Nine years, nine months, and thirty days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, nine months, and thirty days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and sixteen days since the insertion).
At one time, the question of the de facto autonomy of the Corporate Sector had arisen more than once within the Galactic Empire.
The pro-Imperial government of this affluent sector, which enjoyed considerable privileges compared to most Outer Rim territories, was a thorn in the side of those hailing from the Core Worlds. Their primary grievance was that the "corporates" possessed a significant degree of sovereignty and acquired outdated Imperial military equipment at negligible cost—or, in some cases, practically for free.
The term "outdated" primarily referred to weaponry from the previous generation, still combat-effective and not entirely obsolete. The Imperial Center simply decided to offload these tiresome toys to loyal autonomous regions, as the military-industrial complex tirelessly churned out newer and deadlier instruments of war.
The "corporates," as few knew, were among the fortunate ones who expended considerable effort to ensure the Empire's war machine received the necessary funding.
Surprisingly, the level of taxation imposed on the local populace satisfied even the residents, whom the Empire otherwise fleeced down to their last credit.
Taxes reached astronomical percentages of transaction sums or wages—higher than anywhere else in the Empire. In exchange for these exorbitant contributions, the "corporates" were granted the privilege of peeking into the arsenals of old Imperial weaponry and acquiring it at laughably low prices.
Moreover, the population was effectively exempt from conscription, meaning natives of Corporate Sector planets were rarely seen in the ranks of the Galactic Empire's armed forces.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had employed a similar strategy with the trading worlds under the Dominion's purview, and, according to colleagues' reports, he did so with remarkable success.
But at this moment, Rederick was far more concerned with events unfolding on Etti IV.
This planet lay near the northern terminus of the Hydian Way, marked by the planet Bonadan. Additionally, it served as a nexus for several regional trade routes, which had long ago cemented its role as a trading hub, ideal for deal-making and negotiations between various parties.
Lacking significant natural resources, Etti IV, with its stunning landscapes, drew sentients for an entirely different reason. Planets situated at the intersection of regional hyperspace routes or major galactic trade arteries were not uncommon, including in the Corporate Sector.
However, the Corporate Sector's government, along with the leaders of major criminal and quasi-criminal factions, had chosen Etti IV as their base of operations due to the planet's breathtaking scenery.
No mining operations or ecumenopolis-style construction had ever taken place here. Instead, the planet boasted elegant yet luxurious residences.
Rederick currently found himself in one such residence.
Dressed in a refined two-piece suit and a crisp white shirt with a slim black tie, the agent observed the colorful crowd of bureaucrats, businesspeople, and quasi-criminal figures with feigned indifference.
All had received invitations to a gala hosted by the head of Rossum Corporation, a droid manufacturing company.
Once a rising star, the corporation had been in decline for years.
Now, a young woman leading the corporation had secured a lucrative contract with the Corporate Sector's government to supply B-2 model droids.
Indeed, the Separatist war machines from thirty years prior, their designs once striking fear into much of the galaxy's populace, had regained relevance due to Grand Admiral Thrawn's actions and the heightened activity of the Imperial Remnants. The Corporate Sector was following a path blazed decades ago by the Confederacy of Independent Systems: investing not in a living army (though they maintained one for law enforcement and elite units) but in inexpensive droids designed to overwhelm opponents through sheer numbers.
Rederick surveyed the crowd, composed of ostentatiously dressed men and women surrounding an attractive middle-aged blonde woman.
Elli Stark.
The head of Rossum Corporation (yes, they had streamlined the name) was in high spirits (hardly surprising after six alcoholic cocktails), flashing smiles left and right, striving to project confidence.
In a dress that revealed more than it concealed, one needed a truly beskar-strong sense of self-respect and dignity to navigate so effortlessly among the most influential sentients in the government and criminal underworld.
Yet, their garish attire and uniformly vulgar behavior were enough to make one's head spin.
— It's a wonder I haven't had a seizure yet, — Rederick muttered, turning away from the main hall where the festivities were in full swing.
The bartender (surprisingly, a human) offered a polite smile and promptly refreshed his whiskey. The man, clearly no longer young, handled the bottles with the dexterity of a circus performer.
Rederick, despite his efforts to master this art, had always failed. And free time for such pursuits was in short supply.
Nor was there any now.
— New to Etti? — the bartender inquired, polishing glasses.
— Is it that obvious? — Rederick replied, feigning a grimace to suggest he was troubled by the observation.
— You're wearing a formal, classic suit, — the bartender said with a wink, as if highlighting their shared attire. The talkative man wore a simple, mid-range shirt, likely purchased for events like this, paired with a formal black vest. — That's not the custom here. Unless, of course, you're aiming to blend in with the waitstaff, — he added with a smile, winking at the operative.
