Grand Admiral

Nine years, six months, and the twentieth day after the Battle of Yavin…

Or the forty-fourth year, six months, and the twentieth day after the Great Resynchronization.

Fifty-seven years ago, this world was destroyed. Turned into a vast cloud of cosmic rubble of all kinds of sizes and shapes.

Thirty-eight years before Alderaan's destruction and the demise of the first Death Star at the Battle of Yavin IV, a planet that was neither industrialized nor coveted by galactic corporations, power brokers, or criminals was transformed into a pile of stones.

And among those stones, the Imperious now hid. The stark gray hull of the Imperial Star Destroyer blended seamlessly with the blackness of space, the brownish-black shadows of the asteroids, and the faint glow of the local star, Shadda.

Standing on the bridge of his Star Destroyer, Captain Erik Shohashi gently and lovingly traced his thumb across the photograph tucked inside the lid of his chronometer.

Iran Ryad. "Red Star." She was just as beautiful as on the day they first met. And she would remain so forever—in his heart and memory.

With a snap, Erik closed his stopwatch, tucking it into his tunic pocket. Shifting his weight onto his cane, he felt the knob press into his palm. Nothing new—just a familiar, meaningless pain.

Meaningless compared to what he had experienced years ago, when the Imperious, having just returned from yet another raid and lying low at its base in the depths of the asteroid field—once called the planet Shadda-Bi-Boran—and the comms officer brought him a coded report with news of Iran Ryad's death.

Being in this system in the Bi-Boran sector of the Outer Rim, in quadrant O-18 according to Imperial galactic cartography, had always brought him pain. Far greater pain than what he had felt purging Atoan, upon learning that his fellow Imperials had been betrayed and killed by the local inhabitants. He discovered the truth much later, after the Emperor's death, when the secrecy of the Empire's "little dealings" collapsed… But the nickname "Butcher of Atoa" had already stuck to him. And by then he no longer cared.

Pain and shock—when he captured a smuggler transporting arms to the Rebels. Right here, among these drifting stones, an Alderaanian hunted and found his quarry. And took it. By storming a ship that supplied the Rebels with weapons and provisions so they could continue their bloody terror on the Empire's foundations.

He interrogated the freighter's captain. Learned they grew up in the same place on Alderaan. Showed mercy to his countryman, sparing his life so he could stand trial. That delighted the other Alderaanians in his crew.

And here, mere hours after the freighter's capture, while fixing the Imperious's hull—damaged by the drifting rocks—Shohashi learned of the destruction of his homeworld…

He learned about it when his closest associate—his executive officer, also Alderaanian like him—tried to kill him, aiming to seize control of the Star Destroyer.

Even so, Shohashi crushed the mutiny aboard his ship. With the utmost brutality, he forced the Rebel agents onboard to reveal the locations of the nearest cells and all other information they possessed. And he dealt with them. Without a tribunal or full investigation. As mercilessly as he was shocked by the events that befell his home planet. But he had to endure. Not for himself—for the crew, who couldn't understand why people who had shared bunkrooms with them had suddenly become enemies because the Rebels had destroyed their homeworld. At that time, they did not yet know the truth… whereas the Alderaanian Rebels already did… But it sounded like pitiful propaganda. For someone who lost his home and everyone he knew on a doomed planet, betrayed by his own compatriots among the ship's crew, any suggestion that the Empire was to blame for Alderaan's destruction came across as propaganda… The situation was just too shocking.

He repaired the ship and returned to base. Where he learned that, according to Imperial reports, the Rebels were behind Alderaan's destruction… Learned of the mass desertion of his fellow Alderaanians from Imperial Armed Forces…

Erik did not believe in coincidences. He withstood all the interrogations and checks that Imperial Security Services threw at him. And returned to the bridge of his ship. But he was no longer that cheerful, middle-aged man.

Now he was a killer. The last Alderaanian loyal to the Empire. People called him that, up until he unleashed himself on the criminal and Rebel riffraff, eradicating them all. He heard rumors of how other Imperial servicemen perceived him.

And he did not care.

Because humanitarianism is good only when it's not mistaken for weakness. Because he desperately clung to every good thing the Empire had brought to the galaxy…

The Emperor's death rearranged much. The leaks of Imperial secrets only heightened the piquancy of events. And Grand Moff Tarkin's involvement in Alderaan's destruction, casting a shadow over all Imperials, became an obvious fact… including for Erik.

In another situation, anyone in his position would have deserted—like Sair Yonka and so many other commanders. But not Shohashi. He went on fighting, determined to preserve at least some semblance of legality in a galaxy disintegrating into anarchy. Idealistic motives? Most likely, yes. But in moments where your entire worldview and moral compass crumble, you do not have many choices—either you break or you break others.

Preserve order… even if your fight means little in a galaxy swiftly falling into chaos.

It didn't work. One destroyer alone is no warrior in this galaxy.

