Ten years, the first month, and the thirty-first day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, the first month, and the thirty-first day after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Eight months and sixteen days since arrival.)
Torin Inek was in the audience chamber, pretending the wall chronometer's glowing digits did not scream that the Caridan ambassador was hopelessly late.
The Caridan ambassador was late.
By two hours already.
Yet Furgan, it seemed, could not have cared less.
Nor that the audience scheduled for the day of arrival had already been canceled for the third time.
Because that filthy animal simply refused to show up.
And right now the word "animal" fit the ambassador perfectly in both the literal and figurative sense.
First the figurative—because this sentient could not observe even the most basic etiquette.
Which, for diplomats, is supposedly mandatory.
Back in the days of the Empire there was a joke that diplomats are not born and do not become—they are bred in special genetic laboratories.
Just to annoy everyone they have to deal with.
"Lieutenant Mak" glanced toward the window, beyond which night already reigned unchallenged.
At such a late hour the more sensible beings were peacefully sleeping in their quarters.
Only through the half-open shutters came the measured, perfectly cadenced thud of heavy boots.
"At any time of day or night,
In any kind of weather,
There'll always be that sergeant
Who'll make the stormtrooper sweat on the parade ground…"
Who came up with that vulgar ditty and under what circumstances was lost to history.
But judging by the rhyme's clumsiness, it had clearly been composed in some dialect far from Basic and later translated into the language almost every sentient understood.
Literary flaws aside, the quatrain perfectly captured the daily life of the Stormtrooper Corps.
"At any time of day or night…"
And right now, clad in snow-white armor, perfect ranks of troopers whose brains held nothing but the desire to obey orders and fulfill their duty to the last, continued their drill.
And not only on the parade ground visible from this window.
On every flat surface large enough for a formation, stormtroopers practiced close-order drill.
This would continue until the "nexu watch"—the hours just before dawn when sleep is deepest.
Then the stormtroopers would be marched to the firing ranges, and until sunrise the exhausted soldiers would devote themselves to the noble task of obliterating targets with blaster rifles.
Then— Breakfast break and tactical training.
This course was not designed for the weak.
It was a crucible that separated the hardiest, most effective stormtroopers from the mass—those capable of continuing combat operations despite sleep deprivation, exhaustion, and total emotional burnout.
A few months of such training, and the most combat-effective stormtroopers would be siphoned off from the main body and transferred to special units—commando teams, special forces, elite branches of the Stormtrooper Corps…
He himself had once passed through it.
Though—not quite the same way.
In the one and a half days he had watched the recruits' torment, not a single trooper had been shot by the instructors.
In the old days, when he had gone through training, the first recruit to break was executed on the spot in front of the formation.
And the next companies marched straight over the bodies of the fallen—the armor stripped in the time it took one company square to reach the next training area.
No training ground ever had fewer than fifty corpses.
Such brutality, on the other hand, instantly weeded out whiners and weaklings—they were either shot by instructors or died during exercises, unable to withstand the strain.
Only those who could be forged into living weapons remained in the Stormtrooper Corps.
Finally, with a pompous announcement from the duty officer and a triumphant fanfare, the doors to the conference chamber swung open.
Torin turned to the duty officer, who spent a full two minutes listing Furgan's titles, not content to simply call him an Imperial ambassador who had seized power on a strategically vital planet.
The agent's chronometer helpfully informed him that the ambassador had deigned to appear three hours after the time he himself had set.
At least he had shown up at all.
And after such an enormous bribe?
Something extremely interesting was happening on Carida.
Furgan turned out to be a barrel-shaped humanoid with spindle-shaped limbs that served as both arms and legs.
The eyes on his square face bulged upward and sideways like a bird's wings. Despite the Emperor's well-known prejudice against non-humans, the Caridans had somehow wormed their way deep into his trust—Palpatine had placed his largest military training complex not just anywhere, but precisely on Carida.
"To deal with Caridans is to stay on guard at all times. You will get exactly what you paid for. But check the purchase— they will always try to cheat you in some petty way."
That was the widespread galactic opinion about natives of Carida.
From everything Torin knew and had studied about these sentients, there was another, no less important axiom.
Caridan society was built around a commercial culture dominated by an aggressive market.
