A half-dozen Keldabe-II-class battleships formed a broad front, covering their positions in the upper and lower echelons and on the flanks with Crusader II-class corvettes.
It seemed there was nothing extraordinary about this formation.
A classic order of echeloned closed defense, taught as basics at the Imperial Naval Academy.
The formation was self-sufficient and designed so that smaller ships could shield the larger ones from fighter attacks.
I myself had arranged ships in such a formation more than once.
The problem was that against the forces I had brought, this order was utterly useless.
Chimaera, Motivator, Death's Head, Krüger, Point of No Return, and Twilight.
Six Imperial-class Star Destroyers supported by three more Interdictor-class Star Destroyers: Eternal Wrath, Sentinel, and Constrainer.
This was nearly double the firepower superiority on this sector of the front.
And the enemy didn't even know everything.
Because on our side, eighteen more corvets—Raiders and the same Crusader IIs—were also participating.
We outnumbered the enemy in firepower and numbers.
The chosen containment formation was irrational.
In the current battle, outnumbered, the only chance for success was a breakthrough by the Zann Consortium forces.
To conduct an attack like Ackbar's Slash.
But not a blind defense.
In conditions of communication shortages and the need to protect cargo ships, the most wrong thing to do was to go on the defensive.
Any tactics textbook would point out that they simply needed to transition to a "dogfight" to deprive us of the ability to concentrate turbolaser fire on several ships out of the total number.
Which we were doing right now.
"Sir, the Interdictors report that all three ships have deployed gravity wells and are firing on target number five," the voice came over the comm.
Thus, three destroyers were concentrating fire on one Keldabe-II.
For the six remaining major ships of our strike group, four second-model Keldabes were frankly not a serious opponent.
And the enemy couldn't fail to understand that.
So the question arose—why this suicidal formation, in which we would clearly win even if we didn't move from our position and continued firing from nearly maximum range?
"Sir, all starships have engaged the enemy," Captain Tschel reported to me.
"Thank you, Captain," I replied quietly. "I know that."
Here, on the bridge in front of the central viewport of the command deck, the entire picture of the unfolding battle was visible to me.
The distance between our and the enemy's squadrons was seventy units.
Too far for proton torpedo launches and within the maximum range of shipboard turbolaser strikes.
My ships were arranged in three blocking "bowl" formations.
In the center—Star Destroyers with activated gravity well generators.
Our three Interdictors were in the operational rear under the protection of six Crusader II-class corvets and positioned two units farther back from the main strike force.
For target engagement, this squadron, located at the projection center of our formations, had selected the central Keldabe.
To the left and right of the blockers were two squadrons of three destroyers each.
In the first: Chimaera, Death's Head, and Point of No Return under the command of the first. We were shelling two enemy battleships to the left (from our perspective) of the Interdictors' target.
In the second: Krüger, Motivator, and Twilight.
Captain Krüger was ironing similar targets on the right. But he preferred to take out one Keldabe-II first, ignoring the second.
Maintaining distance and position in space, we had no need to fear that the enemy would rush forward and start draining our deflector energy.
But the Zann Consortium side clearly wasn't complete amateurs.
Why hold one position, perfectly understanding that we had greater broadside weight, superiority in ships, fighters, and certainly wouldn't let the transport ships in the rear of the combat squadron escape?
So, the enemy intended to hold us back for a reason.
And I saw only one reason why they were behaving this way: taking hits, dooming the fleet to brutal beating.
Meanwhile, the hundred Star Galleons languishing in the enemy's rear line began maneuvers that unequivocally indicated they intended to flee as far from us as possible.
Well.
This was calculated and predictable.
"Captain Tschel," I addressed the commander of the Chimaera. "The enemy is beginning a divergence maneuver. Inform Major Bren and the commanders of the other destroyers that Scimitar squadrons should be ready to dash to the rear of the Keldabes and the rest of the Zann Consortium ships."
"Yes, sir," the young Star Destroyer commander replied.
After issuing all necessary orders, Tschel asked me more quietly:
"Grand Admiral, do you think the enemy intends to withdraw their squadrons to the far side of the planet and escape the system along another vector, opposite to our entry?"
"No, Captain," I replied. "The enemy is luring us under fire from their armed forces. Rightly assuming that we will chase their transports leaving the system."
"But isn't that the case?" Tschel clarified. "The transports clearly carry something valuable, since the enemy is sacrificing ships to cover their withdrawal."
"That's the plan of the enemy fleet commander," I explained. "They know we came to Smarck for a reason. And they're playing on our desire to seize their secrets."
"Sir, but if we don't do something more substantial now to stop the transports, they'll get away!"