Maybe he could manage it with Thrawn's help. Maybe, bearing in mind that Shohashi, as ordered, had delivered certain high-ranking Republic officers and officials to Tangrene. Though he would like to look into the eyes of the last Alderaanian princess and ask her a couple of questions about the peace and prosperity the New Republic had promised the galaxy. They had defeated the Empire, killed the Emperor, rid themselves of his minions… where was the harmony they promised the galaxy? Five and a half years had passed since Endor, yet nothing had truly changed for the better. On the contrary. Smuggling was overshadowing official trade. The Outer Rim had practically "bowed" to the Hutts and other scum. The number of pirate gangs had multiplied exponentially…

But Erik knew full well that ever since he suppressed the Alderaanian uprising aboard the Imperious, time had passed, and the story had grown embroidered, becoming a legend. From a commander dispensing justice, he turned into a madman with a deranged mind.

If he decided to speak with his countrywoman, she would likely drop dead of shock.

— Any news on the convoy? — he asked the watch officer. Ideally, the report from the scouting drones should have been presented by his XO, but after that officer shattered Erik's kneecap with a blaster shot, crippling him for life, Shohashi refused to trust anyone so completely again.

— Yes, Captain, — the watch officer said, handing him a datapad. — An assault frigate and two GR-75 medium transports. They've started unloading in the Arbra system. The drones picked up weapons deliveries for a second frigate in the docks.

— Just as Thrawn warned, — Erik remarked.

The Grand Admiral had dispatched him on a mission to strike the shipyard in the Arbra system. It was from there, after repairs at the local docks, that Sair Yonka's ships had set out to take part in the Ambush at Rugos. At these "purely civilian shipyards," as New Republic propaganda called them, they installed shipboard weaponry onto Yonka's Star Destroyer and its escort Mon Calamari cruiser.

All for "peaceful" purposes, of course.

— Get the ship ready to depart, — Erik ordered, handing the datapad back to the watch officer.

Though Shadda-Bi-Boran and Arbra lay fewer than ten thousand light-years apart, it would take several days—there were no direct hyperlanes. They'd have to fly in a straight line, through the interstellar void… meaning more time, more fuel consumption. But that was merely the cost of doing business.

And it would suffice to strike the military target and divert the enemy's attention from the returning forces of Grand Admiral Thrawn's raiding fleet. Then there would be other goals…

Meanwhile, the privateers in Thrawn's employ conducted raids on transport convoys across the Outer Rim, forcing local New Republic forces to dash from one crisis to another.

Erik Shohashi cast his gaze over the colossal asteroid field spinning around his ship. Those cosmic stones, so reminiscent of the Graveyard—the debris of Alderaan—where the survivors of that lost world regularly made pilgrimages. Perhaps one day he too would return home and leave a memorial to the innocent people who died because of one insane Imperial Grand Moff's lust for destruction and desire to test the combat capabilities of his massive battlestation. Tarkins… how he loathed them. First the younger one, Garoshe—Erik destroyed Atoan for his sake, becoming the galaxy's "Butcher." Then his father, Wilhuff, who cost him his homeland and loved ones, made him lose faith in his own colleagues…

"It's not what it seems." That's what Thrawn had told him when sending him to the Arbra yards.

Perhaps, in his usual manner, the Grand Admiral was referring not only to the mission but also to Erik Shohashi himself. The "Butcher of Atoan," who sought peace and quiet.

And the death of Baron Soontir Fel.

***

Watching through the Chimaera's bridge viewport as Imperial shuttles and landing craft bustled between ships and the framework of the orbital repair yards, I felt a creeping fatigue.

We did it.

And the inferno blazing across Hast's surface—devouring the rotted, rusted eyesore scrap among which our fleet's specialists found nothing of value—acted like a huge period at the end of the operation against the enemy shipyards. A period delivered by the missile launchers of the Colicoid Swarm and the Crusader, as wave after wave of shuttles, spare parts, weapons, and prisoners poured into the enormous holds of Star Destroyers and other vessels of my fleet…

At that moment, as loaded transports regrouped for departure and gave way to their empty comrades, as my eyes admired the interplay of internal lighting on the drifting Golan-type stations—still bearing the scars of recent battles—a sharper thought struck my mind.

We succeeded. More poorly than we might have, but no conflict in this galaxy ever goes perfectly as planned.

And it's not about someone being too smart or too foolish. There's a list of factors too long and tedious to detail. I still lack the data to do a proper postmortem on what caused certain campaigns to fail. By all appearances, the results look consistent, shaped by the galaxy's internal logic. Yet there's some strange, inexplicable law of confrontation—an ordinary campaign nearly always goes "like clockwork" for a so-called villain, until the "final stage" when everything collapses, as if logic short-circuits, leading to defeat.

Why dwell on this now?