A jest with only a hint of humor.
For beneath his suit, Rederick indeed wore a vest. It was secured under his jacket to remain inconspicuous. But when (and if) the time came, deploying it would take mere seconds.
— I'd gladly blend in with them, — Rederick nodded toward the local elite. — Industrialists, bankers, government officials... Useful connections for me.
— There's also no shortage of crime lords here, — the bartender said, lowering his voice.
— Is that so? — Rederick feigned surprise. — And how does one tell them apart? The criminals from the rest?
The bartender smiled, giving him the look a father might give a child asking, "Where did everything come from?"
— There's no difference here, — he whispered. — Point at anyone, and you'll find a criminal in the guise of an official or industrialist. In the Corporate Sector, they stopped distinguishing between the two long ago.
— I didn't know, — Rederick lied. — Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.
— You're welcome, — the bartender replied, winking again.
A nervous tic, perhaps?
Grabbing his glass, the Dominion operative turned away from the bar, scanning the crowd for the woman who interested him.
He found her without difficulty.
She was surrounded by a burly man whose appearance left no doubt about his identity or livelihood.
He brazenly pinned Elli Stark against a table laden with appetizers, unabashedly caressing her bare shoulders.
The young woman, seemingly sobered by the situation, appeared frightened. Yet she maintained her composure, engaging politely with the guest, though her smiles and movements were less confident, more nervous.
— Who's that? — Rederick turned his head toward the bartender.
But instead of the winking man, he saw only a droid.
— Would you like anything, sir? — the droid inquired.
The human bartender's disappearance was concerning, but without concrete evidence of trouble, Rederick decided it was best not to draw attention.
— No, nothing, — he waved dismissively, gesturing to the nearly full glass in his hand.
— Didn't your mother teach you that lying is wrong? — a sultry voice purred to his left. Turning, Rederick was surprised to see a middle-aged woman in a revealing black dress seated on a barstool, her long, tanned legs crossed elegantly as she sipped a cocktail from a glass handed to her by the droid bartender.
— Pardon, madam...? — Rederick tensed, locking eyes with her.
— It seems your upbringing was handled by those who failed to teach you how to lie convincingly, — she said in the same seductive tone.
The beautiful stranger.
The operative appraised her from head to toe.
Clearly no ordinary woman. Her dress was made of expensive fabric. Costly jewelry adorned her. Her makeup, subtle yet professional, was the work of an expert. Her hair was styled with salon precision. Her tan, evidently natural and likely acquired by the sea, suggested wealth.
Etti IV had numerous small, salty seas, all transformed into exclusive paid beaches with exorbitant entry fees.
This woman was clearly no commoner.
— Forgive my ignorance, — Rederick offered an apologetic smile, glancing at the droid bartender. — Serve whatever this lovely miss requests.
He turned to her and added:
— Will that suffice as an apology?
She merely smirked, flashing a dazzling smile that revealed pristine, pearl-white teeth.
It might sound amateurish, but one could gauge a person's status by their dental condition.
This woman clearly spared no expense on herself, as her teeth showed no cracks, cloudiness, or yellowing.
Nor was there any trace of smudged lipstick, a telltale sign of cheap cosmetics.
— For an outsider, it's forgivable, — she said patronizingly.
— At this rate, even the floor-polishing droid will know I'm not local by the end of the evening, — Rederick quipped.
— If you were part of Etti's society, you'd know the law here is simple. Any slight or ignorance toward a local woman is atoned for with jewelry, — she said melodiously, brushing aside a lock of hair to reveal large hoop earrings made of aurodium, studded with finely cut diamonds. — These were a gift from a sector government official when he noticed me wobble on my heels.
She extended her leg, brushing Rederick's trouser leg to display delicate shoes with heels so high and thin they seemed impossible to walk in. The intricate heel resembled a sharpened spike, designed for piercing or slicing.
What a wild fashion...
A chill ran down Rederick's spine.
Commenting on her gait was trivial compared to his near-mistake of addressing her as a married or older woman.
If a minor misstep warranted earrings worth a decent cruiser, what would she demand for his error? A Star Destroyer?
"This trip is going to cost me a fortune," Rederick thought.
He needed to redirect this vixen's attention elsewhere, and quickly.
Self-absorbed women like charming men, don't they?
— Allow me to offer my sincere apologies, miss... — he paused, realizing he still didn't know her name.
She gave him a condescending smile that made him feel oddly sorry for himself.
— You must be overworked in an all-male environment, — she smiled. — I haven't heard such "compliments" since I first read the Imperial etiquette manual for young men and women in private academies twenty years ago.