"Yes, they'll reach the far side of Smarck," I agreed. "Annoying that we can't stop them, isn't it?"
Tschel looked at me grimly, not even feigning understanding on his face.
Well, frankness is a virtue.
"Contact Thunderflare, Captain," I ordered. "Tell them to be ready to move to position on the far side of the orbit. As soon as they receive the order—let them immediately block the jump vector out of the system on the other side of Smarck's orbit."
"Yes, sir!" Tschel replied joyfully, passing the order to the crew.
When he looked at me again, bewilderment settled on his face at what he had just relayed.
"Grand Admiral, sir, but Thunderflare's crew is just cadets. Unlikely they can stop all the Star Galleons."
"The enemy won't let us stop them," I stated. "I'm sure the Zann Consortium would prefer to destroy their cargoes rather than let them fall into our hands."
"Then... Sir, I don't understand."
"You don't need to yet, Captain," I sighed. "Relay the order to Twilight and Point of No Return. Let them advance to fifty units from the enemy ships. Synchronize the dash of our Scimitars to the rear of the Zann Consortium starships with that moment. Interceptors maintain defensive order around the Star Destroyers."
"Yes, sir," the commander of the flagship Star Destroyer said, completely confused. "And what are the targets for the proton torpedoes of Twilight and Point of No Return?"
"Vectors two-five and ten-five," I said. "Wide spread. Five salvos across each of the three echelons relative to the enemy ships' position."
"But that's beyond the enemy's formation!" the Chimaera's commander exclaimed.
"Exactly right, Captain Tschel," I agreed. "If you'd been attentive, you'd have noticed the reasons why the enemy is acting in such a compact formation."
The Chimaera's commander frowned, relaying the order to subordinates, then began peering intently at the enemy formation in orbit.
For several seconds, nothing happened, then the wrinkles on his face smoothed out. And his eyes widened.
"Oh, wow!" he exhaled.
It sounded like air escaping from a balloon.
***
At the head of an armada of similar fast bombers, the new Scimitar-01 easily emerged from the jump behind the enemy ships.
"Deflectors activated," Alex reported. "I see several StarVipers heading our way."
"Acknowledged," Tomax stabilized the ship's course nose toward the unfolding battlefield among the starships.
Somewhere in the center of the cluster floated the Zann Consortium's flagship Keldabe-II, surrounded by support ships: StarVipers, Skiprays, a couple of Crusaders.
Yes, Alex was right—enemy fighters were rushing toward them.
And they'd have to counter them exclusively with Scimitars.
Not the best matchup.
But what purpose would sending fast bombers here serve if not to attack the enemy's line ships?
However, no target orders had come.
Instead, Tomax saw Twilight and Point of No Return launching salvo after salvo of proton torpedoes from their launchers.
Ships modernized by the New Republic at Hast shipyards, as before, carried six ship-class proton torpedo launchers each.
And these were far from the torpedoes arming a Scimitar or the vaunted Republican X-wing.
Ship torpedoes were the size of an X-wing themselves.
One such could knock down any standard combat ship's shields.
Two—to cripple some part of a starship and send it into long repair at the yards.
Three—guaranteed through-and-through hull breaches, decompression with subsequent hull deformation.
Each of the two destroyers spewed six torpedoes into space with small intervals.
In three echelons—parallel to the Keldabes, above and below them.
But the bombardment was along the flanks of the enemy starships, not harming them, which didn't fit into a logical structure.
Why thrash expensive ship torpedoes into interplanetary void?
Even the Crusaders couldn't intercept that many munitions, so...
"Damn it!" Alex couldn't hold back when the blackness of space rippled, and mass-driver cannons on the hulls of huge space constructs struck the proton torpedoes. "What the hell is that?"
Tomax didn't have time to answer.
Though he wanted to.
"Yatagan Leader, this is Chimaera OCC," the helmet headphones came alive with the dispatcher's voice. "Your target is to strike the generators powering the main weapon of the identified enemy objects. Secondary target—hangars and deflector generators of the station. Use the massed salvos of Twilight and Point of No Return for cover."
"OCC, understood," Tomax said dryly, adjusting course and relaying targeting to his squadron. "Alex, lock all proton missiles on the new targets."
"What the hell is that, Tomax? They just appeared out of nowhere in orbit!!!"
"Cloaking field," Tomax explained, seeing the onboard computer's calculation complete on the screen. "Previously, the Zann Consortium used them exclusively on starships. Looks like they've upgraded their war machine."
"That thing doesn't look like a starship," Alex said doubtfully as the Scimitar jumped.
"Of course not," Major Bren agreed, returning the craft to real vacuum space. "It's a space station. And it's not alone here, in Smarck's orbit."