Because things feel suspiciously consistent: methodically, with growing momentum, my campaign is unfolding. And it's impossible to say whether it's that intangible law of conflict or just my planning skill.

Not enough data for a precise analysis. That means one thing—keep carefully planning. No letting up, no slip-ups. In the old days, maybe Thrawn's authority would have served me, with his occasional refusals to engage stronger foes lacking a "key," but our last two months of successes might swell my subordinates' heads.

Before you know it, they'll demand an assault on Coruscant… Heh, once you do the impossible, people start expecting you to walk on water.

The main thing is to stay calm and not let success go to my head. This is the most dangerous time: victory blinds you, lowers your objective sense of the enemy. That's how "major defeats" happen…

And do not forget about the threats both from the New Republic and from the Imperial Remnants. Not to mention each "big opponent" is like a matryoshka—inside lurk smaller ones…

And some stand beyond those two categories altogether. Ysanne Isard, for instance, either personally or with her clone, surely realizes what I aim to do with the Ciutric Hegemony. She might pull some nasty stunt. I was least worried about Tangrene—well-protected as the sector capital—but allied worlds like the Chasin system, Makem Te, Garos IV, Abafar, and others… Actually, no more remain. At least no others hosting my armed forces.

Our Pakuuni outpost is basically a meeting point for privateers and pirates who want to earn Imperial credits by offering up ships. But nobody has shown interest lately, which makes me wonder whether to shift NL-1 from that lonely system to at least Makem Te's orbit. That would offer it stronger defense than just a Strike-class medium cruiser and a Tartan-class patrol cruiser. Considering the outcry among the Republic after the destruction of Hast's yards, a counterattack is all but assured. Not for the sake of seizing the tactical initiative, oh no.

It's for pure populism: "They bloodied our noses; we'll strike back." In the struggle for ephemeral hegemony, real victories matter less if you can hype the "destruction" of some random ship/outpost as a glorious victory of galactic democracy over the absolute evil of inhumane tyranny.

Meanwhile, I do have a short list of systems loyal to my "pro-Imperial" measures. A couple of sectors that don't realize I'm not truly striving to restore the Galactic Empire. And none of them are protected…

Yes, that might be a concern. Since Bestine IV exited Imperial jurisdiction, there was no point stationing a Strike and a Tartan there. So presumably they now patrol around Abafar, ensuring an uninterrupted supply of rydonium…

So, Krennel's and Baron D'asta's "orders" are done.

Then again, even if the Republic strikes those systems, it won't fatally affect my plans—the forces there are small.

— Grand Admiral, sir, — came Pellaeon's voice. — The report is ready.

— In that case, I want to hear it…

— We lost a total of one hundred fifty-nine craft—fighters, bombers, shuttles, landing craft, — he consulted his datapad. — Overall, two thousand one hundred seventeen killed, and exactly double that wounded.

— Those latter numbers—purely from the landing detachments? — I raised an eyebrow, casting a glance at the ysalamiri dozing in my chair.

— No, sir, that total includes crew members, boarding teams, and pilots, — he said.

Better, at least.

— Go on, Captain, — I prompted.

— We lost one DP20 Corellian gunship; ten CR90 corvettes destroyed; two heavily damaged and currently under urgent repair at the yard. Another two of that class, also damaged, we managed to restore to a condition barely adequate for combat via crew efforts…

So, out of the twenty-eight corvettes and the one gunship I took on the raid, a third are gone. Heavy losses… though if you note each corvette has a crew of 165 plus the gunship's hundred, the proportion is not as bad.

— The Bellicose sustained only minor hull damage, — Pellaeon continued, — which hasn't affected her overall combat capability. In fact, same with other ships.

— Even that Nebulon-B that nearly snapped in half? — I asked.

Gilad glanced aside sheepishly.

— The yard workers—who agreed to serve us—patched up the damaged ships under emergency conditions, — he said quietly. — The breach is sealed, the structural frame restored… but…

— But? — I lifted an eyebrow.

— Sir, it's only a temporary fix, — Pellaeon explained. — The hull needs a lengthy rebuild. With the parts we have on hand, we can't confidently claim a full repair or guarantee a safe hyperspace jump. I'd suggest stripping everything valuable from the escort frigate and blowing it up or dropping it onto the planet, to create…

— Your suggestion is noted, Captain, — I said. — Our mechanics and tech teams have already stripped whatever gear wouldn't keep it from making a hyperspace jump. We won't leave that starship here.

— It could break apart in hyperspace from structural failure, — the Chimaera's commander reminded me. Unlike previous conversations, his tone was free of impatience. He was merely following regs, warning me of possible outcomes. — In that scenario, we'd lose both the ship and the crew.

— The first is possible, — I agreed. — The second is unlikely. Both orbital repair stations, the damaged Nebulon-B, the Golan defense platforms, the MC80 with wrecked engines, and the one blasted by the Dragon's ion cannon—they'll all be operated by B-1 droids.