They were famous for their skills in appraisal and barter. And for deceit and fraud—when it profited them.
To make a Caridan deal honestly, one had to offer a strong incentive not to profit from a single transaction.
Ambassador Furgan.
"Lieutenant Mak," Furgan began. "You wished to discuss certain details? Please be brief—I have much to do." He collapsed into an armchair, crossing his spindly arms over his barrel torso—a gesture that, in the universal language of body posture, meant unmistakable hostility.
"He has more human features than most Caridans," Torin noted. "Genetic tampering or cosmetic surgery?"
"All correct, Ambassador," the agent replied in an even tone, displaying calm confidence and unshakable position. "As you are probably aware, I have come to purchase stormtroopers from your planet."
Furgan ignored the words, yawning theatrically.
He knew perfectly well that no matter how the negotiations ended, he had already won—the bribe, naturally, would not be returned.
"Very well, Lieutenant. Where shall we begin?"
"To begin with," Torin stressed the phrase, "we require ten divisions of stormtroopers."
"Ten legions," Furgan said in a bored voice. "Do you in your Tion Hegemony still use outdated military terminology? The days when 'legion' and 'division' were synonyms are long past."
Well, of course—teach a soldier how to fight, you lazy…
"I am from the Allied Tion sector, Ambassador," he corrected, suppressing irritation. "The Tion Hegemony is our highly unreliable neighbors with pro-Republic leanings. Which, as you understand, does not suit us at all. Nor does the fact that the New Republic enclave called the 'Alliance' has seized Lianna and the Sienar production lines."
"Santhe," the ambassador corrected. "The Santhe family has run things there for years."
"That fact saddens us no less," declared "Lieutenant Mak." "I would even say more—considering that Moff Gronn concluded a collective defense agreement with Lianna in exchange for TIE-series production."
"I've heard something similar," Furgan said boredly, though his eyes betrayed keen interest in drawing out the emissary. "And that you did not come to Lianna's aid when the New Republic fleet arrived."
"We have heard those vile slanderous rumors too," Torin said, letting restrained anger show. "But the fact is we committed our core forces—ten Star Destroyers—to strike the New Republic. Our ships walked into a trap and encountered yet another rebel fleet. We lost our best forces and must now urgently rebuild them to prevent an attack on us."
"It seems you still have some destroyers left," Furgan said dreamily, narrowing his eyes as if studying the lieutenant in detail.
"Yes, we still have a few ships," Mak allowed.
"But Carida has nothing larger than a Dreadnaught heavy cruiser," Furgan said pointedly. "Vendetta, if you've heard of her…"
Torin knew everything the Ubiqtorate archives held about that ship.
"I've only heard the very best," he replied diplomatically, masking ignorance as neutral courtesy.
"Naturally," Furgan smirked, interlacing his fingers. "So—ten legions… We have such forces, of course. The planet has almost six million humans—all trained or training soldiers and specialists of the Stormtrooper Corps and the Armed Forces of the Galactic Empire."
That was extremely interesting information.
Because officially Carida's population was twenty-five million sentients.
The ratio of humans kept purely as military muscle to native Caridans was classified.
Not even the Ubiqtorate databases held those figures.
Presumably to conceal the true number of troops being prepared on the planet.
Though Torin doubted the ambassador was telling the full truth.
Rough math: one stormtrooper legion was just under ten thousand personnel—9,813 exactly, officers included. That was purely stormtroopers and their officers—armor, support troops, and vehicles were never counted in Stormtrooper Corps strength.
Except for the 501st Legion, where the army units of Blizzard and Rancor had such merit and cohesion with Thrawn's Fist troopers that no one dared separate them.
In other words, "Lieutenant Mak," acting for Moff Gronn, intended to acquire just under one hundred thousand fully trained stormtroopers.
Given Carida's training quality, that was a tsunami capable of sweeping away any resistance anywhere in the galaxy.
With a few exceptions.
"In that case, loyal sons of the Empire can help each other, can we not?" "Lieutenant Mak" asked.
"Possibly," Furgan replied evasively. "If you have something to pay me, of course."
"Of course," Torin smiled pleasantly. "I believe the duty officer who met me at the landing platform delivered the modest gift Moff Gronn placed at your disposal?"