Rederick stayed silent, hoping the warmth in his cheeks wasn't a blush from being caught in such an awkward moment.
— A blushing man is a rare sight, — she remarked, her foot continuing to brush against his leg. — Especially from someone who's been blatantly staring at Elli Stark all evening.
Now that set off alarm bells.
Rederick had been meticulous in masking his interest, but this woman was clearly more than the wealthy socialite she appeared to be. Women often had an uncanny ability to notice a man's interest in another, even from a fleeting glance.
But voicing it to a casual acquaintance as a grievance suggested specific intentions.
And it was unlikely that local customs involved marriage proposals via leg-rubbing.
— Guilty as charged, — Rederick smiled apologetically. — I intend to get to know that formidable woman better. For business purposes, naturally, — he added, realizing his words could be misconstrued.
— Only spineless fools don't want to "get to know" Stark better, — the woman sighed with a hint of sadness, focusing on her glass and pointedly sipping through a straw.
Rederick felt her foot inching higher...
He wanted to shout, "What in the name of a Hutt are you doing?! I'm on a mission!" but his remaining shred of composure held him back.
This was why he loathed "deep cover" assignments—they required a finesse of etiquette and resilience he found challenging. Infiltrating worker groups or organizations was always easier than navigating these "elite" circles.
— I assure you, — he said, feeling the heat despite the air conditioner's valiant efforts, — my interest is purely professional...
— Why so defensive? — She stopped tormenting the straw only when her glass was empty. Impressive—she'd downed it in one go. — I'm not offended. Perhaps you're after a business contract?
— Something like that, — Rederick agreed, loosening his collar with a flick of his finger. — I'm looking to purchase something from the sector government. And I need a reliable intermediary.
— Is that so? — she purred, leaning forward gracefully, a spark of interest in her eyes. — Then why bother with Stark? She's clearly preoccupied for the foreseeable future. I could help you instead.
"No need to split the mission in two," Rederick thought.
— Do you have connections to the government? — he asked politely, wondering why no one seemed to notice the woman practically climbing onto him. Where was the supposed decorum, feminine modesty, and all that?
He glanced at the local women.
They were joining an energetic dance, contorting in their revealing outfits in a way that made his companion's behavior seem positively virtuous.
Now he understood why Zsinj had clung so tightly to the Corporate Sector. The women here threw themselves at you.
Utter depravity.
Millennia of male evolutionary instincts, cast aside.
— I have a few connections that would certainly suit you, — she whispered in his ear, sliding off the stool and pressing herself against him. — If you're looking for a link, I can arrange it right now.
She was thoroughly intoxicated.
Tactics dictated that rejecting an overly forward woman could lead to trouble or a scene.
Neither was desirable, so Rederick agreed with a smile.
Wherever they went, he'd find a way to shake off this persistent woman.
And ditch the jacket.
It was clear that operating semi-officially was no longer an option—the hostess was surrounded by far more important figures. He'd have to resort to the "waiter pulling the hostess aside" plan. A lousy plan, frankly.
As the inebriated woman grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the event, Rederick moved about ten meters from the bar when he felt a heavy gaze upon him.
Turning, he locked eyes with the bartender, who had reappeared from nowhere.
The man stared at him intently.
Then, with only his lips, he mouthed a single word: "Run!"
The warning was chilling.
The bartender clearly knew more about this woman than Rederick did.
If she were merely a flirtatious elite from a high-end establishment, it wouldn't raise questions. Shaking her off would be simple.
But the warning hinted at serious trouble.
This woman was not who she seemed.
He needed to act and stay vigilant.
No immediate solutions presented themselves without drawing unwanted attention.
So, when she led him into a corridor clearly heading toward the guest wing, Rederick grew wary.
Such areas typically had residence security to prevent issues with intoxicated guests.
But here, there was only the corridor, richly decorated—no denying that.
The woman persistently pulled him toward the far end. She navigated the corridor with ease and didn't wobble in her impractical shoes, as one might expect from the drunken persona she'd been projecting.
This wasn't just a trap—it reeked of one from a parsec away.
The operative tensed, memorizing the surroundings. Knowing how to escape this maze of corridors was essential.
— We're here, darling, — she purred in his ear, pointing to a heavy wooden door they'd stopped in front of.
A dead-end section of the corridor.
A couple of similar doors.
And a telling arched passageway about five meters behind them.
This part of the palace was likely built using the "chain" method.
Architects used it to conceal certain corridor sections.
Everything was arranged so a door could drop in the archway, for instance, blending seamlessly with the surroundings. The three "rooms" would then be cut off from the rest of the corridor. This setup was typically controlled by a small remote carried by the head of security.
