deeply, — I said, my voice almost catching. — Have all who fell aboard that corvette recommended for state honors. I want their heroism known across the fleet by the time this phase of the operation is over.

— I'm not sure Captain I-Gor will appreciate that, — Pellaeon said doubtfully.

— That's why you will schedule a meeting with him as soon as we've crushed the final pockets of resistance, — I instructed.

If only I knew the right words…

We analysts rarely endure casualties. We sit in an HQ. In my years of service, we haven't often taken direct hits. I have no real experience telling a grieving father that his son's sacrifice wasn't in vain. I suspect I-Gor would rather have lost the Crusader than his child.

Alas, history doesn't offer what-ifs.

But delaying is far worse. This situation demands immediate attention. Sometimes a show of compassion during the heat of battle rings more sincerely than formal condolences after the dust settles.

Meanwhile, the Chimaera's fighters and Interceptors were buzzing around the furious Golan station. They wouldn't do much harm to a fully functional platform, but they sure tormented its gunners, who knew full well that their survival depended on their deflector shield. Which two Star Destroyers could pound for quite some time— the example of the Inexorable and the Relentless, who needed a massive missile salvo from the Colicoid Swarm to bring down their platform's shields, was plain to see.

The myth of these platforms' impregnability had been debunked by me repeatedly. The Imperial method of sieging such stations revolves around wearing down the shield with prolonged turbolaser fire, then, once the energy bubble is faltering, finishing off the guns and shield generators with big ships standing off beyond the station's torpedo range, making it safe to land boarding teams.

If we manage to quickly knock out the shield generators, these stations' lifespans plummet. So my best method for taking out an enemy defense station involves systematically bringing missile ships within range using Interdictors and other support craft.

Here, though, we had overlapping gravity wells, so I wouldn't repeat that approach. The first tactic for neutralizing orbital stations was done. Now it was time to test a "diversion plus medium-range salvo" tactic. Key to that is having enough fighters and Interceptors to intercept inbound proton torpedoes or else good flak coverage to shoot them down.

Unlike planetary shields—a technology I still haven't fully mastered—conventional deflectors can only stop energy weapons. Then there's the particle shield type that negates kinetic impacts. I have some hypotheses. I suspect planetary shields are a hybrid of the two. Otherwise, how to explain that, before the invention of superlasers, the Empire hammered them with massed missile strikes? Those missiles still just exploded on the surface of the energy shell…

So the defenders' best hope of prolonging their agony is to drive off the TIEs aiming to get in close on their deflectors, trying to push back bold pilots with turbolasers and torpedoes.

— Captain Astorias reports the destruction of one MC80, — Pellaeon said, commenting on the flash marking the end of one of the two Mon Cal cruisers up against the three Star Destroyers. — He's taking a while, though.

— The fortunes of war are fickle, — I mused. — Ask the Stormhawk about the second vessel.

— They say it refuses to surrender, — the Chimaera's commander answered after an exchange with Cresh group's flagship. — They're asking for instructions.

— What do we do with an enemy who refuses to heed reason and surrender? — I asked Gilad.

— We destroy them, sir, — he replied.

— Then where is the confusion?

— Understood, Grand Admiral.

Waves of golden-red turbolaser fire were sloughing hull plates off that last cruiser, with the Stormhawk, Judicator, and Death's Head flanking it. They were carving it to scrap. But I noticed that rescue pods and shuttles from the cruiser were not targeted; the Imperials tried to capture the crew alive.

The Stormhawk was high and to port, the Judicator blocked any path to the station, and Death's Head was methodically blasting the ship's engines.

Meanwhile, the Chimaera's forward guns hammered the last Golan station still not under our control. Bolts of golden-red fury and repeated missile volleys wore down its deflectors. The TIE Interceptors scored a hit on one of its generators, opening the station to the Star Destroyers' rockets and turbolasers. Now black scorch marks pockmarked the hull; the paint was burned away, the plating melted. Then came ion cannon bursts, followed by about ten anti-ship missiles from the Crusader. The Chimaera's crew cheered as flames erupted through a breach on the station's battery deck.

— We're receiving a message on open channels, — Lieutenant Tschel reported. — The station we're bombarding requests a ceasefire and is willing to surrender.

— Acknowledge, — I ordered. — Tell them to drop shields, power down guns and launchers, and shut down their reactor. Captain Pellaeon, prepare a boarding party for our latest prize.

— Aye, sir! — the Chimaera's commander said with barely hidden excitement.

A brief supernova-like flash lit space.

— A message from the Stormhawk, — Pellaeon said. — The last enemy ship is destroyed. The remaining pockets of resistance are being suppressed…

— Excellent, Captain, — I said, doing my best not to show how much I relished our victory. — Move us toward the repair docks. Prepare the landing parties to seize that station.

***

Some hostiles collapsed in heaps, dropping their weapons; others managed another step forward before blaster bolts punched through them, burning holes in torsos, limbs, faces…

Among the few New Republic soldiers and the volunteer civilian engineers who joined the defense, there was no coherent chain of command. And how could there be?

Nor did they have the sense to recognize the futility of their struggle.

Lieutenant Rederick shook his head where he crouched behind a corridor bend.

A platoon of stormtroopers plus droidekas stood with him, ready to flank the cluster of Republic holdouts in the orbital workshop's lounge.