A smile played on Furgan's lips.
"Excellent gifts," he declared. "But if you brought the same amount with you, it would not cover even one legion."
Torin kept his face neutral despite the storm of emotions inside.
"And how much do you want from Moff Gronn for ten legions?" the intelligence officer asked.
"Ten million per legion."
One hundred million total.
Slightly over one million per thousand soldiers.
"Rather expensive," Torin observed.
"Carida supplies the galaxy's finest product in stormtrooper casing," Furgan smiled predatorily. "Where else can one obtain such superb troops trained to the highest Imperial military standards?"
"I suppose some old-school stormtroopers remain in the Imperial Remnants," Torin said meaningfully.
"They do," the ambassador agreed. "Perhaps one to five percent of total strength. At present most stormtroopers in any Remnant are conscripts being molded into something resembling real soldiers. That is why they fail on the front lines—the new-minted troopers cannot perform the tasks old-guard Imperial soldiers execute without blinking."
True enough.
But the price…
Astronomical.
Torin had never wondered how much it cost to train and equip one stormtrooper.
But he knew it was far less than the Galactic Republic had paid Kamino for a single clone trooper.
A thousand credits per fighter?!
"I hope the price includes weapons and equipment?" "Lieutenant Mak" asked.
"For an additional four thousand credits per trooper you can have those too," Furgan smiled mockingly.
Even "better."
Four thousand for arms and armor, one thousand per man—five thousand credits each.
Multiply by 9,813 personnel (officers included) and one legion cost forty-nine million five hundred sixty-five thousand credits.
Not hard to calculate the total for ten.
"So for ten fully armed and equipped legions you want just under four hundred forty-six million credits," Torin heard his own voice waver. "That is… expensive. Moff Gronn's calculations assumed one or two million per legion complete—with weapons and gear."
Exactly the rumors circulating in the Imperial Remnants and recorded in Ubiqtorate files as Carida's asking price.
After Endor, when the Empire fractured, Carida had obeyed Coruscant—until the Empire lost it.
The New Republic's galaxy-wide campaign that crushed or pushed the Empire to the fringes a year before Grand Admiral Thrawn's counteroffensive last year had turned Carida's duty into a profitable business.
Stormtroopers were needed by every Imperial warlord, so the Caridans, knowing no single Remnant could conquer them, switched to purely market terms.
While warlords could buy stormtroopers and Orinda could not directly affect Carida, the likes of Ambassador Furgan lined their pockets.
"You take us for fools?" Furgan chuckled. "Stormtrooper armor and weapons in current conditions cost Carida a pretty credit. The quoted price is essentially cost."
"Armor costs two thousand credits. An E-11 blaster rifle—one thousand. SE-14r blaster pistol—five hundred. Two Imperial thermal detonators—another five hundred. Total four thousand credits. Not five."
"One must assume the legions are equipped to full Imperial standards?" Torin risked.
"You mean do they possess heavy weapons, repeaters, missile launchers, and so forth?" the Caridan clarified.
"Exactly—that is considered standard legion equipment," the Dominion agent said.
"It was," Furgan corrected. "Heavy weapons available for separate purchase…"
"That would be excessively expensive," Inek noted.
"Then do not buy them," the Caridan shrugged. "In any case the offer is open only for a short time. Carida possesses five and a half million stormtroopers. As soon as Imperial Space fleets break through to our system they will requisition whoever they deem necessary. And for the next six months—if we are supplied with sufficient cadets—the chance to purchase fine stormtroopers will be gone."
The last phrase carried obvious, though well-concealed disgust.
Torin did not need long to grasp what was happening.
Furgan was a merchant.
He intended to sell goods that Imperial Space bureaucrats planned to seize for free.
Everything fell into place.
Furgan and the Caridans had prospered selling stormtroopers to the Empire.
While Orinda could not reach them by force, Furgan dictated terms.
The Imperial Ruling Council would never risk sending a fleet strong enough to conquer Carida—too great a chance the New Republic would repeat Brentaal IV and destroy huge numbers of Imperial Space capital ships.
To reach Carida and impose order, Orinda first had to conquer every world and hyperspace lane between.
They had only now succeeded—after Thrawn last year effectively atomized two of the New Republic's four fleets.