Pellaeon paused in thought.

— A safeguard, in case systems fail?

— Exactly, Captain, — I said. — Despite our engineers' confidence in these captured trophies, I'm not risking living crews. That's the reason we took them on this raid—to stand in for missing personnel. However, if in the case of functional ships we let droids pilot them under the command of our officers and stormtrooper squads, for damaged trophies, risking even a few dozen or hundred subordinates isn't worth it, be it for the stations or the battered starships.

I don't have so many naval specialists. But I do have nearly a hundred thousand B-1 droids, half delivered on the Phoenix and the Star Galleons, half by the Colicoid Swarm for ground support. Admittedly, we owe Yashuo Vain and Captain Irv compensation for the huge number of lost droids during the assault on Hast's station… And we're still short. We must fill the roles of the functional ships' crews with stormtroopers.

— Carry on, Captain, — I said.

— All right… The bright side is that we captured two fully intact Imperial Star Destroyers that, in fact, underwent some modernization, — Pellaeon noted with satisfaction.

— What sort of modifications? — I asked.

— The attached list details it, but the most prominent are a 1.5-class hyperdrive and increased automation of ship systems…

— Which lowers the required crew, — I immediately realized. — By how much?

— Down to about two-thirds, sir, — the Chimaera's commander said, poorly concealing his delight. — To run the Accuser and the Adjudicator in full capacity, we need only just over twenty thousand per ship…

I can foresee Ryan Zion railing that he could have done better, but oh well, at least we have a proven design…

— Did we manage to grab the data on these upgrades? — I inquired. In-house engineering is always nice, but if we can lighten our load with other people's work, why not?

— Chief Engineer Trevor managed to erase some files, but we salvaged seventy percent of the project data, — Pellaeon clarified. — Unfortunately, that Mon Cal kept each system's upgrades in separate files. Had it been all on a single schematic…

— We likely wouldn't have gotten anything, — I remarked. — We'll take what we can get. What's the status of the seven MC80 Star Cruisers captured at the yard?

— They sustained minor damage in the fight for the ships, — Pellaeon said. — All of which has been repaired, so these vessels are ready to jump.

— But unarmed, — I reminded him.

— And lacking deflector generators, — Gilad confirmed. — Their ordnance was unloaded. The techs got the fuel pumps working, and the ships' tanks are refilled. Not fully—but enough to jump as far as the Pakuuni system. After that…

— Contact Moff Ferrus, — I broke in. — We need tankers at Munto Codru.

— Already done, sir, — Pellaeon grinned, pleased to have anticipated my chain of thought. — The Rebels presumably refueled at Dac after repairing them here…

— Possibly, — I did not voice my guess that the New Republic's tankers were traveling with the convoy heading here. In a few hours they might arrive. And seeing how huge my "caravan" is, I have no desire for an open fight. I'm fairly sure I outnumber them, but I won't gamble the entire operation for a battle where the enemy might have picked up more starships, heavily armed, en route… Absolutely not. Maybe later.

I'm done showing up in this region for now. My priority is consolidating Imperial communication lines under my control into a "fist" that can repel an attack. Sure, Admiral Radjab, who commanded Hast's yard, presumably told his HQ on Dac that they were assaulted by "Krennel's ships," recognized among them. That was the plan.

Let them direct their anger at the Ciutric Hegemony. And if the Crusader's faked transponder doesn't prompt the New Republic to take a closer look, I can stave off Coruscant's wrath a bit longer. Should the worst happen, it'll be me—and not the Prince-Admiral—who deals with the capital's ire.

So it goes.

Krennel asked me to leave signs of his involvement—by the Force, I made every effort for the Mon Cals to view him as the prime culprit in this chaos.

— We also seized three Mon Cal cruisers, as I recall, — I said.

— Their systems are repaired; on the one that Captain Mor hammered, workers fixed the engines, so it'll also leave the Hast system, — Pellaeon answered. — As for the other spoils… four out of five Nebulon-B frigates are in excellent shape, partly armed. You already know about the fifth… We seized over forty transport and landing shuttles of various types—already allocated among the ships. The repairs are… not first-rate, but we'll make do. No complaints about the trophies… Also, seventeen CR90 Corellian corvettes from the yard are in workable condition and will return under their own power.

So, Grand Admiral Thrawn—let me congratulate you. Counting only the Imperial and Kuat designs, I now hold the forces of an Imperial sector fleet, from unarmed freighters, escorts, medium cruisers, all the way to fifteen Imperial Star Destroyers… The majority of which need crews. Well… no matter. The main thing is that I have the ships. The crew question is tricky but solvable.