The woman swiped a magnetic keycard over the lock, and the door opened with a dignified creak.
Beyond it lay lavishly furnished apartments, perfect for rest or recreation.
Or, as the Emperor might decree, for an interrogation.
— Come in, darling, — she nibbled his earlobe.
— I recall we were discussing government connections, — Rederick stalled.
— First, you'll pass my interview, — she pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. — Don't be so stiff. You need to relax a bit before meeting important people. A little preparation.
— The likelihood of leaving in one piece depends solely on my eloquence, doesn't it? — Rederick dropped the charade, running his hand along her bare back.
Their eyes met.
Her gaze brimmed with passion and confusion.
Her raised leg slid along his thigh, climbing higher...
When she suddenly dropped her foot, aiming to pin his leg to the wooden floor with her heel, Rederick was ready.
With a loud crack, the heel embedded in the wood, anchoring her foot.
Her leg veered aside, and the hand caressing her back became a grip on her hair.
Yanking it back and down, he forced her off balance, only to receive a sharp kick from her freed, elegant foot.
Straight to his jaw.
Staggering back, Rederick released her.
Like a tree panther, the lithe woman executed a backward cartwheel, launching her other shoe at him in the process.
Rederick narrowly avoided injury—the heels were indeed weapons.
She assumed a combat stance. Her short dress would clearly pose no hindrance in the impending fight, unlike his restrictive suit.
— You should've gone quietly, Imperial, — she said, dramatically removing her hoop earrings. With a subtle click, they transformed into two sharpened spikes, reinforced with gemstones. — Honestly, I would've pampered you first. You're just too delicious.
— I'd prefer to keep all my parts intact, — Rederick sighed. So much for the jacket worth a month's salary. Let accounting dare refuse to reimburse mission expenses.
He tensed his shoulders and back muscles. Pre-cut seams gave way, freeing his movements. He had no time to carefully remove the garment—she'd attack if he tried.
In three swift motions, he shed the tattered jacket and wrapped the fabric around his forearms.
Gripping the longest piece of cloth, he prepared to parry her strikes.
The cardinal rule of fighting an opponent with a piercing weapon: don't let it touch your body. The spikes might seem harmless, but they could be coated with anything from sedatives to poison.
The extra fabric would help deflect her strikes and protect his arms from scratches.
— Have you read anything besides textbooks, Imperial? — she taunted with a chuckle. — Do you really think you can beat me with outdated tricks? You were still crying in the cradle when I mastered all this.
— You've aged well, — Rederick complimented, calculating her age against his own.
— Rude, kid, — she smiled. — I'll try not to mess up that pretty face of yours.
— I make no such promises, — he retorted.
With a smirk, she lunged.
Rederick blocked her first strike, trapping her right wrist in the fabric stretched between his hands. With a quick motion, he twisted the cloth, binding her arm.
She didn't appreciate his concern for her manicure and stabbed at his arm with her free spike.
Rederick repeated the maneuver, pinning her arms together.
For a moment, their eyes locked.
Then, pushing off the floor, she leaped, executing an unimaginable flip that ended with her legs wrapping around Rederick's neck. Their eyes met again.
— Your head between my legs... Very adult, — she said with a sly grin.
Then she arched her back.
The next moment, Rederick was hurtling face-first toward the floor, cursing physics.
Rolling aside, he raised his arm to block a kick to his torso, then his head, parried a jab to his chest, deflected a spike aimed at his torso, and another at his arm.
He grabbed the latter ungraciously, twisting her wrist and disarming one spike. But he immediately took a knee to the gut, forcing him to retreat toward the doors.
— Not bad, not bad, — she grinned. — You've got potential. Free advice, kid: when infiltrating, drop the military hand-to-hand. Be more refined. You reek of soldier from two parsecs away.
— And you smell like rancid Mon Calamari, — Rederick snapped. Insulting a woman's scent was supposedly effective at throwing them off, according to the manual...
It seemed to work.
Her smile vanished.
— That's very rude, — she said coldly, gripping her remaining spike more firmly. — I'm afraid I'll have to fix that pretty face after all. And break a few bones. It's going to hurt...
Then two things happened.
First, a muffled shot rang out.
Second, the woman clutched her neck, where a tiny dart had struck. A moment later, she collapsed, eyes closed, to the floor.
Oh, and a third...
— Has Imperial Intelligence sunk so low that they send fleet special forces on infiltration missions? — The bartender stood in the archway, holding a wrist chrono that was clearly more than a timepiece, given it could fire paralyzing darts.
— I'm not fleet special forces, — Rederick hissed.
— Sure, — the bartender nodded, smoothing his dark hair. — And I always drink my whiskey neat. Who're you with, kid?