Now Furgan and his cronies understood a simple truth: the Imperial Ruling Council would not negotiate or spend credits.
They would simply take.
Because even if Orinda lost a squadron in orbit, they would send another—logistics were now secured.
The question was different…
"You have almost six million stormtroopers and instructors," Torin said, gauging the ambassador's words. "In all the years since Endor have the Remnants really not bought them out?"
"Of course they did," Furgan said sourly. "Or traded—trained legion for three legions of conscripts. But year by year conscript quality fell while our troopers' quality never dropped. So we abandoned such deals and sold outright. But we held firm to our prices—even when rendering small services to Orinda by sending a few regiments a year."
Now it was crystal clear.
That explained why Carida still held so many stormtroopers none of the major warlords—Zsinj, Teradok, or independents—had acquired them.
They had not spent money—they had taken trained legions and given Carida conscripts in return.
Furgan had agreed hoping the war would drag on and stormtroopers would keep selling.
But things turned out differently.
Zsinj was defeated.
Many warlords vanished into the Outer Rim or distant sectors.
The strongest joined Palpatine in the Deep Core.
The Pentastar Alignment pursued independent policy and filled shortages with its own forces.
The Ciutric Hegemony relied on conscripts.
Other Remnants avoided major conflict and husbanded strength.
Carida was left alone with Orinda.
When Grand Admiral Thrawn, acting with Orinda's permission, demanded stormtrooper contingents from the Academy, Furgan simply refused.
Orinda could do nothing—words cannot solve such matters.
Now the Caridans risked losing their "cash cow."
They had spent billions turning useless conscripts into elite soldiers—only for Orinda to seize them.
Or wipe the Caridans out and take what remained.
Unlikely the highly conditioned stormtroopers, learning they were in enemy hands, would not turn on their Caridan overseers.
The Ruling Council need only declare Furgan and his clique enemies of the Empire—the stormtroopers would commit genocide and hand the planet and its resources on a platter.
Furgan wanted one last big score—desperate to pocket credits.
Perhaps to buy a fleet or hire mercenaries to force Orinda to compromise on requisition.
The short dialogue had given Torin far more intelligence than expected.
"Very well," he said. "Your terms are clear, Ambassador. The problem is that the moff equipped me with a far more modest sum than you demand…"
"Then negotiations are over. Good day, Lieutenant."
The ambassador rose, nearly shoving the desk with his impressive belly.
"One moment, Ambassador," Torin drew attention. "I believe I can speak with the moff and discuss additional funding. Perhaps our contribution to Carida's cause will be as you wish. Name the maximum number of stormtroopers you can sell us."
Furgan thought for a second, then grinned, anticipating a deal on his terms.
***
Is there anything more boring than carrying out an order whose purpose you do not understand and command sees no hurry to explain?
Especially aboard a carrier Star Destroyer in deep space near sectors conditionally considered enemy.
Any awkward encounter with the enemy meant mission failure.
The Colicoid Swarm was practically under the enemy's nose, hiding from Zygerrian ships in the Chorlian sector.
What reconnaissance only suspected was far worse than it appeared.
The Zygerrian Slaver Empire was not merely raising its head—it was fully resurrecting.
System by system, Zygerrian ships seized new territories.
At present Chorlian was effectively under their direct control, and knowing that people Captain Irv had no doubt they would not stop there.
Too many tempting targets in neighboring sectors.
But the Colicoid Swarm's task was not to oppose the slavers.
At least not yet.
Right now they had to follow the grand admiral's orders.
Remain in Chorlian sector.
Launch reconnaissance droids.
Gather intelligence on sector systems, enemy fleet dispositions, and especially slave camps.
All instead of scouring the galaxy for abandoned Separatist factories!
Thrawn clearly suspected a double game and kept them where escape was impossible—leaving only memories.
Irv had already considered secretly buying a battered civilian freighter to send Vain check likely targets, but feared the grand admiral would learn of it.
Not to mention that without active combat the Colicoid Swarm and crew lacked funds beyond essential repairs and resupply.
Though Irv and Vain were "privateers," in practice little difference existed between them and Tiberos, whose destroyer served in auxiliary forces.