And now, as in that holofilm, I'm "free of all chains"…

Well, not exactly. Not until I get all my spoils to Tangrene and then do standard refits to whatever we have…

On that note:

— Captain, — I addressed him. — According to what is now Commander Rederick, about fifteen thousand sentients worked at these yards. I promised that man a promotion for a job well done, and I keep my word. Whether he jumped from lieutenant to commander is no big deal—he did the lion's share. Last time, the Empire lost dozens of ships here, but thanks to that operative's skill, we didn't just recoup our losses; we multiplied our strength. Now we must readjust tactics to "pull our rear lines together"… ironically, also to raise more funds. Huh, some of these "spoiled" ships I must hand over to Krennel as partial payment for what he gave us. All of them? That's not a joke. He's grown strong enough already, thanks to me. I won't invest further in his defense, at least not at the old price. I'm sure the Prince-Admiral will complain about how "stripped" the ships are, re: arms and ammo. If so, it will mean little more than an attempt at haggling or "testing my resolve." In the scenario that the Prince-Admiral is no longer under me, the chain of command is broken, and Krennel wields a Remnant whose industrial base is among the largest in Imperial Space. He can and will air his "grievances." I won't indulge him. Nor do I want a spat. If he really wants ships, given that the other Remnants are hostile to him, I can share. For a decent price, of course. Not my immediate concern. — So how many of them agreed to work for us?

— Enough turncoats to staff both yards, — Pellaeon replied cheerily. Seeing my raised eyebrow, he added:

— The New Republic deployed more workers than required, aiming to accelerate repairs. Considering no more than six thousand of them were official Republic naval engineers, we can hire around nine thousand.

Again with the spending… and not minor.

— We can fund their labor for a few weeks using the stockpile of physical credits the yard leaders had for wages, — Pellaeon added. — The Republic's command evidently tried to pretend these yards didn't exist and paid in cash, to avoid bank records. So it's quite a sum. Even factoring in your ban on confiscating personal funds from Republic personnel.

— You disapprove of my actions, Captain? — I asked.

— I'm just not sure I fully grasp them, sir, — he admitted.

— Simple, — I said. — We'll hold these people at Tangrene for a while—long enough for our counterintelligence to "sift" them and do its job. Obviously, they need food. If they have their own credits, we shouldn't deny them the chance to spend as they please on our goods.

And we can't deny Astarion and Himron the chance to pick up some new agents. The New Republic—or the Galactic Empire, for that matter—may preach ideological loyalty, but an experienced specialist can always find "the key" to any sentient's heart. Whether they're uncovered or not later is irrelevant—either we gain new agents in the field or we trigger the standard "The Empire tries to destabilize us from within, but we'll endure!" storyline, giving the Republic more excuses to attack Krennel. Meanwhile, so long as we can keep raising the casus belli, if other Remnants intervene, they either gain small scraps from the Hegemony or get hammered by the New Republic Navy. The main thing is to step in personally at the right moment…

— Anything else you wanted to add, Captain? — I asked, noticing Pellaeon was hesitating.

— We found two TIE Avengers, restored in a rather makeshift way, — he said. — Some modules, weapons, are missing, but the mere fact is promising.

— I understand, — I answered the unspoken question. TIE Avenger is an evolution from Sienar Fleet Systems' TIE line, created after the Empire realized TIE fighters and Interceptors couldn't match Rebel T-65 X-wings on equal terms. Their lack of deflector shields and built-in missile armament nearly nullified the TIE fighter's speed advantage. After much trial, the Empire produced the TIE Avenger, equipped with shields, launchers, and a miniature hyperdrive. At that point, the Empire could be on par with enemy starfighters. Yet Imperial bureaucrats loathed the Avenger for its high cost. Even in the heyday of the Galactic Empire, with well-established logistics and production lines, this fighter's price never dropped below four hundred thousand credits, making a single squadron cost about the same as a corvette or frigate, which was arguably more useful… There were also other reasons the Empire never fully replaced its starship complements with that design. Some vessels got them, but never on a broad scale—like the Ubiqtorate flagship, the ISD Red Dragon, whose air wing had TIE Aggressors, another obscure Sienar concept bridging fighter and bomber… On the Imperious under Captain Shohashi, there was a TIE Defender, yet another expensive but undoubtedly lethal design with shields, a hyperdrive, and launchers.

I myself have never gotten around to delving into all that gear. For ages I've planned to reach the company HQ and talk with Lady Santhe about purchasing an orbital plant for building my own TIEs… but something more urgent always came up. No question—after Hast, I must meet that woman and negotiate. But first I should drop by Vjun "en route" to personally check what Mara Jade's been doing all this time. Then a stop at Munto Codru to supervise the work there. Indeed, that's why I insisted on refueling there—killing two birds with one stone. And it's a neat pretext: meet the local rulers, return their children (kidnapped by my operatives to guarantee their loyalty and secrecy about our fleet's route). The fact I intend to visit a hidden base is no one's business.

But returning to the TIE Avengers… We have two working examples. Potentially, we can restore them to combat readiness and detail some of our conscript engineers for reverse-engineering. Santhe Corporation likely won't share the actual blueprints, so a teardown approach suits us perfectly.