Talk later—time to bomb.
***
Ahead loomed a monstrous offspring of the Zann Consortium's shipyards.
A space station surpassing a pair of Star Destroyers in size, studded with endless turbolasers, mass-drivers, ion cannons...
Overgrown with dozens of modules and work platforms that from afar looked like scavengers clinging to a beached whale, this construct easily destroyed the first salvo of Twilight's torpedoes.
And its twin from the other flank symmetrically annihilated the first six missiles from Point of No Return.
From Captain Tschel's appearance, one could conclude that his pulse and breathing had quickened; it seemed his temperature was even rising.
"Well," I said. "Now the intrigue of the Zann Consortium fleet commander is unraveled."
"It was believed that all of them were destroyed during the rout of the Consortium," Tschel almost whispered. "Just like their ships did to our Cardans or Republican orbital stations."
"Smarck wasn't listed among the targets struck by the Galactic Empire or the Rebel Alliance," I said. "Possibly, these two survived."
"Or the Zann Consortium started building new ones," the Chimaera's captain squeezed out.
"Unlikely," I objected. "Before us is a fifth-level space station of the Zann Consortium, equivalent in power and defensibility to similar Cardan or Rebel Alliance stations. Building one such station takes a long time and costs no small amount. The Galactic Empire's fifth-level Cardans cost over two billion credits each."
"But they could perform repairs and maintenance on Imperial Star Destroyers," Tschel reminded. "I read about them. That sum includes not only station construction but also equipping the orbital dock, hangars, building escort ships...."
"Yes," I agreed. "That's precisely why the Empire found it more profitable to refuse purchases from Kuat Drive Yards of new Cardans after the Zann Consortium easily sabotaged or destroyed them. The Battle of Kuat showed that even three such stations couldn't stop an invasion fleet or even delay it. To somehow turn the battle, they had to commit the Star Super Destroyer Annihilator, which ingloriously perished under strikes from Zann Consortium ships due to inability to maneuver in such a cluster of starships. The New Republic has a much more prosaic justification for why they ceased funding the modular stations project similar to Cardans. They simply lack the money to build high-level stations. And first- to third-level stations, whether ours, Republican, or Consortium ones, pose no great threat to a well-equipped enemy fleet."
The Cardan-class space station.
"Sir!" the watch chief ran up to us. "From Point of No Return and Twilight, they report that the enemy stations are charging energy for a strike on those destroyers."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," I said. "We see that perfectly. Return to your post and relay to the indicated destroyers to increase to cruising speed, keep maneuvering engines ready, and their crews prepared for hazardous maneuvering."
The puzzled watch chief looked at me, at Tschel in bewilderment, but obeyed the order, though waves of irritated incomprehension emanated from him even without the Force.
I couldn't blame him for panic.
There was indeed danger to the two Star Destroyers equipped with ship proton torpedo launchers.
And not danger of damage, but of complete and nearly instantaneous destruction.
Both stations threatening Twilight and Point of No Return were also armed with ion, mass-driver cannons, and other light defenses that could have been heavily modernized compared to their original specs laid down by Mandal Motors designers—or whoever the Zann Consortium stole the technology from.
But there was something more dangerous than even the galaxy-wide banned ion weapons alongside disintegrators.
Zann Consortium space stations of third level and above were standardly armed with a main weapon—a plasma cannon capable of delivering lethal strikes to any sluggish starship like a Star Destroyer or similar in size.
Exactly such plasma guns were on Consortium Aggressor-class Star Destroyers and used in pairs with massive ion cannons.
To date, we had no chance to capture and study this type of armament.
The opportunity unexpectedly presented itself in the current battle.
It's a pity I hadn't anticipated the presence of this weapon on Smarck before we advanced here.
Possibly, I could have brought a couple of Sunburn project Venators and disabled the stations before they were ready to fire.
But no, to be frank—even when I received reconnaissance data from drones launched by Captain Pryl from Thunderflare, I didn't even think of such a possibility.
And only the strange "crowdedness" of the enemy ships led me to think that the withdrawal of the Star Galleons aimed to lure us closer to the enemy position.
Where there would be no room to maneuver and avoid strikes from the cloaked stations.
A simple plan to destroy a numerically superior fleet.
Approximately like the penultimate defense line of Tangeen and some other systems with cloaked Golan IIIs.
However, credit where due to the Zann Consortium forces commander—his idea was far more destructive in essence.
That's why I want a sample plasma cannon for study.
Work on the proton beam cannon is ongoing, but progress is minimal.
In fact, there won't be any until we get the scientific team that developed the Death Star Prototype inside the Maw Cluster.