— You first, — Rederick demanded, not expecting much.
The bartender shook his head in disappointment.
— That's not how this works, kid. Saving you from Aveka doesn't mean I won't knock you out and leave you as a gift for her.
— I just want to buy some ships from the sector government, that's all, — Rederick said, feigning frustration.
— Is that so? — the stranger shook his head. — Sorry, that answer doesn't cut it. Good night.
Before Rederick could react, he felt a sharp sting in his neck.
The world went dark, and he collapsed onto the body of the woman he'd just fought.
***
The Chimaera emerged from hyperspace, and through the bridge's central viewport, a world resembling a dusty, rocky ball came into view.
Sparse clouds and massive mountain ranges were visible...
Along with two dozen Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers.
And a Judicator-class Star Destroyer, which had pulled them out of hyperspace with its gravity well projectors.
Nearly a hundred transports of various types and conditions were present, most looking so dilapidated that even the most thorough patrol would hesitate to board them.
And a Venator-class Star Destroyer, surrounded by numerous...
Gilad exhaled quietly.
TIE Interceptors.
Friendly.
— Cancel yellow alert, — Pellaeon ordered, removing his cap and discreetly wiping sweat from his brow.
The most nerve-wracking journey through the galaxy's fringes he could imagine.
First, Zonju V, whose borders the battered Dominion fleet had avoided, exiting hyperspace to remain unidentifiable. Then jumps through several uninhabited, barely charted star systems not even listed in the galactic atlas, though Thrawn knew their coordinates perfectly.
And now this desert ball, guarded by such a formidable Dominion fleet.
What in the name of a Hutt was going on?
With that question in mind, Captain Pellaeon headed to the Grand Admiral's quarters.
Passing the guards posted at the door, the Chimaera's commander entered the dimly lit antechamber.
The familiar twilight and the realization that he'd once again face Rukh sharpened his senses.
He strained his hearing and other senses, trying to locate the playful bodyguard.
Nothing.
One might assume Rukh wasn't there, but why wasn't the second door opening automatically?
Unwilling to waste time, Gilad decided to provoke Rukh.
He threw a few punches into the air, hoping to elicit a response, but nothing happened.
Rukh didn't react.
Nor did he move.
Pellaeon, disregarding decorum, paced the walls and jumped to check if the Noghri was clinging to the ceiling.
Nothing.
He stood for five minutes, but nothing happened.
The wait was growing irritating.
It seemed the Noghri was playing on his patience...
That blasted alien! Making him waste time searching while he hesitated to enter, expecting another twisted game of hide-and-seek!
He'd stood there for ten minutes, fumbling in the dark like a fool, and the wretched creature wasn't even in the antechamber!
Tricked, playing on his expectation that Rukh was always on duty!
Thought he'd outsmart him, the sly pest!
Not so fast.
The captain approached the control panel for the inner door and pressed the key to unlock it.
The panel slid aside with a soft hiss, revealing the Supreme Commander seated at a console, surrounded by a double row of monitors.
Pellaeon took a step, opening his mouth to announce himself...
— Sir, Captain Pellaeon has arrived, — Rukh's mewling voice came from behind the Chimaera's commander.
His nerves gave out.
With a blood-curdling scream, Pellaeon leaped aside from the demon.
***
Watching a clearly satisfied Rukh depart, I kept my eyes on Gilad, whose glare could rival any Death Star.
They say you can't kill with a look. I'd wager that if the bodyguard had met the Chimaera's commander's gaze at that moment, that claim would have been disproven.
— Everything alright, Captain? — I inquired.
— Well, I don't have any more gray hairs, — Pellaeon muttered, smoothing his ruffled silver hair.
— Commendable composure, — I noted. — But at the moment, I'm more concerned with the status of our fleet.
— Yes, sir, the transit is complete, — Gilad said, flustered. — Leaving five Star Destroyers from Ennix Devian's fleet and our Death's Head at Mustafar, along with seven Acclamator-class assault ships, we've brought three damaged CR90 corvettes, seven Dreadnought-class cruisers, five destroyers from Fleet H1, one from Devian's, including four of ours, to this system. Four Acclamator-class assault cruisers also arrived. Not to mention the transport ships that made it here... — Gilad hesitated. — In short, we're here, sir.
— We are in the Yalara system, Captain, — I clarified. — Quadrant I-21, Wild Space.
— Understood, sir, — the Chimaera's commander replied, though his tone suggested otherwise.
Hardly surprising.
— This star system once caught Darth Vader's attention, — I explained. — Years ago, the Jedi constructed a cloaking device here, concealing the planet visually and from all sensors.
— Given we can see the planet through the viewport, has the cloaking device degraded over time? — Gilad asked.