If we manage to buy that plant, we can start producing something more advanced than TIE fighters. Maybe TIE Interceptors at the least—just as lethal, but more survivable, if more expensive… Of course we need money. The fleet has gotten so huge that its upkeep will drain monumental sums. I don't fancy "tying myself" to another job from Krennel or D'asta, and even selling the Mon Cal cruisers at inflated prices would only yield short-term financial stability. Maybe we really should hunt that legendary Sa'Nalaor with its rumored treasure hold. And we still need metal sources to fix the ships… Hutt help me, so many tasks. I'll have to gather our Triumvirate and raise the supply question, handing it off to Moff Ferrus.

— Are both examples on the Chimaera? — I asked, never taking my eyes off the surface of Hast, where the Star Destroyers that had joined the bombardment turned its bleak landscapes into a Mustafar-like scene. Huh… Mustafar. The Confederacy used open-pit mining there, literally scooping metal from lava. Probably not the only planet like that. I need to consider something along those lines, maybe closer to Morshdine sector.

— They are, sir! — Pellaeon said. — I only hope our engineers have the skills to study them and at least start small-series production. It would be great to build some elite squadrons…

Yes, if we had the cash…

If you think about it, the Empire produced no shortage of technology—both ground and aerospace—that could rival or surpass the Rebel Alliance's arsenal. But it never spread widely for countless reasons. Hard to sort it all out.

— Has Commander Stately's report arrived? — I asked, continuing to watch the two Star Destroyers reduce the surface of that uninhabited world to slag. The latter being something Krennel needn't know. Nor that the planet's base staff had been evacuated in time.

— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon answered. — The cruiser conducted an orbital bombardment and a TIE strike on enemy fortifications. They destroyed warehouses, gun emplacements, the settlement perimeter, and local security barracks. From the convoy's ranks, a single MC80 cruiser and two Mark-II assault frigates were detached to deal with them. The Stately avoided direct engagement using a fallback route.

— So the convoy heading our way has six Mon Cal cruisers and forty GR-75 mediums, — I summed up, observing our ships. Another hour to wrap things up, then we can leave this place, leaving only wreckage behind. The New Republic won't even recover their downed pilots—either we found them after the final pockets of resistance fell, or we didn't. Too bad for them. We've been here almost a full day, and from what I understand, a standard ejection seat's life support only lasts a few hours—six, to be precise. The designers never foresaw longer battles. By that time, the "winners" usually locate the survivors, or they freeze once their system fails.

— If we trust Mr. Fodeum Sabre De'Luz's partner, that's exactly the size of the convoy, — said Pellaeon.

— There's no reason to doubt that data, corroborated by interrogating surrendered ship commanders, — I countered. Pellaeon's expression grew briefly skeptical, but he recovered at once. — Besides, I have no intention of engaging them in battle.

— Sir? — Pellaeon gave me a puzzled look. — But we outnumber them, and…

— And we also have insufficient landing craft and troops to board any more starships, Captain, — I stated. — Even if we committed all our stormtroopers and droids, we couldn't provide even minimal crews to ferry them away.

— But they're bringing arms and munitions for the captured ships! — Pellaeon objected. — Buying that from the black market or from any companies in Imperial space, anywhere, would cost millions!

— We have the credits, Captain, — I calmly observed. — We won't accumulate them for nothing. But we are at the limit of our manpower. A fresh batch of clones will provide new crews, letting us activate two of our captured Star Destroyers thanks to automation and smaller crew demands. Considering the vetted volunteers our counterintelligence has already cleared, along with cloned crews going into the Dreadnaughts we're now modernizing, by month's end we can expect another Star Destroyer and thirty heavy cruisers to join active operations. The fleet becomes a powerful strike force. Meaning we can conduct larger-scale campaigns, pursuing multiple objectives at once. But there's still a problem, — I added. — We lack enough skilled, experienced captains for these ships. Major Himron captured Grand Admiral Octavian Grant, who is superb at tactics and strategy. But he's ill-suited to serve as a cloning prototype for starship commanders.

— Erm… Sorry, I don't follow, — Pellaeon admitted. — We could just make clones of Grant loyal to you and put them on the Star Destroyer bridges!

— Not under current conditions, Captain, — I answered evenly. — Given the composition of my forces, Imperial-class Star Destroyers can't function merely as line ships, as they once did in the Empire's best years. The fleet's undergoing a reorganization in which Imperial-class destroyers will act as operational group flagships, while the "workhorses" become the Katana fleet ships. If we put clones on the Dreadnaughts, that's logical, but on the Star Destroyer bridge, I'd prefer "natural-born" sentients.

— Then using Grant as a matrix for those heavy cruiser commanders is not the best idea, — Pellaeon sighed. — A waste of talent…

— Indeed, — I agreed. — But remember: Octavian Grant is a traitor to the Empire. Accepting him, or his clones, would spark questions among the rank and file.