Equipping cloaked asteroids and planetary orbital defense stations with planetary turbolasers and ion cannons like V-150 and V-180 is inefficient.
For the same reasons that third- to fifth-level Consortium stations, Aggressor-class Star Destroyers, are vulnerable at the moment of preparing a main weapon shot.
"Sir, the intensity of the enemy's energy armament and shield power has dropped to ten percent," Tschel reported.
I watched as white-blue-violet fire bloomed in the heart of the Zann Consortium station, ready to burst out and strike our starships.
Then, as plasma swirls broke from the muzzles of the space stations' main guns, numerous explosion spheres bloomed on the stations.
"Major Bren reports that all Scimitars have struck their assigned targets!" Tschel said with elation.
"Excellent," I said, watching intently as plasma "braids" moved toward the two Star Destroyers, capable of literally frying a ship with one hit. "Relay to Constrainer and Sentinel to adjust their gravity wells for implementing the Tantale attack plan. All interceptors—return to hangars for rotation."
After the station attack, ninety-seven percent of the Scimitars returned to their basing ships for rotation.
Their withdrawal from the target posed no major problems—because the first reason for the ineffectiveness and impracticality of such weapons as the plasma cannon, as well as the question: "What to do?", stood squarely.
Powering such a weapon required a colossal amount of energy.
Even a solar ionization reactor, if connected to such equipment, would expend a significant portion of its resources to form a shell of suitable power.
We encountered a similar problem in the Sunburn project, where continuous firing of ion cannons literally left the Venator defenseless.
Our Golans, equipped with the same ion cannons or planetary turbolasers, couldn't boast energy efficiency: the station's reactors sufficed, as with the Sunburn prototypes, for one shot.
After which the object was left without serious protection.
The same was observed on Aggressors and Zann Consortium stations—they drained nearly all available energy for a shot, leaving the ship or space object defenseless.
And the effectiveness of this weapon was debatable anyway.
At long ranges, dodging a plasma "braid" was quite easy—which our Twilight and Point of No Return demonstrated, shifting off the line of fire.
"Sir, the Interdictors have redirected their gravity wells," Tschel reported.
"Excellent," I replied. "Inform Krüger that our squadrons are transitioning to attack on the stations and flanking fire on the enemy. The Eternal Wrath commander continues to hold the enemy starships and assumes command of the blocking Star Destroyer squadron. Calculate the jump for Chimaera and Death's Head to the nearest station. Notify Point of No Return that they are free to attack the nearest Keldabe with all weapons."
Hyperspace unfolded before the Chimaera's bow, instantly contracting to points.
Microjump—and now my destroyers had flanked the enemy's line and light ships, positioning between them and the Zann Consortium space station.
"Begin boarding party deployment to the station," I ordered. "Launch fighters—use strike gunboats against enemy fighters. Interceptors—dogfight. Scimitars—disable hyperdrives and command posts of enemy Keldabes."
Thus, the Zann Consortium fleet commander had lost the opportunity to inflict colossal damage on my ships.
His scheme with plasma cannons and ambush had failed.
The retreating Star Galleons would be intercepted by Captain Pryl and her Thunderflare.
However, I'm sure the Zann Consortium transports will still destroy them so they don't fall to us.
All that's left is to destroy or capture the enemy starships, their space stations, and the surface laboratory.
What could go wrong?
My attention was drawn to an explosion where Krüger and Motivator were supposed to attack the station.
"Sir, Motivator is seriously damaged and beginning uncontrolled atmospheric entry!" the watch reported. "The commander has ordered the crew to abandon the starship. Captain Krüger is using remaining tractor beams and emergency maneuvering engines to hold the hull in orbit as long as possible. Twilight has microjumped and is assisting, but there's no prospect of saving the ship. Projected impact zone—five kilometers from the enemy base on the surface."
"The shockwave will be devastating," Tschel said, watching the explosion-warped triangle falling from orbit.
"It won't," I said, looking at the Motivator, of which at best half remained: from the keel beam to the right side. "The structural frame is destroyed, and this ship was never known for great strength even after repairs. It will disintegrate in the atmosphere or be torn apart by tractor beams."
"Sir, we should pull Chimaera farther from our station to avoid a second self-detonation," Tschel warned me.
Instead of looking at the flagship Star Destroyer's commander, I stared at the tactical monitor.
"No need, Captain," I said, pointing to the triangle positioned on the opposite side of the station from us. "Death's Head has already disabled the station's auxiliary reactors with ion cannon fire. Support Captain Demmings' initiatives with our batteries: ease the boarding teams' work."
***
The first victim of the incubation abort approached Mara with a grin that not only didn't adorn her but could send a herd of rancors into panicked flight.