Aboard the Colicoid Swarm the "auxiliaries" had been dubbed "expendables."
Former privateers, mercenaries, and pirates who answered Thrawn's call to earn credits hunting ships last year were now bound to the Dominion by their comrades' blood.
Even if they went "freebooter" again, without Dominion protection hostile "brothers-in-arms" would swarm them.
Worse, Thrawn himself or his chain-hound Shohashi—who had devoured rancors when it came to pirate-hunting—might take personal interest.
Against "Butcher of Atoan" even the late Sair Yonka's fame paled.
Especially after the galaxy learned Thrawn at last year's Battle of Rugosa had not merely torn Booster Terrik's gang apart but crushed the terror of the Outer Rim privateers, ending Yonka's life.
All that remained was obey orders and think how to conduct private business under the guise of grand admiral missions.
Whom the galaxy believed dead.
Yet even "dead" he commanded better than most living officers.
The ship clearly crawling with beacons—only a Jedi would miss them.
But what were the odds one of the few cutthroats aboard spied for the Dominion?
Knowing Thrawn—extremely high.
Hence: follow orders.
No independent action.
At least until now.
"Sir," a B1 wheezed from the grav-acoustics station. "Detecting arrival…"
"Vector?" Irv snapped.
"Six, sir."
"General quarters," Irv ordered. "Launch Vultures, charge guns and launchers! Begin maneuvering…"
"Forget shields?" Aut-O interjected.
Irv did not reply.
Engaging engines and shields now would slow acceleration—shields traditionally drew massive reactor power.
Speed mattered most.
Their mission must remain secret—Thrawn had stressed that.
Whoever entered this empty system would not leave alive or report a full Star Destroyer under the Zygerrians' snout.
"One ship exiting hyperspace," the droid reported, but Irv already saw the gray-hued behemoth through the viewport.
"Stand down from general quarters," he ordered. "It's ours."
"Confirmed," the B1 said. "Imperial-I-class Star Destroyer Stormhawk. They are hailing us."
"What in the void is Captain Astorias doing here?" Irv muttered, stepping to the holocomm.
The hologram showed exactly the Dominion officer he had named.
"Captain Irv," Astorias said as transport blips appeared near the destroyer on the tactical display. "Prepare to receive additional cargo and new orders."
"Whose orders?" Irv asked, knowing the answer.
"Headquarters," Morgoth said evasively. "I think names are superfluous here."
"Agreed," Irv sighed. "How big a cargo?"
"Compact, but enough to infest the entire sector," the Stormhawk's commander said impassively. "Guardsmen will also deliver amended command orders."
"Understood," Irv replied mechanically. "My flight deck is yours."
The hologram vanished. Irv glanced at snoring Vain—not even battle stations klaxon had roused him from dreams.
"Rhetorical question, Aut-O," Irv said slowly, staring at the mechanical head built into the armrest. "But suggest why Thrawn is sending a Star Destroyer full of Project Morrtt buzz droids through enemy-controlled sectors?"
"One destroyer?" the super tactical droid rasped. "Don't be ridiculous, Captain Irv. Fleet maneuvers have begun. We learned Zygerrian dispositions. Now Thrawn wants to know where their ships are moving. Once that is known—our ships strike."
"If only we knew where, when, and with what forces," Irv grumbled.
"I suspect the orders will tell us exactly what we need to know," Aut-O said accurately. "Though I doubt we will like them."
***
After "Bravo-One" finished his report on Ambassador Furgan's position, I sat in silence for several seconds, assessing.
Four hundred forty-six million credits (Imperial, not Republic) for ten minimally armed stormtrooper legions.
Essentially line infantry—nothing more.
"You identified Kip Durron's brother?" I asked.
"Your slicer droid R7 found matches in portrait, genetic, and recruitment databases," Torin said. "Identification number two-one-one-two, part of a legion long training on Carida. Files show he required additional conditioning—two years instead of six months."
Plus six more years of nonstop drill.
Fortunate the timeline shift had not touched him and his legion had not been "sold" to some warlord.
"Can we ensure Zet Durron's unit is among the purchased legions?" I asked.
"I will do everything possible," the agent replied.
"Now to the main issue," I summed up. "Half a billion for ten legions."