— Surprisingly, no, — I countered. — However, it's in poor condition. Our technical teams are studying and repairing it. I'm confident that, in time, the mechanisms will be restored, and we'll obtain detailed schematics of its operation for replication.
— Cloaking technology for entire planets... — Pellaeon said dreamily. — That's incredibly valuable.
— Undoubtedly, — I agreed. — Especially in light of recent events.
Gilad remained silent but continued to study me expectantly.
— Agent Bravo-IV's team on Maramere uncovered and eliminated the local resistance, — I said. — In a way, it's a pity Agent Steben chose counterintelligence. Still, he proved just as competent in his latest mission.
— Amphibians thought they could rebel against us? — Pellaeon said, surprised by the news.
— Oh, no, just a small but highly motivated group, — I clarified. — Their leader is already providing testimony, and Moff Tavira has received valuable intel regarding stygium crystal deposits on the island where the resistance was based.
— Stygium?! — Pellaeon's eyes widened. — I thought that mineral was a thing of the past. After...
The officer hesitated again.
He was oddly uncertain.
He'd stopped himself at a point explicitly forbidden by Imperial regulations: discussing the decisions, actions, or orders of superior officers. Naturally, such rules were often ignored behind closed doors, but in my presence, Pellaeon was cautious not to breach discipline.
Understandable—until the Imperial regulations, doctrines, and standards are revised to align with the Dominion's emerging ideology, we operate under Imperial law. With certain exceptions, of course. But this rule wasn't one of them, nor would it be.
— Correct, Captain, — I continued. — After Grand Admiral Martio Batch destroyed Aeten II to extract all known stygium deposits, the mineral became a subject of galactic market speculation and nearly impossible to find. This gives us a distinct advantage over our enemies.
— Selling stygium in small batches could be a lucrative revenue source, — Pellaeon noted.
— That won't be necessary, — I said. — The Bravo-I expedition was also successful. We located the Sa Nalaor, its crew, and its cargo. The Dominion's treasury will now be enriched by two hundred trillion credits in aurodium equivalent, based on thirty-year-old valuations. As you know, the value of that metal has risen significantly since then, despite market volatility.
Gilad couldn't restrain an expressive whistle.
— Our financial troubles are behind us? — he asked.
Ignoring his slight informality, I nodded.
— We have a substantial financial buffer, which we'll use to build a viable real-sector economy for the Dominion and bolster its security, — I explained. — Grand Moff Ferrus has received additional directives to this effect. Even with the addition of new territories—sectors and systems—we can ensure their security appropriately. This will be our focus in the short term under current conditions.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon replied formally.
But his tone suggested he hadn't fully grasped the point.
— We've withdrawn to Yalara because the Dominion already has the infrastructure to produce everything needed for our war machine, — I began to clarify. — Everything we acquired at Mustafar will remain there. The Dominion is drawing attention from many adversaries, so we need a production base where it won't be detected. A planet that can be shielded from the galaxy and any scouts with a cloaking field, rich in natural resources, is exactly what we need to slowly build up for future offensives.
— But... why are we moving some equipment to the Dominion or the Karthakk system? — Pellaeon asked.
— To ensure a strike on one part of the Dominion doesn't collapse the whole, — I explained. — Karthakk's inaccessibility and defenses are complemented by its significant fleet and repair facilities. Yalara requires substantial financial and labor investments, making it undesirable to draw attention to it. If we'd had an alternative to escaping the Mustafar trap without using the Hydian Way, Corellian Trade Spine, or regional hyperspace routes, I'd have given that order. We mustn't underestimate our enemies—as long as they have a chance to destroy our fleet, they'll take it until they grow desperate. Our retreat to Wild Space will dampen their zeal—the routes here are dangerous and uncharted. Without precise coordinates, they could search for us forever and never bother. This gives us time to repair damage and restore combat readiness for a counterstrike. While I stay out of the New Republic's sight, they'll make the moves I need for Operation Crimson Dawn to conclude in the Dominion's favor.
— But what about the Lusankya, the real Iceheart, Ennix Devian, Moff Delurin, Lady Santhe, the attack on Sluis Van? — Pellaeon asked. — Have those operations been nullified or adjusted?
— Commodore Shohashi will handle the remnants of Ennix Devian's fleet, — I explained. — Sluis Van, as previously outlined, will be the culmination of the Crimson Dawn campaign. After the strike on Coruscant and the reduction of subsidized sectors, the New Republic is taking every step to make the attack on Sluis Van even more devastating than planned.
— Sir? — Pellaeon grew wary.
— What do you think the New Republic will do with the ships we left at Mustafar, including the Death's Head? — I asked. — Six Star Destroyers, seven assault cruisers... one of which is from the Dominion's fleet.