She was ready for hand-to-hand combat.
Jade stepped forward and struck her opponent's nose with a spinning kick.
A distinct crunch sounded, the "Defiler" staggered.
Mara finished the attack with a kick to the chest, sending the clone flying several meters back.
With indifference not matching reality, Thrawn's Hand faced her opponents again.
A lightsaber swing—and two headless female corpses lay at her feet.
A blaster shot from her left hand—and another cloned fighter collapsed onto the platform.
The first opponent took her place.
Blood flowed from her nose, but in the short respite, the "Defiler" had recovered and assumed a combat stance, shifting most of her weight to her support leg.
She watched Mara intently; the clone's face was focused, but only that—no tension, anger, or threat. With such an expression, one could admire a sunset or watch butterflies.
But the absent compassion in the eyes of the genetically enhanced killer was a direct indication that mercy shouldn't be expected.
"I won't admit it in public, but thanks, Mol," Mara muttered, calling on the Force.
As if hearing his words, the clone lunged forward swiftly.
Her "sisters" to the left and right repeated the maneuver, aiming to pin Mara against the railing.
The redhead instinctively retreated, but that shouldn't be taken as her ceasing the attack while keeping distance.
Having emptied the entire power cell from the blaster and destroying a good dozen clones, the Hand tossed aside the useless blaster, created solely for killing (the specialists in weapons had removed the stun function).
The clones, perceiving this as weakness, rushed forward.
Those on the right were sliced to pieces by a circular spin with the lightsaber.
Returning to initial position, Mara thrust her right hand forward, sending a Force wave at the "Defilers."
This physical embodiment combined her rage, pain, and dissatisfaction with herself.
As with Winter, she had wanted to capture the enemy specialist alive.
Yes, she could have severed arms and legs, then there'd be no clone activation.
But she assumed Orun Wa could be persuaded to cooperate with the Dominion.
And when a representative of the employer, before HR formalities, cuts off your arms and legs, motivation for voluntary cooperation suddenly evaporates.
Whether artificially grown limbs could be reattached afterward, Jade didn't know.
But in her memory, after cauterizing the wound site with a lightsaber, severing nerve endings and tendons, no one had acquired cloned limbs.
In the best case—mechanical prosthetics.
Fine, lesson learned.
And now it was time to correct it.
Don't want it the nice way—it'll be the hard way!
Filled with her hatred, the Force swept through the clone ranks like a kinetic round.
Bodies flung aside broke with a disgusting sound, like dolls.
Blood and other fluids, chunks of flesh scattered everywhere, carving a breach among the clones surrounding her.
The girl shuddered as she was splashed with warm liquid droplets.
The red-haired beast nearly retched when she wiped chunks of bleeding warm flesh from her cheek.
Infusing her body with the Force, Jade dashed forward toward the receding back of the Kaminoan cloner.
A couple of "Defilers" stood in her path, but Mara dealt with them without much effort.
Bodies mangled by the lightsaber fell far behind her.
Halfway there, she didn't react in time—one of the clones threw herself under her feet.
Mara, rolling forward, slashed the "Defiler" with the lightsaber, severing the upper from the lower half.
That was a mistake—they were immediately surrounded by more and more female "Defiler" clones.
Mara made another circle with the saber in hand, expanding the free space nearby, and rushed forward.
The "Defiler" in her way swung her left leg for a high kick but slipped on a blood puddle.
Mara grabbed her opponent's leg, yanked it higher, unbalancing her, then swept the legs.
The "Defiler" hit the deck butt-first with a grunt.
Jade continued the attack, but the opponent rolled away, preparing to block the kick.
Thrawn's Hand thrust her fist forward and clenched it.
The opponent crumpled in a silent scream, exploding like an overripe fruit.
Another stream of blood splashed Mara.
For a moment, she instinctively closed her eyes.
And the enemy took advantage, grabbing her from behind by the helmet, yanking it off, and striking her back with it.
The girl didn't strike: she dived forward like a fish, rolled.
Spreading her arms, she Force-pushed a good dozen opponents to both sides of the platform.
And at that moment, she felt someone grabbing her hair, pulling to cause pain.
Jade knew this move—now they'd damage her spine with a knee, taking her out.
But she had entirely different plans.
Ignoring the tears bursting from her eyes, Mara lunged forward, avoiding injury, then swung the blade, severing the arm.
Pain and rage filled her.
Her body literally boiled with adrenaline.
Jade turned to face the opponents behind.
The scarlet haze before her eyes demanded bloodshed.
And she found the culprit.
The one-armed clone attacked with a jumping kick.
Mara thrust the lightsaber forward and lunged, simultaneously dropping to one knee.