Negotiations had done nothing. Most station workers—salaried personnel—surrendered without trouble. They had no desire to die for someone else's war, especially since they hadn't been paid that week. A good enough reason.

— A frontal attack would cost the stormtroopers dearly, — the company commander said without malice. Just a statement of fact. Only completion of the mission mattered to him.

These new troopers of the TNX line… They seemed inhuman, more like droids of flesh and bone. Standing near them was… unsettling.

— I doubt it, — Rederick answered.

He knew the layout of this deck. The moment they stepped into the corridor, they'd be crossing twenty meters of open ground, exactly why the Republic defenders had dug in there.

All except…

— Deploy the droidekas, — the scout ordered.

— Advance, — said the stormtrooper officer in that same detached tone. Three mechanical Destroyers folded into wheel mode and clattered ahead, rolling across the metal floor.

A couple of seconds later, they resumed walker form, switched on their shield projectors—radiating enough that you wouldn't want to be near them without storm armor. At least the boarding crews had brought Rederick a spare. It wasn't exactly his size, but hey, who cares about comfort when history is being made?

The droidekas advanced, fulfilling their assignment.

They opened fire with their cannons…

The lounge erupted in a cacophony of shrieking blasters, sporadic counterfire from the defenders, screams of pain and the dying, ricochets…

Rederick instinctively started forward, wanting a look, but the stormtrooper officer stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

— Not safe, sir, — he said. — Please wait.

Arguing was pointless. Whoever had trained these men did their job well. In an hour of boarding actions, not a single station worker who posed no threat had been harmed, while any who took up arms but posed limited danger were subdued, and those who resisted violently were destroyed. Neither shipyard was able to fuel the ships anyway, thanks to Rederick's sabotage of the pumps that carried fuel from the tanks to the starships. A trivial act about which he had warned Thrawn ahead of time. The Grand Admiral had clearly arrived with replacement parts.

All Rederick could hear was the thunder of blasters, the wails of the wounded, the choking gasps of the dying.

The droidekas kept firing until no more meaningful return fire came back. Then, finishing off any survivors, they lowered their shields. For all their advanced Colicoid engineering, droidekas couldn't maintain their protective screens indefinitely.

— Move, — said the lieutenant.

The stormtrooper officer obeyed wordlessly, passing the order along.

They advanced through piles of bodies shot without the slightest remorse. Rederick felt no pity—he had offered them a chance to surrender. They'd refused. No one would beg them twice.

With a squad of white-armored Imperial troopers at his back, Rederick headed up the stairwell to the workshop's administrative level. That was where the station's chief engineer and all the technical archives were located.

Unfortunately, it hadn't been possible to start the assault from there. The New Republic had done a good job fortifying their secrets. But that didn't stop a shaped charge from cutting through an armored blast door, even if it was twice the thickness of a Kuat dreadnought's plating. A meter, maybe more, of durasteel. No boarding pod could easily handle that, not with so many decks, reactors, and vital systems around it. A direct breach might have rendered the yard unusable or caused an explosion.

A plasma cutter for removing damaged hull plates burned through the door in the right spot. The New Republic had placed the control panel on the inside only.

Rederick cursed under his breath, picturing the Fishhead inside destroying crucial data. The longer this took…

— Ahem, — someone coughed behind him. Rederick turned and saw the last person he expected here.

— Fodeum?! — he gaped.

— At least someone calls me by my name, — sighed the owner of the Graceful Lady.

— What are you doing here? — Rederick asked.

— Helping, — Fodeum sighed again, holding up a metallic cylinder with buttons. — This thing cuts faster.

— A lightsaber?! — Rederick grew wary. Stormtroopers raised their blasters. — You don't look like Luke Skywalker.

— That's the best compliment anyone's given me, — Fodeum smirked. — But apparently it belongs to his family. Unless Thrawn was lying. So… want some help?

— I thought you'd finished your part, — the scout said suspiciously.

— Then I talked to my mom, — Fodeum said. — Turns out… Anyway, how about I slice through this door for you, like I did on the other station, and you can do your job?

— Be my guest, — Rederick snorted, stepping aside. The younger man approached the door, set a palm against it, and closed his eyes like he was listening for something. — Just don't cut yourself…

— Don't worry, — Fodeum forced a smile. — The fact that I lost… messed up my own lightsaber doesn't mean I'm completely hopeless.

In the next instant, a white-blue blade hissed to life, sinking into the armor…

Before Rederick (and presumably the stormtroopers, too) could scrape their jaws off the deck, a sizable chunk of the half-meter-thick blast door simply fell away from its hinges in a smoking mass, crashing down the steps in a shower of sparks.

Not missing a beat, Rederick ducked inside the smoky space, dropped to a knee, scanning with his blaster at the ready. Appeared empty. He pivoted methodically…

A flash of red from a blaster flared in the darkest corner, too fast. He wouldn't make it…

Then the white-blue blade intercepted, sending the bolt into the ceiling. And another…

After one more shot was deflected back into the shooter, who turned out to be the Mon Calamari chief engineer they both knew, Lieutenant Rederick, satisfied the man could harm no one else, shot Fodeum a grateful look:

— Thanks, — he said, extending a hand.

Fodeum Sabre de Luz blushed and silently returned the handshake.