— They'll claim them as trophies, — Gilad speculated.
— Correct, — I agreed. — Moreover, they'll go to great lengths to portray their actions as part of a campaign against me and the Dominion. Those starships will become symbols of the small but necessary victory they currently hold over me.
— Not entirely accurate, but the public won't dig deeper, — Gilad said.
— Precisely, — I confirmed. — The New Republic's logistical streamlining allows them to minimize the number of warships used for transport. Delta Source reports that Imperial-class starships are already arriving at Sullust and Sluis Van, which the Republic intends to repair and restore to combat readiness. The Mustafar ships will join them and be repaired—at the Republic's expense, naturally. Then we'll strike, reclaiming the fully repaired Mustafar trophies and all the Imperial starships in their shipyards. Preparations are already underway on Tangrene.
— Grant them a minor ideological victory to deliver a far more crushing blow, — Pellaeon said, his voice tinged with admiration. — That's... brilliant, sir.
— Perhaps, — I said. — It's merely logic, nothing more. But in this galaxy, logic is worth its weight in aurodium. Despite our numerous shipyards and orbital facilities, adequately equipping them with weapons and gear is challenging. The Republic will do it for us, just as they're doing with the Lusankya.
— You think she'll be commissioned ahead of schedule? — Pellaeon asked.
— Yes, — I nodded. — The Republic will likely try to use her against Lianna. Interestingly, our intelligence reports Lady Santhe is working on a secret project at her orbital assembly facilities, one of which I intended to purchase. As you recall, she refused. The reason for her refusal is now clearer.
— She's working for Palpatine, — Pellaeon said gravely.
— The most obvious conclusion, — I acknowledged. — Given the New Republic's shortsightedness, they refuse to believe my warnings and consider Lady Santhe my ally, producing military equipment for me at her facilities. This makes her a prime target. Propaganda thrives when backed by real events. The New Republic is preparing an informational bombshell based on the Mustafar engagement. They believe they've secured a small victory over me. Now they need something grand to convince the public of a turning point in the conflict. Destroying a Dominion ally like Lianna fits perfectly.
— Unless Iceheart strikes early and takes the ship, — Gilad suggested.
— The Iceheart will soon learn her operation to infiltrate Rogue Squadron into Ennix Devian's forces failed, — I said. — She'll then focus on seizing the Lusankya when it's ready, not before. Intelligence is already working at Rendili Shipyards, and we'll know when the ship reaches a state of readiness and security that Iceheart can target with her resources. By then, we'll have dealt with Moff Delurin and Ennix Devian, — I promised. — The number of ongoing operations will be significantly reduced. Only Sluis Van will remain unresolved, but that's a minor detail.
— The year's end remains tense for the Dominion, — Pellaeon said with a wry smile.
— Such is our fate, — I said philosophically. — A militaristic state will never coexist peacefully with a democratic one until we bring them to heel and prove tangibly that crossing us is more trouble than it's worth.
— Understood, sir, — Pellaeon sighed. — We have construction equipment for planetary development, machinery, and assembly lines for producing weapons and starship components. We can establish an economy... but there's a traitor among us.
— Captain Dobramu is a peculiar individual, — I agreed. — He's quite proud of not only outsmarting me but also of his loyalty to the New Order, which grants him access to the perimeter defense map via Project Asteroid-II.
— Isn't that an excessive risk? — Pellaeon asked cautiously. — We know that as soon as Palpatine emerges from the shadows, Dobramu will be among the first to defect. His knowledge of our defense systems could be the key to the Dominion's destruction, which is surely in Palpatine's plans.
— Dobramu's knowledge poses no threat, — I dismissed Pellaeon's concerns. — The fact that the Reckoning's commander and crew know the locations of our cloaked asteroids doesn't mean they'll remain there when Palpatine's forces attack.
Surprise flickered in Gilad's eyes.
— You plan to relocate the asteroids after deployment?
— Precisely, — I confirmed. — Coruscant demonstrated that enemy fleets are effectively destroyed when caught by invisible asteroids. Our earlier clash with Ubiqtorate ships left no doubt of that.
— But how? — Pellaeon asked. — The asteroids block all signals and can't be detected. We won't be able to decloak them for relocation.
— You forget, Captain, that we have something our enemies lack, — I said, holding Gilad's gaze.
— Experience with this weapon? — he ventured.
— That too, — I confirmed. — And we have a crystal gravfield trap on Tangrene, which can pinpoint the asteroids' locations. Approaching them, decloaking, and towing them elsewhere is no issue.
— Bilbringi has one too, — Pellaeon noted. — As do several other places in the galaxy.