Two neat halves of the one-armed opponent fell to the sides, showing perfect cauterization from pelvis to nape.
"Which of you bitches wants to touch my hair next?!" Mara growled, looking at the clone faces.
It turned out all of them.
Several meters separated them, so Mara did the simplest thing in such a situation.
She slashed the metal of the suspension bridge, gripping the railings and retreating back to the support.
The clones rained down like Jawas into a sarlacc's maw.
It somewhat reminded her of Boba Fett's last flight on Tatooine.
Pity she could judge the accuracy only from eyewitness accounts, not having been present at the epochal event personally.
Avoiding the fall to the cave bottom, accelerating with the Force, Mara crossed the collapsing bridge and ended up on the platform near the cloning cylinder cave exit.
Turning, she noticed the clones, clustered at the edge of the destroyed walkway, staring at her blankly.
Rage receded briefly.
Her brain connected to situation analysis, and the girl shuddered.
Turning from the silent enhanced clones, she wiped blood from her face with her palm.
Orun Wa had vanished, fleeing into the adjacent corridor.
And she would follow him now.
Leaving behind nearly one and a half thousand cloned killers.
"I don't know what Orun Wa improved there, but if all commando clones were as weak as these, no wonder they died in batches until they gained experience," Mara muttered, peeking into the corridor.
Empty.
She reached to the Force, envisioning the Kaminoan.
The Force pulled her right.
The girl immediately broke into a run.
Couldn't let the scum escape.
In the agent's head bounced the thought that she'd probably figured out the reason for the "weakness" of the clones she faced.
Orun Wa had said the information upload to their brains wasn't complete.
Moreover, clones produced in Spaarti cylinders need skill honing—and only then would their muscle memory work properly.
In simpler terms, she got lucky.
Though she'd finished off a fair number of opponents, if Makus Kaynif had bothered to give Orun Wa time to complete the upload, she'd have had far more serious problems.
"Damn it!" the girl groaned, braking in the middle of the corridor.
What a smart one.
Chased the cloner, leaving the Zann Consortium leader with a bunch of underdeveloped clones.
"Charming, just charming," the girl muttered, assessing her chances of catching up in at least one direction.
Making her choice, she activated the comlink.
"Chimaera, respond."
"Captain Tschel speaking," the tiny speaker came alive. "Identify."
"Access code..." Mara dictated a sequence of old Tion alphabet letters liberally mixed with number streams.
"Code accepted. How can we assist, Thrawn's Hand?" the commander's voice clearly cheered up.
"I'm at the enemy base. A Kaminoan cloner discovered here. Preliminarily—he has a work group. I injured Makus Kaynif but can't catch both. The Kaminoan is heading to the central base entrance, it seems. I'll return for Kaynif personally. Also, about one and a half thousand female clones activated on the base. These are Defilers. I locked them in the cloning cave. With Kaynif," she added, thinking Thrawn was still near his flagship Star Destroyer's commander. "I need support."
"Information received," Tschel stated. "Handle Kaynif. Boarding parties of guards, Noghri, and 501st Guard Legion subunits already deployed to the base. Your position fixed by scanners. Sending nearest squads your way."
"Thanks," Mara said, turning back.
Relief faded from her face as if it had never been.
Right before her stood several dozen women in standard underwear.
With absent regret in their eyes.
"You're kidding," Jade groaned. "Did they learn to fly or what?"
Then she saw the disfigured half-face of Makus Kaynif in the back rows, who with a beckoning gesture directed more clones toward her, appearing at the far end of the corridor.
"Fine," Jade sighed, gripping the lightsaber hilt tighter and infusing her body with the Force. "Hey, you mute bitches! Whoever grabs my hair—I'll bisect!"
The clones didn't answer.
They simply attacked.
***
The pilot guided the shuttle into the main entrance square of the Zann Consortium base on Smarck. The hangar was mostly filled with similar shuttles and cargo containers, among which a pair of cargo skimmers huddled forlornly in the corner.
No people in sight.
TNX-0333 didn't like this circumstance.
No guards, no duty mechanics, no loaders, no battle droids.
Strange situation during an attack on the facility.
With a characteristic hiss, the landing ramp dropped, and the 501st Legion stormtroopers silently began rapidly disembarking the assault bay.
In the first moment, as the half-platoon quickly spread across the hangar territory, taking it under control, it seemed they were capturing an absolutely abandoned object.
This behavior of the defenders didn't fit the usual picture a "torch" stormtrooper could accept.
During an attack, any base except an abandoned one would pulse, choking with life; vibration would be felt through the soles, usual for metal surfaces with people running on them.
For a base built in rock depths, not only the presence of working machine sounds, service droid buzzing, but also personnel!