"Exactly, sir," the intelligence officer confirmed. "Furgan is squeezing the last credits he can get before Orinda claims Carida by force through Republic territory. The Imperial Ruling Council will not forgive his freelancing after recent events."
Which suggested Furgan was also working a bribe angle to save his skin.
If he knew of Palpatine's rebirth he would not act so brazenly against Orinda.
Hence he viewed Imperial Space actions purely pragmatically.
Ground forces meant nothing without delivery—capital starships.
Whose numbers in Orinda space were rapidly dwindling.
Thus more profitable for Furgan to extract maximum credits, bribe advisors, dodge reprisals (probably framing someone else), and keep ruling Carida and the Academy, knowing Imperial Space offensive effective only while advancing.
Stop—and the New Republic and Alliance would mass forces and crush them in counterattack.
Whether Furgan understood this himself or instructors explained it was irrelevant.
The question was price.
"Did the ambassador comment on the artworks gifted him?" I asked.
"No, sir."
Therefore he did not recognize them.
Excellent.
"You said he is willing to sell more than ten legions. Exact number?"
"Fifty-one, sir," Inek replied.
Just over half a million troopers.
Out of five and a half million stormtroopers and half a million instructors and Academy personnel.
And why exactly that number?
Good question.
One that dovetailed with the fact that in Imperial times Carida's garrison had been… fifty-one stormtrooper legions.
Meaning Furgan was prepared to sell "Moff Gronn" his entire garrison while Orinda claimed five million troops.
That was five hundred ten legions of killing machines.
Even if only somewhat like the "old" stormtroopers left from Galactic Empire days, the New Republic, the Alliance, and everyone else faced extremely bloody ground campaigns.
The only question was how Furgan planned to explain the disappearance of fifty-one legions.
Four hundred forty-six million for ten legions.
Total fifty-one available.
Rough math yielded two billion three hundred million.
A truly colossal sum.
But fifty-one fully equipped stormtrooper legions could solve many strategic problems at once.
Of course I understood ten legions were merely the "hook" and future expenses would be vastly larger—but this large?
Yet this was my chance to implement several strategic vectors immediately rather than gradually.
And weaken Imperial Space offensive potential overall.
Furgan might think he can refuse Orinda the legions he sells us, but I knew Palpatine and his loyalists would not care about a Caridan's opinion.
They would take every resource they could reach for successful offensive.
Which meant if powerful enemy screens lay between them and the galactic rim, they could not pull reinforcements lacking ships to punch through or strike from the rear.
This concerned the "Imperial Hammers" in particular.
Perfect.
But the sheer scale of purchasing so many stormtroopers exponentially increased complications.
Consequences exist for every action.
A surgical operation to finally detach Carida from the Empire and turn it into a separate Remnant risked prematurely exposing Dominion involvement.
Which in turn would bring the Dominion under attack sooner than planned.
Therefore the later Imperial Space—and with it Palpatine—learned the Dominion was behind events on Carida, the better.
Thus I had to adjust plans regarding the "Zann Consortium."
And intervene in Imperial Space offensive without leaving Dominion fingerprints.
"We are participating in the purchase of all fifty-one legions on Carida," I said, touching the secure terminal and typing the necessary command. "Begin calculations with Ambassador Furgan using the valuables transferred on your shuttle. Three billion credits have been transferred to the shell company account you know in Hutt Space. Transports will arrive to load the legions and whatever armament you can acquire."
"Yes, sir," Inek saluted. "Commencing work."
***
Leonia Tavira ran her tongue over her lips as her eyes met Captain Tiberos's hologram.
The commander of the Black Pearl pushed his mask aside so the little insatiable woman could see his reaction in person.
But the expression on Chief Engineer Nick Reyes's face—sitting opposite at the small round table in the moff's office—told her volumes.
Captain Vivant, CO of the Endurance—the flagship Star Destroyer among those stationed in the Karthakk system—also preferred to look away and pretend he noticed nothing.
Leonia pouted, surveying the attendees of the meeting called by the grand admiral's order.
Relaxed or wary, calm or slightly distracted.
Only she radiated a peculiar feminine mania at the sight of her adored object.
Who was so far away and unattainable she could not find peace.
She coped with this uncontrollable feeling only thanks to Dominion guardsmen.