— And we have intelligence and excellent saboteurs, — I countered. — The crystal gravfield trap is costly, so after losing them all in their first assault on the Dominion, our enemies will back off. We won't. But that's not the main point.
— What else? — Pellaeon asked, surprised.
— The raid by Mr. Pent and Agent Bravo-III on Kuat, — I said. — What do you think its purpose was?
— To obtain technical data for equipment we couldn't produce ourselves, — Pellaeon answered promptly. — At least, not at the time.
— Among other things, — I agreed. — But the primary goal was to secure data on hyperspace routes like the Rothana Route, a branch of the Triellus Trade Route leading directly to the planet, and the precise coordinates of the Kiberon Line connecting Rothana to Kamino.
Pellaeon frowned again.
What a peculiar habit.
— There's been no contact with Kamino for years, — he reminded me. — And the Rothana Route is dangerous due to gravitational shadow mines. Without the correct IFF signal, it's impossible to navigate. Any "hostile" ship is pulled from hyperspace by an artificial gravity zone and enters a minefield from which there's no escape.
— Exactly, — I agreed. — My theory is that the Zann Consortium didn't just survive the purge years ago. They retreated to Rothana and Kamino, preparing forces for a comeback. Rothana and Kamino's facilities allow them to build an army quickly. Commodore Shohashi's attack on Hypori revealed the enemy's modernized starships and their intent to evacuate resources and production means to their base, signaling the final stage of invasion preparations. By next year, Zann could have a cloned army and hundreds of ships to attack galactic worlds. I cannot allow that, nor can I permit Kamino or Rothana to fall under any control but the Dominion's.
— Bantha poodoo, — Pellaeon swore. — Sir, but how...
— It's simple, Captain, — though judging by Gilad's expression, it was anything but. Technical documents do offer advantages. — Kuat Drive Yards isn't an organization that would secure a secret production planet without a failsafe. Mr. Ghent's clones are working on the transponder signals—I'm confident we can either detonate or disable them remotely. Either outcome suits me.
— Sir, but... do we have the forces to hold those worlds afterward? — Pellaeon asked.
— We do, Captain, — I assured him. — Moreover, on one of our new Dominion planets, we're already building a highly efficient factory producing our own gravitational shadow mines. We'll generously seed the hyperspace routes to the Dominion and our loyal planets with them. And with our current financial resources, we can produce objects based on Zsinj's Empion mines.
— I've heard of those, — Pellaeon grimaced. — Expensive things. Same as a gravity mine, but they hit with an ion blast instead of exploding. Those will strain the budget.
— No one said anything about mines, Captain, — I clarified. — I spoke of objects based on them. A costly, one-use project is a Death Star. In our case, we have Empion mine blueprints, gravity generator data, and numerous star systems with large asteroids. We'll equip them with hyperdrives, engines, cloaking fields, and weapons, placing them amid minefields and cloaked asteroids. Thanks to one operative's overzealous initiative, we have a surplus of cutting-edge ion cannons with unprecedented firing rates for traditional turbolasers. And with Captain Steben's efforts, we have a near-functional prototype of this technology, using stygium to bypass the communication issues plaguing hybridium-based tech. Our asteroid stations with ion cannons will see enemies dropping out of hyperspace in a minefield, while they remain invisible.
Gilad pondered for a moment before responding:
— A field of IFF-triggered gravity mines, cloaked asteroids, and a massive asteroid with an ion cannon capable of disabling large starships... With enough of these defenses, no enemy fleet will reach the Dominion's borders!
— Precisely, Captain, — I agreed. — After dealing with the New Republic and securing the Dominion, we'll eradicate Tyber Zann's gang and continue our campaign to reclaim Imperial assets from regions we couldn't access due to insufficient arms and ships. Once Crimson Dawn concludes, the New Republic will be weakened to the point they'll no longer bother us.
— But you plan to weaken Palpatine too? — Pellaeon asked cautiously.
— Absolutely, — I confirmed. — I have no interest in the New Republic's destruction. For now, they exist within my plans. After we eliminate Palpatine and claim what's ours from the galaxy's darkest corners, the New Republic will cease to be a threat. Rothana and Kamino will ensure we can counter any danger.
— But our fleet isn't strong enough to deal significant damage to Palpatine, — Pellaeon shook his head. — Even if we deploy all super Star Destroyers and seize all Imperial ships from the New Republic, including the Lusankya... we won't last long in open combat.
— Much of Palpatine's campaign relies on remote intelligence gathering by Agent Blackhole, — I explained. — The Ubiqtorate gives him too great an advantage. It's time we hunted them down. And we know how...
Gilad opened his mouth to ask another question...
— And we've already begun, — I dispelled his doubts.