— We're traitors to the Empire too, though, — Pellaeon noted.

— Odd as it may sound, it's a different category of betrayal, — I retorted. — Grant betrayed everything he served in order to save his own skin and profit. He revealed all his intel to the New Republic—literally everything. If the first points are somewhat similar to us, that last one… I will never reveal Imperial secrets, or the secrets of subordinates or allies, to the enemy—whoever they are—for any reason. However noble or pragmatic. There's always a way to avoid giving up secrets. Grant never bothered. Hence every Imperial, whether they share our current viewpoint or not, would gladly hang him from the nearest building and make him suffer. His treason cost the Empire control over dozens if not hundreds of sectors. It's unforgivable. And, regrettably, Imperials have desired his death for a very long time. No matter how we or our allies might try persuading the troops that Octavian Grant is an excellent donor for cloning or that his knowledge could help us, the arrival of his clones would cause more trouble than benefit. They simply will not trust the face that, for so long, symbolized one of the greatest betrayals. No, Captain. Grand Admiral Octavian Grant will certainly serve a role—both militarily and politically—in my plans. But only when his time comes.

Pellaeon fell silent, pondering my words. I quietly watched as the surface of Hast finished turning into a black-and-red inferno, flames dancing in twisters, lines of lava forming cracks in the planet's crust, spreading rivers of fire.

A picture of total annihilation, absolute sterilization of a world. Frightening to imagine if it were a populated one…

At moments like that, I wonder if I myself could give such an order—to turn a living planet into a scorched desert that, for the foreseeable future, would never again host intelligent life.

No, that's extremely unlikely. Circumstances can vary, obviously, but to do that to a civilian populace… even a military one… No, never. I couldn't bring myself…

Or could I, just lacking the "right motivation"?

— Sir, — Captain Pellaeon broke the silence. — I assume I understand the role of that traitor in your plans? Everything you said…

— Precisely, — I said, turning to the silver-haired Imperial. — You understood correctly. Check the readiness of the fleet's ships to depart. Time to wrap up. We've met our objectives, and we have a schedule to keep.

***

The planet Rishi lay in the system of the same name, in the Abrion sector of the Outer Rim. The Imperial Military Astrogation Registry placed this tranquil and visually enchanting world in quadrant S-15.

Imperial agent Torin Inek considered Rishi to be a trash-world deserving total orbital sterilization. Possibly more than once.

Standing in the shadow that fell across the small balcony of his rented dwelling, the agent surveyed the rows of ramshackle structures clinging to the towering cliffs, the heaps of garbage, the suspicious-looking people drifting through the narrow alleyways, rummaging in side streets for easy prey. In the time he'd monitored the layout, there had been six robberies, twelve thefts, two rapes, eight shootouts, two mass stabbings, and four clearly contracted killings. No one even tried to loot the corpses, indicating a very specific style of hits.

Not a bad record of "diverse events" for one district in a single hour. Surprising that no one had blown themselves up trying to take apart a nuclear warhead—given the ridiculously high radiation in the area and the nature of the readings, it was almost certain that there were a couple of "dirty" munitions here. Likely in that last warehouse down the alley. Not for nothing that professionals in sealed armor guarded it. He had better hurry if he wanted to finish his assignment. Who knew what else might happen.

Torin and his team's target was in the opposite part of the settlement. According to data from Counterintelligence, Rishi was home to a base belonging to the information broker Talon Karrde, more commonly referred to as "The Claw." A well-known figure indeed. He evidently held some sway even in this den of vice—there was no other explanation for the cleanliness around the adjacent building housing Karrde's HQ, where no trash rotted, and the local thugs and drifters seldom relieved themselves on its walls. Certainly less often than with other buildings.

Though dusk was already descending on Rishi, the settlement never slept. Torin and his group had spent enough time here to confirm one plain, fundamental truth—nobody cared what was going on. Steal, kill, rape, harvest organs (and indeed, a group "harvesting" them was busy three streets away from the building the Imperials now occupied)—nobody would intervene in others' problems. They preferred to walk by and keep their heads down.

Locals here in general tried to pay as little attention as possible to what everyone else was doing. Which only simplified the task.

Tortuga GFFA—planet Rishi.

— Four guards, — the returning stormtrooper reported. Torin peered at the man. Heh… it was better for them to keep wearing armor—less conspicuous here. — One on each side of the building. The top floor has a watchpost and a firing position in case of attack.

— All right, — Torin said. — Let's not keep them waiting. Is the ship on its way?

— It's already entered the atmosphere, — the trooper said.

— Then we begin, — Inek picked up the harpoon rifle resting beside him, giving it a once-over, confirming it was fully operational for its intended task. — Signal the second group the moment the Wild Karrde lands.