Where were the defenders?!
Why were the droidekas and B-2s advancing without resistance?
Why weren't scouts reporting ambushes, resistance, corpses even?
"Maximum vigilance!" the stormtrooper commander ordered, who also disliked this.
TNX-0333, gripping the flamethrower more comfortably, ordered his three subordinates—former 501st fighters assigned to storm-commando training—to move toward the main tunnel leading from the base depths to the hangar.
They would advance further, while the half-platoon took defense here, relying on droid corridor clearance actions.
This was right—assaulting such a key direction as the main entrance with small forces would be foolish.
Especially since two more shuttles were already landing.
The squad advanced without resistance.
They passed several corridors equipped with checkpoints unmanned, which only heightened the storm-commandos' suspicion.
The first encounter was in armor adorned with the Black Sun symbol.
As befitted the enemy.
He appeared when a hydraulic hiss opened the door to the personal quarters section, and a viking pulling on his helmet strode out, sharply turning right, leaving the stormtroopers behind.
"What the hell is this general assembly when there's a battle in orbit?" the viking muttered, taking several steps from the Fourth special squad.
And stopped, began turning, tried to raise his carbine, apparently reflexively realizing that four figures in black storm-commando armor shouldn't be in the base corridors.
"What the...?" was all he managed.
TNX-0333 reacted a second earlier.
He swept the legs, knocking the fighter down, simultaneously wrenching the weapon from his hands.
With an open palm without wind-up, he struck upward under the enemy fighter's chin.
The unlucky soldier's helmet flew off his head and rolled into the darkness of the side passage.
The Zann Consortium soldier hit the floor.
TNX-033 sat atop, pinning one enemy arm with his foot, the other with his knee, and continued holding the jaw shut with his open palm.
His squad stormtroopers seized the prisoner's weapon; he tried but couldn't free himself or even open his mouth.
"I ask questions—you answer," TNX-0333 laid out the setup, sidelong observing how his fighters spread to dangerous directions, securing against unexpected enemy appearance.
The viking nodded.
As soon as the pressure on the jaw eased slightly, the fighter immediately tried to twist away, earning a sharp slap to the side of the head.
"Last warning," TNX-0333 announced.
The viking whimpered and nodded agreeably.
"Where are this base's defense forces?" the storm-commando squad commander began the interrogation.
"Alert declared," the viking said hastily. "Everyone rushed to posts. Then it was canceled. All ordered to report to the third-level B zone parade ground. Everyone obeyed."
Implausible.
"Why are you here?"
"Well, I... uh... stomach growled."
"Why did no one stay? At least duty personnel."
"So it's a general assembly," the viking explained. "Droids were supposed to remain at posts."
"None in the main hangar."
"Uh-uh..." the prisoner mimed thinking. "Looks like they were recalled for maintenance. Some stupidity. I don't know, I'm a simple mercenary. They pay me, I work. Haven't paid salary this month, like all our garrison— I pretend to work."
Exactly so.
Nothing else to expect from mercenaries.
"What's the base garrison size?"
"A thousand sentients," the prisoner replied readily.
"Weaponry?"
"Mostly small arms."
"Droids?"
"About thirty droidekas, heavy repeaters, grenade launchers..."
"Where are the Kaminoans located?"
"Well, third level, B zone, two passages from the parade ground. They live there and inspect clones on the parade ground..."
"Understood," TNX-0333 without the slightest moral hesitation drew his blaster pistol and stunned the prisoner.
"Deliver to company position," he ordered one fighter, the Sniper.
He was least effective with his rifle in current realities.
And having a blaster carbine didn't particularly improve things.
Further, following wall signs, they three headed to third level toward block B.
The rest of the way was calm; they only encountered janitor droids, machines so brainless and primitive they could identify only their assigned deck sections.
At the needed intersection, the storm-commandos, already reporting all known info to command, turned left into the corridor.
Lift ride two levels up.
Half-kilo run in full gear—just child's play.
They found the needed zone very quickly.
And it wasn't that they weren't surprised by what they saw on the parade ground.
Hundreds of bodies of various sentients, armored and not, men but mostly women.
The first—armed, the second—not all.
Huge blood pools—on the parade ground, walls, doors...
Several living but torn-apart sentients tried crawling toward the commandos at the sight, but, weakened, stilled and died before the newcomers could reach them through the body piles.
"Forward," TNX-033 commanded, seeing at the far end of the parade ground, behind large viewglass, several Kaminoans.
Who behaved as if nothing threatened them, and around wasn't such a nauseating scene that both his soldiers vomited, barely removing masks.
Non-clones, in a word.
Regular recruits who'd served over ten years in the Storm Legion and joined the Dominion right after its creation.