One glance at the implacable figures in black-and-red or black-and-blue armor was enough to snap her back and "sober up" biochemically.
"Let us begin," were Grand Admiral Thrawn's first words as his hologram appeared above the projection plate. "Captains Irv and Tiberos—have you received orders for your ships' further actions?"
"Yes, sir," Irv answered.
"The Black Pearl is ready to proceed to the position specified in orders," Tiberos confirmed.
Leonia felt her blood boil.
Just hearing his voice…
"Equipment loaded?" the grand admiral asked.
"Yes, sir," both replied almost in unison. "Ships at designated points and ready to commence operation."
"Then proceed," Thrawn ordered.
To Tavira's disappointment the two holograms vanished, leaving her alone with men she was not particularly pleased to see.
Except the grand admiral himself…
A chill ran down Leonia's spine; sweat broke out on her forehead.
The fire in her veins died as quickly as it flared—she instantly remembered a certain lady with mismatched eyes…
Let Republic propaganda claim Iceheart was permanently dead, Tavira's body refused to believe it.
And the fear Isard had sown…
Well, it would stay with Leonia forever.
"Moff Tavira," she heard Chief Engineer Reyes's quiet whisper.
The young woman started, shaking her raven-black hair in which she had painstakingly dyed the silver strands.
Her violet eyes fixed on Grand Admiral Thrawn's hologram, who regarded her with interest.
As did Captain Vivant.
"What is it?" the young woman asked.
"The fact you are with us already gives cause for optimism," Thrawn said. "Situation in the Karthakk system."
"We continue fulfilling all assigned tasks at optimal pace," the woman declared. "Stygium mining proceeds according to plan; construction of factories, equipment, weapons, stations, and hyperdrives likewise on schedule. Native population actively participates in expanding production base and training under Captain Vivant's and Chief Engineer Reyes's specialists."
"Public security?"
"We note decreased discontent among locals due to improved living standards and employment both on Maramere and remaining Lok settlers," Tavira replied.
"Crews of captured Mon Cal cruisers staffed with Mere?" Thrawn asked.
"Only one-third total," Tavira said. "Most Mere serve on defense stations, patrol forces, and ground units. Currently over two dozen MC80a Liberty types remain in mothballs guarded by battle droids and Wookiee commandos."
"Results of Mere recruitment for operations outside Karthakk system and sector?" Thrawn pressed.
"In case of direct external threat to their home they are willing to participate in offensive operations," Tavira said. "Otherwise they prefer non-intervention. Assessment shows Mere offensive potential does not compare with Captain Vivant's forces."
"Good," hearing praise from Thrawn was akin to savoring purest glitterstim—without side effects but equally addictive.
Yet in context of her last words receiving positive evaluation felt… strange.
"Chief Engineer Reyes, I wish to hear your portion," the Supreme Commander said.
"All five orbital docks transferred after Sluis Van are fully operational and bearing fruit," Reyes reported. "We recruited, trained, and shifted personnel to three-shift rotation for each dock. As ordered, Captain Vivant's ships received 'Troika' upgrades first."
"Results?"
"Endurance, Swift Strike, Graceful Lady, Fate Crucible, Messenger of Retribution, Striking Sword, Star Hammer, Shining Star, Medusa, Wyvern, and Griffon restored to full readiness," Reyes said. "Repairs and upgrades complete, all specified equipment installed. Early this month we conducted acceptance and live-fire trials; crews demonstrated proficiency."
"Moff Tavira," Thrawn addressed the only woman present. "What are the released crewmembers doing?"
Timely question.
Especially since of the nearly two hundred thousand personnel Admiral Shohashi had saved at Brentaal IV only three-quarters were needed for new crews—naturally Thrawn wanted to know the rest's employment.
No soldier, sailor, or especially officer must ever be idle.
She had learned that long ago when she became moff in her late husband's place.
And commanding Invidious she had seen what happened to a crew when durasteel discipline slackened even momentarily.
"By my decision I assigned them to ten MC80a ships," Tavira admitted. "To maintain full combat readiness of the entire force in-system. Similar decision for released Star Destroyer crews formerly under Moff Gronn—they are currently studying the third twenty most combat-incapable star cruisers."