The cover story for the operation to wipe out "the Claw" cell and seize the property Karrde stored across countless bases in the galaxy was that Karrde himself had arrived on Rishi to shut down his operation and dispatch a few "snitches." Thus neatly, surgically, the demise of the man who profited from the Imperial–New Republic conflict, supposedly dealing with both sides purely for profit, would commence. Although Karrde never clarified exactly what he peddled to each side.

With the Imperial Remnants, Karrde traded in contraband goods and minor New Republic secrets, swapping them for Imperial military tech and equipment.

With the New Republic, he hawked intel about the defensive strength of yards, fleets, capital worlds of the Imperial Remnants, the size and composition of their forces… And stored it all away. Judging by that, the Empire may have evaded a massive defeat up to now simply because the New Republic couldn't leverage certain multi-billion-credit data.

But that information dealer would pay for it all—Torin had no doubt.

The entire strike squad appeared on the balcony, all in black armor concealing their Imperial affiliation. Torin wore the same gear—too convenient for passing as mercenaries or an aggressive pirate gang.

— We're starting, — Torin commanded both the ground team and the line of troopers at his side.

Harpoons, propelled by compressed gas, shot out in shallow arcs, embedding themselves in the building's wall some fifty meters away.

The translucent cables were practically invisible to the naked eye—they reflected no sunlight, showed no glimmer at odd angles, possessed no fragility, and were a perfect example of infiltration equipment.

Small handles with pulleys let them speed from their taller vantage point to the building housing Karrde's henchmen. The pre-set anchors buried almost silently into the building's thick roof.

The harness rig—climbing gear worn over armor—didn't restrict movement or rattle, despite its many metal parts. After all, these men were professionals.

Performing the needed steps—threading lines, securing them—Torin and ten troopers let the lines lower them out of view of the black-painted windows that doubled as gun ports. Painted black so no one could see the watchers or their weapons until they opened fire. Their primary vantage was the "ground squad" about to appear in their field of fire.

Ten men, stepping carefully along the wall, descended to the level of those blacked-out windows… Now it was up to the ground team.

Ah, right on cue.

Opening indiscriminate fire on the Karrde group's building, the other squad of stormtroopers disguised as locals promptly attracted attention. With a grinding noise, the blacked-out windows began opening…

Torin hurled a thermal detonator through the nearest window frame without a backward glance, knowing his squad did the same—and now they had to hope the building wouldn't collapse from the blast's force…

It didn't collapse.

Pushing off the wall, Torin deftly darted inside the room now tasting baradium's wrath. A small chamber with two bodies on the floor and some shattered weaponry. A door, blown away by the explosion, led to a stairwell below…

They had built it craftily: each flight rose halfway to the next floor, then turned sharply. Between flights was a wall so you couldn't see from one flight to the next. No decorations or anything. Just function.

They had to proceed slowly, uncertain of any lurking dangers below. At each landing, Torin and his group paused a few moments to check possible angles of attack, but found no one. Likely the enemy was occupied returning fire at the street.

— Two ahead, — one trooper said. — Armed with high-powered blaster pistols… they're the ones blocking the common level.

Well then, let's continue.

Torin slipped through a doorway and opened up on the guards. Dashed left, hugging the wall. A bend in the nearest wall conveniently shielded him from the defenders' line of fire.

A crackle, more howling blaster shots. Distracted, the guards didn't notice nine troopers had crashed their little party uninvited. But here, they were essential guests; you couldn't skip them in the script.

Inek darted from cover, joining the firefight. His shots gouged the doorframe behind which the last surviving Karrde fighter tried to hide. The man collapsed instantly from Torin's shot to the back of the head, cutting short his escape.

Moving on, he came to a locked door that opened sluggishly—leading to a main hall packed with sacks, machinery, cargo containers. Everything you'd find in a temporary base. A few cowardly thugs tried to slip away while the rest fought back. They did not get far—blaster bolts found them all, sparing no one.

A profound silence fell after the clearing operation.

Torin took roll.

Everyone was alive—in both teams. Came in with eighteen men, left with the same number. Destroyed the enemy. Apart from a couple of prisoners captured by the "ground team."

— "Wild Karrde," this is "Karrde," — he radioed the cargo-cover group on the command channel. Code words to misdirect eavesdroppers. A simple trick that might be figured out quickly, but rumors would spread anyway. Especially with the deliberately terrible signal quality, making voice ID nearly impossible. By the time they realized the ploy, the story of Karrde's "purges" in his own organization would be all over the underworld. — Any issues at the warehouses?

— None, boss, — answered the leader of the team that assaulted the info-broker's stockpile. — All traitors are dead. We're starting to load up.

— Excellent, — said "Karrde." — Send a few cargo shuttles so we can clear out the rest. I want to give the Imperials a nice little present to honor our many years of fruitful cooperation…

Judging from the echo on the frequency, at least one outside party had spliced in. And that was enough. A forest fire could start from a single spark.