In that time, they'd passed all possible checks and recommended themselves in the best light.
But compared to Selid clones, they were cadets who still had to learn to fight.
And TNX-033, the last sentient in this galaxy with Colonel Selid's face, would ensure they met the high efficiency bar of the Fourth special storm-commando squad.
The foyer, unlike the corridors, was brightly lit, but the soldiers' eyes protected by helmet light filters entered without delay.
"Don't move, and no one gets hurt!"
TNX-0333 for emphasis spat a short flame stream ahead.
And immediately, switching to tactical comm with command, reported discovering the cloners.
The fiery warning, judging by the pale long-necked Kaminoans' faces, made no impression on them.
"Finally," a Kaminoan in a white-black jumpsuit rose from an egg-like hollowed-out chair and stepped toward TNX-033. "I am Orun Wa, leader of this group. Whom do I have the honor...?"
TNX-0333 without warning spat fire on the floor a meter from where the Kaminoan froze.
"How interesting," the Kaminoan tilted his head sideways, as if wanting to view the storm-commando squad commander from another angle. "You're a clone. The other two aren't. Does the Dominion have access to cloning tech? Unlikely you're from the Grand Army of the Republic—you're larger but shorter than Jango Fett's products...."
The other Kaminoans began discussing what they'd heard among themselves, utterly unconcerned that two blasters and a flamethrower were aimed at them, which could make their lives bright but painfully short.
"Cease talking!" TNX-0333 ordered. "Answer questions! What happened on the parade ground?"
"Demonstration of my group's skills," the cloner said indifferently. "I released eighteen hundred improved Zann Consortium Defiler clones from incubators. Unarmed and unarmored, they tore apart a thousand armed viking mercenaries with bare hands. Your command, having capacities for clone creation and purposefully coming here, will surely be pleased to have the opportunity to hire specialists like us."
"Scum, you mean," a female voice sounded behind the storm-commandos.
TNX-0333 spun around before finishing hearing the objection.
In the doorway through which his group entered this room stood... probably still a woman, if matching voice to figure.
With a hand push, she sent a stocky man, clearly human-gened, to the floor.
Unable to stop his fall with hands bound behind, he crashed down.
"This is Makus Kaynif," the woman said.
From head to toe, she was covered in dried blood droplets and streaks smeared across her face and body.
In several places, her jumpsuit was torn, burned clearly by energy weapons.
Once bright-red hair matted, with flesh chunks in it, acquiring the look of long-dried dirt.
If not for the lightsaber hilt in her hands and eyes burning with molten aurodium irises, the girl could be taken for a vagrant who just crawled from a trash container.
"Identify!" TNX-0333 ordered, aiming the flamethrower at the arrival.
"Get that thing off me, 'torch'," the woman said threateningly. "We fought side by side on Mustafar against HX. I saved your squad from death when the deranged clone scattered you like bowling pins."
"Understood," TNX-0333 replied, lowering the weapon and ordering the same for his fighters. "Glad you're alive, Hand. I'll report to command."
"Do me the favor," the Hand said. "I shoved my comlink down one of these cloned ladies' throats."
"Agent," Orun Wa stated, not taking his black eyes off the uninvited guest. "You're alive. Strange, I thought you weaker and my clones would replace you."
"Ah, so that's it," the woman grinned, more resembling a psychopath's menacing grimace due to her appearance.
"Obviously, you won due to your Force sensitivity," the Kaminoan continued. "Familiar type... I'll ask your master to work with your DNA. I'm sure you can be made much better than you are now..."
In the next instant, several things happened at once.
The first and barely noticeable—the Hand clenched the fingers of her left fist.
The second—and obvious—Orun Wa's knee joints exploded in bloody sprays.
The third—the Kaminoan collapsed to the floor in his own blood puddle.
The other members of his race didn't even stir to aid the compatriot.
"I'll climb a Star Destroyer's engine shaft faster than you touch my DNA with a finger, bastard," Thrawn's Hand said, shifting gaze to the other Kaminoans. "Now a small clarification, you long-necked scum. You're prisoners of war and henceforth will do what you're ordered. And if I learn that any of you voiced any condition regarding further work for the Dominion to my lord, lameness for life will seem the best outcome. Clear?"
"Yes, Hand," the female Kaminoan replied quietly.
"Well, excellent," the red-haired woman bared another grin. "Now, you long-necked bastards, quickly bandage your comrade's wounds before I get angry."
TNX-0333 was first to hand the Kaminoans his field medkit.
If knee joint explosions were what the Hand did in good spirits, seeing what she could do when in a bad mood was something the last clone of Colonel Selid didn't want.