"Accepted," Thrawn said. "Chief Engineer Reyes, continue."
"We are now working on Moff Gronn's ships," Reyes confessed. "Internal work complete; ships cleared docks to free them for third MC80 group. Currently Immortal, Tyranny, Grey Wolf, Imperator, Thunderer, Garrett, Zeplin, Seltore, Dominator, and Defender receiving additional armament per 'Troika' project."
"You were given two months to prepare all twenty Star Destroyers," Thrawn reminded. "Four days remain. Will the deadline be met?"
"Yes, sir," Reyes answered.
"Thus, Moff Tavira, in five days you will have forty combat-ready and fully crewed star cruisers and Star Destroyers in-system," Thrawn summarized. "Though not all fifty present: twenty Star Destroyers and thirty MC80 variants."
"Yes, sir," she agreed. "We could have finished faster, within two months, but forming and training sufficient Mere crews took excessive time. Without them staffing repair teams was impossible."
"Objection overruled, Moff Tavira," Thrawn cut in. "You had crews of twenty Star Destroyers—fully or partially crewed. That is three hundred fifty thousand personnel. Forming repair teams from technicians alone would have met the deadline and produced a complete fleet by the personal deadline I gave you before Sluis Van."
Tavira unexpectedly met the grand moff's eyes and guiltily looked away.
"Such gross violation of logistics and executive discipline must not recur," Thrawn stated. "Your next mistake will be fatal to your career and life. No further warnings or reprimands. Fail me again and sentence will be carried out immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Leonia barely whispered, feeling everything inside contract.
Irrelevant how or when she would die.
Guardsmen, Noghri, or someone else—the fact remained.
One more mistake and she would not see another dawn.
Only one option—mobilize every resource and evaluate every task thoroughly.
"Captain Vivant and Chief Engineer Reyes," Thrawn said softly, "the above applies to you as well."
The men exchanged glances.
"Repair and maintenance of military equipment is not solely the moff's task," Thrawn explained. "But also the senior military officer present and the chief engineer's. While the moff might be excused for missing the point holding only nominal military-civilian rank, you—captain and engineer—should have understood how and by what means to accelerate the task. You repair these ships. You will fight aboard them. Consumerist attitude toward duty is unacceptable."
All three sat heads bowed.
If a minute ago they thought only the moff had blundered, now righteous wrath threatened them too.
"Degree of your guilt and punishment will be announced after inspection by the new military commander of Karthakk forces," Thrawn continued.
Tavira raised her eyes, meeting Vivant's.
When he arrived he had said his appointment as senior officer over regular navy ships in-system was temporary.
That someone would arrive to command the entire fist.
Yet neither through her military-civilian channels nor pure military ones had she or Vivant received word a commander for twenty "Troika" Star Destroyers had been found.
"By the end of the current month," Thrawn continued as a hologram of a middle-aged man with commodore cubes appeared beside him, "the new military commander of the task force will arrive on Lok. By his arrival all ships must be combat-ready, fully crewed, and stocked with everything required for extended operations. Personal responsibility for each point rests on each of you. That is all for me. Commodore," Thrawn turned appraisingly to the man beside him, "effective immediately regular navy forces in Karthakk system are yours. If my order is not fulfilled by your arrival, assume command of Defense Forces, docks, repair and production clusters, and military-civilian system administration."
"Yes, sir," the unnamed officer answered in a slightly trembling voice, staring stonily at the trio whose lives now depended on him and their own diligence.
"That is all," Thrawn's hologram dissolved.
In Tavira's office the silence was so complete the holo-projector cooling system sounded like a guillotine's roar.
"So," the commodore said, clearing his throat. "Not quite the appointment I expected, but orders are not discussed. The task is set and must be fulfilled. Especially since the grand admiral just told you how to do it and stay alive. Mobilize every crew except duty watches—work outside specialty will broaden horizons. I will personally inspect every ship, so do not try to cheat. What military acceptance misses my specialists and I will find. Take my word—risking it is not worth it."
"Yes, sir," Vivant smiled thinly. "Permission to ask your name, commander?"
"Ah yes, of course," the man turned his head to see his own rank plaques, brushing away an imaginary speck. "Commodore Brandei at your service, colleagues."